by Skye Knizley
“He’s why my partner and I are here. Would it be possible to see his remains?” Raven asked.
The doctor frowned. “I’m not sure I should without the coroner’s—”
“I’m an FBI agent working the case,” Raven said. “I’m sure the Federal warrant is on his desk and the clock is ticking. Help me out.”
“Okay. Sure, what can it hurt? Come with me.”
The doctor passed through a pair of swinging doors into a dark room. Raven followed and passed through the first line of freezers to the far side where the doctor was holding another door open.
A few seconds later she’d opened the cooler and Raven was looking down at a black body-bag. She unzipped it and looked down into the ashen face of the Monsignor. His expression was one of reproach and it made her feel uncomfortable, like she wasn’t trying hard enough.
Raven looked away from his face and focused on his wounds. The cut in his throat had been stitched closed as had the autopsy wounds in his torso, but she could tell the cut in his throat had been done with a large, very sharp blade.
“Can you tell me anything about the autopsy?” she asked.
The doctor picked up the chart that was just inside the drawer. “Not much. Cause of death was blood loss from a single cut to the neck that sliced through both carotid arteries. There was trauma to the neck muscles, abrasions on his chest and arms and a wound in his back that was nonfatal.”
“In his back?” Raven asked.
She pulled the drawer out further and, with the doctor’s help, rolled Quinn onto his side. There in the man’s back was an octagonal wound about the size of her palm. A piece of skin had been entirely removed, showing the fat and muscle beneath.
“Was this done before or after death?” Raven asked.
“After,” the doctor said. “But the coroner’s note indicates it was soon after based on blood in the surrounding tissues. There was also evidence of a burn in the same area.”
Raven reached for her phone and remembered she’d given it to Blake. It took a few moments to recover it from his belongings, currently being held with his body, and take photos of the wound that she sent to King. He hadn’t mentioned the wound which meant he hadn’t been aware of its existence.
“Does it say anything about the burn in his report?”
“Nothing other than it exists,” the doctor replied.
Raven shook her head. “Put down that Agent Storm wants him MRI’d, I want to know if there is anything beneath the burn. The perp or perps cut the skin off for a reason and I want to know why.”
“I’m not sure the church will authorize—”
“Just do it,” Raven said. “On my authority. If they don’t like it, they can call my boss. He won’t care.”
The doctor scrawled it on the report and held it out. “Sign for your request, please.”
Raven shrugged and signed the slip.
The doctor stuck the report under her arm and zipped the body bag closed. “I’ll call you when the results come in. Doctor Silva may want to talk to you, as well.”
“That’s fine. I want to talk to him.”
Outside she found the Challenger looking some the worse for wear. The shop that had towed it to the hospital had installed a new windshield and replaced the broken headlight, but the crumpled hood and fender would have to wait. Thad wasn’t going to be happy she’d destroyed a car worth sixty grand.
The engine rumbled to life and she guided the damaged car out of the lot and toward the address Blake had left her.
DALTON STREET
BOSTON, MA
THE BOWLING ALLEY, A PLACE named Knight’s, sat in the middle of Dalton Street next to a public parking garage that smelled of hydrocarbons and old cabbage. Raven left the Challenger at the curb in an area designated for police and passed through the wide open front door into a large concourse area only slightly warmer than outside. To her left was a wide bar that ran the length of the room, to her right were the gleaming bowling alleys themselves, each with u-shaped couches and small tables. Across from her was a garish lounge complete with neon tubes and 80s music blaring.
There were two men at the bar drinking shots and watching an old NASCAR race while a group of half a dozen men and women were sharing a pair of alleys and a collection of micro-brew beers. It took Raven three seconds to recognize all of them as vampires.
Shit, she thought. Just what I need.
She grabbed a stool at the bar and placed twenty dollars on the wood in front of her.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
“A cranberry club soda with ice and a straw.”
He frowned at her. “Just a club soda?”
“Just a club soda.”
He shrugged and left to draw her drink. Raven stared at the wall for a moment then realized that the two vampires at the bar were staring at her.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“No, no. Just surprised to see you back so quick is all,” the vampire said.
He had long hair and a scar that snaked down the left side of his face. “I thought you were in Chicago. Does Cade know you’re back?”
“I don’t really care what Cade knows,” Raven said. “Who the hell are you?”
The vampire looked at her again and blinked. His face changed and he shook his head. “Sorry, doll, my mistake. I thought you were someone else.”
The bartender put her drink down with a thunk and Raven turned back to him. “Thanks. I’m looking for information on a guy named Kieran Blake, do you know him?”
The bartender flicked his eyes to the two vampires then back at Raven. “Yeah, I know him, why?”
“Two gun thugs put a bullet in his chest tonight,” Raven said. “He gave me this address on his death bed so it meant something to him.”
“That’s a shame. He was a good guy,” the bartender said.
He started to turn away but Raven stopped him by placing her badge on the bar.
“I think you might know a little more than that. Help me out.”
The bartender picked her badge up.
“Raven Storm, huh? Cool name. I still don’t know anything. He was just a guy who came in to knock down a few pins. I saw him once, maybe twice a week.”
Raven shook her head. “You’re lying. Do you want to try it again or would you prefer to cool your heels downtown? I think I can find a cell with a nice view of the rising sun for you.”
Again the bartender glanced at the two vampires then back at Raven.
“Alright, don’t get your Kevlar in a twist. I rent him some storage space is all, it’s around back.”
“Why do you keep checking with your buddies before answering me?” Raven asked.
The bartender shrugged. “No reason, we just don’t get many FBI agents down here and you’re making me nervous. You’re worse than the cops. Come on, I’ll show you his space.”
He shook his head at the two vampires and led Raven through the concourse and down the narrow lane next to the last bowling alley. He unlocked the door at the end with a key from his belt and Raven followed him through the maintenance room to a wall covered with a piece of pegboard. Tools of the gunsmith trade hung in neat rows, along with some larger tools like a power drill and electric multi-tool. To the right was a small table with neatly labeled rows of ammunition.
“This is his stuff,” the bartender said.
“He made bullets back here? Where is the brass tumbler and reloading press?” Raven asked.
“How should I know? I just rented him the space.”
Raven frowned. Something was very wrong. She looked at the tools on the wall, each hanging from a polished chrome bracket. But on the end of the top row was a single unused hook made of tarnished brass. She was reaching for it when she heard a gun clear leather behind her.
“Don’t do it, Agent,” the bartender said.
“What you’re doing is a Federal offense,” Raven said. “Put the weapon down.”
The bartender laughed. “
You’re no FBI agent any more than I’m a bartender, half-breed. I don’t know who you are, but you’re in big trouble when Cade finds out about you.”
“Cade already knows I’m here,” Raven said. “His number-one thug paid me a visit earlier. What does that have to do with Blake?”
“Nothing,” the bartender said. “That part is just a coincidence. Cade doesn’t know Blake rented space from me.”
“So Cade doesn’t know you rented space to an armorer that made vampire slaying weapons? If you want to keep it that way I suggest you put the gun down,” Raven said.
“I doubt Cade knows you,” the bartender said. “If he did I think you wouldn’t be here. Now pull your weapon out, two fingers on the grip, if you please.”
Raven pulled the Automag out with two fingers and held it out to her side.
“That’s a nice piece,” the bartender said. “Put it on the table and step back.”
Raven set the pistol down, using the motion to hide her free hand. She scooped up a tray of reloading dies made of heavy steel and threw it as she turned. The chunks of metal made the bartender throw up his arms in defense and he squeezed off a single shot that blew a hole in the nearby wall.
In the confusion, Raven picked up her pistol and aimed at the bartender.
“Drop it!” she yelled.
The bartender sneered and turned his weapon toward Raven. Raven pulled her pistol’s trigger and put a single bullet through the vampire’s chest. He had just enough time to scream before he exploded into a shower of ash and flame.
Raven pressed herself to the wall next to the door and peered into the bowling alley. The vampires that had been bowling were now standing and all looking curiously in her direction. The two at the bar, however, now held weapons and were walking toward the back room.
She waited until the armed vamps had passed the bowlers before she popped out, her pistol held in front of her in a Weaver stance.
“Your pal is nothing but a grease spot on the floor,” she said. “If you don’t want to join him, drop the weapons.”
The vampire with the scar responded with two shots that went wide. Raven ducked back inside the door and waited out the hail of bullets.
Why don’t they ever just drop their weapons? she wondered.
“You’re going to die, half-breed,” one of the vampires yelled.
More bullets punched through the wall and peppered the door to Raven’s left. She turned her face away from the flying debris and noticed that she could see into the bowling alley to her right. The machinery was spinning perilously close to the wooden surface, but it looked like she could pass through unscathed.
Without hesitation, Raven stepped away then dove through the pins, covering her head with her arms. She slid along the polished surface and felt the heavy pins bounce off her arms and shoulders to fall into the gutters to either side. When she was clear, she raised her head and saw the two vampires turning their weapons toward her. She aimed and fired two shots from the Automag. The closest vampire screamed and exploded in a shower of sparks; the other leapt to safety behind a bench seat and fired back. Raven rolled away and his shots fell short, punching holes in the wood where she had been a moment before.
The vampire fired again, but Raven was up and moving. His shots dogged her heels as she ran down the bowling alley until she reached the end and took cover behind a ball-return device. More sparks flew from the shiny metal and Raven rolled aside once more. She peered out from beneath the rail for the ball return and could see the scarred vampire kneeling next to the booth he’d been hiding behind. She fired, all but emptying her pistol’s magazine. Each shot hit home and the vampire collapsed into a spray of ash and flame.
Raven reloaded then stood, her eyes on the bowlers who had taken cover behind their leather and wood couches. Each of them stood and raised their hands, showing they were empty.
“I’m sorry about this,” Raven said. “Do any of you know who those two idiots were?”
They all looked at each other and a young-looking woman stepped forward. “I think they were a couple of street-bosses for Master Caderyn. I don’t really know for sure.”
“Thanks,” Raven said.
She crossed the concourse and picked up her drink. “You folks should get out of here before the cops show up.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” the young woman replied.
She and her friends hurried for the exit. On the way out she stopped next to Raven.
“Can I ask, who are you?”
Raven finished her drink. “Fürstin Raven Storm, from Chicago, why?”
The woman shrugged. “Just wondering. I’ve never seen anyone kill vampires like that. I’ve heard about hunters, but never saw one up close.”
Raven shook her head. “I’m no hunter, I’m the daughter of a Mistress. These three idiots just got in my way.”
The girl gave a frightened smile and hurried away. Raven closed and locked the door behind her then returned to the back room where Blake’s hidden stash had been. She pulled on the brass hook she’d found and a section of wall slid aside to reveal a large room, perhaps twenty feet long and at least as wide. Two bullet presses and a brass tumbler were attached to a reloading bench on the far wall while both sides of the room were lined with weapons locked behind chain link cages. Guns, knives, swords and even a small amount of explosives hung on peg hooks, ready to be purchased and used against everything from street thugs to vampires.
Swell. Just what I needed, a gun fight ten feet from an arsenal stocked with ANFO and C4. Raven thought.
She moved to the desk at the end of the room and donned a pair of gloves. She then rifled through the boxes of special ammunition, looking for anything that might explain why Blake had given her the address and how it was connected to Quinn’s murder. She found what she was looking for in an old leather-bound notebook. The book contained a list of names and what the customer regularly ordered, right down to bullet caliber and grains of powder. Three pages from the end was Quinn’s name, followed by a list of specialized cartridges all designed for one thing, killing supernatural beings.
Raven slipped the book into her pocket and pondered what to do with the weapons. Sooner or later the local boys in blue were going to respond to the noise of gunfire and they would find the regular ammunition outside. If they had a detective worth his salt he would have to find the hidden room, eventually.
She walked back toward the maintenance room and pulled the hook again. The door slid closed and she glared at it as if she could make it stay shut forever. She reached up and snapped off the hook. With any luck that would keep the place locked down until she could get someone to come get them. Technically it was Caderyn’s responsibility as Master, but the idea of dealing with him wasn’t high on her list.
On the way back to the Lenox, Raven sent a text to Thad asking him to contact Cade and have him send a crew to collect the weapons once the smoke had cleared. She couldn’t cope with calling him again, he’d never let her live down three cries for help in a row.
ST. MICHAEL’S CHURCH
OLD TOWN, CHICAGO. 7:00 A.M.
LEVAC HAD SPENT THE PREVIOUS afternoon knocking on doors and asking questions about the Mayan symbol burned into the Riscassi victims, but to no avail. Everyone insisted they’d never seen it before or, at best, had seen something similar in a movie. The sad thing was, he believed them. He didn’t have Raven’s nose for truth, but his instincts had rarely let him down.
Now, with the morning sun fresh in the sky, he looked down at the body of Father Jonathan Casside, late of St. Michael’s in Old Town. His throat had been slit like the others and he’d bled out in the middle of the sanctuary, a crucifix held tightly in his left hand. Like the others, a flap of skin had been removed from his back and Pocock had confirmed that it was the same wound as the others, including the burn that went bone deep.
Levac bit into a cold cheeseburger he’d bought the night before. “Okay, tell me what you know.”
Pocock wip
ed sweat off his forehead with the camp towel that hung around his neck. “He’s the father, we all know him. Time of death was about midnight last night, he was found this morning by MacLeod on his way to open Isle of Night for breakfast. No witnesses and not much in the way of trace evidence around the body. I lifted a partial print from his cheek and uploaded it for analysis, but we won’t know for a while. I’ll get the lab on it for a manual analysis, just in case.”
“That’s all we’ve got? Same M.O, no witnesses and no evidence?” Levac asked around a mouthful of meat and cheese.
“Not quite,” a voice said.
Levac turned to find a young woman in police blues standing just inside the door. She had blonde hair pulled back into an official ponytail and blue eyes.
“Officer Nicola Kincaid, sir. I just finished my canvas,” she said.
There was something very familiar about the kid’s face. “Kincaid? Are you—”
The woman smiled. “Aspen Kincaid is my older sister, yes sir. She and Lieutenant Storm were my sponsors at the academy.”
Levac held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Kincaid looked at the hand and blushed. Levac looked down and saw the cheese and ketchup smeared on his palm and he hastily wiped it off with a napkin from his pocket.
“Sorry, part of the territory. So, what did you mean by “not exactly?”
Kincaid flipped back through her notes and showed Levac a sketch she had done. “An old man who runs a television repair store had a recording of someone matching this description. I sketched her because he wouldn’t give me the tape without a warrant,” Kincaid said.
“Do you know who this is?” Levac asked.
Kincaid nodded. “She looks like Lieutenant Storm. Right down to the leather pants and mane of red hair. It’s hard to tell where she came from, but it looked as if she was running from the church around the same time the father was murdered.”
Levac handed the notebook back. “I want that tape.”
“I tried, he wouldn’t give it to me.”
Levac was already dialing. Judge Bartholomew owed him a favor and it was going to come in the guise of the world’s fastest search warrant.
