Her expression cleared when she saw me. “Hey, chick!” she said brightly, giving me a wide smile. “Whatcha doing out here? I thought you were still in Property Crimes.”

I returned the smile. Crime Scene Technician Jill Faciane was not only an exceedingly cool person but she also knew what she was doing and wouldn’t screw the scene up or allow it to be screwed up. Jill had come over from New Orleans a couple of years after Katrina, bringing a wealth of experience and a sharp wit as well. A slender woman with short red hair and an elfin face, she had a determined set to her jaw, a quick smile, and keen blue eyes that were quick to notice details of scenes that escaped most others. She was also smart and sarcastic, which meant that she and I got along great.

“I was assigned to Violent Crimes three weeks ago,” I said. “And, since I’m pretty familiar with the Symbol Man cases, the captain gave me permission to come out and help.”

“Yeah, this is some insane shit! Here, make yourself useful,” she said, as she handed me one end of the measuring tape. “I have a bunch of measurements left, and those useless lugs over there,” she jerked her head toward a knot of people by the main building, “are too important to help get the scene processed.”

I held the end of the tape obediently. “They’re detectives. Come on, you don’t expect them to actually work, do you?”

“Ha!” she snapped, as she manhandled me to stand with the end of the tape near a pipe sticking out of the ground. “You’re a detective, and you work.”

“I know.” I gave a tragic sigh. “I think it’s holding me back too.”

She snickered, then trotted off to a point near the body, made a notation on her pad, and returned to me. “My God, you’d think the media could have come up with something more exciting than ‘Symbol Man.’”

“Well, it was a long time ago. In fact, it was right about the time I became a cop, seven years ago. And it was the big news for a while.”

“Stand by the fence,” she ordered, making more notes. “Well, this is seriously nasty stuff. And what’s the deal with the thing on her chest?”

I moved to the fence, holding my end of the measuring tape as if I’d been born to do it. “You mean the symbol? I don’t know what it is”—and that bugged the crap out of me as well—“but all the victims had that same symbol somewhere on their bodies, burned or carved into the flesh. Thirteen murders in four years, all linked together by that symbol. Then suddenly it just … stopped.” I shrugged and spread my hands, causing the measuring tape to flutter and earning myself a reproving scowl from Jill.

“Almost done,” she said, peering down at her notes. “Lemme get the distance to the gate. Have you seen a bunch of his victims?”

“Nope,” I replied, relocating to the gate. “By the time I became a detective, he’d stopped and it was a cold case, shoved to the bottom of the stack.” I slid a glance to the body, then looked back to Jill. “Didn’t help that his victims were homeless or drug addicts.”

Jill grimaced, rolling the tape up as she walked back to me. “So not much pressure to solve the cases.”

She’d pegged it. “Not much,” I said. “Once upon a time there was a semblance of a task force assigned to the case, but it was a lackluster effort.” I shrugged. “Without a lot of public outcry about the murders, local and federal agencies were less inclined to spend a lot of time or money on them. You know how it is.”

Her brow creased in annoyance. “Oh, yeah, do I.” She took the tape from me and shoved it into one of the side pockets of her fatigue pants. “So how do you know so much about the cases?”

“Got lucky, I guess. I’m brand-spanking-new in Violent Crimes—haven’t even been assigned my first case yet—so I figured I’d see what I could learn from reading old case files. Since the Symbol Man cases are still unsolved, I decided to start with them.” I didn’t mention my own long-standing desire to get my hands on those files. Until I was transferred to Violent Crimes, I’d had no way to justify the request, and, with the convergence approaching, I’d already made up my mind that I was going to find a way to get to those files by any means necessary. Fortunately, my transfer had come through in time and I’d been spared the need to break into the file room. “And since I had some spare time—”

“You what?” Jill chortled. “Y’all get spare time? Oh, man, I so need to transfer!”

“We can trade,” I replied. “How hard can your job be? Take some pictures, measure some stuff, maybe throw some fingerprint dust around.” Her eyes widened in mock outrage, and I laughed. “Anyway, Captain Turnham handed me a large box full of files, pictures, and notes and said, ‘Knock yourself out. Don’t let any of your other cases suffer.’”

“So you do have spare time!” she crowed.

“Nah. I just have no personal life.” I gave a helpless shrug. “Some people date. I bone up on local serial killers.”

“Dear God almighty,” she groaned. “You so need to get laid.” Her gaze shifted to a point behind me. “Well, here comes Crawford,” she said, before I could form a retort to her evaluation of my life.

Not that I had any idea of how to respond—especially since she was frustratingly correct. But there really wasn’t anything I could do about it. I had too many secrets to get intimate with just anyone, and I sure as hell couldn’t risk anyone finding out about the summoning chamber in my basement. I’d simply accepted that a dearth of companionship was one of the prices I paid to be a summoner of demons.

In my entire life I’d had only two boyfriends, and neither relationship had lasted longer than a few months—each man ending it with the complaint that I was too private and wouldn’t “open up.” I’d fabricated lies and excuses for why I was always busy on the full moon or why he couldn’t stay the night at my place, but the constant deception had been tiring. It was the same reason why I’d never had any sleepovers when I was a kid and why I’d had so few friends—none of them close—in high school. There are worse things to endure, I told myself, not for the first time. Being a summoner is worth it.

I shoved aside the doubt that always accompanied that thought and glanced back at the man coming toward us. Jill kept her expression neutral, but I knew that she didn’t care much for Detective Cory Crawford. He was another transplant from the south shore, though he was from Jefferson Parish instead of the city. Jefferson Parish was just west of New Orleans and had almost as much crime as the city. He’d been with the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office for almost fifteen years and working Homicide for over ten of those years, which meant that he had the most experience of anyone at Beaulac PD except for the captain.

And he made sure everyone knew it.

“Prepare to be astounded by his brilliance,” Jill said in a low voice before Crawford reached us, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

Cory Crawford was a stoutly built man, not quite gone to fat though obviously battling a growing midsection. He had gray hair that he stubbornly dyed a dull brown, a neatly trimmed mustache that was dyed to match, and brown eyes that were so close to the color of his hair that many suspected he had specifically matched the two. In stark contrast to the all-consuming brown of his coloring, Crawford preferred to wear highly colorful ties, especially favoring the mildly psychedelic Jerry Garcia brand. A faint scent of wintergreen and tobacco clung to him, and I was exceedingly grateful that we were on a crime scene so I wouldn’t have to be subjected to the sight of him spitting tobacco juice onto the ground or into an empty bottle.

Detective Crawford gave a bare nod to Jill and a slight glower to me. “I hear you’re the resident expert on the Symbol Man cases.”

I dragged my eyes up from the wild red and blue pattern of his tie. “Expert? I’ve read the file on the old cases. That’s about it.”