Skin Deep (A DarkWorld Novel - Book 1) (The DarkWorld Series)

by Ayer, T. G.

  "What have you gotten yourself into this time?"

  "Wasn't my fault." Hard to bristle with indignation while I lay sprawled and bleeding at the feet of my scolder. I'd be wasting my breath. We'd argue again later, as I was way too tired to make the effort now.

  "When is it ever? Always said one day you'll get yourself hurt. And wasn't I right?" He waved his hands at both my torn body and shredded clothes, sighing as if he were the one shot and bleeding out pints.

  Oh, the drama.

  Somewhere deep inside me, a warmth grew as I faced his care and concern for my well-being. He hated my Wraith-hunting. Perhaps it was my freakish ability to track the creatures that put him on edge, or the fact he was ill equipped to help me in any way. He was the foreseer of my doom—or damage, in this case.

  Anjelo shook his head. "You might as well tell me what happened."

  Had I just heard resignation in his voice? And, he placed his hands on his hips for Ailuros's sake.

  "Thanks." I grunted. "Um, there's a body in the garden. We need to get it out of here."

  "What? You killed someone and left the body where any idiot could find it? Sloppy, Kailin, real sloppy." Good thing space in the closet was minimal or he'd be pacing.

  I let him have his say. It required far too much energy to put him in his place. We usually avoided discussing my Wraith-hunting activities. Anjelo also disapproved of the risks I took to save "mere" Humans. Typical Walker macho bullshit.

  Besides, the dead body had nothing to do with my wraith-hunting. When he ceased his nagging, I continued, "Someone dumped a body in the garden as I was returning from...well, as I was coming here. They saw me, took a few shots, hit me in the shoulder. I made it into the building just in time. I think the sirens scared them away."

  He rounded the shelf and looked out the tiny window, which overlooked the back of the building. The window had a good view of the garden from where he stood, but the question was whether he could see the body at all.

  "We have to get the body out of there," I said, trying to keep from going hysterical. "Those sirens may not mean the police are on their way here. But we can't take any chances."

  "Why would we need to get the body?" He looked back at me for a brief moment, his eyes an equal blend of suspicion and accusation.

  "He's a Walker," I said a little too loudly, my hackles rising in defense. I couldn't help it. I hated ill-based accusations of any kind. Anjelo's eyes grew large—I had his attention now. "We can't have the coroner examining the body of a Walker. Too many reasons why it would be a very, very bad idea."

  He turned back to the window without a response. Anjelo with nothing to say was akin to a waterfall without the water. He kept his eyes on the garden below, and his body suddenly stiffened.

  The scream of an ambulance provided cold confirmation. We'd lost our chance to get the body away from prying eyes. He'd taken too long to get to me. And I'd passed out when I should’ve been doing something better with my time.

  Anjelo returned to me when the scene outside no longer held any interest. He looked at the puddle, cooled and congealed, behind me. "You've lost a lot of blood." His face darkened with fear, but of the self-preserving kind which told me exactly what he was thinking. What would Iain say when he finds out? But, then again, how would he find out? I lived my own life; I hoped he’d remember that.

  "Really? What makes you say that?" I couldn't help it. I'd lost my blood, not my sense of humor.

  "Stop being a smart-mouth. How do you feel?" He sat beside me and tipped me forward with gentle, quivering hands. This time he ripped the shirt off my back to get a better look. "At least it's stopped bleeding."

  "And the bullet?" I'd tracked it as it made its way through my flesh, and could now feel the pressure of its presence somewhere near the epidermal layer. It stung like the blazes. Being a Skinwalker had its advantages, but this kind of pain I could so do without. I didn't complain though, glad to be alive and still thankful for Ailuros's mercy.

  "Almost to the surface. Should be out soon." He pressed the area around the bullet, still gentle and cautious. "I can see the point."

  "Can you get it out?" I looked at him over my shoulder.

  His face paled, as if he'd been drained of the good red stuff himself.

  "The wound will close up faster if you get it out now. Then I'd be able to move around, at least." Watching him fight his inner war should’ve been more amusing. "Come on. What good are you as a Walker if you can't deal with a tiny bit of blood?"

  "Blood I can handle. Digging bullets out of girls...not so much." He rubbed his forehead.

  "You'll have to learn sometime. Better get on with it."

  "How? With what?" He raised his eyebrows and shoulders in unison—stalling tactics.

  With my foot, I nudged a small black case, the size of a cigar box, toward him. He bent and opened it. The sound he uttered was far too similar to choking. Why did my only savior have to be such a wimp?

  "Come on then."

  "Where did you get...? Never mind. Forget I asked." He shrugged, resigned to his lot. "Which one?" He eyed the row of gleaming, surgical steel operating tools in the box.

  "The one that looks like a tweezer. Slide it around the bullet. It has grooves, so as long as you keep a good grip, it should come out easily."

  "Will it hurt?"

  "Not really. Nothing I can't handle. Everything hurts so it won't be much different." I wasn't about to tell him it would damn near kill me.

  "Okay, here goes." He held the instrument before him as if it were a spitting viper, shooting little tremors through his fingers, but he steadied his hand and I leaned over.

  "It's going to gush. You'll need this." I ripped the rest of my shirt off, rolled it up and handed it to him. It left me in only a sports bra, but the time for modesty had long since fled.

  He touched the tip of the tweezer to the edge of the wound, and I dug my fingers into my arms. The movement of the cool metal against my flesh sent waves of blazing agony through my shoulder. I'd have to hold on until it was over. I breathed through the next shift of those iron teeth and then relaxed, feeling nothing while he pressed the teeth around the edge of the bullet.

  "Right. Here goes. You ready?"

  I dared not speak, managing a quick nod.

  He tugged at the bullet and it shot out, slipping from his grip. Blood surged like water from a burst dam. White-hot pain exploded in my arm, worse than when Anjelo had first introduced the tweezer into the wound. My throat clenched and I dry-heaved, almost passing out in hot misery.

  He held the shirt against the wound. Thankfully, he couldn't see my reaction, or his hands wouldn't have been so steady and sure.

  "Don't press it. You need to let all the blood leak out."

  "I attended all those same mandatory Walker Physiology and First Aid classes you did. I do remember the lessons." His tone swam with annoyance, and I wasn't surprised when he added a tiny bit of pressure on the wound.

  "Anjelo."

  At the hiss of his name, he grunted and lessened the pressure, then lightly swabbed until the blood subsided from a flow to a trickle, then to a slight ooze. I tamped down my frustration.

  "Thought you said it wouldn't hurt so much." I heard the smile in his voice.

  "I lied."

  He snorted.

  I panted through each wave of pain. "Like I was gonna tell you it would be worse than being shot in the first place. You'd have run back home before I finished the sentence."

  He remained silent, but failed to smother an angry breath. He swabbed the gory hole in my back and bandaged it over. All done, he bent to pick up the bullet, which had rolled along the floor and come to rest near my knee. He twirled it between his fingers, now unfazed by the blood and bits of dark red goop still stuck to its warped body.

  "We'll have to find somewhere to hide it," he said. He was right. It was evidence.

  "I know the best place for it." I smiled. I couldn't wait to get home and flush this particula
r piece of evidence down the toilet.

  ***

  Chapter 7

  Logan Westin leaned against a filing cabinet. It was safer. He knew, if he sat in that comfy-looking armchair, he'd fall asleep as soon as the police chief started talking. Not a good impression to make, so he preferred standing.

  Murdoch was headed in—Logan could see through the office glass the chief’s well-endowed stomach leading the way as he maneuvered his massive frame through the warren of desks. Chief Murdoch was a force to be reckoned with. He also happened to work for Omega, feeding information to the paranormal information network, which policed the non-Human community.

  The door opened and Murdoch's physical presence engulfed the glassed-in office. "Westin, you look haggard. Understand you're straight off a mission?"

  Logan nodded, his glance skittering to his new supervising partner Jess, who sat silently in the twin to the armchair Logan refused to enjoy. Sleep deprivation only seemed to affect mere mortals like Logan and his team—never the enigmatic Jess. Plus, she minded her own business, guided him through most of his cases, and left him alone most of the time. That's what he liked about his new partner.

  Logan blinked as Murdoch drew him out of his silent introspection.

  "Sorry to do this, Westin, but we needed the special, special ops on this one." He didn't look the least bit sorry as he sat heavily into his chair, although worry weaved his dense eyebrows together into a fat, hairy caterpillar.

  "What do you have?" The webs of fatigue, which had enveloped him minutes ago, retreated, ripped apart by Logan's innate curiosity. Curiosity and determination. He was Omega's youngest agent, a fire-mage who'd gotten there only because he'd been so busy trying to make up for his past, he'd forgotten to have a life, to enjoy his youth before it passed him by.

  He'd turned nineteen three months ago, and spent it like any other day—working. His birthday seemed like a long time ago, but back then, he had no supervising officer to reprimand him for insufficient R & R. That was before Jess walked into Omega—quiet, officious, seemingly intent on sorting Logan's act out.

  "A John Doe—found in downtown Chicago." Murdoch tossed a few stills to Logan. "These were just uploaded from the scene. The techs are still there. What do you make of it?"

  Logan scanned the pictures and passed them to Jess. She spent all of five seconds looking through the half-dozen images before dropping them on Murdoch's desk.

  Logan didn't need to look at the images again. They were etched into his memory for a lifetime of nightmares. The victim's body lay bare, every inch of skin flayed, including the eyelids.

  "Notice anything strange?" Murdoch's voice was low, emitting an undercurrent of concern.

  Logan clamped his jaws on the word "strange." The last few years had been nothing but strange. Things needed to be pretty whacked to appear strange to him, as numbed as he was to the weird and unexplainable.

  "The claws, you mean?" He reached out and touched the shots of the corpse's unusual hands—human fingers ending in garish animal claws.

  Feline claws.

  "What do you make of it?" Murdoch watched Logan, intent on gauging his reaction.

  Murdoch was all too familiar with the paranormal. He wasn't a mage, but his wife, Chloe, who possessed a special ability to calm the traumatized and unstable, definitely qualified as paranormal—a regular walking sedative. But she had chosen to work outside Omega's investigative squad as a social worker of sorts, helping families deal with raising kids born with or manifesting paranormal abilities.

  Logan turned to Jess, having almost forgotten about her. She had a weird way of disappearing, despite her physical presence.

  "Skinwalker," she said, her voice soft and musical, her eyes too calm for such a revelation. "Cougar Walker to be specific."

  "Thought they were a darned reclusive bunch?" Murdoch grumbled, his eyebrows waggling. "What would they be doing smack bang in the middle of my neighborhood?" He frowned and leaned forward to grab the stills, his stomach smashing into the table. He studied them for a few seconds, then met Logan's eyes, his face a few shades darker with worry. "Answers, Westin. Get me some answers."

  Logan nodded, the movement sharp and brisk. He opened the door and waited while Jess moved past, listening as Murdoch called for a squad car to take Logan and Jess to the scene. They remained silent, deep within their own thoughts, each probably thinking about human fingers and feline claws.

  They passed through the police station, exiting the building swiftly and silently. A cruiser waited outside, its flashing lights making the back of Logan's eyes ache.

  ***

  Dark shadows clung to the streets when Logan and Jess arrived at the scene. Logan glanced at the sky as he left the car, grateful for the veil of darkness. The light of day would only throw this whole mess into a starker, more glaring reality. He paused at the yellow tape cordoning off the area, and studied the surrounding scene.

  Buildings stood on two sides, hemming in the planted garden and wire-mesh fencing barely doing its job. Too many police officers milled around; perhaps movement gave them purpose. Murder was common enough on these rough streets, but this particular victim would’ve touched a nerve for many of the city's finest. This kind of debasement delved into unfamiliar territory.

  Logan understood their discomfort better than they would ever know.

  Ruby lights spun and flashed coarse red hues from the roof of a nearby ambulance, a gurney waiting before the vehicle's open doors, like an offering to the maw of death. Logan and Jess ducked beneath the cordon and made their way toward the gurney.

  A strange silence hung over the scene, broken by hushed murmurs. Murdoch's men were familiar enough with Omega, but it didn't mean they welcomed Logan or his fellow officers with open arms.

  Omega's officers outranked the city’s lawmen, notably a sore point, but Logan Westin's youth had started more tongues wagging and set more tempers aflame than anything else. Hardworking, long-serving officers simply didn't respect rookie officers who outranked them.

  Logan registered the glares and curious stares, but merely nodded and greeted those whose eyes met his, hostile or not. Beside him, Jess appeared oblivious to the flagrant hostility.

  They reached the gurney seconds after the paramedic enclosed the body in thick, black plastic. Logan glanced inside the bright interior of the ambulance. All those life-saving vials, machines and tubes were useless for tonight's passenger.

  Even with Jess there, Logan hesitated. Being a mage didn't mean he automatically had an iron gut. He took a breath and unzipped the body bag. Black plastic crackled and the metal zipper grated aloud, slowly revealing the face of the victim.

  As he stared, the ghastly face stirred another dark memory free from his mind. His first mission, in a warren of hidden caves in Jerusalem, proved similarly macabre.... Thirteen dead women had been strung from the roof of the spooky cave. The sliced-open corpses, no segment of their skin spared by the blade, had spilled their precious blood into thirteen golden bowls beneath them. The half-congealed blood had still been warm when Logan arrived at the horrific scene. Those earth-mages had been bled to death for their powerful essence.

  Yet as gruesome as those murders had been, the body of this cougar walker, flayed of its skin, seemed even worse. Garish somehow. Must be the way the lack of skin turned a person into a slab of meat.

  "Go on, we need to inspect the corpse," Jess urged.

  Logan slid the zipper down farther, exposing most of the upper body and the hands.

  The fingers.

  He wanted to examine them firsthand. Logan's chest constricted and Jess tensed beside him, as neither of them breathed. All ten digits ended in curved black claws etched with blood. And seeing them in the flesh, so to speak, was all the more evocative. His first case with a Walker and it had to be a dead one.

  ***

  Chapter 8

  Police officers had cordoned off the area but made way for Logan and Jess to reach the scene. The soil was a
mess. A tomato plant lay squashed, its ripe red fruit pulverized.

  The aroma of mint flooded Logan’s nostrils—trampled plants broadcasting their disapproval. Footprints littered the garden, a tangle of tracks almost impossible to identify. He hunkered down over the shallow depression left by the body. He checked the soil, the plants, and the broken fence, which ran along the plot. Anywhere that could provide a clue. Nearby, a crime scene tech dusted the curbside, and another photographed a hole in the fence. Logan suspected they needn't bother. Any prints left out there, or on the holes in the fence, would be distorted by a thousand others.

  He called one of them over, a young woman, all blond hair and serious poker face, and instructed her to vacuum the site. He'd have Omega's lab review the contents of the vacuum bags later. Something was sure to show up. In the meantime, they'd need a Death-talker for the corpse.

  Jess walked in the wake of the destruction left by the footprints, her own blond head down, eyes probing. Her hair, tied low on her head, flipped over her shoulder as she bent to inspect the soil. Logan watched her silently. There were so many things he didn't know about his new supervising officer. He really disliked this business of not being in the know, but he was still the kid in the outfit. Although the team gave him the utmost respect, he still happened to be Omega's youngest operative. Ever.

  He returned his attention to the forensic tech’s progress. She'd gridded, marked, and photographed the area, then attached a sterile plastic bag to the specialized vacuum and sucked up the dust and debris for each quadrant, then labeled the bags for Omega testing.

  Logan approached the officer in charge, who threw him a glance, part suspicion and part relief.

  "So what's the situation here, Officer Romano?" Logan snagged a glance at the older man's badge, also noting olive skin, which appeared paler than seemed possible, even in the strong floodlights.

  Romano kept his eyes on his notes the whole time he spoke and stiffened his fingers to hide the intermittent tremors. "Young male, about six foot. Cause of death looks to be trauma from the...er...from being skinned. No blood on the sidewalk, not much on the blanket he was wrapped in. No other visible wounds." He clapped his book shut and seemed relieved when he could stop talking.