Dead Shifter Walking

by Kim Schubert

  I nodded.

  “Detective Mercer; please follow me,” he said, opening the door and holding it for Jerry and me.

  I raised an eyebrow at Jerry, feeling I had missed something. He shrugged; he was as much in the dark as I was.

  Detective Mercer led us down a maze of barren and lonely concrete hallways until we finally arrived at a crowded sterile morgue.

  Mercer stopped at the first body, pulling the sheet back; a young woman stared back at me, her throat ripped out.

  He moved silently to the next, performing the same menial task and watching me; this one was a male teenager with his throat ripped out. The next six were exactly the same.

  “The show is over,” I said tiredly. “Now’s the part you tell.”

  The corners of Mercer’s eyes clenched, the only sign I had riled him. “They were killed in their home and drained of blood by a vampire or vampires. You are now the new liaison between supernaturals and humans.” He handed me a large file. “Fix it.”

  Glancing down at the thick manila folder he pressed against my chest, I took the file, my aquamarine glare never leaving his own challenging sun bleached eyes. He looked away first; turning, I looked to Jerry’s shocked face.

  I suppose he wasn’t privy to this information either.

  I had to be honest, this was a blindside by Governor Hash and a very smart move on his part, but there really was only one way to get shit done.

  I would take the job and I would “fix it” as Mercer so delicately put it. Then assign it to someone who actually had a permanent address here in St. Ann.

  “Are you my liaison?” I asked, not bothering to look at him as I perused the file in front of me.

  He shifted, unbuttoning his tweed jacket and stuffing his hands in the matching pants, my question throwing him. “That is correct. My contact information is attached to the first file.”

  He walked us out; the added burden of the multiple homicide case files a lead weight around my neck. I was back 5 days and already had more responsibility than I was comfortable with. Fantastic.

  I had Jerry drop me off at the manor and gave him the next three days off, considering he had missed the weekend with my three-and-a-half-day blackout.

  I stood in front of the house in the dying afternoon light, wanting desperately to go in, throw my worries and cares away, snuggle up with the kids, and just be happy. I missed them; I missed being happy. It was an emotion I never really latched onto without them. Not surprising, given my history. Instead, I stood there with my eyes closed and my duffle bag at my feet, already knowing what my decision was but wishing I could change it.

  Feeling the threat of hot tears, I knew I had to leave before they spilled down my cheeks. I picked a midsized car from the fleet at the manor and fled away from the one place that would make me happy; I had work to do.

  It was such a depressing drive. I stopped for a bottle of wine and French fries before heading to an overpriced hotel with an amazing view of the city.

  Dropping my bag on the floor next to the bed, I hid a few key weapons around the room. Although I was registered under a false name in a luxury hotel, which was unusual for me, it never hurts to be prepared. Oh, and I had the do-not-disturb sign hanging on the door, duh.

  I drank straight from the warm wine bottle, spreading the files around on the desk. Alright, little darlings, what are you going to tell me?

  I picked up the file of the daughter, the first body Mercer had shown me, thinking he might have logic for a particular order.

  She was twenty years old, attending college and home for the weekend. The listed cause of death was exsanguination. Thankfully I had watched enough crime TV to recognize the fancy medical term for extensive loss of blood. There was an up-close picture of the wound on her neck. I turned it, studied it, and couldn’t say what the fuck did that.

  Next was her brother, eighteen, about to graduate high school, a wrestler and straight-A student. There was bruising around his left eye and rib cage; he fought back before his throat was torn out, same as his sister. No clues as to what.

  The mother was next, forty-five-year-old biologist, relatively successful if her daughter’s education was any indication. I compared the picture of her neck to the children’s. It was larger, and four hardly evident scratch marks began at the base of her neck.

  I meticulously went through the rest of the files: father, grandmother, grandfather, aunt, and uncle; they were all the same, except for the mother. I held the wound picture apart, what made her different? If I was a betting women, I might think she was the real target and everyone else collateral damage. Who the fuck had she pissed off?

  The files didn’t give any detailed personal information aside from the basics. I would need Mercer to move forward; I had a nagging suspicion he had planned it that way. Rummaging through the files, I found his number and dialed.

  “Mercer,” he answered, gruff and short.

  “Olivia,” I said, waiting for acknowledgement; getting none, I simply plowed right over, “I need the financial workup on the mother, Jane, and the father as well. Also—” The line went dead; well, that was just rude.

  I gave serious thought to finding him, tapping the hotel pen against the files. He didn’t seem the type to let this file gather dust while intentionally sabotaging me; certainly didn’t mean he wasn’t. Typically, my instincts were dead on, literally; I’d give him the rest of the day before I started making his life interesting.

  Checking my watch for the time, I laughed. He wasn’t the rude one; I was. It was 2 a.m. He, being a human, would be sleeping at this time of the night. Oops, guess I deserved that. The four scratches bothered me; did something rip out their jugular? Where the fuck was all the blood? I pulled the pictures, scouring all of them, looking for pictures that showed the carpet or furniture. Nothing. All I had were close-ups in the morgue. I was missing a large part of this file.

  I almost called Mercer back, looking down at my cell phone and debating; he apparently didn’t like sharing. Moving to lie down on the couch, I took my wine, but left the files as the information and pictures ran through my mind. I was missing something, probably more than one something, and truthfully, I wasn’t sure if it would be in Mercer’s file or not.

  I turned on my side either way I had to resolve this. Human law enforcement thought it was a vampire. I wonder what the vampires thought of that. Let’s see, it was Wednesday, no, Thursday morning according to my phone. Mallory was off; I wondered what she was up to. No time like the present to find out.

  I texted her, You hear about the “vampire” murders?

  I waited all of three seconds before she responded, Not vampires.

  How can you be sure? I texted back.

  My phone rang at that point.

  “Are you fucking serious?” Mallory demanded.

  “Typically,” I responded evenly, trying to hide my amusement at her.

  “Do you have any idea of the fallout we are seeing because of the murders? I have people carrying stakes around the complex, holy water on every surface outside, and torches. Do you hear me?” she screamed, “TORCHES!”

  Mallory, when not at Kitten, ran security for the Centennial House; she was just as pissed as me when the house came forward, announcing their presence to the public.

  “You need me to run interference?” I asked hopefully.

  “Fuck no!” she yelled again, “I have enough issues without a bloodthirsty executioner darkening my doorstep. Figure out what the fuck killed those people, Ms. Liaison, and hurry up.”

  I didn’t even have a chance to ask her how she knew about my added responsibility, as the line went dead. I stared at my suddenly silent phone, second time in one night. Guess my people skills were maintaining.

  Sitting up, I pulled another long swig of wine, letting my feet rest on the coffee table.

  Why the entire family? I wondered. If the main target was the mother, why kill the rest. If I were the murderer, why would I do that? The first re
ason that came to mind was that they were all a part of something evil. Second, I was worried one or more would come after me for revenge. Third, I wanted to torture her by forcing her to watch everyone she loved die before she died. I set the wine on the table, going back to the file, looking for the death order. Please let that be there, I wished.

  Time of deaths put the grandparents first, then three hours later, the husband/father. Three hours, what the hell! It did not take three hours to drain a body; I could vouch for that first hand, especially if a hungry vampire was doing the draining. Secondly, if it were an off-the-reservation vamp, they would have drained each of them quickly before moving on to the next. A human family of eight had a small chance against the undead. Ugh! Again, the file was missing photos that would show if there were any signs of struggle.

  Back to the order, next was the aunt and uncle, both siblings to the mother. Strange, did they have spouses? If so, that was a loose end to tie up. After the aunt and uncle, the children were next, then finally the mother.

  I scratched my nose, attempting to pull more wine, but sadly realized I was out. Crap, I suppose I did need to get some sleep. I stretched as I chucked the wine bottle into the garbage before stripping out of my clothing and crashing onto the bed; the green glow informed me the sun was about to rise at 4:30 a.m.

  ….

  At 8 a.m., I was jerked awake by my nightmares, my sweat slick against my body, absorbing into the white sheets beneath me. Shaking my damp locks, I stumbled into the shower.

  When Mercer finally called back at 9 a.m., I was more than ready for an influx of information to my starving files.

  “Morning, sunshine,” I answered, cradling the phone with my shoulder as I laced up my boot.

  He grunted. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

  “Nah,” I answered, strapping on my watch, “sleeping is highly overrated. So, I have a few questions,” I started, mentally organizing my list of questions.

  “Meet me at the station,” he said, hanging up, again.

  Alright, while I will fully admit to having a whole nest of issues, he was just plain rude. I consoled myself with that fact while driving to the station.

  “So, good looking,” I said, setting my coffee on his desk, “what d’ya got for me?”

  He didn’t even look up, but studiously moved papers across his desk. Looking closer, I realized what the beautiful glossy photos were―crime-scene pictures of the actual house. Score!

  In the first photo, an immense red stain covered the baby blue carpeting, while the furniture was untouched. Up the stairs, I could see a body behind the railing an arm casually draped over. The next picture was the body on the stairs, the daughter, also lying in her own pool of blood, lifeless eyes clouded over in death, her throat ripped in half.

  “Did they test those substances around the bodies?” I asked, reaching for the pictures over his shoulder.

  Mercer looked up at me. “No.”

  The next picture was of the son. I leaned closer, and confirmed what I suspected. The room he was in had plaster damaged against one wall, the furniture strewn about, and a bookcase completely collapsed. He fought hard to live. As I looked into his empty glassy eyes, I promised I would find the son of a bitch who snuffed out his entire family’s existence.

  “Do you want me to fail, Mercer?” I asked softly, close to his ear, my anger pushing against my shields.

  His hands froze mid-shuffle, blood draining from his face.

  “Why is my file missing these?” I whispered, moving closer pulling a rope of confidence from my core to bolster my claims. I needed to know who the fuck this guy was playing for. If I had to break into the police station, I wasn’t above it. Honestly, I wasn’t above much when I was determined.

  My phone buzzed, interrupting my interrogation.

  “Olivia,” I answered straitening up quickly.

  “Hey, it’s Kass.” Her tone made me move away from Mercer.

  “What?” I asked, wanting to get to the heart of the matter.

  “I’ve been helping Hannah learn control and just overheard that Logan is going to be in town Saturday morning. Darren is livid. I don’t know what Logan said, but Darren asked if I knew of any safe houses. Apparently, Logan owns this house and Darren is worried about Logan’s goons trying to take Hannah,” she finished quietly.

  Ice moved through my veins. “Relocate Friday night. Do you know where?” I asked softly.

  “Yeah, Olie, I know. You really think…” she paused before finding the courage to continue, “you think he would hurt his own niece for being one of us?”

  “Absolutely,” I answered. “I’ll be over this afternoon. Isn’t it a bit early for you?” I asked checking my thick-banded watch.

  “Um, yeah. Early start to the day and all that jazz,” she answered unsteadily. Hannah’s cry came from the background. “I gotta go, Olie.”

  I stared at my phone, wondering what in the three rings of hell was going on there. Shrugging, I turned back to Mercer. His color had returned; time to make it flee again.

  As I took a few steps forward, he stood, stopping my progress. I gave him my wide-eyed innocent look. “Don’t,” he warned, buttoning his black jacket and stuffing his hands into the navy blue pants. “Let’s go.”

  “Where to?” I asked with fake enthusiasm.

  He didn’t answer me, walking away instead. This was not going well at all. Following him, I saw nothing but the blasé interior gray walls and yellow linoleum as we twisted through corridors, pressing open a metal door into the blinding morning light.

  Squinting, I followed him around the squad cars, pristinely lined up and squeaky clean, to a rusty old pickup truck.

  As I opening the door, it gave a warning creak. Sliding into the newly reupholstered seat, I gave his square side profile a disbelieving look.

  “What?” he asked, cranking the engine.

  “Country much?” I asked as Hank Williams belted out on the stereo.

  He grunted, leaving the parking lot and the police station with its steel gates behind.

  Paranoia tapped my shoulder, pointing out that I was in a truck with a man I didn’t know, traveling to an unknown destination with no one knowing where I was. That sounds like a brilliant plan, she screamed at me. Those were some valid points. I mulled over whether I could take Mercer. It wouldn’t even be close, it was much easier for me to drop bodies than it was for him.

  That hesitation would undoubtedly give me the upper hand and get him killed. I leaned against the worn upholstery, feeling the gun in my back push back with reassurance, not to mention the hidden blades as well. I pushed paranoia back down and paid attention to the city outside of our windows, the homes had become larger, newer, with landscaping that required a crew to maintain.

  Mercer checked his paperwork, flipping open a manila envelope before pulling into a home with tall wrought iron gates and a curved driveway. I like the idea of gates, but these were easy to scale and easier to bend for a shifter. The Manor had real wrought iron gates that could conduct electricity if needed, and I always thought it was needed.

  The gates opened automatically as he approached, another huge no-no in security; although, it did prove the family thought it had nothing to worry about. I was, of course, assuming this was the crime scene. The grumbling truck ceased its ranting as I slid out the side of the vehicle, taking in the austere face of the home. The burnt red door was marred in its intricate beauty by the yellow police tape slashing across its face.

  Mercer walked around his classic beast, leaving his file in the truck and picking up a briefcase from the truck bed.

  Exiting the truck, I eyed his stiff gait and pondered the nonexistent conversation; my suspicions were growing. Climbing up the pristine steps, I had a plan; it wasn’t the best of plans, but I was confident I could pull it off.

  I followed Mercer into the home, closing and quietly locking the door behind me. He turned, raising an eyebrow, and I smiled a slow sexy smile. “You have some
explaining to do,” I whispered.

  He bravely moved within an inch of my face, his eyes giving nothing away. I smiled genuinely; this could be fun. I moved my fingers to his button-down shirt, my eyes not leaving his face. “Mercer,” I whispered.

  He growled a reply, nuzzling my neck. I drew an exaggerated gasp, undoing the second button, my fingers stalled as I brushed the wiretap on his chest. “Don’t stop,” he said a little too loudly.

  I pulled his shirttails out of his pants quickly undoing the rest of the buttons. “Take me now,” I whispered roughly.

  “Turn around,” he growled, moving away to bang the table against the wall, keeping in line with the illusion that I was a succubus whore and his wiretap was destroyed in the process by my violent tendencies. I would almost be annoyed if I didn’t find the situation ludicrous.

  I gave a strangled cry. “More,” I screamed.

  He continued the assault on the table. “Come on baby; you can do better,” I said with a sultry smile.

  “Really?” he mouthed at me rocking the table faster.

  I made a strangled moan and started panting. Mercer was concentrating on the table and never saw me rip off the wiretap. “Fuck,” he screamed, glaring at me. Then he remembered his part and kept his panting up.

  I smiled, moving the tap outside underneath his truck tire. Who even used these archaic things? Shouldn’t it have been a high-tech pen? Guess I’d have to ask the guilty party on that and stop watching so much James Bond.

  Mercer was waiting, arms crossed, when I stepped back in, not bothering to lock the door this time.

  “What the fuck, Mercer?” I asked with equal measures of pissed off and slightly aroused.

  “They made me wear it—” he started.

  “Who?” I interrupted, shoving him back a step.

  He ran a hand over his close-cropped blond hair. “Hash,” he answered reluctantly. “He wants evidence to prove that you’re dangerous.”

  I sighed. “You would do better with a video recorder.”

  He shrugged. “I took the gamble that you were smart enough to figure it out.”