Free Secrets of the Demon by Diana Rowland Page A

and do background checks on the band members and her manager.”
    “Sounds like a plan,” he said. He turned onto the highway that led to my aunt’s house. “So what’s going on with your aunt’s portal to hell?”
    I shuddered. “The only hell in my aunt’s house is the condition of her library.”
    “That’s what I was referring to,” he said dryly.
    I exhaled. “It’s all warded up and protected again, though I made sure that I was included in the wards this time.”
    “But has she ever explained what it is? ”
    Frustration welled. “No. Every time I try to pin her down about it she changes the subject, or gives me some vague answer that makes no sense.”
    He gave me a puzzled look. “Like how?”
    Frowning, I fought to remember some of the stranger answers she’d given me. It didn’t help that she’d given me several different varieties. “Let’s see . . . One time she told me it was a flower in a daisy chain. Another time she said it was a bar across a door. The best one was where she said that it’s ‘the butterfly on top of the rock.’ ”
    “That makes no sense at all.”
    I smiled without humor. “Welcome to my world.”
    He pulled to a stop in front of my aunt’s house. “Call me in the morning?”
    “Will do,” I replied. I started to get out of the car but he stopped me with a hand on my arm.
    “Be careful tonight,” he said, voice suddenly low and grave.
    I opened my mouth to ask him what he was talking about, then shut it, chagrined. Oh, yeah, I’m summoning Rhyzkahl tonight.
    “I will,” I replied. I didn’t know what else there was I could say.
    He gave a tight nod and withdrew his hand. I shut the door and stepped to the curb, and resisted the urge to watch him drive off.

Chapter 7

    The building that housed the Beaulac Police Department was on a street occupied almost completely by city and parish offices, which meant that on a Sunday afternoon it was damn near deserted. I half-expected to see a tumbleweed blow by. Not that I was complaining. At least this way I didn’t have to search for a parking spot.
    I entered through the back door that led to the Investigations Division and continued on down the woodpaneled hall to my office, intentionally walking loudly in an effort to cover the annoying buzz of the fluorescents. Unlocking my door, I flicked on the lights to reveal the not-very-spacious glory that was my closet-sized office. I didn’t really mind the lack of space. It meant I didn’t have to share it with anyone. And I’d finally managed to put something up to break the monotony of the stark white walls: a “Magic Eye” poster that wasn’t really a “Magic Eye” poster at all. I’d quickly discovered that it was incredibly entertaining to watch people struggle to see a 3-D image that didn’t exist.
    I fired up my computer and started calling up basic background checks on everyone. The drummer, Roger Peeler, had been arrested for possession of steroids several years ago, but had avoided conviction. Trey Westin was clean as a whistle. Not even a parking ticket. I ran Michael Moran as well, for the sake of thoroughness. Who knows, maybe the whole brain damage thing is a fake, I thought with inappropriate and obnoxious humor. But, no, Michael Moran wasn’t even in the system—not a surprise if he didn’t have a driver’s license or state-issued ID.
    However, the manager, Adam Taylor, had several outstanding warrants for worthless checks. I allowed myself a feral smile as I pulled up more info on the warrants.
    I let out a low whistle. Now here was a guy who most assuredly had a stake in whether or not Ether Madhouse made it big. Seven different warrants sworn out by a variety of people, for a total of almost twenty thousand dollars. I wasn’t terribly surprised that he hadn’t been arrested yet. There were a ridiculous number of people with outstanding warrants for various offenses, and the warrants divisions of the PD and the Sheriff’s Office were