The search on Adam Taylor pulled up some old biographical information. I was surprised to see that he’d once been a major player in the New Orleans music scene as musician, producer, and songwriter, and had even been appointed to the Louisiana Music Commission back in the nineties. But apparently he’d had a run of ventures gone sour, and then had lost his home and studio during Katrina. He’d dropped out of sight until about a year ago when he began promoting Ether Madhouse and had opened a studio in Beaulac.

He probably has everything pinned on this band making it, I realized. Sank all his money into the studio in the hopes of recapturing his former success.

I sent the page to the printer, then searched on Victor Kerry’s name with meager results. A few scattered name mentions—usually connected to local social functions. Nothing that leaped out about financial misconduct or fraud. Oh, well. I couldn’t have everything handed to me.

After making certain that my door was locked, I started searches on anything I could find related to golems or arcane constructs. I found a number of excellent websites with information about the golems of Jewish legend, but the more I read, the less I felt that the creature I’d encountered was that sort of golem. In the Jewish legend the creature was inscribed with magic or religious words to keep it animated—either with a holy word or name written on its forehead, or a word or incantation written on paper and placed in the creature’s mouth. I’d only seen the face of the thing that attacked Lida for a few seconds, but I was fairly positive that there’d been nothing written on it, and there’d been nothing in its mouth. But more than that, the golems of legend were said to be clumsy and slow, and the one I’d encountered had been anything but.

I spent close to an hour doing more searches and poring over websites. Oddly, it was a site catering to fantasy role-playing games that gave me the first ping of possible recognition. A golem was listed in the pantheon of monsters, but instead of being animated by religious ritual, it was basically a statue of clay “possessed” by an earth elemental.

I sat up straighter. There’d been something about earth elementals in one of the books I’d taken from my aunt’s house, but I’d skimmed right over it since there’d been no accompanying reference to golems or constructs. My knowledge of elementals was rudimentary at best. I’d always assumed that such things didn’t really exist anymore, or if they did, there was no one left who knew how to control them. Kind of a boneheaded assumption, now that I thought about it.

For over a decade I’ve been operating under the concept that the only “magic” in the world was the kind I dealt with—using the natural power of the world to summon otherworldly creatures. And that’s stupid. I scowled at my own rigid thinking. I was too used to automatically assuming that the majority of the people who claimed to have “powers” of some sort or another were full of shit. And how was that attitude any different from someone assuming that my skills and abilities were bullshit, or, worse, due to some sort of evil pact with Satan?

And what about the essence eater? I reminded myself. A few months ago I’d tracked down a murderer who’d been consuming people’s souls, or essences. In fact the reason I was now sworn to Rhyzkahl was a direct result of the confrontation with the killer—the only way I’d known to save Ryan’s essence from being consumed as well. That killer was hardly the sort of arcane practitioner I was used to.

I frowned, the memory of a conversation with Rhyzkahl suddenly bubbling to the surface.

“There are many humans with the ability to shape and manipulate potency,” Rhyzkahl had told me. “Some can open portals. Some can draw power from essence. A rare few are little more than parasites. You are all descended from the same source.”

There’d been no time to press him for more details, and then I’d forgotten all about it in the aftermath of everything that had happened.

So, perhaps calling and controlling an earth elemental was simply another way of manipulating potency. And what had Rhyzkahl meant about “the same source?”

The buzzing of the phone on my desk sent my train of thought crashing into a deep ravine and I barely managed to resist the urge to snatch up the receiver and yell, “What?” Instead, I took a deep breath and gently picked up the receiver.

“Detective Gillian,” I said, tone nicely crisp and professional.

“This is Mayor Fussell, Detective Gillian. If you have a few minutes, could you come by my office? I have a matter I’d like to discuss with you.”

Nonplussed, I actually stared at the phone for several heartbeats before returning it to my ear. “Mayor Fussell, I’m sure I can make time to meet with you. May I ask what this is about?”

“We can discuss that when you get here, Detective,” was the curt reply.

I felt a muscle in my jaw twitch. “Certainly, sir. I’ll be right on my way.”

I hung up, fighting down anger by running through a few mental calming exercises. I had a damn good feeling I knew what this was about.

I shut down my computer and exited my office, then headed straight for my sergeant’s. He looked up from his computer as I swung into his doorway, his eyes narrowing at the expression on my face. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t controlling my anger as much as I’d hoped.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

I took another deep breath. “I’ve been called to the mayor’s office,” I said. “Is the chief here?”

Crawford scowled blackly. “No, he’s in Baton Rouge for a meeting.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “And I’m sure the mayor knows it. Did he say why he wanted to meet with you?”

I shook my head. “No, but he didn’t sound as if he wanted to give me a puppy and flowers. I’m pretty sure I know what this is about.”

“Ben Moran,” Crawford said, yanking his jacket on. “And yes, I’m coming with you. What a complete crock of shit.” He glanced at me. “You have a voice recorder on your phone?”

I blinked, then smiled. “Yeah. I do.”

He gave a curt nod. “Good, and I have one too. We’re gonna nip this shit in the bud.”

The mayor’s office was across the street from the station, and I had to resist the urge to skip and bounce on the way over. Funny how knowing that someone has your back makes all the difference in the world. But more than that, it was a relief to know that Crawford wasn’t going to let the weirdness of the other day influence his support of me as one of his detectives. I could accept that he wanted to keep his head in the sand with regards to the bizarre stuff I was involved in. It was unrealistic for me to expect—or even hope—that everyone could be as readily accepting of the arcane as Jill was.

But my gut was still tight with nerves as we crossed the street. My job was not civil service, which meant that the mayor definitely had the pull to get me fired if he saw fit. And my days with the task force might definitely be numbered, I thought grimly.

On the way over I gave Crawford a summary of what was going on with my investigation—though I carefully censored out the not-so-normal aspects. An oddly pained expression crossed his face briefly after I finished, as if he knew I was holding something back, and I felt an unexpected wave of sympathy for the man. He truly did his best to be a good cop and an effective sergeant, and I’d unintentionally created a harsh dilemma for him. And no way to take it all back now. I wonder if he regrets stopping to help me? A whisper of remembered fear curled through me at the thought. If he hadn’t helped me, something bad would have happened. I knew that. Probably he did too. But I couldn’t really blame him if he did harbor a measure of regret.