Demon Angel

"We're looking into a missing person's case," he said. "Javier Sanchez. He's in one of your classes?"
    Hugh easily pictured Javier: quiet, intense, bright. "He was in Composition last term." He studied the detective's solemn countenance and unease settled across his shoulders. Would they have come in person to question him about a missing college student? Or did they suspect worse?
    "But not this semester?" Taylor flicked a glance at her partner.
    Hunching his shoulders in his worn jacket, Preston asked, • "Have you seen him since your Comp class?"
    "Several times; the latest was a month ago Friday. At Auntie's, on Irving Avenue."
    "Your aunt's?"
    Taylor's demeanor warmed slightly. "It's a restaurant, Joe. Southern Indian," she said. The corners of her mouth tilted in amusement. "You'd be popping antacids like candy."
    Preston grimaced; though the expression seemed to age him ten years, his sharp gaze never strayed from Hugh's face. "How would you characterize Mr. Sanchez's behavior?"
    "Normal." Silence followed his succinct description. Hugh recognized the tactic, and obliged them by adding, "A few of my current and former students meet at Auntie's every Friday night to play DemonSlayer. It's a CCG—a collectible card game. Javier is one of the regular players. I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary when I spoke with him."
    The detectives didn't look at each other, but he felt the undercurrent that passed between them.
    Tight-lipped, Taylor flipped open her notebook. "Will you give us the names of the other attendees?"
    Hugh recited the list without hesitation. When he finished, Detective Taylor nodded and tucked her notebook away. "Thank you, Dr. Castleford. You've been helpful."
    He hoped that would prove true. "I'll be available should you have any more questions."
    Taylor stood, then paused when her partner was slow to do the same. The hint of mirth Hugh had seen before appeared again. "Ask him, Joe."
    With a sheepish grin, Preston reached into the inside pocket of his coat and withdrew a slim paperback. "I wondered if you would sign this for me."
    Hugh automatically accepted the book, and stemmed the shout of laughter that always rose whenever he saw the red cover and embossed silver lettering that spelled his name. The black font used for the title seemed to drip blood, and the T' resembled a silver dagger.
    With.
    It had never been intended for a public audience, but two years after he'd written it, Savi had found the file while rebuilding his computer and assumed Hugh had been a stereotypical English grad student cum frustrated author.
    She'd been fifteen years old when she had used an Internet translator to transform the Latin text into English and had it printed at a vanity press as a gift. She'd also had access to a large bank account and contacts with online distributors. The print run had been two thousand copies; of those, Hugh had received twenty.
    His narrative ability was mediocre at best, and the translation awful. The final, terrible product had become infamous among Hugh's colleagues when he'd been studying at Berkeley; and later, among his own students. Fortunately, when he'd applied for his position at San Francisco State, the department heads thought he'd intended it as an ironic statement about the corruption of language over time. He continued to let them think so.
    The copy he held now had been well-worn: dog-eared, spine-creased and the pages splotched with coffee stains.
    "It's my stakeout book," Preston explained.
    His partner sighed heavily. "No offense. But… he reads it aloud ."
    "None taken." Hugh opened to the title page, wrote a brief message and his signature. "I can obtain a new copy for you; this one is ready to fall apart," he said as he slid it back across the desk.
    With a wry glance at Taylor, Preston said, "I'll keep that in mind." Without checking the dedication, he pushed the book into his pocket and gave it a protective pat, then rose to his feet. He rolled the chair over to Sue's half of the office, paused and looked at her political posters and haphazard stack of papers and books. "Professors today aren't nearly as stiff as I remember them."
    Hugh glanced down at the shirtsleeves he'd folded back over his forearms and his khaki cargo pants, and silently agreed.
    Preston continued, "Although from your accent, I suspect yours were. The U.K.?"
    The detective was making a rather broad guess; Hugh's accent was almost imperceptible—certainly too slight to