by Amber Kallyn
He watched her continue to jot notes, then turned back to his own reading, still concerned about his reaction to the asshole. He’d wanted to tear the man to shreds for causing Celeste pain. As if he was possessive of her.
She slapped her hand on the whiteboard and he raised his head. Spinning, she paced alongside the conference table, eyes shining. He could practically see the thoughts flash over her face.
“You said the original guy was a demon?”
“Yes.”
“So is this a demon too?”
“It could be, but I doubt it.”
She stopped. “Why?”
“The mutilations aren’t bad enough, there’s no scent of demon, and no sense of one’s power in the city.”
Continuing to pace, she said, “Not that I understood any of that.” Shaking her head, she added, “So let’s consider if it’s not a... demon. What’s the main difference between the victims before, and now?”
He glanced over the list and it struck him. “These four are all prostitutes.”
“Yeah. But think historically.”
Prostitutes, gutted, throats slashed.
Brandon froze, his mind going to the past. And to the butcher he’d known a few hundred years ago. His temples pounded. “Jack the Ripper is dead.”
She stopped, slowly facing him. “Dare I ask how you know that?”
Brandon met her gaze. “I killed him.”
***
Celeste could barely comprehend the thought of his age, or how much past he must have. “You killed Jack the Ripper?”
“I did.” His voice was rough, thick with emotion.
There was something in his face, his eyes, the tense line of his shoulders that told her there was a very long, and probably painful, story behind this.
She struggled against the rising questions, but it wasn’t her place to press him unless it pertained to this case. “Well.” She cleared her throat, ignoring her curiosity. “There have been plenty of copycats over the years. Seems like we have another one.”
He didn’t reply.
“Since this guy is only killing prostitutes now, it should be easier to find him. I have contacts on the streets.”
Brandon remained quiet, staring at the file in front of him, but she was certain he wasn’t reading.
Sitting across from him, she grabbed another file, and tossed it between them. “The question remains whether there’s meaning behind the runes this guy is using, or if they’re copies too.”
Brandon raised his head, glancing over the pictures from the more recent scenes. He jumped to his feet, heading for the door. “It’s been a long day. Come, I’ll see you home.”
Something was really wrong with the guy. “I’m not done.”
His eyes flashed, red creeping over the blue. “You need to come to this with a clear head tomorrow.” His tone was fierce, daring her to argue.
“I have a clear head now.”
“Look, go home, be safe. We can continue after the sun is back up.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” she asked.
“Certain magics work better at night.”
“But you were fine today--” Her cell rang, cutting her off. She continued to stare at Brandon for a second, wondering what was wrong.
He growled something under his breath and turned away.
Her cell rang again. She answered, “Wilder.”
She recognized Officer Portensky’s youthful voice. “Detective? We’ve had another homicide.”
Across the room, Brandon spun, staring at her. “Where?” he demanded.
Shock raced through her as she realized he could hear Portensky. “Address?”
The rookie listed it off and she scribbled it down, then grabbed her jacket. After hanging up, she told Brandon, “Go home if you want. I’m heading to the scene.”
His jaw clenched, lips thinning. “I’ll be going with you.”
“Fine,” she said, though the quivering in her stomach belayed the word. On the one hand, he was a vampire. He could obviously sense things... and fight creatures she couldn’t.
On the other hand, she hated to think she might not be up to facing off against anyone she might come up against, especially if they were an “anything”.
As they left the building, her internal debate wouldn’t shut up. She despised admitting any weakness. She knew herself well enough.
Brandon stopped at the curb in front of the station, next to a black Harley Davidson motorcycle. Shimmering blue flames licked along the gas tank, and ironically, in the center of those flames was a blood-red bat.
He grabbed a helmet from the overlarge saddlebags and tossed it to her.
She caught it automatically, then stared at him in confusion for a second, before shaking her head. “We’ll take my car.”
He grinned wolfishly. “My bike will be faster.”
With a shrug, she put the helmet on, then slipped on the back of the bike. The engine roared, rumbling beneath her.
“Hold on,” he said.
She stared at his back, the width, the rippling muscles clear beneath his thin t-shirt. Hesitantly, she placed her hands on his shoulders.
He craned his head to meet her gaze. “Grab hold, or fall off.”
He sped away from the curb, forcing her to clamp her arms around his waist. His rock-hard abs flexed beneath her palms as he rocketed through traffic.
True to his word, he pulled up at the crime scene in a third of the time it would have taken in her car. Still, as she stepped off the bike with shaky legs and an all-too-uncomfortable awareness of him--and his very toned body--she was determined not to repeat the performance.
Heading into the crowd of cops, she flicked her jacket back to show the badge at her waist.
Silently, Brandon followed.
Yet another alley. Another bed of flowing trash and another body. Frankie was already hunched over the dead woman.
She glanced up, started to say hi, then her gaze latched onto Brandon. “What do we have here?” Frankie winked at Celeste.
“My new, temporary partner.” She waved at Brandon. “Brandon Wulfgar, meet our head coroner, Frankie Coutrass.”
Refusing to waste any more time, Celeste approached the body. “What do you have?”
The answer was obvious. Another red cloth covered the woman’s face. The same gory slices showed startling red against pale skin, across the throat and down the chest and stomach.
Celeste took a couple of quick, deep breaths to settle herself, then got down to business.
She wrote notes as Frankie listed official details.
As the red cloth slipped from the dead woman’s face, Celeste stared into vacant blue eyes.
“La madre que te parió!” exploded out before she could bite back the words.
“The killer is a motherfucker, but I’m surprised you’d say so. You know this woman, too?” Frankie asked, eyes wide at Celeste’s loss of control.
Brandon laid a hand on her shoulder. “You didn’t tell me you knew any of the victims.”
Shrugging away from his touch, Celeste moved closer. She wanted to be sure, even though deep in her gut, she already knew the victim lying there was her younger sister’s best friend. Poor Donna.
“I need to make a call.” Striding away from the others, Celeste jerked out her phone and punched her sister’s number in speed dial. The other phone continued to ring ominously, before voicemail finally picked up.
“Shana? Call me as soon as you get this.” She hung up, then dialed her mom’s house. She was about to give up when the line clicked.
“Mama? Have you heard from Shana?” she asked, glancing back at the scene.
Brandon stared at her, and she knew he was listening to every word, even from across the noisy alleyway.
“No, mija,” her mom said slowly. In a sharper voice, the edges of panicked worry creeping in, she asked, “Why? What is wrong?”
“Nothing. I just have a couple questions about one of her friends
. That’s all.”
“Celestial Alejandra, tell me the truth.”
“Serious, mama,” she stated as calmly as she could. “It’s not even my case. In fact, I don’t think her friend has anything to do with this traffic thing, but I need to check.”
Across the alley, Brandon’s eyes widened, flashing a bit of red as she lied through her teeth.
She turned her back to him, and continued trying to placate her mother. “Just tell her to call me if you see her?”
“Si, mija. But you make sure everything is all right.”
She hung up the phone and crossed to the body, which was being gently laid into a bag. As the area cleared of people, she tapped her foot, wanting to get done and track down her sister.
Brandon leaned against the wall, next to her. “You lied to your mother. Why?”
Meeting his dark gaze, she replied lightly, “You don’t want to see my mama in a panic. Trust me.”
“Hmph,” he muttered.
Striding to the wall, staying out of the way, Brandon continued to shoot her disapproving glances.
With nothing she could do yet, she joined him.
“So you were speaking of yourself when you said everyone lies,” he commented quietly.
“My mama is a worrier. My sister is out of control. I’m not going to send my family into a panic when I don’t even know if something is wrong.” Her insides churned though, as worry chewed at her.
Shana was nearly inseparable from Donna.
Part of her stood still, the staid cop doing her duty. But the other part of her wanted to abandon it all and find her sister, make sure Shana was safe.
“It’s all yours, Detective,” an officer called out. Shoving back her worry, Celeste got down to work. She had a job to do. That had to come first, because if Shana was in trouble, the only clues Celeste would find were hidden right in front of her.
Finally, the scene was clear. She pulled out her flashlight and scoured the area, taking pictures of the runes drawn over brick and asphalt, and the bloodstains spread over them.
“What do these markings mean?” she asked.
Brandon stared at them. “Many things. It depends on the placement, the words spoken by the one drawing them when he makes his sacrifice, and the additional ones you can’t see.”
Chapter five
She straightened. “What do you mean, the ones I can’t see?”
He pointed to a spot on the wall.
She stared at it. “There’s nothing there.”
“Exactly my point. Give me your notebook.”
Handing it over, she crowded him, watching as he drew a strange shape.
“Merida!” She glanced back at the wall straining to see it, but got nothing. “You’re telling me there could be these runes at all the scenes?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re coming with me to revisit them all. This could be the piece we’re missing.”
“Probably. But unless you know a witch who can look at them all together, they won’t do you much good.”
She arched a brow. “You can’t read them?”
“Only some.”
After Brandon scoured the alley for any other hidden runes and they finished documenting the scene, they headed for his motorcycle.
She was making plans to get back to the station, retrieve her car, and search for her sister when Brandon started the Harley, then asked, “So where do you want to check first?”
“What?”
“For your sister.”
She shook her head. “I need my car.”
He shut off the bike, then stared at her. “You’re not going off looking for her alone.”
She opened her mouth to argue, startled he’d read her so well.
“You’ll go with me, or go home.”
She stiffened, raising her chin. “You’re not my keeper and you have no right to tell me what to do.”
His eyes flashed red, glowing a little, as his lips thinned. “It’s my job to keep you safe. I can’t do that if you’re out on the streets with vampires, and who knows what else, hunting women.”
“There’s only been one murder a night. It should be safe.”
He grinned, but it was almost predatory. “Really? And if this is truly a copycat of Jack the Ripper, then what about his double murders?”
Her heart sank as worry for her sister filled her. Her phone rang and she grasped at it. “Wilder.”
“Shana is here. She stumbled in and fell asleep.” her mother said, voice full of relief. “She’s been drinking again.”
“Keep her there.” While she wanted to race over right now, between knowing her sister was probably drunk and passed out, and the “dare me” look on Brandon’s face, she sighed, giving in to her own fatigue. “I’ll come over in the morning to talk to her,” she replied.
“Si. Are you sure everything is all right?”
“Yes, mama.”
As she hung up the phone, Brandon’s eyes shone with triumph. “Your address,” he stated.
Still, she resisted. “I should have my car, in case another call comes in tonight.”
He started the Harley with a smooth rumble. “All the more reason for you not to have a vehicle. You’ll call me and I’ll take you.”
Finally, she slid on. He lurched into traffic and she scrambled to grab on.
“You like to order other people around, don’t you?” she asked, irritated.
“Not really. But I’m not going to be left out of this. You can’t solve this case without my help.”
His words made her tense, but she bit her lip at the argument wanting to come. Instead, she gave him her address, silently amused when he cursed and turned the motorcycle around to head down the opposite side of the street.
***
Brandon slid the purring cycle easily through the light traffic as he headed for Celeste’s home. He should be focusing on the newest clues, the ones reminding him of times best forgotten. Her arms clutching his waist, her hands pressing against his stomach, were making him think things he truly shouldn’t even consider.
Even the fact that the newest clues they’d come across were reminding him of the past wasn’t dulling his growing lust.
The woman was an enigma. Not only a woman in a man’s job, which struck him as wrong--he could easily admit he was old-school--but her strength in the face of adversity, prejudice from others, and the way she’d acknowledged the world of the Arcaine was telling. And mesmerizing. Her desperate worry for her family touched him.
He knew the feeling all too well.
He pulled up in front of a five-story apartment building. After getting off his bike, he grabbed a dark case from the saddlebags, stored her helmet, then followed her up the stairs to a door on the fifth floor.
She shot him an aggravated glare, but he just smiled.
Finally, she walked inside, before turning to look at him expectantly. It hit him. She was refusing him invitation into her home.
So he strode in.
“Let me guess, another myth,” she grumbled, closing the door behind him.
“I told you, most are.”
“Great.”
A soft meow came from the hall as a bundle of orange and white striped fur raced into the room.
“Hercules,” Celeste cooed, sweeping down to pick up the kitten.
It butted her chin, licking once, then stuck its nose against her neck, purring loudly.
“Interesting name for a bit of fluff,” he replied, glancing around the living room.
“He’ll get bigger,” she replied.
The room held a couch, a couple tables, and a wall lined with bookshelves. Other than the books piled everywhere, the place was devoid of any personal touches.
He’d imagined a woman’s home full of knick-knacks and annoying kitsch, maybe pictures of her family and friends. But the stark white walls were devoid of decoration. It suited her somehow. Warriors didn’t surround themselves with such things.
She put the k
itten down and faced him. “So, good night, then.”
The furball rammed its head against his calf, looking up at him with pitiful blue eyes, begging to be picked up. With a sigh, he did, cradling the kitten in the crook of his elbow and scratching its tiny head.
Celeste stared at him, her eyes softening a bit, so unlike their usual hardness.
Getting to the task at hand, he said, “We need to ward your place.”
“Ward?”
He set the kitten on the couch and opened the black case, pulling out a burlap bag. “Salt, and a few other herbs.”
Heading for the door, he poured a thick line of salt along the bottom.
“What’s that supposed to do?” she asked, watching him.
The kitten sidled over to the salt, sniffed, then backed away with a sneeze.
“It’ll help keep certain Arcaine out, slow others down.”
Her eyes widened as he strode around the room, pouring the salt mixture along the windows as well.
“You think they’ll come here?”
“I doubt it.” Which he did, mostly. Whoever was behind this wouldn’t be bothered by some mortal cop.
“Then why sprinkle salt all over my house?”
He caught her gaze, raising a brow. “Ever heard the saying ‘be prepared’?”
“Don’t tell me you were a boy scout,” she mumbled.
Brandon struggled to contain a chuckle at the thought. “Not quite. That was long after my time.”
She blinked, then shook her head. “I’m not even going to ask.”
“Next room?”
She led him through her small apartment, the kitchen, hall, small bathroom and to her bedroom. He ignored the large bed dominating the room. Her honeyed scent flooded his senses and inspired thoughts he had no business entertaining.
Nibbling her bottom lip in a way that sent blood rushing to his groin, she glanced at the window near her bed, which was opened a few inches. “Do I need to keep everything closed?”
