Fire Within

by Ally Shields

  Chapter Sixteen

  Andreas’s warning left Ari stunned. She really hadn’t considered the possibility of Daron losing control. Riverdale’s vampire community would be wide open for someone really evil, like a 1000-year-old vampire named Sebastian, to take over. A chilling possibility.

  Propelled by a new sense of urgency, Ari scurried to the ancient library at the Otherworld Research Center. She flipped through the index of every book on demonology and checked out the volumes that held promise. She hoped to find at least rudimentary information on image changers. The more data, the more likely she’d find a solution. If she was really, really lucky, Ari might discover the demon’s true name. It would give her power over him. Half the books set aside were encyclopedias of ancient demon names.

  Among the spell and potion books, she looked for methods successfully used to banish lesser demons or creatures related to demonkin. She even intended to read about the dark art of vanquishing. Although she couldn’t handle black magic, she needed a starting point, a formula for a banishing elixir or a script for a magical incantation.

  Arriving at her studio apartment, she stacked the books on the dining table, put on a pot of coffee, and started reading.

  Two hours later, Ari sat back and stretched. She had skimmed through half the books and was no closer to a solution. No mention of image changers or demon vanquishing spells. The volumes were either too general or too specific in the wrong areas.

  She took a break from the books and opened her laptop. What she needed was a worldwide search. The first search for “image changer” returned 332,000 hits for software, website development, and photo editing. Nothing even vaguely referring to demons. “Demon” proved to be a more prolific search factor, showing 44,700,000 references, beginning with the Magikpedia definition and revealing hundreds of lists of demonic names and images. She sighed. It was going to be a long, long night.

  Three sites provided extensive demonology lists claiming to include the real names, aliases, powers, and brief histories of all the known demons, greater and lesser. She scanned each tab for image changer. No listing. Without knowing a name, even an alias, there was no easy way to look for Riverdale’s demon visitor. She read on, page by page, clicked on each name, read through the descriptions and slowly eliminated the possibilities, one by one. The demon Amaymon, who she hoped never made his way to Riverdale, was a really creepy dude; his breath released a deadly poison. She laughed when she read about the Kappas, water demons who carried all their strength in their water-filled heads and had to be careful that it didn’t spill.

  It was all very interesting, but by 2:00 a.m., the only reference even marginally helpful was the following:

  Baelenor: the 37th Spirit appeareth before the people as a Daughter of Eve and later putteth on the Shape of Man, first one then another, as he pleaseth. His office is to Deceive and Confuseth his enemies and any who doeth not his biding.

  Baelenor might be an image changer. Or a shapeshifter. Or something else she’d never heard of. Discouraged, she slumped back on the couch. Unless Baelenor happened to be the demon’s name, a really far-out possibility, this reference meant nothing. She didn’t need proof image changers existed; she needed to know how to get rid of them. She jotted the name on the notepad, which was otherwise empty. Not much to show for…she checked the clock again, calculating…almost eight hours of research.

  Ari uncurled her legs, crossed to the table, and set the laptop on a stack of discarded books. The table was covered; one reason she had retreated to the sofa. She rubbed her face, trying to relieve the fatigue. Too many hours staring at a computer screen, and too many short nights in a row. Sleep would be nice. She stretched her arms, gave the bed a longing glance, then put it out of mind. Time was moving on. They say there’s no rest for the wicked, but in this case, it was no rest for she who had not yet found the wicked—or a way to destroy the wicked.

  She grabbed a fresh diet coke and picked up the next well-worn tome on demonology. Within five minutes, she read her first mention of an image changer, defined as a demon mutation. The image changer is a highly evolved specimen of a rare mutation, tainted by human blood, and infected by lycanthropy. The IC is highly intelligent, without conscience or empathy. It can slip between dimensions and alter its appearance at will. Excited to have found the passage, Ari read on, hoping for more, but soon realized that’s all there was. Apparently the image changer was so rare, no one had bothered to write much about it. She skimmed the remaining books without success and returned to her laptop.

  * * *

  At 6:30 in the morning she ran out for coffee and a bagel from a local drive-up. Two large cups, liberally doctored with cream and sugar. Straight coffee wasn’t enough this morning; she needed the sugar and calories. One cup was gone by the time she reached home. She sipped the other and nibbled the bagel as she tapped the keyboard.

  Since 4:00 a.m. she had been following a brief one-liner from an obscure online demonology reference: A Changeling Daemon found in the Shape of Man is subject to Man’s laws. She had reasoned from this that an enhanced binding spell might capture the creature before it blinked into another form. That could give her time to use other magic or potions to banish it. All theory, of course. But it felt right.

  At 9:30 Ryan called. “Are you up?”

  “I haven’t been to bed. Researched all night. I might be on the right track finally, but nothing definite.”

  “Yeah, slow going here, too. We’ve cleared all of Shale’s support staff, except Amelia Binderman. Mostly locals and easy to trace. Binderman and the counselors are taking longer because Shale hired them from out of town. We’re doing nationwide checks on everyone. You’d be surprised how many Sarah Youngs there are.” Ari heard him rustling papers. “If you’re going over there today, pay special attention to Frieda Stanley. We have a local address, but no credit cards, no phone listing. That’s not unheard of, but I’m considering it suspicious at this point.”

  “A visit to the agency might be the break I need,” Ari said, flexing her stiff shoulder muscles. “That—and a long, hot shower.”

  “Definitely, the shower,” he chuckled. “Especially if I have to be near you today. Of course, if you’re too tired, I could come over and scrub your back.”

  “Don’t you wish.” Ari clicked off, inordinately pleased with Ryan’s teasing. It showed he wasn’t letting this thing with Andreas interfere with their friendship.

  She tapped her pen on the table, considering how best to approach Shale’s agency. It called for a plan or, more accurately, a cover story. She considered telling Shale the truth, but that wouldn’t work. Technically, he was still a suspect. She picked up the phone and called Ryan back. They talked it over and decided to conduct formal interviews using a version of the truth. They would stress the need to eliminate the staff as suspects. Just routine.

  When Ari and Ryan walked in the agency door, it was late morning. The air conditioning provided a welcome relief from the hot, steaming air outside. Ari had called ahead and asked Shale to assemble his staff for an impromptu meeting. At first he had flatly refused, citing impossible schedules. When she insisted, he gave in with poorly disguised irritation and said he’d gather those that were available. When she told him he needed to do better than that, the conversation ended. Ari wasn’t sure how they’d be received.

  Ms. Binderman wasn’t at the front desk. A rosy-cheeked woman in her early twenties directed them to the main conference room, next door to Shale’s office. Everyone was there: Shale, Sarah Young, Richard Batty, Jerome Fitzhugh, Amelia Binderman, and a forty-something woman Ari assumed was Frieda Stanley. Shale had taken her seriously.

  “Guardian,” he said coolly, stepping forward. “Lt. Foster. I hope this will be short. We do have clients to see.”

  “Appreciate your cooperation,” Ryan said, “especially on such short notice. We don’t want to interrupt your schedule any more than we have to.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Ari echoed. “We�
��ll get your staff members cleared, and let everyone get on with their work.” As Ryan and Ari had pre-arranged, Ari started the show. “As I’m sure you all know, two clients of this agency were recently murdered. A third death may be related. There are two things we need to do today. First, clear each of you by establishing your alibis for the time periods of those three deaths. And second, even more important, learn anything you might know that would help us to find the killer.” Of course, she didn’t mention they’d be assessing each person for hidden psi ability and their potential to be the demon.

  “You may return to your regular schedule, and we’ll conduct the interviews as each of you becomes available. Please don’t leave the building until your interview is complete.” She turned to Ryan with a nod.

  He stepped forward, a stack of papers in his hand, and handed one to each of the suspects. “In order to save time, I’d like you to think about where you were on certain dates and times. I’ve given you a sheet with that information. It should make the interviews go more quickly.” He gave them a broad smile. “I appreciate your help.”

  None of the suspects commented. No one cracked a smile, not even Sarah Young, as they filed out. Ari wondered what Shale had said to them that elicited such somber faces.

  Their first interview was a mid-fifties male with the unfortunate name of Richard Batty, not a handle to inspire confidence in a counselor. He provided a response for every date, even showed his personal calendar entries, which proved nothing, of course. Mr. Batty was unmarried and lived alone. He said he’d attended a public fireworks display on the evening of the Fourth, the first murder date, but he didn’t remember seeing or speaking with anyone he knew. His other alibis were solitary evenings in front of the television. Batty reported he’d been recruited from a dead-end, hospital-based job in Albuquerque. When Ari shook hands with him at the end of the interview, she felt the expected mild psi tingle. Inconclusive. They left him on the list.

  Ms. Binderman produced an uneasy smile when her turn came. “I hoped you’d get to me soon. Carol isn’t very experienced on the front desk.”

  “Then we’ll try to hurry,” Ari said. “Have you thought about the dates we gave you?”

  Binderman pushed the sheet forward. In neat, dainty writing, she had recorded her whereabouts next to each date and time, along with any person who could verify the information. “The first date was easy. We had a staff picnic at Goshen Park on the Fourth,” she said. “We can vouch for each other.”

  “Who was there?” Ari asked, taken by surprise.

  “Mr. Shale, Frieda, Amy Ferguson, and Terry Lowry, two of our night staffers. Jerome and his family stopped by. Barney, the night janitor. Richard Batty never comes. It was a small affair.”

  “Did anyone leave during the evening?” Ryan asked.

  “Well, Frieda left early, I believe. 7:00 or 7:30. But the rest of us were there, except for nature calls, of course.”

  “Were the restrooms close by?”

  “A five minute walk. I think that’s how long it took Amy and I. We walked over and back together. You could check with her, but I’d say five, six minutes at the most. You have to go around or across the baseball diamond. It certainly wasn’t enough time for anyone to leave the park and come back.”

  Not unless you’re a demon with supernatural speed and the ability to change your appearance, Ari thought. On average, she figured each person would have been gone fifteen, twenty minutes. Plenty of time to reach the bar, kill Jules and return with no one knowing a thing. The picnic alibi wasn’t worth much.

  Ryan spent a little time discussing Binderman’s past working history in Chicago, Illinois. When Ari offered to shake her hand, the receptionist declined, murmuring a concern about viruses. Considering the Saniwash dispenser on her desk, Ari conceded the excuse could be genuine.

  Sarah Young’s interview was the least productive. Uncomfortable and distracted from the beginning, she fidgeted in her chair and smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her slacks. When asked where she was on the nights of the murders, she burst into tears.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “This is so hard. The murders, the tension. I’m questioning whether I even want to be a counselor.”

  Since she’d already written out her answers, Ryan gathered a brief background sketch about her hometown and her transfer to graduate study in Riverdale, and they ended the interview. As Ari pulled the door closed behind her, Sarah was still sitting at her desk staring into space. Her behavior was troublesome; the outburst was out of character for the composed woman Ari had met on her prior visit.

  They came closest to clearing Jerome Fitzhugh. An earnest black male in his thirties, he was cooperative and attentive throughout the interview. Fitzhugh was married with two children and laughingly added that his wife could account for most of his time. Like Sarah Young, he was a recent PhD graduate, and his credentials would be easy to verify. He leaked psi energy throughout the interview. Not an alarming amount, about what Ari would expect from a talented and nervous counselor. Ari figured he’d pass all the necessary checks.

  Freida Stanley, on the other hand, sent up immediate red flags. Forty, rough around the edges. She had that well-used air about her, and an evasiveness in her manner. Frieda didn’t like the questioning and showed no interest in cooperating.

  “If you expect me to answer questions, then I want my lawyer present.”

  “No problem.” Ryan pulled out his cell phone. “His name?”

  Fifteen minutes later they were still talking back and forth on the phone: first, Ryan and the lawyer; then Freida and the lawyer. Finally, Ryan’s suggestion to move the interview to the police station tipped the scales toward cooperation. Stanley decided to talk, and she answered every question, but the responses were vague and incomplete or she said she couldn’t remember. Ari observed her closely throughout the phone discussion and Ryan’s questioning. Stanley shifted in her seat, drummed her fingers, one foot constantly moved in a rhythmic tap-tap on the floor. Ari was sure she was covering something, but would a demon be that obvious?

  “What do you want me to tell you, officer?” Freida Stanley carped. “I live alone. When I’m not home, I’m working. Can’t help it, if that’s not good enough.”

  Ryan flashed a winning smile. Deceiver.

  “All right, Ms. Stanley,” he said. “Why don’t we move on? Tell me how you got this job?”

  “Shale interviewed and hired me. What’s that got to do with the murders?”

  Ari noted Stanley was the only person who had asked. Was that significant? Maybe.

  “Routine,” he said easily. “Anything we learn about the agency might help us.”

  “Uh-huh.” It was a clear statement of disbelief. “I’m not saying anything else. I know my rights. Don’t have to answer that.”

  “That’s true. But keep yourself available in case we need to talk again. Downtown.”

  As soon as he said this, Stanley sprang to her feet and hustled out the door. Ryan and Ari exchanged looks. Since they were sitting in Stanley’s office, her abrupt departure revealed how anxious she was to end the questioning.

  “Number one suspect,” Ryan said. “She’s guilty of something. Didn’t your witch senses tell you anything? It’s damned inconvenient you can’t recognize this creature.”

  Ari hid a grin. For someone uncomfortable with magic, he sure liked it when it worked for him. “Her aura is so lacking in color, I have trouble believing she has an ounce of intuition or magical ability. But that could be part of her demon cover. “

  As they headed for their final interview, Ari considered whether the morning had been worth the time. Had they gained anything? So far, they hadn’t eliminated anyone. Freida Stanley had surfaced as a suspect, but her credentials had already been suspicious.

  Ari gasped as a stab of hot malignancy hit her in front of Shale’s office. She leaped forward and threw the door open, catching four people in a heated argument. The raging magical energy blinked off. Amelia Binderm
an, Sarah Young, Harold Shale, and Freida Stanley stared at her intrusion.

  Flashing a frown at Ari, Ryan recovered first. “Sorry, if we interrupted. We’re here for your interview, Mr. Shale. If you have the time?”

  “Yeah, sorry to intrude,” Ari added lamely.

  The agency owner frowned, picked up the sheet of questions from his desk, and handed it to Ryan. The answers were neatly typed. “I have an appointment to keep,” Shale said. “I’ve covered everything on this, but call Ms. Binderman if you need something more. I trust you have gotten what you needed from everyone else?” He made it a question.

  “I understand your time crunch,” Ryan said. “I still need a couple minutes. It’ll be short.”

  During this conversation, Ari watched the four counselors, reaching out with witch senses. Where had that revealing energy come from? She was sure the creature was in this room, and its blocking defenses had faltered for an instant, a second of lost control during an argument. Ari’s hasty response may have alerted the demon she was aware of its existence. She wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing, but it added a new dimension.

  Shale gave in to Ryan’s insistence. Glaring at his employees until they hustled out the door, he returned to sit behind his imposing desk. Establishing a barrier this time, Ari thought, wondering if Shale’s attitude was more than normal irritation.

  She paid little attention to the initial questions, allowing her gaze to wander around the room, as Ryan asked about Shale’s background and counseling experience prior to Riverdale. She heard Shale mention California, but her mind was still on that moment outside the door. “What was the argument about?” she popped in at the first pause in the conversation. “The one our arrival broke up.”

  “I hardly think that concerns you.” When she frowned, Shale softened his response. “Our differences over office policy can’t be of much interest to you or your investigation.”