A heavy set man with greasy black hair stood a few feet from the truck, phone pressed to his ear. Not far from him a much smaller, wiry man sucked on a cigarette as he tucked a notepad into his pocket. Vincent Pellini and Marcel Boudreaux, two of Beaulac PD’s Violent Crimes detectives and all-around royal pains in the ass. Pellini did enough work to get by, but that was about it. He gave the impression of being perpetually miserable and didn’t hesitate to ridicule or belittle anyone or anything whenever the opportunity arose. Boudreaux was cut from the same cloth and exacerbated the general unpleasantness.

Pellini gave me a nod and, to my surprise, sent what might have almost been something vaguely resembling a smile in my direction. He ended his call as I approached.

“Hey, Pellini,” I said. I even gave him a smile in return. What the hell. I was feeling generous.

His gaze swept over me, easily noting the gun under my jacket to judge by the way his eyes stopped at the slight bulge before continuing on. “Damn, Gillian,” he said with a little scowl that was oddly lacking in malice. “Never thought you’d go Fed on us.”

“I didn’t,” I replied. “It’s worse. I’m a civilian consultant.”

Pellini shuddered. “Well, we’ll get you started on a good case.”

“What’s the deal?” I looked over at the dark maw of the semi-trailer. “I heard it looked like a Symbol Man victim.” My eyes went back to his. “But the Symbol Man’s dead.” I stopped short of saying, I saw him die. I saw the demonic lord rip his head off for daring to attempt to summon and bind him. Probably best not to go there.

“Looks like somebody doing a copycat but making it their own,” he replied, shrugging. “It’s a lot cleaner, and there’s no doubt they wanted us to find the body.”

“You got an anonymous tip?”

Pellini’s mouth twisted beneath his thick black moustache. “You could say that.” He dug a photo out of the folder in his hand and passed it to me. It was an aerial shot of the parking lot with the semi in clear view. Dead Body Inside had been painted in huge letters on top of the truck.

“Yeah, that would be a Clue,” I agreed.

“Hey, Pellini!” The crime scene tech called over. “Pics are done.”

Pellini gave the tech a nod before returning his attention to me. “The Beaulac airport is just a couple miles that way,” he continued as he hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “This is right under the approach. Anyone flying in or out would see the message.”

Great. A killer who wanted to show off. I jerked my head toward the semi. “Mind if I go take a look?”

“Sure thing. Garner and Kristoff are already in,” he told me. “Vic’s female, young twenties, I’d say. No ID yet. And she wasn’t killed here.”

I thanked him and headed to the truck, more than a little weirded out that I’d had a normal and not unpleasant conversation with Pellini. As I climbed up into the truck, I shifted into othersight. Zack stood by the doors, phone to his ear, and gave me a smile.

“Ah, shit,” I breathed as I took in the scene. This was no mundane copycat. Arcane residue flickered like pale blue fire over the body, clearly visible even though I was still a good twenty feet away.

Ryan looked back at me from where he stood, a few feet from the body. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

I approached and stopped beside him, swallowed back nausea. She lay naked on her back, arms stretched out to the sides and legs spread to shoulder width. A perfectly symmetrical red chalked circle surrounded her, but it was her skin that drew my gaze, held it. Her murderer had carved patterns into her flesh, sigils that, in any other scenario, would be beautiful, but on this canvas were horrors. The pale blue of the arcane flames shifted to red, flaring and subsiding in a rhythm eerily reminiscent of breathing. My own sigil scars itched, and I took a step back, cold sweat breaking. I dimly heard Ryan mutter a curse under his breath right before he turned and moved to me.

“You don’t need to stay in here,” he told me, voice low. I tore my gaze from the body, met his green-gold eyes.

“No.” I breathed deeply, took a few seconds to find my way back to a reasonably calm center. “No, I can handle it.” I released othersight and looked back at the body, this time focusing on the person and not the arcane trash suffusing her. Her face held a deceptively peaceful expression, though I knew there’d been nothing peaceful about her death. Her body had been thoroughly washed, her long black hair blow-dried and laid artistically over her shoulders with no trace of blood matting it. I saw now why Pellini had been so certain she hadn’t been killed here.

“She’s not someone off the streets,” I noted. The Symbol Man’s victims had been the sort of people who could disappear and wouldn’t be missed. This woman was in good physical condition, nails neat and short with a coating of pale polish, brows waxed, and with faint tan lines from a bikini.

Even without othersight, the sheer magnitude of the arcane residue remained a constant distraction. I easily sensed the dance of the potency on her body, rhythmic, enthralling. I moved toward her again, welcoming the increasing tingle in my sigils as a reminder of what was done to me, and to her.

Ryan remained at my side as I advanced. “No, not a street person, for sure.”

I glanced around to make absolutely sure no one else was in the trailer with us or within earshot. “The sigils aren’t the same,” I said, keeping my voice low.

Ryan knew what I meant. “I haven’t had a good look at yours, but I’m inclined to agree.” He gestured to where the sigils crept down her legs. “Hers are on more of her body, too.”

His voice sounded oddly distorted through the rising whir coming from the dead woman. Couldn’t he hear it? Like a piece of paper stuck in a fan, louder and louder. The rhythm of her sigil potency changed, strengthened, and I shifted to othersight to not miss a flicker of its fascinating, patterned beauty. I stepped over the curve of red chalk marking the circle, sucked in a breath as my scars, my sigils, began to pulse with fire, to match the cadence of hers.

Kara? A distant voice queried.

“Rowan,” I murmured, correcting him.

Something in my mind snapped like a winter twig. Rowan? No! I summoned every shred of my will, focused. Everything crystallized into stark clarity. Potency coalesced in ruby coils between the woman’s breasts, like a snake poised to strike. I gritted my teeth, tried to throw myself back and away from the trap. Pain like molten metal seared through my scars, but I couldn’t budge.

“Kara!” Ryan’s voice cut through the din like a chainsaw through cardboard. The whir crescendoed to a thundercrack, and the world flashed red as something hit me hard from the side, drove me into the wall and knocked the wind out of me.

Ryan. His arms supported me, kept me from going down. Full understanding of what happened slammed through me, and I couldn’t be sure if the fire that writhed through my scars came from the heat of my fury or the effects of the failed trap. Breathing heavily, I shoved away from the wall and Ryan. Kara. Kara. I’m Kara, I thought fiercely—and without a shred of doubt, to my utter relief.

“Everything okay in there?” a voice called out from beyond the open doors.

Zack stepped to the edge of the trailer and stood casually, silhouetted against the daylight beyond. “Yep!” he said, tone amused and buoyant. “Just us clumsy Feds tripping over our own feet.”

“A fucking Kara-trap,” I growled, jaw tight, eyes locked on the body. An attempt to activate Rhyzkahl’s contained virus. “That poor woman suffered and died for what? So the Mraztur can get their way? Can get their tool?” My breath came in harsh rasps. “The assholes still want to use me. It’s not happening.” I finally pygahed, allowed the anger to dull a bit, though it did nothing to ease the pain in my scars. I dragged my eyes away from the body, looked up. Ryan stood in front of me, face set in determination and his eyes full of worry. “You saved my ass,” I said. “You okay?”