“What do you know about possession?”
“Excuse me?”
“Demon possession.”
“Happens a lot when demons are a bit weaker; easier than manifesting whole. When coming out of conjuring, for example. On the other hand, some of them just enjoy it, since it freaks people out. They usually go after weaker personality types, folks with temptations and flaws.”
“That sounds like all of us.”
“Some are easier to convince than others.”
I pondered that for a moment. “I reckon you’re here to look through Jerry Becker’s room?”
He just looked at me, not answering.
“Shall we go?” I asked.
Sailor let out another exasperated breath, but he followed me out of the restroom. The businessman he had ordered out was standing to the side of the door, waiting.
“It’s all yours,” Sailor said to him. “Enjoy.”
I led the way back to Lou, who was bouncing up and down on his tiptoes at the elevator, apparently agitated.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re back. There’s a problem with a reservation, and I need to get back to the main desk. Have you heard of Akon? He’s a well- known rap star, and apparently there’s a mix-up. . . .”
He trailed off as his watery blue gaze fell on Sailor. “And who’s this strapping fellow?”
“My . . . fiancé.” I put my arm through Sailor’s. He looked down at me, aghast at the suggestion of intimacy.
“Well, that’s some woman you’ve got there, young man,” Lou said with an ingratiating smile.
“Oh, yeah,” Sailor said, yanking me closer to him, his hand digging into my side. “She’s a pistol.”
“We just need to check through poor uncle Jerry’s things,” I said, tugging away from Sailor’s too-tight grip. “We won’t be long.”
“If you don’t mind, I won’t escort you up,” Lou said.
“Here’s the key card, and you can let yourselves in. Just give me a buzz if there’s anything more I can do.”
“That’s perfect,” I said, staring into his eyes. “We won’t be long. And we won’t be disturbed.”
“You won’t be long,” Lou repeated with an energetic nod. “And you won’t be disturbed.”
Lou reached into the elevator, hit the appropriate button, and stood back, holding up his hand in a wave. The elevator doors slid closed between us.
“That’s a neat trick,” Sailor said, giving me a heavy-lidded once-over. “That some sort of Jedi mind control?”
“Excuse me?”
“Like in
Star Wars
.
These aren’t the droids you’re looking for
.”
“I never saw that movie.”
“You never saw
Star Wars
?”
I shook my head, watching the old-fashioned elevator dial tick off the floors.
“What are you, some kind of an alien? How could any red-blooded American not see that movie?”
I sighed. I was feeling a mite sensitive—this sort of thing was coming up a lot lately. “I think we have more important things to think about right at the moment, not the least of which is what in the sam hill you’re doing here at the Fairmont.”
“I could ask you the very same thing.”
“
I’m
investigating Jerry Becker’s death, whereas you claimed you wanted nothing to do with it.”
“Yeah, well, we can’t always get what we want.”
The elevator doors slid open with a muted ding and a refined swoosh. We walked down the hill to the room marked with an elegant brass plate: THE TOWER SUITE.
I used the key card and swung the door open. Sailor and I hesitated in the threshold, taking a moment to feel for sensations before proceeding.
The suite was made up of a parlor with a bedroom and bath. It was decorated in standard, ho- hum hotel chic—still in shades of cream and gold, but lacking either the charm or the grandeur of the lobby and main historic hotel. The only thing out of the ordinary was a telescope set up on a tripod in the main window, which opened onto an amazing view of Coit Tower and the bay.
Sailor started right in tossing pillows, opening bureau drawers, and looking under the furniture in the sitting room.
I headed for the bedroom and felt the sheets—you could usually pick up a lot from the sleeping area—but they had been changed since Jerry Becker slept here. His clothes still hung in the closet—a single suit, two shirts, one pair of shiny black dress shoes, one pair of athletic trainers. I tried holding each piece, but still picked up nothing distinct. Next, I tried the bathroom, riffling through Becker’s personal toiletries, sniffing at his shaving gel, poking through his bag, which contained a toothbrush, toothpaste, a small bottle of cologne, blood pressure pills, and a vial of Viagra.
Housekeeping hadn’t been here—there was a dirty towel on the floor, his things scattered about. Still, I couldn’t get much of a read from his personal effects.
Defeated, I sat on the bed. There were signs the police had been here; perhaps they had already confiscated anything of interest.
“Anything?” Sailor asked from the doorway.
I shook my head. My eyes alighted on a framed photo of a smiling Jerry Becker, surrounded by two young men—his sons, I assumed—and Andromeda. I felt a surge of grief for Becker, the father. He had traveled with this photograph, set beside his bed so it was the last thing he would see at night. I held it to my chest. Yes, it had been cherished.
There was something else: a small collage on thick, hand-pressed paper. It was very well done, and featured hearts and roses.
With love, from M.
Marlene, I presumed. I was finding it hard to reconcile the beaming, seemingly content Marlene I had seen with Todd with the unfolding story: a woman in love with Jerry Becker. What could she have seen in him? Unless, of course, he was playing with a deck supernaturally stacked in his favor.
Sailor slumped onto the bed beside me, leaning forward, elbows perched on thighs. With his coat and boots he reminded me of some European rock star, or a futuristic road warrior. This close, I could feel his exhaustion; could smell his subtle aroma of spice and perfume.
“Sailor?”
“Yup.”
“What are you looking for in Jerry Becker’s hotel room? For real.”
“Probably the same thing you are. I wanted to take a look at where Becker was staying while he was here. Looking for clues.”
“Last time we talked, I had the distinct impression you weren’t going to pursue this.”
“I don’t have much choice. Aidan contacted me.”
“I heard he was out of town.”
“You heard wrong.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “What kind of control does Aidan have over you? Why don’t you just move away?”
Sailor’s dark eyes rested back on me.
“What kind of control does he have over
you
?”
“I told you—he helped me out once. I owe him. And besides, this isn’t about Aidan anymore. I have to find out what’s going on at that school before things get any worse. First a murder, and now . . .”
“What?”
I shook my head.
“I told you I can’t read your mind. Tell me what happened.”
“Possible case of possession. Things are ratcheting up. I can feel it.”
Sailor swore under his breath, blew out a breath, and fell backward onto the bed. He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. “I was trying to avoid going to the school. Thought I could figure it out from here. But nothing has any of his vibrations.”
“I was thinking the same thing. Cloaking of some sort?”
“I’d say more serious than that. It’s as though the guy wasn’t even human.”
“He was human enough to die when pushed down the stairs.”
“You’ve got me there.”
We sat together in surprisingly companionable silence. For some reason my thoughts turned to my familiar. I felt a bit betrayed by the little porker, even though I had known he was working with Aidan. Still, I couldn’t believe he lied to me about Aidan’s being out of town. I thought about Oscar blowing on the van window and drawing a pentagram on the fogged glass. . . .
Something occurred to me.
I went into the bathroom and breathed on the mirror.
A drawing appeared. Almost crownlike, it was a big U topped with a straight line, then three crosses at the top, four small circles below the line, and one at the bottom of the U.
“A sigil,” Sailor said from right behind me. “God
damn
it.”
A sigil is a demon’s seal. Demons might have several names, varying appearances, or pronunciations that shift across geography, history, and cultures. But the sigil stays constant.
“Do you know whose?”
He shook his head. “But that doesn’t mean much. I only know a few of the most obvious. As I’m sure you know, there are thousands.”
“Tens of thousands,” I muttered.
“
Shit
,” Sailor swore again, and banged the door frame. He had a decidedly green-around-the-gills look on his face.
“Why are you so surprised? I told you I suspected demonic activity.”
“I assumed you were being histrionic.”
“You
hoped
I was being histrionic.”
He shrugged one big shoulder.
“So how do we find out whom we’re dealing with?” I asked as I tried to commit the drawing to memory. I feared sketching it, as with my powers I could inadvertently call something up before I was ready to deal with it. That would be bad—really bad.
Sailor shook his head. “Look up the sigil, I guess.”
Even reading about demons made me nervous. They were so serious and so numerous. It was overwhelming—and frightening. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and released it very slowly.
Then I felt the large, comforting pressure of a hand on my head. I opened my eyes and saw Sailor in front of me. His dark eyes looked worried, and there was a surprisingly open, vulnerable look on his face. After the briefest of moments, the sardonic, cynical mien returned. He dropped his hand and turned away.
“I thought you couldn’t read my mind,” I said to his back as he retreated out of the bedroom.
“No need. Your face is like an open book.”
I trailed him into the main room, unsure what to do now. I studied Sailor’s profile for a moment as he bent over to look through the telescope at the view. He had an elegant nose, pouty lips, long eyelashes, a distinctive chin. He was rugged, strong—and yet so unhappy.
“Sailor, do you think Aidan is capable . . . Would he have helped Becker to conjure the demon?”
Sailor turned to me and put a finger to his lips, gesturing for me to hush. He assumed a fighter’s stance, arms at his side with his fingers twitching ever so slightly. It was an unconsciously masculine pose that I had seen men all over the globe strike when under threat; it must have something to do with testosterone.
He took me by the upper arm and urged me toward the door.
“Let’s get out of here. We can talk elsewhere.”
Out in the hall, two housekeepers were pushing a cart of clean towels and supplies past the door. The elevator was open and waiting.
As we descended, I heard Sailor’s voice, low and grumbling.
“Just my luck to get mixed up with a bunch of crazy witches.”
“Be that as it may, you apparently owe Aidan. You need to help me figure this thing out.”
He blew out an exasperated breath as the elevator doors opened onto the lobby.
“Come on, Sailor, he’s obviously got you on a leash somehow. If you help me find out who—or what—I’m dealing with at the school, you’re off the hook.”
“For the moment.”
We proceeded out the front glass doors. Outside, the night was chilly; the damp air carried the scent of fog and the sea. I breathed deeply, relishing the freshness of the evening after the oppressive feeling in Becker’s room.
“I need to get a few things from home before I can do a proper reading,” Sailor said as we paused in front of the building.
“You mean you’ll come to the school?”
“I don’t appear to have much choice in the matter.”
“Great. Thank you.”
“Anyway, I have to stop by my place.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Sailor pressed his lips together. His hands rested lightly on his hips, and he looked around as though searching for escape.
“Whatever,” he finally said under his breath.
“Do you have a car here?” I asked.
“Motorcycle.”
I laughed.
“What’s funny about that?”
“I was just wondering if you could hit any more clichés. The attitude, the boots, the bike . . .”
He looked at me, frowning in perplexity. “If I didn’t have the bike, why would I need the boots?”
Now I laughed at the sincere bewilderment on his somber face. I was still chuckling when I turned to see Max Carmichael, of all people, striding toward the front doors of the Fairmont. He stopped in his tracks when he saw me.
“Max,” I said.
“Lily,” he replied, surprised.
Sailor swore under his breath. Max’s gaze shifted to him. A black cloud passed over his face, and he strode toward Sailor.
“It wasn’t
me
,” Sailor said, putting his hands up in supplication and backing away.
Without pausing, Max stormed over and punched him, clipping his jaw with a wicked left hook.
Chapter 17
“Max!” I said, grabbing his arm. Sailor staggered into the wall of the hotel, then steadied himself. “What’s gotten into you?”
The doorman whistled loudly and jogged up to us.
“Hey, what’s going on here? Take this somewheres else—hear me?”
“What are you doing with this guy?” Max demanded of me as he pulled his arm away from my grip. His voice was harsh.
“He’s helping me with something,” I said.
He glared at Sailor, who leaned back against the wall, his hand rubbing his jaw and his tongue feeling around on the inside. Then Max stalked off.
“It’s okay,” I told the hovering doorman. “We’re leaving.”