Demon Marked

file. “And you still think we have your guy in our lockup?”
    “Probably not,” Revoire said. “There’s a distinct difference in the blood spatter. There’s no control. This looks like he was angry. He knew the victims?”
    “Not well.” The sheriff sat behind his desk, removed his hat. “They’re from up Lakewood, Steve Johnson has been here in Duluth for nine years now. Came in from Chicago. Says he was following Rachel, but when she moved to England and then disappeared . . . he found himself a few other girlfriends. He says that he never contacted the Boyles before Saturday morning.”
    “But he claimed that Rachel’s ghost visited him?”
    “Yes. Visited, and said that she hadn’t gone missing. Said she hadn’t been killed by some rich man. That her parents had done it, and she needed Johnson to get revenge for her.” Brand sighed. “The defense is already working up their insanity plea.”
    “And what do you think?” Taylor wondered.
    “I don’t think it’ll fly. He’s been working up to this for years. Rachel had a restraining order on him after he stalked her on campus. We’ve had other complaints from other girls. No violence in the priors, so this is unusual—but he said flat-out in the interview that he knew it wasn’t right, but he had to do it for her. So he’s got something loose up there, but he knows right from wrong. He’ll stand trial.”
    So the demon had probably known about Johnson’s obsession with Rachel, had known exactly who to push. To know that, it had probably accessed court records and found the restraining order. There might be a paper trail.
    Taylor and Revoire would start there.
    They took their leave of Sheriff Brand, walked to the front of the building. Teleporting around a busy city in the middle of the day was out, except in an emergency. Taylor didn’t mind. Growing up in San Francisco, she hadn’t seen a lot of snow, but it was falling outside and she wouldn’t get cold.
    She didn’t think Revoire was ready to teleport again yet, anyway. She caught his eye. “All right?”
    “Fine. Just reminded of why I can’t always tell the difference between humans and demons. That little shit deserves to burn.”
    Yes. Johnson had his issues, but when it came down to it, he’d wanted to kill the Boyles. Taylor had about as much sympathy for him as she did serial killers who blamed their mamas.
    She nodded her agreement, squinting a little as they emerged from the dim office to the bright fall of white. The sun wasn’t out, but the daylight and the reflection off the snow still glared on her sensitive eyes.
    “Do you recall anything odd about Rachel Boyle? The name is nagging at me.” And years on the force told her not to ignore those little niggles.
    Revoire shook his head. “I remember when it happened. It caught the news in this area a couple of times. But nothing stood out. Most people thought her rich boyfriend did it.”
    Rich boyfriend. Taylor stopped as the niggle turned into a full-blown itch. “No, not the news. The dungeon.”
    “Dungeon?”
    “Nicholas St. Croix.” Oh, it was coming to her. She’d been distracted, but she remembered this. “He said that a demon killed Rachel Boyle. That she died in his arms after saving him. He’d wanted to know if she’d become a Guardian.”
    “Did she?” Revoire’s brow furrowed, as if he was trying to recall the name now, too. “I don’t know many of the novices—”
    “She didn’t. We still don’t know why. And . . . speak of the devil. There he is.”
    Crossing the circular drive that served the government buildings, and still looking like the same cold, rich bastard. Taylor almost laughed. He hadn’t noticed her yet, and she briefly considered shifting her form—but no, this was better.
    His gaze lit on her, and she couldn’t detect any change of his expression or a crack in his emotional shields. But he recognized her. His heart sped up. An automatic response, she thought. Though Nicholas St. Croix knew he had nothing to fear from a pair of Guardians, his instincts were shouting at his body to fight or get the hell out of there.
    “Mr. St. Croix,” she drawled. “How was your trip from New York?”
    Cool amusement hardened his eyes. “How is Rosalia?”
    “Concerned about you.”
    “Ah, yes. The mother to everyone.”
    Such icy disdain for one of the sweetest women she’d ever met. God, Taylor wanted to punch him. “Better than your mother?”
    “Is she?” He