Deadly Descendant

by Jenna Black

  “Maybe you ought to try it sometime,” Blake said. The words were antagonistic, and yet there wasn’t the same rancor in his voice when he spoke to Cyrus as there was when he spoke to Phoebe.

  Cyrus shrugged. “I don’t think it would suit me. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure it suits you all that well, either.”

  It wasn’t Blake’s fault he’d been an Olympian—before Anderson came along, the choice was join the Olympians or die—but I’d often thought his moral compass was a little short of due north. With his casual words, Cyrus seemed to have finally hit a nerve, and Blake clenched his jaw so hard I could see his bones outlined against his cheeks.

  “So,” Anderson put in before tensions could escalate, “do you have any idea what this Liberi’s powers are? How is he killing these people? And why is he doing it, especially here, of all places?”

  Here in the Liberi capital of the world, he meant. Because the Olympians were headquartered here, the D.C. area had the highest number of Liberi per capita of anywhere in the world, by a wide margin. It was like the killer was just daring the Olympians to come after him and “harvest” his immortality.

  “We’re not sure how he’s doing it,” Phoebe answered. “Our best guess is that he can control anything canine and that when he wants to kill, he just summons all the stray dogs in the area and commands them to maul his victim. As for why …” She shook her head. “Either he doesn’t know the kind of danger he’s putting himself in, or he’s just plain crazy. Serial killers don’t necessarily need reasons—at least, not reasons that make sense to ordinary folk.”

  Phoebe turned to fix her eyes on me. “We will, of course, do our best to help find this Liberi and stop him. However, now that you have a descendant of Artemis in your fold, you probably are better equipped for the hunt than we are.”

  Although she was looking straight at me, she was obviously talking to Anderson. That didn’t stop me from answering.

  “You left out one strong possibility for why Dogboy would be wreaking havoc in D.C.,” I said. “Like he knows perfectly well that this is the Olympian headquarters, and he has a major grudge against Olympians. I mean, I can’t imagine why, since you guys are all sweetness and light and everything, but I think the possibility bears examining.”

  The look Phoebe gave me was positively chilling—I seem to have a talent for pissing off Olympians.

  “I can’t imagine why someone who has a grudge against us would attack a bunch of mortals,” she said. “That would be more likely to hurt you than us.” She flashed Anderson a sly smile. “Perhaps it’s someone who has a grudge against you? You have been around a while, and I’m sure you’ve made some enemies in your day.”

  I’d seen ample proof that Anderson had a temper, and a scary one at that, but he showed no sign that Phoebe’s insinuations had gotten under his skin.

  “I’m not aware of any descendant of Anubis who might wish me ill,” he said mildly, “though I suppose it’s possible. I have, as you said, been around for a while. But then, so has Konstantin.”

  She conceded the point with a shrug. “I don’t think it much matters why the killer is in D.C. He has to be stopped, before the mortals get their hands on him and our existence is exposed.”

  The overwhelming concern for human life was touching, to say the least. But despite her selfish motivations, she was right, and this guy had to be stopped. Assuming anything she’d told us was the truth, though I couldn’t imagine what she’d have to gain by making this up.

  Cyrus suddenly stood up straight for the first time, his gaze focused somewhere behind my left shoulder. I couldn’t resist glancing behind me to see what he was looking at.

  Emma stood in the hallway, just outside the living room. Her glossy black hair hung loose around her shoulders, making her skin look even paler and more delicate than usual. The ruby-red lipstick heightened the effect even more, though I already knew she wasn’t as delicate as she looked.

  Cyrus had stopped smiling, his expression turning solemn as he met Emma’s gaze. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Anderson stiffen ever so slightly, and I knew why. Konstantin and Alexis, his then right-hand man, had raped Emma while she was their prisoner. Anderson couldn’t help wondering if any of the other Olympians had participated. Emma, apparently, refused to talk about it.

  I think Cyrus saw and understood the speculation in Anderson’s eyes, too, and he gave Emma a courtly half bow.

  “What my father did to you was unnecessarily cruel,” he said, and he sounded sincere enough. “He’ll never apologize for it himself, so I’ll do it on his behalf.”

  Phoebe made a sound of annoyance. “Oh, stop posturing, Cyrus. I never heard you complaining during the years she was our ‘guest.’”

  Emma stood silent and motionless in the hall; then she shivered and crossed her arms over her chest. I couldn’t imagine the hell she’d gone through, and for the moment, I forgot her frequent bitchy spells and just felt sorry for her.

  “I’d have complained if I’d thought it would make a difference,” Cyrus said. His words seemed directed to Emma rather than Phoebe.

  “Because you’re such an all-around nice guy?” Blake needled. His tone made the barb sound almost friendly, like there was no real rancor behind it. If I had to guess, I’d say Blake actually liked Cyrus, despite the antagonistic potshots he’d been taking.

  Cyrus finally pried his gaze away from Emma and glanced at Blake, his expression solemn. “Because I’m not my father.”

  Phoebe rolled her eyes and rose to her feet. “I think we’re done here.”

  “I agree,” Anderson said tightly. This talk of Emma’s ordeal had clearly gotten to him. He stood up, his attention torn between Emma, who was now silently crying, and the Olympians, who were technically his guests—and whom he didn’t trust for a moment.

  “I’ll show them to the door,” Blake offered.

  Anderson nodded his approval, then quickly crossed to Emma and gathered her into his arms.

  TWO

  After briefly accepting Anderson’s hug, Emma pulled away and gave him a quavering smile. She looked frail and broken, quite unlike the battle-ax I knew she was capable of being.

  “Why don’t you come sit down?” he asked her gently. “I’ll fill you in on what you’ve missed.”

  But Emma shook her head. “I think I need to lie down for a little while.”

  Call me a cynic—or an insensitive bitch—but no matter how sorry I felt for Emma, I couldn’t help being annoyed at what seemed a blatant attempt at manipulation. The pathetic way she was looking at him said she wanted him to come with her and comfort her. I didn’t know how much of our meeting with the Olympians she’d overheard, but she had to know that we’d been discussing something important. There was no other reason Anderson would have let the Olympians cross his threshold. And yet she wasn’t even interested enough to find out what was going on before she tried to draw him away.

  Anderson stroked a tear from her cheek. “Are you sure? Maybe—”

  “I’m sure,” Emma interrupted. There was a slight edge in her voice, like she was really put out that Anderson might think there were more important things in the world than cuddling her when she cried. She put her nose in the air and made a tastefully dramatic exit just as Blake returned from seeing the Olympians out.

  “You’re not seriously considering teaming up with the Olympians, are you?” Blake asked Anderson the moment Emma was out of sight.

  Anderson glanced at him but didn’t say anything as he took his time crossing the room and sitting down. He was generally pretty easygoing and wasn’t the type to bark out orders. Not the kind of guy who screams “alpha male” with every word he speaks and every move he makes. And yet he was an alpha male through and through, and I don’t think he much liked Blake’s tone.

  Anderson sat back in his chair, making himself comfortable before he deigned to answer the question. “We’re certainly not ‘teaming up’ with them. However, it’s possible that just thi
s once, their interests and ours are in line.”

  “If anything Phoebe said was true,” Blake countered.

  “Well, the part about the dog attacks was true,” Jack said. “And you have to admit, that’s not something you’d expect in the heart of the city. And the victims were all adult men. It’s a rare pack of wild dogs that would attack an adult male.”

  “Since when have you become an expert in dog behavior?” Blake countered.

  Jack grinned. “Wasn’t it just this morning you called me a son of a bitch?”

  I winced and groaned. “Ugh. That’s bad even for you.”

  “Honey, I save my A material for people who are capable of appreciating my genius.”

  I knew he’d called me “honey” with the express purpose of irritating me, but that didn’t stop the surge of indignation. I’d have dazzled him with my own witty repartee, except Jack was sitting there grinning at me, ready to pounce on my response. He loved being the center of attention, and I didn’t want to play into his hands.

  Lucky for me, Anderson intervened before I lost my ability to contain my retort. “Let’s stay on topic, people. When Phoebe called me to request this meeting, I did a little fact checking, and there have indeed been three fatal dog attacks recently. Jack’s right that it’s all pretty bizarre. What kind of wild dog pack is randomly going to maul three adult men, all in different parts of the city, and with absolutely no witnesses?”

  “No witnesses to the attacks,” Jack added, “and no reported sightings of a pack of dogs large enough to do it.”

  We all chewed that one over for a while. It wasn’t so ridiculous to think the attacks might be supernatural in nature. Once you allowed yourself to admit that the supernatural exists at all, of course.

  “Just because a Liberi is probably behind the attacks doesn’t mean anything else Phoebe said was true,” Blake argued. “Like her explanation of why the Olympians care about someone who kills people.”

  “It’s plausible that they would be concerned about the risk of exposure,” Anderson said. “It’s also plausible that there’s something else behind their request for help.”

  “Like they’re going to use this hunt to try to trap Nikki and force her to work for them,” Blake suggested.

  Konstantin had tried to recruit me for the Olympians when I’d first become Liberi. His recruitment techniques included such compelling persuasions as having his right-hand man kidnap and rape my sister—a fate I could supposedly have saved her from if only I’d agreed to join them. Of course, since it was their mission in life to wipe out every mortal Descendant in the world except for the chosen few they indoctrinated, if I’d joined them, they’d have made me hunt for who knows how many innocent men, women, and children whom they would slaughter. File that under “Not Gonna Happen.”

  “I’m not suggesting we go blundering into anything blindly,” Anderson said. “I’d like us to start out by just doing a little more research.” He turned to Leo, who was sneaking glances at a handheld every few seconds. Guess he was afraid the stock market would pull a fast one on him if he didn’t keep an eye on it. “See if you can get hold of the actual police reports. There might be information they haven’t shared with the public that will help us figure out whether the attacks are supernatural or not.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Leo said. I’d known he was good with computers, but the confidence with which he agreed to go searching for police reports said he was hacker-level good.

  “And Nikki,” Anderson continued, “see what you can find out about the victims. See if you can find any link between them and the Olympians.”

  That was something I could do, something my years as a private investigator had prepared me for. Hunting for a supernatural serial killer, on the other hand, was so far outside my comfort zone it might as well have been brain surgery. I hoped to God we’d find out there was nothing supernatural whatsoever about these attacks so that I could get off the hook. It was a selfish attitude, no doubt about it, but I figured after the hell I’d been through lately, I was entitled to a little selfishness.

  I stopped by the kitchen before going up to my suite. I needed a healthy dose of coffee before I got to work. By the time I’d brewed a pot, doctored it to my liking, and gotten to my suite, Leo had already emailed me several articles about the dog attacks, along with the police report on the first one.

  I skimmed the news articles, although I seriously doubted they’d have a lot of important information compared with what I would find in the police reports. Maybe I was just stalling because I wasn’t looking forward to cracking open files that would have photos of dead, mauled bodies. I was a P.I., not a cop, and I was embarrassingly squeamish. I’d thrown up when we had to dissect a frog in high school, and even thinking about looking at the photos was making me a little queasy.

  According to online reports, the attacks had each occurred on a Friday night, one attack per week over the last three weeks. The first had been in Anacostia, and the victim had been so badly mauled he had yet to be identified.

  The second attack had occurred in Trinidad. The victim, Eddie Van Buren, was an unemployed former banker who’d been found near the National Arboretum. According to the article, Van Buren had been forty-three when he died, though the accompanying photo showed a man who couldn’t be more than twenty-five. In the photo, he was handsome and athletic-looking, and I had to wonder if they’d chosen to use the old photo because falling on hard times had stolen his good looks.

  The third attack had occurred in Ledroit Park, and the victim was Calvin Hodge, a criminal attorney. The picture in the paper showed a smiling middle-aged man with a neat black beard and a power suit.

  It was impossible to imagine that a pack of wild dogs could cover that much territory in the heart of D.C. without being spotted by someone. It was also impossible that they would randomly decide to attack lone male victims on Friday nights exactly one week apart. The reporter who wrote the third article parroted the police’s assertions that, despite the improbability of it all, these killings were all the result of wild dog attacks, but I could almost feel the reporter’s skepticism.

  Either the perpetrator was a serial killer who owned a pack of attack dogs, or Phoebe was right and there was a Liberi behind it. I had to put my money on option number two, no matter how much I didn’t like it.

  By the time I’d finished skimming the articles, copies of all three police reports were in my in-box. Leo worked fast. And I didn’t want to know how he’d managed to get hold of confidential police reports within the space of an hour.

  I chugged down the rest of my coffee before it got cold, staring at my in-box, trying to work up the courage to open the first file. I gave myself a mental kick in the ass, took a deep breath, and double-clicked on the first attachment. There were several pages of notes, but I skipped immediately to the photos, knowing I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the text until I’d gotten this part over with.

  I managed to get through the first shot by almost convincing myself I was looking at special effects from some cheesy horror movie. I was less convinced when I peeked at the second one, and the third one made everything too real. I had to bolt to the bathroom, where I emptied out my coffee and my lunch. By the time I was finished, I was sweaty and shaking, my stomach still rumbling unhappily. I splashed cold water on my face and tried to keep my breathing slow and steady.

  “Some kick-ass supernatural huntress you turned out to be,” I muttered to my reflection.

  The last thing in the world I wanted to do was go back to my computer and look at those photos again. What were the chances I’d spot something the police hadn’t and that whatever I spotted would lead me to the killer? Even given my own brand-new supernatural abilities, those odds were pretty slim. But I knew I had to look. If it turned out there was something I should have seen and someone else died horribly because I’d been too much of a wimp to look at a few nasty photos, I’d never be able to live with myself.

  It took seve
ral more tries before I could force myself to look at the photos for more than half a second at a time. My imagination was going to have a field day with these images if I let it.

  “Mind over matter,” I kept repeating to myself under my breath, then gripped the arms of my chair and forced myself to look.

  It wasn’t hard to tell why victim number one hadn’t been identified yet. Saying he’d been “mauled” was an understatement. Shredded was more like it. The crime scene was under an overpass, and there was blood everywhere. Blood painted the sidewalk and the street, dripped down the walls on both sides, and spotted the ceiling. Bits and pieces of him were scattered willy-nilly, and I wouldn’t have known these were human remains if it weren’t for the head—skull, actually—that rested on its neck on the sidewalk, like it was rising out of the ground. Close-ups showed obvious teeth marks on the exposed bone.

  I tried very hard to distance myself from what I was seeing, to look at it with dispassionate eyes and search for clues to who might have done this and where he might have gone, but I couldn’t get past the horror. I hoped to God the poor man had been dead before most of the carnage occurred. I told myself he had to have been, otherwise someone would have heard the screams and seen something. Of course, residents of tough neighborhoods like Anacostia knew investigating sounds of violence was seriously bad for your health, as was volunteering information to the police.

  Still shuddering in revulsion, I forced myself to look through all of the photos. If there was important evidence there, I failed to see it.

  I combed over the written report, hoping I’d have an easier time coping with that. And I did, until I got to the part that said the victim’s internal organs were missing. The report theorized that the victim had been killed by a pack of feral dogs and that the dogs had eaten the viscera.

  Nausea roiled in my empty stomach, and my skin was clammy with sweat as I tried not to let my imagination paint too clear a picture of what the poor victim had been through. And what his family would go through, if and when the body was ever identified. The idea of having your loved one not only killed but eaten … I shuddered.