by Martha Woods
"Well, unfortunately it is not going to be all fun today." She ran her thumb across the side of her mouth before tasting the end. "You need to move to be able to heal."
He nodded, though it was not without dread. She knew just the way to lift his spirits.
"It won't be so bad, we'll just take a few laps around the apartment, get you used to the feeling of stretching. Afterwards we can curl up on the couch together, perhaps watch one of those cooking shows you were so desperate to show me the other night."
His face lit up, his hand cupping her cheek as he stared up at her with a look of complete adoration. He watched the way that she rubbed her face against his hand, so desperate for him to touch as much of her as he could, a small kiss being planted in his palm as she let out a contented sigh.
"No," Cayden thought, "This won't be bad at all."
* * *
Hayley had never felt more comfortable in her life, Michael's arm wound around her shoulders and, barring a few odd glances at first, no one in her coven seemed to have any problem. Walking along the path towards the room they had unofficially designated their research station, it struck her just how much she had been desiring something like this, this comfortable familiarity.
A part of her still couldn't believe that she found it with a shifter of all things. The other part of her couldn't give less of a damn.
"So, how far have you gotten through the book now? Surely you're at the halfway point by now?"
She shook her head. "More like a quarter, there's just so much information tucked into each page. I can't just skim read it either, I can't take the risk of missing something that could help Sky."
Michael sighed, "I wish I knew more about magic, that'd make this whole situation so much easier."
"You're handling the family tree, trust me, you are doing more than enough." Hayley touched his shoulder, stopping him where he stood. "I'm so happy to be working with you on this, there's no one I'd rather have working with me on this."
She leaned in and kissed him longingly, neither of them caring in the slightest who saw them. The small giggle they heard off to their side however was enough to shake them out of their moment.
Anna, the apprentice witch, looked up at them with a look of complete glee. Her hands balled up and held in front of a mouth that was obviously stretched wide with a grin. She bounced on the heels of her feet, barely restraining herself from outright squealing. "You two are so cute together!"
Michael chuckled, stepping over and ruffling her hair. "And I hear that you've been getting up to mischief. What was it she did Hayley?"
Hayley smiled down at the now sheepish looking Anna. "One of the other girls was making fun of her, so she turned her hat into water and completely soaked her."
"I changed it back!"
"A small mercy when she's already been drenched Anna." She looked around, making sure no one was listening before she whispered, "You did take her down peg though, the other girls will probably thank you."
Michael nodded. "But don't get caught again."
"I think you mean don't do it again."
"Oh, yeah sure, that's what I meant."
Anna giggled, starting to walk off. "You two are weird. Have a nice day!"
They watched her walk away, stepping back into each other's arms as soon as they could. "Cute kid." Michael chuckled, "Reminds me of what I used to be like."
"What do you mean used to be like? You two are like mirrors sometimes."
"You know, just because you're so pretty I'm going to let that slide."
They posted up in their research room, bags being emptied onto the table and the book being removed almost reverently. Hayley swept a hand over the cover, clearing away what little dust had formed in the short time it had been stored away.
"There it is, the book that solves all the world's mysteries." Michael smoothed out his copies of the Moore family tree. "And I get to sit here and look at what dead people used to get up to before cool things were invented."
"Oh, come on Michael, history is really interesting!"
"Sure it was, I'm sure they built the Colosseum and started slaughtering people for entertainment because they needed variety, and not because there was a complete lack of interesting things to do." He thumbed over to where he had finished previously. "But that's a discussion for another time."
She rolled her eyes, chuckling fondly as she prepared to do her own work. With the amount of research Cassandra had done, it was almost impossible to remain focused on her task at hand, the sheer knowledge of each species just too good of an opportunity to pass up. Some species, like the succubi for instance, she had to wonder exactly what research methods she had used to get such thorough information, but seeing the results she saw no reason to knock the method.
"So Hay, you said that you felt something when you did the test with Sky right?" Michael looked over, cocking his head. "What did you feel? You never told us."
"It was... God, it was more than just a feeling." She shuddered as she looked down at her hand, the memory of the tendrils floating through the gaps of her fingers still vivid. "I saw something. I felt something Michael."
He leaned forward in his chair, eyebrows raised at her unease. "What... What kind of something?"
"The kind of something that I've never seen before. The kind of something that I never even knew existed. The thought of it being attached to my best friend... I don't know whether I should be thankful or even more terrified."
"Hey, come on." Michael took her hand, the feeling drawing a flash of the memory to the front of her mind before she calmed herself. "Skylar is our friend, right? She's one of the best people that I know, something evil... Either it wouldn't attach to her, or it would never have actually been evil in the first place, don't you think?"
She sighed, "I suppose you're right. She doesn't need me being scared of her on top of everything else she's gone through, that's not fair. I just can't help but be worried, I care about her so much!"
"I know. I know. It's gonna be alright." He smiled at her, going back to his own work. He wouldn't tell her, but he was just as worried for Skylar as she was. No good would come out of sharing that though, they needed to be as positive as they could.
Hayley thumbed through, scanning each passage carefully for anything that she thought would be even tangentially related. Everything from Fairies to Demons was covered, so there was bound to be something. Her fingertip brushed over the words, about ready to ask if Michael would want a coffee when she saw it. Her hand froze, her eyes going wide with horror, her mouth dropping open in a way that left her unsure whether she was going to scream or sob.
Michael looked over, alarm bells immediately ringing when he saw how affected Hayley had gotten suddenly. He sprung over, his hand resting on her shoulder and his fingers massaging into the muscle, hoping that he could bring her back to him.
All she could do was stare at the passage, at that blackened name staring back at her. "Oh no. Oh my god."
* * *
"Whiskey!" The drunk slammed his empty glass down onto the counter, the bartender giving him a dirty eye as he came to refill it. He didn't much like serving people like him, and on any normal day would gladly have thrown him out on his ass, but this one was paying by the bottle. He figured he could excuse the headache he was getting once he saw the profit at the end of the night.
"Keep it down, would you? You're disturbing the other patrons."
"Oh, fuck your other patrons, get me another bottle. Actually, fuck it, if it shuts them up buy them all a drink." He turned and screamed at the rest of the bar, "You hear that assholes? Sarconi's buying you a drink!"
The rest of the bar gave a small round of applause, thankful at least that some good had come from harboring the ornery old man. He went back to his drink, not caring anymore about how he must look drinking alone in a bar at eight in the morning.
He couldn't stop thinking about that last week, the night he lost all of his men. The night that he shot a ma
n in the shoulder and all he did was laugh it off. The night that man literally tore apart the man that he had come to think of as a friend right in front of his eyes, using only his teeth.
Just what the hell was Liam Conway?
So deep in his thoughts, he didn't even notice the man walking up beside him until he sat down, hat being placed on the counter and an order for a double placed. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong now, but you look like a man who just went through some terrible, terrible shit, am I right?"
Sarconi scoffed, "You could say that, yeah. If you would count seeing everyone underneath me get slaughtered by some fucking beast right out of hell, then yeah, I just went through something terrible."
"A beast right out of hell? Well pardon me for sounding insensitive, but that is one of the most interesting things I've heard recently." He picked up his drink, downing it in one gulp. "Care to tell me more?"
Sarconi looked to the side, but he couldn't see anything mocking about the man's interest. If anything, he could sense some sort of... danger, but he was far too drunk to care. "Two wolves, as big as you'd have ever seen them, came in and tore my men apart. The lead one ripped my friend to pieces and jumped up on my hood, when lo and behold, he suddenly looks like a man. A man that I shoot and do nothing to."
He shook his head to himself. “Don’t listen to me, I’m just a drunk, remembering things that didn’t happen.”
The man smirked, running one hand through his neatly trimmed beard. “I disagree. In fact, I think you’re remembering everything clear as day.”
He laughed, “Oh yeah? And who are you that it matters to me?”
“Let’s just say that my family has been solving problems like yours for a long time.”
The stranger pulled out a knife, the silver blade gleaming in the light, arcane symbols drawing the eye almost as much as the dried blood around the handle. The hilt bearing the symbol of a knife and an arrow, outlined by a pentagram. He smirked, and Sarconi immediately sensed that danger again.
“A very long time.”
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Chapter 1
I am sitting at home sipping my glass of Shiraz and nibbling on cheese and crackers. I roll my eyes as the credits roll to a romantic comedy that ended with a stereotypical happily ever after. I scoff. I don’t know why I watched it. I knew the ending would be made up of a predictable plot where the characters’ love is the most important thing in this world and completely outweighed any rational logic for what would happen after the credits stopped rolling.
“Happily ever after.” I smirk. I know that there is no such thing. At least not when it came to romance. Why did a woman need a man to make her life complete?
What happened to self-esteem? To knowing that actually, you don’t need the stereotypical bad boy to change overnight and run off into the sunset with you? I always thought these movies would have a happier ending if right at the end, when the man had “changed,” the woman laughed and told him it was only ever about sex, and walked off into the sunset on her own.
Cara, my best friend, would describe me as cynical. She would say it’s a defense mechanism – if I don’t believe in love and romance, then I don’t have to admit that it’s just never happened for me.
I would describe myself as a realist. I just don’t think we’re programmed for monogamy, at least not long term. I have to agree with Cara on one point, though. It probably will never happen for me.
I’m a twenty-seven-year-old forensic scientist working for the LAPD. I am smart. I can hold my own in situations that would turn most people’s stomachs. Yet, here’s the kicker: whenever I find myself with a man who I find attractive, I turn into a clumsy thirteen-year-old who can’t string together a sentence. I’m the one who will trip up, knock something over, or say something really awkward.
One of my least disastrous recent dates, in fact, featured me getting so flustered when the guy had bought me a bouquet that I managed to knock over the entire display of flowers, causing who knows how many dollars of damage. There went that week’s pay. Needless to say, I declined a second date.
Maybe that’s part of the reason why I’m a cynic. Sorry, a realist.
But I’m not heartbroken about it or anything. I have Bella, my adorable and loyal puppy, and right now, she’s the only housemate I want or need. She’s been my constant companion since the day I picked her up from the pound. With my crazy work schedule, she’s really the best partner I could ask for, and she doesn’t mind a good long run. I reach out and run my hand over Bella’s soft fur. She wags her tail and snuggles closer to my side.
I reach for the remote and flick through the channels. I’m looking for a horror movie, maybe a sci-fi at a push. No more icky love stuff. Sometimes I’m in the mood to leer at a Rom Com, but the inclination usually doesn’t last long. I know it’s all totally contrived. Real love doesn’t exist. And commitment just isn’t in our DNA. I’ve had enough personal experiences to know that – and worked enough cases that reinforced the idea. People would probably agree with me about my “cynical” outlook if they knew how many murders were perpetrated by lovers. Cheating spouses, insurance scams, arguments gone horribly wrong…if that’s what love is all about, count me out. Something catches my eye, and I flick back a channel.
There. A good old fashioned newscast. No fairytales here.
“We can confirm that the body of an unidentified female has been found just moments ago in the parking lot of The Watering Well.”
Great, I think. I count to five, and sure enough, as I hit five, my pager lights up. With a sigh, I lift Bella off my lap and set her on the ground, reaching for my cell phone. I call in and let the dispatcher know I’m on my way.
I grab my car keys and my purse and lock the door behind me. I get into my car and set my bag on the passenger seat. My cell phone, I place on the dashboard. My pager goes in the little alcove in the center console, where I can see the screen clearly without taking my hands off the wheel to pick it up. I have a system. Some people might call me obsessive, but I prefer organized. Obsessive, organized. Cynic, realist. Cara would say I’m just trying to justify my personality flaws. She’s a lawyer, but she likes to think she’s also my therapist. I don’t mind, though. If nothing else, she keeps my ego in check. I chuckle a little to myself at the thought. Cara would keep anyone’s ego in check. She’s gorgeous, successful, always at ease, and always kind. It’s hard not to compare myself to her and come up a bit short.
As I drive towards The Watering Well, I sigh. I can’t believe a reporter heard about this before I did. I’m the chief forensic officer for the LAPD, and I found out about a murder through a newscast! Heads would roll of people found out about this.
I push the thought away. It’s not like Rick doesn’t already have enough on his plate without me making trouble for him.
I know before I’m even close to the scene that it will be Rick. Rick Gord
on. And I know before I arrive exactly what I’ll find. Rick is the lead officer investigating a series of grisly murders in the city. They have happened over the course of the last month. All of the victims are women. All of them turn up in parking lots, alleys and other outdoors places. And all of them are mutilated.
The bodies look as though a wild animal has been on them, but there is never a trace of forensic evidence to back up such a theory. These murders are very much man-made. I find that fitting. The things human beings do to each other are far worse than anything a wild animal might do.
The public is becoming restless, spurred on by the unrelenting media coverage calling for action. A resolution. You know, in case the LAPD actually have solved the case but don’t want to reveal it until public pressure builds. Because of course, that’s how it works. Not.
It’s hard not to get irritated with the media during cases like this, but I know it’s not really them I’m frustrated with. I’m frustrated because my job, my purpose, is to find the evidence that will allow Rick to do his job, that will see justice done, that will give some measure of peace to the families of the victims. But the murderer is meticulous. He must be. I haven’t found so much as a hair, a skin particle, to trace back to the killer. I feel useless. And after seeing these women, bloodied and torn, I desperately want some closure for them. I don’t really believe in ghosts or spirits or even the soul, but I still feel compelled to help the victims, even in death. How can I do that if I can’t find a shred of evidence at the crime scenes?
I arrive at The Watering Well. I park on the curb side and get out of the car, quickly grabbing my kit from the trunk. I never leave it in the car – it looks too conspicuous and Rick worries it will make me a target. He’s overprotective. Usually that would drive me nuts. I don’t need anyone looking out for me, and I’ve worked hard to make my coworkers see me as an investigator, not some potential damsel in distress. But he’s one of the most important people in my life, so I cut him some slack.
