Crimson Reign

by V L Moon

  “Holy fuck!” He breathed when the body came in to view. He crouched down and looked over what was left of the woman, cataloguing his observations in his head. The M.E. always had first dibs on the body, but there was no harm in a quick look. Hair that had once been blonde lay soaked in blood. Clara DeFoe might have been a pretty girl, but with blood and dirt hiding her features, it was hard to tell.

  By the looks of the attire she wore… Nikes, hoodie over a long sleeved tee, and matching jogging pants… she kept herself fit. Not that it had done her any good. Fear contorted her face. Her throat had been ripped out and four long, deep jagged tears similar to the previous victims adorned her upper arms, chest and upper legs. Her intestines spilled out from her gutted stomach. Heart, liver and kidneys were partially…eaten? Deep lacerations marred her hands; a tell...tale sign the woman had tried hard to defend herself against the savagery of her attacker.

  There was so much blood. It pooled everywhere. The stale copper taint of it filled the air along with the awful stench of ammonia and other bodily fluids. He wondered if the hikers had interrupted the killer. His gut churned. He looked up at his partner who loomed over him and was shocked to see Vischeral pale and breathing heavy, almost as if the sight of all the blood was getting to him. Curious, Copi cocked a brow when Vischeral lifted his face into the wind as though he sniffing the air around them. About to ask if the man was half blood hound, the sound of approaching footsteps stopped him.

  “Get the fuck off my scene,” the approaching M.E. barked. His command snapped Vischeral’s head back to the scene before them. The medical examiner must have known Vischeral well, because a second later he smiled, albeit warily, and asked Vischeral questions in a more friendly tone.

  Leaving them to their conversation, Copi turned and took the same trail back and ducked under the tape. Once out of the immediate vicinity of the crime scene, he popped a squat on the trunk of a fallen tree and took his notebook from the inside of his Carhartt. Carefully, he started to jot down notes on his visuals while his memory was still fresh. He tried to be as precise as possible, but no matter how many times he began to write, he always found his gaze lifting to land on his partner, which in turn made his whole body come alive. When their eyes met there was something in the way his partner looked at him that had Copi wanting to know who the hell Vischeral was and what made the fucker tick.

  He scrutinized the easy way Vischeral moved, and had to admit the guy was fuckin’ graceful for someone so thickly muscled. He exuded strength and danger, and with those devilishly dark looks, he’d make the Grim Reaper piss his damned pants. His new partner occupied a whole different league of hot and horny, one Copi only dreamed about. And, that heated him up from the inside out. Fuck! He had to get himself in check, had to stop looking at the guy like he was some sort of man candy.

  Like the guy really needs to know you’re in the closet, dude. Shit! He’d be lining up with the likes of Juneski and company to kick your ass back to New York; if he doesn’t freak the fuck out and kill you first.

  Humor at his own absurdity quickly died as Vischeral loomed over him. Rising to his full height, Copi refused to let the fact he only came up to the fucker’s shoulders intimidate him. He’d learned over the years that size meant Jack Shit when your life was in the hands of some wacked out crack head pointing a gun. The only thing that intimidated him about Vischeral's proximity was how great the son...of...a...bitch smelled, and he all but declared it when he closed his eyes and inhaled that warm rich scent of vanilla and sex. Sweet Jesus help him; he just couldn’t help himself. His entire body flared up in a blistering blaze of need and want. What the hell was it about Vischeral Bourne that had him losing all sense of reason with himself?

  ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  Vischeral gunned the engine of the Hummer as he headed for the new drop site. The oversized SUV handled like a dream as he drove them deeper into the park. Beside him, Cophious sat lost in his own thoughts. That was fine with Vischeral. Wrestling with himself was hard enough; making small talk just might push him past the limits of his control, allowing the rage to spill out.

  Yes, he raged. Why after all the years, after all he had been through, why bond now? But, another emotion clamored just as strongly. Coming in a close second to the anger lurked the terror. Not since being with Darklon had he had a weakness. He made sure of it. He never drank from the same person twice, never had sex with the person he fed from, and never allowed anyone into his personal life or his home. No attachments, no relationships, no weaknesses.

  Now, Vischeral’s new and very dangerous weakness sat beside him, contemplating who knew what. Having bonded with the male, albeit unknowingly, Vischeral’s first instinct, his main priority would be the protection of the human male. Copi could be used against him. And, that pissed him the fuck off even more. Skidding to a stop next to a dirt track beside which two officers and a puker were marking time, Vish slammed the vehicle into park and leapt out the door. His enhanced sense of smell immediately picked up the wolf’s scent.

  As he stalked forward, his rage found an outlet in the poor sap upchucking his dinner. After a quick ruffle of feathers to set the mood, he stalked past the three officers. He didn’t need his night vision to spot the lights illuminating the crime scene. He walked with careless ease through the underbrush, his nose and brain working overtime.

  He didn’t recognize the wolf’s scent. It wasn’t one of the local pack. A rogue then? And if that were true, why hadn’t the pack notified him, or taken care of the problem themselves? The only way to find out was to visit their community. That would be first in line on the next shift’s agenda.

  Arriving at the taped off area, Vischeral paused. The smell of blood, which had been strong on the gusty wind, hit him hard and square in the nostrils. His heart pounded, and his mouth watered even as his eyes catalogued the victim. Pale blond hair lay matted and black with blood; deep lacerations marred her hands, stomach, chest and upper thighs. Her throat was gone only the shiny white of her spine keeping her skull attached to the mangled body. Vischeral swallowed hard as the blood glimmered in the moonlight. His fangs descended dangerous evidence of his need to feed.

  Victims usually did not affect him this way; he was well used to dealing with blood. It had to be because Copi kneeled at his feet. When his partner looked up, Vischeral realized his reaction to the blood was obvious, at least to the human. Reeling himself in, he lifted his head, forcing himself to concentrate on the wolf’s odor. At the same time, his eyes roamed the area around them. He noted the twisted leaves and disturbed ground clutter leading in from the east and back out again slightly more southeast.

  The wolf had been careful to cover his tracks. Human eyes would not catch the small nuances, but he did. Their killer was most likely living in the State Park, meaning he was going to be a bitch to find. Especially when the snows started. Vischeral was pulled from his thoughts by the arrival of the medical examiner. He came as close as he ever did to a smile when he heard Donavan’s crotchety growl spew into the night. Stepping forward he greeted the M.E.

  “Evening Max, looks like we have our third confirmed death by the same killer.”

  Maxim Donavan ran a practiced eye over the mutilated female in the brush. “Yup. Seems so. I’ll know more—”

  “When you get her back to the lab.” Vischeral finished the sentence and clapped a large hand on Donavan’s shoulder. “I figured that. I know with the damage it will be difficult but check again for trace evidence.” He held a hand up when Donavan’s face darkened. “I know, I know, you don’t need instructions on how to do your job. We have this discussion at every crime scene, and so far we’ve caught every sick bastard we’ve run up against. Let’s hold with tradition, shall we?”

  The two continued to discuss the crime scene with Vischeral pointing out the paths in and out of the scene. Donavan never questioned Vischeral’s ‘gut instinct,’ instead he set the photographer to snapping pictures of the two areas. He was not surprised when a
CSI reported a blood trail down one of the indicated paths. With a resigned frown, Donavan shook Vischeral’s hand and set to work.

  With the M.E.’s attention diverted, Vischeral spared a glance at his partner whose ass was planted on a fallen log. Copi’s gaze had tracked him as he talked with Donavan. The heat burned into Vischeral’s flesh. Having never been self...conscious in his life, Vischeral found himself wondering what it was Copi saw when he looked so hard at him.

  Copi’s amber eyes gave away no secrets as Vischeral approached him. The man stood and the blood and the wolf’s musk were overridden by the powerful scent emanating from Copi. The scent from the alley in New York. Arousal. Biting back a growl, Vischeral curled his fingers into fists to keep from shoving the human into the nearest tree and claiming him body, mind and soul right there in front of everyone.

  ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  With his mind and body in turmoil, Copi spun on his heels and made his way back to the passenger side of the Hummer. The ride to the victim’s home was painful. The silence made the tension between them fester. It took all of his control to keep his hands locked together and his eyes diverted from Bourne. His breathing was already far too heavy, and one look at the length of those legs in all that leather would be his undoing. Hell, it might be better for him if he did touch the fucker. The beating that was sure to follow would outweigh whatever the hell was riding him. He shivered in his seat. He quite liked the idea of being on the end of a little pleasure and pain.

  Copi bit back a groan as he imagined Vischeral’s mouth around his cock delivering a nice slow blow job. Stop it! Copi, stop it! He rebuked himself; this obsession so wasn’t him. Copi Dane, you put that thought right back in reverse, dude, before you end up getting your stupid self killed. He did not get what the fuck was going on; he’d never felt such an intolerable urge to touch another person in all his damn life. How the hell were these thoughts even possible? He didn’t even like the miserable sexy… as... hell bastard, and from what Copi could tell, the feeling was mutual.

  ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  Clara DeFoe’s home was small and compact, with everything in its place. She’d obviously been very house proud. As Copi and Vish worked their way through each of the small rooms, Copi knew there probably wouldn’t be any signs of her attacker here; otherwise, the place would have been trashed. Considering the fight she’d put up and the state of her body, whatever animal inflicted that much damage must have been on the verge of starvation to exact such a ravenous assault. If it weren’t for the other bodies, Copi would have deduced from Clara DeFoe’s crime scene, she’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But, that wasn’t the case. What they faced was some sort of predator with a craving for human flesh.

  With Vischeral upstairs going through the bedrooms and bathroom, he sat at the small kitchenette and wondered what the hell was going on in Anchorage, Alaska. With a rising body count and five people still missing and presumed dead, Copi had a real bad feeling that whatever the hell was going on wasn’t the average homicide.

  ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  After arriving at the DeFoe house, Vischeral escaped the vehicle as quickly as possible. He wasn’t sure what was going on with his partner, but the male was giving off ‘fuck me’ pheromones like a seasoned street whore in New York. Vischeral chomped at the bit to be his john and ride his ass hard and deep. But, after years of service to the Department, Vischeral didn’t want to explain to the Chief why his new partner was filing a sexual harassment claim. So, it was best he kept his hands to himself.

  While striding through the fresh night air to the small home, Vischeral inhaled deeply. The wolf hadn’t taken Clara from the home. However, a search might render clues as to where to look further. Despite knowing they shouldn’t be there before the WST had a go at the house, Vischeral opened the front door anyway. The WST sat around with their thumbs up their asses, and he didn’t have time to waste. Besides, visiting the house before it was overrun with testosterone meant he could get a clear scent for Clara.

  With Copi searching the downstairs, he mounted the staircase. Two bedrooms and a bath shared the top floor. He entered what clearly was Clara’s bedroom first. The clothes she’d likely worn to work the day she was snatched were folded neatly at the end of the bed. Her purse sat on her dresser alongside her keys and mail. No cell phone, so she must have taken it with her. A little black dress decorated a hanger on a hook beside the closet. A strappy pair of high heels lay on the floor underneath. Vischeral’s gut told him she’d been taken on Friday afternoon or early evening. She’d been planning on going out, but never made it back home.

  He flipped through the stack of mail. Junk, bills, a postcard from her parents in Greece. Had they been notified yet? Vischeral didn’t know and wasn’t about to volunteer. Checking the door to make sure Copi wasn’t hovering; Vischeral squatted next to the bed and leaned over the clothing lying there. He closed his eyes and inhaled, drawing in Clara’s scent and cataloguing it. If he ran across it again, he’d know it.

  Rising, he strode from the bedroom, crossing into the small room Clara had converted into a mini office. Her laptop and her datebook graced the desk. Vischeral considered powering on the laptop, but one glace at her datebook changed his mind. Clara DeFoe was a record keeper. He flipped through a few pages to confirm. Every activity, date, meeting or plan Clara had for the day was neatly written into the little black Day Minder. On Friday evening, as Vischeral had expected, Clara had planned on going to the Tap Root Cafe, to see Big Fat Buddha play. Vischeral winced. Jazz, the club’s specialty, was not his choice of music. His eyes zeroed in on the entry just above the concert.

  Jogging at Forsythe Park w/VM.

  Pulling a pen and notebook from his pocket, Vischeral wrote down the entries starting with the jog and ending the following Monday when she was scheduled to return to work. He gave the bathroom a cursory look...see but found nothing out of place. Back downstairs, he located Copi at the kitchen table.

  “Let’s roll, hu…ah…partner.” He waved the small notebook at Copi and hit the door without checking to see if Copi followed.

  He tossed the notebook into Copi’s lap, and drove the short distance to Forsythe Park. “I’d bet my leathers this is where she was taken. Let’s go look.” He stated while gazing out of the windshield. He reached for the door handle and exited the Hummer, ignoring the confusion rolling off of his partner. Automatically, he took a deep breath, and wasn’t surprised when the wolf’s spore clogged his nose. But, they needed evidence that would stand up in the human court.

  “Check the trunk, there should be a department issue crime scene kit and a camera. Grab it and follow me.” Again, not waiting for a response, Vischeral set off into the park, following his nose. Within minutes, he stood over the spot where Clara met her murderer. He followed their combined scents as they wove through the park. The first scent of blood singed his nostrils. Squatting down, his ran his eyes over the underbrush smiling savagely when he found what he was looking for. The blood spatter on the leaves was so minute that the humans might have missed it. Only, the odor alerted Vischeral. He was still kneeling when Copi jogged up beside him.

  “Take pictures. See the leaves?” Vischeral pointed and then shoved to his feet. “Take every leaf that has a spot on it, pic and specimen. Do. Not. Fuck. This. Up.” His eyes widened in surprise when Copi glared at him and snapped.

  “I know how to do my fucking job, big boy. Back the fuck up off me.”

  Tossing Copi a sneer, he edged around the blood spattered leaves and headed deeper into the wooded area. The blood and scent trail led to a narrow dirt path. Tire tracks that looked to be the size of an ATV caught his gaze. He waited impatiently for Copi to make his way through the woods collecting the necessary evidence. While Copi took pictures of the tire tracks, Vischeral jogged to the end of the dirt trail. He emerged onto a main thoroughfare. Darting across the road, he couldn’t find any trace of the wolf’s scent. Back on the park side of the highway, he combed the sid
e of the road, but found nothing else. The killer must have had a car waiting there. Frustrated, he returned to Copi’s side to help finish the collection of evidence.

  Vischeral slammed the back door of the Hummer and tossed Copi the keys. He didn’t need to check his watch to know that the sun was close to rising. His body was sending out all kinds of alarms. “Get the leaves and pictures back to the station. I’ll meet you in two nights for our next shift.” He turned to walk away and then looked back over his shoulder at Copi. “And if you don’t want me in your house when you wake, get up earlier.”

  ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  With his mood spiking to a seriously fucked off level, Copi popped the trunk. Shouldering the scaled down CSI kit and high optical zoom lens camera, he trailed behind in the wake of Vischeral’s portentous shadow. Carefully, he catalogued the various degrees of blood spatter, their pattern along with distance and took notes on the trail they followed. All of it was second nature to him. Every cop worth their salt knew the basics of forensics. He damned well didn’t need a smart assed tutorial from the likes of Mr. High and Fuck...off...Almighty Bourne. Copi huffed in distaste, when his overly egotistical partner took off in a slow jog along the dirt path leading away from him. He had to mentally scold himself when his eyes lingered and noted how fluidly Vischeral’s body glided through the night. For a male seemingly made of nothing but pure hard ripped muscle, he made virtually no noise at all.

  Shaking off the visuals, he frowned down at the underbrush. With careful precision, he noted each minute splatter of blood, broken branch and prints, animal and human, that seemed out of place to the naked eye. Vischeral’s experience within the field must have been exemplary for him to have noticed most of the splatter patterns that dotted the leaves along the dirt path. Despite his curiosity about Bourne, Copi carried on documenting and bagging all the evidence he found along the way. It was only as he approached the end of the path that he caught sight of the broken branch hanging precariously by a thin wisp of bark about three inches above his head.