by SM Reine
“Newsflash, McIntyre,” he said, standing up and shaking out his trousers. He waved to someone outside the door. “You’re not just my dog. You’re this man’s new best friend.”
A sidhe agent brought in a suitcase. Cèsar opened it and withdrew a syringe with an absurdly thick needle.
“The fuck is that?” Dana asked, trying to jerk away. The bindings were too tight.
“A tracker,” Cèsar said. He uncapped the needle.
“Now, wait,” Penny protested. “You didn’t say anything about—”
“Too late to change her mind. Oral contract already made.” The syringe descended.
Dana’s muscles screamed as she tried to twist away. “You’re not even wearing gloves!”
The millimeters-thick needle penetrated the meat of her bicep, stinging like a bee set on fire. Cèsar depressed the plunger. She felt a tracker the size of a bead punch into her.
Dana McIntyre: Collared, leashed, and licensed by the Office of Preternatural Affairs.
2
Coming back to Vegas in daylight felt like something Dana hadn’t done for years. Like it was a dimly, but warmly, recalled childhood memory.
Part of the reason the city looked so weird was the absence of towering magical advertisements. Once the OPA had seized all of the vampire-owned businesses, their advertisements had gotten shut down too. It wasn’t the skyline Dana remembered. No big-tittied witches, no winking incubi, no tarot cards swirling around skyscrapers.
It was still Las Vegas.
Home.
It was a decent drive from the Arizona detention center to Southern Nevada, but this was the first bathroom break they’d taken over those hours. Dana stood at the edge of the gas station while the limo’s driver refueled, gazing at the skyline of downtown Las Vegas.
She scrubbed at the injection site with her gnawed fingernails as she gazed around at the stucco, the hot blue sky, the patches of stringy gray clouds. Dana had gotten the remainder of her injuries healed by the prison’s witch before heading home, including the site where that big-ass needle had impaled her. She no longer had a hole in her arm, but she could feel the tracker wiggling in the muscle, like it was putting down roots.
Penny hurried out of the gas station. “Time to go!” She moved ahead to open the limousine door for her.
“My arm’s not broken, stupid,” Dana said. She kissed Penny before sliding into the limo. Penny followed, slamming the door shut. “They sent a limousine to get me after making me shit in a bucket for a few weeks. For fuck’s sake. Your tax dollars at work, right?”
“You seem more irritable than usual,” Penny said.
It was a serious claim, since Dana was always irritable. “Give me at least fifteen minutes out of prison before you expect me to cheer up.”
“Fifteen minutes or fifteen shots of tequila?”
“Fifteen shots in fifteen minutes.”
“You’re going to die of alcohol poisoning at that rate.”
Penny pulled Dana against her side so that the rocking of the limo’s movements snuggled them tightly together. They were divorced. Kinda. They hadn’t actually agreed on whether they were going to finish the divorce. Certainly, their relationship wasn’t in a place where cuddling should have been appropriate. But Dana wasn’t moving away.
“We can share the shots,” Dana said, tracing circles onto the top of Penny’s knee. “What do you say? You, me, a liquor store… I’d say we should go to a bar, but I’d be shocked if any are open now that the vampires are getting ‘reorganized.’ Actually, are the looters hitting the liquor stores too?”
“I don’t know, and it’s not like we can find out,” Penny said. “We’re on a mission. Bodies on the ground. Remember?”
“Can’t bring people back from the dead. They won’t get deader while we celebrate my release.”
“If this is a serial killer, then we need to catch him before he finds others to kill.”
Dana sighed and let her head fall on Penny’s shoulder. “Buzzkill.”
As the OPA chauffeur drove them toward the Clark County Coroner’s Office, Dana studied the case files. Most of the information Cèsar provided was about victims. At a glance, Dana didn’t see any commonality to the dead except that all the victims were male. That wasn’t enough.
“Serial killer,” she snorted, shutting the files.
“You sound skeptical,” Penny said.
“Serial killers are too rare to have a second right after the last one got killed. Bet you anything Cèsar made it up so he could get this tracker in my arm. It’s a distraction, I tell you.”
There was a lot to distract from. The driver had to creep through empty streets dotted by clusters of intense crowds gathering at parks, gun stores, pawnshops. Some looked to be looting. Some were protesting. None looked happy.
Dana watched them with teeth clenched. Throwing shit through windows in her city. If they’d known she was still prowling the streets—if the news hadn’t spread her incarceration around like it was the hottest gossip—then at least these fucks would have been looking over their shoulders, afraid she’d be cracking skulls.
She would crack skulls.
Her arm throbbed painfully. Dana rubbed the insertion point again with a grimace.
She’d have to wait to crack skulls until Cèsar decided it was time for her to crack skulls.
He had explained all the things that the tracker did after so kindly jabbing it into her arm. “Full disclosure: it can kill you,” he’d said calmly.
“What?” she’d asked, less calmly.
“It’s probably never going to kill you,” Cèsar said. “You’re not gonna piss me off, right? Right.”
“Uh,” Dana said. Pissing people off was one of her specialties.
“It will update your location and notify my device every five minutes. If you’re going to break the law by leaving the region without notifying me, you need to try to do it in between the five-minute pings.”
“Leaving the region is illegal?”
“If you go to the grocery store without checking in with me, it’s illegal,” he said.
By that point, Dana had been fantasizing about flushing Cèsar’s glittery head down the toilet. “Full disclosure, huh?”
“Full disclosure. We’re buddies now. But don’t worry, this only lasts until you’ve worked off your prison sentence with the case,” Cèsar said. “Did I mention that part? Catch the killer, work for the OPA, and you’re free.”
“Work for the OPA” and “free” did not seem to be terms that were related.
“And then you stop tracking me,” Dana said. “Catch the killer, tracking ends.”
“Sure,” he said.
His tone hadn’t inspired confidence.
It wouldn’t be hard to check in with Cèsar throughout the case, to be fair. He’d given her a special phone so that she could notify him where she was going, what she was doing, what resources she needed to meet her there. Likewise, he could tell her what to do through that phone.
Or he could tell her she’d pissed him off by killing her.
You know, whatever. Full disclosure.
“Stop rubbing.” Penny swatted Dana’s hand off of the injection site. “There’s no way it still hurts.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I know you,” she said, “and I know you’re doing that so I’ll baby you.”
Dana gave Penny big eyes. “I am in a lot of pain.”
Penny couldn’t keep herself from laughing.
The limousine stopped in front of the coroner’s office.
“Go ahead,” Penny said.
“Not coming?”
“I don’t have the authority. Don’t worry about me. I’ll raid the limo’s mini fridge and watch Greenville Lights repeats until you’re done.”
“Wait, why do you get booze and Greenville Lights while I have to go in and look at some dead guy?”
“Because I’m not the fabled hunter,” Penny said. She blew a kiss to Dana
and waved bye-bye.
Dana stepped out to be greeted by lots of uniforms, who applauded at the sight of her.
She glared at them. Dana wasn’t arrogant enough to think these guys were here for her benefit. They were excited to see the legend in the flesh, but they’d been assigned to protect the coroner’s office from rioters. They weren’t friends of the Hunting Club. More like rubberneckers.
The chief of police was the only welcoming face among the adulation. Charmaine Villanueva greeted Dana with a handshake. A reserved gesture, all things considered—and a calculated one.
Charmaine had fallen into deep crap over her preferential treatment of the Hunting Club. To get her department back, she’d tipped the OPA off to the same illegal operation that had landed Dana in jail. Charmaine wouldn’t be in an all-fired hurry to summon the Eye of Cèsar again. That meant no hugging where others could see it.
“It’s good to see you here,” Charmaine said. “Please follow me.” She led Dana up the hallway, and they were flanked by two of the officers from outside. Protection or babysitters, Dana wasn’t sure. “The people are talking about a serial killer, and Mayor Hekekia’s patience is real low after the events of the year.”
“I bet. How are you holding up?” Dana asked.
“We’re working a lot of overtime. I’m tired. Nothing new.”
“That’s not what I was talking about. I mean, I…” She let out a breath. “I missed the funeral. Did you go?”
Charmaine couldn’t keep the pain off of her face. It overwhelmed her features.
It hadn’t been long since they’d lost Anthony Morales, the most senior associate with the Hunting Club.
Anthony Morales had been the one who made sure Dana never took herself too seriously. The one who never judged her and always accepted her quirks. Not just accepted, but liked them.
Mohinder had dropped an air-conditioning unit on Anthony.
Dana had seen his brain.
“Yes, I went to the funeral.” Charmaine pressed her palm to a keypad, the secure door unlocked, and she ushered Dana into the morgue. “I got to meet Anthony’s nieces and nephews. Nice people. They were sad you couldn’t come.”
“Prison’s a bitch,” Dana said.
Charmaine glanced at the cops. “Give us the room.” She waited until they left before speaking again. Her voice was a lot softer. “I did what I thought I should do. Telling the OPA about your raid on the wastewater treatment facility—I was trying to prevent exactly what happened to Anthony.”
“And you got me arrested in the process.”
“You’re the one who broke the law, and—”
Dana lifted her hands. “I’m not pissed at you for calling. Consider it blood under the bridge.” Her fingers curled to fists, and the weight of grief dropped them to her sides. “If you need to talk…well, hey, I can get you Penny or Brianna’s number whenever.”
Charmaine blew a silent laugh through her nose. “I could use a drink.”
“I’ll tell them that.”
The police chief pressed her palm to another keypad and they entered a chilly room where bodies were kept. Everything was sterile, from the linoleum to the countertops. The surgical tables were empty except for the one at the center of the room, attended by a man in scrubs who was writing notes.
“Chief,” he greeted at the sight of her. “What brings you back here?”
“Consultant needs to see the body,” Charmaine said.
His eyes flicked to Dana, then widened into big circles over his mask. The McIntyre name was legend around Las Vegas—around the whole world, depending on whom you talked to—but he looked more freaked out than most people. Probably because she’d helped commit economic apocalypse on the city.
“I’ll leave you to it.” He dropped his clipboard and cleared out so fast that Dana was surprised the floor didn’t catch fire.
Dana grabbed gloves, a mask, a gown. “Tell me about this vic.”
“He’s been identified as Dylan Rodgers,” Charmaine said, preparing herself similarly. “He works for the school district as a custodian. This information is confidential for the moment, by the way—we need to notify the family before the press gets it.”
She tied her mask behind her head. “Since when do I spill to the press?”
“You’re going to have more interest than usual for a while. More OPA bugs listening in, reporters knocking on your door. Consider this a reminder to watch your mouth. If not for your sake, or mine, then for the bereaved’s.”
Dana lifted the sheet to see the victim’s face. He was heavyset, white, too young to die. “The press is on my shitlist after their coverage. You know they blame me for everything that happened in Vegas?”
“They need to blame someone.” Charmaine helped fold the sheet back. “Dylan Rodgers is a man of fifty-four years old. He’s approximately six feet tall and two hundred fifty pounds. He was found drained of blood.”
“Normal vampire stuff. What other similarities does this body share with the others?”
“All of the victims have been male,” Charmaine said, “and all of them were castrated.”
That hadn’t been in the file. “Castrated?”
“Let’s not make any Crying Game references, thanks,” Charmaine said.
“Please.” Dana could get more crass than a 90s shock jock on crack, but even she had some sense of decency. “Is someone joking about The Crying Game?”
Charmaine shrugged uncomfortably. “Being a trans woman on a case where guys are getting their dicks cut off, it means ribbing from coworkers.”
“Report them,” Dana said. “You don’t have to listen to this fuckery.”
“Report them? Ha. I could fire every last one of them. But we can’t afford to lose men at a time like this, McIntyre—even men I’m realizing should never work with the community.”
“You’ve got me back. You don’t need assholes on the force.”
“Most of them aren’t assholes most of the time. They think they’re being funny. I normally do better putting up with it.” Charmaine wasn’t meeting Dana’s eyes. It wasn’t just grief over Anthony keeping her quiet, but getting trapped at the bottom of a deep hole and drowning in stress. “You never get used to assholes being assholes, even after a lifetime. Even on the good days.”
And these weren’t good days.
“I hear anyone making transphobic remarks, I’m gonna do the castrating myself,” Dana said. “Just FYI.”
“Officially speaking, I should discourage you,” Charmaine said.
She left it at that.
Dana gazed down at the body. This guy was older than Anthony had been, and much less fit. Anthony wouldn’t have had the saggy flesh around his stomach and pectorals when he was on the table. But he’d have had this weird colorlessness to him. Everyone looked bad under autopsy lights.
Someone would have autopsied Anthony before his funeral.
Dana remembered hugging him on prom night, ear pressed to his chest, feeling how warm and solid and alive he was. A scalpel would have carved that chest open. Gloved hands would have removed that heart to weigh it.
She spent too long staring at the victim. Charmaine knew where Dana’s mind had gone.
“There’s a memorial today,” the chief said.
Dana lifted the sheet to examine the victim’s genitals. Yep, castrated. “You said Anthony already had his funeral. How many times do we need to recognize his death?” She squinted at the pelvic region on the cadaver, trying to make sense of the strange injuries. They were still glistening dully.
“The Morales family held an official funeral with a viewing. He was popular around the department, though. The LVMPD’s going to have a wake. Get together at Anthony’s favorite taquería and drain the margarita mix.”
“Sounds like a blast.” What wasn’t fun about drinking tequila until the pain went away? “Is it me, or does it look like someone ripped this dick off bare-handed? With the way the tissue stretched and tore…”
�
�The coroner came to the same conclusion,” Charmaine said.
“If some guy’s grabbing people by the dick and tearing, he’s gotta be filled with serious rage,” Dana said. “I’m thinking the killer feels impotent.”
“It could be literal impotence. Sexual abuse is common in the backgrounds of serial killers—mutilation from caregivers, psychological issues resulting in performance deficits—”
“Maybe this killer’s a chick who got sick of men trying to pick her up in bars. You ever think of that?”
Charmaine might have been smirking behind her mask, based on the way her eyes crinkled at the edges. “You get the urge to rip dicks off very often?”
“All the fucking time.”
“That’s not the only injury worthy of note. Help me roll the vic over.”
Together, Charmaine and Dana propped the cadaver on his side. There were two long rows of penetrative injuries along his spine. “This isn’t from a knife,” Dana said.
“You’re right. We found splinters from pine in several of the wounds,” Charmaine said.
“Like a wooden stake?”
“Probably,” she said. “Or a spear, maybe.”
“So we’re looking for a caveman who hates the peen.”
“You’re taking this lightly, even for you,” Charmaine said.
Dana reached up for the light, twisting it so that it shone directly on the injuries. The lack of blood and the way the skin puckered made her think they hadn’t been inflicted while he was alive. “I have a new policy: the world sucks, so I get to laugh at everything I want. Serial killers usually don’t get caught until they’ve already ruined dozens of lives, police officers joke about The Crying Game to their trans chief, and Anthony’s dead. Fuck the world and fuck this dead guy.”
“And the Fremont Slasher?” Charmaine asked, eyeing Dana over the body.
“No,” Dana said. “Nobody’s fucking what’s left of that guy.”
Charmaine sighed. “I’m sorry about the Slasher. If I’d believed you when you told me that the vampire I arrested wasn’t him…” She drummed her fingers on the edge of the table. “In a way, everything that happened to Anthony was my fault.”
