To my sister, Sherry, for accepting and supporting the nerds in her life.

I tried to tell myself I didn’t need to write a lengthy acknowledgment, but the truth is that every single book requires enormous help from a variety of sources and it would be a travesty if I didn’t at least make the attempt to thank everyone who contributed to the creation of this book.

Therefore, huge thanks and appreciation go to:

Dr. Michael DeFatta, who continues to be an absolute goldmine of information on forensic pathology, and, amazingly, has not yet filed a restraining order to force me to stop texting questions to him.

Roman White, Michael Buckholtz, and Scott Gardner, for answering my numerous questions about the music industry with incredible detail and unwavering patience.

Sgt. Ben Eshleman and Detective Stefan Montgomery, for filling in the many gaps in my knowledge of financial crimes and the paperwork involved in investigating them.

Sgt. Roy McCann, for explaining the best way to shoot various things.

My kick-ass agent, Matt Bialer, and his lovely and awesome assistant, Lindsay Ribar, for not giving up on me or this series. I can’t imagine being in this line of work without them.

Betsy Wollheim, my incredible editor, for everything.

Debbie Roma, for being such a great friend and fan.

Nicole Peeler, for helping me find the good stuff in the book.

And, of course, my mom, for the many varieties of support and motivation she’s given me.

While I do my very best to ensure that all of the Kara Gillian books can be enjoyed as stand-alone novels, there is an overarching storyline to the series that I hope readers will enjoy as well. I advise those readers who are interested in earlier books to begin with Mark of the Demon and follow that with Blood of the Demon—both of which are available from fine booksellers everywhere. Thank you.

The heavy music pounded through me, making my teeth vibrate and the muscles in my back tense in reaction. I leaned against the wall, as much as to have a good vantage to watch the seething mass of people in front of the stage as to ground myself from the incessant beat. Cigarette smoke burned the back of my throat and the stench of stale beer and sweat coiled around me in a noxious miasma. Every now and then I’d get a whiff of something putrid, letting me know me that I’d picked a spot too close to the bathrooms. I was in a good position to see the majority of the bar, but the raised alcove I’d claimed for my use suffered from a distinct lack of air flow—which probably explained why it was empty.

A few feet below me the dance floor was getting some vigorous use—its denizens clad in fishnets and corsets, PVC and leather, ball gowns and “Little Bo-Peep” outfits, and every possible combination thereof. Past the dance floor and through a broad brick archway I could see that the long bar was packed three deep. I was in serious need of some ice water, but I wasn’t quite desperate enough to brave the crush at the bar.

<You do not enjoy this activity.>

I jerked in surprise at the feel of the demon’s voice in my head. I’d summoned tenth-level demons before, but this particular zhurn was the only demon who had ever chosen to speak with me mind to mind. <This is not my preferred leisure activity,> I replied, tensing with the effort of communicating with the demon in this fashion. <I don’t really care for crowds.> It wasn’t as simple as merely thinking a sentence, which is what I’d always imagined it to be. Instead it felt as if I had to push the thought along the mental bindings that held the demon in this sphere. It was creepy and unsettling, and I couldn’t help but be relieved that the zhurn were the only demons who ever chose to communicate this way.

I waited for a response from the demon, but my answer had apparently been sufficient. Maybe it’s bored? Unfortunately, there really wasn’t much for it to do. I’d only summoned Skalz as a contingency backup, even though I thought it very unlikely that we would need one. It had also been a while since I’d summoned a zhurn and this had been a convenient enough excuse.

“You’re supposed to look like you’re having fun,” FBI Special Agent Ryan Kristoff said from beside me. It probably should have been a whisper, or at least sotto voce, but the music was so loud it ended up being more of a shout.

“Not true,” I said/shouted back. “It’s a goth bar. I’m supposed to look miserable!”

His eyes crinkled with humor. “It’s good to see that you’re embracing your undercover persona so thoroughly.” I gave him a rude snort which only made him laugh. “So you don’t like being on the ‘financial crimes’ task force?”

I had to smile at that. I was a homicide detective for the Beaulac, Louisiana, PD, and a few months ago I’d been the lead detective on the Symbol Man serial killer case. I’d met FBI Special Agents Ryan Kristoff and Zachary Garner during the investigation and had been surprised to discover that both agents were quite accepting of the existence of the supernatural and arcane. Later I’d been asked to join a multi-jurisdictional task force that dealt with white collar crimes and financial malfeasance—which had confused me until I’d discovered that this particular “financial crimes” task force also dealt with anything that had a supernatural or paranormal element.

“Okay, I’ll admit that this is a thousand times better than slogging my way through financial statements.” I knew what I was talking about, too. I’d paid my dues in white collar investigations before finally getting promoted to homicide. “But I still think the only reason we’re here is because Zack wanted to meet Lida Moran.”

Amusement flashed in Ryan’s eyes. “Well, she has been receiving death threats, which makes it a Homeland Security issue, which technically we’re a part of.”

Ryan ignored my rude snort and continued. “And she’s from Beaulac, so it makes sense for you to be in on the investigation, right?”

“And, since she’s performing in New Orleans your little multi-jurisdictional task force fit the bill oh so perfectly,” I said. Two days ago the manager for Ether Madhouse had notified the FBI that strange threats had been left on the fan forum of the band’s website—messages stating that a “demon would consume Lida on stage” during one of her concerts. The IP address of the threats had been traced to a coffee shop in Beaulac with an open wireless connection, which meant that it could have been anyone. Hence the decision to go undercover at the concert.

I slid a glance to where Zack was “staking out” the area in front of the stage. To the average observer it probably looked like he was dancing with great enthusiasm. For that matter it looked like that to me as well. His tanned face, sun-bleached hair, and athletic build contrasted sharply with the pale faces around him, but he was so clearly enjoying the music that no one in their right mind would ever suspect him of being undercover. I couldn’t help but smile. I never would have guessed in a million zillion years that the FBI agent who I’d mentally dubbed “Surfer Boy” had a thing for goth metal bands with female lead singers.

“Cognitive dissonance,” I said with a shake of my head.

“And the threats did mention demons consuming her soul . . .”

I raised an eyebrow and Ryan raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. It’s true! My partner has a fanboy crush and was looking for any excuse to get close to Lida Moran.” Then he laughed. “I still think you should have worn the outfit that Zack found for you.”