Sacrificed in Shadow

by SM Reine

  “Deputy Marshall wired the fee. It hit our account before he got back to Vegas.”

  Well, that was something. If Deputy Lincoln Marshall was out to kill Elise, at least Dana and Deb McIntyre’s college funds would be fattened first.

  “Does it seem weird to you that a public employee could afford us?” Elise asked.

  “Oh yeah. Weird as fuck.”

  “That’s what I thought. Give Deb a squeeze for me.” Debora McIntyre was a sprightly, obnoxious four-year-old who insisted on having her blond curls dyed blue with Kool-Aid, just like Daddy’s. The little monster never failed to miss Elise’s absences.

  “Sure thing.”

  McIntyre hung up.

  Elise returned the deputy’s mail to a neat stack and explored his house. He looked like a typical bachelor. His sink was filled with dirty dishes and his carpet hadn’t been vacuumed in weeks. He had football jerseys with “MARSHALL” on the back hanging in his kitchen. Underneath the clutter, the duplex was decorated nicely. Either he had been slacking on cleaning lately, or someone more meticulous had handled his decor.

  She drew his curtains. He had horizontal blinds layered underneath flimsy cotton curtains—the kind of shoddy covering that only morning people used. Anyone who liked to sleep in properly could do better than that. She grabbed winter flannels out of Lincoln’s linen closet and draped them over his curtain rods, careful to make sure that there were no gaps.

  Satisfied that his house was adequately secure, Elise took a seat in his leather recliner. It was positioned directly in front of a sixty-inch flat screen TV, above which hung an impressive crucifix. The savior’s face had been lovingly carved into a rictus of pain. Delicate etchings of blood tracked his skeletal form. The statue must have cost a fortune. Maybe as much as the TV.

  Elise wondered why Lincoln liked having Jesus’s death above his football games on Sunday afternoons. At least his gaze wasn’t focused on the chair—that would have been too much, even for her.

  She steepled her fingers in front of her face, closed her eyes, and waited.

  Lucinde Ramirez’s bedroom had been a chilly oasis in the middle of the Reno high desert. Her parents had drawn every curtain in the house, turned on the ceiling fans, and blasted the swamp cooler to make their fevered daughter as comfortable as possible. Her white, four-poster bed had practically been growing icicles from its filmy princess drapes.

  Elise had arrived at the Ramirezes’ house doubtful that demonic possession was responsible for Lucinde’s sickness, and when she questioned the parents to find none of the usual indicators present, it had only confirmed her doubts. Full possession required flashy rituals or lots of time—weeks of demonic oppression, with nightmares and strange voices. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened for months.

  Yet Lucinde had been curled in the twilit corner of her bedroom, knees raw with carpet burn, and veins gripping the sclera of her eyes.

  “Colder,” she had whispered with a voice that didn’t belong to a five year old girl.

  The demon had been burning her from the inside out.

  Lucinde had been a pawn in a game of chess, with demons on one side and Elise on the other. But to Augustin Ramirez, and to Elise, Lucinde hadn’t been a tool. She had been a child. A victim.

  Elise had failed her.

  There weren’t many people in Elise’s life that would remember that failure. Anthony was one of them. Stephanie Whyte, an emergency room doctor with a flair for magic, was another possibility—but, as much as they hated each other, Stephanie wouldn’t deign to spit on Elise, much less try to trap her. Augustin Ramirez was the only other survivor that should have known about it.

  Anthony, Stephanie, Augustin. Not much of a suspect list.

  But there was one other name that came to mind. A name that Elise immediately banished.

  James Faulkner. Of all of the crystal-clear human memories Elise wished that she could forget, James featured prominently in most of them.

  James was rumored to have been in southern California a few months earlier. That was about as far from Grove County as one could get within the continental United States, and much too close to Las Vegas for Elise’s comfort. But James hadn’t tried to contact her when he was in the neighborhood. There seemed no reason for him to change his mind now.

  Who else could know about Lucinde Ramirez? Who would use it as a beacon to draw Elise to Northgate—and why now? Where did the deputy fit?

  None of it made sense.

  But Elise remembered Lucinde Ramirez’s tiny whisper: “Colder…” She remembered what James had looked like when he had been possessed by Death’s Hand—he’d had exactly the same feral, bloody-eyed frenzy as Lucinde. And it was with no small amount of regret that Elise remembered what she had done to save him, at the cost of Lucinde’s life.

  Colder…

  For the first time in a long time, Elise felt a chill.

  “You didn’t tell me that you have a new girlfriend.”

  It was a bright, crisp morning. The air had that faint, bitter edge of rotting leaves, the bite of approaching winter, the smell of wet soil. Dawn glimmered on the wind-blown leaves, shimmering in shades of crimson and gold. Looked like it would be a nice day. Lincoln Marshall hadn’t been expecting to be assaulted the instant he arrived at home.

  He slammed the door of his cruiser. “Pardon?” he asked, frowning at Mrs. Kitteridge.

  The sun highlighted his elderly neighbor’s gray curls so that he could see the outline of her skull through them. She had carefully painted her lips a glossy peach color and wore the eyeshadow to match. Her frail body was draped in a muumuu that looked like one of Lincoln’s flower print curtains. Mrs. Kitteridge owned all of the duplexes in Lincoln’s complex, and she seemed to think that it made her some kind of den mother for everyone who rented from her.

  She rapped her rolled newspaper against his pectoral. “I saw your girlfriend last night. She’s hot stuff, but you should put a ring on it, as the kids say, if she’s going to be sleeping over. I don’t run a brothel.”

  “Mrs. Kitteridge,” he said warningly.

  “Well, you know how I feel about extramarital relations. I daresay your mama would agree if she knew what her golden boy was getting up to. Mrs. Marshall would be shocked, just shocked, to see all the leather. I’m not, though. A boy’s got to have his fun.” She gave him a lascivious wink. “But save it for the marriage bed. That’s all I’m saying. You got me?”

  “No, I don’t ‘got you’ at all,” Lincoln said. He knew he must have looked stupid and slack-jawed, but talking to Mrs. Kitteridge was similar to getting struck by a permed freight train. Had she finally lost it? “What’s this you’re saying about leather?”

  “You know.” She waggled her bony hips underneath the muumuu. “Leather boots, leather jacket. Very nice.”

  “On a woman.”

  “That’s right. The girl visiting your house last night.”

  Realization dawned. A woman in leather had been sneaking around his house. His neighbor believed her to be a girlfriend. But Lincoln wasn’t dating anyone, and nobody in Northgate wore leather, inside or outside the marriage bed.

  Worry crossed Mrs. Kitteridge’s features. “Is she your girlfriend?”

  Lincoln’s hand fell to his sidearm. He swallowed hard. “Oh, yeah. I just, ah—no, she’s a friend. I wouldn’t date a girl that dresses like that. I asked her to check on my house while I was away.”

  “But I was checking on your house while you were away. Lincoln Mathias Marshall, you’re not trying to pull a fast one on me, are you?”

  He didn’t have time for this. “Did you see her leave?”

  “No. As far as I know, she’s still in there.”

  The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He thumbed the strap on his holster, loosening the gun. “Thank you for watching my house, Mrs. Kitteridge,” he said, dropping a kiss to her temple. She smelled like clinical-strength moisturizer and Earl Gray tea.

  She gave him a shar
p, knowing look, and shuffled back toward her own unit.

  He stood in front of his door, keys cupped against his palm so that they wouldn’t jingle. Someone had closed his blinds so that he couldn’t see into the entryway. Lincoln was fairly certain that he had left everything open when he left.

  He unlocked the door. It swung open silently.

  His house was dark inside—darker than he had ever seen it before. The narrow rectangle of sunlight that spilled over the carpet wasn’t enough to penetrate the shadows all the way to his back wall. The faint scent of tobacco lingered on the air. It was disturbingly reminiscent of The Pump Lounge, and he didn’t want to go inside.

  Lincoln couldn’t wait long on his doorstep. As his landlady had proven, the neighbors would be watching, and he wanted to keep the questions to a minimum.

  He waited to draw his gun until he had stepped inside and shut the door.

  “Come out with your hands up,” Lincoln said, squinting into the darkness of the living room. He couldn’t make out the figure that he knew had to be there, but he could feel the presence of another living being as surely as if she were breathing down his neck.

  She didn’t reply.

  He shuffled forward, gun aimed at the floor. When he rounded the couch, he saw her.

  Elise Kavanagh sat cross-legged in his recliner, feet tucked underneath her body, elbows on her knees, fingers steepled. It was a meditative position. Her hair flowed around her as if caught in a current, though the air in his house was still.

  Her eyes opened slowly as if she were rising from a dream.

  “You’re early,” Elise said.

  Lincoln might have been disturbed that she seemed to know his itinerary if he hadn’t been much more disturbed by finding her in his house in the first place. “I switched flights so I could make it to Sunday mass.”

  “Church boy,” she said dully, not like it was a compliment. “Cute.”

  Electricity rippled down his arms, tickling the hairs until they stood at attention. “You sound like you’re not a believer. I’d think a demon would know better.”

  She planted her hands on the recliner and pushed herself to her feet. Lincoln took a quick step back.

  Her gaze was fixed at his throat. Lincoln realized that he had forgotten to remove his crucifix, but he swallowed hard and didn’t try to hide it. He was proud of his faith. If she had a problem with it, then maybe she shouldn’t have intruded in his home.

  “I’m a believer,” Elise said, voice painfully soft. “You won’t need that.”

  He thought that she meant the crucifix until he saw her gesture at the gun. Lincoln holstered it. “Been here long?”

  “A few hours. I had time to explore Northgate, and it was very…enlightening.” The way that she said “enlightening” made Lincoln fill with dread. The corner of her lips twitched. Almost a smile, but not quite. “Your town’s interesting, deputy. I want a tour.”

  “I’m going to shower and go to church, Miss Kavanagh,” he said. “I don’t have time for tours.”

  “That’s okay. I only work after sundown.”

  Lincoln felt like he had been cornered, although he was the one with his back to the door. “I thought you could just take care of the werewolves and leave.”

  “When you’re hunting a murderer, do you arrest him without collecting evidence?”

  “We don’t have murderers around here,” Lincoln said. “Not until recently.”

  Elise drifted toward him, one thumb hooked in her belt loop, a half-smile on her lips. He tensed when she touched a fingertip to the crucifix around his neck. When McIntyre had insisted that Lincoln put away the necklace, he’d assumed that meant that the symbol would hurt her. Sort of like Dracula. But she definitely wasn’t burning.

  Lincoln couldn’t help but let his eyes travel over her body, poured into snug jeans and a waist-length leather jacket. For a demon, her skin was covered modestly. The scoop of her shirt’s neck was high, barely flashing collarbone, and she even wore fingerless gloves. But she also didn’t leave much to the imagination. The shirt clung to the lines of her breasts and narrow waist. The jeans accentuated every curve of her thighs.

  The Devil came in many forms, and this one was undeniably beautiful.

  “I’ll give you one chance to be honest with me, Lincoln,” Elise said. Her voice was flat—about as unseductive as it could be. “Right here, right now. Can you be honest?”

  Mouth dry, all he could manage was a nod.

  “How did you hear about me and my friends?” she asked. Lincoln’s eyes were fixed on her lips as she spoke.

  “You were referred to me by word-of-mouth. When the bodies started appearing, I asked people, who knew people, who knew other people. They referred me to your organization. They said you’re the expert.”

  “Do you have any suspicions as to who the werewolf might be?”

  “Maybe,” Lincoln said. “There’s not much evidence.”

  “Does the department know I’m coming?”

  “No. Your investigation hasn’t been sanctioned by the sheriff.”

  “Is there really a missing girl named Lucinde Ramirez?” Elise asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And that’s all of the information you have.” There was almost a question mark in the silence that followed—the expectation that Lincoln should give her any other information he had at right that moment.

  “We’ll go to the station tonight,” Lincoln said. “I’ll give you access to all of the records that I can.”

  “Okay.”

  The tension in the air eased. It felt like he had passed some kind of test. He let out a long, slow breath. “I need to get to mass. Father Night is expecting me,” he said. He was already running late. God forbid that the deputy fail to attend church on the same day that his leather-clad “friend” was spotted snooping around his house. The whole town would think he was a Satanist by Monday morning.

  “Father Night,” Elise echoed. For the first time, she actually smiled.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yes. What’s he doing here? He used to be in Oregon.”

  “I don’t know.” Lincoln shrugged. “He’s been here since I returned from college. He’s an excellent priest.”

  “So you’re pretty devout?”

  He straightened his back, squared his shoulders. He didn’t like the judgment in her tone. “In times like these, we need God more than ever.”

  She touched his crucifix again. The metal chilled at her touch. “Word of advice? Prayers might comfort you, Deputy Marshall, but don’t count on anyone to be listening on the other end.” She scowled. “Not anymore.”

  And with that comforting statement, Elise Kavanagh was gone again.

  FIVE

  LINCOLN WAS LYING about something, but his plans for the day were not among those lies. Elise lingered in the shadows of his house, utterly invisible, and watched him prepare for church. She was polite enough to stay out of the bathroom while he showered.

  It wasn’t her fault that he walked into his living room with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, baring the bricks of his abdominal muscles. Water trickled down his pecs and vanished under the fluffy white terrycloth. He had narrow hips, broad shoulders, a thick neck that was almost broader than his impossibly square jaw.

  If she’d had eyes, they would have been fixed to the brush of blond hair trailing below his navel. But Elise, everywhere and nowhere, didn’t have to worry about being caught staring.

  Elise wasn’t a succubus. She knew that much. Her sex drive was entirely human, and she didn’t waste away if she went long without a good fuck. Fortunate thing, too. Despite rooming with Anthony, her undeniably handsome ex-boyfriend, she hadn’t had sex in months. Most men feared Elise too much to want to spend a night in her bed.

  But she didn’t need to be a succubus to feel the draw of a hot, wet deputy wearing nothing but his cross necklace and a frown, especially since Lincoln didn’t seem afraid of her. Every time
he looked at her, he buzzed with desire. It didn’t really matter that he might be a dirty cop. At least Elise would know that he was trouble before they hooked up.

  Maybe it was time to end her dry streak.

  But not while she was on a case. Not with a rogue werewolf slaughtering people—a rogue werewolf with a kopis friend—and a nine year old girl missing. Until the dust settled, it was a distraction she couldn’t afford.

  Yet when Lincoln walked into the living room again, this time without a towel, Elise was tempted to let herself be distracted.

  She slipped out the front door before she could change her mind.

  As soon as she hit sunlight, she couldn’t hang onto her incorporeal form. She either needed to let herself vanish completely for the day—the far more comfortable option—or walk like the average mortal, with two legs and two arms. Elise chose the latter.

  Her physical body slammed into being again, and she staggered, clutching her stomach. Her skin wanted to crawl off of her muscles, her bones ached, and her brain throbbed dangerously, as if threatening to extrude through her eye sockets. Eyes streaming, gasping for breath, she ripped open the door on Lincoln’s cruiser and climbed inside.

  With the doors shut, the tinted windows blocked enough sunlight that the heart-pounding panic subsided.

  She had only been in direct sunlight for a few minutes, yet sweat had soaked through her shirt. It was tinted pink.

  Elise pulled out the box of cigarettes and jammed one in her mouth. She didn’t need to light it to enjoy the soothing effect it had on her nerves. “Shit,” she muttered.

  How long had it been since she had enjoyed a day in the sunshine? Perfect memory or not, she couldn’t seem to remember now. The autumn leaves were too bright for her to focus on, like shards of glass raking her retinas. She closed her eyes, wiped the sweat off her forehead, and gripped the box of cigarettes like a worry doll.

  She managed to compose herself before Lincoln emerged in his Sunday best: polo shirt, ironed slacks, and boat shoes. Elise somehow doubted that he owned a boat.