Copyright © 2022 Aoibh Wood

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Certain long-standing locations, institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but the names, characters, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.  Except for my Cat, as of the first publication he is as real and alive as can be, and awfully, awfully cute.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN-13: 979-8-9862103-1-5

Cover design by: miblart
Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to Ed Davis, Kelly Nee, and Linda Coughlin for their invaluable guidance into the world of Boston Policing. To Dannielle Cabler and Emma Smailes for helping me turn this into something resembling readable. To my wife Regina for listening to me read the story to her night after night during proofreading.  And my kids for always believing in me.

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Forward

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Epilogue

About The Author

Forward

What does one say when one achieves something monumental?  I don’t mean monumental in delivering a great work of art or walking on the moon.  I mean monumental to the self.  For many years, I dreamed of writing a novel.  I started many times with one idea or another, unable in many cases to press forward past a certain point because of one thing or another.  This one somehow was different.  It was almost as if the universe was pushing me toward this.

Some years earlier, I met Ed Davis, the former Police Commissioner of Boston.  Ed and I worked on a few PR events for my employer centered around combating voter fraud.  After a few of these, I screwed my courage to the sticking place, as Shakespeare would say, and asked Ed if he would be willing to let me interview him for research on a book I was writing.

Blood Rituals was just a twinkle in my eye at this point.  But, Ed agreed and gave me a wealth of information on the structure, history, and inside goop about the Boston PD.  It was nothing salacious, simply the facts.  But it got me started.  A month or so later, Ed referred me to Kelly Nee, former Lieutenant for Boston’s Homicide Division, and current Chief of the Boston University Police.  He also got me in touch with Linda Coughlin, a Detective out of Lowell, Mass.  They were both a treasure trove of knowledge about police procedures, and Kelly gave me tremendous information on how Boston Homicide works.  Linda turned out to be a hoot to work with, and I absolutely loved our interactions.

A few weeks later, I turned out three chapters.  And that was it.  It seemed that Blood Rituals was doomed to languish like so many of my other projects when I met one of the two greatest inspirations in my life, outside of my mother and my wife, of course.  Dannielle Cabler, a work acquaintance who took on the tremendous and somewhat fraught responsibility of reading those first few chapters.

I had no idea what she was thinking at the time, unaware that she was praying that what I’d written wouldn’t be a “Funny Farm” moment, where she’d be crying because it was so bad, and she’d have to tell this “new friend” not to quit her day job.  Fortunately for her and me, what she found were a few rough diamonds amidst the wreck of material I’d given her that made her want to know what was going to happen next.  Those were her exact words to me.  “What matters is that when I got to the end of what you’d written, I wanted to know what happens next.  You should keep going; it’s not bad.”

Note that she didn’t say it was good.  She said it wasn’t bad.  She continued to encourage me, sending me copies of Stephen King’s ‘On Writing,’ and Anne Lamott’s ‘Bird by Bird’ as inspiration.  And so, I was inspired and encouraged, and I wrote.  Day after day, I bled all over the pages, slapping down 190,000 words of prose into my copy of Scrivener by the time I was done three months later.   Dannielle changed my life in ways I scarcely thought possible, reminding me constantly that I was a “precious peanut” and that being a part of the journey “brought her so much joy.”  Without her standing next to me, I never would have finished.  I probably would never have gotten much further than the three chapters I had first given her.

So here I was, with around 600 pages of crap story slapped on paper.  The diamonds were still buried, and it took the second inspiraton, Emma Smailes, one of the editors for the Cast of Wonders Podcast, to take me to the next step.  Emma and I had known each other for a few years by that point.  I had no knowledge of her work on Cast of Wonders when I mentioned that I’d written a novel to my gaming group.

A day later, Emma offered to “beta read” it.  Though she will thoroughly deny it, she actually meant that she was going to become my development editor.  And, as if it were fate once more, for three months, she diligently read every last line and paragraph, offering edits, changes, and character ideas, letting me know what didn’t work and what did.

Amazingly enough, as if by magic, my writing improved.  Before she was halfway through, she’d so helped me improve my writing that I had given the book a 60,000-word haircut before she’d even read the last page.

And, after almost seven months of what seemed like endless rewrites, here we are.  But, I didn’t write this for them.  I didn’t write it for my wife or my friends.  I didn’t write this for my parents or children.  I wrote this for me.  And while I hope that anyone who reads ‘Blood Rituals’ will enjoy it, I know that there will be some for whom it is not their cup of tea.  But for those of you who find the joy of escape between its pages, please know that it came from my heart and soul and whether I ever know who you are, I will love you forever because I was able to give you the briefest moment of enjoyment.

1

I wake to the soft chime of my phone—zero six-hundred.  I am a light sleeper, always have been.  Three AC units wail against the desert heat, delivering a comforting white noise.  Although I cannot hear them, the noise plants itself in the back of my mind, something distant and remembered.  Slipping soundlessly from under the blanket, I put my feet to the floor and stand.  There are three beds:  mine, one next to me, and an empty one across the room—Specialist Rutherford's.  The empty bunk kindles a vague feeling of loss.

The bed next to mine is occupied.  I watch Morgan, Specialist Kennedy, for a long time.  Her broad, soft curls are a red wave sliding over her pillow, and I am captivated.  A sliver of buttery sunlight shines through a crack in the plywood over the window. Moments later, it strikes her eyelids, and she turns, gracelessly flopping one arm over the edge.  I stifle a laugh.  It's truly adorable, almost childlike, much like her personality.  She is a goddess, tall and lithe and strong with fire in her hair. I sit for a bit, just watching.  Somewhere, dimly, I remember this moment.  Foggy anxiety begins to creep in.  It's ephemeral, like a shadow that flits out of view as you turn to look at it, a ghost of something once terrible, a little tug of nerves that pulls at your stomach and your breath.

I am standing outside watching the Marine sniper team load their gear into the Humvee. My fingernail absentmindedly worries at the chalk-paint letters scraped onto the side of the vehicle. "Betty," they display proudly in iridescent pink, though the B has become thin, looking for all the world like a “P.”  Sgt. McCall, today's sniper, is carrying a pair of rifles.  The first, a .308, is standard; it loads readily into the Humvee.  Then McCall hauls the second, an M84A1 Barrett .50 caliber, into the vehicle. The fifty is for light vehicle control and hardened targets.  McCall fusses with it for a second but eventually gets it stowed.

I watch Specialist Kennedy while McCall's spotter, Sgt. Holley struggles behind me, hoisting a gear bag into the Humvee.  The bag is bulky, probably two hundred pounds, carrying a couple of blast blankets that McCall rigged together. The blankets are steel and Kevlar, and just one of them is heavy as fuck. Holley is struggling with it. I lift the two hundred pound bag into the Humvee with a grunt. Holley raises an eyebrow.

"What?" I ask at his surprised expression. "You know I've been working out.  You should try it." I say it flatly, a matter of fact—Kennedy snickers at his embarrassment.  Misogyny runs deep around here, and I feel a twinge of anger. This time, though, the feeling swells to rage.  Holley's a real piece of shit.  There is bad blood between us, the kind I can never forget—or forgive.  I sneer at him, but he's facing away, getting in the vehicle.

The morning sun is beating down, but I can’t feel it.  The grit in my mouth feels real enough, though. I run my tongue against the roof of my mouth to rid it of the muddy, gritty sensation, finally grabbing a plastic water bottle and taking a swig to wash it out. Dust blows to and fro around the camp, seeking any orifice.  Opening one's mouth is risky in this place, in Mosul, in Iraq.  You will swallow dust and dirt; that's just the way of it.  After two tours here, I'm sure my recent stomach problems are less medical and more geologic. Kennedy squeezes behind the driver's seat.

The sniper team is loaded, and it's time to move out. A pair of Humvees with the rest of the patrol lumbers ahead of us.  The anxiety is more palpable, squeezing at my chest.  I feel like crying, but nothing comes out.

"Specialist Reagan?" Kennedy's voice doesn't register at first.  "Caitlin! You coming?" Kennedy hollers from behind the driver's seat, finally getting my attention. The velvet tenor of her voice, confident and enticing, should thrill me.  I don't feel anything positive, though, not really.  Instead, it conjures a momentary pang of loss.

"Yeah!" I reply, taking shotgun and pulling the battered door shut. It takes a try or two, but it closes noiselessly. Not how it happened, but it never is.

We roll into our operating area around 1400 local time. At this point, I can feel a burning in my eyes and a squeezing in my chest. I know that I'm dreaming now. I know the dream. I know I'm already crying in my bed. I know how this ends. God, I want to wake up.

McCall and Holley select an abandoned apartment that looks over the most vulnerable point of the patrol group's route.  For defensibility, it sucks—too many entrances.  But it's the only decent vantage point.

Kennedy is leaning against the Humvee. We're parked a couple of burned-out houses away from the sniper position—I'm talking to her about my ma's Bolognese sauce.  I'm standing by the front quarter of the Humvee, passenger side, looking at Kennedy across the hood.  Wisps of Kennedy's red hair stick out from under her helmet, blowing in the breeze as she flashes that dazzling smile at me again.  But it's not Kennedy. Instead, she looks like me at sixteen with close-cropped hair in jeans and a t-shirt.

"Behind you!" not Kennedy's voice says, echoing in my head, a stranger's alto, though familiar—I'm not sure from where.

I turn and raise my rifle in a single fluid movement.  Drawing a bead on the first bad guy, I pull the trigger instinctively. Pop. Pop. Pop.  The gunshots of my weapon are a distant muffled thud like something heard through a pillow. I see the man drop and sight in on the next one. Kennedy's M4 is also peppering the air with shots behind me. My leg is hit, burning with a bullet wound I can see but can't feel. There is a blast from the sniper position; Kennedy and I start running, firing at the closing bad guys all the way. Kennedy goes down, right side bleeding from the liver.  I think she'll bleed out. I pull her up, and we limp toward the next house over.

We are inside the small abandoned apartment, a block away, with the sniper team. Holley and McCall are in bad shape.  McCall looks dead. Holley's left arm is completely fucked up; the .308 is wrecked. Kennedy lies in the corner, bleeding profusely from her wound. I look at the M84 in horror. It squirms like a thing both dead and alive, a corrupter. It is a stealer of innocence. I think I have none left to give. But I do. I will.

I drop down behind the scope, and it's just a weapon again. I peer in. "No, no, no, no," I try to say, words muffled in my mind like trying to scream with your mouth held shut. What comes out is all wrong, the wrong words, the actual words. "One hostile, a juvenile in a suicide vest." I hear my voice screaming now, sobbing somewhere, but not here. I don't want to see it. I don't want to know. I don't want to think about it.  It doesn't matter, I'm thinking about it.  Now, I'm looking down the scope of the M84 again.  "One hostile, a juvenile, suicide vest," I repeat. The kid is running toward my point of view through the scope. He's waving something around, a stick, I think.  Somewhere, in a haze, I think the suicide vest doesn't fit him.  It shows through the dragging, threadbare caftan. I try to squeeze my eyes shut, but they won't close.

"Shoot, goddammit!" Holley screams at me, the bastard.

Everything slows down. My chest burns with a pain so deep my soul cracks. I can feel the burning in my eyes as the tears stream, though my vision is clear.  There is an eerie silence as I squeeze the trigger gently and obliterate the little boy in the suicide vest.  The concussion of the monstrous rifle rains dust and plaster from the ruined ceiling of our hide. The sounds are surreal things heard in turns with a banging clarity or muffled softness. Finally, I hear, perfect and distinct,  the plunk, plunk of the grenade. I am standing. Not-Kennedy is standing in front of me; her cherubic teenage face is screaming soundlessly now. I fall to my knees. "Please stop, please stop, please stop," I plead.  She points.  I grab the bag with the blast blankets and throw it and myself onto the grenade.

✽✽✽

I woke with a heaving gasp of air as if I’d been holding my breath. Each respiration came shallow as I tried desperately to quell a suffocating panic. After a few minutes, the machine-gun drumming of my heart eased, and I dragged my right hand free of the twisted, sweat-soaked sheets. I pawed at my face, furiously wiping away the tears and sweat so I could see the clock. The fading red numbers glared accusingly — 1:08 AM.

“Fuck,” I murmured to the black.   I hadn’t been asleep long, and the early hour gnawed further at my rising sense of despair. Closing my eyes to take a deep, cleansing breath, I hiccuped instead, seeing the explosion that ended a small child imprinted with the mill-dots of a  rifle scope. I squeezed my eyes even tighter, trying to banish the vision.

“God,” I cursed. “I need to get back to my therapist.”

PTSD is insidious. It slowly crawls in behind your eyes then fucks up your entire life. According to my therapist, it was imminently curable if I did the work. But that was the hitch; I had no interest in ‘doing the work.’ Chasing it down meant facing a morass of guilt and anger that had already consumed me on the inside. It also meant opening a closed door of bad things where I’d stuffed every crappy relationship and shitty experience from my childhood — the door where I’d sealed away Sgt. Holley and his booze-sodden breath filling my nostrils on a latrine floor.

The burgundy jacquard comforter, decorated in gilded French designs, lay in a pile at the end of the bed. It had been unseasonably warm for October. But last night, the heat had finally abated, and the absence of the comforter left me shivering slightly as the sleep sweat began to evaporate. I dragged myself up, flexing my scarred left hand, sniffing and wiping my eyes. The details of the nightmare were starting to fade again, even if the gnawing feeling of grief wasn’t. I looked around my bedroom, positively tiny by adult standards, a six-foot by nine-foot prison cell. I’d shoehorned my queen-sized bed and a nightstand in here, but there wasn’t any room to spare. The battered AC unit in the window rattled. I’d turned it on before bed and had left it on for hours.

Fuck, I thought. There goes the electric bill.

I could scarcely afford my apartment as it was. I should have taken the damn thing out of the window weeks ago since the weather was finally shifting, but I just hadn’t had the energy lately.

I pulled the bedclothes together and was just falling back to sleep when a ball of orange fur decided it was time to walk across my head to find a warm spot. “Jesus, Jabba, really?” I griped as he finally got off my forehead and settled in.

Of course, I hadn’t named my cat Jabba. He was a rescue, and I had initially just called him ‘cat.’  But an asshole detective at the department asked why I had a photo of Jabba the Hutt on my desk, and the name stuck. If I was honest, it fit. He was fat, lazy, and pretty much ruled the house from his throne on the couch, missing only Han Solo frozen in carbonite next to his food dish.

I tossed and turned until four AM, when I finally gave up and took half a Benedryl, making the next few hours blissfully dreamless until the doleful vibrations of my cell phone dragged me back to consciousness. I fumbled about for the damn thing, successful only in knocking it off the nightstand.

“Shit,” I swore and snatched it off the floor. “Homicide. Detective Reagan.”

It was Gabe, my boyfriend. “Hey, gorgeous. How’d you sleep?”  He sounded chipper as always.

“Morning, honey. Not too bad,” I lied as I stretched in the bed and stifled a yawn. “I woke up for about an hour around one but managed to get back to sleep.  You at the office?”

“Yeah.  The big boss is in town, so I had to come in early.”  Gabe worked in drug sales for Kineda Pharmaceuticals, part of one of Japan’s largest Keiretsus. He was always up early.  “You sound tired, bad dreams?”

I instantly regretted telling him I’d woken up in the night.  Nice, Cait; next time, keep your mouth shut.  I closed my eyes and sighed inwardly. “Nope,” I lied again, decorating my voice with false cheer. “Just woke up out of nowhere.” A chill wind pushed the veranda doors open, making me shiver harder.

“Have you talked to your therapist?” he asked, brushing past the excuse. Gabe harassed me regularly about getting back to therapy. I couldn’t make him understand that picking at my wounds would open them wide; I wasn’t ready yet. I’d seen other detectives fall apart. I had no desire to be sent to the Peer Support Unit, informally known as the rubber gun squad. It wasn’t a way any cop wanted to finish their career.

“Gabe,” I warned, feeling the heat of anger flush my cheeks.

“Okay,” he said, backing away from the conversation with a shitty tone. “Sorry, I’ll put that on the list of taboo topics, along with marriage and moving in together.”

“Gabe, look, please don’t do this. Let’s talk about something else. What’s your day looking like?”

“Fine,” he said flatly. “The reason I called is that I’m meeting a new client out in Charlestown and, since I’ll be passing by, I thought we could have lunch before you head into work. Maybe?” His voice rose as he feigned a childlike tone.

I plastered on a smile.  “Sure.”  At least he was off the topic of my therapy.  “How about meeting me at Modern?”

“Modern?” he whined. “That’s not a lunch place. It’s a pastry shop. You know I can’t eat anything there except black coffee or water.”

“They have a restaurant downstairs. It’s pretty good.”

“It’s all fried ravioli and pub food. I can’t eat that either.”

“Next year’s marathon,” I said, remembering that he had started his training. “I forgot. Okay, how about Pauli’s.”

“I guess, but there’s never any place to sit.” He still had a bit of whine in his voice, and it grated on me. I had just woken up, hadn’t had any coffee at all, and wasn’t up for trying to chase down a place where Gabe would be happy eating.

“Shit, Gabe, you pick a place,” I snapped at him. “Just make sure it’s in the North End. I’m not driving out of the way for a quick lunch today. I’ve got too much to do.”

“Okay, sorry. We can do Pauli’s.” He sounded like a whipped dog.

I sighed. “Look, I’m not trying to be a bitch. I’m just tired. But, don’t worry, I’m a Boston Cop. I can get us a table.”

“I love you,” Gabe answered.

“I know; I love you, too,” I responded quietly. I hit the end call button, squashed my pillow over my face, and screamed. Gabe was fucking up my Wednesday, and Gabe knew that. Wednesday morning always marked the beginning of my five-day stretch at work. And, every Wednesday, I started it off right with a cannoli and coffee from Modern Pastry, just down the street from my apartment.

It’s not that Gabe was a bad guy. He was generally charming. Gabe always opened the door and pulled out my chair. He played the perfect gentleman. But, underneath all of that was a streak of self-indulgence and a mild narcissism. It was typical male behavior, and it rankled me.

I rolled onto my back and blew out a breath. I wanted to go back to sleep for another hour, but that wasn’t going to happen. So, I got out of bed and pulled on a hoodie to ward off the morning cold.

The hardwoods were freezing, and I hopped about until my feet got used to them. As I opened the fridge and looked inside for something to eat, one of my numerous refrigerator magnets clattered to the floor. With it dropped the ten-year-old letter from Morgan I’d never opened. I fingered it briefly before putting it back up on the door.

I didn’t know why I had kept it. Not long after Iraq, Morgan had gone back to Montana to marry her high school sweetheart, Clint or Clay or whatever the fuck his name was. I remembered feeling like she’d abandoned me when I needed her most. So, best friend or not, I’d ghosted her and moved on.

After a few minutes of rummaging around for something for breakfast, I stopped. “Fuck this,” I said to myself. “I’m getting my Cannoli.”

Forty minutes and a six-mile run later, I was sitting at a small table inside Modern enjoying the blissful wonder of a Modern Pastry Shop cannoli. Despite being hot, sweaty, and needing water, I sucked on a cup of smooth black coffee—so much better than the burnt brown soup that passes in the squad room. I tried to relax and soothe my fraying nerves about Gabe. I wasn’t good at relationships. I knew that. But, Gabe seemed to act like my world was supposed to be subordinate to his. I’d put my foot down on the whole marriage thing at least three times before, but he just kept prodding.

My stomach tightened. I didn’t feel it was a good idea for anyone to hitch their wagon to me right now, anyway. I was damaged goods. More honestly, though, I wasn’t really in love with him. I couldn’t see myself living with him in a cute house with a white picket fence, two-point three kids, and a German shepherd. Hell, I couldn’t see myself having kids or a white picket fence. The dog, maybe; I liked dogs. I probably should have broken off my relationship with Gabe months ago. Still, I didn’t want to find myself alone—again.

I ran my hand across my face.  Fuck! What is wrong with me?

The burning of tears pressed behind my eyes at just the thought of yet another failed relationship.  I tried to shake it off by taking another bite of my pastry.

Seconds later, mouth full and eyes still tearful, I nearly launched out of my seat as my ass vibrated.  Nowhere to wipe it, I sucked the sweet ricotta filling off my finger and tapped my earbud, desperately trying to keep the sticky substance out of my hair.

“Homicide, Reagan,” I answered around a mouthful.

“Hey Reagan,” The voice belonged to John Dooley, the Homicide Unit’s Administrative Sergeant. “The day shift second squad picked up a case at four AM. White male, early to mid-thirties, I need you to take the lead on it.”

“Okay, where’s the hand-off?”

“At Schroeder, and it’s a weird one.”

“Fucking great,” I griped. “Are we talking wood-chipper weird or just an odd caliber weird?”

“The first one. The guy was decapitated right in front of the Bunker Hill Monument.”

I sighed. “Lovely.”

“The crime scene is buttoned up, so Vic will make the hand-off at HQ.”

I took a sip of my coffee. “Okay, I need to run home, shower and change. I’ll be there in about forty minutes.”

“I’ll let Vic know, and thanks.” He hung up. One thing about Dooley, whenever he assigned you a case, he always said thank you. It was just his way. He appreciated people who cooperated and recognized that managing the team sometimes resulted in shitty assignments. In return, I never bucked an assignment. It was just the job. Besides, it’s not like I had a family at home; it was just Gabe and me.

Shit! Gabe. I’d call him when I got to work.

2

Passing through the lobby at One Schroeder Plaza, I waved to Jim Sheldon, today’s desk officer.  He was arguing with a middle-aged white gentleman about what sounded like a traffic accident report.  Jim gave me a half-hearted nod.

"I pay your salary, you know," the man bleated at Jim.

"Really," Jim retorted in his thick Southie accent.  "Well then, since you haven't given me a raise in four years, I'd like to complain if you've got a minute."

The man became positively apoplectic. I barked an uncontrolled laugh, then covered my mouth.  I knew that Jim would eventually help the man.  If it had been me, I’d have sent the guy back to his local district, maybe after an hour of ‘looking’ for his traffic report.

On the second floor sat an ugly cube farm that served as an ‘office’ for the homicide unit.  As I exited the stairwell, I spotted Vic, the second squad day-shift lead.  He was headed toward my desk with a set of case files.

“Wow, you look like hammered dogshit,” I told him. His Tom Fords were splashed with a bit of blood, as was the cuff of one pant leg.  His hundred fifty dollar shirt was wrinkled and sweat-stained; his coat and tie were absent. Vic looked rough, exhausted and disheveled.  He’d had a long night.

“This everything?” I asked, gesturing to the folders.

Vic ran a hand across his copious five o'clock shadow.  "Yeah. I typed up the scene report, but the witness statements are still handwritten. Honestly, it's fucking strange.  The guy was not only decapitated, but the perp stabbed him in the heart, too."

“Wow, you always bring me the best cases.”

He ignored my sarcasm and continued.  ”The victim, Jesse Caldwell, thirty-four years of age, is an administrative assistant for Carson Logistics.  He was wearing what looked like a ten-thousand-dollar Rolex, and his wallet still had all his credit cards and about four hundred in cash."

"That rules out a robbery," I muttered.  I lowered my head and pinched the bridge of my nose, waiting for the rest.

"Carson Logistics has an office in Charlestown, where the victim works.  It doubles as the local residence for the CEO, and it’s all of, like, two hundred feet from the murder scene.  According to the housekeeper, Ninetta D’Angelo, the victim left work after midnight."

"Is she a suspect?"

"You'd have to see her, little slip of a thing.  No way she had the strength to do this.  She was scary though, like Italian mama scary," Vic replied.

I chuckled at that before turning serious again.  "Perp was waiting for him, then?"

"Seems like it.”  Vic leaned back and closed his eyes for a second.  "It certainly doesn't look like it was random."

"Location sucks," I told him, thinking of how exposed it was--that and the fact that the city would have wanted the scene buttoned up quickly.  The Bunker Hill Monument is a tourist stop on the Freedom Trail.

"Tell me about it.  Patrol spent half the time trying to keep the press from getting an angle on the body.  It'll be on the noon news for sure."

Vic flipped the page on his legal pad.  “Ms. D'Angelo told us that Ms. Carson is flying back from London tonight.  I already called British Airways and confirmed she boarded the plane in London and lands at six forty-five.  You'll probably want to talk to her as soon as she gets in."

I looked down at the folders as Vic took a sip of coffee.  One contained the scene report, and another had photos.  The third one, the one I was most interested in, contained witness statements.  I thumbed through the handwritten notes, most of them in Vic's crazy neat handwriting.  I could never figure out how he could write so fast yet deliver a print quality rivaling a laser printer.

"What else?" I asked.

"The 9-1-1 call came in at around three fifty-nine AM.  The lady who called it in lives on the square and starts her day at three-thirty in the morning.  The medical examiner put the time of death just after one.  So far, no one actually witnessed the murder, and we haven't found any surveillance.

"I'm going to stick around for a little while and type up my notes.  In the meantime, I’ll leave the rest of the paperwork with you so you can get familiar.”

I handed back the folder with the witness statements and settled in to read the scene report.

"Cait, I have a real bad feeling about this one.  Like this is only the beginning.” Vic said as walked back to his desk.

I read the scene report from the responding officer.  A local physician, Karen Walters, had come across the body and called 9-1-1.  When Patrol responded, they found the victim in a blood pool and several bloody sneaker prints belonging to Ms. Walters around the scene.  She admitted to stepping in the victim’s blood after almost stumbling over him.

Poor woman, I thought, out on her morning jog, and she stumbles over a decapitated accountant.  That’s fucked up.

I went over the rest of the details in the preliminary reports.  I also noted the address for Carson Logistics, it was a swanky residential building on Monument Square, an odd place for an office.

My phone buzzed as I picked up the first photos, and my stomach dropped.  I'd forgotten to call Gabe.  "Shit!" I cringed as I answered.  "I am so sorry."

"Where are you?" I could hear people in the background and annoyance in his voice.

"I got called into work.  Gabe, I'm so sorry; I forgot to call and cancel our lunch date.  I just got wrapped up in the case."

There was a long pause.

"Gabe?" I probed.

"I'm here." He sighed heavily.  "Look, I wish you had called.  It doesn't matter.  I'll see you later tonight."  He hung up.

I blinked.  "Fuck."  I redialed his number. He picked up on the third ring.

"Hey, I said I was sorry.  You're right.  I should have called.  I'm an asshole."

Gabe laughed.  “Yeah, you are.  Let’s have dinner tonight, and then we can relax."

I started pulling on my ear.  "Look, I'm on shift for the next five days, but I'll try.  You know how this goes with a new case; I don't know where it'll lead."

He suddenly sounded concerned.  "A new case?  It wouldn’t happen to have something to do with Jesse Caldwell, would it?"

"Yes." I drew the word out, brow furrowed.  I worked to keep the concern from my voice.  "Do you know him?"

"I got a call about ten minutes ago.  We were supposed to meet with Carson Logistics this morning, but when we called to confirm, some lady named Ninetta said our point of contact had been killed last night."

I paused for a second.  My boyfriend had just made himself a person of interest.

“Cait?”

“Sorry, just thinking.  What is your schedule looking like today?"  I dug out my pad.

"It's pretty open, at least now.  Why?  Still want to have lunch?"  Clearly, he didn’t understand the situation.

"No.  I'd like you to come down to the station and talk to one of my team about your business with Carson Logistics.  You said ‘we.’  Who was going with you?"

His voice turned suspicious.  "Haimon Blackman, my VP from the New York office.  Why are you treating me like some suspect?"

I dropped my tone, becoming deadly serious, "Honey, it's nothing like that. You had business with him the day after he gets murdered.  Since you were going to meet with him, any information you might have could be useful."

"Do I need a lawyer?" He asked cautiously.

"Yes." Usually, I wouldn’t recommend that, but I wouldn’t let my boyfriend walk into a police interview unrepresented.  "It's not that you're in any trouble.  But, and I've told you a hundred times, never go to a criminal investigation interview without an attorney present.  Also, please ask Mr. Blackman to join you."  I softened my voice, then.  "I love you."

"Love you too.  I'll call you when we figure out a good time," Gabe said, then hung up.

3

I stared daggers at my plain white coffee mug.  It looked like I’d stolen it from a diner—I had.  It was the daily repository of the atrocious brown goop that we called in turns, ‘the open case,’ as in homicide by slow poisoning, or ‘government coffee,’ on account of the generic orange bags it came in.  If there was worse coffee out there, I'd never tasted it. But caffeine was a critical part of my day, so I endured the protestations of my taste buds.

Resigned to the circumstances, I stretched in my chair and picked up the mug with a heavy sigh, prodding Victor with a silly British accent.  "Oh, Victor, love, let me buy you a cup of coffee."

"The coffee's free, Reagan."  His humorless demeanor was a little unusual, but I ignored it.

I sighed, grabbed his coffee mug from his paper-strewn desk, and headed for the breakroom.  Vic's expensive shoes clop-clopped behind me, taking long strides to catch up.

“Hey,” he snapped.  “What the fuck?” The tone wasn’t like him.  He hadn’t uttered a cross word toward me in two years, so I was somewhat surprised as he charged up.

I looked back at him.  "What? I get you coffee all the time."

He slowed his pace a little.  "Yeah, you're right.  I'm just having a rough time right now.  I think Donna's getting sick of my hours."

Donna, Victor's wife, was a school teacher, not in public service or medicine, so she didn't have the perspective on the kind of hours we had to keep.  But, they'd been married for almost seven years, and as far as I knew, it was still all cake and roses.  This was the first indication I'd gotten that there was trouble in paradise.

I tripped over a chair left in the doorway of our shitty breakroom and managed to catch myself on the crappy candy machine.

“Ow, shit!” I looked at my hand and back to the machine.  My hand was fine, but I’d broken the keypad.  No loss in my book, though. The only thing anyone ever ate out of there was the microwave popcorn that stunk up the floor—that and Funyuns.  Eww.

“You alright?”  Vic was digging into the refrigerator, which probably held more than a few science experiments

“Yeah, who left a chair there?” I dug out the implements of my destruction, namely the evil, poisonous coffee and a filter.

"Donna's been complaining about my hours all of a sudden.  I mean, it's like it was okay for six years, and now, poof, I'm an asshole because I work the late shift.” Vic rubbed his neck again, clearly exhausted.

“The phone rang last night at quarter after four.  I got up to leave like I've done a thousand times before, and she jumped down my throat, telling me I needed to be home more.  She also said she was getting tired of me leaving in the middle of the night every week."

"I don't know what to say.  But I sympathize. This job is tough on relationships.  But you've been together for six years.  She knows the deal; she's probably just having a lonely period.  Or—."  I trailed off.

"What?" Vic asked, raising an eyebrow.

I opened the orange coffee bag and had almost dumped the contents into the filter when a very southern voice suddenly sounded from the doorway.  "Aw, don't do that."

The speaker was a tall Hispanic man in a suit, wearing a Boston PD detective’s badge.  He was easily six-foot-two and two-hundred twenty-five pounds. The Stetson on his head probably added a few inches more.  "I have the remedy for what ails you, right here."  He patted a black leather backpack.

Cowboy hat stepped forward and set his bag down on the table.  I stood there, holding the open coffee pouch, and waited, an eyebrow cocked, curious, as he extracted two items of absolute beauty:   a coffee grinder and a two-pound brick of Cafe Bustelo Dark Roast coffee, whole bean.

I imitated a swoon.  "Oh my!  You, sir, are welcome on this floor at any time."

He tipped his hat.  "Detective Carlos Ramirez, at your service, ma'am.  By the way, I’m looking for Detective Reagan."

I’d heard we were getting a new teammate; this must be him.  "That’s me. Call me Cait.  And this is Detective Sergeant Victor Sebastian Alexander Adams." I held out my hand to Carlos and smirked as Vic grimaced.  He hated his full name.

"Wow, that's a mouthful.  Three double-barrel names not enough for your folks?"  He gave us a broad toothy smile.  "Cait.  Victor.  Nice to meet you."  We shook hands.  I could see the team was going to like him.  He seemed to have an easy way that was endearing.

I casually dropped the government coffee pouch into the trash and put on my best South Boston accent.  "Okay, kid, let's see what ya got.”

Carlos plugged in the grinder and opened the brick of Bustelo.  He waved it under our collective noses; the smell was amazing.  Oh yeah, Carlos and I were going to get along just fine.

"Ahem." Vic waved his hand in front of my face.  "You were about to say about Donna?"

"Oh, sorry.  Is it possible she's pregnant?"

"Donna?  No way, I—.” He stopped talking, and I could virtually smell the rubber burning as he seriously thought about it.  "Oh, shit!  She had a Doctor's appointment last week.  She didn't say why and she'd been acting weird ever since.  Crap, I've been  an asshole."

"It's okay," I offered. “There's a lot of that going around.  You might want to ask her about her doctor's appointment tonight."

Vic nodded, wheels still turning.

A moment later, the fabulous scent of good coffee wafted from the maker.  I wondered if the machine would break down in the middle of brewing, just out of spite.  To my shock, it just continued to perk away, and I rubbed my hands together in anticipation like some comic book villain.  Up until now, I had believed that our coffee maker only had one setting, burnt.  As it turned out, I was wrong.

We walked back into the squad area with fantastic coffee in hand, and I showed Carlos to the desk next to mine.

"You got a burner?" I asked as he began to settle in.  A burner was a cell phone you bought with cash, near untraceable.

"Yep.”  He handed me the number. ”Bought it the day I got into town."

Carlos opened the desk's top drawer and found the keys to the file cabinet underneath.  He parked the grinder and coffee in the back of the file drawer then handed me one of the keys.

"Don't lose this."  His tone was deadly, and it made me laugh.  He raised his eyebrows.  "I'm serious as a heart attack.  I know you know the value of good coffee, and while I don't mind sharing, I don't want one of these guys sucking up all of it.  Squad 2 nights, only, you know.  And, if I'm not here, be sparing, please."

Carlos yanked the SIM from the crappy department phone and put it into a new iPhone, hooking it up to his computer and setting up access to his department resources.

"So I guess you're pretty tech-savvy.”

Carlos continued setting up the phone as he spoke.  “I had a stint in computer crime, mostly working child porn cases.  But, I learned a hell of a lot about cell phones."

“I know the basics, but I’m glad I'm mostly computer stupid.  I couldn't work computer crime.  The child pornography would wreck me.”

"It’s not for everyone.  I moved to the gang task force after two years in it, right about the time I found myself sitting in a family restaurant with my husband, trying to figure out which of the parents around me was sexually abusing their child."  He pulled a framed photo of himself with a handsome black gentleman, both in tuxedos.  Wedding photo, I assumed.

I pointed to the picture.  “Is that him?"

Carlos practically beamed with love and admiration.  “Yup, that's Marcus, the love of my life. We've been together for nine years. He works the ER over at MGH."

"Nice.  He sounds like a good guy, handsome, too.  Reminds me of a young Lawrence Fishburne."

Carlos placed the photo on his desk.  “He gets that all the time.  We met after I got shot on a bust.”

I sat there for long moments, looking at the picture.  I wondered if I would ever find someone like that, someone I could depend on and share my life with, someone I truly loved.  I'd started wallowing a little in my own head when I realized that Carlos was saying something.

I jerked to attention. “Huh?  Sorry, I was just thinking."

"I was asking if you have a girlfriend?" he repeated, taking me aback.

“No,” I sputtered defensively.  “I've got a boyfriend, Gabe.  I'm not—I mean I’m straight.  Not that it bothers me."

He smirked in a way I couldn't read for a second.  "Sorry, I just assume everyone's gay until they say otherwise.  Makes my world a little simpler."

I felt my face rapidly heat, so I tried to change the subject.  "Alright, the rest of the squad will be here shortly.  Carol is a tea drinker, but David will happily squander your coffee if you let him.  By the way, they're both gay as well, so you'll fit right in.  Carol calls us 'Squad Q.’ I’m the ‘honorary member.’"

He laughed at that, breaking the tension.  "Perfect.  Well, fine by me. So, you got a boyfriend.” Carlos waggled his eyebrows.

I didn’t want to discuss Gabe at that moment.  My personal life was too fucked up, and I had too much shit going on.  Besides, I had no social life other than Gabe, romantic or otherwise.  I was probably lucky to be with him.  "Yeah, but it's—um—complicated."

"I bet it is," he said cryptically.

"What's that supposed to mean?"  My eyebrow shot up.  I got this kind of ribbing from Carol and David, but Carlos was the new guy.  It seemed a little—familiar.

"Huh?" he asked, trying to look innocent.  "Did I say that out loud?"

"Yeah, so I could hear you and everything."

"I need to remember that when I think, and people can hear me, it’s because I'm talking."  He beamed another smile at me, but if it was supposed to set me at ease, it didn’t.

I sighed.  My therapist, Jennifer, had suggested I try switching my thought process in situations like this—instead of following the feeling, force myself to react as if any offense was unintentional.  So rather than running down the emotional rabbit hole that I was digging, I stopped.  "Sorry, I'm not sure why I’m so uptight.  Probably because my boyfriend and I are having issues right now.  So, what brought you to Boston?"

"Why the reputation for amazing weather, of course.”

I laughed.  "Oh, it’s amazing, alright.  One winter not that long ago, we got three feet of snow in one day."

Carlos grimaced.  “Ugh.  Marcus and I are both in our late forties, and it’s time to settle down.  We want to find a surrogate and have a kid or maybe adopt.  We want to be in a town where other people would accept two dads without much fuss.  This seemed like the place.  The weather is a bonus.”  He winked at me.

"Besides, I got sick of watching racist cops getting away with murder, sometimes literally, because of union pressure.  So when the Governor signed the reform act here, we decided to move.”  Carlos referred to the Municipal Reform Act that limited the concessions government agencies could give to unions.  It had been effective at getting some of the shittiest cops fired.

About that time, Detective Washington came in and squelched the discussion.  "Hey there, you must be Carlos," she said and stuck her hand practically in Carlos' face.  Carol Washington was a five-foot-nothing black woman who took after her West Indian mother.  If something needed to be said, Carol was probably the one who’d say it.

"Yes, ma’am, that’s me.  Detective Ramirez, if you wanna be all formal like."  He flashed that smile of his.  I couldn’t deny that he had charisma.

"Carlos, this is Carol, who I mentioned before.  David should be here any minute."  I glanced at the clock.  It was quarter to two— more like any second.

Detective Mills didn't disappoint.  He poked his ash-blond head up over the cube wall.

"Someone call my name?"  Mills was the unit prankster.  It was always his way to crack a joke or tape someone's desk shut.  A few weeks ago, he left a black mug on my desk that read, 'Living Proof It's Better to be Pretty than Smart.'  I could have killed him.  I still hadn't figured out how best to get him back for that.

I introduced everyone and leaned back in the chair, sipping my coffee quietly while they exchanged pleasantries.

"Mills and Reagan, can you come in here for a minute?"  The voice belonged to Lieutenant Bill Larson, the Homicide Division supervisor.  David and I trotted into his office.

"Sit Down, please,” Larson said, the star-shaped scar on his long face wiggling as he spoke.  “I wanted to let you know that Carlos is taking the Detective Sergeant slot.”

Mills spoke up before I could.  "But, Bill, what about Carol?  I thought she was taking it.”

"She turned it down, flat,"  Larson said.  I liked that Larson was a straight shooter who got right to the point, but sometimes a bit more sugar-coating wouldn't be amiss.  "If you want to know why you'll have to ask her."

"What about Carl or Jamison or McFee?"  I said, not willing to let it go that quickly.

"Stop.  This is a done deal and not open for debate.  I get it.  It's a surprise, but I’ve made my decision.  I wouldn't have hired from outside the department if I didn't think it was necessary.  Now, get back to work.  If you want to complain, send an email."

I pressed my lips together, and Mills sulked.

"Well?" Larson prompted when we didn’t move.

"Yes, sir," We replied in unison and left his office.

I sat down at my desk and pouted for a minute.  The idea of a detective from another department taking lead in our unit didn’t thrill me. But hiring and politics weren’t my job.  I went back to my coffee and the Caldwell case files.

I gave the team a few more minutes to get to know each other and then got their attention.  "Okay, guys, we can chat later.  We need to meet with Vic's team so they can let our new case go and head home."

"Thank you,” Vic called over the cube wall, exhausted and relieved.

We all migrated into the conference room and sat down around the table.  We were joined by two of the day shift team detectives, Vic and a short, balding man who'd had one too many cheeseburgers, Tony Cardozo.  I hated Tony.  No two ways about it.  He liked to play politics.  Not because he wanted to make Detective Sergeant or anything, but mostly just to fuck with people.  He and I had been in several arguments that probably could have come to blows if he'd had more stones.  But that wasn't his way.  He oozed around the department, acting like everyone's best friend, and then knifing someone in the back with the higher-ups.

He'd tried that shit with me when I was green in Homicide.  Word had gotten around to me that he'd been criticizing me to Larson.  So, I dragged his sorry ass into the ladies’ room.  I then explained to him that I would happily flush my career and plant his face on the linoleum floor if he didn't stop fucking with me.  That was the end of that.  Now he avoided me if at all possible.

Vic got everyone’s attention.  “Okay, so we're handing this off because we're all slammed, and Wonder Woman over here is down to one open case”. Everyone else laughed, I gave Vic the finger.  Everyone laughed harder while I tried very hard and failed to look mad.

"Okay, okay," Vic said to get us back on track.  He went over the entirety of the case and then set down the files.  There were no new details to speak of.  Jessvin Caldwell, age thirty-four, was found murdered in the middle of the night by an  ER doctor on her morning jog.  Someone had stabbed Mr. Caldwell in the chest with an unknown object and decapitated him.  The medical examiner’s preliminary report was late, as usual.  That was it.  “Tony and I are cooked.  It’s all yours.”

“Thanks,” I said and sent them on their way.  I flipped through the pages of the summary report and Cardozo’s witness statement to get a perspective on everything done on the case.

"Okay," I said, "So Cardozo already talked to the witness.  She didn't add any detail to her statement.  We don't have much to go on, so we start with the victim.  Jesse Caldwell has a mother in a home in New Hampshire, and his father is deceased.  Ms. Carson and Ms. D'angelo knew him well.  Now,” I paused, rubbing my forehead.  “I have a conflict on this case."

"A conflict?" Mills asked, his brow furrowed.

"Yeah," I swallowed and continued.  There was just nothing for it.  "Gabe had an appointment to meet with the victim this morning.  I don't think it will lead anywhere, but obviously, I can't do his interview."

"Are you not going to hand the case off to one of us?"  Carol asked.

"Can't," I said flatly.  "You two already have three cases apiece.  And Carlos is the new guy.  He doesn't get a case until he's been here for at least a month.  Besides, Gabe's not a suspect or a victim, just a guy who knows something at this point.  If that changes, let's make sure that we do everything by the proverbial book."

"Well, that's Gabe," Mills chimed.  "Just a guy."

"Be nice," Carol said, slapping his shoulder gently.  "Gabe can't help being a douche."

"Alright, guys,"  I chided, "knock it off.  I know how both of you feel about Gabe.  Please be professional.  He should be coming in today with a lawyer in tow.  Also, he has one of their reps from New York coming with him.

"Please review the case and get familiar.  If anything comes in from Forensics or the ME, call me and let me know.  I'm taking Carlos to the crime scene, and then we're going to interview the maid and Ms. Carson when she gets in.  Any questions?"

Mills raised his hand.  “If Mr. Wonderful gives me any trouble, can I shoot him?"

I flipped him off with a smile and grabbed my keys.

"Come on, Ramirez, we're off to Charlestown," I said as I walked out of the cube farm toward the stairs.  "This'll be a treat.  I hope you're hungry.  Oh, and are you allergic to shellfish?"

"I haven't eaten darlin’, so food would be good. And no, I'm not allergic.”

"I hope you're gonna bring us a lobster roll." Mills called hopefully to my back.

"Not on your life, David.  You should have been nicer."

4

"Aren't we taking an unmarked car?" Carlos inquired as we walked out to the lot on Tremont.

"No, we're not. Because of budget cuts, we don't have enough to go around." I'm not sure what it said about me that, at thirty-two, my car was my most prized possession—juvenile as that may be. My baby was a 2020 four-door Jeep Wrangler Sport with a stubby bumper, a twelve-thousand-pound winch, and a light bar that could bathe Fenway Park. This was no mall crawler; she was a rock-eating beast. I always told Gabe that I loved him more than the car; that was a lie. She was the absolute love of my life, no exceptions—okay, maybe my cat.

I heard Carlos' deep booming laughter from behind me. I looked back at him.  He was nearly doubled over, his hat on the ground.

I gave him my most menacing glare of annoyance.  “What’s so funny?”

He took a moment to compose himself and started shaking his head. "Nothin’. Just—nothin’.”

I waited as he picked up his hat and strolled to the passenger side, still laughing.

"Get in the fucking car," I snapped half-heartedly. "You know, I'm sorely tempted to leave your ass." I couldn't help but smile, though, infected by his childish glee. He just kept laughing and climbed in.

"At least it's not a fucking Subaru," I muttered, then jumped as a strange snorting sound came out of Carlos. Confident he'd had some kind of stroke, I watched him shake. "Oh Jesus, it wasn't that funny. And just so you know, she's a trail jeep, not some bro-dozer.”

Carlos laughed even harder.  "You just keep diggin’!"

"Hang on," I prompted as I flipped on the police radio.

"Victor 8-9-4," I said into the mic, giving my unit number to dispatch.

"Operations Victor 8-9-4." It was a woman's voice that I didn't recognize. Must be new, I mused. The job hadn't knocked the perk out of her yet.

"Victor-8-9-4. Code 10."

"Operations 8-9-4 Acknowledged."

I put down the mic and rolled down my window. It was a little chilly, but the sun was shining, and the air was clear.

"I run her off-road a few times a year," I clarified, resuming our conversation as I exited onto Tremont Street.

"Good for you.  So, what's the plan?"

"Well," I responded thoughtfully. "First, we'll eat. Then, we can look at the crime scene just to get some fresh perspective. The tourists will be drawn to Salem this time of year, so close to Halloween. That means foot traffic at the Monument should be light. After that, it's over to the Carson Logistics office."

Carlos read over the reports and eyed the crime scene photos while I chauffeured quietly.  After studying them for a few minutes, Carlos spoke up, a frown on his face.  “My gut says we’ve got a serial killer here.  I bet there are more murders we haven’t uncovered."

I pursed my lips.  “That's a pleasant thought."  I didn’t say more as I had to swerve to avoid a driver recklessly U-turning across four lanes of traffic.  Shitty driving always tempted me to hit the siren, but I never did—not my job anymore.

"Folks always drive like that?"

"Yup," I answered. "We call them Mass-holes."

Carlos snorted a laugh. "That's pretty funny."

I smirked. “If our perp is a serial killer, then the method is just as important as the victim, maybe more.”

“It’s certainly a unique way to kill someone,” Carlos said, still thumbing through the pages and photos.  “The closest I've seen was one case where a woman murdered her husband with a chainsaw while he was in bed.  Of course, he'd tried to beat her to death several times, so while I may not agree, I understood the desire."

"She get convicted?" I asked.

"Nope, a jury decided it was self-defense," Carlos responded pleasantly.

I was appalled.  "Wait, he was alive when she got him with the chainsaw, right?”

"Yup."

"And they acquitted her?"

“It’s Texas,”  Carlos said flatly as if that explained it.

We cruised for a few minutes more before I broke the silence again.

"So, any guesses as to why this particular MO?" I asked.

"Well, until we have more, your guess is as good as mine. I'm the new guy," Carlos pointed out. He closed the folders and looked at me. "So, what do you do when you're not working?" He was excellent at non-sequitur, now jumping into the get to know you phase of being squad lead.

I kept my answer superficial but polite. "I work out mostly: lift weights, practice Jiu-Jitsu and Muay Thai. I run every day as well— if I can, anyway."

Carlos’ eyes never stopped scanning the streets as he spoke.  "Sounds like between that and work, it doesn't leave much time,"

"There's enough," I countered a little defensively. "Gabe and I go out from time to time. Of course, he wants us to get married, but I'm not ready for that."

"No TV or movies?" he queried, watching me closely.

"I have WiFi and watch the occasional rom-com or sci-fi flick on the Internet," I replied, glancing at him. "I scarfed up 'Orange is the New Black' and 'Game of Thrones.' The last season of 'Game of Thrones' mostly sucked, except Arya Stark; she’s my fave. I tried to watch 'Squid Game,' but I struggled to get past the idiot cop. Why so interested in my entertainment habits?"

"Just making conversation, Marcus and I go to the movies as often as possible. We're both movie buffs. Marcus minored in Radio, Television, and Film during undergrad, so he's always picking apart all the movies, talking about fifty-fifty shots or three-quarter shots. It's fascinating.  Though, sometimes, it ruins the movie. You should have heard him go on about the cinematography in Citizen Kane and all the different things that Orson Wells did that had never been done before, like the deep focus lens. I had to stop the movie about twenty times to tell him to save it for the next time we watched it. He just loves that stuff."

"Sounds like fun," I smiled. "I'd like to meet him. I take it he doesn't talk about work at home?"

"Of course he does. We both do. But that's like daily decompression stuff. After a few minutes of that each day, we move on to other things."

I thought about that. Gabe and I never talked about my job. I was sure it bored him, or grossed him out, or both.

The rest of the ride over to Yankee Lobster was quiet. Most of the way, Carlos kept looking at me like Boston was out to kill him personally because of the potholes. Eventually, he gave up reading the case file and tried to relax. A few minutes later, I pulled into a space behind the restaurant.

"Hey," I poked Carlos, who now had his eyes closed. "Wake up."

"I'm awake," he grumbled. "Just resting my eyes."

"Uh-huh, well, rest them some other time. It’s time you enjoyed a Boston delicacy, the 'Lobstah Roll.' Yankee Lobster has one of the best."

"You know, I don't generally eat a lot of wraps," Carlos griped as he got out.

"What?" I asked, an eyebrow cocked. "What are you talking about?"

"Wraps, I don't eat a lot of wraps, or rolls or that kind of thing. Though, I like burritos, beef burritos."

It was my turn to laugh. "Kid, are you in for a treat. It's nothing like that." I bounced my eyebrows and grinned wickedly.

The outside seating was nearly empty. Perfect, I thought. Close to the seaport, the easterly breeze blew in the smells of the ocean. The briny odor had always smelled like home to me, the conglomeration of moisture, salt, and subtle decay. It reminded me of fishing on the cape with my da.

Inside, Carlos looked at the list of menu items and frowned. "Seafood, seafood, and more seafood," he complained.

"What do you want to drink?" I asked, ignoring his protests.

"Just water," he said, now actually frowning.

"Two hot-buttered lobster rolls and two waters," I told the cashier, a pretty girl in her mid-twenties covered in tattoos to her neck. She acknowledged the order with a smile and handed us a block of wood painted to look like a buoy or maybe a boat fender with a big five stenciled on it. Then she gave us our water bottles.

It was too nice of a day to sit indoors, so I led Carlos back out into the autumn air. He frowned all the more when he realized we were sitting in the outside dining area.

"Kinda cold to be sitting out here, don't you think?" he said, rubbing the sleeves of his blazer.

"You're kidding, right?" I said with a knowing smirk. "It's sixty-five and sunny. You might as well get used to it now because winter is coming, Ned Stark.

"A few years back," I continued. "We had a blast of frigid arctic air that dropped the temperature to twenty-five below for two days, right in the middle of a nor'easter. Revere Beach flooded, and then the seawater there froze. It crushed over thirty cars on the street. It was a complete shit show."

"Iraq?" Carlos asked out of nowhere.

"What about it?" I replied evasively, trying to figure out where he was going.

"Your arm, it looks like a blast injury." He pointed to my scarred left hand.

I twisted my arm slightly.  “Oh. Grenade.”

"What happened?" The inquiry was innocent enough, but I suddenly couldn't breathe.

"Stop!" I said, probably too harshly. I took in a breath. "I don't want to talk about it. It was a bad day."

"Sorry," Carlos apologized. "I didn't mean to pry." He leaned back, and I could tell by how he looked at me that he was concerned. It wasn't rational, but I seriously wondered if he was concerned about my overall mental state. I had to admit that he might just be feeling a bit of sympathy, which I certainly didn't want.

"How many nights?" he asked cryptically a few moments later.

"How many nights what?" I shot back. Now I knew where this was going, and I didn't like it.

"How many nights do you wake up soaked in sweat, feeling like you can't breathe, reliving that day?" His demeanor was calm and understanding.

I didn't respond, but I could feel myself start to tear up.

"Look, I left Dallas because one of my squad got killed, and I felt responsible," he admitted with deadly seriousness. "It haunted me for over a year before I finally decided to get some counseling and get the fuck out of Texas.

"My partner and I were on our way to a scene in Richardson," he continued, “one of the suburbs.  It was out of our jurisdiction, but the wounds on the victim matched another homicide we were working. So, I convinced Franklin to see the victim first hand rather than head home for dinner."

I could see the pain on his face, but I kept my mouth shut and waited for him to continue.

"Anyway, en route, on this little street near an elementary school, we see this guy running across covered in blood; at least it looked that way. So, I hit the siren, and we jumped out. We didn't get two steps before he was on Franklin. The dude was fast and strong. He'd ripped out Franklin's throat before I could move. Then he was on me. The guy was crazy. He started clawing and biting at me. While he was chewing on my shoulder, I pulled my piece and shot him three times in the chest. That got him off me so I could call for backup. But, the dude barely flinched; he just stood up and ran— ran off."

"PCP?" I asked, interested. I'd heard stories of people on PCP walking around on broken legs or taking multiple bullets before keeling over. The thought was chilling.

"No idea. He never turned up, no corpse, no hospital visits, nothing. The guy just up and fucking vanished. I put three nine-millimeter slugs in the guy, center mass—three! One of them, I was sure, was right in the pump. But that ain't the point. I had to face Franklin's wife and three kids after convincing him to make just one more trip—the trip that killed him. I still have nightmares, and I've had over two years of counseling. Marcus woke up with my hands around his neck one night a few weeks after it happened. It was bad."

"I'm so sorry." It was all I could say.

He cleared his throat. "So, try not to fly off the handle when I ask this. Have you seen a therapist? The war's long gone for you. My dad was ate up with PTSD for twenty years after Vietnam, and you don't need that. No one does."

I understood why Larson had made him Detective Sergeant. He was sharp, perceptive, and, clearly, very wise. He was also pissing me off with this ‘I’m your buddy, let me help you’ routine.

"Look, Carlos. I like you. But, Let’s talk about something else."

"Okay, but one last thing. I am well aware of how hard it is when you're carrying baggage like that. Twelve years is way too long under that burden."

I looked at him blankly, trying very hard not to tear up.

"Now," he said, turning mirthful, "I think I see our food coming, which is good, 'cause I'm hungrier than a tic on a teddy bear.”

"Tic on a teddy bear," I giggled. "I have to remember that. God, you are so country." And just like that, Carlos made it all better.

"Of course I'm country. My dad worked the rodeos. My mom wasn't a buckle bunny or nothin'. They were married before he started working the circuit. The point is, though, language and music are cultural, not racial. I speak fluent Spanish because my folks spoke it at home, but my English is all Texas, and my music is all country. It's who I am." He smiled broadly. It was evident that he was proud of his heritage—and his parents. And he was proud of being from Texas. I could relate. Boston wasn't just my hometown; it was in me.

The waitress walked up with our plates, the same woman who had taken our orders. She flashed me a bright smile and made eye contact. I didn’t look away, but I blushed furiously.  “Would you like anything else? More Ketchup or Malt Vinegar?"

"No thanks," Carlos and I answered in unison.

Carlos watched her closely as she headed back inside.  "She look familiar to you?" Carlos asked.

"Not really." I looked back at her. Her walk was confident. I wondered if she was exaggerating her ass shake for Carlos or if it was natural. I had to admit that her tattoos looked sexy. I turned around to say something to Carlos but thought better of it when I realized what I was about to say. Carlos was lost in the distance anyway. I waved my hand across his view. "Hey, Earth to Carlos. Food."

"Yup," Carlos said, pulled from whatever he was thinking. "When you said we were getting a lobster roll, this isn't quite what I expected." In front of each of us was a hot dog bun, split through the top instead of the side, exploding with seasoned lobster meat and sprinkled with chives. I found it genuinely gratifying introducing people to great food.

Each plate had a side of fries with Ketchup, too. I tend to treat the fries more as an edible garnish than food. I mean, lobster, how can you go wrong?

"Trust me," I said. "It's awesome."

Carlos didn't need any more prompting. He dug into his lobster roll with gusto while I took a moment to watch. The man liked to eat, that was for sure.

"This is high cotton right here," he said around a mouthful. "So, tell me about your folks."

"Mine?" I said, also around a mouthful. I set down the roll, wiped my face, and took a drink of water, mainly to give myself time to decide what to tell him. "Well, my ma is fresh off the boat. She was born in a tiny village in County Mayo called Tourmakeady. It's in one of the Gaeltacht regions. That means they speak Irish rather than English as their first language. Now, she's a Linguistics Professor at Boston College focused on reconstructed Celtic and its correlations in Sanskrit.

"My da was an Irish Catholic cop from Southie; go figure. He tried to make me go to church, but Ma put her foot down when I was ten. He was a patrolman and about to join Homicide when a dealer shot him and his partner, one Lieutenant William Larson. Larson ended up in the ICU. Da came home in a box.”

“I’m sorry for your loss; that must have been tough,” Carlos said, empathy on his face.

"Ma grieved like any good Irish widow. She threw herself into social activities and dragged me with her.  Then she started traveling back and forth to Ireland, visiting relatives.  No matter how much I bitched, she never took me with her.  I felt isolated.  So, I grieved like a typical sixteen-year-old, acting out, cutting school, you know?

“When I was about to turn eighteen, I went to a recruiter and committed to the army. I told Ma it was so I could get some discipline in my life. Mostly though, I just wanted out from under my ma's thumb. Looking back now, I know she just didn't want to lose her daughter like she lost her husband, and trying to control me was one of the ways she felt safe. But, I just wanted to build a life of my own, and it seemed like the easiest way to get to a place to make my own decisions. Besides, my grades weren't going to get me into a decent school. I'm sorry, you were asking about my folks, and I veered it right into talking about me."

"How'd she take it?" Carlos asked, ignoring my apology. He was finished with his lobster roll and leaning back in his chair.

"About like you'd expect, Ma freaked. But what could she do? I was two weeks from my eighteenth birthday and had just graduated High School. After a day of calling our priest and not getting the answer she wanted, she just started yelling at me in Gaelic a lot. Then we didn't speak, even when the recruiter picked me up to report to MEPS.

"But, she came around as soon as I was gone. She wrote me letters a couple of times a week during my entire active-duty stint. When I came home after Iraq, she was right there with me through six surgeries and a ton of PT. And she didn't say a word when I joined the police force after college. I think she just knew I'd follow in dad's footsteps."

"Wow," he said. "That's a lot. My folks are also devout Catholics, but they're pretty cool. One day, when our priest found out that I was gay, he told mama he'd pray for me. She told him—and I'm translating here—'If you want to pray for him, pray that he comes home safe every night. Otherwise, save your prayers for those who need them. My son is a good man.' To my knowledge, he never said another word."

"I wouldn't expect that," I said, surprised. "I thought Latino families were usually a little less accepting. I mean, pardon my ignorance."

"Nothing to pardon; you’re not far wrong. Bigotry against the LGBTQ community is still pretty heavy among Latinos and Hispanics, especially the men, but it's getting better. At least in the US, some of the younger generation are less invested in that machismo shit and are pushing the community to be more accepting. My mama, though, she's just a saint. Treats Marcus like one of the family and put papa in his place the day I came out. It was pretty funny. My dad told me that I should get some good pussy to make sure.

“Now, my mother is normally the epitome of Latin Catholic demureness. But, she turned to him, looked him straight in the eye, and told him that he should go out and get some first-class dick, just to be sure. I never saw my father turn so red in my life. I always wondered if it was because she pegged him or because he was angry. I'm sure I'll never know. I do know they argued about it for a while, but like anything else in the house, if it's important to mama, she wins; that's it."

We spent the rest of lunch chatting about work, with Carlos pretty much grilling me about the department, the squad, and different detectives. I told him about my last run-in with Cardozo. When I finished, he, again, looked like he was having a stroke as he laughed.

The waitress came by to check on us at that point, so I tried to see what Carlos was talking about that made her look familiar. She caught me staring and stopped to write something on a pad in her pocket, leaving it in front of me.  I didn't bother to look at the paper, slipping it into my pocket—no need to give Carlos any more fuel for ragging me today.

The way we left the restaurant, laughing and swapping stories, you'd have thought we'd been friends for years, not that I'd first met him a few hours before.

5

After lunch, I notified dispatch that we were en route to Charlestown.

Carlos’ demeanor turned a little impish as we crossed the bridge on Seaport.  “So, you gonna call her?"

"Damnit," I grumbled. "I was wondering how long it would take you to say something.  And, no, I'm not going to call her."

"What's her name?" Carlos prodded, goading me a little more with a twinkle in his eye.  He knew the nerve he was poking.

"Nohemi." As we'd left the restaurant, I'd thought I'd been slick, glancing at the paper surreptitiously, clearly not.

I parked just south of the square, and we approached the memorial park.  The Bunker Hill Monument is somewhat striking, a two-hundred-foot granite obelisk rising like a needle in the blue.  It’s honestly a weird design for a battle memorial.

"Well then," Carlos said as we walked up to the Monument. "Makes you wonder if someone might have been compensating for something.  I bet whoever designed this probably had a hot-rod carriage, too."  His wry tone made me laugh.

Around us, a group of tourists snapped pictures and read the various plaques, oblivious that, just hours earlier, blood covered the stones beneath their feet.

We shooed away the tourists with our badges, and I pointed back toward the southeastern corner of the surrounding park.

"Caldwell came from that direction.  He would have come down across to the Monument here."  I stood in front of the doorway to the exhibit lodge.

"According to Vic's preliminary, they towed a BMW registered to him from Concord Street, which is over there.  So, whoever killed him was probably waiting right about here," I said, moving around to the northwest corner.

"What is that?" he asked, pointing to a door that led under the building. "Where does that lead?"

"It leads to the utility basement under the monument," I said. "What are you thinking?"

“It just reminds me of Washington, D.C. and all the tunnels running under the city.  This,” he pointed to the monument, “was obviously designed by Freemasons, just like D.C.”

"Are you suggesting that Freemasons killed our victim?" I asked with a grin and a raised eyebrow.

"Ha, ha, Detective," he countered sarcastically.  "Of course not; I was just curious.  I know it's far-fetched to think there's a secret tunnel around her."

"That’s not as crazy an idea as you might think. Right across the river, under my apartment building, is a tunnel originally used by pirates and smugglers.  They run all under the North End.  There are little nooks and crannies like that all over Boston."

Carlos looked around.  "There aren't too many places to hide and watch someone around here.  Over in the trees, maybe."

"Maybe, but it's a public park," I said. "Even if we figured out the observation point, I don't expect to find any evidence."

"Can't hurt to look," Carlos said, looking around.

I looked at my watch—5:15. "We've got about an hour of daylight left, and Ms. Carson will be back at six-forty-five.  You think that's enough time to walk a strip?" I asked, indicating a type of search pattern.

"Sure, if we split it in half.  The team might have missed something." Carlos looked at all the trees around the edge of the park.  It was already dusk, and much of the park was in shadow.

"Hang on," I said to Carlos, and I jogged back to the car, returning with two flashlights, two pairs of gloves, and some evidence bags. "In case we find something."

I started at the northwest corner, flashlight in hand, and searched for anything relevant: footprints, a cigarette butt, a wrapper, whatever.

Not ten feet into my search, I came across a shoe impression in a small dirt area under a tree.  I snapped a photo, putting my watch down next to the shoeprint for scale.

The shoe pattern was a little odd.  It was larger than mine and made by a dress shoe with a pointed toe—European men's style, maybe men's size ten.  I had no way of knowing if it was related, but the peculiarity of the impression made it intriguing.

The rest of the walk was fruitless other than some old candy wrappers.  I suppressed my growing frustration with this case and returned to the lodge door.

A cold breeze blew through the park, making me shiver as the sun dipped below the horizon.  Puffy clouds floated above, turning a vibrant pink in the sunset and mixing with the street lights, giving the entire park a magical quality.  I remembered spending summer nights up here with my da, eating ice cream, and I tried to hold onto that feeling.  But Carlos walked up, breaking the spell.

"Find anything?" he asked, looking just as disappointed in the search as I was.

"Just an interesting shoe impression and some garbage. You?"

"Nope, not a damn thing. You'd think that if you ran someone through and then cut their head off, you'd leave a pretty hefty trail of blood or something."

"Unless he wiped down the murder weapon," I said, staring at the empty space where the body had lain.

I pursed my lips and walked closer to Carlos, pulling out my phone. "So, look at this."  I showed him the photo of the shoe impression.  “I’d expected sneakers or bare feet.”

"Huh," Carlos grunted. "It's odd; I'll give you that, but hardly a case cracker."

"No, but if we find a suspect at some point, it might tell us something—or maybe nothing."  I glanced at my watch as we spoke—6:28 PM.  On a whim, I pulled up a  flight tracker on my phone and looked up Ms. Carson’s plane. "Shit, they must have been hauling ass because the plane landed at six-twenty."

"Well then, we won't have long to wait,” Carlos said, looking at his watch.  “Figure thirty to forty-five to get her bags and go through customs.  How long to get home from the airport do you think?" Carlos looked at me.

"Twenty-five, maybe thirty minutes," I answered automatically. "It's just across the harbor, but they will likely go through Chelsea to avoid traffic.  She'll be in a private car, I'm sure."

"We should probably just relax on a bench somewhere until about eight.  There," Carlos said, pointing to a bench near the building.  We relaxed there, the file between us.

"Okay, so we know he was stabbed and decapitated," I said. "And, according to the preliminary report, the cut looked clean—a single strike with a blade."

"Yup, a sword of some kind."

I nodded. "So, what did they impale him with?  And why?  Whatever it was left a sizable hole; it wasn’t a stiletto or a knife.  It probably took a fair amount of  muscle given the entry angle.”

“Even more interesting is the lack of defensive wounds on the victim.  He never saw it coming.”  Carlos sat bolt upright on the bench and pulled out the photos, thumbing through them until he found one.  He pulled a pair of reader glasses from his inside breast pocket and put them on.

I eyeballed the glasses.  "You weren't wearing those earlier."

"Nope, I don't need them to read.  But here in a second, you'll see why I carry them." Carlos slapped the photo and handed it to me along with the reading glasses. "Look at the wound as close as you can."

I peered through the glasses.  It took me a second to focus, but then I saw it.  On the edge of the wound, stuck to the shirt, was a small brown line.  It was no more than a smudge to the naked eye, but through the reading glasses, it became clear, a thick splinter of wood.

"Shit.  You know, I honestly fucking wish the ME's office would work faster. I'd like to know what else we're missing." I looked at the photo again. "So let me get this straight.  The guy was jabbed through the heart with a piece of wood and then beheaded.  Who was this guy, fucking Dracula?"

"Puts an interesting spin on it, doesn't it?" Carlos said wryly. "Our perp either thought Caldwell was the un-fucking-dead, or he wanted us to think he did.  We're dealing with one seriously deluded individual."

"That's fucked up."

"Yes, it is.  We have some time, so let's just cogitate on that." Carlos leaned back on the bench to look up at the sky.  I joined him in that endeavor.

I’d gotten shit sleep the night before, and the day was catching up with me; my mind started to wander.  I thought about the last time I'd had a quiet moment like this with anyone.  Honestly, it had probably been back in Iraq about a week before 'the incident.'  As usual, the power had gone out in Mosul, and Morgan and I had been lying on a blanket, looking at the stars.  The night sky had been positively vertigo-inducing.

Shooting stars had streaked across the night, and as each one passed, Morgan would say, ‘that’s one more wish.’ I still wondered what she wished for.  I also wondered why I hadn’t had any moments like that with Gabe.  I would have liked to blame him and his work schedule or his time with his idiot 'bros,' but I couldn't think of a single time I'd suggested we just lay outside together and watch the sky.

"Hey there," Carlos said softly. "Where are you?"

"Huh?" I said, shaking myself out of the memory. "Nowhere, just thinking."  I glanced around the park; it had grown deathly still.  The tourists were all gone, and the shadows had closed in.  It was all very dark and foreboding, chasing away my reverie.  Honestly, I was a little creeped out now that we understood the MO better.

Carlos spoke up, snatching away the dark thoughts.  "You know, Marcus and I took a vacation out to Big Bend National Park in Texas.  You can see every star out there. It's like sliding past a giant river as the Milky Way moves across the sky.  Our last time out there, we made love under the stars.  It was beautiful."

I guess I wasn't alone in my appreciation of the night sky.  Not that I'd ever made love under the stars.  But, it was a beautiful thought.  A pang of loss suddenly grabbed me.  For a minute, I spiraled, thinking that everything in my life was tainted and ruined.  Everything reminded me of Morgan or Iraq, or my da.  It was a pit of sorrow that seemed endless.  Then the brake lights of an SUV snapped me out of my negative thoughts.

“She’s here,” I whispered to Carlos, who looked up.

A black SUV sporting a livery tag was pulling up to the address we had for Ms. Carson.  A woman in a black coat and a black hat exited the SUV, stalking toward the door in some haste.  The driver got out and pulled a suitcase out of the back, following the woman I assumed was Ms. Carson.  I couldn't see her well from the bench—just a figure walking into the building.  My watch read seven-thirty-eight.

We gave the woman a little time to get settled, then we got up and strolled over.

6

Carlos whistled, looking between me and the enormous house, eyebrows raised.  "There is a river of money rolling through this place."

The building, which had once been split into multiple apartments, was restored to its original glory as a single-family home, complete with a facade of 1860s-style brickwork.  The entrance sported a beautifully crafted columned portico with double oak doors that looked damn solid.

"Says here,” I commented, looking at the Carson website on my phone, “they've been in business since 1963, primarily handling shipping and receiving of aid packages and pharmaceuticals for various corporations and nation-states."

Carlos grunted in acknowledgment.

We strode up and rang the doorbell, one of those video do-lollies.  A short, severe-looking woman with black hair in an understated, brown skirt suit answered the door.  Vulturish eyes appraised us from within a late-middle-aged face, eventually resting on our badges.

"The Signora is expecting you; come in, please,” she invited with a thick Italian accent.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Carlos began but stopped when she didn’t return his offered hand.

“Indeed. The pleasure is mine,” she responded perfunctorily while pulling the doors wide. “I am Ninetta, the housekeeper.”

Carlos and I entered a grand foyer.  Above, a lustrous, crystal chandelier cast bright motes across a circle of red Nordic runes embedded in the white marble floor.  To our right, two enormous sliding doors of burnished wood hid another room, and to the left sat an open entryway to what appeared to be a library.  Everything about the entrance screamed not just money but wealth.

The sparse furniture was both decorative and functional, reflecting opulence and practicality.  A large picture mirror rested in a glittering gold leaf frame above a charming Queen Anne console table.  Directly ahead, the marble floor rose in a staircase to an open gallery, flanked by a polished oak railing supported on exquisitely worked black iron balusters.

Typically, I’d have thought it ostentations as hell. But a single item in the room transformed it from a ridiculous, if somewhat minimalist, display of means to a comfortable living space.  A rather ugly and worn little wooden bowl lurked on the console table with a set of car keys dangling over the rim.  Looking thoroughly out of place and odd, they reminded me that this was a home, not an office.  Someone lived here.  Everything here had been chosen for personal reasons, whether deep or shallow.  My gut told me that Marcella Carson had decorated this space for herself and no one else.  And I was very interested in meeting her.

"And how should I announce you?"  Ninetta queried, jerking me from my gawking.

Announce us? That was a trip. We were cops, not royalty, and it took me just a second to realize she was just asking for our names. "I'm Detective Reagan, and this is Detective Ramirez with the Homicide Department. We're here—."

She cut me off.  “I know why you are here.  Such bad business for Mr. Caldwell, just awful."  Tear-filled lashes belied her well-composed facade. "I will tell Signora Carson that you are here."  She disappeared to the second floor above.

I checked my appearance in the mirror, finding another face there, one not entirely my own.  It was me, but thinner, younger, and with short hair.  I squeezed my eyes shut.  When I opened them again, I found only my normal reflection, auburn hair still tight in its bun, and, thank God, no chives in my teeth.

"Hot date tonight?" Carlos asked, hat in one hand.

I stuck my tongue out at him.  I was becoming more accustomed to Carlos’ jokes, realizing it was his way to break the tension.  At this particular moment, though, I'd have preferred another target.  I was nervous enough as it was.  Rich people intimidated me.

Ninetta waited until she reached the first floor before asking us to follow her up.  She reminded me a lot of some of the women I'd seen going to church in my youth, the pre-Vatican II Catholic women who still wore white veils for confession and mass, prim and proper and quick to shoot you a nasty glance if you did something untoward.

The second floor was much more businesslike than the first. Beige walls met simple hardwoods here. Ninetta crossed herself as she led us past a  room holding a messy office.  Then, she stopped on the other side of a second doorway and motioned us in.

Next to a large executive desk stood a spectacularly attractive woman.  To call her statuesque was an understatement.  She towered over me.  Her hair, like honey-dazzled sunlight, caressed a face of soft-looking, milky-pale skin, perfect and unblemished.  Her blue-frosted irises flashed mesmerizingly with sharp intellect and movement.  Below, a narrow, refined nose perched above soft, delicious-looking, blood-red lips that quivered slightly as she breathed.

She was dressed in an expensive-looking white blouse that admitted a tasteful hint of black lace-wrapped cleavage before sliding solicitously beneath the waist of a black pencil skirt.  My eyes drifted down toward the edges of sheer silk stockings that traced her muscular legs, crossed at the ankles.  They were like alabaster columns stacked delicately in shining black Louboutin pumps.  My pulse thumped like a snare on a drumline.  I was star-struck.

I inhaled sharply, only just turning it into a cough as butterflies lofted through me, tugging at my insides with something like—lust, maybe.  I self-consciously tucked a stray hair behind my ear as I watched her gaze slide across my pedestrian frame, and I licked my suddenly dry lips.

Carlos cleared his throat and gave me a sidelong glance before speaking.  I’d almost forgotten he was there.  His eyes twinkled slightly but underneath sat a suspicious frown.  Carlos turned back, entirely and perfunctorily professional.

"I'm Detective Ramirez, and this is Detective Reagan," he said confidently. "We're from the Boston Police, Homicide Division. We're sorry for your loss."  She shook our hands. Her skin was cool to the touch and as soft as I’d imagined.  It slid gently across my palm, and I suppressed a shiver as the hair on my arms stood straight up.  I detected a hint of floral perfume and something underneath that was reminiscent of sandalwood.

Then she opened her mouth, and a crisp British accent flowed forth, a rich and beautiful alto, like silk flowing over bare skin.  The fry in it reminded me of the blowing sands in Iraq.  “Please, Detectives, sit down." She gestured to two empty chairs in front of her desk as she took hers.  "I can't believe Jesse is dead. I just spoke with him yesterday."

Carlos got right to business, leaning forward in his chair. "Ms. Carson, we don't have a lot to go on in your co-worker's murder, and we'd like to understand who he was."

"Certainly, Detective, though I’m not sure what I can tell you."

I noticed that she had a wastebasket with several pink tissues next to her desk. It seemed she hadn't taken Mr. Caldwell's death easily, which was just as well.  I didn’t want to believe she was a killer.

"Jesse was smart, capable, a hard worker, and the best admin I’ve ever had.  I don't understand why anyone would murder him.  It's not like we're involved in anything even remotely dangerous here. Generally, we just arrange for shipping aid to under-served communities and poor parts of the world—blankets, pharmaceuticals, water, food, that kind of thing. May I ask how he died? The news didn't say."

"We're still investigating, Ms. Carson," I answered, deflecting the question. It seemed I'd finally found my voice. "Could Mr. Caldwell have been working on something personal or been mixed up in something that might have put him in danger?"  She caught my eye and held my gaze a bit longer than was comfortable.  I turned my eyes to my notepad, suppressing the burgeoning smile at the corners of my mouth.

"Not that I know of, Detective Reagan, and call me Marcella, please.  Jesse was pretty relaxed. He generally left work, drove home, hit the gym, and was in bed early. Of course, Jesse had a social life, but it was tame, just dates and the like. He was pretty open with me about it, and we talked every day. I know he was between girlfriends at the moment and had been for a couple of months now."

My eyes were drawn to Marcella’s mouth as she spoke, and I bit my bottom lip.  I cleared my throat gently and swallowed hard.  "Did he have any bad habits—drugs, gambling, things like that?"

"Goodness, no. And I would know. I have a nose for personal problems. Besides, even if he did, he can come to me if he needs money or is in trouble. I run a tight ship; I have to, but I'm not a slave driver or a tyrant. Jesse and I are friends, Detective Reagan, not just co-workers." She started to look more distraught as the conversation went on.

"Did he have any enemies, or do you know anyone who might want to harm him?" Carlos asked.

"Enemies?” Marcella directed her comments to me, though Carlos had asked the question.  “He was an administrative assistant. What kind of enemies could he have? As for anyone who might want to hurt him, I know of no one."

"Was he working on any projects for you or unusual ventures at the moment?" Carlos asked, pulling her attention to him, thankfully.  Her constant appraising looks had become a little nerve-wracking, flattering as they were.

"Well, we're in the process of shipping supplies to several Caribbean islands for storm relief, and he is peripherally involved with that at my request.  He is, or was, keeping up with the process to make sure things proceed smoothly. Other than that, his work consists of keeping my schedule, answering my phone calls, acting as a business concierge for me when I need him, and keeping my world sorted. He is a good kid, and thirty-four is way too young to die."  Her demeanor crumbled for a moment, but she recovered quickly.

"Jesse's father worked for my mother, who died in 1996. She had made sure that Jesse attended private school and paid for him to go to university. In 2000, Jesse's parents died in a car accident, and I, having taken over the business by then, ensured that Jesse’s education continued. After receiving his master's from Brown, he returned to Boston and went to work for me. That was nine years ago."  Pausing, she reached for a pink tissue and dabbed at her eyes. "I can't understand why anyone would kill him." As she said this last, I noted that Carlos' frown deepened. It was only for a second, but it was there.

Carlos continued to ask questions about Mr. Caldwell's habits, personality, friends, and enemies—covering the usual spectrum. I listened on and looked around the room. The far wall from where we sat held two bookcases stacked on a credenza. Between the bookcases was a small stone tablet with markings, like cuneiform. I couldn’t make out any further details from my position, but it kept drawing my eye, and I had the urge to go over and touch it.

The books on the shelves fell into three categories, history, business, and, oddly, medical.  A few ancient-looking texts surrounded a copy of Gray's Anatomy bound in brown leather, probably a first edition.  The business books were all from the last forty years, primarily focused on general business or transport and logistics. The history books looked the most used. Many were older, but a few looked brand new.  I tried to see if I knew any of the titles, but I was drawn from my observations by the end of Carlos’ questions.

“Detective Reagan?”  Marcella prodded.  “Did you have any additional questions?”

“Yes, ma’am, just one. Did you read all of those?” I asked, gesturing to the books.

Marcella smiled broadly. “Yes, Detective, I have.  And, please, call me Marcella.”

“Even Gray’s Anatomy?” I asked, skeptical.

“Yes, Detective,” she responded, eyes twinkling with mischief.  “Would you like to know what it says about the external carotid artery and its relation to facial blood flow?”  I blinked, and her mouth pulled into a more cheeky smile as my face flushed, demonstrating that relationship very effectively.

“Sorry, I was just curious.”  I stammered.

She smiled again and then sighed.  "Detectives,  I just got off a six-hour flight from the UK, and I'm jet-lagged.  Honestly, I need to get some rest. I'm happy to discuss this tomorrow, but I'm not sure what I can add. I need to go through it, but I'll happily provide Jesse's diary—sorry, calendar—and the list of projects he was working on for me. If you have a card, I'll call you tomorrow afternoon after I finish work, and you can come to pick it up."

I pulled a card out of my jacket and held it out. Marcella stood and walked around, offering her hand. She stepped with willow-like grace, so light that her heels barely clicked on the hardwoods, leaving me jealous. When I walked, I might as well be dragging my knuckles by comparison.

Carlos and I both shook her hands and turned to go.  I wasn’t sure, but she seemed to hold my hand longer, feeding me a warm smile as she did so.

"Detective Reagan?" she called to my back as I made to step through the door, and I hazarded a backward glance.  Her eyes caught mine, and my pulse ramped again.  She paused, drawing the lingering moment a little further.  "If I think of anything that might be any help, I'll give you a ring."

"Thank you, Ms. Carson," I answered quickly, feeling the need to both stand there and escape. "That would be much appreciated."  I decided for the latter and turned, hurrying after Carlos and Ninetta, feeling a slight flush.

Carlos and I waited to say any more until we got outside the building. I half expected him to start poking at me again and making jokes, but his face was serious.

"We need to be careful with that one," Carlos said. "She's dangerous, and she knows more than she's saying."

"What do you mean?" I looked at him skeptically. "She seemed nice enough. I guess she could be involved, but I'm not sure why she would be, especially if anything she said about Caldwell's work were true. Supposing it’s murder-for-hire, I don’t see a motive here. At least not yet.  Besides, you don't hire a guy to decapitate someone unless you're sending a message.  If so, the message would more likely have been for her, not from her."

"Oh, I'm not saying she's involved," Carlos said as we started back for the car. "I don't honestly think she was.  And, you’re right. It just doesn't look like your classic hit.  The method of execution stinks of something more, like maybe a form of intimidation.  But she's not saying everything.

“I used to know this guy who worked for the State Department some years back. One night, we were going out for beers, and he clued me into something about the government. If the government wants to ship weapons but doesn't want to be directly involved, they deliver them through a third party.   He said that companies like this are just the types of organizations they use to move covert weapons and supplies. I almost guarantee that she's not just shipping humanitarian aid."

"Wow, conspiracy theory much?" I jeered. "We've just met the lady, and you've already convicted her of taking part in international arms smuggling." It seemed a little far-fetched.

"Oh, there's no smuggling about it in most cases. I'm sure almost everything Carson Logistics does is above board and on the level in both permits and taxes. But, there are laws against shipping munitions to certain countries.  Even so, certain parts of the government feel it necessary to avoid those pesky laws from time to time.

“I'm not saying she's dirty.  But, I can tell you that there's no way Carson Logistics has offices around the world and a headquarters in the financial office building of Boston if all they're doing is shipping humanitarian supplies. That's a cutthroat business, and margins are slim. Either that or they're smuggling drugs for the cartels, which I doubt."  We walked quickly and made good time back to the car. We'd be back at HQ by nine-thirty if I hustled, and I might be able to find out how the interview with Gabe and his associate went. Just thinking about Gabe gave me a knot in my stomach, though.

"Well, at least you haven't convicted her of that. I guess I'll take your word for it." I said as we reached the Jeep. "How far do you want to dig on her business?" I asked as we pulled out of the parking spot.

Carlos looked at me incredulously.  “Are you kidding?  I don't. I just want to work the case where it leads. If it gets into an area like the arms trade, we need to talk the Lieutenant into bringing in the feds. Little people like us digging into international gun-running tends to lead to dead little people. I'll pass. I've got Marcus to think about, too. I'm a homicide detective, not ATF or ICE, and I like it that way."

"Do you honestly think she's dangerous?" I asked after the silence had stretched for a bit.

Carlos smirked. "I think her company ships guns and munitions, sometimes illegally.  Anyone who has the stones for that kind of endeavor has the sack to do whatever is required."

Carlos was watching me like a hawk now. "You seem awful interested in what I think of the lady, so I'll tell you.  She's rich, powerful, and well connected. That means she could probably squash either of us like a bug in the Mayor's office or with the Commissioner.  She's also beautiful, smart, and very into you."

I felt that same flush and rush of butterflies start all over again. My mouth felt dry, and I croaked a little as I said, "What makes—" I stopped and cleared my throat. "What makes you think that."

"Oh, come on," Carlos said, “She practically stripped you naked with her eyes. You made a good show of not noticing, but I know you did."

My face felt hot as I drove. "Okay, fine.  I noticed her checking me out, but she's involved in the case; it's not like I could do anything about it. Not that I would; I have Gabe."

"Yeah," Carlos said, "about that."

"Stop right there; I know what you're going to say.” I yanked the wheel and pulled the car over, hitting the hazard lights.

"Look,” I said, a little shakily.  “I have no idea why I'm telling you this. But Marcella Carson wouldn't be the first woman I've been attracted to."  There, I'd said it. My heart rate jumped, and my blood pressure dropped about twenty points. I leaned forward and put my head on the steering wheel, feeling dizzy. "Fuck," I said quietly.

"I wondered," Carlos said, the playful smirk gone. "As for why you're telling me, that’s easy.  I’m good at striking rapport. I’m a straight shooter and trustworthy.  But this is something I can relate to, and you know that.  Your attraction to women has finally caught up with you.  Denying who we are is mentally exhausting.  We all break sooner or later.

"Truthfully, though, it's not like you scream 'dyke cop.' Hell, I was just fucking with you earlier. But, if you're not sure about your sexuality, if this really is the first time you've considered you might not be entirely straight, then I'm sorry about messing with you. That was no bueno. It's no fun being confused. It can turn your entire world upside down."

"Dear Lord, I don't know why I'm having this discussion with you," I said, then blew out a breath to steady my nerves. "Please don't say anything to anyone. I don't think I can deal with this right now."

"It's not my truth to tell," Carlos said. "You need to understand something else. Generally—and I repeat—generally, everyone who is gay knows better than to out somebody.  But, darlin', I'll never say a word unless and until you say otherwise. If you need someone to talk to, you have my number."

"Thanks," I said, feeling only a little better. "I appreciate it. I'll call if I need anything."

"Just not on Friday nights," he replied, and the playful smirk returned. "That's Marcus’ and my special dress-up night, and this week it's cops and robbers."

"Oh!" I exclaimed, "I do not need to hear this."  We both laughed at that until we cried.

7

A dense, cold drizzle descended across the city as we made our way back to Schroeder. Carlos and I were quiet for the rest of the ride, and I was thankful for the time it gave me to suppress my anxiety.

Am I a lesbian? Is that why my relationships never work out? The thought pushed a lump of fear into my chest. It wasn’t homophobia; it was something nebulous, like my life would spin out of control somehow.

I kept my life carefully balanced and compartmentalized.  It was how I coped with my trauma.  I had an apartment that was my space to be strong, weak, whatever I needed. I was competent at my job and respected by my peers, which gave me much-needed self-esteem.  I had a boyfriend whom I kept where I needed him, so—. I paused mid-thought.  Is that how I see Gabe? Shit.  Before I could analyze it any further, we arrived at HQ.

While I parked, Carlos turned to me, and after a moment’s thought, scratching his cheek, he said, “Do yourself a favor. Don’t get involved with Marcella Carson.”

I threw the Jeep in park. “Carlos,” I said heatedly. “Just because I find her attractive doesn’t mean I’m going to have sex with her. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Besides, I need to try to sort things out with Gabe. And more important than all of that, she’s a potential witness in a homicide investigation.”

Carlos rubbed the back of his neck.  “I debated whether to say anything at all.  But, I remember when I was a confused mess. I gravitated toward the first gay man I met. There was a certain excitement in it and a pretty overwhelming desire to ‘know.’” He air-quoted the word ‘know.’ “Marcella seems nice, but, trust me, Cait, she’s a predator.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t mean a sexual predator. Just that she strikes me as the type to relentlessly pursue what she wants. But, just so you know, I’m not the type to tattle,” he continued. “This is just me looking out for you. Women like Marcella Carson can be very — uh — persuasive.”

I barked a laugh.  “I bet.”

Inside the building, Carlos and I raced to the second floor like a couple of kids.  With his long strides, taking the stairs three at a time, he easily outpaced me, and by the time we walked out of the stairwell, we were both a little winded and laughing.  Sometimes, it’s good to break the tension with a bit of clowning around.

“Hey,” Mills said, looking at me. “Your boyfriend and his buddy never showed or called.”

I had to pick my jaw up off the floor.  “He what?”

“You heard me. No call, no show. I even called their office here in Boston, but neither showed there, either.”

“But,” David continued, ignoring my expression. “We did get a break in the Mass and Cass case.  Your boy, what’s his name?  The homeless guy you usually see at the Common.” Mass and Cass was how we referred to the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Melnea Cass Boulevard.  It was also known as the ‘methadone mile’ because of the methadone clinics along that stretch.  Addicts often went there to score, shoot up, and then go to the clinics to avoid the crash.

“Daryl?” Daryl Cummins was a homeless vet I talked to from time to time. He’d been in the first Gulf War and had suffered from various health issues afterward.  While the government debated whether Gulf War Syndrome was a thing, Daryl started using drugs to ease his suffering.   Daryl was a good guy, but no amount of effort on my part had gotten him off the street.  Over the last two years, he’d become my eyes and ears on the common late at night.

“That’s him.  He said he was down there trying to find some friend of his — Jo-Jo.”

“Yeah, I know Jo-Jo,” I said with a frown.  Jo-Jo was a homeless woman I’d busted a few times for petty theft in my patrol days, an addict and, I thought, not good enough for Daryl.  But the heart wants what the heart wants.

“Daryl said that he saw some dealer named LJ harassing our vic over twenty bucks worth of weed.  By the way, we identified the victim finally; his name is Leon Davis from Memphis, Tennessee.  We called his next of kin.”

“That’s great!” I said, thrilled that we had some movement on the case. We’d worked it to death the first three weeks, and then everything went cold.  Honestly, I had never asked Daryl about it because he was never down that way, at least as far as I’d known.  Dumb luck, I guess. “So, on the Caldwell case, neither Gabe nor his buddy Takahashi from Japan called at all?  They said they needed to come in with a lawyer, but Kineda has those on retainer by the dozen.  I don’t get it.”

Before I could comment, Larson hollered so loud it made me jump. “Hey, Reagan!”

“Fuck,” I muttered and gritted my teeth, taking deep breaths to stave off a vision of Sgt. Holley’s face screaming at me in the latrine as he held my face down on the floor. “Coming, Lieutenant.”

“You okay?” Carlos asked, probably seeing me tense up.

“Yeah.” I forced my shoulders back down. “I’m fine.”

I walked into Larson’s office and closed the door. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Couple of things,” he said, standing with his hands on his hips. “You need to tell your boyfriend that we need to talk to him.”

“No shit,” I said forcefully. “You think I don’t know that. I expected him in today. Hell, I told him to come in today. He said he needed to find a lawyer.”

Larson’s eyebrows shot up. “A lawyer? What the fuck for?”

“Look,” I said, not wanting to explain to the Lieutenant that I’d told Gabe to bring one. “I’ll make sure he comes by tomorrow if I have to twist his fucking ear.”

Larson sat down behind his desk with a heavy thump, clearly stressed out. “Please.”

“Is everything okay?”

“No, it’s not.  It’s like something straight out of a movie.  Marcella Carson made one fucking phone call upstairs.  So, I had to listen to the Commissioner tell me what a high priority the Caldwell case is.” Larson took a breath, then a drink from a glass of water.  I just waited, eyeballing the umpteen civic and law enforcement awards on the wall.  “You must have made quite the impression on Marcella Carson because she’s insisted on dealing with only you.  What’s worse, the Commissioner agreed.”

Very persuasive, Carlos had said.  “Okay, we can handle that. What else?”

“You will brief me on this case every three days. Email is fine. I don’t want to be caught flat-footed with the Commissioner when she asks for a status.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Reagan?” he said as I turned toward his door.

“Yes?”

“Don’t fuck this up.”

On that joyful note, I left his office. “Fuck,” I mumbled again.

I looked at my watch — 10:05 PM. When I got back to my desk, I called Gabe’s number on my cell. It went straight to voice mail. I ended the call without leaving a message.  Where the fuck are you?

“Hey, Mills?” I called out over my cube. No answer. “Carol?”

“Yeah,” she replied. She sounded like she was coming back from the restroom. “What do you need, honey?”

“Did Forensics send over their preliminary on Caldwell?”  I rubbed my forehead.

“Yup, it’s right here,” she walked over and laid a fat, blue folder down on my desk. “It should be in your email, too. Let me know if it’s not there, and I’ll forward a copy.” I checked; she was right. The report had shown up in my Inbox at eight-thirty. Someone over there had been working late on this.

“Thanks. And Carol? You’re a good friend. I don’t think I say that enough.”

She smiled, looking a bit confused. “You too. Is there something you want to talk about?”

I thought about telling her exactly what was bothering me but instead said, “No, just wanted you to know."

I sat down for a minute and tried to read through some older case files, prepping for court, but I couldn’t concentrate.  My head was filled with visions of Marcella Carson.  God, she was so—attractive.  Not just physically beautiful, but everything.  Her voice still sang in my head, silky with a hint of rasp.  And it was clear she was intelligent, and those eyes, ice blue and penetrating.  I tried to push her out of my mind and failed, so I stood and looked out the window, noting that the rain had stopped. Turning back to pack up, I noticed a post-it had been placed on my chair. It read:

I’ll transcribe my notes from the Carson interview.

Better dreams tonight, I bet.

— C

What an asshole, I thought sarcastically and laughed as I left the building.

8

A light drizzle started again as I walked home from my parking spot. I clutched the files to my chest and hurried to the building, pulling open the door just as the clouds opened up and fat pelting drops began to fall.  Junk mail jammed my mailbox until it was hard to open, all Chinese food menus, pizza delivery fliers, and one ad for a used car warranty.  I threw them in the trash bin and almost missed the small manila craft-paper envelope buried among them.  I turned it over and read the handwritten return address on the back.

Morgan Kennedy

486 Oakley Ave.

Chicago, IL  60636

All at once, my heart leaped into my throat, then dropped right into my gut.

“Damnit,” I said quietly. “I don’t need this right now.” Part of me really wanted to tear away the crisp Manila paper, exposing whatever lay within.

Why was she writing after all these years? Did something happen?  Maybe she misses me. Maybe—.  Slow down, Cait; it’s probably an anniversary invitation or something.

I put the letter in my stack of files and headed up the stairs.

A dark figure stood next to my door in the empty, pitch-black hallway.  I dropped the files and drew out my firearm and pocket flashlight.  Before I’d even raised my weapon, my flashlight lit on Gabe’s face.  He looked like shit.

I breathed a sigh of relief.  “Jesus! Gabe, what the fuck?  You should know better than to hover by my door like that in the dark.  Do you want to get yourself shot?”

He had a weird, goofy grin on his face.  “Aw, you wouldn’t shoot me, honey.”

“I almost did.  You scared the shit out of me.  Wait, what are you doing out here?  You have a key.”

“It’s at home.”

I smelled booze on his breath and scowled.  “Are you drunk?”

“I’ve probably had one or two more than I should have, but I’m okay.”

I moved to open the door, realizing he wasn’t just tipsy drunk; he was headed toward falling down, passing out drunk. “Jesus, Gabe.  How much have you had?”

Inside, I turned on the light, finally seeing him clearly.  He looked like absolute crap.  His dirty blond hair was mussed, and a day’s stubble covered his square jaw.  His face looked a little ruddy around his small nose.  His tragically beautiful brown eyes were booze-watery and sunken.  A dark bruise was blooming on his forehead.

“I was out with Brad and Anne.  We went to that new tequila bar over on St. James.  I had a few shots.”

“That Lexical or Mezcal or whatever joint?” I’d seen the place a hundred times but never set foot in there. “Wait.  Did you say Brad and Anne?  Matthews?”

Brad was one of Gabe’s old college buddies and worked for a local bottom-feeder law practice. I’d met him when Gabe and I had first started dating.  Brad was an absolute prick.  Brad had tried to feel me up under the table while Gabe was in the restroom.  I’d left him with a red splotch and a bloody lip.

“Every time you go out with Brad, you get wasted. You’re too old for this shit.”  I set my gear and keys on the table.

“Brad—,” he started, then paused as he began to look green.  I was sure he was going to puke all over my floor.  He stifled it with a hard swallow. “Brad made partner.”

“So I guess it’s Sullivan, Stan, and Matthews, now.  Lovely.  Well, good for him.  But did you have to get piss drunk?”

“I’m not that drunk,” he said.  And then, as if the gods themselves ordained it, he hiccuped.  Then he laughed as if it was uproariously funny.  I didn’t laugh.  I was fucking furious.

“Gabe,” I stated calmly and firmly. “You can not be here.  If you had come in and had —.“ Then, I had a revelation. “Wait.  Did you hire Brad to represent you?”

“Yup,” he said. “It jusht took me a whi—while—to get him on the phone becaush he wash in court today.” His slurring was getting worse, splashing his words all over the place.

“Okay,” I said, pointing at the door. “out.  Now.”

Gabe crossed the space between us and began trying to kiss me on the face, neck, mouth— pretty much anywhere he could. “Come on, honey,” he said. “We haven’t had sex in three w—weeks.”

“Stop!” I attempted to push him off, starting to panic.

When he went after my shirt buttons, I slapped him.

“What — wha — you do that for?” he asked. His speech was now almost unintelligible. I’d seen guys do this before; they drank way too much, too fast, and got drunker even after they quit.

“Because I said stop.  No means fucking no.” I pointed to the door again, now on the edge of shouting. “Now get out, and I expect an apology in the morning.  Go!”

Gabe walked to the door, looking like a kicked puppy.  I felt a little guilty for hurling him out into the night, but I wasn’t going to put up with this.

“Oh,” I said to his back. “Make sure your ass shows up tomorrow for your statement.  Bring Brad if you like, but if you don’t show up, I will drag your ass down there.”

“Fine,” he said. “How am I supposed to get home?  My car is — my car is — well, I don’t know where my car is, but —“

“I’ll order you a ride.  Go wait outside,” I said.

He turned around and flipped me off, slamming the door behind him.

I groaned in frustration.  What the actual fuck? I thought.  As tough as my day had been, I had half a mind just to let him sit there until he threw up and passed out.

“Damnit, Gabe,” I swore to myself.

I had seen Gabe drink before, but a wicked gross mental fit like this?  Never. I chalked it up to Brad’s influence.  I ordered him a ride from my phone and waited on the veranda until it showed up.  He flipped me off again as he got in.

Sighing, I walked over to the couch and sat down.  Jabba was sitting up, looking at me expectantly. “Et tu brute?  Et tu?”

I proceeded to scratch his belly, and he flopped down, sticking all four feet in the air. “At least you’re not drunk, you little slut.”  I scratched him for a few minutes more and then stood to his griping meows.

“Sorry, buddy, I have stuff to do.”

I grabbed a shower and changed into some pajamas.  The heat was back on, thankfully.  And, with the day’s grime off of me, I set the files on the floor neatly and got to work.

Not far into my perusal of the documents, I eyed the cabinet next to the sink that held a single bottle of red wine. I usually didn’t drink alcohol.  I didn’t know why. Somewhere along the way, I’d just become a non-drinker.

“Fuck it,” I said a little loudly and got up.

Opening the bottle, I tried to let it sit.  But after five minutes, I decided I didn’t give a shit if it had time to breathe and poured.  It turns out; it didn’t matter.   It was good, really good.  I could feel my mouth respond to the dryness and the tannins.  After a long drink, I leaned against the counter and sighed, holding the glass to my breast.  It had been such a long day.

Still sipping my glass, I grabbed the bottle and went over to sit on the floor, and something occurred to me.  I did a quick review of Patrol’s initial report and the now neatly printed witness statement from Karen Walters.  I knew it was late, but I called Karen Walter’s contact number anyway on the off chance she might be awake.

It rang a few times and went to voicemail.

“Ms. Walters,” I said, forcing myself to smile and sound upbeat.  Many people don’t realize that the minor inflections in vocal patterns caused by a smile can be heard.  “This is Detective Reagan from BPD Homicide.  Can you give me a call?  I have a question about your statement I need to clear up. It’s probably nothing, but I’d like to ask you about it as soon as possible.” I left my number and hung up.  A few minutes later, my phone rang.  The caller ID said ‘Fred Walters.’ I snatched up my notepad and answered.

“Detective Reagan, Homicide.”  This woman had had quite a shock the night before, so I did my best to be soft and friendly.

“Detective Reagan?” Karen Walters sounded slightly nervous. Most people do when talking to cops. “This is Karen Walters.  You said you wanted to talk to me about my statement?”

“Yes,” I said. “I didn’t see mention of a cell phone in our case files.  Did you, by chance, have one on you this morning on your run?”

“Yes,” she said. “I always run with it — for music.”

“Did you take any pictures or video when you found the body last night?” I grimaced a little in anticipation.  It was worth asking, as sometimes things like this got missed.

“If I say yes, do I need a lawyer?” she asked.

“You’re always entitled to have a lawyer, ma’am.  But your video could be relevant and help us find the killer.  Supposing you did, though, I could really use a copy.  If you send me a copy via text, it could be very helpful for my investigation.”

“Just a second, Detective,” she said.  I heard some rustling, a thump, and some cursing.  A few seconds later, my phone dinged in my ear, indicating an incoming message. “I just have the one video.”

“You haven’t posted it online anywhere, have you?” I asked to follow up.

“No,” she said. “I really don’t know why I took the video.  I should probably just delete it.”

“No!” I responded quickly and a little too loudly. “Sorry. Don’t do that.  What would be better would be if you could come to Headquarters and ask for Detective Jessica Doyle.  She can get the data off your phone then and there in a forensically sound fashion.  I can let her know you are coming.”

“Okay, what time?” she asked, sounding slightly less nervous. “This is kind of exciting in a way. I’ve never been useful to the police for anything, ever.” Typical, a man was dead, people in mourning, and she’s excited that she gets to help.  It was human nature, but it always struck me as wrong, somehow.

“Anytime between eight and four tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll let Jessica know you’re coming.”

“Okay. Thank you,” Ms. Walters said.

At least she was polite.

“Thank you, Ms. Walters,” I said as sweetly as I could muster and hung up.

I immediately pulled up the video on my phone.  Ms. Walters had a damn nice phone.  The video was crystal clear, not the grainy shit I expected.  I scrolled through the video repeatedly, looking for anything; then, I found it.  In the dirt, right where we guessed our perp was standing, sat one clear shoe impression, identical to the one I found by the tree.  And then I spotted a second one.  This time, it was in blood next to the body.

“Bless you, Ms. Walters, and whatever fabulous phone you carry,” I said to myself quietly. “Fuckin’ A.”

I went back to the crime scene photos to see if I’d missed the shoe prints.  I couldn’t see how; they would have been obvious.  Looking in the same spot, I could see a smear across the paving stones.  Someone had probably tried to clean the blood off their shoe — likely Ms. Walters.  There were no photos of the area behind the building.  Either the crime scene unit missed the shoe impression, or someone had, more likely, ruined it.  I shot a message off to Detective Doyle, letting her know to expect Ms. Walters and for what.  I also included a copy of the picture I’d taken of the shoe impression I’d found earlier.

Taking a drink of wine, I scoured the rest of the paperwork, taking notes and refiling as I finished each page.  It turned out that we were correct; the splinter that Carlos and I saw in the photo of Mr. Caldwell’s chest wound was wood, a species of English ash.

Last but not least, I perused Mr. Caldwell’s phone records, scanning the list of numbers, starting the morning before he died.  I recognized one immediately — Gabe’s.  His number called Caldwell’s four times that day.  The last call was at eleven-twenty.

“Oh, Gabe, what are you into?” I whispered to myself, running my hand through my hair as my gut twisted into a knot.

What did I know about Gabe, really?  He was thirty-five, an avid environmentalist, drove an electric car, and gave money to the ASPCA.  He absolutely adored animals.  He could be an asshole, occasionally, yes. Most of the time, though, Gabe was a saint.  But, after a year, I didn’t know his favorite food, his favorite movie, even his favorite sport.  I knew where he worked and had met his parents.  I also knew his favorite song was Thunderstruck by AC/DC.  That was it.

Jesus, after a year, I know almost nothing about him.  I am such a shitty girlfriend.  Of course, now I know why.  Sighing heavily, I stuffed that aside and continued.

Gabe was the last person to call the victim.  He knew the victim’s name before I mentioned it to him.  Though, Gabe did explain that.  He didn’t show up to make his statement at HQ, hadn’t even bothered to call.  He came in drunk and acting way out of character.  Sometimes people act strangely when under stress. Being caught up in homicide can make you very stressed.  So can being unsure of your relationship, though.  And if I was uncertain and confused, he probably was too—or maybe not.

Stop, Cait. You don’t know Gabe’s involved, and you’re not objective.

Doug, our previous lead, often told me that a gut feeling, like the sinking one I had right now, was the evidence talking to you.  I didn’t like what it seemed to be saying.

Fortunately, the heavy rain had passed for now.  The clouds were low, and a drizzle still drifted in the soft breeze. I stood and walked out to the balcony. Below, the street was mostly empty, but I could see a silhouette in the distance, maybe a block away, just out of the street light.

I had a sudden creepy feeling of being watched.  All the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.  I went back inside to grab my glass of wine.  Nonchalantly, I strode back out and leaned on the railing.  The figure was still there.  It was impossible to see any details from my veranda.  It could have been a woman, I supposed.  I raised my glass in salute to see what they’d do.  They just turned and walked away into the darkness.

“Well, that was creepy,” I said to myself and lit up a smoke.  I shivered a little as I did so.  The temperature was dropping.

I waited a bit longer on the veranda to see if my visitor returned— they didn’t.  So, I returned inside and corked the wine bottle.  With the case file organized, I picked it up to put it away.   Something slid across the floor, and I looked back—Morgan’s letter.  I was too tired to deal with it tonight.  I picked up the letter and stuck it under the same magnet as the unopened envelope from ten years ago.

Even emotionally and physically exhausted, I lay awake for about an hour, my mind racing, thinking about Marcella.  I tossed and turned, unable to get my mind off her.  Fantasies of kissing her drifted through my head, so exciting and terrifying that I couldn’t think.  I finally gave in and took half a Benadryl.  And it wasn’t very long before I yawned and knew no more.

9

She is standing before me—Marcella Carson, temptation incarnate.  I am unsure how I got here, and I think this must be a dream.

The ankle-length red dress caresses the curve of her hips as it clings to her body.  It is slit to the hip, and I can see the muscular calf and thigh of her left leg tantalizingly propped on a black patent leather heel.  The cloth seems to shimmer in the shifting light.  The bust of the dress just covers her breast and leaves little to my imagination.  Thin straps cling to her shapely shoulders that flow into well-toned arms, milk-skin soft and inviting.  The curve of her neck is perfection, each inch unlined and beautiful.  I look at her red-stained lips, slightly parted on her breathtaking face, framed by golden hair.  Her ice-blue eyes capture my gaze and hold me.

There is something wanton and lascivious within me.  I am helpless.  I can not think for the fear and excitement and lust that fills me, mixing headily into raging desire.  I want this woman—like I’ve never wanted anything.  Within me, a vast, desperate need reaches out for her.

I feel her fingers brush the back of my neck, and my body comes to life with a shiver — every hair standing on end.  I am hot, flushed in anticipation as she presses in closer.  Her breasts press against mine, and her long stocking-clad leg slides against my own as she leans in, her cheek against my face.

“I know you.”  Her words slide into my ears on a wisp of air, bringing a shiver to my spine.  Around us, the world is a soft cacophony of swirling whispers, barely heard and indiscernible, but my attention is solely hers.  She draws back, light fibrils of hair just tickling at the skin of my shoulder.  Everything, every sensation, every sound she makes, is all clear as crystal.  Her hand brushes against my bare ribs, startling me slightly.  My heart is a rabbit in my chest, thumping away.  I feel dizzy and lost in eroticism.  God, I am so—. I am unable to finish the thought as she speaks.

“Tell me that you want this.”

“Yes, please.” My voice is small and submissive.

“Good girl,” she whispers, and I feel a part of me let go, giving in.

Marcella leans in and brushes her lips to mine, soft and teasing.  My lips part; my eyes close.  The world becomes a dark well of sensation and sound and erotic pleasure.  The strange whispers have ceased, replaced by the more prurient whispers of her dress sliding against her skin — and mine.

Finally able to move, I wrap my arms around her in desperation, drawing her closer, tighter.  Her lips slide across my neck, followed by her teeth on my throat, nibbling.  Again, goose flesh rises all over me, and I tilt my head back to give her better access, tangling my fingers in her long, luxurious blond hair.  She nips and bites teasingly until finally slicing in with her teeth, sharp and stinging — painful.  The bite brings a soft whimper from my lips.

“Oh, God.”  My voice is breathy and thin.

I feel a deep tug from within as if every blood vessel were being drawn away toward that one painful, pleasurable area at my throat.  The noises of Marcella’s attentions are wet, lubricious.  I cry out in pleasure as an intense orgasm shudders through me, subsuming the pain and causing my knees to buckle.  She buoys me in her arms and presses her lips harder to my torn flesh.

I open my eyes, heavy-lidded, and Marcella pulls back again, her chin coated in liquid red— my blood in her mouth and on her face, as it should be.  I watch, bewitched, as bloody rivulets of my life slide down her throat onto her slightly exposed breast, crossing a faint scar near her collar bone.  She leans in and kisses me again.  I can taste the hot, salty iron of my own blood and something else, something thick and cool.  My vision tunnels and my head swims as the world starts to grow dark.  I would give her anything — blood, life, soul — as she holds me there, my body moving in convulsive pleasure.  The experience is so intensely, deliciously carnal.

I can feel another orgasm welling up within as she returns to her ministrations, intent on consuming me.

✽✽✽

My eyes shot open and then squeezed closed as I arched my back in a wave of pleasure and stifled an intense moan into my arm.  The orgasm was exquisite, long, and so powerful my legs shook.

“Holy shit,” I breathed, giddy with fading excitement.  “Well, that was — intense.”  I lay there for long moments, unable to move. The dream was so vivid, so profoundly physical.  I could still feel the pulse of arousal beating through me, and I slid my hands downward between—.

My phone rang, still out in the living room.

“Really?”  I implored to the empty air — “Un-fucking-believable.”

I rushed out to answer the damn thing, legs a little wobbly.  Then I saw who it was; I almost didn’t answer it.

“Gabe.” My voice was flat and stern.

“I’m so sorry.”

“And?” I prompted.

“I’ll come to the station today to give my statement.” He sounded like a scolded child, and it was actually kind of adorable if a bit ill-timed.  It was hard to stay mad at him, but I didn’t let myself relent, not yet.

“Fine.  Good. What got into you last night?  You’re usually not like that.”

“It’s this whole Carson thing.  It’s gotten into my head.”

He suddenly had one hundred percent of my attention.  “What do you mean?”

“This was a huge opportunity.  Carson was looking for a new vaccine supplier for TCD.  They’re looking for a new vendor for influenza and some others.  I had it in the bag.”  Everyone knew TCD; they were a humanitarian organization that managed and provided health care in the third world and combat zones.

Gabe sounded truly frustrated and angry.  “Now, Caldwell’s dead, and Marcella Carson isn’t accepting any calls.  That was a three-hundred thousand dollar commission for me.  It was my first large-scale deal, and now it may not happen.  If we can’t get this done, we may lose the TCD account as well.”

“Gabe,” I interrupted, very soft and level.  “I can’t talk to you about this right now.  You need to come to the station and lay all of this out.”

“What? I thought you’d understand.  This was going to get me into the President’s Club this year.  You know, the trip to Ibiza.  We were going to have such a good time.  Why are you being such a bitch?”

“Gabe,” I said, again very level.  “You’re right; I’ve been a bitch for the last couple of days; you don’t deserve that.  But, I cannot talk to you about anything related to Carson Logistics.  You need to go down to the station and give your statement to one of my teammates.  Bring Haimon if you can, but you need to come down today, Haimon or no Haimon.”  I waited for him to respond.

“Honey?” he prodded, the concern rising in his voice.  “What’s going on?”

“Gabe, honey — “ I paused and swallowed.  “Please just promise me that you will go to the station between two and ten today and give your statement.  I may or may not be there, but one of my team will take it.  I do love you; I hope you know that.”

The other end of the phone was silent.  I couldn’t say anything, and Gabe wasn’t the type to understand my job and its restrictions.  Like most suburban white kids, he had never had any significant interactions with the police.  The whole affair made me feel like shit.

His voice turned desperate. “Okay, I get it. But, honey, I had nothing to do with this.  You have to believe me.”

“That’s good then.  Just go to the station and put this behind you.  Then we can talk.”  I ended the call and immediately felt like an absolute piece of garbage.  But there was nothing I could do.  He certainly wasn’t a murderer, and there wasn’t any evidence to tie him to the crime, but it didn’t look great, either.  He just needed to go down and explain things. I hoped that would settle it.

How did my life suddenly get so complicated?  It had gone from stable and probably a little too static to entirely out of control in twenty-four hours.  My love life, my sexuality, maybe even my job, they all felt up in the air.  I plopped down on the sofa and put my face in my hands.  It didn’t take long before tears sprang forth.

Jabba came and curled up in my lap, meowing and rubbing his face all over my arms and hands.  I laughed a little at his attempt at consolation.

“Come here, buddy,” I said through my sniffles, cradling him in my arms.  “You’d make a pretty good boyfriend.” I leaned back on the sofa, still stroking Jabba’s fur, and tried to do what Jennifer taught me.  I began breathing slowly from my abdomen — in through the nose, out through the mouth.  Gradually, the tears stopped, but a feeling of hopelessness had settled into me, leaving me feeling tired.  I didn’t have to be on shift until two, so I decided that a bit of self-pity and gelato were in order.

A few minutes later, with a cat, a spoon, and a half-filled container of vanilla bean gelato, I sat in my bed drowning my sorrows.  But, it didn’t take long for me to finish the gelato and go back to sleep, leaving the container on the floor so Jabba could lick out the inside.

I was awakened about two hours later by Jabba’s plaintive mewing and a somewhat hollow whap-whap sound.  I got up to see what the little fur-ball had gotten into.  What I found pushed aside my misery instantly.  Jabba was on the floor, in a fit, his head stuck in the gelato container.  The noise I’d heard was him running into things as he flailed around to get it off.  I covered my mouth and started laughing.

I slowly removed the container from his head. “Oh, baby, you are the best cat in the world.  But, honey, you are so dumb sometimes.”  I laughed again and trashed the container.  I looked at my watch—11:28 AM.  Time to get going, anyway.

I needed to do something rather than wallow in more self-pity.  I had come to realize that work was my only escape, pathetic as that was.  So I showered and dressed and headed to Schroeder.

10

Our whole corner of the floor was a ghost town, not that I expected anything else at just after twelve. Plopping down at my desk, I wrote a warrant for Gabe’s phone records and sent it to the DA.  There was nothing for it as heart-wrenching as it was to snoop my boyfriend’s phone records.  God, I need some coffee.

Even though Carlos’ had given me carte blanche access to his Café Bustelo, I felt a little guilty taking it.  But, a few minutes later, I decided it was totally worth it.  And, by the time I’d finished my first cup, much of my morning misery was a long-forgotten memory.  That was fortunate given who called me moments later.

“Homicide, Reagan.”

“Detective Reagan?”  It was Marcella Carson’s beautiful British cadence.  I could have happily listened to this woman read a dictionary, and gooseflesh immediately popped on my arms and neck.

I tried to mask my abrupt nervousness and be cool.  “Yes, Ms. Carson.”

“I have the copies of Jesse’s diary, sorry, schedule, and a list of his projects along with relevant documentation.  There is some information that I cannot disclose for reasons of confidentiality.  I hope you understand.”

I grabbed a pen from my desk, twirling it in my fingers, as I recalled Carlos’ comments on moving firearms for the government.  “I understand.  Anything you provide may help, though.  Thank you.”

“It’s really no trouble, Detective.”

“So, when will you be here?”

“I’m sorry, Detective, I am swamped today.  But, I generally take tea at about three-thirty.  Do you think you could come by and pick them up, then?  I can have Ninetta fix something for you.  I’m sure, on your schedule, you’d like a bite about then.”

I almost laughed.  God, Cait, thirsty much?  Instead, I cleared my throat.  “That’d be fine.  I’ll come by around three-thirty, then.”

“Brilliant! I look forward to seeing you, then.”

I felt a little flutter in my belly but forced formality into my voice.  “Yes, ma’am.”

“Detective, please, call me Marcella.”

“Yes, ma’am,”  I replied, a stupid grin on my face, and hung up.  I was so flustered and excited that I had forgotten to say goodbye.

Jesus, Cait, you’re not going on a date.  You’re going to pick up evidence.

The next few hours passed dismally slowly.  I confirmed that Doyle had received Karen Walter’s cell phone, and then I did a case review with the team.  I had trouble concentrating, though.  My nervousness rose the closer I got to seeing Marcella again, and I kept losing track of my thoughts, remembering last night’s dream.  Finally, terrifyingly, the clock ticked over to three, and I left the building.

The ride to the Carson residence was pleasant.  One could hardly call the place an office.  I suspected Marcella Carson used the second-floor offices for convenience and a fat tax write-off.

Having swapped my stereo for the police radio, I’d resorted to listening to music on my phone, praising the wonders of noise-canceling earbuds.  And, though it was cold, the music and sunshine had brightened my mood considerably.  Stepping out of the car, I felt much more ready to take on Marcella Carson and her fabulous legs, last night’s dream notwithstanding.  I even found a parking spot along the square.

Keep it professional. I repeated the mantra over and over in my head as I walked.  But, my bravado melted when I knocked on the doors, leaving bees buzzing about in my stomach.  I wanted to see her again, maybe just look at her for a while.

Shit.  I have a crush.  Come on, Cait, what are you, twelve?

“Ah, Ms. — Um — Detective Reagan.  Come inside, please.” Ninetta’s words were inviting, even if her face seemed almost hostile.  “The Signora is in the sitting room.”  She led me through the sliding oak doors to a finely furnished sitting area.  Two beautiful Queen Anne chairs sat opposite an expensive sofa.  A small cherry wood table perched between the chairs sporting an exquisite porcelain tea set.

Marcella Carson sat in one of the chairs, the light from the burning fireplace giving her pale complexion a coppery shimmer.  She was fingering her hair, expertly tied back in Celtic braids that must have taken her an hour to do.  My simple ponytail felt ridiculous in comparison.

As I walked in, Marcella rose with feline grace, adjusting a red blouse of raw silk.  Looking down at me from atop four-inch heels, she cracked a dazzling smile, inviting and, I thought, a little flirtatious.  The sheer style on display was thoroughly intimidating.

I tried to keep my hand from trembling as I held it out. “Ms. Carson.”

“Marcella, please, Detective.  Ms. Carson makes me sound like someone’s mother.  How was your drive over?  Uneventful, I hope?”  Her voice slid through my head like velvet, so much better in person. She took my hand in hers, holding it just a tiny bit longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” I offered as Ninetta poured me a small cup of coffee and offered me a seat on the sofa opposite Marcella.  It smelled fabulous and tasted better—literally the smoothest coffee I had ever had. “God, this is amazing; what is it?”

“Kopi Luwak,” Marcella replied, the corners of her mouth turning up. “It’s Indonesian — considered the best in the world.  Just don’t ask how it’s made.”  Her smile held a suspicious glimmer of some inside joke.

Marcella hoisted a thick accordion file into her lap from behind her, and I started to rise to pick it up.  But she held up a hand, placing the file on the chair next to her. “Please, Detective Reagan, relax.  We have time.”

“Well, I don’t want to keep you from your busy schedule,” I responded in an attempt to cut the conversation short and escape.  But, Marcella was having none of it.

“Jesse was one of my best friends,” she countered. “I want to make sure you have whatever I can provide.  Besides, we probably need to go over the projects here.  Unless, of course, you have other things you need to do.”

So much for that idea.  I felt heat creep up my neck as I sat back down.  “No, ma’am.” I swallowed, and it sounded loud to my ears.

“Good, I cleared my schedule, so we could take the afternoon to work on this.” Her face was impassive and damn hard to read.

Cleared her schedule?  Swamped, huh.

“Okay, well, then, I have a few questions I’d like to follow up on before we crack open the information on the vic — Mr. Caldwell.”

Well done, Cait, very sensitive.

“Please, Detective, it’s Marcella, not Ms. Carson or ma’am or anything else.  I insist.” Her words were scolding, but she smirked as she said them.

“Sorry, Marcella, it’s the force of habit — army and all that.”

“Yes, your military service was quite impressive as I understand it.”

I raised an eyebrow.  Did she pull my service record? I shouldn’t have been surprised, given what Carlos had mentioned about government contracts.

“It was a war.  I was like any other soldier.” I said it without inflection, hoping she’d get the hint and ditch the subject.

“Truly Detective?  A purple heart, a distinguished service medal — you were nominated for the CMH as well, I believe.” At my expression, she added, “please don’t look so surprised. I like to know about the people with whom I deal.”

“Sorry.  It’s not something I generally talk about with strangers,” I admitted, deflecting her line of inquiry.

“I understand.  I’m sorry.  I was just curious.” She looked genuinely concerned that she might have offended me.  Watching her stick her foot in it made me feel a little better.  She was human, after all.

I needed to get control of the conversation, so I played her interest against her. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s take the next few minutes to get to know each other — say, to the end of our coffee?  Then, we can get to the business at hand.”

“Absolutely! However, we’ve wasted most of the first cup on silly pleasantries and banter.  I insist on a second.” Ninetta appeared from nowhere and provided both of us with a fresh cup of coffee.  Instead of a tiny teacup, she handed me a fat twelve-ounce mug. It was adorned with a cartoon vampire woman with bleary eyes and bedhead captioned with ‘I’m not a morning person.’

I knew immediately that I was out of my depth.  I had steered cold-hearted murderers into confessing and understood the tactics of manipulation well.  Marcella had just worked me over like a rookie.  I was willing to bet that she planned most of that exchange.  Probably so she could suggest a little quid-pro-quo, Hannibal Lecter style.  And, I’d walked right into it.

Part of me wanted to bail right then, and I raised the coffee mug. “Well played.”

If I tried to back out now, she would dangle the file.  If I tried to play coy in my answers, she’d think me impersonal and rude.  Carlos had been right; she was used to getting what she wanted.

She raised an appreciative eyebrow and half-hid a smile behind her cup in a way that seemed to say, ‘good girl.’  Is she flirting with me?

“So, I saw a picture of your mother,” I started.  “I think you might forgive me for thinking that you budded from her like some plant pod.”

Marcella’s laugh flowed over me, rich and warm. “No, Detective, I had a father.  I just inherited very different things from him. You’re not the first to mention my likeness to my mother.”

She set down her cup, and her face took on a faraway look. “My mother came from old money, and my father was more the adventuring type.  Their relationship was brief, and he wasn’t present for much of my childhood.  I do remember him coming home once when I was about ten, I think.  But he didn’t stay long.  A few weeks after he left, we found out he had been killed.  His killers — well, that’s a story for another time.  How about you?  What are your parents like?”

I looked at her, wondering how much to say.  Usually, I kept a strict line between my work and personal life.  On the other hand, there wasn’t a rule that I couldn’t get to know the lady.  Gasp, Cait, you might actually make a friend. I decided to be candid.

“Ma is Irish, born in the Gaeltacht,” I told her.  “She’s a linguistics professor at Boston College.  My da was a Boston cop.  He died when I was sixteen.  That was a rough time, but Ma and I got through it.  But, having just lost him a few years before, my ma had a fit when I joined the army.  When I returned from my second tour, after—.“  I stumbled for a second, squeezing my eyes shut to banish an unbidden image of McCall laying dead on the evac chopper.

“Are you okay?” Marcella placed a cool hand on my forearm, voice filled with concern.

“Yes.  Just a second.” I cleared my throat and opened my eyes to find Marcella almost kneeling before me, holding a handkerchief she had produced from somewhere.  I took it and dabbed at my eyes, trying to clear my throat again. “Sorry,  this is why I don’t talk about the war.”

She said nothing, just waited patiently.  Her eyes held me for a moment.  They were the same blue eyes of my dream; every strand of her irises seemed placed as I remembered.  And somewhere in those blue eyes, I saw a bit of understanding.

I took a sip of my coffee to wet my throat. “After the incident, Ma met me in Landstuhl at the military hospital.  If there were recriminations in her head, she never voiced them.  She just told me she was happy I was alive.

“A month later, I was re-deployed into an injured status and given desk duty at Fort Devens, walking guard duty and pushing paper for reservists.  I was taken off active duty six months after that.  So, I used my GI bill to go to college, and here I am.”

“For what it may be worth, Detective, I’m no stranger to trauma, and I’m sorry you had to go through that.” She sounded sincere, and I was suddenly very aware of how close she was.  I gently moved my arm from under her touch.

“I’m sorry,” Marcella apologized, standing and settling back to her chair. “That was inappropriate of me.”

“No, Ms. Car—Marcella. It’s alright.” As she moved away, I felt genuine disappointment, and I took a deep breath. “So, this place, it’s ginormous.  Do you live here alone?”

“Well, Ninetta lives here with me.” Marcella gestured toward a door in the back of the room. “She manages almost every aspect of my personal life.  Other than that, I am alone.”

She walked over to the doorway, looking up toward the foyer ceiling. Her voice adopted a soulful tone as she said, “I must confess, though, it is a lonely place.  I travel so much for business that I rarely have time to date.  I truly miss actual companionship.  Ninetta is nice, and she’s my friend, but —” She trailed off.

I couldn’t figure out if she spoke to me or simply talked to get it out.

Her tone then shifted to one of pleasant invitation.  “Come, Detective, let’s get to work.  I think the kitchen table would be best.  We can spread out, and there is good light to work by.  Also, there are snacks.”

I had intended to grab the materials and go, but now I didn’t want to leave.  While I hoped we might find a lead in the files, I had to admit that I just wanted to stay near Marcella for a bit longer.  Somewhere in the distant reaches of my brain, alarms were going off, but I ignored them.

As it turned out, the kitchen was more expansive than my apartment.  While I gawked, Marcella set the files on a small four-seat round table of expensive wood, polished to a shine.

“May I?” I asked as I drooled at the appliances.

“Of course, feel free to look around.”

A large marble island dominated the center of the kitchen, surrounded on three sides by some of the finest appliances I had ever seen outside a professional kitchen.  As I reached for the handle of an enormous Traulsen refrigerator that could hold at least three dead bodies, Ninetta stepped in front of me from nowhere.

“I am preparing something sensitive in there,” she said quickly.  “Please don’t open it.”

I grimaced in apology.  “Sorry.”

Ninetta didn’t move, and I couldn’t get past her to inspect the rest of the kitchen.  So, I walked back to the table. ”I’d kill for this kitchen.  I mean, the cooking I would do. Just wow.”

That peaked Marcella’s attention.  “Oh? You cook?”

I smiled broadly.  “When I have a reason to.”

She raised a sly eyebrow as if maneuvering me into a corner.  “Do you have a favorite dish?”

“My mother charmed a great recipe for Bolognese out of the chef at Grassona’s before he retired. It’s amazing. Umm. . . You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” I asked hesitantly.  Why did I care if she was a vegetarian?

Marcella pounced on the question.  “Why, Detective?  Are you offering to come here and make me dinner?  Of course, I accept.  And, no, I’m not a vegetarian.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m sorry,” she said with a laugh. “Were you not inviting me to have a home-cooked meal?”

“Uh. . .” I stuttered for a second. “Well, I-.  Shit.”

“Excellent!” Marcella clapped her hands. “I’m looking forward to it.  What night?”

“I can try to do it Monday night.”

“Pish,” she said lightheartedly. “Monday it is.  And don’t think I won’t come to find you if you stand me up.”

Of that, I had no doubt.

11

We sat at the kitchen table, where she drew out several thick folders from the accordion file.

“When did you do all of this?”  The material was mountainous.  As a cop, I’m used to extensive paperwork, but I’d be hard-pressed to put this together from our files over several days, let alone in less than twenty-four hours.

“Well, some of it I had already, and rather than toss and turn with insomnia, I got to work.  Though, if I’m honest, I can’t think of what we might find in here that will help.” She paused for a moment. “I want to thank you, Detective.”

“For what?” I asked, a little bewildered.

“For putting this kind of effort into Jesse’s case. I want to see his killer dealt with.”  Her eyes turned angry and hard.

It was a strange turn of phrase.  Honestly, the whole afternoon had been a little weird.

“Marcella?”

“Hmm?” She was in the middle of arranging the files into neat stacks according to the starting month of each project.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way.  But you seem less grief-stricken than I would expect.”

She looked up from the papers. “I’m older than I look.” She sighed heavily. “I will miss Jesse, his quick wit, his grousing over relationships, his bad jokes. But you are correct. I’m angry, outraged, really. He didn’t deserve this; no one does.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t questioning your relationship.  I was just curious.”  I turned back to the work at hand.

“It’s quite alright.  I know it’s your job.”

The files weren’t a jumbled mess, but despite Marcella’s protestations to the contrary, she had been hurried when she’d put them together.  We had to go through each one, ensuring the correct data was in the appropriate folder. On the other hand, Caldwell’s schedule was entirely in order and ready for review. As I flipped through it, I found a few redactions, which I asked about.

“Those are confidential meetings with government officials, and I can’t share them with you without a release from the agencies involved. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize; it may not matter.”

“I can tell you that two of them were just contract re-negotiations that had stalled.  The third was an audit of materials delivered overseas, a shipment that had been stolen when it arrived.  All three projects were closed and reports long filed.”

As we worked, Ninetta brought water to the table, giving me an inscrutable look as she set down the carafe and glasses.  I tilted my head in question, but she just walked out.  It was odd, but I turned back to Caldwell’s diary.  As I leisurely turned the pages, I spotted a glaring and rather disturbing discrepancy in the schedule.

“That’s interesting,” I murmured to myself. “I have a question.” I pointed to Wednesday’s date, and Marcella leaned over my shoulder, pushing back her hair. I could feel her proximity. She was so close that her breath tickled my neck, raising goosebumps and causing me to shiver slightly. I found it both enticing and a little unnerving. Focus, Cait.

“Yes, what is it?” she prompted when I didn’t say anything.

I swallowed loudly and cleared my throat before speaking. “Was Caldwell the type to not put something in his calendar?”

“No, that wouldn’t be like him. He was very thorough, almost meticulous.” I could still feel her breath on my neck as she spoke.  I tried to brush the feeling aside, but it drove me nuts and made my pulse quicken.  I finally tilted my head, and she backed away slightly.

“That’s weird then. Gabe said he and his boss had a meeting with him yesterday, but it’s not on his calendar.” I rubbed my arm a little nervously.  Marcella was still so close.

“Gabe?”

“My boyfriend,” I replied without thinking and then grimaced inwardly.  I hadn’t wanted to bring Gabe into our discussion.  I felt guilty enough as it was.

“You didn’t mention you had a boyfriend.” She paused, scrutinizing me with those incandescent eyes. “Oh—”  Her tone softened. “Is it not working out?”

I jerked my head around.  “Excuse me?”

“It’s just— you seemed upset. I can tell you’re very dedicated to your work. Does Gabe support your career?”

Wow, she is forward, I thought. And a little nosy.  “Sure he does.”  Despite myself, I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

Her brow furrowed in sympathy.  “That bad?”

“That’s not what I—.”

“Detective,” Marcella interrupted. “When people are in a solid relationship, probing about their significant other usually elicits a different response.  Your answer was tepid at best.  I assume he’s not thrilled with your career.”

Shit, I am so out of my depth.

I felt almost naked under her stare. In one question, she’d nailed one of the most significant issues Gabe and I shared—at least the issue we fought about most.

“We’ve never really discussed it,” I lied. “I assume Gabe’s okay with it.”

“Well,” Marcella said, turning back to the paper. “I would be proud to have such an accomplished companion.” Feigned innocence looked cute on her; she wore it well.

“Ms. Carson, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to flirt with me.” Two could play the innocent.

“Oh, come, come, Detective. Of course, I’m flirting with you.  You’re an attractive woman, and unless I’ve read my cards wrong, my advances would not be unwelcome.  Besides, everyone loves a buff woman, as I’m sure you’re well aware.” She followed the statement with a sweet smile, but her eyes were fierce and penetrating.  The bottom dropped out of my stomach.

I cleared my throat again and took a sip of water, careful to keep my face neutral.  Marcella was right; I found the attention flattering, but it felt discourteous.  Yesterday she had seemed distraught over Caldwell’s murder, and today, she appeared to be taking his death in stride.  Again it was odd.

“I just feel like we’re disrespecting Mr. Caldwell somehow.”

She seemed to think about it for a minute and then spoke gently. “Detective, I loved Jesse. He’s been a family friend for years.  But this isn’t the first time someone I’ve cared for has died suddenly.  Not even the second.  I just don’t grieve like most people.  I haven’t since my mother died.  I think I’m just built differently.  I do feel bad that Jesse is gone.  As I said, I’m going to miss him.” Her brow furrowed for a moment. “But, life doesn’t stop because of absent friends, and no one in my family was ever one to roam the halls tearing at their hair.  My mother taught me to keep my chin up and press on.  I took that lesson to heart long ago.”

I heard a much deeper pain hiding under her behavior, though.  She was grieving for Caldwell, and I found myself relieved.  Cold-blooded killers didn’t suffer for their victims.  I didn’t want to believe Marcella was a murderer.

“Of course, I’m sorry.” I reached out my hand toward hers but thought better of it and pulled it back.  Marcella smiled appreciatively at the gesture but said nothing and looked back to the papers.

“Pretty women don’t have to apologize in this house, Detective.” She didn’t look up, but I could see the edges of a suppressed smile on her face. “That includes you.”

“Uh-huh,” I said and laughed nervously. “I thought you Brits were all supposed to be understated and evasive.”

She flashed me a coquettish smile.  “I’m Swedish Detective. I’m sure you’ll find we have a very different reputation.”

“Please, call me Cait.”

“You know, Cait, you may just find that reputation to your liking.”

I fought the urge to react—and lost. The corners of my mouth crooked up at the suggestive remark.

We returned to business.  I took notes on what she told me, but the more we plunged through the stacks of papers, the more it became clear that Marcella was probably right.  There wasn’t much here, but my mind kept returning to the missing schedule entry; it was tickling at my gut.

“Could there have been something else work-related that might have led Jesse into trouble?” I asked, hoping for another avenue to pursue. “Anything he was working on that’s not here?”

Marcella blew out an exasperated breath and looked up, irritation plain to see. “That’s unlikely. My company doesn’t involve itself in anything illegal. We don’t ship illicit substances. And while we do occasionally deliver military supplies, we do it according to U.S. federal law. Such shipments are very lucrative to the organization, but almost every dollar goes back into humanitarian work or charity. We’re above board and pay all of our taxes. This isn’t the Trump Organization or Blackwater, Cait; we’re a U.S. Non-Profit that does important humanitarian work.”

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to offend you,” I apologized. I had been trying to empathize, not piss her off.

“I’m not offended.  But, any implication that we might be anything but legitimate and law-abiding here is a tender spot for me.  Now, can I ask you a question in return?”

“If I say no, will that stop you?”

“Of course not.”

I sighed. “Okay, ask away.”  I reached for my water to take a sip.

“Why are you with your boyfriend?”

I coughed and spluttered into my glass.  I’m not sure what I had expected her to ask, but it certainly wasn’t that. “I’m sorry?”

“Well, when I inquired about your boyfriend, you turned sarcastic, and I think you were less than honest about his perspective on your career.  It must be hard.”

“Are you always this nosy?” I wiped the water off my chin with a napkin.  Her drilling had struck oil again.  I was profoundly unhappy, and I knew it, unhappy with my past, my regrets, my boyfriend, my life.  The truth embedded in the question stung and sucked the wind out of my sails.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I don’t know,” I admitted softly, abruptly feeling very small and very upset.  Marcella didn’t say anything for a few minutes, and I tried to compose my jumbled thoughts.  “We should probably stick to the case.”

“Detective, I really do think you are quite pretty. But moreover, you have a fascinating intellect and such a strong heart. You manage a job that is so cruel and demanding without support.  And that seems wrong, somehow.  I know I seem terribly forward, but I don’t believe in dawdling.  Time should not be wasted.” She looked at me with compassionate eyes for a moment longer.

I didn’t know what to say, but I felt so exposed like my chest was being peeled open to reveal my heart.  I dared not look up.  The hard-boiled Detective laid bare by the beautiful woman; it was so cliché.

“Have you ever heard of Karin Boye?” She asked quietly.

“‘Let me live truly, and truly die but once,’” I quoted automatically and froze.  Karin Boye was one of my favorite poets, but her work also held a terrible secret for me.  And I just knew that Marcella Carson was about to rip my heart from my chest.

I briefly wondered how she was doing this and continued to stare hard at the paper in front of me as if the columns of text might save me from what came next.

“Önskan is, certainly, one of my favorites,” she said. “I do find it inspiring. The poem I was actually thinking of, though, is Ja visst gör det ont.”

I felt a lump forming in my throat.  Translated into English, the title is ‘Yes, of course, it hurts.’  It was Boye’s most famous poem, and I had read it often after leaving the army. It soothed the pain, reminding me that growth is always accompanied by hardship and loss. It had been a balm to my cracked and broken soul that had seen too much, too soon, and seemingly all at once.  Now, my brain seized up at the mention of the title; I couldn’t move, nor could I speak.

Marcella continued, quoting the poem in English, her voice soft, low, and sultry, almost—seductive.

“Yes, of course, it hurts when buds are breaking.

Why else would the springtime falter?

Why would all our ardent longing

bind itself in frozen, bitter pallor?

After all, the bud was covered all the winter.

What new thing is it that bursts and wears?

Yes, of course, it hurts when buds are breaking,

hurts for that which grows

and that which bars.”

With a simple utterance, Marcella dragged me into a hot, dark, suffocating place, a place of screaming children and burning soldiers, a place of gunfire, and rape, and hurt.  It encompassed the totality of pain, guilt, and loss in my life, forcing my fingertips into the tabletop, unable to let go. Those words, which I had relied on to help me get through day after day, had long since become an errant conjuration, summoning the horrors lurking in the black places of my head.  I could barely breathe for long moments.

“Please, stop,” I pleaded weakly when I finally found my voice.  I felt very afraid for some reason, afraid to stay under her perceptive eyes and yet unwilling to leave. Light flirting had turned into an invasion. I know she hadn’t meant to push me down into the abyss, but she had.  And now, here I was.

Marcella leaned in close and put her hand on mine.

I looked at our hands, joined on the table, then back to Marcella and her lovely eyes.  In a matter of a few hours, this woman had read me like a book and stormed the gates to my carefully structured life, giving the lie to it.  And it scared me how suddenly and desperately I wanted her.  I longed to touch her, to kiss her, to embrace her.  We had just met, and, now, she was pulling me into her orbit, just like Morgan had in Iraq— a force of nature.  But I couldn’t trust my own feelings—feelings that I scarcely understood.  So, I did the only thing I could; I panicked and ran.

“I—I can’t do this,” I stated flatly, frowning and pulling my hand from under hers. I stuffed everything back into the accordion file, snatched it up, and left without another word or a backward glance, gently closing the door behind me.  Truly rude, I knew.  But I had to escape, get some distance, and I needed air.

Sitting in the car, I drifted into a sea of embarrassment, anger, sadness, and want, filled with self-recrimination for crossing the professional line.  I needed to pull myself back together and get back to work.  Squinting through yet more tears, I fumbled out my keys to start the Jeep when my phone buzzed.

Carlos: Gabe is here. Blackman is a no-show.

Me: Let me know when you are done.

Carlos: Will do. He brought a lawyer. Some asshole named Brad.

“Fuck,” I muttered to myself.  “Gabriel Parkman, you are a dumb ass.”

12

I turned off the car and sat in front of my apartment building, my head against the steering wheel; I had to think. Fuck, I needed to breathe. I was so off-kilter, panicked even.  After a few minutes of hyperventilation and near abject terror, I finally pulled myself from the car and trudged up the stairs, my feet stepping in the smears of brown wood showing through the worn white paint.

What am I doing? I wondered as I collapsed on the couch.  After a few minutes, Jabba finally padded from my room to curl up on my lap.  “Huh, little man? What is your mommy doing?”  Jabba stared at me with those orange feline eyes and purred, demanding attention.

I scratched the cat and thought briefly about Gabe.  I was utterly disconnected from him. Even if he hadn’t become a person of interest in the case, he and I had just drifted along in our relationship—going to dinner, hockey games, the odd movie, occasional sex, which was okay at best. It wasn’t going anywhere.  Maybe that was the problem.  In my therapy sessions, Jennifer had suggested that I might be keeping everyone at arm’s length to avoid becoming emotionally invested.  She was probably right, and Gabe deserved better.  He deserved someone that would take care of him, someone who wanted what he wanted, and someone who loved him the way he needed.

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

Unknown: Caitlin, I apologize for being so familiar.

Marcella, obviously.  I rubbed my head in exasperation and responded.

Me: It’s okay. I’m sorry for walking out. I just need to keep this professional.

Marcella: I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I understand. Please let me know if you change your mind.  :heart emoji:

A heart emoji?  God, she was persistent.  I set down my phone and opened the accordion file, starting over with the list and paying particular attention to the projects from the last couple of months. There were only five that hadn’t been marked as closed out before the summer. A pharmaceutical company tried to fleece Carson for HIV drugs destined for Nigeria. The company that held the patent wanted to charge Carson four times the US over-the-counter cost for drugs they weren’t even manufacturing themselves — fucking bandits. That project was marked as a strictly internal charity effort, so no third parties were involved.

Next, the current government of Myanmar wasn’t honoring import tariff agreements negotiated with the previous government — on hold for US State Department intervention.

The third project was arranging a shipment of blankets, foodstuffs, and essential medicines from various parts of the US to Boston for homeless veterans — noble. This was marked as an internal charity matter as well.

The fourth project was a joint cancer research effort with the Margaret Chastity Cancer Center.  It seemed to be the project that Jesse spent the most time on.  There were receipts for a dozen trips back and forth to Buffalo.  It was another internal charity matter and not terribly relevant.

The final project was a stalled internal accounting systems project.

I dropped the files on the table in frustration.  Maybe Caldwell cut his own head off because he was sick of accountants, I mused.  It seemed to be about all he dealt with.

What the fuck am I missing?

Something was nagging at me. Then it struck me. It wasn’t that I was missing something.  Something was actually missing. There was no mention of any project or work related to new vaccine vendors for TCD.  There was no mention of TCD at all.  I found nothing on Kineda Pharmaceuticals, either.

I sat back in the chair again and drank some of my water. Marcella was correct; there wasn’t anything in the files that pointed to the murder. But something was God damned well not there.

I shook my head. What the hell is going on?  I snatched up my phone and texted Carlos.

Me: Gabe told me that Carson was looking for a new vaccine vendor for TCD. There’s no mention of it in any of Carson’s files here.  He said that’s why he and Mr. Blackman were meeting with them.

Carlos: Hold tight.

I went to the veranda and lit up a cigarette, watching the gray smoke drift away on the light breeze. Leaning back on the railing and glancing up, I could see Rebecca, my upstairs nosy neighbor, looking out across the street. I didn’t feel like talking, so I moved back to the doorway, staying out of sight.

Rebecca was an extraordinary little, old Jewish lady who should keep her nose firmly out of other people’s affairs.  The emphasis was on extraordinary, though. Besides, as a homicide detective, I was always in someone else's business.  So, I really couldn’t judge her for that.  Her husband, Eitan, a retired chef, had passed away a few years earlier, leaving her little to do but focus on others.

I liked Rebecca, though she held firmly to the belief that the Irish would be the death of civilization.  I simply considered that part of her bigoted charm.   Some things you have to overlook in people because they’re too old to change and their influence on the world faded long ago.

“Well, hi, Cait? Fun night last night?” she asked.

Shit. “I’m sorry?” My cheeks started to burn.

“It sounded like you and Gabe were, well, you know, being—intimate,” she said. “You were pretty loud.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Weiss. Gabe was only here for a few minutes, and there was no nookie.”

Rebecca’s face was utterly skeptical. “If you say so.” She ducked back inside.

I flushed with embarrassment.  Oh my God! Had I been moaning in my sleep? How fucking mortifying.  Jesus.

I turned away to finish my cigarette and make sure no one had heard our exchange.

As I finished my smoke, my phone rang.

“Homicide, Reagan.”

“He’s left the building,” Carlos said from the other end. “Come on in, and we can talk about what we found out.”

“On my way,” I said quickly and hung up.

13

Carlos waited at his desk with the interview recording paused.   “Well, you want to watch it or just get the reader’s digest version?”

“How long is the recording?” I asked as I set down my gear.

“An hour and a half. I grilled Gabe pretty hard. His lawyer is an absolute asshole and an idiot. Where’d he find that guy?”

“Please don’t mention Brad Matthews to me. I have a weak stomach.”

“Oh, so you know the guy.” It was a statement, not a question. It seemed Carlos had the same opinion of Brad that I did.

I gave him an icy stare. “Yes, I know him; he’s one of Gabe’s old frat brothers.”

Carlos frowned.  “Why don’t you watch the recording for the full effect while I make us some coffee and return a couple of phone calls?”

While I watched the recording, Carlos returned with a mug of the good stuff.

“How much of this did you bring in?” I asked, gesturing with my mug.

He smirked.  “Enough.”

I skipped ahead in the recording, passing the perfunctory questions like ‘state your name and occupation.’  Gabe looked not just hungover but sick. Bags sat under his bloodshot eyes, and his blond hair was a flat, greasy mat.  Gabe's complexion was pale, gray, and waxy—anemic.  Brad, by contrast, looked the perfect picture of sobriety, brown eyes clear and black hair neatly parted and combed; that man could drink like a fish.

“So, tell me where you were on Tuesday night,” Carlos started.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Brad interjected with a smirk. It was clear he was just trying to get the better of Carlos; show him who’s boss. Carlos ignored him, as did Gabe.

“I was at dinner with Mr. Haimon Blackman, the Vice President of my division. We were at the Capital Grille in Chestnut Hill until eleven. After that, I went home,” he said.

After scribbling some notes, Carlos asked, “Can anyone confirm your whereabouts after eleven?”

“You don’t have to answer that, Gabe,” Brad said again.

“Dude!” Gabe looked at Brad in annoyance, then turned back to Carlos. “No, I was at home alone. I did speak to my mother on the phone, and my cell phone records will confirm that.”

Carlos continued writing.  "What time was that phone call?”

“Detective Ramirez,” Brad said. “I’m sure you can pull his phone records to find that. Presuming you can get a warrant.”

Gabe just continued; Brad frowned.  “I don’t know; she called me at like midnight, I think, to tell me my dad is in the hospital."

Good boy, I thought, just cooperate, and this will all be over.

“Did you go to the hospital to see him?”

“No,” Gabe said, face stoic, but I could hear his sorrow. “We don’t get along. The guy’s a prick.”

Poor Gabe, no wonder he was so wrecked last night. He’d lost the deal of his career, assuming there ever was one.  His father was in the hospital, probably pretty sick for his mother to call him at midnight. And I was treating him like shit. I am such a bitch.

“She had been trying to reach me most of the day but kept getting voice mail because Haimon — Mr. Blackman—had my phone,” Gabe said quietly.

“Why did Mr. Blackman have your cell phone?” Carlos asked, eyebrow raised.

Brad opened his mouth to object again, but Gabe put a hand on his shoulder. “Brad, I didn’t do anything. Let’s just get this over with, okay?” Brad sat back quietly.

“Because, Detective Ramirez, he is the Vice President of my division.  I work for a large Japanese company. When your boss asks you for something, you do it, and you don’t ask a bunch of questions. Mr. Blackman did volunteer, however, that his phone wasn’t working properly.” Gabe looked much calmer now. His jitters seemed to have subsided, and I could see the confident man I’d admired when I met him.

“While I had told Detective Reagan that I had arranged the vaccine deal for TCD with Carson Logistics, that was all Mr. Blackman’s doing. Last Friday, Mr. Blackman flew in and pulled me aside, saying that he needed me to take point on a deal.” Gabe then outlined the TCD deal precisely as he had to me.

“On Tuesday, Mr. Blackman and I went to dinner to strategize on the account.  He returned my phone then. I had seven voice mails from my mother when I got it back. I didn’t listen to them, though, because she called me again shortly after Mr. Blackman returned my phone.”

“Where is Mr. Blackman now?” Carlos asked.

Before Gabe could answer, Carlos looked at his phone. He held up a hand, stopping Gabe’s answer, and typed out something. Then he went back to the interview. That must have been about the time that I texted him.

“I have no idea,”  Gabe responded.  "Blackman wasn’t at the office when I got there, and no one has seen him since Tuesday.  Honestly, Detective, that is everything that I know about all this.”

“So, Mr. Parkman, can you tell me honestly that you had nothing to do with Mr. Caldwell’s death?” Carlos asked straight up.

“I had nothing to do with Mr. Caldwell’s murder, Detective.”

That was all I needed to see. The interview went on for another hour, so I started fast-forwarding and I’d get any other details from Carlos later. I stopped the recording when something caught my eye.

Both Brad and Gabe were standing and looked to be arguing. I backed it up a little and hit play. “Brad, just go. I should never have brought you in here. You’ve been nothing but a frat boy all your life, and that’s all you’ll be, no matter how many university degrees you have. I can handle the rest of this myself.”

“Gabe, I highly recommend —,” Brad started, but Gabe cut him off.

“I said, get out. I can handle this. You’re off the hook. It’s recorded here, and I’ll sign a release later,” Gabe’s voice was loud and firm.

“Good for you, Gabe; Brad’s an asshole.”

Gabe sat down, and Carlos began grilling him again. Gabe never wavered in his story for the rest of the interview. He added details, like what they ate for dinner and his business schedule that morning, but the main points didn’t change. Haimon had set up the deal. Haimon had made the phone calls, and Gabe wasn’t involved.

“Just one more thing,” Carlos said, and I chuckled. He sounded a little like Columbo. “We have Mr. Caldwell’s calendar, and there’s no mention of a meeting with you or your company on Wednesday. How do you explain that?”

Gabe looked at Carlos impassively for a second, then he replied. “That’s probably a question you should ask Ms. Carson or Mr. Blackman. I have no idea. Maybe he forgot to write it down.”

“Okay, so let’s go over this one more time,” Carlos said once again.

Gabe finally lost his cool, banging his hand on the table.  “No, we’ve gone over this a dozen times, and I’m done. So, I’m leaving. You know how to get in touch with me if you have any other questions, but I’ve given you enough time.”

Gabe stood up and offered his hand to Carlos. “Detective, I hope you find your killer. If for no other reason than so that I can have my girlfriend back.” My mouth dropped.  Damnit, Gabe, you passive-aggressive prick.  He knew I’d see this.

I turned to Carlos, who was at his desk. “So?” I prodded.

“So, I think he knows more than he’s saying,” Carlos said, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair. “He’s caught between a rock and a hard place. He works for one of the last keiretsus in Japan. He might know where his boss is hiding, but he can’t tell us. He’ll get fired, and I don’t think he can take that right now. I think Blackman is our guy, though. I don’t have anything to back it up, just my gut.”

“You think Gabe’s involved?”

“No,” Carlos said sympathetically. “I don’t think he had a clue that Caldwell would be murdered. Also, I don’t know if you caught it, but he did say that Haimon Blackman tends to wear expensive brand name everything, shoes included. Though, he couldn’t recall what kind of shoes Mr. Blackman was wearing the night of the murder.”

I reached out and touched Carlos’ arm. “Thank you,” I said sincerely.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “But before you run off and call him, tell me about your date today.”

I plopped the accordion file onto his desk. “Yeah, about that,” I said. “You were right; Marcella goes after what she wants.”

“Marcella, huh.  You on a first name basis?”

“She insisted.  Sorry.”

“No reason to apologize.  I think it’s cute.” He winked at me. “Regardless, you look none the worse for wear,” he said. “So she must not have been trying too hard.”

I grinned stupidly and tugged at my ear. “Oh, she was putting on a full-court press.  I mean, she’s a fucking barracuda.”

Carlos just laughed.“Did you at least learn anything new?”

“Well, she’s hot, lonely, and thinks I'm pretty.”

“About the case, darlin’, not your dating prospects,” he clarified with a smirk.

“Well, she’s convinced that Mr. Caldwell’s death wasn’t related to his work,” I said, thinking about my exchange with Marcella. “Looking at the files she provided, I can’t find anything that suggests otherwise.  But none of it looks good for Gabe or his boss.  The two people who most likely spoke to him last, and neither had an alibi.  But I don’t get why they’d do it at all.  I mean, Gabe’s a sales guy, coin-operated, you know.  I’m not seeing what he would have to lose or gain by the guy’s death.”

“Hard to say,” Carlos agreed.  “But, I do know that people murder for two reasons when you get right down to it, money and sex.  If there was a big deal to be had and Caldwell backed out, one of them might be angry enough to kill him.”

I rubbed the back of my neck.  “Well, Gabe did say that his commission alone on the deal was supposed to be three-hundred-thousand.  But that would mean a huge deal, and Marcella seemed to think there was no deal.”

“She might have been lying,” Carlos said.

“That’s possible, I guess.  In the end, we’ve got nothing tying either of them to the murder.  I want to talk to Blackman and hear his story.”

“You and me both, sister. By the way, I found a witness in the Washington case.”

“Really?” I said, a little skeptical. “Who?”

“Ms. Carlita Angelina Estrada.”

I grabbed my notebook and thumbed through the pages. “I interviewed Ms. Estrada, but she said she didn’t see anything. How’d you get her to talk?”

“I speak the language.  She’s from Guatemala, and my family’s from Mexico, but we’re all Latinos and Latinas in gringo territory, know what I mean?  Anyway, she has a nephew in Austin whose in a spot of trouble. I promised to make a call for her.” Carlos smiled widely.

“Well, hot shit. What did she say?” I asked expectantly.

“The man you’re looking for is Aileas Mendéz. His street name is JJ.” At my bemused expression, he held a hand up. “Don’t ask; she has no idea why they call him that, and neither do I. She’ll be here at seven tonight to give a statement. The fugitive task force is already looking for Mendéz.”

“Good job Carlos,” I said.

“No,” he said. “Good job, Reagan. Your notes and reports were spotless, making my work easy.” I flushed at the compliment. “Don’t let it go to your head, though. I’m pretty sure I can write a better report.”

I smiled, wondering where he was going. “Oh, how’s that?”

“I’m from Texas, darlin’. We do everything better there. Haven’t you heard?” he said.

“Except pro football,” I fired back with a grin.

“Ouch,” he said. Let’s be honest, though; there wasn’t anything he could say.

I picked up my phone and dialed Gabe’s number.

“Hey,” Gabe sounded tired and defeated.

“Hey, I’m sorry all this has happened. Is your dad okay?” I asked.

“No, he’s had a major stroke. The doctors say he’s brain dead.”  I knew he didn’t have a good relationship with his father, but I also knew that closure could be essential in those instances.

“Are you going to go see him?” I asked with more than a bit of disquiet

“Mom wants me to, but I’m not sure,” he replied. I could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

“Would you like me to go with you?” I asked softly. “It might help you get through it.”

“You don’t mind?”

“No, Gabe. It’s the least I can do.  I haven’t been a very supportive girlfriend lately,” I said.  That was an understatement. I’d been an absolute bitch.  Gabe was hurting, and I had been so wrapped up in my shit that I hadn’t even considered that something might be eating at him. “Where do you want me to pick you up?” I asked.

“I’m at my house.  How soon can you get here?”

“I’m waiting on a witness to show up in less than an hour and give a statement,” I said. “Is that soon enough?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Dad’s on life support; he’s not going anywhere. I’ll let my Mom know I’ll be by this evening.  Please don’t bail on me on this one,” he said.  It was just another kick in the gut.  Shit.

“I’ll be there,” I said. “Eight-thirty at your place.”

Ms. Estrada arrived at HQ at six-forty-five.  Carlos sat her down in the interview room, and we both spoke to her.  She fingered Aileas and about jumped out of her seat when Carlos said he’d spoken to the Captain in Austin, helping get her nephew into the scared straight program rather than jail.  Carlos was good people.  We bid Ms. Estrada goodbye and went back to our desks.

“Okay,” I looked at my watch.  It was seven-thirty. “I’m going to head out and take Gabe to see his father in the hospital.”

Carlos gave me a sad smile.  “That’s fine.  I’ll go over the material you have here.  If I have any questions, I’ll let you know.”

I followed Carlos back to the cubes and started slamming my stuff into my backpack.

Carlos looked at me, his voice very serious.  “Darlin’, try to relax.  I know you’re stressed.  I’ll take a look at them later, but I’m sure you’re right. There’s probably nothing in there related to the murder. Besides, I’m much more interested in your visit to Marcella-land.”

“Oh, no. I told you. Marcella’s a champion manipulator.  When we stopped dancing around it, she was extremely candid — which I appreciated. I’m going to see my boyfriend now.”

“Okay,” Carlos said as I gathered my things. “Go take care of your boy.  We got this, but keep your phone on.”

“Always, Carlos.” I gave Carlos a half-hearted smile and walked out of the building.  As I got in the car, I took a deep breath to steel myself.  This was going to be another long night.

14

Gabe lived in a cute blue duplex in West Roxbury.  The house itself had a gorgeously manicured lawn.  His mother, I suspected.  I had a black thumb, so all I could do was admire the pretty flowers.  Any plant I even looked at wrong was likely to die.  There was still a dead cactus on my veranda.  A badge of my failures as a gardener. I mean, who kills a cactus?

Like most of the homes in the area, it was single-family built in the nineteen-twenties, split to accommodate apartments.  The first floor constituted Gabe’s home.  The upstairs was empty, dark, and ominous.  The curtain-less windows reminded me dimly of a spider’s eyes, all gazing down at the street for the next victim.  I thought I saw movement, but there was nothing—a trick of the light, maybe.

Gabe was sitting under the small white-columned portico that served as cover for both doors.  He stood and walked to the sidewalk as I pulled up.  His stride seemed to have a slight limp to it.

I rolled down the window.  “Hey, get in.”  Honestly, I couldn’t come up with a better greeting.  I could feel the strain between us in my gut. Gabe’s face shifted between sadness and rage.  That was something I could understand.  His father, Richard, had beaten him as a kid —Gabe often taking the blows meant for his mother.  His mother had refused to leave his father, though, being a good Christian wife or something like that.  If someone abused me like that, they wouldn’t have to worry about me leaving. I’d toss them out, change the locks, and file a restraining order.  Of course, that’d be after they got out of the hospital.

I’d met Gabe’s father only once.  The man tried to be intimidating, talking about how a woman should be in the home, not the police force—sexist pig shit.  We had been at Easter dinner one year.  After we left, I explained I wouldn’t be going back a second time, and I wasn’t kind about it either.  I’d met men’s parents many times over the years, but it had been the first time I’d actually sworn off a second meeting.

Gabe got into the car and closed the door.

“Hey, honey,” I said, turning the key. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said, taking my hand before we could pull out. “I know your job is hard, and you’ve been having a tough time with combat stress, and I should have been more understanding. Dad’s at Boston Medical Center.”

“It’ll be alright,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “I know this must be hard.” And I did.  One of the worst things a person can suffer is the loss of a parent, even an abusive one.  Humans seem to be hardwired to seek the approval of their parents or parental figures.  It can leave an empty hole, full of need, never filled.

Gabe didn’t respond; he just kept looking out the window, watching the cars go by.

“Are we in trouble?” Gabe asked after about ten minutes.

“What do you mean?”

“I’d like to know if you’re thinking about leaving me,” he said quietly.

“No, Gabe,” I lied. “Besides, I don’t think this is the time to talk about it.” The last thing I wanted was to fight the way to see his dying father.

“Okay,” he said and blew out a breath.  I would probably pay for that lie at some point down the road, but I just couldn’t break his heart — not right now.  “I don’t understand why I feel sad that my dad is going to die.  I have hated that man for years.  But, here I am, going to see him in his final hours.  He doesn’t deserve that.”

“No, Gabe,” I said softly. “He doesn’t.  But you do.  You deserve to close this relationship and have some peace from it.  Also, I’ve known you long enough to know that doing the right thing is important to you. You’re not just doing this for yourself; your mother needs you, too.”

Gabe started to cry.  In the entirety of our relationship, I had never seen him cry. He’d always been composed and relatively strong — a little whiny sometimes — but never distraught.  Now I saw the scared little boy underneath all of that, peeking out.  He always talked about the therapy I needed to handle my PTSD, but he never seemed to have a clue of his own need for the same.

“People just suck,” he said.

“Yes, they do,” I responded, understanding where this was going.

“My father was a bastard, and my mother stayed with him for forty years.  I know she loved him, but how could she stay with him after all of the abuse?  I just don’t understand it.  She was never there for me, and now I have to go console her over that asshole.” Gabe ran a hand through his hair, pulling several loose strands out.

I glanced at the wad of hair in his hand.  “Jesus, Gabe, you need to destress. You’re so wrecked; your hair is starting to fall out, and you look pale and sallow.  Are you sleeping?”

Gabe flicked the strands, watching them fall to the floorboard.  “I’ll be alright; it’s just been a bad few days.” He talked a good game, but his hopeless expression said otherwise. “Besides, you never take time off.”

I wasn’t going to let him brush this off.  “I’m serious, Gabe.  You look like shit, honey.  What’s going on?”

Gabe said nothing else.  He just sighed and stared back out the window.

We arrived at BMC a half-hour later, and I followed Gabe to his father’s room in the ICU.  The nurse gave me a little static since I wasn’t family.  But, after I had explained a little of the situation and flashed my badge, she let me in.  A little professional courtesy can go a long way.  I can’t count the number of nurses I’d pulled over for speeding or other minor infraction and then let go.  I waited in the hallway as Gabe went in.

His mother was waiting inside, holding Richard’s hand and quietly sobbing.  Gabe put his arms around her.  When she saw me, her expression changed to one of disappointment.  While Gabe’s mother wanted him to get married and have kids, she did not want him to do it with me.  But, I thought, she’d resigned herself to the fact that Gabe had chosen me — even if I hadn’t.

I watched the interaction between the two and thought about my mother.  We had a different kind of relationship.  Unlike Deborah Parkman, my mother was strong and independent.  When my father died, she’d pulled herself together, organized his funeral and burial, and even arranged a nice Irish wake.  She waited until it was all over to crumble, regularly disappearing back to Tourmakeady.  I remembered many nights listening to her wail herself to sleep.

“Caitlin?” Deborah called from the room. “Could you please ask the nurse to come in?”

“Sure,” I said, turning away from the room.

I walked over to the nursing station.  An attractive young black woman in blue scrubs sat, typing on the computer.  She twisted her platinum wedding band as she studied the computer screen.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said as graciously as I could. “But —”

She lowered her glasses and looked at me, and grinned. “You’re not interrupting, honey.  What can I do for you?”

“Room four,” I said, smiling back.  I knew I shouldn’t smile at her with Gabe sitting grief-stricken in the room, but I couldn’t help myself—the woman was pretty.  And her warm smile made me flush a bit.  “They’re asking for a nurse.”

“Oh,” she said flatly, and her smile vanished.

She stood up, and we both walked to the door.  As the nurse stepped into the room, Deborah put a hand on my chest, stopping me from entering.  Gabe looked up briefly, eyes full of need and misery, imploring me to stand with him.  Then, Deborah shut the door in my face as if I were a stranger rubbernecking an accident.  I just stood there and closed my eyes for a moment, then I took a short breath, blowing it out in a rush.

What am I doing here?

I left the hallway and parked myself in the ICU waiting room.  I watched, leaning in the doorway, as a few people walked into the corridor.  One had the look of a respiratory therapist.  It was nothing in particular; they seemed to have a way about them.  The nurse I had met earlier walked up to me with a small paper coffee cup in her hand.

“Here,” she said. “You looked like you could use it.  They’ll be getting ready to remove him from life support shortly.”

I first thought it was coffee; then, I smelled the chocolate.  I accidentally brushed her hand as I took the cup, and she smiled.  I expected her to walk away, but she stayed, leaning against the wall next to me.

“Boyfriend and his mother?” She asked.

“Something like that,” I said quietly, taking a sip of the hot chocolate, finding it the crappy, powdered kind but welcome nonetheless.

“Reminds me of how my partner’s family treats me,” she said, taking a spot along the wall to my right. “Like I’m not part of the family, and we’ve been married for five years.  But, we have each other.”

I didn’t say anything; I just kept staring at the doors.

“Some people have a narrow vision of what’s important. I’d think your boyfriend would need all the support he could get at a time like this.” She continued leaning against the wall, arms crossed but turned herself toward me. “Though, when you walked in here, I had pegged you for his sister or a friend.  It wasn’t until his mother shut you out of the room that I realized you were together.”

“Huh,” I said without inflection, continuing to listen and sip the hot chocolate.

“Does he know?” She asked.  I didn’t have to ask what she was referring to.

I looked at the floor. “No,” I said quietly.

“How long have you known?” she asked.

“About a day and most of my life, depending on how I look at it,” I said.

She laughed. “Yeah, that’s usually the way it goes for us late bloomers. There’s a whole world out there that tries to tell you what’s normal.  And it’s, well, normal to try to conform to that.  Word of advice, though,” She said as she pushed herself off the wall with her shoulder.

“Hmm?” I said, still staring at the door.

“The longer you wait, the worse it will be.  It doesn’t go away, Detective.” She started walking toward the doors.

“Is it that obvious?” I asked at her back.

“That you’re a cop? Hell yes,” she replied, still striding to the doors. “You coming?  I still think he could use your support.”

I sipped the hot chocolate and followed the nurse into the corridor.  The room was open again, and a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with graying hair and a crooked nose worked on one of the machines, the respiratory therapist I’d seen earlier.  Gabe and Deborah were sitting next to the far side of the bed.

The nurse I’d been speaking with walked into the room. “Mr. Parkman,” she said. “Would you like your girlfriend in the room with you?”

Gabe looked up.  “Yes, please.”

“I don’t think—” Deborah started, but the nurse cut her off.

“Ms. Parkman,” she said firmly. “This is a traumatic time for everyone, and I’m sure Mr. Parkman could use all the support he can get.” And that was that; Deborah Parkman just shut up and stopped arguing.  That’s how good nurses dealt with troublesome families, no-nonsense and not above shaming them into compliance.

I walked into the room and put my hand on Gabe’s shoulder.  Neither Gabe nor Deborah were looking when the nurse winked at me.

A young man in a physician’s coat stood before the bed.  “I’m Dr. Vankateswara Patel, Mr. Parkman’s attending physician.” Doctor or not, to me, he looked about twelve years old.

“Detective Reagan,” I said and shook his hand.

The overall process was short.  Before we had arrived, hospital staff had determined that there was no brain activity.  The stroke had been so severe that it had, essentially, killed Richard instantly.

I had seen this situation play out many times over my career as a cop.  The first time, it had been a mother, Maria Alvarez, whose boyfriend had beaten her child to the point of imminent death.  Maria’s parents were Honduran and had been deported a little more than a week before the incident, during the previous administration’s fucking anti-immigration push, leaving Maria, eighteen, and her daughter, six weeks old, behind.  She struggled with the decision for hours.  Ultimately, devastated and alone, she signed the order.  That night, I didn’t sleep a wink, thinking of the horror that would haunt the grieving mother.  I had cried until morning.  And, I had been so angry.

It was somewhat different with Richard.  With zero brain activity, he was considered deceased.  The life support was just a courtesy to give the family a chance to be involved with the termination of care.  But, the effect was the same, another family in pain.

So, with all of the preliminaries over, the respiratory therapist looked back to Gabe, who nodded as his mother looked on in tears.  I heard the familiar beep as the gray-haired gentleman deactivated the respirator and removed the ET tube.  There was no other noise, no squealing alarms; all had been silenced beforehand. The last breath of Richard Parkman was a quiet sigh—a final, feeble exhalation.  And just like that, a life was over.

Deborah came apart.  Gabe began to sob, and even I teared up as grief filled the room.  I pulled Gabe and Deborah both to me and let them express their misery in rivers of tears, one on each shoulder.

The nurse I’d been talking to, whose name I didn’t know, gave me a sympathetic smile as she walked out of the room with the rest of the staff.  I stood there, helpless, while Gabe and Deborah shook with sorrow.

I handed Deborah a handkerchief from my coat pocket.  It was one that I carried for family members when they were giving statements about deceased loved ones.

“Thank you, Caitlin,” she said, handing back the handkerchief.  For what, I didn’t know — bringing her son, giving her a tissue, letting her cry on my shoulder?  So, I just smiled in sympathy and walked softly out of the room to wait for them, closing the door gently behind me.

The nurse from earlier came over to me. “You’re a good person,” she said in almost a whisper as she got close.  I certainly didn’t feel like one.  She offered me a piece of paper. “Here’s my name, number, and personal email, in case you need someone to talk to.  I also run a local hiking group in town if you ever find yourself interested.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking the offered paper. “But I’m usually too busy for much of a social life.”

She gave me a soft smile tinctured with sympathy.  “That’s a shame.  I know a lot of my friends who would be happy to have you along.  Anyway, let me know if you change your mind.”

I looked at the paper before putting it in my pocket.  The nurse’s name was Anne. “I’ll do that, Anne.” I turned back to the room as Gabe and Deborah emerged.

Gabe had his hands in his pockets, looking dispirited and shocked.  He gave me a brief hug.  “I’m going to take Mom home and spend the night with her.”

I looked at Deborah, tears burning their way down her face.  “Is there anything you need?”

“No,” Gabe answered for her, his voice muted. “Thank you for suggesting I come and for bringing me.”

“Of course.” I gave him a peck on the cheek, squeezing his shoulders. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Deborah simply looked up at me, a hint of a bruise under one eye.  Otherwise she was every inch the grieving widow.

“I’ll be at home.  Gabe, why don’t you and I plan on having dinner tomorrow night.”

“I thought you were working,” he said, wrapping his arm around his mother’s shoulders.

“I am, but I should be able to make dinner unless a new case comes up.” I looked at Deborah again. “Will you be okay? Do you need anything?” I made it clear I was talking to her.

“Oh, don’t worry about me.  I’ll be fine.”  She pulled herself up and sniffed, wiping her tears.

I turned back to Gabe.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, and we can talk about things, okay?”

Gabe didn’t even answer; he just took his mother’s arm and turned away.

I watched Gabe and Deborah walk out of the unit.  As I did, I felt Anne’s supportive hand on my shoulder. “You really are a good person,”

“Then why do I feel like shit?”

She said nothing because we both knew the answer.

15

It is just a month into my first deployment, and I am drunk.  The anti-septic smell of the latrine sits caustic in my nose and sinuses.  The toilet is full of dark brown liquor; my stomach roils.  I pull myself up from the floor and stagger to the sink, washing out my mouth in the lukewarm water.  In the mirror, Sgt. Holley’s face appears, and terror squeezes my heart.

“Hey there,” Holley’s bass drawls.  I think he’s a misogynist redneck who likes killing.  He disgusts me.

“What the hell, Holley!  This is the ladies’ room.  You need to leave.”

He grabs my wrist.  “Now, come on, I saw how you were looking at me.”

“Let go,” I shout.  “You’re hurting my arm.”  No, no, no, this isn’t happening.

Holley pulls me to the floor, banging my head on the sink.  I feel warm blood on the back of my head.

“Shut the fuck up,” Holley hisses, covering my mouth.  I bite his hand hard, drawing blood.

“Ow.  You bitch.” My head rocks, banging against the concrete floor as he punches me repeatedly.  I now see this nightmare for what it is, but I’m powerless to stop it or him.

He leans in with his fetid, whiskey-sodden breath.  His spit lands on my belly as he yanks down my shorts.

God, why didn’t I wear my BDUs?

Holley pushes me over.  I try to pull loose, but he elbows me in the back of my head.

Please wake up!  Please wake up!  Please wake up!

✽✽✽

I struggled to get loose of the wet sheets and drag my way off the bed.  Dashing into the bathroom, I gripped the toilet as my stomach forced out what little was in it.

It took a few minutes before it dawned on me that my sleep pants were wet.  The deep despair of shame clawed into me, dragging me down further.  I sat like that for a long time, head pressed against the toilet seat, soaked and stinking with urine.  My chest ached for any release from this misery.

I thought I should just put a bullet in my head for about the thousandth time.  But, my mother couldn’t take another loss.

“God damn it, why?” I cursed to the ceiling, rage filling me, not that God’s sorry ass was listening.  If God had been paying any attention at all, I wouldn’t have been raped, and I wouldn’t be so God damned fucked up.  I tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle loud sobs bursting with heartache.  Eventually, I stood, avoiding the mirror, unable to look at myself.

I took a shower and cleaned myself up, changing my clothes.  Then I stripped the bed, putting everything in the wash.  Walking numbly to the kitchen, I grabbed the pet stain remover and the little handheld wet-dry vacuum Gabe had bought me for my birthday.  I couldn’t keep the tears back as I cleaned the bed.

Why the fuck did this shit happen to me, I ranted mentally. What the fuck did I do to deserve this?

My pulse hammered in my ears.  I wanted to scream and tear the house apart, but an irritating reasonable thought ground through my anger like sandpaper, reminding me that people were sleeping.  So, like the fucking good girl that I was, after cleaning the mattress, I grabbed the spare comforter and slid to the floor next to my bed so it could dry.

“I fucking quit.”

Defeated, I cried myself back to sleep.

I was awakened two hours later by the irritating ringtone I’d set for dispatch.  I looked at my watch— 2:57 AM.

“Fuck,” I swore.  Three minutes later, it would have been a problem for Vic and the day shift.  I sighed and answered the phone.

“Reagan,” I rasped, throat parched.  I’d left a glass of water on my nightstand, so I quickly gulped down a few refreshing mouthfuls.

“Detective Reagan, homicide requested at Humboldt and Seaver.”

“Any details?” I asked.

“Three deceased,” he said in a perfunctory fashion. “Two adults, one juvenile.”

I closed my eyes and blew out a controlled breath.  Great, a triple.

“Detective Reagan?” The dispatcher prodded impatiently.

“Yeah, okay.” My voice was a little hoarse, and I rubbed the back of my neck. “I’ll be there.  Send me the address.”  I hung up.

I stared at the ceiling, putting my hand down to stroke Jabba’s fur.  He rolled over, exposing his belly, so I scratched his tummy.  I could hear, just barely, a little purr through his little corpulent body. “Slut.” I whispered hoarsely and stood.  Jabba meowed in protest. “No, no.  I have to go to work, you big baby.”

I staggered into the bathroom and decided a second shower was in order.  My muscles were sore and stiff.  As the hot water cascaded over me, loosening up my muscles, my eyelids drooped closed.  In contrast to my nightmare, unbidden thoughts of Marcella filled my head, images from the dream, intense and inviting: her shapely stocking clad legs gliding around me in the dim light, brushing against my own, her teeth on my neck.  I let out a quiet moan of arousal.

My eyes flew open. What the fuck is wrong with me?  How could I even think of sex after a nightmare like that?  I finished washing and dressed.

When I arrived at the top of Humboldt Avenue, where it met Seaver, the entire block was sealed off at both ends by cruisers.  I flashed my badge and pulled the Jeep up onto the sidewalk.

“Wow, this is not good,” I commented as I surveyed six squad cars and two unmarked.  The medical examiner wasn’t here yet, of course.  That was okay; they’d just get in the way right now anyway.

The far end of the block held news vans from the local affiliate stations.  A few photographers were snapping pictures while local reporters spoke to the cameras.  I could see Shandra Clark from channel 7 eyeballing me as she spoke among the crowded news vultures.  Shandra fancied herself the next Bob Woodward or Christiane Amanpour.  In reality, I considered her a muckraker on a mission to discredit the department.  Shandra seemed to think that the entire department was full of lousy, racist cops waiting for a chance to shoot someone.

There were racist trigger-happy in every department that made the job damn near impossible for the rest of us.  But they didn’t represent all cops, not even most.  Most of us just wanted to do a good job and go home at night.  I found it easy to avoid ‘use of force’ complaints in my patrol days.  When presented with a belligerent driver, I found it best to give them the citation and let them go.  I never pulled my firearm in almost five years of patrol, not once.  In the end, a fifty-dollar traffic ticket isn’t worth someone’s life.

I think that was why I didn’t like Shandra.  I felt like she painted us all with a broad brush.  I hated how Shandra handled it, and right then, I wasn’t feeling charitable.

I waved back at Shandra half-heartedly rather than giving her finger and headed over to the scene.  I could see a few patrol officers going to the houses on the block, looking for witnesses.  Three other officers were milling about outside, mostly watching the street.  I recognized the officer on duty outside the building door.

“Hey, Nev.  How’s your Mom?”  Neveah Campbell was, literally, from the hood.  She’d grown up in Mattapan, dealt with the crappy schools, the works.  But, she’d carved out a life for herself that any parent would be proud of.  Most cops from tough neighborhoods move elsewhere when they can, but Neveah and her mother still lived in their tiny two-bedroom apartment.

“She’s good.  She wants to know when you’ll come by again for some home cooking.”

“I’m not sure my waistline can handle her home cooking.  Once I start, I can’t seem to stop eating it.  So, who was first on the scene?”

Neveah’s voice trembled.  “I was.” Even in the dim porch light, I could see her pallor. “It’s horrible. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I’ve been there,” I said supportively. “You’re taking it like a pro.”  I’d have liked to place a supportive hand on her shoulder, but that would simply have been inappropriate for a host of reasons.  Shit, I wanted to hug the poor girl and tell her it would be okay.  She was only twenty-four.

“At least I didn’t puke,” she said, pointing to the remains of someone’s dinner next to the front walk.

“Who?” I asked, looking at the goopy mess. “Please tell me it was Kenwood.”

“Kenwood,” She confirmed, giving me a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

I blurted a laugh.  Mike Kenwood was an Officer in District B.  He had this hard-as-nails, asshole exterior, but I had suspected there was a soft mushy center somewhere.

The exterior of the two-story residence was quite a mess.  A shit-brown porch, suffering from significant rot, stretched across the front.  Two front windows were boarded up.  Looking at the age of the plywood, it was clear it’d been there for some time.  The rest of the house was all peeling paint and warped siding.  Around the side, I could see three rusting central AC units that looked like they hadn’t worked in years.  Shit, the house looked more like an abandoned building than a home.

This is what being broke in urban America looks like, and it sucks, I thought.  Sighing, I pulled on some gloves and booties and stepped inside.

Standing in the hall, I was almost overwhelmed by the stench of blood and decay and immediately stepped back outside to get a clean breath.  I could handle the smell itself, but the squeezing anxiety of an oncoming flashback had forced me to seek refuge on the porch for a minute.  I jumped as I felt a hand on my upper arm.

“Are you okay?” Nev said.

I held up my hand to ward off any more questions while waiting for the feeling to pass.  After about a minute of catching my breath, I turned to Nev. “The smell just reminded me of something — unpleasant. I’m alright.”

Fuck!  Now I look like I can’t handle the scene.

The house was broken up into four apartments, two on each floor.  The crime scene was on the first floor in the apartment to the right.  Carlos was standing in the doorway, back to me, talking to an older patrol officer, clean-shaven and a little portly.

Beneath the bodies and surrounding them, a bloodstain soaked the carpet to the point of pooling.  I could make out arterial spray on the couch and walls, even in the darkness.  This had happened recently.  The blood hadn’t had time to dry thoroughly.  Pressing my gloved finger to a spot, I found it tacky, confirming that assumption.  The killer had eviscerated and cut the throats of both victims — their dead eyes were open, staring into nothingness.

“Mother of God,” I said, coughing to avoid gagging.

“Yeah,” Carlos said, acknowledging my presence. “It’s pretty bad.  I was just waiting for you before I walked the scene.  But, look over there.” Carlos had a flashlight and waved it around on the floor at something.  I leaned further over to get a view of the spot he was gesturing toward.  A bloody shoe print was pressed into the carpet. I’d be damned if it weren’t the roughly same shape and size as the ones we’d found at our last crime scene.

“Son of bitch,” I swore. “Same guy?”

“Might be,” Carlos said, gesturing to the two bodies on the floor. “I don’t get it, though.  Caldwell was run through and decapitated.  These two were cut open.” It was a rhetorical question at this point because who the fuck knows.

“Where’s the third victim?”

Carlos pointed forward.  “Kitchen.  Shot in the head.  Nev said the heart was ripped out, Twelve-year-old kid.”

“You ever seen anything like this in Dallas?”

“Nope,” Carlos said flatly. “We did have a cannibal case once, but that’s for another time.”

I turned to the patrolman. “We have names?”

He flipped through his notes.  “Josefina Rodriguez, her husband Danilo, and Josefina’s daughter Acacia.”

I sighed and rubbed a bead of sweat off my forehead with my forearm.  “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

Carlos and I entered the scene.

Immediately I noticed the molding around the door was shattered.  “He kicked or rammed his way in.”

I couldn’t touch the light switch for fear of smearing any prints, so we were stuck with flashlights.  I made a wide berth of the victims to avoid the blood and any trace on the floor.

Carlos bent down to examine the bodies. “Looks like it happened damn fast.  I can’t see any defensive wounds.”

I was dumbfounded.  “How do you kill two people like this quickly enough that neither has time to react? Look at the Sofa. There’s a void where they were sitting.  They just slid off the couch to the floor, or they were pulled.”

“Hell if I know.  Two killers maybe?”

I swept the floor with my light, but only saw the one set of prints.  “It’s possible, but I don’t see any other footprints.  Nothing else indicates a second perp.  And my gut tells me that this guy just kicked in the door and gutted them.  The wounds look like single precise cuts.  I don’t see any jagged edges.”

“How can you tell with all the blood?”

I bent down and tugged at Ms. Rodriguez’s shirt.  “The clothing, each shirt has a single slice, no dragging, no tearing, clean cuts.  The necks look the same.”

We stepped into the kitchen, careful to avoid the bloody footprint on the carpet.  The lights were on.  A twelve-year-old girl was sitting in a chair in front of a child-sized frozen dinner of fish sticks and mac and cheese, and she was very dead.  I rubbed my forehead with my forearm, pushing back a sense of despair. “Fuck, she was just a baby.”

Her head hung back over the chair, jet black hair hanging limply behind in two thick, blood-soaked braids.  The back of her skull was blown open, and gore had dripped to the floor.  Examining her face, I could see that she’d been a beautiful little girl with flawless light brown skin. I stopped and closed my eyes to catch my breath, unbidden images of the tiny Iraqi boy wearing the suicide vest burning in my head.

Carlos leaned close.  “You okay?”

“Yeah, I just hate—” I stopped, sucked in a horrified breath, and blinked back tears.  Across the floor was a series of bloody footprints.  Each was the exact size and shape of the ones we’d found at the first scene.  This time, I could see the logo that Doyle had mentioned.

One of the prints was smeared with a small bare footprint, and there was a bit of blood on one of the victim’s feet. “Fuck,” I swore, glancing down. “Look at her footprints over top his.  He made her walk over here and sit down.” I continued inspecting the victim closely, especially her wounds. “There’s a single gunshot wound to the forehead.  It looks to be a .380 or maybe a nine-millimeter.  You see any casings?”

“There’s one over to your left under the chair,” Carlos said, walking around the table to get a better look. “Looks like .380 auto, good eye.”

I took the compliment, though it didn’t help the knot in my gut.  The little girl’s rib cage had been torn open, not cut. There was a lot of blood pooled in her lap.  The splatter on the table was minor, and her legs, under the table, had some cast-off but not much else. “Looks like he took the heart after she died.  Thank goodness for small favors.  Carlos?”

“Yeah?” Carlos turned to look at me.

“What kind of strength does it take to do that to someone’s rib cage?”

He shined a flashlight into the gaping cavity. “Like this?  I have no idea.  Every rib is snapped.  So—” He paused, apparently doing some mental calculations. “I’d guess around four-thousand to five-thousand pounds.  The only time I’ve ever seen damage like this has been in car accidents.”

I looked around him.  “I don’t see any tool marks?  Crowbar, rib-spreader?”

“None.  But these look like nail prints in here.  I think this was done by hand.” I could hear the absolute astonishment in his voice.

“Not possible,” I said flat-out. “No, way.”

“Look for yourself?” He said, standing away and handing me the flashlight.

I looked into the chest cavity.  My clinical detachment had finally set in, letting me see this as just another victim — at least for now.  Just inside the rib cage, I could see what looked like fingernail impressions and what might be a smeared partial fingerprint on a bit of exposed bone.

I gasped as a palpable sense of dread squeezed my heart. “What on God’s green earth have we gotten into?”

Carlos and I looked at each other uneasily.

“Let’s finish the walk and go outside.”

16

Outside, the forensics truck had just arrived; Doyle had been driving.  I could see her auburn ponytail bouncing around as she gathered her gear.  I just sat down on the stoop next to Carlos to wait, already exhausted by lack of sleep and the emotional toll of the scene.  I was sick and tired of all of humanity.  I’d worked a lot of cases in the last two years, and none of them had affected me like this.  Of course, none of them had been this brutal.

“Well,” Carlos said, arms resting on his knees. “It’s official; we’re dealing with a serial killer.”

I ran my hands through my hair.  “I don’t need this right now, Carlos.  I really don’t.”

“No one needs this, Cait.  But it’s the job, and we do it, no matter what.”

One of the patrolmen walked up to report on the canvas.  “No one saw anything except the upstairs neighbor.  It looks like the other apartments are abandoned.  The upstairs neighbor is Sharon Brian; everyone just calls her ‘Candy.’ She’s been collared a few times for prostitution and possession.”

I sighed tiredly and stood.  “Where is she?”

“In my squad car.” The patrolman pointed.

“Okay, thanks, I’ll go talk to her.  Did you get a statement?”

“Yes, but she won’t come downtown.  Just wants to know when she can go back into her apartment.  I wouldn’t want to sleep here knowing this had happened.”

“Yeah.”  I put on my game face and strode to the car.  ‘Candy’ was sitting in the passenger side, just watching everything.  She had the shakes, probably withdrawal.

“Hi Candy, I’m Detective Reagan,” I said as I got in.  “I understand you were the one who called this in.  Can you tell me what you saw?”

“So, I work over at Charlie’s.”  Charlie’s was a low rent stripper bar in Mattapan, known for frequent drunken and disorderly calls, a rough place.  “I went home for some quiet time before my first appointment of the evening when I heard the back door slam.  When I looked out, I saw some guy running around to the side of the building with a sword.  It looked like he had something in his other hand, but I couldn’t see too good.”

“Any idea what kind of sword?”

“Not a clue; I don’t know much about them.” Her jittery hands made a curving motion.  “Shaped like that.  The guy was wearing a hoodie, so it was hard to tell much.  He was tall and slim, not very big.  When I saw the door, I wondered how someone so thin could do that.  For a skinny guy, he must have been pretty solid.”

“And you didn’t see anyone else?” I probed, not sure what I was hoping she’d say.

“No, ma’am,” she answered without hesitation. “There was no one else.”

“Wait. You said he ran around the side of the building.  Which side?”  There was a clear avenue of escape through the backyard, so running to the side didn’t make much sense.

“The right side?  Toward the driveway.” She pointed at the crumbling mess of concrete leading to the street.  “I thought I heard the bulkhead doors, but they’re locked.”

“Did you see or hear a vehicle when he ran off?”

“No,  nothing like that.  Can I get back into my apartment?  I really need—”  She stopped, probably about to say she needed a fix.

“Not yet; wait here, please.”  I got out of the cruiser.  The bulkhead rested against the side of the house next to an old rusting refrigerator.  I grabbed three of the patrolmen, pointing to each of them.  “You, you, and you.  Come with me.” I waved to Carlos, and he walked over.

“The witness said the perp ran around the side of the building, and she thought she heard the bulkhead.  Carlos, can you take Officer Williams inside and watch the back stairs.”  Carlos nodded and went back into the building.  Doyle and the forensic guys all scurried back out.

When we reached the bulkhead, I found a broken chain with a relatively new lock sitting next to it.  I pointed to two patrolmen and soundlessly directed each to take a door handle of the bulkhead.  The third man and I stood next to each, weapons drawn and pointed at the doors.

“Go,” I whispered, and they yanked open the doors with the scream of rusted steel.

“Boston Police,” I called into the dark—no response.  My flashlight didn’t shine very var, but there were footprints in the dust.  I couldn’t make out if they were the same.

I stepped down the stairs carefully, panning my flashlight around.  The cellar was filled mainly with boxes.  In one corner, a set of old wooden spiral stairs led upward.

The third officer, James, I think, came down behind me.  I pointed to the stairs.  He nodded, and I went to the left, around a pile of cardboard boxes and plastic crates.  My heart hammered in my chest.

A rusty cabinet and a desk sat against the far wall.  There was nothing else of note.  I looked back over to Officer James, and he shook his head, indicating there was no one in the stairwell.  The cellar was empty.

“Clear!” I shouted.

“Clear!” Officer James shouted back, and I holstered my weapon.

With the room secured, I paid more attention to the boxes.  Most of them were file boxes of the variety typically used by law firms.  They were all marked in one fashion or another with the name Schmidt, and the dust on them suggested they hadn’t been touched in years.  I tried the file cabinet drawers, but they were all locked.  There was nothing here, yet my gut told me that the perp had come down here.  I gave up and went back outside.

Carlos stood waiting at the top of the stairs.  “Stairwell door’s painted shut upstairs, but it’s not locked or barred.  The doorknob even turns.  Find anything?”

“Nope.  Just a bunch of boxes for some guy named Schmidt — business records, maybe.  There were some shoe prints on the stairs, but the cellar looks undisturbed.”  I pinched the bridge of my nose, frustrated. “I don’t know. Let’s wait until forensics finishes with the scene.  In the morning, we need to chase down Mr. Blackman.”

Carlos blinked bleary tired eyes.  “Yup.”

“One other thing, as the lead detective for the unit, I need your approval to take this to the press.  We need more eyes on this.  We’re getting nowhere fast.”

After some coaxing, Candy packed a bag and went to stay with a friend.  A couple of hours later, Doyle and the forensics team came out of the apartment carrying about two dozen bags of various sizes just as the ME showed up to take the bodies.

Doyle strode up to me, a gleam in her eye.  She carried a small plastic evidence bag. “We didn’t find much, but the shoe prints are an exact match to the last murder.”   She was practically vibrating to tell me what she’d found.

“Okay, Doyle, What’s in the bag?”  Her blasé attitude in the face of such vicious crimes was always disconcerting.  Nothing seemed to affect her.

She hoisted the little baggie, looking like a kid with a new toy.  “It’s the bullet we dug out of the Kitchen wall, the one that killed the little girl.  I can’t wait to get it back to the lab.”

I looked at her in annoyance.  “Get to the point; what’s so special about it?”

“Watch.”  She passed her flashlight across it.  At first, I couldn’t see anything.  I was about to tell her so when I saw a hint of shine inside.

I grabbed her hand to hold it steady. “Stop.  There.”

“Detective,” she said suggestively. “I didn’t know you cared.”

I ignored the comment. “What is that?”

“That, I think— and I won’t know for sure until I get it back to the lab— is silver.”

17

We returned to headquarters at about seven, tired and emotionally burnt.  I called Gabe to see if he had a recent photo of Blackman.

“Hey, how's your Mom?"

Gabe spoke slowly, sounding exhausted.  “I don't know, you'd think that she'd be relieved he was gone, given the way he treated her, but she's walking around acting like her life is over. She's sixty-two, you know, just past middle age. She's got a good twenty to thirty years ahead of her, maybe more.  I just don't get it."

“And how are you doing with all this?”

"I'm okay.  I just feel a little off-kilter. Dad's been the villain for most of my life, and now he's gone.  I thought I’d be happy or relieved, but—.”

I tried to be empathetic, but it came out sounding fake.  “It sounds like it's put you on uncomfortable footing.”

"Ya think?".

Tired and aggravated, I took a moment to calm myself before speaking again.  “Sorry, I'm not very good at this."

"No, you're fine. I know you're trying.  Thank you for being there for us last night."

Fuck. “Of course, I want to get together on Tuesday and talk?"

"Sure, I could use a break."

“Okay, good.”  I pushed my pen around on my desk and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.  “Meet me at my place around eight.  I know it’s bad timing, but when you have a free minute, do you think you could send me a picture of your boss? I need something more recent than his passport photo." I waited patiently for an answer as the line went quiet.  Then my phone buzzed.

"That's the picture from the other night. It's the best one I have."

I looked at the picture.  In it, Gabe was standing next to a handsome bearded man with black hair and eyes.  He looked sick or something, though.  His eyes were bloodshot, and his skin was pallid and waxy.

"Was he sick?"

“I think so," Gabe said. "He didn’t eat a bite at the restaurant.  When I asked him about it, he said his stomach was bothering him.  Does that matter?”

“Probably not.  I was just curious."

There was a short pause on the line, and I was about to say goodbye when Gabe spoke. "Cait?"

"Yes?"

"Are we going to be okay?"

I closed my eyes.  This wasn't the time to discuss this. Gabe had just lost his father, and his mother was drowning in grief.  So, I lied once more.  "Yes, Gabe.  We'll be fine.  Go.  Take care of your Mom.  And thanks for your help."

"I love you, Cait."

"I know, Gabe.  I love you, too." I rubbed my forehead and pawed at my eyes.

"Okay.”  He hung up.

I ran my hand through my hair and laid my head on the desk.  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuck!”

After an appropriate few minutes of wallowing, I wrote up the BOLO on Blackman and sent it to the Fugitive Apprehension Squad.  They couldn't arrest him without a warrant, but they could yank his ass aside and detain him for questioning.  I didn't know who this fucking Blackman guy was, but his disappearance was pissing me off.

I snatched up my mug and decided to enjoy the self-flagellation of the office coffee.  Detective Mills and Carol were chatting with Carlos when I reached the door in the break room.  Carlos was telling another story of his time in Dallas.  David and Carol were listening in rapt attention.

"So, the new guy comes in with no gloves on and picks up this little thing off the floor. It was about this long.”  He gestured to a length of about eight inches.  "It had a cord and a little metal tip on the end."

I covered my mouth in shock as I realized what he was describing.

"So he says, 'What in the hell is this?' And she looks at him, and without so much as a hint of embarrassment, she says, 'It's a toy.'"

Carol and I laughed.  Mills was clueless.

Carlos continued his story. "So he drops it on the floor and goes, 'Aww, did I just get you on me, or him?' And she said, without missing a beat, 'Probably him.'"

"Oh, God," Mills said, shocked, finally realizing that the 'new guy' of Carlos' story had picked up a dildo.

We all stared for a second; then, we erupted in laughter.  Cops were a raunchy bunch sometimes.  We used humor to deflect the emotional cost of cases like this.

I smiled at them as I stepped out of the doorway and headed for the coffee pot.

"Fresh pot," Carlos said as I scooted by him. "The good stuff."

I sighed.  “I don't deserve the good stuff.”

Carol was the first to jump on the comment. "Okay, Cait, what's going on? I've been watching you. You're always a little tense, but lately, you've been really on edge."

I looked at Carlos, nodding toward the door.  "Detective Mills?  Why don't you and I go see what's taking the ME so long?" He grabbed Mills by the arm and pulled him out, giving Carol and me the break room.

Carol looked around.  “You want to talk in here?"

The break room was anything but private.  To prove the point, one of the Fugitive Apprehension guys walked through to the refrigerator, carting his lunch and a light air of dip and gun oil.  I poured my coffee and then did something I never do; I pulled out Carol's pumpkin spice creamer and poured a generous amount into it.

"Actually, no, let's grab the interview room if it's free."

Carol's eyes turned into dinner plates as she gave my coffee some serious side-eye. "Okay, You are not well.  You never use creamer, especially pumpkin spice.”

I strolled out the door and waved for her to follow.  “Come on.”

We grabbed an empty interview room, and I disconnected the recording equipment.  Afraid my courage would fail, I didn't wait for Carol to sit down or even turn to face me. "I think I'm gay," I blurted.

She wheeled around. "I'm sorry?"

"I said, I think I'm gay." I looked down into my mug so that I couldn't see her reaction.

"That's what I thought you said." Carol pulled out a chair. "Come over here and sit down."

I did as she asked, and Carol took my now-shaking hand.  I stared at the floor, the table, our hands, anything to keep from looking at her.  I was afraid that she'd tell me I was a fraud, or going through a phase, or any of a hundred other dismissive comments.  Lord knew I wasn't sure of anything myself.

"So, don't take this the wrong way, but what makes you think you're gay?" she asked cautiously.

Something about the question felt wrong.  How does anyone know they’re gay?  You just are.  My mind raced with how to respond to the question.  I wasn't good at confessions, at least not my own.  And, even though I had told Carlos, I still wasn't comfortable telling someone else that I liked women.   Panicking, I started to rise. "Maybe this wasn't a good idea."

Carol pointed to the seat.  “Sit down, Detective.”

I sat but said nothing.

"Now," she continued, sounding more like a mother than a Detective. "Spill it.  What happened?"

"Well—" My throat was a little dry, so I took another drink of coffee, swallowing loudly.  "I've always found women attractive. But, until recently, I didn't put two and two together.  You know?”

A slight grin cracked her serious expression. "So, come on.  Who is she?"

“Um. Marcella Carson." I took another long sip of my coffee.

"Really?  Not bad, Reagan."

I took a deep, cleansing breath. "Look, I'm not looking to go out with her.  I'm looking to stay as far away from her as possible right now.  But I have a crush on her, butterflies, nervous stammering, the works.  When I'm around her, my brain goes on vacation.  I can't think straight." I laughed nervously. "No pun intended."

“I see. Do Carlos and Mills know?”

I cleared my throat as tears fell over my cheeks.  “Just Carlos.  I haven’t told David yet.”

"So, you haven't told Gabe." It wasn't a question.

"No, I haven't.  Hence the misery and indulgent self-pity.  His dad just died; it's not a good time."

"Honey, you need to do this in your way, of course.  We all do.  But, there is no good time to tell your boyfriend you're a lesbian." When she said 'lesbian,' my head spun a little.  It was all just so—surreal.  Two days ago, I was with a guy doing ‘couple stuff’ and avoiding marriage conversations.  And today, I realized I find women attractive.  No, I was admitting I wanted to have sex with women.  I’d always found women attractive.

Carol brushed tears away with her thumb.  "Look, you take your time.  But be careful.  Sometimes men don't take this kind of news well."

I sniffed and grabbed a tissue from a box sitting on the table.  "I know. You don't have to tell me."

She leaned back.  “One last question.  Do you think you might be bi?  As far as I can tell, you’ve been exclusively with men your whole life.”

I had already considered that.  "I don't think so.  I know when a guy is good-looking, but I've never had these kinds of feelings for men.  Men don't—" I struggled for the word.

"Make you horny?  Get you hot?" Carol prompted playfully.

"I was going to say, excite me.  Not like this."

"Well, then, what can I do for you?" She asked, still holding one of my hands.

"Nothing, maybe just be there for me to talk to."

"Of course, honey.  You don't even have to ask; you know that." Carol set down her coffee, leaned forward, and hugged me. "I know this is hard," she whispered. "But you'll get through this and have a better life for it."

"Thanks.”  I felt not at all confident about that last statement.

Carol stood up and turned toward the door. "If you need anything, you know how to find me."

"Carol?  One question."

She didn't even wait for me to ask. "Did I know you were gay?  I thought you might be.  But I wasn’t sure.  Oh, is it okay if I tell Janelle?"  Janelle was Carol's girlfriend.  They’d been together for a couple of years now.

I laughed. "Yes, you can tell Janelle."

Her entire demeanor changed, and she imitated a vapid teenager.  “Oh my God! She is so going to freak.  What about Mills?  I really want to be the one to tell him."

"Okay, okay," I said, sighing. "Slow down.  Yes, you can tell David, but please tell him to keep it quiet.  I don't need my life becoming squad room gossip."

She closed her mouth and made the motions to turn a key and throw it away as she left the room.

And just like that, I’d told someone else.  My life was still all over the place, but I felt like I’d exorcised something that had been eating at me.  I felt like I knew who I was, and I could eventually figure things out.  I also felt scared as hell.

When I returned to my desk, I found Vic reading over the ME report from the Rodriguez murders.  A tiny brown Manila envelope was on his desk like you might use to give someone a house or office key.

"Hey.” I touched Vic’s shoulder lightly to get his attention.

"Oh, hey." He pointed to the envelope. "Doyle left that for you.  She looked like a toy dog jumping for a treat."

I picked up the envelope.  "Thanks."

"Oh, you were right, by the way. Donna's preggers."  Vic's face broke into a broad shit-eating grin.

I winked and clucked my tongue. "Told ya."

"We're waiting until she's further along before letting other people know."

"A little Vic running around might not be so bad," I said, patting him on the shoulder.

"Vic?  More like Victoria? I'm hoping for a girl.”

“Well, congratulations.  Good for you.”  I tried to keep the misery out of my voice.  I found a post-it at my desk that my friend, Celeste, had called, so I called her back.

"Hello?" It was a woman's voice I didn't recognize.

"Hi, this is Detective Reagan; I'm looking for Celeste." I heard some laughter—well, giggling.  Then the phone rattled around a bit.

Celeste squealed and laughed playfully in the background, then spoke into the phone. "Stop it! Sorry Detective. I'm on the cape with friends.  I wanted to let you know that I have something you might be interested in.  Can you come by my apartment Wednesday?" Celeste was an MIT grad who worked in Cybersecurity research.  We’d known each other for a few years.

"Sorry, I'm on a case," I said.

"I know," she replied. "Hang on." There was some swearing in the background, a pause, and Celeste came back on the line. "Sorry about that.  I saw you on the news last night. You're working that triple in Mattapan, right?  I may have some information that's useful to you, but I won't be able to access it until I get back Tuesday night."

"Okay, I'll stop by on Wednesday then.  What time?"

"Any time is good.  Whenever.  I'll see you then. Gotta go." There was another laugh, and the line went dead.  I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it.  Well, that was mysterious.  However, Celeste had been pretty handy with what she called ‘open-source intelligence’ in the past, and she'd never come to me with something useless, so I figured I'd better see what she had.  I made a note to see her on Wednesday.

I spent a few hours writing up my report from the Rodriguez scene before I remembered the little envelope that Doyle had left for me.  Carlos had just sat down when I went to open it.  Inside was a primarily intact bullet made of what looked like pure silver.  A small scrap of paper in the envelope read 'Ag,’ confirming it.

"Well would you look at that," I said.

Carlos looked up from writing his report. "Whatcha got?"

"It's the bullet they pulled from Acacia Rodriguez’s home," I mused, still ogling the shiny slug. "I think we may have something of a signature here.  Caldwell was killed like a vampire, and Acacia Rodriguez was shot with a silver bullet.  Werewolf?"

Carlos snorted. "I guess.  That’s fucked up.”  He stood, looking about as excited as a Yankee fan at Fenway.  “I’m off to go talk to the press.”

"Have fun with that."

"I'd rather kick a turd on a hot day, darlin'," he said and walked away.

I laughed. What did that even mean?

18

Upstairs, in the Crime Scene Unit, we found Detective Doyle sitting at her desk looking at a grainy video showing Monument Street, just south of the Bunker Hill Memorial.

I waved as we approached her desk.  “Hey, girl!”

Jessica looked up, flipping her long red-auburn hair back to reveal a gorgeous smile on her delicate features.  I realized suddenly that, while she wasn’t the goddess that Marcella Carson was, she was, in fact, stunning.  Was this the way it was?  Was I suddenly going to see beautiful women everywhere?

“Hey yourself, beautiful,” Doyle said.

Carol snorted behind me and started to cough.  I elbowed her in the ribs.

“So, what do we have from Tuesday night?” I asked, pulling over a chair from an empty desk so I could see her screen.

“Okay, so traffic cameras were a bust.” She closed the window that she had been looking at and opened another file. “Our guy is one slippery character.  A search of the local cameras came up with very little—nothing on gas station cameras or bank surveillance. We’re still waiting on the video doorbell footage.

“However,” Doyle continued looking excited.  “Officer Best just sent this over. A rather security-conscious gentleman along Monument Square has several video cameras outside his home—like nine.”

“Nine? Wow. Please tell me you have a good shot of the murder,” I said, hopefully.

Doyle waggled her eyebrows.  “Funny you should ask.”  She hit play and the screen filled with a perfect view of the monument. It must have been from an upper floor because it overlooked the trees. The timestamp showed 1:07:42 AM. As we watched, we saw Caldwell walking across the monument park. The footage was amazingly sharp, though the camera was too far away to pinpoint specific features.

“There! Pause, back it up three seconds.” I spotted movement behind the exhibit lodge. “Okay, go forward, frame by frame.”

The frames ticked by, showing a shadowy figure moving just behind the exhibit lodge, silhouetted in the ambient glow of the street lights. He was right where Carlos and I expected. It was too dark in that area to make out any detail.

Caldwell kept walking. As he reached the exhibit lodge doors, the figure stepped out of the shadows and hit Caldwell in the chest with his right arm.

“That’s where he drives in the stake.  Wow. Just one shot and backhanded.  The dude’s strong; he didn’t even put his body into it.”

“You think that’s impressive, just wait,” Doyle said.

There was a flash of something.  Even slowed down, it was almost too fast to see.  Caldwell’s head clopped to the ground, then his body collapsed.

“Holy shit,” I said, eyes wide.

“I know, right?”

In my excitement, I’d moved very close to her shoulder. Her hair smelled good, better than good; there was coconut and something more profoundly appealing. I blushed slightly as I backed away, blinking. If she noticed my discomfort, she didn’t make any indication.

“Um,” I stammered slightly. “Can you re-run that at full speed?”

“For you, anything.”  She flashed me a coy smile and caught my eyes with hers.  I blushed furiously and looked away.

We watched again as Caldwell hustled down the walkway. The perp popped out from behind the wall, struck Caldwell with the wooden stake, released it, and then in a single, swift motion, pulled a sword from a sheath in his left hand, decapitating Caldwell before he fell.  The precision, speed, and strength stunned me, especially since the man seemed so thin.

The killer put away his sword and then knelt over the body and pulled something from Caldwell’s breast pocket — possibly his cell phone.

“Oh my God,” Carol said behind me as the killer yanked the stake and, setting it aside, plunged his hand into Caldwell’s chest. Then he picked up the stake, stood, and stepped back, his foot stepping in the forming blood pool.

“Can we get this any clearer? I can’t see any detail of the perp,” I said, focused on the screen.

“Only in the movies, I’m afraid. This is the best I can do,” Doyle replied, leaning back with a heavy sigh.

While she spoke, we watched the perp take off, running back to the northeast and into the darkness. “That’s it,” Doyle said, stopping the video. “He just vanished.”

Doyle walked us through the rest of the footage she’d compiled. The only other piece of interest was the same camera showing Karen Walters jogging up to the body, stumbling over it, and calling 9-1-1.  Ms. Walters also took some video.

Doyle pulled up a picture of the event with several measuring lines.  “According to my best calculations, given the motion, Caldwell’s height, the angle and distance of the camera, and the other terrain features, your perp is around six-foot, give or take an inch or two. When he takes off, you can see a small bag flap against his hip, and I’m guessing that whatever grizzly trophy he took was in that.”

“It was Caldwell’s heart.”

“Ick.” Doyle stuck out her tongue in a gesture of disgust.  For a split second, I wondered what it would taste like. I tried to banish the thought as soon as it came.  I couldn’t.  Knock it off, Cait.

Carol piped up from behind me. “Can you send that down to the team?”

“Yuppers.”  Doyle attached it to an email and sent it out.

We spent another thirty minutes going over all of the information that forensics had collected and analyzed. There wasn’t much in the way of sound evidence, just the footprints, and the video.  The entire time though, I struggled to keep my eyes off of Doyle’s pretty hair and delicate mouth.

After we were done, I stood up and adjusted my blouse nervously. “Thanks, Doyle, that made my day.”

“Glad I could help. Let me know if I can do anything else for you,” she added with a wink.

Wait, is she flirting with me?  Great, now anytime a woman says something nice, I’ll wonder if she’s hitting on me.

“Sure,” I said. I returned her smile with a broad one of my own, and Carol and I left.

“Well, now,” Carol said as we exited the stairs onto the second floor. “Did you catch that? Or do we need to sit down for another ‘talk?’”

“Okay,” I replied, turning to her. “Did you think she was coming on to me, too? I wasn’t really sure. I figured she was just being nice.”

Carol just laughed. “Oh, honey, you are so going to fit right in with the rest of us.”

Back at my desk, I put in a call to a contact with TSA at Logan and had them send over a copy of Blackman’s passport information. It took about thirty minutes, but when I got it, I was floored. He had to be our guy. His passport listed him as one-hundred eighty-seven centimeters tall and seventy kilos. That put him squarely into the right height and weight for our perp.

I looked at my watch. “Holy crap,” I said. It was already twelve-thirty. Between writing warrants and our chat with Doyle, I’d lost track of time. There was a TV on in the conference room, and I could hear Carlos’ voice.  It was the press briefing, probably on the noon news.

I went into the conference room to see the footage. Carlos looked great as he described the nature of the case and the need for the public’s assistance.

“Hey Carol,” I called. “You want to get lunch?”

“Sure. Viga?” Viga was a little Italian deli-style restaurant over by the John Hancock building. It was further than I usually went for lunch, but I was in for Italian today. They had pretty good chicken parm.

My phone buzzed with a message.

Marcella: I am going to the Common for a bite to eat. I thought maybe you might want to join me.

Me: Sorry, working. Thank you for the invite, though.

Marcella: I’ll be there from one to three if you change your mind.

Me: Okay.

“God, she’s persistent,” I muttered to myself.

Carol carol the phone from my hand. “Lemme see!”

“Hey!”  I reached for my phone.

“Oh, no,” she giggled. “You sit right there; I wanna read this.”

I pouted, crossing my arms.  “That’s private. Do you want me to go through your phone?”

Carol gave me an impish smile.  “No, but this is different.”

“How so?”

“You’re my trainee, now. I have to look out for your love life.”

“Shh. Please keep your voice down.” I looked around to see who had heard me, but everyone was heads-down in their work or on the phone.

Carol read through my exchanges with Marcella, all two of them.

Her eyes went wide.  “Wow!”

I panicked.  “What?  What did she say?”

“You’re right; she is persistent. She’s messaged you all of two times.”

“Well, you should have seen her at her house,” I said, then immediately regretted it.

“Really? Was it good?” She had a twinkle in her eye and was obviously enjoying poking at me.

“Nothing happened,” I said, feeling heat creep up my neck. “Good grief, she was just very—“ I struggled for the right words.

“Sexy? Hot? Delectable enough to eat?” Carol finished for me, making me blush all the harder.

“No,” I said, flustered.

“Bullshit,” Carol exclaimed. “I’ve seen her photos. She’s a fucking goddess, and you know it.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean, she was extremely—straightforward.”

“Oh, so you did find her sexy and hot.”

“Yes,” I whispered sheepishly, feeling weirdly okay with the admission. “But the Caldwell case.”

“Is she a suspect, witness, or confidential informant?”

“No, but—.”  I reached for my phone again, but Carol pulled away.

“What I hear, she’s just somebody the victim worked for. You should go.”

“I can’t,” I replied, a little more forcefully. “Much as I might like to, the case could take a turn.”

“How?” Carol said. “She has a cast-iron alibi for Caldwell; she was in London at the time of the murder. We have confirmation that she flew back the next day.  On top of that, she has been extremely cooperative, has she not?”

“Yes, all that’s true, but—“

“But, nothing. I’m going to do you a favor.” Carol started typing on my phone.

“What are you doing?” I asked, eyes wide as she stopped typing and tossed it back to me.

“I accepted her invitation. She’s expecting you at 1:30 by the rotunda.”

I looked at the messages and rolled my eyes, groaning. “Why did you do that?”

Carol leaned against Carlos’ desk and crossed her arms, giving me a motherly stare.  “Because you need to make a friend outside of work and outside your—uh—relationship.”

“I have friends; there’s Dodge and Rebecca.”

“Your martial arts instructor and your eighty-year-old upstairs neighbor?  Those aren’t friends.  One regularly kicks your ass, and the other you feel sorry for because she’s lonely.”

“Fine,” I said, still pouting. “But, I’m going to remember this.”

Carol’s face split in a wide grin that practically reached her ears. “I bet you will. Now, scoot!”

I stood up and walked away from my desk, giving her the finger as I did so.

“Reagan!” Carol called after me.

“What?” I demanded, turning around and catching my keys mid-flight.

“You’re not gonna get very far without those.  And, Reagan, if it doesn’t work out, there’s always Doyle.”  She made a dramatic fainting gesture.

Christ, could she be any less discrete?  I flipped her off again for good measure and then left the building.

19

The splendid sun warmed the air, shining down around puffy clouds.  Throngs of people milled about in rolled-up sleeves enjoying the unseasonable warmth.

As I approached the rotunda, I could see Marcella reclining on a vast green and black blanket; a small table next to her held a brown wicker basket. She lay with a single leg propped, a teasing touch of a garter showing under her side slit red wool skirt. Her blouse was untucked and partially open. Next to her sat a wide-brimmed black hat and a red blazer. She wore black stockings, silk for sure. The woman certainly knew how to dress.

I had a brief pang of guilt over Gabe, but I brushed it aside. You’re making a friend, Cait; you’re not sleeping with her. Please, let this go better than last time.

I walked up and stood in her sunlight.

“Hi, Detective,” she said, eyes still closed. “You’re late. Why don’t you take a seat? And, take off those shoes and that blazer. It’s too nice of a day to be wandering around fully dressed.”

I gawked for a moment. Her angular face and flawless, milk-white skin contrasted amazingly with the flowing black silk of her blouse. When her beautiful blue eyes opened, she smiled alluringly, catching me staring. I looked away and sat down, removing my jacket.

Marcella sat up, pulling on the black hat and dark sunglasses, then opened the basket on the table next to her.  She fished out a bottle of sparkling water and two crystal tumblers that threw spectra of light into the air. Then, she carefully handed me a delicate brown paper package tied with twine.

“Be careful with that,” she said as she pulled out a second parcel. “It’s a fine china plate, not some fast food wrap.”

I rolled my eyes.  “I’m not a heathen; I do know how to eat.” I gingerly unwrapped the parcel, careful to keep it level. On the plate inside was some kind of open-face shrimp sandwich.  The presentation was almost too pretty to eat.

Marcella handed me gleaming silverware. “This is räkmacka, also called räksmörgås. It’s a common enough lunch in Sweden and best obtained at Melander’s Fisk in Stockholm. However, you’ll have to settle for homemade today. And, since we Swedes seem to have no clue that sandwiches should have two slices of bread, it is eaten with a fork and knife.”

“Got it. Thank you so much.” As I took my first bite, I tasted shrimp, cucumber, dill, lemon, and just a hint of some kind of spiced aioli. “Oh my God,” I crowed. “This is fantastic. Give my compliments to Ninetta.”

“Why would I do that?” she asked, a hint of flirt in her voice.

“Wait,” I said, suddenly struck. “You made this?” Most wealthy women, in my experience, could barely boil water. Now that I thought of it. Most women of any stripe in my experience barely knew how to boil water. Any man who wanted a woman barefoot and in the kitchen these days might be risking starvation.

I savored the meal in both its simplicity and combination of flavors, wondering how she’d managed to deliver it looking so neat and pretty.

“I’m pleased you like it.” Her eyes twinkled, and her face glowed in a way that made my stomach flip.

“Look, Marcella,” I started, but she interrupted me.

“I was stunned that you accepted my invitation.  Especially after you ran away yesterday.”

“That’s what I was going to say—“

“Please, Cait,” she interrupted softly. “I know I was overbold before. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I just thought—.” Suddenly, the crisp, confident woman vanished, replaced by someone genuinely vulnerable. “I tend to wrap myself up in my work; piling on professional responsibilities helps me avoid loneliness. Truthfully, I would just like for us to be friends. While I find you quite ravishing—I will not lie—I enjoy your company just as much. You are intelligent, thoughtful, and vibrant. Please, let me make it up to you. Friends?” She put her hand out toward me.

I smiled sympathetically and took her hand cautiously. “I can understand wanting to make friends. I don’t have many myself.”

She raised an eyebrow.  “Why is that?  What I mean to say is that you are quick-witted, respectful, polite, and very pretty. I would think you would have many friends.”

“Um, thanks,” I murmured, a little uncomfortable at the praise. “I don’t have any friends, really, not outside of work. I had friends in the army, but some of them didn’t make it back, and of the ones who did, I just lost touch.” It wasn’t a lie. Rutherford had died, and I’d ghosted Morgan.  “I usually don’t have much time for socializing and it’s hard to find friends who don’t get uptight when you suddenly have to cancel plans for work.”

“Well, we’ll need to change that.” Marcella poured glasses of sparkling water and handed me one. “To new friendships,” she said, offering up a toast.

I clinked my glass with hers and took a sip without saying anything. It seemed that this friendship wasn’t going to take much work on my part. She seemed content just to order me around and assume I’d be compliant.

“Tell me, Cait,” she said, suddenly more serious. “Why did you accept my invitation?”

“Well.” I felt heat creep up my throat. “You see—the thing is—I didn’t.”

She stared, bewildered. “You didn’t? I have a text, right here, stating you’d changed your mind and you’d love to have lunch.”

“A fellow Detective decided that I needed to make new friends, so she hijacked my phone.”

“So, you didn’t want to be here?” she asked baiting me playfully.

“No,” I said, suddenly flustered. “I mean, yes. I wanted to be here; I just didn’t think it was a good idea.”

“Why is that?”

“Right. So.”  My mouth immediately ran away, my brain in tow—again. “Here’s the thing. I think you’re stunning. But you’re someone who’s at least peripherally involved in a case. So, getting to know you, like, privately, is kind of a big no-no. And, I’ve never been good at keeping friends. Even in high school, I was an angry kid. So, I didn’t have a lot of friends then either. I hung out with the boys, but that was either for sex or because we had common interests. I didn’t do the whole makeup and dress thing. And I’ve been gay—I think—for like five minutes. You know?”

Fuck, Cait, Shut up.

Marcella burst out in peels of heartfelt laughter while I just blinked.

“I’m sorry,” Marcella said through her hysterics. “Goodness, Cait—” She stopped talking as she made the most adorable snort of glee. Her hand flew up to her mouth, and her eyes went wide.

It was my turn to laugh, then. And there we were, both of us laying on our backs, howling, plates of rock-whatever jiggling in our laps. Not only did I like this woman, I liked her a lot. And, I was having fun just hanging out with her.

After we had finished laughing, we returned to our sandwiches and watched the other people walking by. A few somewhat questionable fashion choices passed, and one man in particular, in Birkenstocks and a leopard print pimp-hat, left us trying to hide our snickers.

“Can I ask you something?” Marcella said, her voice losing all of its humor.

“Sure.”

She spoke gently.  “What happened to you in Iraq?”

My smile vanished.  “You have my file, I’m sure. It’s all there.”

“No, I don’t. I did do some asking around about you, but I would never intrude on your privacy like that.”  She looked both offended and hurt.

“I’m sorry. I just assumed you would have pulled some strings or something.  You said you like to know who you’re dealing with.”

“Well, you’re not wrong, generally. But, the minute I met you, I believed you to be honest and forthright.  I’m very good at reading people.” She pushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear and looked at me sidelong. “So, will you tell me?”

I sighed heavily and closed my eyes for a second. “I really can’t talk about it; please don’t ask me to. At least not right now.”

“Okay.  Then let me ask another question.  How long have you been carrying it with you?”

My eyes burned and a tear sprung forth, but I wiped it away briskly, sniffling.  “Twelve years.”  I felt a hand brush against mine, and I looked down; in it was a handkerchief.

“Hang on to that. Why don’t we finish eating so you can go back to work.”

“Can I ask why you are so interested in my fucked up past?”

“I don’t like to see good people suffer, I suppose.”

It was an evasion, but I let it go. I wiped my eyes and dug back into my sandwich. Feeling a little melancholy, I kept quiet for a while as I finished the food. To Marcella’s credit, she asked me no more questions, waiting for me to speak. I was about to tell her I had to go when a familiar face limped over.

“Detective, is that you?” It was Daryl, pushing his grocery cart full of aluminum cans. Many homeless collected cans to make a few bucks here and there. Daryl had dirty blond hair and a scruffy short beard. He was dressed in his old camouflage jacket, black sweater, threadbare jeans, and a new pair of sneakers. His husky baritone had a slight lisp for lack of teeth.

“Hi, Daryl.” I offered him a wide grin. “I like your shoes.”

He looked down, bounced on his toes slightly, and gave us a toothless grin. He pointed to my bare feet. “And I like yours.”

I wiggled my toes in reply.  I liked Daryl. Even with all of his challenges, he struck me as an honorable man with the best of intentions. And while I felt pity for his state of affairs, I wanted to preserve as much of his pride as I could. “Daryl, this is my friend, Marcella. Marcella, this is Daryl Cummins. He’s a buddy of mine.”

Marcella stood and walked over to Daryl, holding out her hand, much to my surprise. Most people were repelled by the homeless, considering them bums at best or dangerous at worst. Marcella had no fear of Daryl whatsoever, though.

“The pleasure is all mine; I’m sure, Mr. Cummins.”

Daryl took her hand and then frowned as he pulled it back. Looking at Marcella with suspicion, he retreated a few steps back toward his cart. “You’re the vampire lady,” he uttered, refusing to meet Marcella’s eyes.

“I’m sorry?” Marcella looked at him, clearly confused. She raised an eyebrow and mouthed the word ‘vampire lady’ at me with a questioning look, and I just shrugged.

“Detective,” he said, glancing at me. “You should be careful who your friends with.”

I was stunned. “Daryl, do you think vampires are real?”

“One killed Jo-Jo.”  His tone was very matter of fact with just a hint of sadness.  And though he spoke to me, he continued watching Marcella, now seated.

“Wait, what? Jo-Jo is dead? What happened?” I asked, worried for him.

He finally turned to me. “Someone tore open her throat. The doctor at the hospital said it must have been an accident. BK and Dog found her down on the mile behind a dumpster.” Daryl was referring to the methadone mile at Mass and Cass. “It took some work to get it out of him, but they said what happened.  They said he was licking her throat, lapping up her blood like a dog. They wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

I frowned. “Wait, your not making any sense. Who are BK and Dog?”

He turned his eyes back to Marcella, still not meeting her gaze.  “Just some guys.  Can we talk over there?” He pointed toward the rotunda.

“Sure, Daryl.”  I made to apologize to Marcella, but she just nodded and waved us on as Daryl limped off toward the Rotunda, and I followed.

Irritated that Daryl had treated Marcella, who seemed perfectly lovely, with such disdain, I snatched Daryl’s arm as soon as we reached the rotunda and swept him around. “Alright, Daryl.  What’s going on?”

“Jo-Jo is dead. BK said he and Dog saw someone drinking her blood over on the mile.”

“Okay, and you said that someone called 9-1-1?”

“Yeah, Dog did. The ambulance showed up, and so did a cop. The cop said it must have been an accident. BK said it wasn’t, but the cop didn’t listen. That’s what BK told me.”

“Wait, BK told a police officer that Jo-Jo was murdered and no one called in Homicide?” I was incredulous.

He adopted a faraway look.  “No one cares what happens on the mile.  They don’t care about Jo-Jo or any of us.”

I was still skeptical of the whole affair.  I didn’t know any officer who would do what he was suggesting.  “What else did BK say?”

“He said the man had a sword on his back. One of those ninja swords.”  That got my attention.

“Like a katana?”

“I guess. Anyway, Jo-Jo’s dead.”  Daryl scratched at his nose, looking around nervously.

“Daryl?”

“Yeah?”

I glanced at Marcella who was watching us, face impassive.  “Why do you call Marcella the ‘vampire lady?’”

“That’s just what some of the guys call her.”

“Street guys?”

“Yeah, they all know who she is. She comes down here for lunch a lot. She used to feed lunch to a lot of us. Then, one guy, I can’t remember his name, Jimmy, I think. Big guy, dark-skinned, long dirty dreads, he said he saw her kill someone. The next week, Jimmy disappeared. Now, no one talks to her anymore.”

“Are you sure it’s the same woman?”

“Well, I don’t know if she actually killed anyone, but when the street talks, you listen, you know. I do know that’s the woman they call the vampire lady. Do you think she’s nice?”

“So far, she’s been very nice to me.” It was falling into place now. Street rumors were often taken as gospel when it came to who you should and shouldn’t be around. It was a survival mechanism. Frankly, it worked most of the time. But, sometimes you’d get crazy shit like ‘the vampire lady.’ Sometimes the rumors were accurate, and sometimes, it was mistaken identity or a drugged-out haze.  It was all its own mythology of sorts.

“Here, go get something to eat.” I handed him a twenty, and he ambled away toward his cart, periodically glancing at Marcella suspiciously.

I walked back over to Marcella, who was packing up our plates.

“I’m so sorry,” I told Marcella as I pulled on my socks and shoes. “He’s a good guy, but apparently, you have a ‘rep’ among the transients down here. You’ve become the myth of ‘the vampire lady.’” I made sure not to let any sarcasm creep into my voice. Homeless people don’t deserve to be ridiculed. I knew none that were homeless by choice. In many cases, they were controlled by forces more powerful than they could hope to overcome, like the mental health issues hemmed in Daryl. The streets were the only place where his world made sense.

“It’s okay, Detective. You might be surprised to find out that it’s not the first time I’ve been accused of being the undead. Once, in London, a priest threw holy water on me.” She chuckled a bit. “He was pretty horrified when I didn’t scream and run away or burst into flames. I mean, look at me,” she said, her tone turning a bit self-effacing. “Pale skin, skinny, low body temperature. What else would ignorant people think?  The truth is, I have a physical condition that causes all this.” She finished packing up her case and folding up the small table.

“I just figured you stayed out of the sun. And you’re not the first person I’ve met with cold hands. A guy I went out with a few years ago whose hands were positively frosty all the time. It was a real turn-off in—“ I stopped myself.  She doesn’t want to hear about your former sex partners, stupid. “Not that your hands are cold like his, they’re not. It’s just— “ Jesus, Cait, really?

She bent over to pack her things.  God, she had a beautiful ass, and my mind started to run away, me in tow.  The urge to reach out and put my hands on it was almost overwhelming.  She sensed my proximity because she stood upright, turned, and looked me in the eye.

“Yes, Detective?” A cocky smile played about her ruby lips. “See something you like?”

I flushed.  I stammered momentarily. “I—I—uh—have to go back to work.”

“Shame. I have work to do myself, too, though. A cargo ship lost power in the pacific and capsized. They rescued the crew, which is all that truly matters, but a half-million in cargo we were shipping went with it. But, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about my woes.” Her tone turned a little more intimate, and she looked me in the eye. “I enjoyed our time today very much.”

I blushed like a schoolgirl, positively giddy at the compliment.  “I did, too,” I said dumbly.

She reached up slowly, almost languidly, and pushed a stray hair from my face, stroking my chin as she did so.  “I’d like to see you again. Are we still on for Monday night?”  Her forthright manner was so appealing—no games, no battles. While she could be coy, Marcella’s true nature was very assertive, almost aggressive.

“No,” I whispered. “No, we’re not.” I looked down at her lips, instinctively licking my own. My pulse started to race, and my breathing felt labored. A buzz of excitement filled my head. I watched as her lips turned into a frown, and she propped her hands on her hips.

“No?” Her tone was demanding.

“No, some crazy Swede I just met roped me into cooking dinner for her,” I joked, smiling playfully.

“Good girl,” she breathed as she stepped closer, the same smile tugging at her lips. A shiver ran down my spine.  We were only inches apart. “Send me the ingredients you need for your Bolognese sauce.”

“Yes,” I whispered. I felt bewitched, lost in her frosty blue eyes, and a little weak in the knees.

She leaned in and kissed me, a light brush on my cheek from soft, cool lips that burned. Gooseflesh rose across my body, and I suppressed another shiver.

“Goodbye, Cait. I’ll see you Monday night.  Maybe sooner.” Her voice was quiet and velvety and full of dark promises. Marcella turned away, gathered up the blanket, basket, and table, and left. Picking up my jacket off the ground, I watched her hips sway as she walked away, thinking of the hint of garter under the skirt.

Mary, mother of God, help me.

20

Carol sat at my desk, feet up, waiting for me.  "Well?  How did it go?"

I decided to understate the matter. “It was okay. She's very nice. You, by the way, are an asshole."  But, regardless of how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop smiling and blushing like a schoolgirl.  I might as well have skipped into the cube farm.

Carol laughed. "Oh, you've got it bad.  Is there a second date?"

Another flush crept up the back of my neck and pinkened my cheeks.  "Okay, quit, two things. First, get out of my seat. Second, did you hear anything about a death on the mile last night?"

Carol gasped. "There is! Isn't there?" She started clapping her hands and hopping up and down. "That didn't take long. Look at you go."

"Carol! Stop." My whole body was burning crimson. "Now, I promise I'll spill everything—later. Please.  Junkie?  Last night?"

Carol raised an eyebrow and sighed. “Fine. Sure.  Squad five picked it up.  A junkie had her throat torn open and bled out.  Wasn't a lot of blood at the scene, so they figured it was a body dump."

"Well, we're going to have to talk to them. The victim was Jo-Jo, Daryl Cummins' friend. He said two witnesses swore that she was murdered there by someone carrying a Japanese sword."

Carol's eyes turned into saucers, and she whistled. "Uh-oh."

"Yup, we need to find this guy. That's five bodies in three days." I blew out a breath and sent Benton, squad five’s lead, an email letting him know that we needed to see his case files and why. He replied almost immediately, more than happy to hand the case over.

"I'm going to let Larson know that we're picking up the case.”

“I’ll go get the files from Dooley’s team,” Carol replied and walked off.

I went to Larson's door and knocked on it.

“Come in!” He snapped.

I opened the door and leaned my head in. "We're taking squad five's junkie; we’re pretty sure it’s the same guy as our other two."

Larson shook his head. "Okay, let Dooley know. Now get out while I work on these evals. Yours is in this stack, by the way, so don't fuck up." I rolled my eyes as I closed the door.

"I saw that," Larson yelled through the door. I shook my head and went back to my desk.  I even threw Larson’s door the finger as I walked.

I had just sat down when my phone buzzed with a gibberish text from Gabe.  I texted him back, asking what he needed, but there was no reply.  Odd. I thought and chalked it up to an accident.

Carol had already come back with a stack of case folders from Benton. Jo-Jo's real name was Charlotte Westfield, born in Annapolis, Maryland. Her rap sheet was relatively short: soliciting, drug possession, drunken and disorderly—nothing violent. I hadn’t liked her because I thought she was terrible for Daryl, but that didn't matter anymore.

Whatever Daryl had been on about, Squad-Five had done an excellent job working the case.  The witness statements would have been funny if someone wasn't dead.  'Witness claims a vampire, like Count Dracula, ate the victim.'  Good grief. Could this case get any more fucked up?  My phone rang.

“Homicide, Reagan,”  I answered.

“Cait?”  It was Gabe, but his voice sounded strange, almost like a cry of anguish or pain.

“Gabe?  What’s wrong, honey?”

His voice turned on the spot, becoming enraged and growling.  “I need you to come over here, right now.”

I furrowed my brow in irritation.  “Gabe?  I can’t.  I’m working; you know that.”

“You bitch. You need to get over here right now,” he roared into the phone.

I blinked, taken completely aback by his sudden rage.  “Gabe, what the fuck is going on?”

The line went dead.  I tried to call him back a few times, but it went to voicemail.  A sick feeling roiling my gut, I called the E-5 station, just a few blocks from Gabe’s, and asked for a wellness check.  They could get there far faster than I could.

I turned to Carlos, who was just rolling over.  “Want to take a ride?  Gabe just gave me the weirdest phone call.  He sounded—unhinged.  I need to go check on him.”

“Sure, darlin’.  You bet.  Let me get my things.”

Twenty minutes later, we’d turned along Weld Street and were about to pull down toward Gabe’s when I saw the cruisers out in front of a small white house with a picket fence and a beautifully landscaped yard. "Oh, God!”

"What?" Carlos asked.

"It's Deborah Parkman's home." Panic snatched at my breath, and a creeping sense of dread crawled up my spine.  The radio crackled.

“Victor 8-7-7.  Full notification for Weld and Carlson, Homicide Requested.”

I reached over and grabbed the radio in the cruiser. “Victor 8-7-7, responding.  I need the victim's name for Weld and Carlson?”

"Victim's name is Deborah Parkman."  My heart sank.  Oh, Gabe.

"I can't go in; it's Gabriel's mother, Deborah." I shook my head. This couldn't be happening. I didn’t like Deborah, and she didn't like me. But I never wanted her dead, and I couldn't imagine what Gabe must be going through. I pulled out my phone and dialed Gabe's number. "Come on, honey, pick up." It went straight to voicemail. "Shit."

Carlos looked both irritated and concerned.  "Jesus, Cait, what?"

"Gabe isn't answering. Look, obviously, I can't be involved in this one; you'll have to work it."

The radio crackled to life again. "Echo 2-1-4"

"Echo 2-1-4," Dispatch answered.

"I've got a guy walking down the street in a bloody shirt with a kitchen knife.  Requesting backup to Weld and Russett."

I had an awful feeling rising in my chest. Carlos was already on it, though, "Victor 8-7-7 responding to Weld and Russett." Carlos hit the lights and sirens and peeled out, driving up on the sidewalk around the cruisers.

Just a few blocks down Weld, two officers stood, weapons drawn, yelling at Gabe to drop the knife. He looked terrible. His hair was disheveled, and he had at least a day's stubble. His white shirt and suit pants were torn and covered in blood. In his right hand was a bloody kitchen knife.

I leaped out of the car and ran toward the scene full tilt. "Hold your fire. Hold your god damned fire." I shouted. The officers didn't move, but they stopped yelling. One of them looked over at me.

I held up my badge.  “I know this man. Let me see if I can talk him down."

They didn't lower their weapons, but one of the officers nodded.

"Gabe," I called softly. "Gabe, honey?"

He didn't seem to see me. He was pacing back and forth, muttering to himself. But I couldn't make out what he was saying.

I stepped a little closer, making sure not to get between the officers and Gabe. I didn’t fancy getting shot if this started to go any further sideways. "Gabe, honey? What are you doing, sweetie?"

He stopped talking and looked at me. "Cait?"  He squinted, and his eyes seemed to focus—just barely. He waved the knife at me.  “You need to run.”

"Gabe, honey? Put the knife down.”  I motioned with my hand.

"I can't! Don't you know that I can't?" He screamed at me. "I can't! He made me. He made me."

"Gabe, honey, you're not making any sense. Who made you? Made you do what, honey?" I took another step forward.

"Lower your weapons!" I shouted at the officers. "That's a fucking order! I'll take responsibility."

Finally, the officers drew their weapons down.  If this went south, I was about to risk my career and, possibly, my life.

"Gabe. What's going on? What did he make you do?"

"I killed her, Cait. He made me kill Mom. He wanted me to kill you, too. But I was strong, and I don't want to." His eyes were wild, and he stank, even from this distance. Gabe slapped his head a couple of times. "Get out. Get out."

Gabe turned toward the officers as Carlos moved slowly past them. "Gabe, honey. Focus on me, don't look at them. I won't let them hurt you. Who wanted you to kill me?"

"Haimon!" he shouted. "Haimon! He's in my head. He wants me to kill you."

"Is Haimon talking to you now?"

"No, no, no." Gabe stomped his feet. I saw his left pinky finger was missing; it was just a stub, bleeding profusely.

Jesus, Gabe, what is going on?

"Hey!" I shouted, taking another step forward. "Eyes on me, honey. We can get through this."

He looked at me again, a touch of lucidity evident in his stare. "You have to run, Cait. I can't stop."

While I talked to Gabe, Carlos circled around and got behind him.

"Gabe, honey, talk to me. What can't you stop?" I took another step forward. Carlos held up three fingers as he crept up.

3—

Gabe started to turn around.

"Hey, eyes on me, what can't you stop, baby?" I had to hold his attention if he was going to get out of this alive.

2—

"You don't understand. He's strong. So, strong. I killed Mom. I killed her. He made me."

1—

Everything happened at once. Gabe's eyes turned cruel and hateful, and he lunged forward, knife out. Carlos flashed forward. He was so fast that I barely saw the movement before he had Gabe in a bear hug, holding his arms to his side, feet dangling. I ran forward and wrestled at the knife.  Finally, I slammed my knuckles into Gabe's fingers, breaking his hold on the blade and his fingers with it.  Gabe screamed and then crumpled. Carlos felt him go slack and started lowering him to the ground.

The other two officers were still standing around holding their dicks.

"Call EMS!" I shouted.

I checked Gabe's pulse. It was thready. As I inspected him for wounds, I found a dozen or so bruises on his torso but nothing else other than the missing finger. "Jesus! What happened to you?" I muttered rhetorically. "Fuck."

EMS arrived on the scene about ten minutes later. Gabe was still unconscious; we'd cuffed him and laid him on his side so he could breathe.

I looked at Carlos as EMS took over, loading him into the ambulance. “BMC psych," I said to the EMT. "His name is Gabriel Parkman; he's had some kind of psychotic break.  Let them know that he’s under arrest and can be restrained if medically necessary.”

The EMTs nodded and loaded him up, an officer riding with them.

"Carlos, I'm going to follow them in the cruiser. Can you get a ride back?"

"Yeah, darlin', you do what you have to. I got this. Are you going to be okay?"

No, dumbass, I'm never going to be okay again.  I didn't say that; I just took him back to the scene and started the drive to Boston Medical Center.  “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

21

I strode into Gabe’s room, pushing past a nurse who tried to block my way.  He was strapped to his bed and seemed calm at first.  But as soon as he saw me, his face twisted in rage, and he turned wild-eyed.

“I’m going to kill you, bitch,” he screamed, thrashing violently against the restraints.  “I’m going to kill you.”

“Gabe, honey—“  I started, but a nurse pushed me back.

“Okay, you need to leave, like, now!”  She said firmly, and I backed out of the room as they sedated him.

A bit later, I watched him through the window, his chest moving up and down with the rhythm of sleep.  “Good grief, Gabe, what the hell happened to you?”

“How is he?”

I turned at the soft British accent to find Marcella Carson standing at my shoulder.  “I don’t know.  What are you doing here?”

“Someone named Carol said you could use a friend.”

Fucking Carol, playing the matchmaker again.  It was cute when she pushed me to go to lunch, but this was a step too far.  My boyfriend, or soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, or whatever he was now, was in the hospital, and she sends Marcella to comfort me?  I let out a heavy sigh and sat down on one of the plastic chairs in the hallway.

Marcella sat next to me.  Brushing off her black slacks.  “Do they have any idea what happened to him?”

“No, Marcella, they don’t,” I snapped.  “This morning, he seemed fine on the phone.  He was taking care of his mother and asking if we would be okay, as a couple, you know?”  I felt like absolute shit discussing Gabe with her after our little date on the common.  But if it bothered her, she didn’t show it.

“You feel guilty.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Of course, I feel guilty.  Whatever it was, it probably happened while I was gallivanting on the Common with you.”

“Look at me,” she demanded, and I felt an irresistible pull that drew my eyes to hers.  It was almost frightening.  “You are not to blame here.  Whatever happened to him wasn’t your fault, and you know that.”

I hung my head and ran my hand through my greasy, blood-spattered hair.  “I know, but I still feel responsible, somehow.”

Marcella’s tone shifted, growing gentle and comforting.  “Your relationship was in a bad place.  You as much as said so yesterday.  When bad things happen to people we love, it’s hard.  But when bad things happen to people we love with whom were not on good terms, it’s much worse.  But, nothing happens for a reason, as much we’d like to think otherwise.”

I looked at the tile floor, following the lines with my eyes.  “I know.  But I should have protected him.”

She placed a hand on my forearm.  “How could you have?  This must seem terribly unfair for someone who has lost so much.”

“Damn right, it’s unfair.” I stood up and started pacing.  “What’s worse, though.  In addition to feeling like a shitty companion, I feel fucking relieved.  Relieved!” My voice rose slightly.  “Relieved that I have an excuse to let him go and move on.  I am a terrible person.”

“No, Cait, you’re not,” Marcella said firmly.  She stood up and grabbed my arm to stop me from pacing.  I tried to tear my arm away, but her grip was surprisingly solid.  “You are a human being with feelings and emotions that can’t be controlled.  We have no control over anything, not even ourselves.  Control is a fucking illusion.

“You didn’t do this to Gabe.  You didn’t put the knife in his hand.  You didn’t even dump him.  You wanted to, but you didn’t.  Gabe is a victim of a shitty turn in life, nothing else.”

At that moment, I realized just how tired I was.  I rubbed my face.  “You’re right.  I need to go home and get some rest.”

“No, Cait, you do not need to be alone.  Is there someone you can call, your mother perhaps?”

“I can call her, but I need to go to the station first and make a statement.”

“Bloody unbelievable.” Marcella threw up her hands in exasperation.  “No, you know what?  You are coming home with me.”

“I don’t want—,” I started, but Marcella stomped her foot.

“I don’t care what you want.  You need someone to take care of you tonight.  If you’re not willing to go to your mother’s, I will do it myself.”  Her words rattled around in my head for a minute.

“What about the cruiser I drove over here?” It was a weak protest.  Shit, I really just wanted to say ‘yes, ma’am.’  And, at that particular moment, hiding out at Marcella’s didn’t sound like the horrible idea that it probably was.  I was just so fucking tired; I really couldn’t think.

“Cáitlín?” I knew before I turned around that it was my mother, dressed in her usual jeans, sneakers, and a frumpy, oversized sweater.  No one ever used the Irish pronunciation of my name but her, pronouncing it ‘cotch-leen.’  Fuck my life.  It was better than even odds that Lieutenant Larson had called her.

“Conas atá tú?”

“Uafásach, Ma.” I hugged her.

“Ma, this is my friend, Marcella Carson.  Marcella, Ma.”  My mother frowned at me.  “Sorry.  Ms. Róisín Reagan.”

“Marcella, good to see you again.”  My mother held out her hand.

Marcella took it, speaking in what I assumed was Swedish.  “Róisín, hur är det?”

My mother responded in kind.  “Bra, tack.”

My mouth hung open. I hadn’t even known my mother could speak  Swedish.  ”Wait, you’ve met?”

My mother responded curtly, eyeing Marcella, making it seem like she didn’t like Marcella much.  “Yes, we’ve met.”

They continued conversing in Swedish for a couple of minutes, and it seemed a bit heated.  But then my mother breathed a sigh of relief, and they shared a quick hug.

“Okay,” my mother said.  “Ms. Carson has told me that you’ll be staying with her tonight, and I’m glad.  I was worried that you might be left alone.  Bill didn’t tell me what happened to Gabe, just that he was over here in the hospital and that you might need me.  Goodness, Cáitlín, you look exhausted.”  She started fussing with my jacket and shirt, trying to make me look presentable.

“Ma, stop!  Gabe tried to stab me an hour ago.  I want to go home.”

She let go of me and looked shocked for about a second; then, her eyes got hard.  “That bastard, I’ll kill him myself,” she said through gritted teeth, staring daggers at his door.

“Ma, Gabe didn’t know what he was doing.  Besides, we’re not dating anymore.”

“You’re not?” She did a one-eighty.  “What happened?”

I sighed in exasperation.  “It just wasn’t working.  I’ll tell you later.”

My mother grabbed me by my shoulders.  “Now, Cáitlín, I don’t want you to be all alone tonight.  I mean it.”

I rolled my eyes.  “Okay, Ma.”

“I worry.” Her voice was almost a whisper, and remembered pain sparked in her eyes.  “Promise me.  I need to know you’ll be safe tonight.”

“Yes, Ma, I promise.”

“Good.”  She turned back to Marcella.  “Make sure she eats, stays safe, and gets a good night’s sleep.”

Marcella smiled beatifically.  “Of course.”

Ma turned back to me.  “Cáitlín, are you leaving now?  Do you want me to stay here with you?”

“No, Ma, I’m leaving.  It’s okay.  I’m going to take a few days off, so I’ll call you later.  I promise I’ll be fine.”

We said our goodbyes and I kissed my mother on the cheek, swearing to visit more often, about fourteen times.  Then, like the force of nature she was, my mother swirled her way out of the hospital.

“I do like her,” Marcella said appreciatively.

I turned on Marcella.  “Don’t ever do that again.  Using my mother to manipulate me?  That’s low.  And, for that matter, how do you know her?”

Marcella crossed her arms and stood, hip cocked as if waiting for something.  After a moment, she said, “Are you done?”

I eyed her suspiciously.  “Yes.”

Her voice wasn’t defensive at all, just assertive.  “All I did was tell her that I was trying to get you to go home with me so you wouldn’t be alone.  I only said that because she said she was worried about you.  She twisted it around as if it were a foregone conclusion.”

That sounded just like my mother.  I wanted to be angry with both of them, but I couldn’t muster any feeling at all.  “And how do you know her?”

“I once donated to your mother’s department at the university.  I just hadn’t put two and two together.”  Marcella took my face in her hands.  “Now, come home with me.  I have three extra bedrooms on the third floor.  You can have your pick, and I’ll make you some tea.”

Unsure how to react to the familiar gesture, I did nothing, and my shoulders slumped.  Her cool touch felt so good on my cheeks.  I had an image of me curled up in a bed with Marcella.  It wasn’t what she offered, but it was a nice thought.  Then, I felt velvety lips brush my cheek, and Marcella spoke gently as if I might shatter into a million pieces.

“I may seem like the evil corporate bitch, but I’m not.  I’m a caretaker.  It’s in my nature to look out for others.  Come home with me, no flirting, no games, no invasive questions.”

God, but that sounded so nice.  Three days ago, the idea of letting someone else take care of me would have been unthinkable.  I just wouldn’t have done it.  But I just nodded my head and walked out with her.

22

I climbed into Marcella’s car, a black Audi Q4 eTron.  I expected an Aston-Martin or Maserati, not an electric grocery mover.  I wanted to make a snarky comment, but my exhausted brain couldn’t find one.

I called Larson and requested time off, to which he agreed, if grudgingly.  I didn’t want to do it, but I was running on fumes, my life was in flames, and I just needed a break.  I asked him to send someone to pick up the cruiser, then hung up, turning off my phone, yanking the battery, and putting it in my jacket pocket.

“Can we stop at my place?  I’d like to pick up a change of clothes.”

“Sure, anything you’d like,” she said as she turned onto Storrow Drive.

I gave her my address in the North End and then leaned back in the seat to close my eyes.  Sometime later, I jerked awake, feeling sweat beading on my forehead.

Marcella looked at me impassively.  “We’re here.  Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think I might have been on the edge of a nightmare, but I can’t remember.” I unbuckled the seatbelt and got out of the car.

It took a little longer than expected, but eventually, I trotted back down the stairs and got back into the car.  “I am so sorry,” I said.  “I had to get my neighbor to watch Jabba the Hutt.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My cat.”

Marcella snorted with glee.  “You named your cat Jabba the Hutt?  Is he fat?”

“No,” I said, feigning offense.  “He’s just big-boned.”

“Indeed.” Her voice was laced with skepticism.  “You do know that big-boned is a euphemism for fat?”

“He’s not fat,” I pouted petulantly.  “He’s big-boned.  It’s not the same.”

Marcella’s garage had room for several cars, but there were only two.  The Audi we’d just arrived in and an older BMW 3-series convertible.

“Huh,” I said as we exited the vehicle.  “Looking at your house, I expected there would be more cars, maybe a Ferrari or a Maserati.”

“Despite what you might think, Cait, I’m not wealthy.  Almost all of my money is tied up in my home and charity efforts.”

“And your wardrobe,” I muttered under my breath.

She threw me a lighthearted V-sign and said, “I heard that.”  I smirked tiredly, happy I’d finally gotten in a dig.

We stepped through a green steel door and into a small elevator.  I noticed numbers for each floor on the panel.  There was also a locked button marked B2.

“What’s B2?”  I asked, curious.

“It’s the sub-basement underneath us.  It is not a place for nosy detectives.”  She winked at me as she said it.

“Is that the drug lab?  Or is it where you keep the bodies of your victims?” I asked playfully.

Marcella smiled strangely and shook her head.  She pressed the button for the ground floor.  The ride was short, and the elevator let out into a nook off the kitchen.  Ninetta was preparing food when we walked in.

“Oh, thank you, Ninetta.  We’re starved, and Ms. Reagan will want to retire soon.  Do we have a room made up for her?”

“Yes, Ms. Carson.  The west bedroom is ready.” Ninetta had a dark look on her face as she glanced my way.  If I didn’t know better, I would have said she was jealous.

“Delightful.  The west bedroom has an attached bath where you can freshen up.  Honestly, Cait, you look a bloody fright.”

I looked down at myself and only now realized that broad smears of blood ran down my shirt and jacket.  My right hand was sticky and coated from wrestling with Gabe’s mangled fingers.  I was covered.  “Oh, God, I didn’t realize.” I began wiping nervously at my hand and arm.

Marcella pulled my hand away, taking it in hers.  “It’s okay.  You’re probably in a bit of shock.  Do you have anything to sleep in?”

Shit, I had forgotten PJs.  “No, I’m sorry.  I’m not firing on all cylinders right now.”

“Not to worry.  While Ninetta is making food, I’ll get you something to wear.  Cait, if you take the elevator up to the third floor, down the hallway to the right, next to the back stairs, is your bedroom.  Now, go take a shower; you’ll feel better.”  Her tone was gentle, but it brooked no argument.

I followed Marcella’s directions to the west bedroom. It was the size of my apartment.  A queen-sized canopy bed sat against one wall.  A door led to a bathroom with a large walk-in shower.  Peeking around the frosted glass walls, I realized the shower had multiple showerheads.  Still in the box, a fresh toothbrush sat on the marble washbasin, and fresh towels hung from a brass rack.

I didn’t dawdle.  Stripping out of my bloody, sweat-soaked clothes, I stepped into the shower and turned on every showerhead, scalding hot.  I was instantly inundated, burning my skin.  I didn’t care.  I needed to get clean.

I found soap, shampoo, and a mesh scrubby at the back of the shower, next to a fresh razor.  Good grief, Ninetta didn’t fuck around.  She was like a concierge for a five-star hotel.  I grabbed the mesh sponge and scoured Gabe’s blood off of my skin.

Slowly, inexorably, as I removed the blood, shock faded with it.  I leaned against the shower tiles and finally slid down, sitting in the scorching spray.  I succumbed to a cold knot of pain in my chest and a sinking sense of sorrow.  Deborah was dead, and Gabe had gone insane.

I lay under the spray for long minutes until there was a knock on the door.  “Cait?  May I come in?”  It was Marcella, as expected.  When I didn’t answer, I heard the door open.  “I’ve brought you some clothes.”

I looked over at the door, it was open a crack, and I could see Marcella’s delicate, pale hand on the doorknob.

My voice shook.  “Um, just a minute.”  I tried to rise but found I didn’t have the strength.  My hands trembled violently, and I felt strangely cold.  Moments later, tender arms pulled me into a soft embrace, and the flood of tears that had been threatening for days now fell like rain.

“Dear Goddess, Cait.  What are you doing?  This water is positively boiling.”  Marcella broke the hug and turned down the heat, hoisting me from the shower floor back into the water.

“Cait, honey, let’s get you clean.”  The tender care in her voice only made me sob harder.  Soft hands rubbed shampoo into my wet hair, scrubbing my scalp.  I felt so small at that moment.  I was naked in front of her in every sense.  Wracking sobs jerked my body, and my thoughts vanished in a river of misery. I was broken.

Marcella finished washing my hair and pushed me under the water to rinse.  The air seemed to turn instantly cold as she turned off the water and pulled my shivering form from the shower.  Marcella’s camisole was plastered against her skin, transparent with wetness, revealing perfect, beautiful breasts.  Gazing up, I was captured by her blue eyes, inches from my own.  Her lips were dark and full and red against her pale skin.  My shivering stopped.  I licked my lips almost unconsciously.

Marcella put a finger to my mouth.  “No.  Not here.  Not like this.”  She pulled a towel from the rack, leaving one for me, and stole away on quiet feet.

I exited the bathroom, moving slowly, in a pair of drawstring pants and a t-shirt.  The bed had been turned down, and a steaming mug of something that smelled vaguely of spearmint sat on the nightstand along with a BLT sandwich.  A beautiful antique penshell lamp illuminated the room in a soothing ochre light.

Exhausted and defeated, I crawled into the bed and took a sip of the spearmint concoction.  Marcella had made me feel so strange.  I had been dazzled by her the day we’d met.  Over the next two days, as I’d gotten to know her a little better, I found someone who was kind and compassionate, a caretaker, as she had said.  But there was something more, almost as if my heart had been barely holding itself together, and as soon as it saw Marcella, it decided to fall to pieces.  I tried to analyze the feelings, but I found myself too drowsy to think.

Eyeing the mug in my hands suspiciously, now about half empty, I yawned.  Marcella wanted to make sure that I slept, I guess.  I set down the mug next to the untouched sandwich and turned out the light.  My thoughts drifted quickly into strange visions, and before long, I was asleep.

23

I wake to the soft chime of my phone — zero six-hundred.  I am a light sleeper, always have been.  Three AC units wail, delivering a comforting white noise.  I cannot hear them; the noise plants itself in the back of my mind, something distant and remembered.  Slipping soundlessly from under the blanket, I put my feet to the floor and stand.  There are three beds:  mine, one next to me, and an empty one across the room—Specialist Rutherford’s.  I feel a vague loss at the empty bed.

I turn and watch Specialist Kennedy sleeping for what has to be the thousandth time, her broad, soft curls slide, flowing over her pillow in a red wave.  A sliver of buttery sunlight shines through a crack in the plywood. Moments later, it strikes her eyelids, and she turns, gracelessly flopping over onto her back.  But it is not Morgan; it is Gabe.  He launches himself out of the bed.  His eyes are wild and bloodshot, and his skin is peeling off his body.  The flesh of his face slides down, dripping in rotted clumps to the floor.  An overwhelming stench of death and decay makes me gag.

“You bitch!  You did this to me.  You fucking bitch, I’ll kill you, you cunt!”  His voice is distorted and dark, mouth gurgling with black viscous fluid.

He flies at me, pinning me to the floor, hands wrapped around my upper arms, banging my head to the linoleum.  Bits of Gabe are falling into my mouth in fat globs, tasting of rotted, decaying blood.  I thrash and kick.  A blood-curdling scream of pain, revulsion, and terror is torn from my throat.

✽✽✽

I was jarred awake by a slap across the face.

“Wake up!” Marcella shouted at me.

“Ow! Jesus,” I rubbed my cheek.

“Goddess, I’m so sorry, but you were thrashing and refused to wake.”  Marcella was straddling me, a painful grip on my left arm.

“You’re hurting me,” I whimpered, tugging weakly at my arm.  She released it.

“Sorry, I was trying to keep you from banging your head on the headboard.  I didn’t know what else to do.”  Marcella looked horrified.

“What are you doing here?” My brain felt full of cotton, and my vision was blurred.  I rubbed my eyes and slowly remembered that I was in her home.  “I’m sorry, Marcella,” I almost groaned with fatigue and started to turn over.  I couldn’t keep my eyes open as sleep began to take me.  “What was in that tea?  I’m so tired—.”

“Hey, stay awake,” Marcella admonished, shaking me back to consciousness.  “The tea is nothing special, peppermint, lavender, and a touch of lemon balm.  It’s straight from the store, I promise.”  She picked up the tea and sniffed, then put a drop on her tongue.  Then, frowning, she stood.

“Ninetta!” she hollered.  She sounded almost enraged.

Ninetta hurried into the room in an old-fashioned nightgown.  “Yes, Signora.” She was trembling slightly.

“What is in this tea?” Marcella’s voice was sharp and curt.

“Ms. Carson, you asked me to make some tea.  In addition to the usual herbs, I added some Asian Valerian extract; it is much more potent than lemon balm or lavender.  You said she needed sleep.”

“I said help her sleep, Ninetta, not put her in a coma!”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Carson.  It was my mistake.”

Marcella dismissed her.  “Okay, Ninetta, thank you.”

“Anything else for you or the Detective?” Ninetta asked from the doorway.

“No, that will be all.  Thank you.”

Ninetta walked out of the room, shooting me a hateful gaze.  I tried to understand it, but my brain just refused to function.  Without another word, I turned on my side and closed my eyes.

Moments later, I felt Marcella slide into the bed next to me and envelop me in her arms.  Without thought, I wiggled my butt back into her, snuggling closer.  I was so tired and just needed to sleep this off.

“I’ll stay here until you fall asleep,” she whispered.  The corners of my mouth lifted into a tired smile, and alarms sounded somewhere in my head, but I didn’t care.

In the morning, but for me, the bed was empty.  And it took me a minute of coaxing my addled brain to figure out if what I remembered had even really happened.

Asian valerian extract?  My ass.  Ninetta had dosed me with something; I was sure of it.  The question was, did Marcella tell her to, or did Ninetta do it on her own.  I couldn’t imagine Marcella going to all this trouble to rufi me in her own home.  Why?  I’d almost thrown myself at her like a drunken prom date in the bathroom.  Of course, that had been before she had stopped me.  ‘Not here.  Not like this.’  Yup, she had known what I was thinking.

A few minutes later, as the elevator stopped on the ground floor, I smelled the rising scent of frying bacon.  Oh, God, am I hungry, I thought.  The door opened, and I smelled not only bacon but something baking.  While I didn’t fancy another run-in with Ninetta’s mysteriously hateful stare, I wanted to eat.  I walked into the kitchen, wondering if Ninetta might try to poison me, where, to my surprise, I found Marcella cooking.

“Oh, good, you’re up.” She looked up at me with that dazzling smile as I walked in.  “I assume you slept well, at least for the rest of the night.”

I nodded and looked around with mild trepidation.  “And where is Ms. Di’Angelo?”

“On an extended vacation.”

“Please tell me that you didn’t fire her.”  An extended vacation sounded somewhat ominous.

“No, of course not.  She’d have had a fat severance coming, so I chopped her up and put her in the icebox.  It was cheaper.”

I blinked.  Marcella’s tone had been so flat, and the words delivered with such confidence I couldn’t tell if she was kidding.

“Ha!  That was for that remark about my wardrobe.  She’s First Class on British Airways bound for Italy.  I sent her to visit her son and daughter-in-law in Florence for a few weeks.”

“Okay, what did she put in my tea?  I know what Valerian extract does.  Marcella, I was drugged.  Not with anything ridiculously high powered, but I was definitely sedated.”

“She swore it was Asian Valerian, Cait,” Marcella said, but the lack of indignance in her voice gave away her doubts.  “I’ve known her for twenty years.  For twenty years, she has been a consummate professional housekeeper.  I have never had any cause to question her judgment or her word.  So, let’s leave it at that.”

I learned several things about Marcella Carson in that exchange.  First, she hadn’t told Ninetta to drug me.  Second, it scared her— enough to send Ninetta far away.  Third, she was loyal as hell, given that she’d sent Ninetta out of the country rather than let her be arrested for poisoning a cop.  Fourth, she was an expert at telling the truth while revealing nothing.

I decided that a bit of revelation was in order.  If we were going to be friends, I had to believe at least that she was going to treat me honestly.  “Marcella, I appreciate that you are protecting your friend.  I might do the same for some of mine.  But, I also know that she gave me a sedative, not an over-the-counter sedative, either.  What was in my tea?”

“I don’t know,” she said, slamming a fork on the counter.  “I don’t know what she put in your tea, but I can guess why.  Ninetta has been my constant companion for twenty years.  She’s managed my home, a good portion of my finances.  She knows all of my secrets, peccadilloes, and worries.  I’ve confided in her for all of that time—.”

“She’s jealous,” I interrupted.

“Yes, Cait, she’s jealous.” Marcella began cooking mushrooms and tomatoes in the bacon grease.  “Is Full English okay?” she asked.

“Yes, that would be fabulous.”  I let the conversation go.  People did stupid stuff all the time in the name of love and obsession.  My presence here was a testament to that.  Though, a paranoid part of my brain still thought this might all be some kind of setup.  God, am I that fucked up?

Marcella served me some coffee as she cooked.  I couldn’t believe how different she looked.  Her hair was up in a messy bun, and she was wearing a pair of striped pajama pants, a cropped t-shirt, and an apron that read ‘Hail to the Chef.’  I propped my chin on my palm and watched her move expertly around the kitchen.

When she finally finished and set the food in front of me, the grin on my face was practically shit-eating.  The plate had bacon, eggs over easy, tomatoes, portabella mushrooms, and the one thing that went right through my stomach to my heart— black pudding, lightly crisped.

Marcella sat down.

“You are a goddess; you know that?” I said, scarfing down the black pudding, which was perfect.

She just smiled slyly.  Now it was her turn to watch me, chin in her palm.

I swallowed a mouthful of food, feeling suddenly self-conscious.  “What?” I asked, feeling a flush creep up my neck for about the thousandth time in front of her.

“It’s just good to see you feeling a little better.”

“I slept like the dead last night.  I mean after—.”

“I know.  You have the most adorable little snores.” My stomach did a little dance as she smiled at me.

“Hey, I do not snore.”

“How would you know?” she asked.

“Well, Gabe—,” I started, then caught myself.  Shit.

She stretched out her hand and placed it on my forearm.  “It’s okay,” she said sympathetically.  “It just happened.  Do you want to talk about it?”

I sighed and looked back at my food.  I realized I was angry at Gabe.  He hadn’t done anything, and I wasn’t being fair to him, but I felt angry.  I was probably just as mad at myself, but I was sick of putting it there.  I needed a target, and he was convenient.

“You know, that’s the funny thing.  There’s not much to say.  Now that I have some distance, I realize that I kept him around because I thought I should.  Well, that, and I didn’t want to be alone,”  I said harshly.  “I’m so angry at him.  And I want to know why.  I know I shouldn’t be.”  I stopped and looked back up at her.  “How can you sit there like that while I grouse about Gabe?”

“Because it’s not my baggage.” She took a breath as if pressing on over a precipice.  “And, because I’m not insecure about myself.  I know you need to work through a lot of things, but for whatever reason, I—.”  She broke off.

“You what?”

“I find myself very fond of you.” She placed a hand on mine and looked down.  “It’s not something I’ve felt in so very long.  I thought I’d lost the capacity.”  I was startled by the admission, and my cheeks flamed.

Marcella took off her apron and set it on the counter.  “Finish your breakfast, I have a small place on the cape, and I’d like to take you there.  So I need to prep a few things.”

“Aren’t you going to eat?” I asked, realizing that she hadn’t.

“No, I’m not hungry.”  She walked out of the kitchen to the elevator.

I finished my food, washed my dishes, and dried them, leaving them on the counter.  I wondered what to do, so I milled around a bit, but restlessness got the better of me.  I took the elevator to the fourth floor, hoping Marcella wouldn’t mind.  The ride was relatively short, but Marcella was waiting when the door opened.

“No, no, no,” she said playfully.  “My room is a mess, back in the elevator.”

So, we rode down to the third floor, and I got dressed.  Then, we left for the cape, stopping only to move my car from HQ to my parking spot by the apartment.

24

Marcella’s place on the cape was nothing like I expected.  It was a small cottage in Eastham, tucked back down a narrow road with a gravel driveway.  Compared to her home in Charlestown, it was positively tiny.  There was no beachfront property or large estate—just a cute one-story house wrapped in gray painted shakes with an adorable red door.

“This is so cute!” I crowed as I climbed from the car.  “I love it.”

Marcella gave me a warm smile as she grabbed a large suitcase from the trunk.  “I thought you might.”  I made to help her with the bag, but she had it well in hand, carting it easily one-handed to the door.

The house sported an open floorplan with a small kitchen, a half bathroom, a cozy living room with a fireplace, and a loft bedroom with a full bath above.  Marcella turned on the heat and started up the stairs, beckoning me to follow.  The loft was small, about the size of my bedroom.  A queen-sized bed sat below a long window with a single nightstand.

“Marcella, there’s only one bed here.”  I looked down to the floor below, wondering if I’d missed a door somewhere.

“Yes.”

“Are we both supposed to sleep in it?”  I asked, watching her open her suitcase.

“Yes.”

I looked at her with feigned indignance.  “Isn’t that a little presumptuous?”

“I don’t think so.  I didn’t hear you complain about it last night.”

I laughed. “I was practically comatose last night.  Fozzie Bear could have curled up next to me and gotten the same response.”

Marcella threw a pillow at me.  “If you want to sleep on the pull-out couch, silly, you may.  But you’ll find this bed much more comfortable.”  She leveled a playful smile at me.

“Speaking of sleeping, I didn’t sleep last night, so I am going to take a nap.”  She started undressing, stifling a yawn as she did so.  Not that I blamed her, beautiful as she was, but Marcella Carson was not body-conscious.

She stripped down to a camisole and her panties and climbed straight into the bed, not bothering to put anything away.  I watched as she pulled back the covers on the other side.  “Well?”

After picking my jaw off the floor, I stripped to my underwear and crawled in with her.  We looked at each other for a long moment.  Honey sunlight shone through the window above us, shining across Marcella’s golden hair, which had fallen into her face.  She blew out a breath, adorably pushing a few strands around to no avail.

I chuckled and reached over to uncover her shimmering blue eyes.  Immediately, I felt lost in them.

“You look a little tired; a nap might do for you, too,” Marcella suggested softly.  “One in three nights sleep isn’t terribly healthy.”

I realized she was right, and as I stifled a yawn, I felt my eyes getting heavy.  She kissed my forehead lightly, and I drifted off.

I awoke around three, feeling much more refreshed.  Downstairs, Marcella sat on the couch.  Her typically rigid and careful demeanor had vanished, replaced by something wistful and a little sad.

“Hey,” I said, taking a seat next to her.  “Why the maudlin face?”

She gave a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes.  “Sorry, I was just lost in a memory.”

I placed my hand on hers, finding it warm to the touch.  “Would you like to share it?”

She didn’t answer, apparently still deep in thought.  A mug sat next to her, full of what looked like wine.

“What are you drinking?”  I wasn’t expecting an answer to that either, at least not one I’d understand.  In my world, wine came in red, white, and pink.

“The blood of my enemies,” she joked, but there was little humor in her expression.  Out here, away from the city, business, and her enormous home, she was a different person, no aristocratic air of self-confidence, only brooding melancholy and a sense of loneliness.

I returned to my original question.  “Seriously though, what’s the matter?”

Marcella looked at me, and her expression grew so severe that I thought her on the verge of some great confession.  “Cait, I need to tell you—.”  She stopped and stood, offering her hand, clearly thinking better of whatever she’d been about to say.  “You know what?  Never mind.  Let’s go to the beach.  And don’t bother putting on shoes.  Just carry them with you.”

We walked along the shore south of Provincetown, a place of fond childhood memories that I’d visited many times.  We picked up rocks and seashells and chatted.  She told me about the places she’d visited: Paris, Milan, London, and others.  I told her about growing up, bouncing back and forth between Boston and Ireland.  She’d been to Dublin and had visited Tourmakeady some years ago but hadn’t been there since.

Around six, we found a dry spot above the beach to watch the sunset.  Marcella held my hand and leaned on my shoulder, saying nothing.  A sense of euphoria washed through me, causing me to pull Marcella onto my lap in a bit of daring, making her laugh.  As the gold light settled away behind the sea, cottony strands of cloud turned vibrant hues of pink and red like the sky from some fantasy painting.  The moment was so beautiful that it drew tears from my eyes.

Marcella turned her face toward mine, blue eyes dark against the rising night.  “Now,” she whispered.  “Like this.”  Then, she leaned in and kissed me.  Heat rose inside me as I parted my lips and closed my eyes.  Her breath tasted of peppermint and something coppery, almost like blood.

Her tongue, refreshingly cool, licked across my lips, and all of my worries fled.  There was nothing but this solitary moment.   Warm goosebumps charged across my skin as her hand stroked my face, finally finding the back of my neck and pulling me into a more intense, dazzling, and breathless kiss.

I moaned slightly with the enormity of my emotions.  The joys of new love, my mother had once called it.  But it wasn’t just that; there was a sense of rightness and release that settled my spirit.  The physical sensation of wanting her was almost indescribable.  I wanted to be closer, nearer, within her.  It was a need I’d never felt with anyone before.  And I wasn’t frightened.

I pulled back from the kiss, pressed my lips together, and spoke softly.  “I’m falling for you.”

A slight smile tugged at her mouth, but she said not a word.  Instead, she pulled me into another breathtaking kiss, full of boundless need that rose within me.  I wanted to make love to her.

I don’t know how long we stayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms.  But, eventually, Marcella broke our embrace.

“Whew,” she said with a bit of a laugh.  “That was just—,” her voice dropped to a whisper.  “Beautiful.  Thank you for this.”

I tilted my head, confused.  “You make it sound so final; please don’t tell me you’re dying.”

She laughed loudly this time.  “No, silly.  It’s just—” she looked away, embarrassed.  “I feel things with you that I’d thought long gone.  It feels like a gift.”

We left the beach and drove back to her cottage, stopping along the way to pick up some live lobsters.  Marcella insisted on picking up some wine.  She hemmed and hawed over the selection and shocked me when she finally settled on a cheap Rosé.

“My, my, Ms. Carson, I think I’m seeing a completely different side of you.”

“Well, I wasn’t always the epitome of wealth and style you see before you,” she replied, executing a childish curtsy in her frumpy brown sweater and rolled-up blue jeans, making me laugh.  “I like the occasional pink wine.” She winked black lashes and put the bottle in the cart.

Marcella Carson amazed me.  She had seemed so confident, poised, and even a little old-fashioned.  Here though, finally away from all her cares and out of her earlier brooding, she was still confident, but she was light and airy.  The contrast was surprising and, in some ways, awe-inspiring.  There was real power in knowing yourself that well, selecting the appropriate demeanor at the proper time, and having it all still be honestly you.  Bewitched, it seemed, I felt like the proverbial moth to the flame.

Arriving back at her cottage, Marcella began making dinner.  “I have a surprise for you.  Go upstairs, put on a bathing suit, and follow the footpath behind the house.  The pot will take a half-hour to boil, at least.”

“What kind of surprise?” I asked with a hint of playful suspicion.

“It’s magic.  Go see.”

I did as she asked.  She had left me a simple black one-piece.  My eyes bulged when I saw Versace on the label.  Outside, it was damn chilly, having dropped into the forties.  What am I doing out here in this stupid bathing suit?  The surprise had better be a fucking sauna.

The short footpath behind the cottage ran on popcorn-block pavers through a small copse of trees to a tiny clearing.  A small, gray shack sat within, maybe twenty feet square.  The exterior matched the cottage in its cedar siding and bright red entryway.

Within, I definitely found something magical.  It was positively humid and steamy, over seventy degrees.  The entire interior was styled to look like a nighttime fantasy forest.  Ambient light covered everything in dim illumination.  The ceiling had a projection of a dusky starlit sky with occasional faerie-like lights darting here and there.  Everything seemed so natural; the effect was mystical and romantic rather than chintzy.  In the center was an oval pool of water set in dark stones, canopied by tree branches above.  It ran about fifteen feet long by ten feet wide, bubbling and steaming.  I dipped in a toe and found the water hot.

As I stepped into the pool, bubbles began to rush from the walls, making me jump.  The pool’s interior was lined in a dark pattern that I couldn’t see well.  I found a ledge along the edge and sat in the jets.  This feels so good.

I heard the door to the shack open, and Marcella approached with two beach towels, two robes, and wearing the sexiest bathing suit I had ever seen.  A black bandeau covered her chest, and a strap-sided bikini bottom covered the rest.  She was stunning in the glowing light.  As she stepped up, fireflies lit up the darkness of the ‘trees’ around the pool.

I waded to her and lifted her by her sides, setting her down gently in the water.

“You know, Cait, I can walk.”

I lowered her into the water, and she splashed and giggled.  “I know, but I’m happy, and it seemed the thing to do.”

She held on to me, wrapping her arms about my shoulders and her legs around my waist.  “I’m happy, too.  This is so lovely, and so are you.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls you bring out here.”

“I’ve never brought anyone out here before.”

That stopped me.  “Never?  How long have you had this place?”  I was surprised that she’d never shared this

“It’s been in my family since the eighties.  I made this addition,” she gestured around, “about five years ago after a bit of inspiration.”

“And Ninetta never came out here?”

Marcella laughed as if the idea were preposterous.  “No, she doesn’t even know I own it.”

I untangled myself and drifted to the center of the pool.  “Well, it’s wonderful.  I could hang out in here forever.”

“You know what they say, be careful what you wish for.” She winked and pushed herself back into my arms.  “You know, in my mother’s village in Sweden, we had this old legend of a couple who had consummated their love in an underground pool near our home after pining for each other for many years.  And, for a time, maidens of the village would go to this place to bathe in the hopes that they would soon find true love.”

“And did it work?” I asked, feeling a little like she was yanking my chain.

“I don’t know, but I certainly found my first love there.” Her face cracked into a broad smile.  “What about you? Where did you find your first love?”

I closed my eyes and spoke softly.  “In the blowing sands of Iraq, though we never consummated it.  I never even spoke of it, and I don’t think she ever knew.”

“Allt har sin tid.”  Marcella wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me.  I didn’t ask what it meant;  it didn’t matter.

We left the jacuzzi a little while later and enjoyed a quiet dinner.  Marcella only ate a few bites, opting to pack the rest in the refrigerator for later.

I noticed some logs and kindling next to the fireplace.  “Does this work?”

“It does.  Do you want to start one while I hit the loo?”

“Sure.”

I heard brief retching from the bathroom as I lit some paper under the kindling.  Moments later, she emerged as I placed more kindling and waited for it to catch.  “You okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,  just feeling a little—off.  I’ll be alright.” Something flashed across her face that I didn’t catch.

We spent the rest of the night in front of the fire discussing, of all things, fine art.  Marcella was a fan of Vermeer.  She had some enlightening stories about the Dutch painter that she said she’d uncovered while in Delft.  She was a little vague about why she was there and when.

Most of her stories revolved around the period of Vermeer’s training and education in the arts.  It was a time largely unknown, Marcella told me.  One particularly salacious story involved a relationship in his teens with a married woman and something about jumping out a second-story window in a woman’s dress to escape her returning husband.

“Have you ever heard of an artist named Sam Rueter?” I asked as the fire had burned low.

“No, I’m not familiar with her,” Marcella replied, pushing an iron poker through the embers.

“When you have time, you should check out her work.  I’ve always thought it was just beautiful.  See if you can find a photo of a painting called ‘sweater weather.’  I think you’d like it.”

Marcella nodded and kissed me lightly.  “Come on, you, let’s get to bed.  I have to go back home tomorrow and take care of a few things.”

We tucked ourselves into bed and made out for a while.  She had the most uncanny means of hitting all of my erogenous zones that weren’t between my legs, and by the time we settled down, I felt like I was drowning in arousal.

While we lay quietly in the moon’s dim light, she whispered, “I’m falling for you, too.”  My heart seemed to stutter at the words, and I squeezed her close.  I buried my head in her hair; it smelled of sandalwood.  She tilted my head toward hers and kissed me chastely on the lips.  She stared into my eyes. “You and I need sleep.  There are things we need to discuss before we go any further, but that can wait until tomorrow.”

“That sounds ominous,” I said around a yawn.  “Jesus, why am I tired.  We didn’t do anything today, and I even had a nap.”  I lay my head down, and before long, I fell asleep.

25

We returned to Charlestown early the following day.  Marcella had been unable to sleep, so I drove us back while she snoozed in the seat next to me.  I spent the time enjoying the sunlight and thinking about how badly I had it for the woman to my right.

The ride wasn’t entirely pleasant.  Heavy anxiety gripped me more than a few times as I thought of work and the team operating without me.  They were busting their asses, and here I was, spending my night making out with a gorgeous woman.  Then there was Gabe.  God, I didn’t even know how to feel about that.

Marcella was still sleeping when we pulled into her garage.  She hadn’t moved most of the ride.  I gave her a nudge.

“Marcella, honey?  We’re back.”

Nothing.  She didn’t move, make a noise, or anything, and she felt colder than usual.  I felt for a pulse.  Finding nothing, I began to panic.  “No, no, no.  Marcella, No.”  I jumped out of the car and ran around, opening her door.  Please, God, No.

I had just opened the door and lifted her out of the car when she yawned.  She fucking yawned.  What the hell.  Jesus, she had a deep pulse.

“Are you okay?  I couldn’t find your pulse, and it didn’t look like you were breathing.”

“I’m fine.  Relax.  I told you I had a condition.”

“A condition?  You were fucking dead.”

“Cait, stop.  Obviously, I’m not dead.  I’m fine.” She pulled herself from my grip and hopped up and down.  “See. Fine.”  Then she pulled me into a hug.  “I’m sorry I scared you.  I should have been more forthcoming about the details.”  There was something in her demeanor, though, something she wasn’t saying.

“Okay.  You said we had things to talk about?”

“Later, let’s get settled,” she said dismissively, and we headed up the elevator.  I frowned at her back but followed.  Professional Marcella had returned, and I wasn’t sure which I liked more.

After we had cleaned up and changed, Marcella headed to the grocery store to pick up the list of ingredients I’d given her for the Bolognese sauce.  It seemed I would be making it tonight rather than Monday.  I wandered around the house a bit, mostly being nosy.  Curiosity about the sub-basement was eating at me, but I quashed it.  I could have easily picked the lock on the elevator button, but I didn’t want to break her trust.

By the time I returned to the kitchen, everything was arranged on the center island.  Marcella had grabbed everything I had asked for, meats, vegetables, spices.  The pasta even looked freshly made.  There was also a rather fabulous food processor that I’d give my left arm for.

“So,” Marcella said from behind, making me jump.  In soft flats now, she was silent as the dead.  “How can I help?”

I recovered quickly.  “Well, you could chop the carrots and celery while I cut the onions and sauté them.”

“It’s an interesting recipe for Bolognese.  I was surprised at the ingredient list.”

“Well, it’s a more modern interpretation.  The carrots and celery balance the flavor, and the Calabrian chili’s give it a little kick.”

She pulled out a pair of knives, and we got to work.  I cut the onions like a troglodyte with two left hands while she sliced the celery and carrots with the practiced strokes of a professional chef.

Marcella pushed a bit of carrot off her knife into a large bowl and leaned against the counter.  “Anything else?”

“Nope, go have a seat and relax.  It won’t take long to get the sauce onto the stove, and then we can do whatever.”

Marcella positioned herself at the table, watching me with unnerving intensity while I minced the vegetables in the food processor.

I smiled, suddenly feeling a little shy as she continued to stare.  “I usually do this in my blender.  This is so much nicer.”

“You know, I didn’t always live in a place like this.  When I was a child, I lived in a much simpler home.  My mother often cooked, though she didn’t have any of the conveniences that I do now.”

I dumped the contents of the food processor into the pan with the browning meat.  “So, the spoiled little rich girl wasn’t so spoiled?”

“Hardly.  I may have attended posh schools, but my life was far from it as a child.  What about you, Cait?  What is it like having a mother from the Gaeltacht?”  She pulled a hairband off her wrist and began putting her hair up, exposing her shapely neck and giving her a more relaxed look.

“Well, I grew up speaking Irish, for starters.  From the time I was born until I was ten, it’s almost all she spoke to me.  It took me forever to lose my Irish accent.  Of course, my mother can always find it again, usually when she says or does something aggravating.”

Marcella snorted in amusement.  “Really?  That’s adorable.”

“Not when you’re a teenager in Boston who doesn’t want to be one of—” I paused and shook my head.  I felt like I was remembering something important, but, whatever it was, it fled.

Marcella’s brow furrowed.  “Cait?”

“Yes.  Sorry.  Anyway, being the child of an Irish woman rather than an Irish-American woman is dramatically different. She is direct in her criticisms, but she lets me make my own mistakes.  Even so, I feel like she armchair quarterbacked much of my life, but, all in all, we get along well.  And, despite some of the challenges we had when my dad died, our relationship is solid today.  I’m just glad she learned how to cook actual food.  Maimeó boiled fucking everything.  Yuck.”

Marcella joined me by the stove.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” She asked.

I looked over my shoulder and right into her shining eyes.  “Um—“ I struggled for words for a second. “What do you have?”

She laughed, knowing my thoughts on wine, still holding my gaze.  “I have lots.  What would you prefer?  Red or white? I don’t have anything pink here this time.  I prefer red myself.”

“Red’s fine,” I almost whispered and cleared my throat.  I turned back to the stove, face flushed.  This was going to be a long night.

She handed me a fine crystal wine glass full of a dark red.  I took a sip.  It was good.  I could smell a hint of forest floor and maybe raspberry.  “Um, is this a Pinot Noir?”

She turned and raised an appreciative eyebrow.  “Good nose.  It seems you know more about wine than you let on.”

“Hardly. Pinot Noir is pretty distinctive.  My dad said it tasted like feet.”

She laughed even harder.  “Goddess, Cait, where have you been all my life?  No one’s made me laugh this much in years.”

I grinned and turned back to stir the pot with a little bounce.  Grinning, Marcella slid up next to me, wrapping her arms around my waist and taking a deep sniff of the simmering sauce.

“Oh, that smells amazing.  I can’t wait.”

“So my mother says it’s better than any Bolognese she’s had in Italy.  Having never been, I have to take her word for it.”

“Well, I’ll let you know,” Marcella said with a wink.  “How long does it need to cook?”

“Minimum two hours,” I said, taking another healthy sip of wine.

“Well, let’s go into the sitting room and chat then,” Marcella offered, gesturing for me to go ahead of her.  “Make yourself at home; I need to visit the loo first.”

Leaving the kitchen, I watched Marcella walk to a blank-looking wall on the other side of the stairs.  A section of the wall swung in with a gentle press, revealing a small water closet.

“Wow, that’s cool.”

“I felt a door here would look out of place.  And yeah, it’s cool.” She stepped inside and closed the panel.

The furniture in the sitting room had been reorganized slightly.  Marcella had turned the sofa to face the fireplace, and a low, cozy fire burned there.

I sat on the sofa and poked at the logs in the fireplace, enjoying the warmth of the blaze on my face.  Retching sounds caught my attention, just as they had at the cottage.  Was she sick?  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.  A moment later, though, Marcella returned, wine glass in hand, looking perfectly fit.

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Perfectly fine,” Marcella replied casually.  “Why do you ask?”

“I thought I heard you throwing up again.”

“No, I’m fine.”

It was a lie; she had been throwing up, but she looked okay.  She didn’t look or act ill, so I assumed it wasn’t a stomach bug, whatever the problem.

Marcella set her glass on the hearth and plopped down rather unceremoniously onto the Persian rug.  “Come down here,” she beckoned.  “Let’s relax by the fire and chat.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling a little weird.  “Just so you know, I was never one for the slumber party thing, so this feels a little odd.”

“Then you need to learn to relax.” She pulled off her shoes showing perfect feet with manicured toenails in a deep red.  “I forgot to ask, what do you do for fun?”

“Fun? Well, I don’t know.  I read, I guess.  I like to work out.  Muay Thai, Jiu-Jitsu, that kind of thing.”

“I know that, as a child of Éireann, you have to suffer in sufficient quantities, but I’m pretty sure there’s no prohibition on fun.  None of that sounds fun.  Do you like to go out dancing?”

“I used to, I think.  But it’s been so long since I’ve done anything like that.  I’m more of the outdoor type, I guess.”

“I love to dance.  When I was younger, I took ballet lessons.  I was trained classically, but I prefer contemporary ballet.  Do you like contemporary?”

“I don’t even know what the difference is,” I said, feeling a little out of my depth.

“Well, classical ballet has all kinds of rules about what you can and can’t do.  All rather boring.  Contemporary ballet is much more exciting.  The choreography is always interesting, and the music is usually much more expressive.  To me, it’s like the difference between an architectural draft and a work of art.  We’ll have to go to one of each, so you can decide which one you like.  So, Muay Thai, indeed?  I saw a few bouts last time I was in Bangkok.  It’s pretty rough.”

“I’m sorry, but you don’t strike me as the type to entertain sports like that.  I had you pegged for more the badminton or tennis type.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Cait.  My past is filled with all manner of indiscretions.  Watching two men beat each other to a pulp is probably the least of them.”  She finished by dipping her finger into her wine and making a show of licking it with the very tip of her tongue, making me blush.  “So, do you like music?”

I coughed to cover a shiver of excitement.  “Oh, I love music— all types.  Mostly, though, I listen to modern music.  Lana Del Rey, Florence and the Machine, that sort.  Though, and, don’t tell my co-workers, I love opera.”

“Opera?  Really?  Do you have any favorites?”

“Well, Carmen, for sure.  Poor José, throwing his life away for a woman who used him and dumped him.  My other is Le Damnation de Faust by Berlioz.”

“I love them both.  My favorite Carmen so far has been Jennifer Larmore.  I could have just eaten her up.”

“Me too.  I can listen to her sing for hours.”

We talked like that for over an hour—her quizzing me on my interests and sharing a bit of hers.  Periodically I checked on the sauce, which was coming along nicely.

“There’s some fresh made Tagliatelle in the icebox,” Marcella said when I sat back down from checking the sauce for the last time.  We had devoured almost two bottles of red wine, and I was feeling no pain.  I couldn’t tell if Marcella felt as buzzed as I was, but she had moved much closer to me as afternoon progressed into evening.  At some point, she put music on in the room.  The speakers were well hidden but delivered excellent sound.  “How much time before the food is ready?”

I looked at my watch.  “Well, it’s been in for over two hours.  It can be eaten now.  Are you hungry?”

“Very,” she said huskily.  The way she looked at me told me she wasn’t talking about food.  It had gotten dark out, and she seemed even more beautiful in the fading light, and her eyes had a predatory fire to them that had been absent at the beach.  Her movements became languid, deliberate, feline.  She was, if it was possible, even more sexy.

“Why, Ms. Carson.  If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to seduce me.  And here I thought we were going to be—” My voice trailed off as she moved closer, so close that I could feel her breath, smell the wine—and the lingering aroma of her perfume.

My breath started to come a little shallower, and I felt faint. The room turned stifling as the sounds of Donizetti’s L'elisir d'amore were sliding from the speakers, lulling me into a relaxed state I hadn’t felt in—maybe ever.

Then, Marcella’s silken lips fell upon my own.  Her breath entered my lungs, hot and tangy with the alcohol.  Every hair on my body stood up in a sexual rush.  She started to draw away, but I reached up and put my hand on her neck, keeping her close, deepening the kiss.  She pressed my shoulders down, breaking the kiss and pulling back.  Her lissome movements were exquisite and flowing as she straddled my hips and cupped my face, drawing me into another deep passionate kiss.

My lips parted, admitting her tongue, and I whimpered in supplication as it stole aggressively into my mouth and swept across my own.   My lips parted again, releasing a soft ‘Oh’ as she moved down and began to caress my throat with her tongue.  Each swipe brought an erotic thrill that pooled between my legs.  My hips began to lift against her, but she pushed them back down with one hand, moving her mouth to nibble at my neck with her teeth.  Her right hand slipped into my blouse, brushing against the fabric of my bra, teasing and light.  Both of my nipples stood up.  God, I want her.  A high-pitched whimper escaped my throat again, and she seemed energized by my surrender.  Her arms were surprisingly strong, pulling me to her, holding my back away from the couch.

I sensed her teeth dragging across my neck, sharp and tantalizing and vowing delights to come. She bit at it teasingly, and I reveled in the pain.

Marcella pulled back, and I opened my eyes.  A small drop of liquid lingered on her lips, thick and red.  Dimly, a fleeting thought nagged at me, but I couldn’t grasp it, make it stick.

“You’re— “ I breathed.  “You’re bleeding.”

She leaned in and began to lick and suck at my pulsing throat again, uttering breathlessly, “It’s not mine.”

A cool sensation began drifting over me, and I tilted my head back.  “Oh, God, please,” I moaned, shuddering under her touch and the play of her mouth at my neck.

My fingers stroked up her spine, causing her to lift and arch her back.  She shivered and let out a tinkling laugh, then she looked down, licking her lips.  In the dim firelight, her half-smile looked different, filled with want.

I needed her to take me, consume me, love me.  The depth of the feeling frightened me, and my fear only served to heighten my arousal.

She leaned in for another kiss.  She pressed her lips to mine. “We should stop.”

A hint of my own blood lingered on my tongue.  I didn’t want to stop.  I wanted this.  I wanted her.  But, she pulled away and sat to my side, one leg still strewn over my own, breathing heavily.

I touched my neck, feeling a bit of warm, sticky liquid.

“Oh, my,” she said, covering a smile and a bit of a laugh with her hand.  “I’m so sorry.  I think I might have drawn blood.”

I pulled my legs under me as I drew my hand back.  There was a small rivulet of blood there — nothing major.  “I didn’t even notice it.  You know, I had a dream about you,” I whispered, as much to myself as her.

“Indeed.” It sounded more like a statement than a question.

“It was like this.”  I was still staring at the drop of blood on my hand.  I knew I should be a little freaked out.  But I couldn’t summon an ounce of worry in the haze of eroticism and alcohol.  What was a little love bite?

“You seemed to be enjoying it,” she said seductively and licked the blood off my finger.

I turned my head to her, feeling very relaxed.  “It’s not a big deal; I’ve had worse,” I said, drunkenly holding up my arm.

“You’re a touch twatted, I think.”

“I think I am.” A touch of embarrassment settled in, but I brushed it aside.  “Are you making me love you?” I sloshed.

She just raised an eyebrow.  “I believe we should eat before we say anything more.”

“You’re probably right.”

I tried to rise, but the room spun, and I stumbled.  Marcella was right there to grab me and set me back on the sofa.

“Hang on a second, let me get something for your neck first.”  Marcella left and returned a moment later with a small bottle of a yellow paste-like substance and some first aid supplies.

“Wha—“ I tried to ask but found my thoughts even slower and my tongue thick.

Marcella wiped down my throat with a gauze pad and alcohol, causing me to jump.

“Ouch!” I complained. “That stings.”

“Some hard-ass copper you turned out to be,” she said with a crooked smile.  “Whinging over a bit of alcohol.”

Then she smeared the yellow paste in the same place and stuck a bandage on it.

“Come on,” she said.  “Let’s get you fed.”

Marcella guided me into the kitchen, where she finished preparing dinner.  I just sat in silence, watching her cook.  I had to jerk myself a few times to keep from nodding off.  Wow, I was drunk.

“Eat!” Marcella demanded as she set down a healthy portion of food in front of me.

I dove into the food, absolutely ravenous and feeling more lively.  Marcella had taken a small helping, not shocking, given her model-like figure.

“This is absolutely delicious,” she cooed, taking a bite.  “Just brilliant.”

“Isn’t it, though.”  I began to sober up as I ate.  “I’m so sorry for getting drunk.”

“It’s not your fault.  I forgot that you don’t drink often, and here I was, just feeding you glass after glass.  It’s on me, truly.  I won’t lie, though; it was also kind of cute.”

“Did you want this to happen?” I challenged playfully.

Marcella looked at me, puzzled.  “Want what?”

“Us?”

“Want? No. I intended it.  From the moment you walked into my office.” She struck a seductive tone, and the predatory smile returned.  “So, tell me about this dream you had.”

I looked around the room to avoid answering.  Having no ideas for an alternate topic, I took another bite of food to stall.  I pointed to my cheek and made an apologetic face.  Look, my mouth is full.  You wouldn’t want me to talk with a mouthful of food, would you?

She raised an eyebrow at the childish gesture.  “It’s okay. I can wait.”

I swallowed.  “Shit, I never should have mentioned it.  Okay, so, the other night, after I met you, I had a—uh—sexy dream about you, or rather, us.”

“Interesting.”  She set her fork down and just watched me with a hungry expression.  “And what happened in this ‘dream?’”

“Well, we were in my apartment, sort of, and you came to me, and well, it was very gothic.”

“Gothic?” She leaned her chin onto her hand, eyes intent.  “Do tell.”

“You were in a very sexy dress, and you, well, seduced me.” God, I feel like a teenager.  “Then you were a vampire and drinking my blood.  It was extremely—sensual.”  I shivered slightly at the memory.  My face was on fire, and I hid my mouth behind my wrist to cover a creeping smile.

She sipped her wine, letting the glass dangle from her long delicate fingers.  “Well, then, I hope you have more sweet dreams.  Would you like more?”

I spat into my wine glass.  “I’m sorry?”

Marcella snorted a laugh, “Would you like more food?”  She stood and leaned close to my face.  “Unless, of course, you’d rather something else.”  She picked a morsel of meat from my plate and placed it on her tongue suggestively, pulling it into her mouth.

26

After dinner, Marcella made us some coffee, and we returned to the sitting room.  It had begun to rain outside, and there was a peal of thunder.  I grabbed the edge of the sofa.  I closed my eyes, breathing from my belly, slowly willing the vision of the alleyway in Mosul to dissipate.

Marcella spoke, soft and gentle.  “Loud noises?”

I nodded quickly and held up a hand.  When I opened my eyes, Marcella was watching me.  There was no pity on her face, just concern.

“I can help you with that.  I mean, really help you with that.”

“And, how might you do that?” I hadn’t intended to be snippy, but I’d had plenty of people make that claim over the years.

The fire had burned down to embers, and the room was extremely dark.  Marcella lit a few candles, sitting cross-legged in front of the fireplace.

“Come, sit down with me, cross-legged, directly across.”

“I’ve done things like this before—” I started, trying to forestall what would likely be a senseless effort.

“Not like this, you haven’t,” she said confidently.  “Now get over here and sit down opposite me, cross-legged.”  The command carried a weight to it that I felt almost physically.  Before I knew what I was doing, I was off the couch and in front of her, cross-legged, precisely as she’d asked.

Marcella tilted my head up at the chin so that I looked her in the face.  “Now, look into my eyes.”

I snickered and mimicked a bad Bella Lugosi.  “Look into my eyes, Mina.”

She slapped me on the arm lightheartedly.  “Now.  Cait.  Be serious.  Look into my eyes.”

I snorted but complied, muscling the smile off my face.  For the first time, I noticed slight black flecks glittering within her beautiful blue eyes.  After a few moments, though, the blackness grew, engulfing the white.  The fiery blue of her irises became all I could see before they slipped into a deep and vibrant red.  It was like falling into a pool of blood-red light.

My breathing slowed and deepened, and the room temperature rose, becoming hot and stifling and dry.  There was a vague sense of falling, succumbing to something powerful, intense, and tempting.  Every muscle strung itself taught as the scent of diesel fuel and earthy dust filled my nose.  A blistering wind blew through my hair.  My breath came quick and overwrought, and I felt like my lungs were pressing against an immense vice.  I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Take a deep calm breath,” a familiar hypnotic voice echoed from somewhere near me.  “You are safe.  Nothing can hurt you.”

My breathing eased.

“I will see what you see,” the voice explained, dulcet and captivating.  “Now, open your eyes and show me.”

I  lifted my lids.  Morgan stood across the Humvee, pointing behind me, her mouth a scar of terror.  I twisted around, heaving my M4 to my shoulder and firing in a single fluid motion.  An armed insurgent fell forward, dropping his weapon.  My thigh burned with a bullet wound, but Morgan covered me, killing the shooter.

“No, no,” I sobbed desperately.

“This is just a memory,” the voice explained, snatching away my fear.  “You are safe.”

Morgan and I ran down the dusty street.  My leg burned, screaming in pain with each step.  I heard a shot, and Morgan grunted, face planting into the dirt.  “Oh, please, no,” I screamed.

“Shh. . . This has already passed.  She lives.”  The voice suppressed my terror again.

I turned and fired, taking down another insurgent.  Slinging my rifle, I hauled Morgan onto my shoulders, toting her heavy frame in a fireman’s carry.  The bumblebee whiz of a bullet zipped by my ear, followed by the rifle report.  We’d gained a little distance.

I turned the corner, dashing up into the smoking door of the sniper nest.  Twisting through the hallways, I searched, finally finding McCall was face-up on the floor, looking skyward, unseeing—dead.  Holley lay next to him, cradling a ruined arm and howling.  His hand bled everywhere, and I sneered at him, the fucking rapist.

I lowered Morgan to the floor gently, laying her flat and grabbing a bandage.  I was lost in the memory now.  I could feel the will of the voice, its thoughts and feelings—no, Marcella’s thoughts, Marcella’s feelings.  I felt her fascination and sympathy.  The emotions mixed with anticipation, like waiting for a storm to blow in.

I clamped Morgans’ hands over her wound, holding the bandage down.  “Pressure here,”

“What do you feel?” Marcella asked, level and tender.

“I can’t lose her.”  My voice was desperate, and tears trickled down my face.

“Did you?”

“No.  I didn’t.  Not yet.”

“Reagan, the scope,” Holley ground out through his teeth.

“What?”  A split second later, I understood.

I took a line behind the rifle, hands coated in Morgan’s blood.  The aroma of the blood was intoxicating and arousing.  No, that wasn’t right.  I saw the boy through the scope.

“Oh, no,” I whispered before my training kicked in.  “One hostile juvenile in a suicide vest.” I guessed the distance and looked away from the scope for a wind gauge.  An old chemise on a clothesline wafted gently in the distance.  I had no spotter, so I took a swag at the range.  “You should have to pull this trigger, you bastard,”  I spat at Holley as I adjusted the scope.

“Please stop,” I whimpered, trying to wrest my will away from Marcella, trying to wake up, trying to make it end.

“Send it,” Holley spat.  “Shoot, God damn it!”

I forced myself to dead calm, gently squeezed the trigger between my racing heartbeats, and fired the weapon.  The .50 cal bucked in a wave of thunder and terror.  Plaster dust fell from the ceiling and rose from the floor.

“Okay, stop.” It was a command full of force and control delivered in a gentle caress.

Everything stopped as if frozen in time.

“What are you feeling?” Marcella asked, her voice calm and clear.

“I’m enraged,” I replied through gritted teeth.

“Why?”

“Because that bastard raped me.  Holley stole my future and tainted it.  And then he got to make me break myself.”

“Did you fire because Holley told you to?” she asked flatly.

“No, I fired because the kid was a clear and present danger to the patrol.  It was my job.”  My voice was more level now.

“And you did your job because it was a war,” it wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“And you feel guilty about it,” she said.  Again it wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“Why?”  The question stuck in my craw and pissed me off.

“Because it was a fucking kid.  He never got a chance to live.”

The vision dissolved into blackness, replaced by Marcella’s gentle, coaxing presence, like a mother reaching out to her daughter as she learns to walk.  It wrapped me in comfort and beckoned me to feel what she felt.  Marcella pulled me into a deep embrace as a sense of forgiveness, mingled with love and acceptance, enveloped my soul.

It hadn’t been my fault, just my bad luck.  I had been an eighteen-year-old kid who had joined the army full of promise and ideals.  I had been sent to war by an unfeeling apparatus that only followed orders.  I had been forced to make an impossible decision that no one should have to make.  I’d tried to be moral and righteous when there were no options for it, and it had gnawed at my soul ever since.

I still couldn’t see anything; I was blind in her arms.  But in my heart, there was understanding, recognition, and an inkling of forgiveness.  For the first time, I recognized that moment for what it was— a tragedy.

I wasn’t fixed; I knew that.  But she had helped.  She’d taken me into that horrible place and shown me it wasn’t forbidden or insurmountable.  There was hope.

My vision cleared, and I looked up at this goddess, this angel, this bright creature that had unearthed a hint of something I’d thought lost.  I clung to her then and held desperately, sobbing and crying and shaking.  I refused to let go as I loosed a torrent of pent-up despair and relief.  Eventually, after I’d run out of tears, she disentangled my arms and stood.

“Come with me,” Marcella said, voice filled with compassion, holding out a hand.

27

In the elevator, we rose in silence.  So wrapped was I in my own conflicting emotions that I didn’t notice the bell ring or the doors open.

“Coming?” Marcella asked, walking out of the elevator. Starting to find me again, I followed.

Beyond lay an elegant round sitting room with a chaise lounge. The soft sounds of rushing wind and leaves projected from hidden speakers and flickering ambient light gave the entire area a comforting feel, almost spa-like.

Above, a breathtaking painting adorned the domed ceiling.  Two women in period dresses were lying on a forest floor, engaged in a passionate kiss; a trickle of blood slid down one woman's cheek.

Marcella continued through to a narrow hallway and into a darkened room beyond.

There comes a moment in a case where conjecture begins to give way to the evidence, and clarity comes to the investigator.  This is when motive, means, and opportunity become tied to the suspect.  As I stared at the painting for long moments, that clarity made my head spin.  But such things didn’t exist.  It was impossible.  I shoved the insane thought aside just as Marcella peeked back around the corner.

“Hey, are you alright?”

Pulled from my thoughts, I walked through the hallway.  The room beyond was positively palatial.  A long sweeping window dominated the far wall, peering southward with a striking view of the city.  Surprisingly, the rest of the room was appointed from a bygone century.

A monstrous canopy bed of luxurious dark wood shrouded in white linen sprawled against the western wall.  On either side sat solid and expensive-looking nightstands of the same dark wood.  A vast European rug of French designs covered most of the hardwood floor.

“You know,” I said quietly, feeling a little less spent.  “That bed is bigger than my apartment.”

Marcella walked from the closet with a set of pajamas. A long streak of mascara was smeared down her cheek. I couldn’t help myself; I started to laugh.

“What?”

“You’ve got a little something—“ I licked my thumb and pushed it across her cheek, trying to clean it off, but only succeeding in making it worse.  I gave up after leaving a fat thumbprint on her face.

She touched her cheek, much as I had when she’d kissed me on the common.

“You have such expressive eyes.”  Her voice was a whisper.  “Like looking into the color of life.”

I blushed, unable to respond.  We stared at one another for a long moment, each with a hand on the small parcel of clothing.

Marcella cleared her throat and broke the spell.  “I’m going to take a shower,” she said and drifted back down the hallway, disappearing through a well-lit door.

The sound of the water spray filtered into the semi-darkness.  The door was open, almost daring me to follow.  I considered it but chickened out.  Instead, I climbed into the bed and waited.  I had started to drift off when Marcella slipped under the covers, and lightning lit up the sky outside.  Thunder rumbled through the windows—special effects by mother nature.

Marcella’s fingers began lightly caressing my hair, and I rolled over, looking at her face in the dim room.  She stroked my cheek.  I closed my eyes and tilted my face into her palm.  Marcella leaned in and kissed me softly on the lips.  The kiss was gentle and unhurried but still left me a little breathless.

“You are so beautiful, just magnificent,” Marcella whispered.

I could feel the flush of heat all over my body, aroused and a little embarrassed.  Like a child, I held my arms tight to my chest as she ran her fingers through my hair.  The soft scent of soap mingled with the deeper redolence that followed her, sandalwood.

“When you first walked into my office,” Marcella continued quietly, “I was so enamored with your grace and confidence.”

I snorted.  “You’re kidding, right?  I felt like a deer in headlights.”

“You concealed it well.”

I snorted.  “Not from Carlos.”  The corners of my mouth turned up at the memory.

“No, I expect it’s hard to hide much from him.  He seems very perceptive.”  She leaned in and kissed me again, and I parted my lips, admitting her tongue, which lingered teasingly on my own.  She nibbled at my bottom lip as she pulled back, and my toes curled.

Marcella took my hands gently and unwrapped my arms from my chest, placing them softly on the pillows.  She leaned in and kissed me once more.  This time she was a little more forceful, and our tongues met.  Immediately, my body responded as if I’d never been touched in my whole life.

I wrapped my arms around Marcella and rolled us over, pushing her on her back.  My hands and my mouth explored her body.  She was suddenly warm to the touch, but her skin didn’t taste of salt or sweat; it was strange and impossible to describe.

As I ran my hands across the front of her hips, she shifted, making soft noises.  I wasn’t sure what I was doing.  I just wanted to feel her body under my hands, lips, and tongue.  I wanted to know every inch of her.

Marcella sighed and squirmed slightly, but she didn’t open her eyes.  I worked my way first down, then back up her body.  I ran my tongue across one of her nipples and felt it harden underneath.  I gently sucked at it, unable to get enough of her physical presence.

She stopped me and took me by the shoulders, gently muscling me onto my back while guiding my hands, wrists together, over my head.  Her grip was like iron, and though not painful, it made me tremble.

“Do you trust me?” Marcella asked, whispering in the darkness.

“Yes.”  And, I realized I meant it.  I don’t know where it happened.  Maybe after the common or after our trip to the cape, I’d thrown away my inhibitions. I’d let myself trust her.

Marcella released my arms and ran her hands over my body.  The feeling was exquisite.  I knew I should have been here all along.  This is where I belonged.  As she brushed her fingertips gently over my arms and legs, my trembling subsided, and my nerves calmed.  “I want to try— everything,” I said through a sigh.

Marcella peeled off my clothes, taking her time, and I tilted my head back in offering with a quiet moan.  I tried to reach up and caress her back, but she pushed my hand down.

“No,” she breathed in my ear, “lay back and relax.”  Her voice, while quiet and empathetic, was also a little playful.  “It must be so hard being in control all the time.”

I closed my eyes and relaxed into the bed. “Yes.”  My voice was just a whisper.

Her hands resumed caressing my belly and found all of the ticklish spots, making me giggle.

“My, you are sensitive.  I’ll note that for later.”  That sounded a little ominous.  But before I could respond, Marcella’s tongue began slowly exploring the creases under my breasts, and I sucked in a harsh breath.  She moved up and kissed me again.

“Are you okay?” I could hear the smile on her face.

“Uh-huh,” I said as she ran her hands across my hips and around to the inside of my thighs.

Marcella slid down and began to run her tongue around the edge of my nipples.   She was slow and deliberate, taking her time, making sure I felt every second.  I squirmed slightly under her as my heart raced, and heat and wetness began to pool between my legs.

Her mouth finally found one of my breasts, and I bit my bottom lip to stifle another rising whimper.  She bit gently, eliciting a gasp from me in an exquisite blend of delight and pain.  Then, she coaxed me over onto my belly and traced every muscular line and soft structure of my body.  Each stroke of her fingers found sensitive things I hadn’t known I had.

As she drew her fingers up my spine, I arched almost violently, gasping in a kind of ecstasy I’d never felt before.  It was virtually tickling torture, but I refused to pull away, wanting more.  The total loss of control from such a simple action was breathtaking.

“Again,” I breathed harshly, pleading.  “Please.”

Marcella ran her hands across my back, making me gasp with delight.  I’d never known it was possible to feel pleasure like that before.  She played at my spine, running her fingers and tongue over it.   I arched up again, reveling in the complete loss of control.  Eventually, I had to beg her to stop, unable to take anymore.

Marcella eventually tugged at my shoulders, coaxing me onto my back.  Her face was filled with desire, and I pulled her back to me in a passionate kiss, desperate to have her against me.

A gasp pushed through my lips as her mouth found my breasts again.  She was no longer being quite so careful or so gentle, and I loved it.  She bit at my nipples, and a harsh whimper sounded from my throat.  My moans became louder and more wanton as the rush of our lovemaking became more heated.

I knew I was lost.  I would give Marcella whatever she demanded.  I felt like I couldn’t get close enough to her.

“How do you feel?  Is it okay?” she whispered in the darkness.

“Yes,” I breathed harshly.  Unwilling to say more.  My head was a tumult of powerful emotions.  The fear was gone, replaced by a deep sense of affection.  This was making love.

She leaned in and kissed me again as her expert fingers traced gentle circles around my clit and my hips lifted.  She forced them back down, her mouth returning to its ministrations of my breasts, pulling my nipples between her lips, running her tongue over them, sucking on them, nursing them.

My breath drew indelicate cries from me as an orgasm began building.  Marcella left my breasts and began licking her way down my abdomen, moving her hands to my hips.

“Please,” I begged.  “Don’t stop.”

Marcella used her tongue to caress the delicate corners of my thighs, probing downward, gliding toward my core.  Then I gasped loudly as her mouth found my clit, and she pushed two fingers inside me, sliding smoothly back and forth, pressing against my most sensitive places.  I panted loudly, needing air, as she pulled me into her mouth, sucking.  All the while, her fingers moved within me, and my climax rushed upward.  The threads of my thoughts unraveled in passionate cries of rapture.  The building climax crested, forcing my hips off the bed again.  And yet she continued, drawing it out.  My body pulled like a bowstring, taught with tension as I came.

Chest heaving with exertion, I fell back to the mattress, shivers, and sweat running down my spine.  Marcella glided across my sweat-slicked body up to my throat again, her hands playing at my outer thighs as she licked at my pulse.

I knew what she wanted, what she needed, what she was.  “Do it,” I panted in reckless desire,  “Do it, please!” I tilted my head backward, ripping off the bandage and offering my throat.  With her hand at the back of my neck, she lifted my head off the pillow and sunk her teeth into the flesh of my neck, a sharp, penetrating pinch that sliced me open, causing my blood to pour, claiming all that I was.

The brief pain vanished, replaced by a deep and vibrant sensual euphoria.  An urgent sense of affection overwhelmed me, and I wrapped my arms around Marcella, entangling our legs and pressing myself into her body.  My hands wrapped into her hair, clawing to be closer somehow.

I could feel an intense draw within me as if every blood vessel was trying to move toward my throat.  My heart stuttered in my chest, competing with the power of Marcella’s all-consuming pulls.  Marcella shuddered erotically with each draw of blood.  My body trembled then, muscles shaking with a sudden and violent orgasm. “Oh, God,” I tried to scream, but it drifted from my locked throat as a high-pitched whisper.

As blackness began to cloud the edges of my vision and my body succumbed to a pleasant buzzing, my fingers flexed weakly at Marcella’s back.  I felt as if I were adrift in a sea of pleasing numbness, wafting in the bliss of orgasmic love and oblivion.  The soft breath of death whispered from my lungs as my head lolled back limply against her grip.  My arms slid away, fingertips slipping so delicately across her ribs.  The blackness closed further.

“Oh, Marcella.” It was just a breath, perhaps my last susurration. I wasn’t afraid. I would die now, and I didn’t care.

Abruptly, though, she pulled away with soft sucking sounds.  Her lips pressed to mine, dripping thickly with my blood.  The floundering recesses of my better judgment recoiled, but I was long beyond any control or care.  I opened my mouth, allowing what she gave me to spill in, wanting it.  My throat convulsed involuntarily, swallowing.

As in my dream, something thick and cool and salty flowed down my throat, and the buzzing malaise of my limbs receded, taking the suddenly burning pain at my neck along with it.  My eyes closed, and I imagined I could feel a warm light drifting through every artery and vein.

“You are mine,” Marcella’s voice was suddenly thick and resonant, absent her usually bright intonations.  The statement was deep and dark and full of shrouded promises.

I tried to respond, but I couldn’t.  So, I simply nodded quickly and pressed my lips together against the pleasant, thought-stealing warmth that flooded me.  The sex had been mind-blowing, but her bite and what followed had been something beyond lovemaking, beyond lust.  It had been wild and carnal and beautiful.

I opened my eyes and found Marcella looking at me with a cocky smile.  I pulled her blood-coated face to my own, running my tongue across her throat to her chin, finally alighting upon her mouth in a deep, bloodied, resplendent kiss.

I lay there afterward for long minutes, eyes closed as she caressed me.  The exquisite delight of her warm hand, playing across my muscles, tracing the corners and curves of my body, lulled me into a soft daze.  She splayed her fingers, running them heavily down my abdomen and across my thigh.

I was finally able to move.  I touched my throat gingerly.  The flesh was sticky with blood but otherwise whole and seemingly untouched.

“How—“ I started to ask, but she placed a finger to my mouth.

“So, setting aside the bite, which, I’ve heard tell, is addictive as hell, how was it?”

Deep emotion and speeding thoughts rollicked through my brain.  I realized that I’d spent thirty-two years denying myself, and I felt a deep sense of affection and need for Marcella that seemed both irrational and right.  Behind them rose a muted terror that I might become so addicted to her bite that nothing else would ever satisfy me, or it might kill me.  That was suppressed by mild regret and self-recrimination over missed opportunities because I’d been too stupid to see that I was gay.  More light tears slid from my eyes. Whether of joy or hurt, I didn’t know, probably both.

I pulled Marcella to me and held her in an intense embrace, feeling an edge of desperation.  “It was everything it should be,”  I whispered finally.  I didn’t know if the fondness I felt for Marcella suddenly was because of the bite, the sex, or what.  “I love you,” I said before I could stop myself.

Marcella looked at me, smiling appreciatively.  “And, I you,” she replied and kissed me again, lowering to the bed next to me.  We lay there for long minutes, holding each other.

“My God,” I said at last.  “That’s what was missing, all of this time.”

“I’m glad,” Marcella whispered, her breath warm on my ear.  “When did you know?”

I knew what she meant.  “The painting in the other room.  But I didn’t believe it until just now.”

“And you’re not afraid?” she asked quietly.

“No.”  And I wasn’t.  I wondered if I should be but pushed that thought aside and hugged Marcella close.  “No, I’m not.  If you wanted to hurt me, you easily could have at any time.”

I thought for just a moment about what we had just done.  It had never been like me to let go of the wheel like this.  I had always been in total control of my life, afraid to allow one moment to go astray lest it all fall apart.  But with Marcella, I had done just that.  I’d thrown everything into the wind and let it land where it may, and it had been liberating.  In the back of my mind, I was afraid that I’d never quite know who I was again, but that thought seemed so far away and childish.  I did see that I wanted to be with her, and some deep need inside me had driven me to her, filling a space I had never known was empty.

“What are you thinking about?”  Marcella stroked my hand as she spoke.

“Nothing, just how much better I feel.  A week ago, I wouldn’t have even considered doing this.  I’ve broken a dozen rules, and I can’t bring myself to care.  I just want to be with you.”

“Cait, there are some things we need to talk about,” she started, but I pressed my finger to her lips.

“Later,” I whispered.  “Let us just have this moment, for now.”

I released my hold and pushed Marcella onto her back.  I looked at her mouth, perfect ruby lips reflecting a beatific smile above her chin, coated in my blood.  I kissed her again, tasting my cum and blood on her lips and in her breath.  I ran my tongue, wide and flat up against her throat, bringing the remnants of my blood into my mouth.  Now that I wasn’t wholly besotted in the throes of passion, I could taste it.  It was salty but not unpleasant, as I thought it might be.

Her exhalation of pleasure told me all I needed to know about what I was doing.  I moved to her breasts, kissing her nipples, biting her hard, making her gasp and squirm under me.  A desperate need to consume her swirled inside me.  I needed to take her as she’d taken me.  I had to taste her, to know her.

I wasted no time, and, perhaps too quickly, I slid my mouth down her abdomen to her sex to take her in my mouth.  It was rushed and hurried, but a fierce need took me. I ran my tongue across her clit, pushing my fingers inside.  As I slid them in and out, she reached down and guided my hand the way she wanted.

“There, across there,” she gasped, and I felt her muscles tighten on my fingers.  “Oh, Goddess, yes, there.”

She moaned softly, sliding her fingers deep into my hair, pulling my head against her harder, mashing my lips into her.  I continued plunging my fingers through her more quickly as I licked and sucked at her.  She was a goddess, and this was how I worshiped her.  She had taken all I was, and now all I wanted was to give her more.  She tangled locks of my hair within her fists as she rode toward swift orgasm.  The musky taste drove me to pull my knees forward for purchase and begin massaging myself.  Her rising orgasm forced my own.

Her legs stiffened, and her knees locked as she cried out in ecstasy, pulling my hair and bucking against my face.  My own orgasm followed closely behind; my screams muffled between her legs.

She released my hair, allowing me to breathe more easily, and I cried out loudly as I rode out my pleasure.

I lay my face against her leg, feeling exhausted. I could feel a real pulse against her now warm thigh, regular and fast. A few minutes passed, and the only sounds were my unaccompanied labored breathing and the thump of her heart.

Marcella propped herself up on her elbows, just smiling down at me.  Then, she tilted her head back, and I could feel a bit of a shudder run through her.  Weirdly, having pleasured her made me feel more complete.  Maybe it was just dumb romanticism, but I felt like I had become something else, something more, something whole.

I crawled back up, pulled the covers over us, and lay my head on her breast.  I listened to the fading heartbeat, slowing and slowing until it fell silent, but for a single periodic thump.

“What are you doing to me?”  My voice sounded small to my ears.

“I don’t understand,” Marcella deflected with a touch of coquettish tease.

“Be serious, please,” I implored gently.  “Are you making me fall for you?”

She was silent for a second.  “If by ‘making,’ you mean treating you like someone I care for, want to know, and think could be important in my life.  Then, most certainly.” Her words were playful, but her tone was serious.  “I am fond of you, Cait.  Your very presence is, at times, almost intoxicating.  It has been a long time since I felt anything but friendly affection for anyone.  But, if you’re asking if I am doing something extraordinary to your senses or your thoughts or your feelings, the answer is absolutely not.  I’m far too old and long away from those kinds of games.”

“Okay, I just wanted to know if this was real.”

“It is.” Her reply was so gentle and loving.

Marcella and I changed the sheets and cleaned the blood off of us.  There was so much more than I had thought.  No wonder I’d been woozy.  Dressed back in our pajamas, we crawled back into bed.

“Why am I not bleeding out?” I pointed to my throat as I climbed back into the bed.

“We don’t talk about it much because it’s— unpleasant.”

I just watched her with an eyebrow raised.  This I had to hear.

“When we drink from someone, our bodies immediately change the blood into something life-sustaining.  Don’t ask me how it works.  No chemist or scientist I’ve ever confided in has been able to make heads or tails of it chemically or biologically.

“When I kissed you, I forced a bit of that changed blood back into your mouth.  You probably felt the warmth of it.”

“I thought I had imagined that,” I said, shocked.

“The same life-sustaining power it has for me works very effectively on non-vampires, causing a brief period of almost miraculous healing and a bit of euphoria.  Sometimes, it can imbue humans with tremendous strength as it is absorbed.  It will also help you replace the blood I took.  But, by morning, most of those effects will dissipate, and you’ll be exhausted.

“But, before you ask, you can’t just stick a straw in my neck and get the same effect.  I don’t know why, but by the time it’s oozing its way around my circulatory system, it loses all potency.  It’s just blood.”

“How is that possible?” I asked, incredulous.

“It’s a curse, Cait, not some viral infection.  Several blood analyses found a mix of blood types, but it was completely human otherwise.  If you just drank my blood straight from my body, it would make you sick, just like drinking large quantities of your own.”

“That’s weird and oddly fucked up,” I said around a long yawn.

“It gets even weirder.  I could feed you my blood if you were near death, but it wouldn’t turn you.  I have to want to turn you.  And even then, it would likely not work.  In ninety-nine percent of all cases, the recipient dies anyway or becomes a revenant.”

I looked at her quizzically.  “What is a revenant.  I mean, I know the mythological description.”

“It’s a vampire with no real mind of their own.  They are vicious killing machines, strong as any other vampire but single-minded in pursuit of blood.  That’s why turning is strictly prohibited in all cases.  And I mean, all. Any vampire who turns or attempts to turn someone is put to death as a risk to the rest.”

“Wow, that’s draconian.” Fatigue was seeping into my limbs quickly, and I stifled another yawn, shaking my head slightly to stay awake.

“It’s survival, Cait,” she said, tone flat.  “None of us want to die.  And there aren’t nearly enough of us to save ourselves if the rest of the population turned on us.  The council forbids it.  Protecting our secret is the first and most important rule.”

“The council?” I asked, curious but not shocked.  Of course, there was a vampire council.

“That’s what we call ourselves.  There are three of us.  Erik Schmidt, Nastasia, and myself.  I will tell you that the others are what you might expect from a vampire of legend— cold, calculating, and ruthless.”

The name Schmidt rang a bell, but I couldn’t remember where I’d seen it.  I shook my head again, trying to focus, but my vision grew blurry and extreme fatigue began to drag me toward sleep.  “Oh! Can you turn into a bat?” I asked around my yawn.

“Of course, we learn that on the first day of vampire school,’ she said, obviously fucking with me, then she spooned up to me and draped an arm across my mid-section.  “Just so you know, it will take a little while for the changed blood to help you replenish your own. In the meantime, you should get some rest.  There will be time enough for more questions later.”

I heard what she had to say, but my eyes were too heavy and my mind too fogged.  I had a million other questions, but I never got the chance to ask them as I fell asleep.

28

I jerked awake in the darkness with an odd sense of foreboding.  Something felt off.  The first time I’d had this feeling, Morgan and I had been ambushed.  Something had told me to move the Humvee early, but I had ignored it.  I’d never do that again.

Marcella lay next to me, sleeping or resting or whatever vampires do.  I nudged her slightly; she didn’t move.  I almost pressed my fingers to her carotid artery but thought better of it and instead looked at my watch—3:38 AM.

I waited a minute more, but the nagging feeling that something was about to go down hadn’t quit, and the hair on the back of my neck stood straight up.  I took the stairs as quietly as I could down to the second floor.  Just as I went to step out, I froze, hearing the whisper of voices below.

“Come with me; it’s up here on the right.” It was Ninetta, and she was coming up the stairs.  I couldn’t see her from my vantage point yet, but her voice was unmistakable.

“And the tablet is there?” Someone was with her, a man whose voice I didn’t recognize.  I held my breath, feeling like an idiot for leaving my service weapon behind.  Thankfully, the light was out in the stairwell, and I could see the second-floor gallery clearly through a crack in the door.

Following Ninetta up the stairs was a haggard-looking Haimon Blackman, a katana in a red and gold scabbard slung to his back.  In his left hand was a polished wooden stake, clearly made for its purpose.

I was about to return upstairs to warn Marcella when Ninetta opened the door to Marcella’s office.  A deafening alarm sounded throughout the building.  Raised voices sounded from inside the office.  I stepped out of the stairwell to hear better when Ninetta ran out, Blackman behind her with his blade drawn.

“Help me,” Ninetta called out, and I started forward but stopped, shocked when Blackman’s blade protruded from her chest like a spike.  He said something in her ear, but I heard not a word over the howling alarm.  Blackman pushed her body down the stairs and raced toward me, sword raised.

He was frighteningly fast and agile.  I lifted my left arm, trying to get inside his blow and block it at the forearm, but I was too slow.  The blade landed solidly on my arm—and stopped cold, impacting a titanium implant.   Sharp pain stabbed through my arm from wrist to elbow, but I ignored it.

“Surprise, motherfucker!” I snarled and landed a vicious right hook to Blackman’s jaw.  His head snapped around and slammed into the wall cracking one of the studs, dazing him for a second.

The front doors exploded inward in a hail of splinters and brass shrapnel, leaving them hanging precariously and jerking my attention from Blackman for just a moment.  Marcella stood in the doorway, fangs barred, still clad in her draw-string pants and Captain Carter t-shirt.  In her right arm was a sword of her own.

Blackman leaped over me and the railing to the floor below, landing flat and easy.  I charged after, landing hard on the marble floor and rolling into his legs, sending him sprawling.  His blade and the stake skittered across the floor to the far wall.

An animal snarl sounded from Marcella’s lips, and she charged forward, grabbing Blackman and flinging him across the room with one hand.  He slammed into the wall, shattering the colossal picture mirror and the console table.

I pulled myself to my feet.  My right ankle twinged, but the pain died quickly, and the cut on my arm had already healed.

My eyes widened as Blackman pulled up on his hands and feet and lunged at Marcella.  God, he was fast.  But Marcella was quicker still. She slid under his charge and opened a wide gash in his leg, causing him to trip and slide across the room.

I rushed over to check on Ninetta.  Her breathing was shallow, and her pulse thready.  I had left my phone upstairs.  Fuck!

Blackman had regained his blade and was back on his feet.  The gash in his leg was already closing.  Weapons clashed as they met again in the center of the room.  Blackman’s sword work was phenomenal.  As Marcella chopped down with her short Gladius, Blackman charged right, slicing into left Marcella’s side.

“Marcella!” I shouted, moving forward.

“I’m okay! Stay back,” she cried as she turned toward her opponent.  An arrow sang through the room and struck her in the sword arm.  I looked toward the source.  Two Asian men in black suits and ties stood in the open doorway.  One carried a bow with two arrows in hand.  The other held a long knife.  I charged the one with the knife.

Knife-guy wasn’t as fast as Blackman by any stretch, but he wasn’t a novice fighter either.  As I ran forward, he tried to time a strike with the dagger.  But I had already ducked, landing a punch in his groin.  He dropped like a stone, almost landing on me.  God, I felt strong.

I rolled sideways and rag-dolled knife-guy, hoisting him in front of me.  An arrow sunk directly into his throat, splattering my face with blood.  The point of the arrow protruded so close it scratched my cheek.

Bow-guy charged forward, dropping the bow and his last arrow.  He was competent, fast, and strong.  What he wasn’t was ruthless.  He was working within a fighting structure.  Most traditional martial arts were good against the uninitiated, but they were typically useless against a trained mixed martial arts fighter.

He landed a few solid blows on my arms and a solid kick to my gut.  But, I managed to get inside his guard quickly and gave him a right hook to the jaw.  Staggered by the blow, bow-guy stumbled.  I shoved him right between Marcella and Blackman, who had just separated.  Marcella didn’t hesitate; she cut bow-guy across the gut and slipped her blade back to her right hand in a single, clean movement.  Bow-guy sprawled to the floor, not moving, his blood pouring across the marble.

Blackman didn’t need any prompting; he took off out the door.  I scooped up the bow, knocking the last arrow.  I didn’t know more than the basics of archery, but sometimes, beginner’s luck is all you need.  I watched the arrow fly, sinking in under Blackman’s right shoulder blade.  It didn’t even slow him down.

“Fuck!”

29

“Why?” Marcella murmured at Ninetta’s side, pushing hair from her eyes.

“I— loved you.  T—took care of y—you,” Ninetta said, blood frothing in her mouth.  “Why didn’t you t-turn.”  Her eyes rolled up slightly before focusing on Marcella once more.

“You know why,” Marcella said, thick tears tinged with pink dropping onto Ninetta’s face.  Ninetta’s eyes closed, and a last whisper of air escaped.

My heart broke within the echo of Marcella’s following wail.  Her sorrow filled the room and left my face streaked with tears as sirens sounded in the distance.

Before moving to comfort Marcella, I checked the two men, confirming that both were dead.  Checking for ID, I noticed both men were covered in intricate Japanese-style tattoos.  Yakuza.

Marcella looked up at me, her face contorted in terrifying rage, making her look— demonic. “Who was that?”

“Haimon Blackman.  At this point, I’m pretty sure that he murdered Jesse, too.”

“Someone has broken our covenant and made progeny.  I’m going to find out who, and then they’ll both pay for what they’ve done.” I saw the ruthless power flitting behind her eyes for the first time, and it terrified me.

Marcella looked back to Ninetta and shook her head.  “She let her resentment fuel stupidity.”

I wondered what their relationship had been to spark that much resentment.  So much so that she’d betrayed her after so many years.

Marcella set Ninetta’s head down and stood.  “Do you know what they were looking for?”

“That weird stone tablet in your office, I think.”

“I put it away when we got back from Eastham. I don’t understand, though; it’s a worthless hoax, both of them are.  Or, at least that’s what Schmidt had told me.”

“What are we going to do about this mess?” I asked, gesturing around at the now blood-slicked marble and the two dead bodies.

“Why, nothing.  Three men broke into my house and assaulted my girlfriend and me.  They got more than they bargained for.  It’s open and shut, and I have an excellent criminal defense attorney on retainer.”  I wasn’t sure I qualified as an actual girlfriend, but I couldn’t disagree with her.

For my part, I didn’t feel a bit of guilt.  These weren’t teenagers who didn’t have a chance to grow up because they got involved in gang violence.  These were grown-ass men who’d attacked us unprovoked.  I had an incredible sense of satisfaction rather than horror when I looked at the carnage.  These men had broken in looking for trouble, and we’d given it to them.

“You’re right,” I said finally.  “Fuck ‘em.”

The first police cars arrived on the scene a few minutes later.  By then, Marcella had found another t-shirt, and we were both sitting on the front steps of the building.  Marcella had her gladius in her lap, and I was smoking a stale sweet-cigarillo that Marcella had dug out of a drawer somewhere.

We were interviewed by one of the responding officers, a rookie named Shipley, who looked us both up and down and shook his head.  His facial expression left no doubt that he didn’t like what he saw.

Fuck you, too, I thought but chose to stay quiet while Marcella explained the whole mess.

“Detective Reagan?” One of the officers, a short Latin woman, stepped out of the doorway.  “I’m officer Alvarez.  Ms. Carson tells me that you were here when everything started.  Can you fill in the details prior?”

I took a deep breath.  The cat was out of the bag now anyway.  “Sure, Ms. Carson and I were out on the cape yesterday and returned this morning.” The officer started scribbling away on her notepad.  “At 7:30 PM, we retired to bed.  I woke and headed downstairs at 3:38 AM.  I heard Ms. D’Angelo and Mr. Blackman walking up the stairs.  Since Mr. Blackman is a likely suspect in a murder case, I decided to wait to listen to what they were saying.

“Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to make anything out.  They went into Ms. Carson’s office.  When they opened the door, they set off the house alarm.  Mr. Blackman then stabbed Ms. D’Angelo for her trouble and pushed her down the stairs.  Then he came after me as I stood outside the stairwell door.”  I pointed up the stairs to the left.

“About then, Marcella came through the busted front doors, and Blackman charged her.  I followed him downstairs and got into it with his two accomplices.  That guy,” I said, pointing to bow-guy, “shot that guy in the neck, narrowly missing me.  Then, he wandered in between Marcella and Blackman and got cut down.  I shot Mr. Blackman with the same arrow, and he ran away.  It’s that simple.”

While Alvarez wrote all that down, my team showed up.

“Hi, guys,” I said, waving.  Carlos didn’t even acknowledge it.  He went right after Marcella.

“This is your fault that she’s mixed up in this shit, you fucking leech.”

Fucking leech?  I filed that for a much later conversation as I leaped up between Carlos and Marcella.

“She’s a grown woman, Detective, and she can make up her own mind,” Marcella shot back hotly.

I turned to her.  “You,” I said sharply, “do not need to defend me; I can take care of myself.”

“And you,” I turned back to Carlos,  “need to simmer down.  I’m here of my own free will, thank you very much.  If you have a problem with it, we can discuss it later, or you can take it up with the Lieutenant.”

Carlos looked down at me, and I’d swear he growled.  His brown eyes looked flecked with gold.

Aw, fuck.  Everything suddenly became apparent, and I felt a sharp stab of fear.  But, I recovered quickly.  Fuck this; he wasn’t my dad.  Shit, I’d just met him six days ago.

“Carlos,” I said through gritted teeth.  “Now is not the time.  You have a killer to find.  Now, go inside and do your fucking job.”

“This isn’t over,” Carlos said, voice low and menacing.

“Oh, yes, it is, and don’t you forget that,” I shot back, in a low growl of my own, poking him in the chest.  “No one, and I mean, no one, tells me what I can and cannot do no matter who, or what, they are.”

Carlos looked at me, frowning in disappointment, but he didn’t say anything else.  Instead, he stepped inside to work the scene.  Carol walked by after Carlos, mouthing the words, ‘I’m sorry.’

I shook my head and turned back to Marcella.  “I’m sorry.  Maybe it’s best if I leave.”

“Pish, Cait, that’s ridiculous,” Marcella said, sounding at first perfectly fine.  Then, her voice shifted to soft and a little sad.  “You can leave if you want to, but I’d rather you didn’t.  I don’t think I want to be alone right now.  Besides, you’ve done nothing wrong, and neither have I.  Detective Ramirez is just running on his instincts right now.  He’ll cool off.”

“Okay,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure.

“Detective Ramirez?” Marcella called through the doors.  Carlos turned and walked over.

“What?” he snapped.

“Detective, I’m sure that you feel I’m responsible for all of this— this mess.  But, I assure you, I have no idea why that madman broke in here.”

Carlos stepped back outside the building.  “Look,” he seemed a little calmer, and though his eyes were still hard, the gold flecks were gone.  “Let’s talk about this over here,” he said, gesturing away from the front door.

We walked to the curb with him, out of earshot of the other officers.  “What are you doing here, Cait?”

“Just what you think I’m doing here.  Duh.” I probably should have been trying to defuse the conversation, but damn it, I was pissed.

“What did you do to her?” Carlos demanded of Marcella.

She snorted in derision.  “Absolutely nothing, Detective.  As she said, she’s here of her own free will.”

“Carlos,” I reassured.  “She picked me up at the hospital after Gabe tried to murder me.  We went to the Cape for an overnight girls’ night, not that it really is any of your business, and then we came back here early this morning.  I stayed here because I didn’t want to be alone, and frankly, I like Marcella.  She’s been absolutely lovely.”

“You know what she is, then,” he said, voice finally returning to some semblance of courtesy.

“I do.  The fact that you knew before I did is a whole other matter, though,” I said straight-up.  “You might have told me before all this.  Not that it would have mattered one bit.”

“Cait, she is dangerous.”  He looked at Marcella. “No offense, honey.”

“None taken, love,” Marcella replied with an air of perfect decorum.

“Wait, and you aren’t?” I asked, not believing where he was going.   “I saw your eyes.  That makes you a little sus in my book, too, honey.”

Carlos stopped and blinked.  Then he pursed his lips.  “Cait, I’m not like that.”

“Like what?  You’re a fucking werewolf, aren’t you?”

Carlos looked around, lowering his voice.  “Jesus, Cait, keep it down.  You can’t just go around shouting shit like that.”

“He’s right, Cait,”  Marcella said impassively.  “You need to keep that to yourself.”

Carlos sighed, staring at me like a disappointed father.  “I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I?”

“No,” I said firmly.

Carlos turned to Marcella.  “You will make sure she’s aware of what she’s getting into.” It was more a statement than a question.

“Of course, I will, Detective,” Marcella said gravely.  “And, for what it’s worth, I care about her as much as you do, though neither of us has known Cait for very long.”

Carlos closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Fine.  Tell me, Ms. Carson, what do I need to cover?”

“Just a few minutes of video out front,” Marcella said.  “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Alright.  Cait, I’ve only known you for a few days, but you’re fast becoming like another sister.  Please be careful.”

“I will.  It’ll be fine,” I said with a confidence I did not feel.

He started walking away looking for all the world like a parent who had just found out their child has some awful disease— like he suddenly had to adjust his expectations, and he wasn’t happy about it.

“And Carlos?”

He turned back.

“I feel the same about you.  I still have your back.”

“Oh, more than you know, darlin’.  More than you know,” he said cryptically and went back to work.

Now, what the fuck did that mean?

30

Amidst the crush of cops, lawyers, repairmen, and more lawyers that followed Monday morning, the department put me on administrative leave, per policy, but it didn’t last long.  So, I bounced back and forth between Headquarters, my apartment, and Marcella’s.  Jabba was a little put out that I wasn’t home more, but I mollified him with a few cat treats as I stopped in periodically.

The video footage from the doorbell camera only showed the entry of Blackman and his henchmen.  There were no images of Marcella at all.  Carlos’ handiwork, I suspected.

While manipulating the criminal justice system bothered me deeply, what might happen to Marcella if her true nature were discovered chilled me far more. Human beings happily visited all manner of atrocities on each other.  What might they do to a vampire?

It didn’t change the facts, anyway.  Three men broke into Marcella’s house with murderous intent and were met with lethal defensive force— end of fucking story.   I was not at all guilt-ridden about the outcome.

After the fuss had died down, I took a minute to check on Gabe.  He had been transported to Bridgewater State Hospital, where visitors weren’t allowed.  After talking to his transport detail, I’d learned that he’d been catatonic for most of the trip from BMC.  But, at one point, they’d had to restrain him. He’d begun banging his head against the van wall, screaming about his ‘master.’ I decided that when I found Haimon Blackman, I would ram a stake so far up his ass that he’d be spitting splinters. Assuming Marcella didn’t get to him first.  Still, the vast well of guilt that I seemed to have in inexhaustible supply gnawed at me whenever I thought about him.

Monday morning had been a slog once the rush of the changed blood had worn off.  Her feeding, followed by the fight, had ultimately left me exhausted and somewhat sick.  Marcella fed me hearty meals and gave me iron supplements to combat the fatigue.  It helped a little.

Marcella looked pretty haggard herself by Tuesday evening.

“Are you okay?” I asked as I lay in the bed, watching her standing at the window. “You look exhausted.”

“I’ll be fine,” she whispered in the dark. “I just need to feed and start sleeping during the day more.”

“I get the feeding part, but sleeping during the day?” I nudged, finding an opportunity to learn more about her condition.

“Cait, even the power that comes with my age has limits.  If I don’t feed regularly, at least a couple of times a month, I get ravenous.  Not getting enough rest and activities like last night can worsen the hunger.  I don’t want to kill anyone.  That person is always someone’s sister, or mother, or daughter. It’s worse if I don’t sleep during the day.  Bottled blood keeps the hunger at bay, briefly.  But the blood is incidental.  We drink the life from people; the blood is just a medium.”

“Wait, we lose years of life?”  I began to imagine myself an old hag at thirty-three.

“No, nothing like that.  Normal people have an inexhaustible supply of whatever animates them, at least until they die.  It goes beyond simple biology.  I can’t explain it to someone who’s never experienced it, but it isn’t just the blood that sustains us.”

“Well, if you’re really that run down, I’m right here. I’m tired, but I’ll be okay.”  Though I wasn’t at all sure, that was true.

“No, Cait.  I took more than I should have on Sunday.  If I don’t give you time to make more blood, you won’t be worth much to anyone. I’m going to go out for a few hours.”

Suddenly I felt a twinge of something ugly— jealousy.  Did I not want my vampire girlfriend feeding on someone else?  I frowned, wrestling with the feeling.

Marcella read my expression.  “Cait, my life is very complicated.  I don’t want you becoming some blood doll or pet that I feed on whenever the mood strikes me.” Her tone had changed, becoming gentle, and I realized she spoke from experience. “I want us to be together as equals.  You can’t just offer yourself up every time I need blood.  That isn’t going to work.”

I thought about that. “But, I’m not sure I’m comfortable having an open relationship.”

“What do you mean?” She turned and sat on the bed next to me.  The moonlight silhouetted her stunning figure and gave her hair a silvery cast.  I could just make out half of her face as she took my hand.  Her fangs were fully extended, and her eyes burned eerily in the dark with a faint blue glow of their own.  It was both frightening and exciting.

“When you feed on me, there’s always a sexual component. It’s really like nothing I’ve ever experienced,” I explained. “I’m not sure I like the idea of someone else enjoying that but me.”

“Cait, since the advent of vampires as the tragic villains of Gothic stories, the myths around us say that we very sexual creatures.  We represent forbidden passions and dark desires.  And it’s not far wrong.  As much as I try to reject that view, some things can’t be helped.” She stroked my hand and leaned in to kiss my lips, letting one of her fangs play across them.

“It’s one of the things,” she began kissing my chin and running her tongue down my neck, “that I cannot deny.”

I felt my heart skip a beat as she passed her lips across my throat.  Her hand slid into my pajama bottoms and stroked at my inner thigh, and I whimpered at the touch.

“I won’t be long, my love,” she whispered, vanishing into the darkness and down the stairs.

“Fuck!”

I sighed loudly, sexually frustrated.  Eventually, I forced myself to roll over, and it was a testament to my fatigue that I fell asleep quickly.

About six hours later, around three in the morning, I woke and dragged myself out of bed to find Marcella reading a book in the sitting room.  Rather than disturb her, I opted to try to work out.  There was a small workout area off the garage.  I assumed it was for guests because I couldn’t imagine what a vampire might need with a gym.  Inside there was everything I could ask for: a complete set of free weights, a heavy bag, a speed bag, and a protocol bag. It was heaven, and after an hour of boxing and lifting, I headed to the kitchen to grab some food.

“Hey,” I called out.  “You going to read all morning?”

Marcella walked into the kitchen in her pajamas, dragging a faint scent of stale cigarette smoke and blood.

“Can I ask?” I prodded cautiously.

“Of course, you can, my dear. It’s not something I mind.” She sat at the kitchen table to watch me cook my eggs and grits.

“I’d like you to tell me about your night.  Who you met, how you fed, everything.” I knew I was just begging for the green monster of jealousy to claw at me, but it was something that I wanted to be open between us, not some dirty little thing we both pretended not to know.  I wasn’t sure if I could deal with it, but I wouldn’t disrespect myself by pretending it wasn’t happening.

“Well, I went to d-bar.  I found a nice young woman named Stephanie, an accountant at a local firm.  She hates living with her mother.  She is black, very dark-skinned, from Nigeria, I think, and lovely.  Truly, she was beautiful.”

I absorbed that as I dumped the two over-easy eggs into my bowl of grits and salted and buttered everything within an inch of its life.  For her part, Marcella didn’t blink or offer any apologies as she continued to describe the rest of the evening.

“We left together and went back to her place.  Stephanie’s mother has a condo in Back Bay with a deck overlooking the Charles.  The view was extraordinary.  The lights of Cambridge playing across the river have a sort of magic to them.  Anyway, she drew me into her bedroom.  Stephanie was pretty, but her taste in decor was for shit.”

Marcella’s eyes began to flicker away into an almost trance-like state.  It was mesmerizing watching her face drift from fond remembrance of an event to arousal.  Her nostrils flared slightly as she inhaled to speak, and her eyes dilated.

“She smelled of Chanel and faintly of the cheap curry sauce, the kind you get from a jar.  The slightly aphrodisiac spice of Vodka wafted in her breath.  Her lips were soft.” Marcella rose slightly in her seat, a feral, savage look playing on her features.  My breath quickened, and breakfast lay forgotten in the bowl, fork still in my hand.  Marcella reached across the table, taking the fork.

“I ran my tongue down her neck, and she moaned underneath me.” Marcella’s voice became thick with hunger and desire.  My own emotions tumbled between arousal and stabbing jealousy.

Marcella set the fork down and took my hands, looking at me directly.  Her eyes were fully alight now, burning with lust.  I could almost feel the young woman’s skin on my tongue and smell the perfume and alcohol.  I was falling into Marcella’s gaze, and my mouth parted slowly.  The difference between my imaginings and Marcella’s memory blurred away.  I felt what she had felt, saw what she had seen.  Her flawless memory became mine.

I literally felt her fangs extend.  The experience was my own now.

I bit into the delicate, flawless, ebony skin.  Stephanie trembled at the initial pain, then settled as salty warmth and brightness cascaded over my tongue.  I moaned softly.

In the present, my tongue ran over my lips, trying to get at the phantom drops of blood.  Marcella’s hands were between my legs, sliding up my inner thigh, spreading them as I gave myself to the vision and rapture.  I felt a power welling inside as I told young Stephanie how beautiful she was.

Marcella was kneeling on the floor, lapping at my wetness as my breath heaved in my chest, building to the crescendo—and then I came.  I remembered the light and heat of Stephanie’s blood, the drip of it on my neck, the ecstatic expression on Stephanie’s face as she called out my name weakly.

‘Oh, Marcella,’ Stephanie cried.

“Oh, Marcella,” I cried as my hips moved.  I clawed at the table and Marcella’s hair as she slid her fangs into my upper thigh.  My breath tumbled in and out, awash in the euphoria that siphoned away all thought, and I came again and again in a swell of wetness and sweat and blood and tears.  And then it was over, just a droplet of blood coursing down my leg.  Marcella hovered over me, forcing my mouth open, dribbling my blood back into me, erasing the signs of her passing.

I snatched at the back of her neck, pulling violently closer and forcing my tongue into her mouth, probing for the drops of my blood.  Again.  God, I wanted it again, the salty warmth of life.  And then it was gone, leaving me trembling from head to toe in the chair, gasping in jerking spasmodic breaths.

Marcella pulled away and rose, slowly walking to the sink and gingerly picking up a dishtowel.  My head lolled a little as I watched her, drunk on her beauty and the afterglow.  I buried my hand in my hair and threw my head back to get air.  I needed air.  I still felt flooded with her emotions.  I couldn’t think; my head buzzed in both need and satisfaction.

I looked down as Marcella knelt in front of me in a pantomime of supplication.  She wiped the blood from my thigh.  Her hair obscured her face, but soft, tinkling laughter reached my ears.

“Is it always like that?” I breathed, finally filling my lungs with life-giving oxygen.

“On a shitty day,” she said and chuckled. “With you, it’s so much more.”

“What did you,” I swallowed loudly, “just do to me?”

“I’d think that’d be obvious.  I drew your mind into my own as I remembered the experience.” Her tone was slightly superior, almost cocky. “I can’t feed on you like I did little Stephanie every time I need it. You’d waste away quickly.” That phrase, ‘little Stephanie,’ reminded me of the power of this creature to whom I’d bound my heart so quickly.

I was still a little breathless.  “But you just—.”

“Only a few drops,” she interrupted, anticipating my response.

“Oh.” I tilted my head back, letting the buzzing in my brain subside.

Eventually, a pinprick of reason began to assert itself. Marcella’s life, her very existence, required her to feed on multiple people.  There was no way I could reliably meet all of her needs, and if I wanted to be with her, I needed to adjust to that.  A niggle of jealousy still burned inside me, and I tried to stomp it out.

“I just never thought about the differences,” I mused. “I guess it never occurred to me that a relationship with you wouldn’t be monogamous.”

“It’s what I was trying to tell you, Cait.”  She stood and pulled me up off the chair.  My legs buckled slightly, but she steadied me. “Oops, there you go.  That young woman, Stephanie, she was just— .” She trailed off, looking for a word that I couldn’t supply.  Victim?  Prey?  Snack?  It was all too weird.

“If you were a vampire, you’d understand the difference between claiming someone and loving them.”

“I guess it’ll take some getting used to.” My reply was noncommittal, but as much as I tried to crush the toxic green demon, it wouldn’t die.

“You can go ahead and finish your breakfast. I’m going to shower and change; then, there’s something I’d like to show you before you start your day.” She rose and started for the door.

I looked at her sideways. “Like what?”

She stopped and turned back, meeting my eyes. “I’d just like for you to know the real me, so to speak.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Is this not the real you?”

“It is. But there is more.” She turned and fled up the elevator.

I scarfed my breakfast, and Marcella didn’t get very far into her shower before I joined her.  She shaved her legs as I stepped in between the main showerhead and her back.

Marcella gave me a sidelong glance.  “Um, darling?”

“Yes, dear.”

“It’s unwise to get between a vampire and her hot water, and especially when she has a lethal instrument in her hands.” She waved the razor at me.

I laughed.  “Are you going to gut me with your Gillette Venus?”

She shook her head and got back to shaving. However, I stepped out of the spray, watching the rivulets of water slide down her back.  Switching legs, she stood for a second, and I could see a small scar near her left collar bone. I stopped scrubbing my own body and pursed my lips.

“What?” she asked, looking at my expression.

Mixed feelings swirled in my gut, swiftly turning dark.  I had seen that scar in my dream, but how could I have known about it then.  My eyes went wide.  “That scar.”

“What about it?” she asked, now looking concerned herself. “Tell me, what’s wrong?”

“My dream wasn’t a dream, was it?”  She’d come to me, seduced me in my sleep-addled brain. “You put the whammy on me that night, didn’t you?”

“The whammy?” she asked, looking confused.

“The night I had the dream about you drinking my blood— before we started dating. It wasn’t a dream, was it?” My voice started to rise. “You came into my house; you drank my blood, and you did it before we— we—” My head was spinning.  I rinsed off the soap quickly and stepped out of the shower, covering myself with a towel.

Dear God, why? Why did this keep happening to me?

“Cait!” Marcella followed me out of the shower, dripping, naked. “Stop!”   A dizzying power passed through me, snapping my head toward her.  I looked down instinctively, feeling suddenly submissive.

Damnit.

“Cait,” she said, more softly this time. “You need to calm down. I’m sorry. I—.” She knelt before me. “You’re right. I—.” She kept breaking off, clearly upset, and my anger wavered. “Please, don’t leave,” she begged. “I can explain.”

It was heart-wrenching.  Under all of her composure and fun-loving nature was a deep well of loneliness, not all that different from my own.  But the rage wouldn’t subside.

“How could you?” I whispered.

“I wish I could say something that would make it better. Yes, I came to you that night. I influenced your senses, making it seem like a dream, but you have to know that I didn’t force you to do anything.”

“How can I know that?” I asked desperately. “How can I trust you? You violated me! You took my blood, and you made me feel— things.”

She looked at me in horror. “No! I never made you feel anything.  I wanted to tell you when we were at the beach house. But I was afraid you’d react this way. I mean, I knew it would come out, but I was already so—.” She stopped for a second and looked into my eyes. “So in love with you.” It was a whisper.

I clutched the towel around me. “I was raped my first month in Iraq, Marcella.  Can you imagine how I feel right now?”  My voice was shrill, even to my own ears.

“I’m so sorry. I—I hadn’t known that.”

I had never seen her look so broken before. I asked the only question that I wanted an answer to. The question that would make or break us, right here.

“Why?”

She looked at me, and I could see in her face that no answer she gave would be what I wanted to hear. I steeled myself.

“Because,” she started and then stopped to compose herself.   “Because I have been alive for over a millennium.  I’ve become accustomed to just taking what I want. You are beautiful, and I felt a spark of attraction. I reacted as I always had, claiming what I wanted regardless of the price it exacted on my—.”

“Victim?”  I suggested unhelpfully.

She paused, then soldiered on.  “I was as drawn to you as you were to me.  I could think of nothing else.  But I didn’t know then that I would fall in love with you.”

“That’s no excuse,” I snapped. “Tell me the truth; have you been controlling me this whole time?  Manipulating me?”

She looked up, aghast. “Goddess, no!  You saw what it did to Gabriel. His mind is permanently broken; no one can help him. That kind of control destroys the psyche. You’d be a drooling puddle by now.” She looked away and shivered, then whispered, “I would die first.”

My resolve cracked, looking at Marcella’s desperation.  A war began in my head.  I’d happily gone along with the dream, hadn’t I?  Didn’t I bear some responsibility here?  I shoved that aside.  That way, as they say, lay madness.  But if she wanted to control me, she could have just grabbed me and made me forget.  Maybe she should have.

No! I need to get out of here, I thought, before I let this go and become a victim again.

Marcella spoke, voice almost inaudible. “Cait, you don’t understand. Can’t understand. I—.”

No matter what I said, what she said, or how I rationalized, I couldn’t let go of the feeling of utter violation.

“I can’t. I—I just can’t,” I said finally.

I dressed and left the house.  Looking back from my ride-share, I saw her in the window, hand pressed against the glass, expression pleading.  The pain in my chest hurt so bad I could scarcely breathe.  I wanted to stop the car, to run back and hold her and tell her I was sorry.  Instead, I jerked myself back around as the driver pulled away.

Fuck.

31

I slammed the door to my apartment in frustration and threw my bag on the floor. “Fucking vampires!” I shouted. “God damn it!”

I had been ready to burst for the entire fourteen-minute ride from Marcella’s.

“Language,” came Rebecca’s muffled voice through the ceiling.  I just shook my head. Fuck you, Rebecca, I thought bitterly, then realized how early in the morning it was.

Jabba was in his usual perch on the couch, and he just raised his head to look at me accusingly.

“What?” I said, staring right back at him.

He rolled off the couch like a furry slug and sauntered over, rubbing against my legs.  Large tears fell across my cheeks as I picked him up.  I had been crying quite a bit in the last few days. And now that I was home and Jabba was in my arms, my anger subsided, leaving a yawning pit in my stomach.

I couldn’t make any sense of my feelings.  Every fiber of my being was so pissed off.  Marcella had made me feel wanted and cared for and—loved.  But I felt like I couldn’t trust those emotions anymore.

I set Jabba down on the sofa, forestalling his inevitable complaining with a few belly scritches.   I needed a drink.   I poured myself a glass of wine and stepped onto the darkened balcony with my aged pack of stale cigarettes.

Immediately, the hair on the back of my neck stood up.  I looked down the block toward the lamp post, but no dark figure stood watching me.  I thought I saw something on the rooftop across the street for a second, but there was nothing—obviously just nerves.  I pushed the feeling aside, and my thoughts inevitably drifted back to Marcella.

She had been kind, caring, and supportive— especially when I had needed it most.  She had an almost uncanny way of knowing just what to do and say.  I smiled to myself as I recalled her sliding into bed with me on Friday night, unasked, just knowing that I needed comfort.  I felt a touch of something giddy as I thought of tucking myself closer to her.

Damn it, I thought.  I fucking miss her already.

‘Tell me that you want this.’ Marcella’s words from Wednesday night echoed in my head.

God damn it, why are all of my relationships a fucked up mess?

As upset as I was, it didn’t take long for more sullen feelings to descend, making me feel isolated and tired. I went into the bedroom and stripped, crawling into bed. My hair still smelled like sweat, but I couldn’t muster the energy to care. “Fucking vampires,” I muttered to myself. It wasn’t long before I was fast asleep.

Later, my phone woke me.

Marcella: Please, Cait, I’m so sorry.

Marcella: Please answer me? Please tell me this isn’t over.

Marcella: Cait, I know I fucked up. Please answer.

There were several other messages like that, each seeming more desperate than the last.  I set my work phone down and noted a message waiting on my burner.

Celeste:  Come by today. I need to show you this. Anytime is good. I’m at home.

I got dressed and looked at my watch— 8:35 AM. There was plenty of time to get a cannoli and coffee.

Despite the long line at Modern being out the door, the man in front of me was a fucking dawdler.  His logo emblazoned jacket, spare tire, and mom jeans just shouted tourist.  He kept hemming and hawing about what kind of espresso drink to order.

I busted out a thick Southie accent.  “Ya’ gotta order, kid.  The line’s out the door, and we don’t have all day.”  There was scattered laughter from the line as we waited.

The man turned around, redfaced.  He looked to be an overprivileged, poorly dressed southern businessman who had too many guns, worshipped a military in which he’d never served, and only respected cops when they were being used as a bludgeon against people he didn’t like.

Given my shitty mood, I was spoiling for a fight, but he just grumbled and ordered a black Americano.  There were a few snickers and some hateful stares as he left.

I took no time ordering my usual cannoli and coffee.  Outside, I took a few bites, but it might as well have been made of ash for all I could taste it.

God, I’m depressed.

The last time I felt this awful had been when Morgan had left for Montana.  We had been staying at my mother’s, waiting on discharge paperwork, which Morgan got, and I did not. To this day, I still don’t understand why the Army chose to discharge her and have me re-assigned.  But who the fuck knew how they came to decisions?

I’d found Morgan at the front door, bags packed, waiting for a cab.  I had panicked and blocked the door.

“I thought we were getting an apartment together,” I’d said, voice shaking.  “What are you doing?”

“Cait, I want to, but I can’t.  I’m going back to Montana.  I need to sort out my head.”

When her cab had arrived, we had been only inches apart. I looked at her mouth, wanting so badly to kiss her goodbye, but all I did was hug her with my one functional arm. I never saw her again.

Weeks later, when she dropped the bomb on me that she was getting married, I had felt betrayed, like I’d been right on the edge of something incredible only to have the person I trusted most snatch it away.

This sucks.

I threw away the rest of my cannoli and dumped the coffee, unable to bring myself to eat with this rock in my gut.  I needed to get my mind off of Marcella, so I went home, picked up my gear, and headed to work early.

32

“Hey there,” Carlos greeted me as I sat down, making me jump.

“Umm—hey,” I said, looking at him askance.

Carlos looked hurt.  “Darlin’ don’t be like that.  I’m as safe as anyone here.”

I sighed heavily.  “Sorry, this is all new to me.  And I’m not sure which way is up right now.”

Carlos turned to face me fully.  “Everything alright?”

“I’m fine,” I said, fatigue creeping into my voice.  “You warned me, and I didn’t listen.”

“Uh oh, what happened?”  His beard had become a little unkempt in the last couple of days, and I suddenly felt guilty about my absence.

“Oh, I don’t know, Carlos.  We’ve just hit a rough spot.”

“Already?”  He sounded surprised.  “I thought you were in love, or, at least, heavy lust.”

“I was.  I am.  Shit, this sucks.”  I lowered my voice as I brushed my hair and pulled it back into a ponytail.  “She fed on me.”

“Well, that was bound to happen.  Did it freak you out?”

I rested my elbow on the desk, chin in my hand.  “The feeding?  No.  That’s not the issue.  I had this dream last Wednesday.  It was very—uh—.” I paused, blushing, unable to find a word other than erotic.  “Anyway, in the dream, Marcella came to me in the night and fed on me, and I let her.  But, it turns out, it wasn’t a dream.  She swears she didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want, but I know she made me forget whatever happened afterward because I just woke up in my bed.  I feel violated.  At least, I think I do.”

“Cait, you need to remember what she is,” he admonished in hushed tones.  “I told you she would be relentless in getting what she wanted.  I also told you not to get wrapped up with her—”

I bristled at his tone.  “I don’t need a lecture.  Besides, I’m not sure you’re one to talk.  I assume you knew what she was and didn’t tell me.”

Carlos scowled in annoyance.  “Cait, I couldn’t; it’s forbidden.  And, I won’t feel bad about that.  Now, what have you decided to do?”

“Nothing,” I said flatly.  “I haven’t decided anything.  I left her house this morning and haven’t talked to her since.”

“Ouch,” Carlos said.

“Well?  I didn’t know what else to do.  She lied to me.  When I first told her about my ‘dream,’ she asked me to tell her about it as if she hadn’t been there the whole time.”

“Look, I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but if I were you, I’d cut her the fuck loose.  They’re manipulative in the extreme.  She might seem nice enough, but even if she’s sweet as pie, that relationship works only if she turns you.  Do you honestly want to live forever?”

I thought about that.  It might be cool and exciting to see history unfold on a grand scale in front of your eyes, but then there would be duplicity, fighting not to be discovered, and of course, the eating habits.  Most importantly, how serious can you consider any relationship when you know the other person will wither and die as you stay young.  “No, I guess I don’t.”

The whole experience sounded dehumanizing.  It made me think about how lonely Marcella must be.  And here I thought I couldn’t feel any more miserable.  But the way she’d pursued me, manipulated me, and brought me into her orbit had been, as Carlos had said, relentless and almost effortless.  It was both flattering and terrifying.  So terrifying, though, that it made me worry that she might dispense with all pretense and turn me into her little pet like Blackman had done Gabe.  Did I honestly believe that?

She seemed so sincere.  Of course, that was part of the problem.  I’d seen people guilty of some of the most cold-blooded murders deliver Academy Award-winning denials.  Working Homicide could give one serious trust issues.  I pushed those thoughts aside.

Carlos stood.  “I need some coffee; want some?”

“No, I’m good,” I replied and went to talk to Vic.

Vic looked at me in undisguised amusement.  “Well, hello there.”

“Okay, go ahead, Vic, get it out, now.” I gave him a playful ‘bring it on’ gesture.

“So, Marcella Carson, huh?” He raised a suggestive eyebrow.  “I mean, if you’re gonna bat for the other team, you could do way fuckin’ worse.”

I laughed half-heartedly.  “Very sensitive, Victor.  The other team?  Really?”

“Well, I didn’t realize you were what?  Bi?  Gay?  I mean, I know Gabe wasn’t the love of your life, but I thought—”  Vic grimaced, realizing how he sounded.

“Where are we with the case?” I asked, switching subjects.

Vic pushed an armload of files toward me.  “Carlos and I found two cases, going back about two weeks.  They seem to match our killer’s weird as fuck signature.  There’s a case in Lowell.  Lowell CID is working on that one.  The lead on that case is Detective Cahill—”

I interrupted.  “Lynn Cahill?  I know her; she’s a bit of a hard-ass with a good sense of humor.  I also know she gets along with her team but would like to strangle the men from time to time.”

“That’s her,” Vic continued.  “The details are in the file.  The other case is in Quincy, a headless body, but I’m not sure about that one.  It looked drug-related.”

“We also found some other strange cases going back about eight weeks though that you should look at.  I have no idea what to make of them.”

“What are they?  Do they seem related?”

“I’m not sure, but my gut says something is going on here that we’re missing.  You remember that woman who washed up on Revere Beach about two months back?”

“Vaguely, it was all over the news.  As I recall, she washed up right in front of Antonia’s Restaurant.  I thought she drowned.”  State Police had the case along with the Coast Guard.  I couldn’t remember the victim’s name.

“Nope.  The official cause of death was exsanguination.” That got my attention.  He opened one of the folders to a stack of photos and reports.  “Throat was torn open.  She bled out before she ever hit the water.”  My pulse sped up, and my breath came a little quicker.

Victor continued grimly.  “It gets worse; there are three others just like it, one in Salem, one in Chatham, and one in Falmouth.  What the hell is going on here, Cait?”

“I wish I knew.”  I felt the lie on my lips, but there was some truth.  I certainly had no idea who was feeding on people.  It wasn’t Marcella; she was way too careful.  “Why didn’t state police flag those as possible serial killer crimes?”

“No clue,” Vic said.  “Bad day in the analysis group?  Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Well—,” I started and then stopped when I realized I was about to say I’d ask Marcella.  Where the fuck is my head?  Then I had a thought.

I walked back to Carlos’ desk and leaned in close.  “I think I need a smoke; why don’t you join me?”

“Don’t smoke, darlin’,” he responded without looking up.

I put a hand on his arm.  “It looks like you’re taking it up today.”

He got the message.

We took a walk down Ruggles Street toward the Northeastern University campus.  I waited until we were well away from the building before I spoke.

“Okay, so, what’s Blackman’s endgame here?” I asked.

“I’ve been asking myself that all week.” Carlos took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair.  “It doesn’t make a lick of sense.  I’d really like this case to go away, unsolved, and soon.  But Blackman won’t stop dropping bodies left and right.  I can tell you every werewolf in Boston is looking for him.”

“That’s my point.  Whatever he’s up to, he must believe it’s huge and going to change everything.  He’s acting like he has nothing to lose.  He commits a series of gruesome and messy killings and then tries to steal some tablets from Marcella.  If what Marcella has said is true, then piercing the veil of secrecy around the existence of preternatural creatures comes with the ultimate price, and he doesn’t seem to care.”

“That rule is sacrosanct,” Carlos confirmed. “I’ve only been a werewolf for a short time, but I’ve already seen it enforced once.  One of our number here in Boston was seen changing.  It was an accident, but it didn’t matter.  They don’t fuck around, Cait.”

I was shocked.  “They killed him?”

Carlos’ tone was deadly serious.  “Both of them.  Like I said, The Vestry don’t fuck around.”

“God!”  I was appalled that they’d kill a human for witnessing it.  Even if they told someone, who’d believe them.  “What’s ‘The Vestry?’”

“Werewolf council of sorts, far more strict than the vampires.  Being a werewolf comes with a certain level of control problems from time to time.  Without The Vestry and the group leaders, we’d have been outed and, probably, exterminated long ago.”

“Wait,” I said, suddenly not liking where this was going.  “Am I in danger?”

“Right now?  No.  You’re under Marcella’s protection.”

“And how is that?  How does your council even know about Marcella and me?  Did you tell them?”  I snapped.

Carlos stopped and took me gently by the arm.  “I didn’t have to.  Marcella marked you as Imperium Persona almost the day she met you.  It shocked the hell out of me.  The Vestry is already asking me about you.”

“I’m not a fucking controlled person.”

“Imperium Persona doesn’t mean that—at least not anymore.  It means that you are ‘in the know’ and Marcella has taken responsibility if you fuck up.  If you spill the beans or expose us, it’s open season on both of you.  And, Cait, she can’t take it back—ever.  I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you shouldn’t blame her for that.  The minute they saw you in the park together having lunch, you were on the Vestry’s radar.”

I was incredulous.  “Wait, someone was spying on us?”

“On Marcella?  Of course.  The Vestry is always watching them.  If Marcella hadn’t put you under her protection, you’d likely be dead, and I’d probably have been given the order.”

Damn, I was in way over my head.  “Would you have carried it out?”

“Cait, I have a husband, and the Vestry has people everywhere.  Let’s say I would have hoped there was a way to avoid it.  But, if it’s between you and Marcus—” He didn’t have to finish the sentence.

“Okay, so there’s the Vampire Council and the Werewolf Vestry.  Any other groups I should know about?”

“None that I know of.” He turned us back, walking quickly toward HQ.

“I can’t believe my ass is hitched to Marcella’s,” I griped as I huffed to keep pace with the tall man.  “Can you slow down, please?  My legs aren’t as long as yours.”

Carlos slowed down and then stopped.  He took one of my shoulders gently and spoke.  “Cait, can I be honest?”

“I prefer it.”

“Fine,” he said, and his eyes grew hard.  “It’s time for you to grow up.”

“Hey—,” I protested, but he cut me off.

“No, you need to listen to me this time.  Larson says you have the makings of a great detective, and I agree.  But you need to get your shit in order.  You need to go back to therapy and get your head sorted about Iraq and whatever else is rattling around up there.  On the surface, you’re this hard-as-nails bitch, but underneath, you’re a frightened little girl.  And, you’re off the map, with us, darlin’.  You’re gonna need your wits about you.

“I know you didn’t ask for this, but here you are, so buck the fuck up and get to work.  Pull your personal life out of the shitter.  That’s what made you easy pickins for Marcella.  And, for God’s sake, don’t go back to her; she is bad news.  But, you’ll need to make nice with her because she’s all that’s between you and the noose, and I can’t protect you.  Werewolves don’t get to declare Imperium Persona; there are too many of us to manage that.”

I hadn’t expected him to dress me down, and it shook me to my core.  I wanted to say something, anything, but I couldn’t find my voice.  He didn’t wait for me to come to my senses either. He pulled me into a quick hug and then walked away down the sidewalk back toward Schroeder, leaving me standing there, wondering what the fuck just happened.

33

The walk back to HQ felt more like Shackleton’s march than a quick jaunt outside.  The wind blew miserably cold and pushed through my zipper, adding to my soul-crushing depression.

Back at my desk later, I started going over the mountain of information Vic had so thoughtfully provided.

First on my list was the case from Lowell.  The victim, a ‘Jane Doe,’ was found in a beat-to-shit, abandoned building off Morrissette Boulevard.  There wasn’t much left of her.  She’d been burned alive, which was— horrible.  Her heart was missing, too.  That wasn’t the strange part, though.  According to the scene report, portions of a giant reptile were mixed in the remains.  Unfortunately, there was significant cross-contamination in the DNA samples, and no identification was forthcoming.  There were no witnesses, no leads, and no video.

I marked that file with a post-it labeled ‘possibly related’ and continued.  The case in Quincy involved the decapitation of a known heroin and oxy dealer.  The beheading had been postmortem, and the heart was intact.  Head was never found, though.  Again, there were no witnesses, leads, or video.  I set that one aside as probably drug-related.

Finally, I looked at all three of the exsanguination cases.  All three looked like vampire bites, at least as I understood them— the carotid artery was torn open.  Someone was snacking on our turf.  I couldn’t say it was Blackman, but unless it was Marcella.  I stopped my train of thought.  No, no way. Marcella wouldn’t leave this kind of a mess.  She was just too meticulous.  You don’t hide as a vampire in Boston for over fifty years by being sloppy.

I sat back.  I could still see Marcella’s face in the window, pleading.  I shoved the thought violently out of my head before the waterworks started again.  I had things to do.

My burner phone buzzed, and I looked at it.

Celeste:  You coming by or not?

Shit, I’d forgotten about her.

Me:  Yes, I’m at the office finishing up some things.  Be by around 5:30.  Is that okay?

Celeste:  Sure, see you then, hot stuff.

I rolled my eyes.  Celeste was a near-constant flirt.  I put away my phone and rounded up the team.  I found Carlos in the breakroom making coffee with David and Carol.  Vic had already left for the day.

“So, how are things with your blond goddess, hmm?” Mills inquired, waggling his eyebrows as I entered.

“Don’t ask,” I snapped a little more harshly than intended.  Mills moved back as if I’d bitten him.

“Geez, Reagan, what’s got your twat in a twist?” he asked, hoisting his coffee cup to his lips.

I sighed.  “David, I’m sorry; it’s been a tough two days.  I’ll be fine, I’m sure.  Anyway, can we get together in the conference room?  I need to play catch up.”

“Sure, I’ll gather everyone up.”

The team moved to the conference room, where we huddled.

I gestured for Mills to start.  “Alright, David, what’d you find out.”

David began reading from his notes.  “Well, Haimon Blackman was born in New York and was an avid environmentalist. Tokyo police arrested him at twenty-one for participating in an anti-whaling operation in the antarctic, boarding a Japanese factory whaling ship to bring attention to the practice.”

I whistled.  “That’s a pretty bold move, given that the Japanese government subsidizes the whaling industry.”

David continued.  “Well, he spent nine months in prison.  After prison, somehow, he managed to stay in Japan and make his way into Waseda Business School to earn an MBA. Usually, a school like Waseda wouldn’t take someone who’d so embarrassed the country.  Blackman has connections.”

“What kind of connections?”  Carol asked, one eyebrow raised.

“I’ll get to that.  After leaving Waseda, Blackman joined Kineda Pharmaceuticals in their sales department and worked his way to VP. He became a mentor to a young American salesman helping gain a foothold in New England, Gabriel Parkman.  Sorry, Cait.”

I just nodded for him to continue.

“Haimon Blackman was a rising star at Kineda. His family, however, was another matter.  Blackman’s father is connected with the Yakuza presence in New York.  He has an extensive rap sheet: prostitution, illegal gambling, drugs; you name it.”

Well, I thought, that explained the two men I’d fought at Marcella’s on Monday morning.

“So, maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way,” I blurted after Mills had finished laying out Blackman’s background.

“What do you mean?” David asked with a shit-eating grin I couldn’t understand.  He looked like he was about to bust out laughing.  The others were also suppressing snorts of amusement.

I stopped and tilted my head.  “The fuck, guys?” I asked, scanning the group.

David gestured at my coffee mug in amusement.  I looked down.  Somehow, the little shit had replaced my plain white mug with one that said, ‘I like Big Busts, and I cannot lie.’ It sported a graphic of a patrol officer’s hat sitting on two enormous breasts.

My face blushed about fifty shades of red before settling on just the north side of the garnet.  The levity of the joke infected me, and I was reduced to hysterics, laughing uncontrollably.  “Nicely done,” I said through heartfelt glee.

“Damn, David!  I think you broke her,” Carol said, watching me.  That just made me laugh more.

After a few long minutes of much-needed fun, I pulled myself together—mostly.  “Okay, the joke’s over,” I said as firmly as I could muster.  “Let’s get back to it.  And David?”

“Yes?”

I shot Mills the finger.  “Fuck you; you know that?” Mills beamed and sat back down.

“Okay, what about Kineda.  What do we know about them?” I asked.

Carlos took over from Mills.  “They have a line of vaccines for various illnesses, mostly from mergers and acquisitions.  The FDA just approved their research for a new series of cancer drugs.”

Something suddenly occurred to me, and I turned to Carlos.  “So, again, do you think we might be looking at this wrong?”

Carlos tilted his head.  “What do you mean?”

“Okay, so we’ve been treating this case like it’s just some guy on a killing rampage—that he’s delusional.  What if we look at it differently?  What if he’s targeting these people for some mundane reason.”

Carlos shot me a warning glare, but I ignored it.  “This might be something far more simple than it seems.  Let’s set aside the crazy methods of homicide and see if the victims have anything in common.”

“We already did that?” Mills groused.  “We came up with bubkis.”

I plowed on.  “What about health issues?  Blackman works for big pharma.  Jessvin Caldwell was spending a lot of time at the Margaret Chastity Cancer Center in Buffalo.  Marcella said it was for charity work, but what if he was the charity.”

Mills looked at the Rodriguez case notes.  “Acacia Rodriguez was treated at the Margaret Chastity Center for Cancer Research for inoperable glioblastoma.  When she left, she was in full remission.  My uncle died of a glioblastoma just last year.  As far as I know, there’s never been a good way to treat that.”

Carlos studied me intently across the table, but he seemed more interested than alarmed.  “So you think it’s just someone using an unapproved treatment, and now they’re cleaning up?”

“Maybe, but it seems so sloppy.  On the other hand, the weird methods of killing might be to throw us off.  Regardless, I think we could have a real break here.  Mills, can you and Carol see if you can get the information from the Cancer Center on Rodriguez’s treatments?  Also, check to see if Caldwell was being treated there too.  If it turns out they’ve been on any drugs from Kineda, let’s find out who else is on the list.”

Mills and Carol filed out of the room.  I stayed put and waited for Carlos to speak up.

“Cait, we’re treading a dangerous line here,” he warned, voice low.

“I know, but the case isn’t going to go away magically, and we can’t just ignore it.  As you said, bodies are piling up.  We can’t bring Blackman in alive, but we need to find out where he’s likely to strike next.  Also, I have a friend who thinks she has information for us.  I’d like you to go with me tonight.”

“I can’t,” Carlos said, grimacing.  “It’s my anniversary with Marcus.  What about Carol or David, if you need backup.”

“No, it’s not that.  I would have wanted you there in case something developed.  But, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Okay, so call me if anything happens.  I promised Marcus I would leave at ten sharp unless another body turned up.”

I sighed.  “Can I ask you to keep your cell handy?”

Carlos nodded as we returned to our desks.  I needed to prep for next week’s court date in the Washington murder.

About a half-hour later, a man’s voice disturbed my review of the Washington case notes.  “Detective Reagan.”

I found Agent Matt Reynolds of the FBI looking down at me; lips pressed thin.  I smiled broadly.  “Agent Reynolds, how are you?  Is this a social call, or do I need a lawyer?”

Reynolds was a relatively handsome older man in his early forties with salt and pepper hair, a mild gut, and a military bearing.  During my patrol days, the department had assigned me to the tactical team supporting an FBI sting operation to break up a child pornography ring.  The case had sucked, but Reynolds and I had become fast friends.

“This is a business call, Reagan.  We just want to chat for a minute.”  Despite his friendly manner, his expression looked tight.

“Interview room?”  I asked, eyebrow raised.

Carlos looked over.  “You want me to call a union rep?”  Carlos’ expression made it clear he wasn’t a fan of the feds.

I stood.  “No, I’ll be fine,”  While it was against my usual rule of not taking an interview without a lawyer, I felt I’d get more from them without representation.  If it went somewhere I didn’t like, I could end it.

In the interview room, another man joined us.  “This is Special Agent Reese,”  Reynolds said, gesturing to the short, stocky fellow.

I stared at them for a moment before I spoke.  “What can I do for you?”

“How well do you know Marcella Carson?”  Reynolds placed a rather thick file on the table.

“If you’re asking that, Matt, you know.  So, why don’t you just cut to the chase? What’s this about?”

“I can’t get into that.  How long have you two been— together?”

I laughed at the euphemism.  “We’re dating, Matt.  And I’ve only known her for about a week.”

“Okay, so we have some concerns that have been brought to our attention, and we need your help.”  Matt was a money guy, so I knew already that these ‘concerns’ were related to either money laundering or embezzlement.

I interrupted him.  “Matt, look.  I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary.  The woman has a nice house and drives a decent car.  We looked into Carson Logistics and Marcella, too.  She pays her taxes, and everything looks above board.  So what is going on?”

“That’s just it; we’re not sure.  I need your commitment to keeping this confidential.”

“From Marcella, you mean. Fine.”  It felt uncomfortable, but I wanted to see what Matt was on about.

“Eight weeks ago, we were contacted by Jessvin Caldwell about irregularities in the accounting.”  The mention of Jesse made my stomach do flip-flops, but I held my expression in check.

“It’s not so much money that’s missing; it’s inventory bound for charities in Boston.  The materials never made it.

“We’re not talking about a few pairs of jeans, either, Cait.  Sixty tons of canned goods, for example, just in the last two months.  Forty large-scale saltwater filtration units worth over a half-million dollars disappeared less than a year ago.  Cait, thirty million dollars worth of inventory has gone missing, and no one at Carson seems to know where it went.  All of them were orders for pet charity projects run by Ms. Carson.”

Reynolds opened the file and showed me a list of purchase orders approved by Marcella.  Then he showed me a field report.  According to a dozen field agents, all the charities received only a tiny percentage of what was ordered by Carson Logistics.

What the actual fuck?

“Okay, so this proves she signed for the orders and someone, possibly her, purloined a sizable chunk.  But according to these invoices, the goods were paid for by Carson Logistics, not the charities themselves.  So, it’s not actually theft, is it?  I mean, Reynolds, it’s her company.  She can kind of do whatever she wants with it.  What proof do you have that she’s doing anything with the goods?  Are there bank statements, large deposits, foreign accounts, what?”

“Right now, there’s nothing.  If she’s selling the stuff, it’s not obvious where she’s putting the money.  We’ve traced every account, subsidiary, and holding company she owns, has stock in, or walks by. And this is where we need your help. Don’t you think it’s odd that Jessvin Caldwell talks to us about accounting irregularities, provides us with all this material, then he’s murdered?”

Hell yeah, I thought it was fucking odd.  But, something didn’t add up, literally.  “It’s hard to prove embezzlement without a money trail.  Right now, all you’ve got is an inattentive CEO of a private company who signed off on some questionable invoices.  And, I’m certainly not going to help you nail my girlfriend.”

“Come on, Cait.  Don’t be naive.  Marcella Carson is dirty, and we’re going to put her in cuffs.  Best case, we nail her for tax fraud and embezzlement.  Do you honestly want to be swimming in those waters?  They get pretty deep.”

Oh, you have no idea, I thought.

“Look, Matt, I get it.  You’ve got a case to investigate, and so do I.  You forget I know this game.  You don’t have enough for a solid indictment, so you’re trying to use my career as leverage for me to dig up dirt on her.  But, Matt, let me ask you this.  What would you do if I came to you with something this thin on Peggy?”

Reynolds frowned, twirling his pencil.  “But, you said you’d only known her for a week.  And besides—”

“Let me stop you right there.” My expression turned hard, and I scowled at Reynolds.  “I don’t know what you were about to say, but let me save you some trouble.  This discussion is over unless you want to detain me.   In which case, I’ll call Marcella and have one of her flesh-eating attorneys crawl up your ass.”

I got up and stalked out of the interview room.  Fucking assholes.

“So, what was that all about?”  Carlos asked as I packed my stuff.

“Fuck if I know.  The feds are looking into Marcella.  I have something I need to do.”

Carlos squinted at me suspiciously.  “Where are you going, Cait?”

“To find this bastard and end this fucking case,” I said harshly and walked out.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Reagan,”  Carlos called after me.  I ignored him.

34

The traffic between Schroeder and Celeste’s place was thick, and it took a good hour to get there.  I was glad of the delay, though.  It gave me time to think about my encounter with Reynolds and Reese.

The FBI thought Marcella was embezzling from her own company.  One requirement in such a case was that the money or resources had to be used for non-business purposes.  From what I knew of financial laws, her most significant risk was tax-related, but I wasn’t an expert.  Carson was big enough to have a few skeletons buried, but the feds had to have something solid to go as far as they had.  Hassling me was a risk unless they had more of a case than I realized.  I rubbed my face and paid attention to the road.

Celeste lived on the first floor of a two-story home in Brighton.  Outside on the sidewalk, someone had free-cycled an easy chair.  I considered it for a moment, trying to decide if it would sit well in my apartment, but decided against it.  Go to the easy chair, and before you know it, you’re in a walker. I wasn’t that old yet.

“Is that a real gun?” the speaker was a young heavy-set white boy with brown hair.  Beside him stood a thin African-American girl with tight braids.  They were both maybe eight years old.

“Of course, it is, dummy,” the girl said caustically.  “She’s a cop.”

I smirked.  Kids were the same all over.

“Huh-uh, she’s a girl, and girls aren’t cops,” the boy said.

“What cave did you crawl out of, Noah,” she snapped back at the boy. “Just because your dad’s a pig doesn’t mean you have to be one.”

I bit my lip to stifle my laughter. Maybe kids weren’t the same all over. Noah had better quit while he was behind.

“Yes, I’m a cop,” I said, pulling back my jacket to show the badge clipped to my belt.  “And yes, it’s a real gun.  And, no, you may not touch it or hold it; you shouldn’t even look at it.”  The boy pouted, but I ignored him, continuing to Celeste’s door.

Celeste opened the door as I knocked,  a large bag of lime-flavored tortilla chips in hand.

“I heard you and the crotch-goblins talking,” she said with a smirk, inviting me in.

“Hey, ease up on the kids.  You were one yourself once.  I remember arresting your crass ass at the ripe old age of sixteen.”

Celeste Laughed.  “True.  And I will be forever grateful for your help with the apartment and the job, not to mention getting me off with the DA.”

“And your first-semester tuition, and telling your parents to stuff it over your transition,” I finished.

Celeste turned a little defensive.  “Hey, I did well with it.  Who’d have thought that stupid sixteen-year-old would turn into this stunningly beautiful MIT grad student in just three years?”

“I did, and I’m damn proud to have been a small part of that.”

I gave her a quick hug and realized she’d had her top surgery.  “Hey, new boobs, how do you like them?”

“Oh, yeah.”  She hefted her breasts.  “Still doesn’t feel like me yet.  The doc said it would take a few months before it felt natural.  I sleep on my side, but I’m afraid they’ll settle funny or something.”

I laughed.  “I’m sure they’ll be just as uneven as mine.  How have you been otherwise?”

“I’m doing well. Jim and I didn’t work out. He took a job with some douche-bag online magazine in California.  That’s why Erin and I went to the beach.”

I didn’t know Jim or Erin.  Celeste had a touch of ADHD, so she tended to babble a bit.  I found it endearing if challenging to follow.

“Want a chip?” She held out the bag, so I took one.

“Sorry to hear about you and, uh, Jim.” I didn’t want to have a half-hour conversation about Celeste’s love life, and I didn’t need the salacious details, which she would be happy to provide.

“Yeah, no loss there. Hey, what’s with the biker dyke look? I like it,” she grinned and waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“Huh?” I looked down.  I looked like a butch in my jeans, leather jacket, boots, and, shit, no bra.  I flushed with mortification as I realized I’d gone into the station like this.

“Wait.”  Celeste’s expression turned suspicious and inquisitive. “Did you?  Oh my god, you did! Didn’t you?”

My whole body was a deep shade of red, but I played dumb.  “What are you talking about?”

She gasped dramatically.  “You’re fucking a woman!”  She about jumped off the couch with glee, clapping her hands.  “About time!”

I closed my eyes as my face burned.  Celeste had this unnerving sixth sense about my personal life that drove me nuts.  When Gabe and I first started dating, Celeste had told me about a dream she had that I went to work in pharmaceutical sales before I’d mentioned it.  It was fucking creepy.

“What does my outfit have to do with my eating habits?” I deflected with a bit of humor.  “Honestly, Celeste.”  I laughed nervously and couldn’t meet her eyes.

“You’re kidding, right? Just look at you? No slacks, blouse, no blazer.  And,”  she wiggled her eyebrows, “no bra.  Jesus, Cait. Welcome to the family, honey. Please tell me you’re not exclusive.” She gave me a mischievous look. “But, are you like a lesbian or bi or what?” She was an excited puppy with a new toy.

I decided I wouldn’t get anywhere until I answered her questions. “Okay, so I met this woman, Marcella Carson.”

“Oh. My. God. The Marcella Carson? I saw her at a charity event last year.  She is un-fucking-believably gorgeous. They call her the ‘vampire lady’ on the street, did you know that? Go Cait! Banging the smokin’ hot vampire lady. Nice.” She gave me a thumbs up.

“Okay, you want to hear the story or not?” I asked in annoyance and total embarrassment.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” she said, leaning forward. “Oh, wait. Are you working today? You are, aren’t you?”

I sighed heavily at the interruption. “Yes.”

“Wait, hang on; one sip won’t hurt you.” She darted out of the room into her kitchen and came back in with a mini-bottle of champaign, which she immediately uncorked with a pop. “First swig in celebration of your coming out!”

I took a very short draw on the bottle and coughed as the bubbles tickled my nose.  While drinking on duty was a definite no-no, there were worse offenders on the force.  The bottle started to fizz over, so I shoved it back into Celeste’s hands. She simply guzzled down the rest.

“Wooh!” She set down the empty bottle, eyes watering. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop. How did you two meet? Wait, was it that Caldwell guy that was all over the news? And what’s with that new Detective? He is so hot.”

“Stop. Focus. Carlos is gay and married, and I can’t discuss any open cases, you know that.  But she sort of swept me off my feet.  We spent Saturday on the cape.”

“Wow, that is so exciting and romantic.  Oh, that reminds me, I want to show you something. Come over here.” Celeste got up and made little prancing steps of excitement over to her desk.  I followed; I did not prance.

“Okay,” she said. “So, check this out.”  Celeste pulled up a map of Boston. Tiny blue and orange dots were wheeling around the city.

“Each of these dots is a cell phone.  If it’s not secured well, any smartphone will send out beacons looking for WiFi access points it recognizes.   For example, yours is always looking for ‘Jabbas Palace.’”

“Yeah, that’s the name you used when setting up my home WiFi.”

“Exactly.  They do this all day, every day. So, we have this set of sensors we’ve placed all over the city, right? Follow me so far?”

I scowled at her in irritation.  “Yes, I know a little bit about how my phone works.”

“Okay, so when our sensors receive these beacons, they log everything about them and feed them to an AI algorithm.  That means artificial intelligence, by the way.”

“I know what AI is,” I said wryly.  “I don’t live under a rock.”

“Okay, right. Now, newer phones try to hide their identity when they beacon, making it harder to identify them, but the phones beacon the same WiFi network names repeatedly.  After a while, the AI teases out which phone is which.  Does that make sense?”

“Okay, I think I get it.  Each phone tries to call its home.  Your program records these— beacons?”

She nodded.

“Then your HAL-9000 munches on that data and links the beacons to the phones.  That allows you to track where a phone goes.”

“Right, now we don’t typically know who the phone belongs to, but—.”  Celeste trailed off, waiting to see if I was following.

“But you can track each phone when it enters your coverage areas.”

“Exactly, you got it.  See, you’re not nearly as tech stupid as you claim.”

“Har, har, Celeste.  My brain is on fire right now, trying to keep up.  Anyway, what does this have to do with my case?”

“Cait, I checked our sensor data, and you need to see this.” She turned to the screen.

She centered Charlestown on the little map, and I could see tiny dots lighting up in various colors.  She clicked a button on the screen marked ‘save filters’ and then selected some esoteric numbers from the list.

All of the other dots vanished, leaving only one in bright orange. That dot hovered around the monument for a bit, finally moving down the street and disappearing. A timestamp in the corner of the screen showed Wednesday’s date at 01:04.  She fast-forwarded the animation, and several blue dots appeared in Charlestown. Then they went away too.”

“What—” I started to say, getting excited, but Celeste shushed me.

“Just watch.”

The map zoomed in on the corner of Humboldt and Seaver. Again, the orange dot appeared down at one end of Humboldt, and then it moved up to the house where the murders had occurred. It disappeared a few seconds later.  The timestamp was about the time of the murders there, as well.  Once again, later, another half dozen or so dots, all in blue, showed up at the scene.  This time a dot of green appeared.

“Wait, those dots are phones? And, the orange dot was at both scenes?” I asked.

“Uh-huh, and this guy has a shitty phone,” Celeste said, beaming with pride.  “By the way, the green dot is your burner.”

“And you can track these where?”

“Almost the entire city,” Celeste replied with a bright smile.

“Why does it disappear then?” I asked.

“Well, either he’s turning off the phone or moving into a space with no coverage.”

“But you said you have coverage all over the city, right?”

“Yup.”

“So, he must be turning off his phone.”

“That’s possible, but why would he turn it on just as he’s about to commit a crime. That makes no sense. There is another possibility, though. As I said, we have sensors all over the city.”

“Holy shit. He could be going underground! That’s why there’s no footage, and the fugitive squad can’t find him. He uses the sewers or old tunnels. Celeste, you are a fucking genius.” I scooped her out of the chair and gave her a bear hug. “I could kiss you.”

“Okay, okay! Shit, Cait. Work out much? Jeez!” Celeste groaned, holding her ribs as I released her.

I was positively ecstatic. “Is any of this legal?”

“It’s one hundred percent legal. There’s already court precedent.”

“Fucking A.”  I grinned in triumph and gestured to the screen.  “If that orange dot appears again, call me.  This is just the break I need to nail this bastard.”

“Who is it?” Celeste asked.

“I can’t tell you that, you know that.  I need you to do something else for me.”

“Sure.”

“God, Celeste, you are such a lech.  No, neither of them involves you taking off your clothes.  When you see that phone again, after you call me, I need you to call my lead, Carlos Ramirez.”  I handed her my card with Carlos’ number scribbled on it.

“Of course.  Anything else?”

“Nope, but if you ever need anything, you know where to find me.  And, thank you.”

“Of course, Cait.  Anything for you, hotness.”  She winked flirtatiously.

35

A few hours later, I sat parked at the Humboldt crime scene.  Celeste had called, letting me know she’d picked up the perp’s phone again.

It was eerily quiet, and the battered house was completely dark. A gloom had settled over the building, giving it a creepy, haunted vibe. Drawing my service weapon, I chambered a round and returned it to my shoulder holster.  My phone buzzed.  It was Celeste.

"Reagan, Homicide.”

"I see your phone; the bad guy just disappeared into the house a second ago.  I couldn't get Carlos on the phone. I'll keep trying."

I looked around to make sure he wasn't creeping up on me.  “He’s going to get away; I can’t wait for Carlos.  Okay, if you don't hear from me in an hour, call 9-1-1 and give them my badge number. It's on my card.  Text me if his phone re-appears."

"Cait, please be careful." Celeste hung up.

The exterior looked even more dilapidated and hateful than the night of the murders.  Now, the windows were all boarded up, giving the impression of sleeping menace.   There was already a notice of non-occupancy on the door.  I stepped inside—the entire building stank of stale decay and death.

Candy’s place was empty; she’d moved out in a hurry.  Old newspapers and a few ragged boxes littered the floor.

The other apartment doors were locked tight, so I stepped into the Rodriguez’s place.  I drew out my small hand flashlight, which barely seemed to penetrate the dark, casting a dim spot against the wall.  The living room reeked, and I passed through it quickly.

After what I’d learned at Celeste’s, I suspected there was a tunnel in the cellar that we’d missed, probably a remnant of the underground railroad or prohibition.  As if on queue, I heard the sound of a metal grating on concrete from the cellar below.

By the back door, I found the cellar entrance.  It was still painted shut, so I quickly cut at the paint around the edges of the frame with my folding knife.

I gave the door a gentle shove; it moved slightly.  I pushed harder, and it creaked as it opened louder than a busted chainsaw.

Fuck! I thought.

The boards whined under my weight with each step until I finally gave up all pretense of stealth.  Heart hammering in my chest, I moved down the stairs quickly, clearing as much of the basement as I could in a single sweep as I rounded the final turn.  There was a faint woody smell to the basement coupled with something earthy, almost like incense.

My chest heaved, and the breath through my nose seemed to rasp impossibly loud.  I clamped down hard on a rising feeling of panic. I'd cleared pitch-black tunnels in Iraq where I knew people were waiting to kill me.  The thought of Blackman being down here, though, scared the fuck out of me.  Some combat-hardened bitch I am, I thought. Scared of a fucking basement.

The boxes were still here, and they blocked my view to most of the cellar— not ideal, too many places to hide.  My pitiful flashlight left vast shadows that seemed to move and shift as I did.

On my left, just past the bulkhead entrance, I heard a brief rustle of something and a skitter.  I turned my flashlight toward it— just a few boxes, in front of them, a child's shoe.  Whatever it was, it sounded too small to be a person.  Dear God, Marcella, I really hope you were fucking with me about turning into a bat.

To the left of the boxes were the rusty water heater and a dilapidated oil-burning furnace I hadn't paid much attention to last time I was down here.  The furnace looked like it hadn't worked in years.  The piping for the oil tank was rusted through.  Through the break, I could see black tar-like bits of oil.  I wondered if the tank had any oil in it.  I tucked the fire possibility into the back of my mind.

I took a deep breath and a moment to steady myself. It's just a fucking cellar, Cait.  I turned to my right and could see straight to the cabinet and the desk.  I pied the corner of the boxes stacked in the center.  The entire basement seemed empty.  I pressed forward to the other end of the stack and found nothing.  No one was here.  I holstered my weapon and covered my flashlight with my hand to concentrate on my hearing.

An almost inaudible whistle reached my ears from my right.  I uncovered my flashlight and pointed it toward the sound— the cabinet.  I walked forward and started feeling around the edges.  Another skitter sounded above to my left.  I jerked my light in that direction— still nothing.

My pulse was now hammering in my neck, and I could hear my own raspy breath.  I tried to calm down and felt around the edges of the cabinet once more.

A burst of warm, moist air flowed up the wall from behind it, smelling of earth and decay.  I pointed my flashlight down at the base, illuminating scratch marks on the concrete floor.

Examining the feet, I found it was on old rusted casters.  I heaved on its side, and it slid gradually and very loudly out.  I found a rusted plate propped against the wall behind it that didn't sit quite flush with the floor.

I placed my hand next to the narrow opening at the bottom of the plate, feeling as if something might jump out and grab me.  But, with some effort, I pushed the steel plate and moved it enough to see inside.

It was a small tunnel, big enough to low crawl through.  The tunnel burrowed straight into solid rock and seemed to go on for some distance.  I pushed harder on the steel plate, and with several complaining groans, it finally moved aside enough for me to fit inside. I'd dealt with places like this before, more often than I cared to because I was smaller than most men and fit in places they usually didn't.  It made me the tunnel rat of my patrol group from time to time.

I looked at my watch.  It had been twenty minutes and still no Carlos.  I waited another couple of minutes, but impatience got the better of me, and I did something I was pretty sure was supremely idiotic.  I crawled into the tunnel.

Inside, it was claustrophobic and positively sweltering by comparison with the chilly cellar.  The tunnel floor was dirty and poorly worn, making the going slow.  I counted each pull of my arms from when I entered to track how far I'd gone.  After a few feet, the tunnel sloped sharply downward.  My arms started to hurt from the effort of low crawling, but I ignored them and kept my flashlight pointing forward as much as possible.  Fuck, it's dark in here.

I was starting to sweat now.  “409. . .410. . .411. . .”  My breathing became labored, and I'd been in here for about ten minutes; mental math told me I'd traveled about 275 feet.

A few feet further, the tunnel opened up onto a wide ledge with about four feet of clearance.  I peered over the edge into a yawning circular pit of inky blackness.  I couldn’t see the other side.  Old ropes dangled from hooks and pitons embedded in the cave wall, indicating a bridge here at some point.  Slowly, stiffly, I started to rise to my haunches but stopped when I thought I heard something.

I waited.  The seconds seemed to tick by interminably slowly.  Nothing.  I finished getting to one knee, and I heard it again, clearer this time.  It was like a slow skittering of a thousand legs.  It was coming from the depths of the pit.  I drew my weapon and released the safety, pointing my flashlight below, but it was too dark, and whatever I heard seemed too far away.   The skittering continued conjuring a rising panic in my gut.

My mind began to race with insane possibilities, a million tiny spiders, a giant millipede, the creature from ‘Alien.’  I took a deep, ragged breath to calm myself, and then I saw something move at the edge of the light, a spot of gray.  Whatever it was circled up the walls of the pit, rising slowly.  I had a sense of something large and ponderous making its way toward me.

"Fuck me," I whispered.

I dove back into the tunnel, crawling painfully and slowly on my elbows.  Periodically I stopped and faced the flashlight backward to see if I could glimpse it.  The skittering was now inside the tunnel behind me; I was sure of it.  In addition, I heard an inhuman screech which gave me quite the incentive to pick up the pace.  The sound was almost indescribable, metallic and grating.  I heard a huffing sound now, too, just under the echo of a thousand tiny fingernails scratching against the walls.  I still couldn't see anything, but it was coming.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I tried to crawl faster.  Was that one-thirty-eight or two-thirty-eight.  In my terror, I'd lost count, leaving me clueless to the distance back to the cellar.

From ahead of me came a screech of metal and a bang.  I realized the huffing sound was breathing and that whatever followed me was huge.  “Shit. Shit. Shit.” I crawled as fast as I could.

More crawling and another glance back brought me a flash of gray in the black.  I rolled over and pulled my pistol, aiming between my legs.  Praying not to blow off one of my toes, I squeezed the trigger.

The report of my weapon was deafening.  The thing screeched in pain, and an afterimage filled my momentarily light-blinded vision.  I saw something with a round mouth the size of my head filled with backward-curved needle-like teeth.  I peddled backward, back up the slope I'd descended earlier, smashing my hand on a small rock when I reached the top.  I watched my flashlight tumble uselessly down the grade.

"Shit!"

Now I was truly blind.  But I was at the top of the incline, so I was close.  I could make it.  Hope flared in me as I realized that if I could reach the cellar, I could get clearance and be able to maneuver.  I kept pushing backward.  The dim light of my fallen flashlight winked out.  I scrambled back as fast as possible, almost crab walking and scraping my head against the ceiling.  Then all hope fled.

My back came up against something hard.  The steel plate was blocking the exit again.  I was trapped in here.

“Help!" I screamed.  Tears were starting to come down as panic took over. "Help! I'm in here!" I fired back down the tunnel, emptying the clip of its remaining rounds.  I saw something disgusting and worm-like in the muzzle flashes.  Legs on the bottom and sides of the creature scratched at the walls, pulling it toward me slowly.  Its gibbering mouth was a round opening full of thin needle-like teeth.  The skin looked wet and slimy, and some kind of dark gray tongue-like proboscis slid between the teeth onto the floor.  I didn't see any eyes.  I banged the back of my head on the steel plate until I saw stars.  It was all I could do; I had no leverage.  No matter how hard I braced my feet and pushed, the plate wouldn't budge.

I yanked my feet back, banging my knee against the ceiling of the cramped tunnel as something touched my right shoe.  Fumbling my spare clip out of my shoulder holster, I slid it home just as something wet, warm, and slimy slipped up my right pant leg.

A shiver of revulsion and terror slid down my back.  Before I could aim and shoot, though, it latched on to my right thigh just above the knee, and my leg screamed in agony.  I scrabbled at my right leg, trying to dislodge it, dropping my weapon, but I couldn't get purchase.  My hands came away sticky with blood, and I screamed again as it dug in further.

An inhuman roar and tortured metal sounded behind me as the steel plate came away, and strong arms pulled me out of the tunnel.  Whatever had my leg detached with a disgustingly wet sucking sound.  The thing didn't pursue as Carlos hauled me out of the tunnel and fired his .45 at it.  It either didn't like the cold or was much more hurt by the .45 than my 9 mm.  I heard its scream vanish into the darkness as it scrambled away.  I collapsed into Carlos' arms in relief.

"Oh God, thank you," I said, squeezing him tightly.  He stroked my hair once and then summarily dumped me on the floor, jarring my leg.

I grabbed my injured knee.  “Ow!  What the hell?”

"What the fuck did you think you were doing?" Carlos yelled. "Have you lost your god damn mind?"

I looked down, chastised. "I was looking for Blackman."

"Darlin'," Carlos said, a little quieter but just as firmly. "There are things in this world that you can't even imagine.  Like that, whatever that was.  You know better than to go chasing down a perp without backup."

I held up a hand, squeezing my eyes against the throbbing in my leg.  “Stop yelling at me, please.”

"Cait, he's a fucking vampire," Carlos continued, still furious. "They are strong, fast, and slicker than snot.  You cannot take him on alone. How'd you end up in that tunnel anyway?"

"I heard someone pull back the cabinet down here.  When I found the tunnel, I thought Blackman had gone down there.  I tried to wait, but it was taking too long, so I went into the tunnel.  I tried to run from that thing, but someone had closed the plate on me.”

"No shit.  Why would Blackman send you down there rather than kill you outright?" Carlos asked.

"I don't know.  He probably figured I had backup coming, and it was more convenient," I posited, considering the circumstances. "If your pursuer is likely to off themselves, you don't get into a confrontation with them; you just wait."

"Maybe.  But, Cait, you need to understand vampires have unfathomable motives. They've been alive forever, and they don't think like normal people.  Next time you decide to go screwing around, make sure you fucking have backup.  This kind of reckless shit is going to get you killed."

"You're right.  This was stupid," I said, blowing out an exasperated breath. "But, I called you, and you didn’t pick up, and I didn’t want Blackman to get away.”

"I told you.  It was our anniversary.  We were busy." He picked me up off the floor.

I pushed him off, collecting my gun and limping toward the stairs.

“I would have expected Marcella to come to rescue you.  You know she can sense where you are and when you’re in danger after feeding on you, don’t you?”

“Yes. She told me.”  She hadn’t, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.  Besides, even if she could, she lived across town; how would she get to me?

"Not until after she bit you, I bet."

"Hey," I snapped, turning to face him, one hand on the wall. "The werewolf doesn't get to lecture me on the dangers of my vampire paramour. It's not like you were forthcoming."

“That’s not fair.  I couldn’t say anything, and I told you why.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, feeling much wearier all of a sudden. "Look, Carlos, I admit it. I'm falling in love with her, and I can't help it.  Even after—” I trailed off.

"Even after what?"

"Nevermind.”  I hopped my way up the stairs.

When we got back outside, I saw a candy apple red Dodge Charger sitting next to my Jeep. "That yours?" I asked appreciatively.

"Yeah," he said. "She's mine."

"Nice car," I said, trying to divert his attention.

"Cait," he said, stopping at my Jeep. "Tell me the truth.  Are you really in love with her?"

I paused for a second and then pulled open the door to the Jeep. "I think I might be.  We had an argument, and I stormed out, but I couldn't stop thinking about her. I've got a knot in my stomach over it."

“Look, darlin’, you need to understand more of what you’re dealing with.  Think about all the things that make you human.  I’m talking about the deep biological shit, the chemical reactions.  Oxytocin makes you feel love.  Too much testosterone makes you aggressive.  You understand?”

I nodded, but I didn’t understand.  “Where are you going with this?”

“Vampires don’t have body chemistry.  If she loves you?  Ask yourself, where does that love come from?  She doesn’t have Oxytocin floating around in her system.  So, how can she love?”

“Carlos, other than the one night, she’s been nothing but gentle, kind, and caring.  I don’t know where her love comes from, but I don’t doubt that she loves me.”

He sighed.  “How can you be sure?  Vampires are consummate snowball artists, and they have infinite patience.”

“Why are you meddling in my relationship, Carlos?”

"I’m not trying to meddle, damnit!"  He blew out a calming breath.  “I am just warning you.  You are much more fragile than the company you keep.  Just try to stay safe and remember that."

He was right, of course.  I needed to be more careful.

"Now," Carlos demanded. "Let's get your leg looked at."

Carlos and I left the scene and stopped at the Boston Medical Center Emergency Room.  It took two and a half hours to get seen.  A nurse cleaned the wound and shot me up with an anti-biotic and rabies immune globulin.  At least they put a bandage on it.  I got the usual bit from the nurse on infection signs and aftercare; then I left. They tried to give me crutches, but I told them no.  I could walk fine.  Afterward, Carlos walked with me out to the car.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Thanks for coming to my rescue."

"You're welcome. It's not a problem. "

I got into the car and rolled down the window.

"Cait?  Do you think she's worth all this?"

"Yeah, Carlos," I answered without hesitation. "I do.  You should see how she is with me.  I've never had anyone be so completely loving before."

Carlos shook his head in disbelief. "Take care of yourself, Cait.  And tell Marcella if she doesn't treat you right, I'll be on her like a tick on a hound."

"Yes, dad," I said, giving him a half-assed salute as he walked away.

Fuck me; I need to call Marcella tomorrow and patch this up.

36

“I’m hit!” I drop to one knee.  My leg burns with the bullet wound, but it is the wrong leg.  Behind me, Morgan’s M4 fires, taking down an insurgent.  The explosion in the sniper nest rattles my ears, and we run down the dust-strewn street.  Heat blooms then sputters as the buildings melt into deep black basalt canyon walls—a bone-numbing cold clamors over my skin.  I turn, expecting to see Morgan go down from a bullet wound in her abdomen, but she isn’t there.  I am alone.  I search, looking all around, but I can’t find her.

Behind me, four insurgents are scrambling toward me on all fours.  Their forms turn misshapen, the flesh peeling away in globs of black oily fluid as they flow into strange shapes.  Each is different.  One is small and spider-like, looking at me with terrible and sad child’s eyes of deepest brown.  One slithers on a thick black carapace, twisted into a creature mixed of insectile and serpentine features, a great maw of needle-like teeth splitting its torso.  The third skitters forward on five human-like arms, flattened and ghastly with interlocking black plates of armor.  The last appears almost human, almost feminine, with shining black skin, like patent leather or latex.  Short tentacles bud from its body, each ending in poison-dripping needle-like tips.

I turn and walk backward, firing, scoring hit after hit.  The bullets sink in, but the wounds close up behind.  The beasts don’t even slow.

“Drátí!” screams a voice to my left.  The word is foreign, alien, strange, but I know it means ‘run.’  The speaker is a woman with black eyes and gray-tinted skin, tall and robust.

A short golden spear hangs from her back, and a strangely stylized bow dangles from her fingers.  Beneath the spear, crosswise, is a full quiver patterned in angular knotwork.  The woman’s thick legs pump as she snatches my hand and pulls me along.  I repeatedly stumble from the leg wound, but she pulls me forward.  Her face keeps morphing back and forth, flowing like water, into Morgan’s and then into someone else.  A name drives into my head like a hammer strike, Déra.  I drag my hand to my mouth.

“I miss you,” I whisper as I struggle forward.  My steps are slow and ponderous, like walking through water.  God damnit, I can’t move forward.

Somehow, we wind our way among the blackened ravine walls.  The deep red light of the sun reflects into the space, painting our faces in demonic crimson.  Ahead of me, a massive black sphere, the gateway, hovers at the end of what I realize is a box canyon.  We reach the black doorway; through it, I can now see the blasted landscape beyond.  My companion turns.  “Hélít!” she screams.  Go!

I hesitate; I do not want to leave her.  The gray woman is firing arrow after arrow, each one strikes home, bringing down the spider-like creature in a single shot and dropping the snake-thing with two more.

She shoves me backward into the blackness, and I land flat, not on the dirt of the canyon, but in a bed of sandy pumice.  Before me, I can see her firing at the other creatures as more of the spider things begin dropping over the canyon walls.

“Drátí,” she shouts again over her shoulder.  She cannot see me in the darkness, but she knows me too well, knows that I would rather die than leave her.  But this was why we came here, and this is how it must end.  The shining feminine-bodied beast pounces on her, an arrow still in its chest.

“No!” I scream.

“Run, Cait.”  I turn and see a sixteen-year-old version of myself with short hair.  She looks just like me, but she is not me.

I am confused, but I turn, running into the darkness, my right knee aching and wet with slick black ooze.  The creatures are right behind me; I’ll never make it.

✽✽✽

I erupted from a restless and miserable sleep screaming at the top of my lungs.  My right leg throbbed, pain spearing through my knee.  The bandage seeped with a deep blackish-red stain, and I unrolled the dressing gingerly. Something caught my eye, like a vein bulging just under the skin.  What the hell?  I touched the bulge, and it slithered up my leg, disappearing deeper into my flesh.

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!” I went into the bathroom and pulled out my first aid kit.  Rummaging through wildly, I found bandage scissors and forceps.  I cut the gauze cleanly and quickly, pushing down the rising panic and bile in my throat.  Peeling the bandage didn’t burn as I expected; the skin was numb, which I decided was worse.  There, under the gauze, was a red circle of holes just above my knee, precisely as the night before.  But whereas they had been red and splotchy, they were now a necrotic black ring.  The skin in the center had peeled away, leaving an open wound of sickening rotted flesh.  Sticking out of the rot was a milky-white, wriggling worm-like thing covered in pus and rotted blood. Goopy black slime and dark red blood ran with the yellow pus in viscid rivulets down my leg; a horrible stench of decay assaulted my nose.

I shivered in disgust and fought not to vomit.  I pulled at the slimy thing using the forceps, but they clattered to the floor as dagger-like pain shot up my leg into my chest.  My head swam, and I dropped, vomiting.  Mixed in with last night’s dinner was bright red blood.  I knew this was bad, but I couldn’t think.  My body convulsed and heaved.

I tried to rise, but the room spun, twisting my vision into a weirdly doubled image full of haze and black fog.  My leg refused to support me, so I dragged myself back to my room, dripping a trail of foul-smelling black and yellow liquid across the hardwoods.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” I gritted.

On my nightstand was my phone.  I fumbled, trying to find the right buttons.  It took three tries, but eventually, I found what I hoped was Carlos’ contact in the list and dialed.

“Mmm, hello?”  Carlos sounded tired.

“Carlos. . .” My voice sounded small, even to my own ears.

“Cait? What time is it?”

“Help me,” I said weakly.  I let out a desperate whimper of pain. “My leg—hospital.”  My head throbbed, and spots started to swirl in my vision.

Carlos’ voice shifted, filling with panic.  “What’s going on?”

“Oh God, Carlos, it hurts.  EMS.”

There was a brief pause. “Okay, darlin’, hang on.” I heard the thumping of footsteps and the click static of a radio. “This is Detective Ramirez, officer down.” I listened as he gave my address, and the dispatcher responded that EMS was on the way.

“Can you get to the door?” Carlos asked me.

“Ungh. . . No,” I said through clenched teeth. “Door’s locked.”

“Is it safe to enter?” Carlos asked.

I nodded my head before realizing he couldn’t see me.  “Yeah.” I groaned as the agony shot through me again.

“Dispatch, tell EMS the officer is incapacitated, and the door is locked.  It is safe to enter.”

Dispatch acknowledged.

“Do you want me to stay on the line with you?”

“Mmmhmm,” I whimpered.

“Okay, let me get dressed.” I heard rustling around and a thunk as he set his phone down.

At that moment, every muscle in my body seemed to contract at once, jerking my arms and legs spasmodically out, spreading eagle, causing me to lose my grip on my phone.  It went sliding across the floor under the bed.  Painfully I curled back up into a fetal position, and I could see several of the little worm things pushing beneath my skin.  Every muscle in my body screamed with agony, and I shrieked with them.

More and more distantly, I could hear Carlos’ voice. “Cait?  Cait?  Hold on, darlin’, they’re coming.”

My vision swam, and I vomited again, gagging on my own sick, and darkness closed in.

I woke in a hospital bed.  I felt good, like drugged up good, and I could hear the beeping of monitors.   My skin itched, and I rubbed my left arm.  I looked around and felt wrong somehow.  I could only see out of my right eye. “Hello?” I called to the room.  My voice sounded distorted, and my tongue felt thick.

“Hey there,” I heard Carlos’ warm Texas drawl from my left. “How ya’ feelin’?”

I popped a thumbs up from my right hand because my left hand wouldn’t move.  I thought that was odd amid the haze of sedation. “Wha. . . Wha. . .”

Carlos moved around to the right side of my body, where I could see him. “Some kinda parasite the doc said.  When they brought you in, you were having convulsions, so they sedated you for treatment.  Try to relax.  The docs are working on this.  They managed to pull out half of one of the little critters and send it off for analysis.”

I had given up on intelligible speech and made a motion with my right hand like writing.  I also started crying, but I didn’t know why.  I tried to tell Carlos that I didn’t understand why I was crying, but an incomprehensible mumble came out.

“They’ve got you on a Dilaudid drip with some anti-parasitics.  Hang on,” he said, “I’ll get some paper.”  He left the room.

The pink and purple hues of sunset told me it was late.  I had been out most of the day.  In the distance, I spied a pinprick of black that seemed to be sucking up the clouds around it.  I tried to focus on it, but it was hazy, and everything was growing darker.  My back spasmed, forcing out a grunt.  Pain ran the length of my legs, beating back the Dilaudid.  I heard several pops from my back as fire shot through my breast and stole my breath.  The heart monitor squealed as my world spun, and the room faded.

37

I open my eyes, aware of the vision but unable to influence it.  A black fog swirls around me, and black crushed pumice and ash cover the ground, falling from my back as I sit up.  A hot breeze blows through the white shift I am wearing, searing my skin.  There is no sun, moon, or skyward source of illumination that I can see.  A dim, sickly-yellow ambient light surrounds me as if I’m the source.  I start walking forward.

After a time, the thick, dense fog parts, revealing the glow of flowing magma maybe a hundred yards away.  A pinprick of bright white winks in the distance, around which the burning orange glow of the magma beyond twists and distorts, like looking through the edge of a lens.  It reminds me of the twisted lensing of a black hole I’ve seen on TV.

I continue forward; the hot wind smells of sulfur and recent decay and raises the hair on my neck.  From behind comes the sound of something, immense and fast, scrabbling on the dirt.  I whirl around but see nothing.  Retracing my steps, I find large three-toed, feline-looking footprints in the black ash.  Something is out there, stalking me in the infernal landscape.

I realize this dream is like no other I’ve ever had.  I am conscious and fully aware, but I have no control over my body. It’s as if I am a passenger inside someone else, along for the ride.  Every sound, sight, and smell is sharp, more like a vivid memory.  A sharp rock digs into my palm as I stumble.  I feel the pain in my hand, my dirty, delicate, pale hand.  I tear off a piece of my shift and wrap the fabric around the wound.

Something else is nagging at me.  A wrong feeling I can’t put my finger on.  I push it aside.  The anxiety is palpable, but it seems strangely remote and diffuse, more like the first breath of fear on my neck than actual worry.

The ground isn’t featureless; I stand on a rocky slope covered in gritty black pumice that scratches the soles of my feet.  I decide that downslope, toward the blinking light, is the best direction and continue walking.  Distantly, a wail of sorrow sounds, and another echo of distress courses through me.  My arms are smeared with grainy, black filth.  I rub at the dirt, revealing more pale skin beneath.

“Aoife!” hisses a wheezing voice from behind me.  I spin, looking back, seeing only black, inky fog.

“Aoife!”  Fear begins to claw at my thoughts as I pick up my pace, stumbling again along the uneven ground.

After what seems hours, the ground levels out, and the sandy cover deepens, making walking more difficult.  The last remnants of smoke between me and the blinking white light are gone.  It is a perfectly circular portal or window that shows into a hospital room in the distance.  I long to run to it, but I stop.  To my right stands a burned and charred sapling.  Next to it hovers someone, or something, in a black shroud.  I move a bit closer and make out a pale face with green eyes—my eyes.  It has my face, cold, vampiric.  It blinks slowly behind the veils.  Long slender fingers tipped with dagger-like nails drop from within the mantle, tensing.

In an instant, it darts forward, alighting on me.  I can feel its cold hands burning me and something enveloping my chest, clutching.  I gasp at the freezing sensation.  Tendrils of its smoky fingers push into my nose, making me gag.

“Cait,” it screams, high and raspy and alien. “You left me!  Why did you leave me!” Something inside me ignites, hot and bitter, consuming my fear and panic.  I give in to the madness and the tempting power.  I encircle the writhing thing with my arms; blue-black fire burns across my skin, tracing my veins.  My flesh itches as bits of power are drawn in from the oily smoke.  The hot ecstasy of control and raging violence pulls a broad smile to my lips.

“Oh! Mother Darkness, Yes!” I cry as I feel the power bruised and angry peeling off me.  My eyes burn, blinding me, but I care not.  I push harder at the fire, willing it to grow and burn and sear.  I drive on with my will until I can bear it no more.  I squeeze my eyes shut and utter a guttural growl of rage, forcing the fire into the imposter with all that I am.  The power, now a swirling mass of black, blue, and purple, cascades off and around me, consuming the doppelgänger.

✽✽✽

My breath came in ragged gasps, and sweat coated every inch of me.  The hospital gown felt like sandpaper against my arms, and I was shrouded in absolute darkness.  “Aoife,” I whispered into the black, and a deep sense of loss tumbled through my chest.

The sound of movement to my left caught my attention. “Hello?” I croaked through parched lips.  I felt a cup pressed to my mouth, gently tilted, and dribbling cold water down my throat.  Tiny bits of crushed ice slid down my chin. “Who’s there?”

“Shh,” a soft feminine voice whispered, and a cool silken hand caressed my cheek.  The fingers were smooth and smelled of flowers and—sandalwood.

“Oh, thank God,” I breathed as relief flooded through me.  She was here.  She had come for me.

“I’m here,” Marcella said softly as she brushed away the sweat from my forehead and cheeks with a washcloth. “Please, Cait, I am so very sorry.  I came as soon as Carlos called me.”

A terrifying realization coalesced, and I pawed at the bed rail.  “I— I can’t see,” I stammered as alarm bubbled over and squeezed my heart, forcing it to buffet against my ribs.  My respiration became short and ragged, providing no air.  “I can’t breathe,” I gasped in fear.  “I can’t breathe.”  Alarms on the devices around me sounded electronic screeches.

“Easy, deep breaths, love,” Marcella’s soothing voice said, invading my consciousness, calming my mind, helping me force back the fear, and slow my breathing.  I felt her presence within me as if she were wrapping my emotions in soft cotton, dampening their control and bringing me back to sanity.

I tried to reach out both arms to her, but only my right would respond.  The terror began to rise again, but Marcella’s influence pushed it back down.

“I can’t move my arm?  Marcella, I’m scared.”

She shushed me, lowering the bed rail and pulling me into her arms.  The silk of her blouse stuck to my sweat-soaked skin.  I slumped against her, unable to move.

Gently, she whispered to me.  “You’ve been here two days, unconscious since yesterday.  While you were out, I took the liberty of collecting Jabba and taking him to my home.  I hope you don’t mind; I didn’t know how long you’d be here.”

“Thank you, that was very thoughtful.”

Marcella continued.  “He’s quite pampered at home by Robert, Ninetta’s replacement, though he has quite a bad habit of rubbing up against Robert’s pants legs, leaving them rife with orange fur.”

I laughed, but it only caused my ribs to hurt.  “When did you get here?”

“Carlos called me right after your first seizure.  I collected Jabba and got him settled, then came straight here.  By the way, you need new door locks.” She spoke slowly, in relaxed tones.  It was a little like listening to a female David Attenborough. “I spoke with your doctors.  It took some cajoling, but they finally told me what they know.”

‘What they know,’ not, ‘what was wrong with me.’ That didn’t sound good.

“And?” I asked, a tingling starting to rise slowly up my left arm.

“You’re infected with an unknown parasite.  The doctors don’t recognize it. They’ve taken two samples and sent one off to the CDC.  But there’s been no response yet.  I had a look at the thing and called a friend, and she says she’s seen this before.”

“Who?”

“A physician friend of mine,” she said evasively. “She might be able to help you, but you’ll need to leave the hospital, and soon.  I can’t bring her here.” I was struck by just how delicate she was in her tone.  Now that I was paying attention, I could hear her fear.

“Marcella, I’m really scared.  Am I dying?”

“Cait, the doctors have tried two different high-powered anti-parasitics, but they haven’t had any effect other than to make you weaker.  The parasites are infiltrating your nervous system.  According to the neurologist, if we don’t kill them soon, it will affect your autonomic functions, and the hospital will have to put you on life support.  And yes, eventually, you will die.

“But, my friend, Bian, thinks she can fix this.”  Marcella’s tone turned pleading.  “Cait, even if you hate me for the rest of your life, I want you to survive and be happy.”

Her words were like a slap. “I’m so sorry, Marcella.  I was angry, hurt, and afraid, but I don’t hate you.  I never could. I’m sorry I left you like that.  I should have said something.  I should have told you I was coming back.  I should have—.” A sudden fit of coughing stymied my rambling.

“I’m going to ask you to sign yourself out of the hospital against medical advice.”

I held on to her as she cradled me in her arms. “Okay, what do I need to do?”

She turned my head, and I felt the soft cool flesh of her lips on mine.  “Phillip will handle it.”

Phillip, as it turned out, was Marcella’s attorney. He advised me against leaving and then explained my rights. It took almost a half-hour, but the doctor finally brought me a liability release form. While I wrangled with that, Marcella went and collected my Jeep.  This Bian person lived off the beaten path, and her Audi wouldn’t make it.  With Phillip’s help, I signed it.  Marcella returned and helped me dress in some warm clothes.

Less than an hour after I’d regained consciousness, I was in the passenger seat as we raced south along I-93.

“Where—.” I started, but a sharp pain snatched away my breath as every muscle in my body tried to contract at once. A stabbing, cramp-like sensation tore through my stomach. Then, it ceased as suddenly as it started, leaving me retching.

“Please—,” I said through gritted teeth as another spasm shocked my body.

“Just hold on, honey, we’ll be there soon,” Marcella said, voice desperate. “Which one of these switches turns on the sirens?”

“Use lights only. Third switch,” I gasped out, chest heaving with exertion. Marcella grabbed my hand as my muscles seized again. Under my pain-intensified grip, I felt the crack of her fingers breaking. “I’m— sorry,” I wheezed.

“Undead, love. I can take it.”  Her voice was calm, but she peeled her hand loose anyway. I didn’t have time to worry about it further, as every nerve in my body burned, and my skin felt like it was being flayed. My eyes rolled back, and my back spasmed harder. I heard a tremendous pop.  I moaned out as a fit of physical pleasure blossomed behind the convulsion, only to be replaced by pain once again.

After what felt like hours of muscle spasms and wracking pain, the darkness took me again.

38

When I next became aware, my hands and feet were damp and ice-cold. The soft movements of water sloshed around me as Marcella walked almost waist-deep in— something.

“Where—.” I couldn’t find the next word in my head, and my mouth wouldn’t function. It was like being aware of language but not remembering how to speak.

“Are you okay?”

I understood Marcella well enough, though, and shook my head.

“We’re in Hockomock swamp.”

I smelled burning, and it made me think of a rectangular tower of bricks billowing smoke. It took me a few moments to find the word ‘chimney’ in my vocabulary.  I lost the English word and scrambled to find it again, unable to, finally grasping at childhood Irish.  “Deataigh.” Smoke.

Marcella held me closer.  “Tá.”

“I—no—,” I tried to speak.

But, before I could hear Marcella’s response, the seizures began anew, ripping another piercing scream from my throat.  My chest ripped with pain, and I couldn’t get air.  Panic swarmed my senses just before I blacked out again.

I gasped and coughed in the darkness, feeling Marcella’s mouth on my own and tasting the copper tang of blood as her breath filled my lungs.

“Oh, thank the Goddess.” Marcella’s voice filled my ears. I wanted to tell her that I loved her and was sorry for running out.  I tried to hold her one last time and to see her.  I tried to breathe in her scent and lay in her arms.  My body didn’t respond.  The fear banging away at me changed nothing; it was just there, pressed into my skull, crushing down on my psyche.

“It’s your only option, Marcella. She’s dying.” It was a foreign voice with a slight Asian accent, female, odd, and sibilant.  “You started this.”

Marcella’s voice sounded of fear and remorse.  “I can’t do it again, not to her.”

“Then she dies,” the other voice replied coldly.  “You started this, Marcella.”

“I know.”  There was a pause. Then I felt Marcella’s breath on my ear.  “Cait, I do not know if you can hear me.  I love you; please forgive me.” I felt her lips on my throat as she bit into my neck, tearing me open. There was no following euphoria; an ungodly pain danced through my blood vessels like streaks of electric light.  I couldn’t breathe.  My left arm ached, and my chest squeezed tight.  My body convulsed repeatedly.

Oh, God! It hurts!  Please help me.

After just a moment, the excruciating pain gave way to the dizziness of hypoxia.  Endorphins flooded my brain, bringing on a sense of deep calm and love.  I was dying, and it was okay.  I’d be gone in a few minutes, and all this would be over.  Numbness permeated me, quieting my thoughts, allowing me to focus on a strange noise—my heartbeat.  It thumped slower—and slower—and—

Thick, syrupy blood, hot and salty, filled my mouth.  I gagged first, then swallowed.  The sensation of drowning overwhelmed me as I swallowed and swallowed, but there was still more.  Eventually, Marcella relented, and I coughed weakly, feeling the warm blood on my lips. I snatched Marcella’s arm, overcome with the need for more.  I bit into the bleeding wound before it could close.  I could feel the blood flow into me, renewing me.

Marcella whispered again through her soft sobs, “Please forgive me, Cait.”

An injection pinched into my thigh, straight into the ghastly wound above my knee.  Needle-like lances of pain shot from my leg like bolts of lightning, blistering through my chest and every limb; blood spewed from my mouth as I screamed.  My head felt like it would burst, hammering and hammering in time with my erratic pulse. I roared in pain, legs shaking, back twisting, convulsing.

“What’s happening to her?” It was Marcella’s voice, remote and echoing.

“I don’t know, but they’re digging out, look.”

My vision cleared, snapping into focus.  Marcella hovered above me, my blood on her chin and a terrified expression on her face.

“Help me,” I whimpered through gritted teeth, limbs flailing as agony enveloped each nerve ending.  Like a wave of electric shocks, it spun out from places all over my body, driving through me.  My skin bubbled and blistered, scorched and dry.  I could hear the flesh cracking like burnt wood as I twisted.  My teeth rattled as I gritted them hard against the pain.  Like insidious little drills, tiny white worm-like parasites pushed from inside my legs, arms, and chest, even out of my cheek.  Blood seemed to run over the length of my body, and a wheeze erupted from my throat, almost like a hiss.  Screams were torn from me as my flesh burned from within.  Then, finally, blissfully, thankfully, darkness claimed me once more.

Sometime later, a ponderous sound like shifting sand coaxed me to consciousness.  Every part of my body felt strained and torn.  It was as if every muscle had tried to rip itself asunder and very nearly succeeded.  A woman in a green shirt was pouring a sour-smelling liquid into a plastic container to my left. To my right, Marcella sat in a chair, head down.

“Marcella?” I whispered hoarsely.

A moment later, she looked up slowly.  She was worn; pain and worry haunted her eyes.

“Marcella?” I prodded again.

She launched herself to my side.  “Cait! Do you know who I am?”

“Of course,” I croaked hoarsely, throat burning.

“What do you remember?” she asked, looking at me.

I scrambled in my thoughts for a fleeting image, a memory of someplace— and a face, pale and delicate.

“Something—.  I don’t know.  You carried me through the water, and now I’m here.”

“Oh, thank the Goddess.  You were dying.  I had no choice. I’m so sorry.”

She moved over next to me and began to kiss my face and hands. My wrists were bloodied and raw, as were my ankles. But I was alive, and I could see and talk and move. I might actually be okay.

“Cait, honey, this is Bian. She helped me save your life.”

I looked toward the other woman and blinked, rubbing my eyes, unsure what I saw.  Bian wasn’t a woman, at least not in the human sense, and she was magnificent.  Her upper torso was roughly human-shaped but flowed seamlessly into the long body of a snake— very long. It seemed to wrap around the entire room.  Her backside was covered in moss-colored and emerald scales, which blended into a light yellow on her front.

Bian’s face was reminiscent of a human woman, framed by long luxurious-looking raven-colored hair.  A blue forked tongue flicked out periodically, tasting the air.  Her arms were almost human, terminating in delicate-looking hands with long, thick, claw-like nails. The front of her torso protruded, breast-like.  It all gave her a feminine and yet, profoundly alien appearance.  Her scales were so small and delicate on her abdomen, chest, and face as to look smooth, almost like human skin.

“You’re beautiful,” I breathed, watching the muscles ripple beneath as she moved.

The snake-woman didn’t answer; she just slithered across the floor to my side and began examining me roughly.

“Well, you seem healthy enough.  But, we’ll have to keep an eye on you. Say ah,” she said, sounding for all the world like any general practitioner.

I did as she asked, allowing her to examine me.

“Well, then, that’s just fascinating.”

Marcella stroked my sweat-soaked hair, looking worried.  “Um, Cait, honey? I think you’re going to be okay, but you might need to prepare a little.”

Bian arched up, rising to an impressive height, rummaging into a box on a makeshift shelf.  She moved with seemingly no effort, languid and graceful.  When she lowered back down, she handed Marcella a small hand mirror.

“It’s probably better if you show her.”

Marcella held the mirror to her chest. “There have been a few—um—changes.  Maybe it’s not the best—.”

“Gimme,” I said, feeling weirdly playful.

Marcella handed me the mirror.  For a moment, a different face appeared, the same young woman I’d seen repeatedly, but it vanished just as quickly.  My face looked ashen, and my skin was flaky, as if sunburned.

I tilted the mirror to look into my mouth, which felt— odd.  My canines had grown to a more extended point, not unlike Marcella’s when she extended them. I ran my tongue across them, closing and opening my mouth; it didn’t seem to affect my bite.   My tongue, however, was the strangest of all; it was dark blue and forked— just like Bian’s.

“Dear God,” I gasped, touching at the dry flakes on my face. “What the fuck happened to me?”

“I—,”  Marcella began, but Bian cut her off.

“We don’t know everything. The English name for the creature that infected you is simply the ‘white worm.’  You are the first ever to survive such an infection, at least as far as I know. I’m going to examine these parasites.”  She held up a specimen jar, displaying an inch-long grotesquely pale worm-thing wriggling inside.  “They burrowed out as soon as we applied the poison, and it’s the first time I’ve had a chance to look at them with modern equipment.”

“Help me over,” I gasped, suddenly and thoroughly nauseated.  Marcella rolled me to my side, and I vomited.  A bit of blue-black goo spewed onto the floor, then nothing.  After a few agonizing minutes of dry heaves, I rolled back, sucking in deep breaths.  “I’m so sorry.  I just feel— a little sick.  That was inside me?”

“Yes, but the infecting parasites are very susceptible to neurotoxins.  Lucky for you, I have that in abundance.”  She opened her mouth much more expansively than I’d have thought possible, fully displaying two long, stiletto-like fangs.

My head became fuzzy, and I lost my train of thought.  I reached out to Marcella, flapping my hands for her to come to me like a little kid.  I felt— drunk.

Marcella laughed and then yanked me up into a hug. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’ve never cared this much for— for anyone.  What have you done to me, Cait?” Her words were breathy and desperate.

“Same thing you’ve done to me,” I whispered in reply and squeezed her close, our fight over the ‘dream’ and what she’d done long forgotten.

Bian turned out the bright overhead light, dimming the room considerably.  My eyes adjusted instantly to the darkness.  Flickering wall sconces filled the room with eerie yet comforting light.  Marcella lifted me from the table and carried me to a stone pool that occupied a good quarter of the barn-like cabin.  Marcella placed me into the shallow water.  It was warm and clean, with gentle currents flowing from one side to the other, and a low hum of a pump sounded somewhere nearby.

A set of old wooden stairs descended from a loft above, ending close to the large bath.  Next to the kitchen where I had been lying moments ago sat a small laboratory that looked fairly complete, at least from the standpoint of my high-school chemistry expertise.  A large wood-burning stove sat in the other corner of the house with a small teapot on top.

Bian was both beautiful and wondrous, and I could finally see just how large she was. Her body filled much of the available space. If I’d had to guess, her lower part had to be at least ninety feet long.  I longed to run my hands over it, wondering how it felt.

“Is— is she a Naga?” I asked, still feeling very intoxicated.

“We prefer the term Nehtra,” Bian said, working over a small lab table, with her back to us.

The word seemed to fit, feeling like it described her.  I knew that the term was ancient in the deep recesses of my thoughts.  I thought maybe I’d heard it when I was a child, perhaps in one of my mother’s lectures.

Marcella brought over a three-legged stool, and after ensuring I was secure, she stripped and joined me, setting shampoo, soap, and a mesh scrubby next to a metal cup on the edge of the basin.

“Ow,” I said as I twisted my head a bit further than my angry muscles wanted to allow. “How did you—”

“How did we save you?” Marcella finished.  “I’ll explain after we’re done. Just rest for now.”  Deep remorse showed in her eyes, but my thoughts were thick and slow.  It didn’t take long before I’d forgotten I’d even asked the question.

I settled in and let her bathe me, letting out a little laugh of embarrassment when she reached my legs.

I giggled.  “I need to shave those.”

The corners of Marcella’s mouth turned up, but she said nothing and proceeded.

Sitting with my legs in the warm current was like feeling it for the first time. The flow was like liquid silk continuously sliding across my skin. I dipped my head as she poured warm water across it, washing away the remnants of soap.

Her hands pushed through my hair in unhurried, tender strokes, working the shampoo to a lather.  It was all so hypnotic, and I waved my hands under the water, feeling it swish between my fingers, suddenly wishing they were webbed.

As Marcella scrubbed at my arms and shoulders, great long strips of skin peeled away, revealing milky-white skin underneath.

“Did you—“ I started but again lost my train of thought.

“Hmm?” Marcella prodded, pouring a cascade across my head.  I closed my eyes, feeling the warm water and soap slide down my face, my throat, across my breasts. Though Marcella had helped me in the shower at her home, I had never before known the pleasure of being bathed by someone else, not as an adult.  It felt like a supreme expression of love.

I heard every drop of water falling to the pool below, each distinct and whole— gifts of affection.

Deep drug-like euphoria continued to cloud my thoughts, and I turned bodily toward Marcella, laying my head on her chest. I squirmed in the intense sensations and rubbed my cheek against her breast.

“I love you,” I said dreamily, still pressed against her skin.  “Join me in the water; it’s heavenly.”

Marcella put her hand under my chin and very gently turned my face toward her. She covered one eye and then the other, expression serious.

“Bian,” she called. “Come over here, please. Is this what I think it is?”

Bian was looking down into my eyes a moment later, and I could see her eyes were slit, like a snake’s, with yellow irises that glittered in the flickering sconce lights.

“She’s blood drunk,”  Bian said, her tone again scientific and cold.

Marcella frowned and something passed across her face I couldn’t read, spaced out as I was.

“It’s okay.  I’m fine,” I said languidly. “Right. As. Rain.” My head lolled a bit as I looked back at Bian. “Wow, you are so pretty. How do you stand being that gorgeous?”

Bian ignored my comment and continued to assess my state. “All we can do is let her rest. You should probably take her upstairs to sleep it off. It’s not a good time.”

“Oh,” I said, grinning. “I don’t want to sleep; I have better ideas.” I ran my hands over Marcella’s arm and Bian’s abdomen, feeling the strange musculature underneath.

Bian flashed a smirk and moved my hand away. “I can’t wait to see how embarrassed she is in the morning, though. That’ll be a treat.”

“Hey,” I complained drunkenly. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about.  I think you’re hot. I mean, you have, like, super sexy scales. And they’re so green.”

“Oh bloody hell,” Marcella said, rolling her eyes and picking me up. “Time for you to get some sleep.”

“Are you gonna sleep with me?” I asked, making the most lascivious look I could muster.

“Of course, I am, darling. Let me take you to bed.” Marcella returned the look and then threw me over her shoulder.

“Woo! That’s more like it.”  I felt a sharp pinch in my butt. “Hey! something bit me!”

Before we reached the top of the stairs, my eyes grew heavy, and I fell asleep.

39

The blinding morning light showed through the skylights.  I felt as if I’d been reborn somehow.  My thoughts were clearer than I could ever remember.  I flexed and stretched, reveling in the feeling of wholeness that permeated me.  Though, there was something—making me rub my arms nervously.  It felt like vague anxiety, a strange antsiness that crawled under my skin.

Marcella was still asleep, and I opted not to wake her.  With all that had happened, she had to be running on fumes.  For that matter, after the last few days of no food, I was starving.  My body practically glowed in the brilliant light.  I looked at my skin and sat back down on the bed.  Dear God, what have I done?

Head in my hands, I drew in a deep breath.  I checked my pulse, finding it slow but strong.  Maybe it wasn’t what I thought.  I tried to dismiss my anxiety.  I needed to speak to Marcella and understand what was happening.  I turned and moved to wake her but decided against it.  She needed rest.  We could talk later.  I dressed in a pair of drawstring pants and a t-shirt I found next to the bed.

Bian was awake and looking into her microscope when I walked down the stairs, clumsily stumbling over her—body?—tail?—as I reached the bottom.

"Watch your step, hon," she said, holding up a finger, face still pressed to the instrument. "Sit down at the table.  I’ll be with you in a moment.  I do have food for you, but this is just fascinating.”

I looked around the kitchen area and didn't see any cooking, just a plate on the counter with a few non-breakfasty foods.  I sat down at the table and waited.

Bian pulled away from the microscope.  “I think these things have recombinant properties."

“Wait, recombinant, as in genetically recombinant?”  That was frightening; what else might they do to me?

“Yes, it would certainly explain your tongue.”

Before I could inquire further, Bian slithered over and placed the plate in front of me.  "Here you go, try that."

"Applesauce and two sliced bananas?  I thought you were a carnivore."

She gave me a hard stare. “Very much so, but you're on the brat diet until I say otherwise.” Her overall size made her very intimidating, especially since she could pull up a significant portion of her bulk to tower over me, which she did.

"Hey, I'm not a brat," I whined.

Bian laughed. "Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, and Toast.  B-R-A-T.  I want to make sure your tummy can handle human food."

"I feel fine—” I started to say but stopped when I looked back at Bian's stern face. "Whatever."  I wished everyone would stop treating me like their kid sister.  It was getting beyond annoying.  I dove into the food ravenously.  Bian watched as I scarfed down the food before returning to her lab work.

"God, these bananas are so flavorful. where’d you get them?"

Bian turned slowly, looking at me askance. “Define flavorful.”

”I don’t know.” I swallowed. “Like banana, but more. There’s also an earthy taste that I can’t place. I can’t really describe it.”

Bian slid over and tilted my head back a little forcefully. “Open your mouth, Cait. As wide as you can.”

I did as she asked, feeling my jaw click strangely, though not painfully.

“Hmmm. Can you open wider?”  Bian tugged, and I opened freakishly wide, drawing my lips taught.  She poked inside with a penlight and then wiggled my lower jaw, which moved disturbingly freely.

“Fascinating,” she said. “Your jaw has unhinged, and you have a vomeronasal duct here. No venom glands, though, pity.”

I closed my mouth and rubbed my jaw, feeling it click back into place.  “What is a ver—whatever duct?” I asked though I didn’t hear the answer as I was wracked with stomach cramps. I charged to the sink and retched up everything I’d just eaten. “Shit, this isn’t happening,” I muttered to myself, returning to the table and pushing away the plate.

Bian acted as if I hadn’t moved.  “It’s how snakes smell.  If there’s a vomeronasal duct, there’s a vomeronasal gland. Consider that a gift. Things will taste a bit different, but you’ll appreciate it in the end.”

My confusion must have been evident on my face as she pulled me to the door and opened it.  “Now, stick your tongue out, wag it up and down quickly, and pull it back in with a breath.”

“What?” I asked, feeling stupid.

“Do as I say, girl!”  She stared at me in annoyance, crossing her arms stubbornly.

Feeling ridiculous, I did as she asked.  My tongue flicked out and back in, impossibly fast, just like a snake’s, and my nose practically exploded with odors and scents. I could smell the water, the earth, something skunk-like to my right, something like a wet dog to my left, and twenty other things I couldn’t recognize, all packed together.

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed, pushing the door closed.

Bian smiled a wide, alien, snake-like smile. “Give it some time, and you’ll be able to pick out individual people just by their scent. Pretty cool, huh?”

I freaked.  “No, it is not cool!  I’m not a fucking lab rat.  I’m a person. This is my body we’re talking about, and all of these changes are terrifying. I don’t know how far they’ll go.”

“A forked tongue isn’t a bad thing,” she said, arms crossed.

“For you! You’re a fucking creature of legend. I’m human. I’m not supposed to have a fucking forked tongue or scales or a ver-whatever duct. I’m not supposed to have fangs or be a poster girl for skin bleaching. If it goes too far, what am I supposed to do? I won’t be able to do my job. Jesus, my mother will never understand any of this, regardless. And what am I supposed to say to my boss? I’m a fucking cop. Interacting with the public is what I do. I don’t want to be driving a desk for the rest of my life because witnesses can’t stand to look at me.”

“Cait,” Bian roared.

I froze, my voice dying on my lips.

“We saved your fucking life.”  The sibilance in her speech increased.

Bian rose, towering over me, and her voice turned hissing and raspy, full of menace.  “You died right there on that table, and we brought you back!  Yes, there were side effects! I could strangle you right now if it’s too much to bear!”  She snatched me by the throat faster than I could see, forcing me to gasp for air.

Marcella flew over the railing from the loft and dropped to the floor, half-dressed.  “Bian, honey, let her go. She’s just in shock.”

“No! Not until she answers me.”  Bian’s eyes were cold and hard, the pupils mere slits.

“What was the question?” I gagged out.

“Would you rather be dead,” she squeezed harder, ”or alive?”

“Alive,” I choked, pulling at her claw-like hand.  Christ, she was strong.

“Then start acting like it and stop whining,” Bian spat as she shoved me roughly to the floor.

Marcella ran over to me.  “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I croaked, rubbing my neck, though I was most definitely not okay.

Bian slithered out of the kitchen area and into the pool, pulling all of her bulk into a neatly wrapped coil and disappearing into the center somewhere.  Water sloshed over the basin to the floor.  I could see her sparkling, alien eyes peaking between her coils, staring at me in annoyance.

Marcella helped me up.  “Back home, she was worshiped as a goddess and treated with respect.  Try to remember that.  She is trying to help, but she doesn’t have the same sensibilities about compassion.  In the end, she’s not human and doesn’t think like us.  It’s not your fault or hers.  She’s just different.”

“No, it is my fault!” I retorted, voice angry.  “I did something, as you said, monumentally stupid. Now I’m paying the price, and I don’t know how to handle it.  Like some brat, I’m taking it out on other people.”

I walked over to the pool, climbing into the warm water, pajamas and all.  Bian was still watching me through the coils, so I lay my chin on her massive bulk and looked back at her glittering eyes.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to offend you or seem ungrateful.  I’m just scared.”

A delicate, clawed hand slid gently between the coils and touched my hair.  “Once, little girl,” Bian began softly.  “I wandered the jungles of my home without fear.  For over ten thousand years, each day knew that I was the unchallenged queen of my domain.  I had sisters who looked up to me and loved me.  And I had magic, real magic, that could save or damn a soul.  Then, all of that faded.  The magic disappeared, and my sisters began to die until only I remained.  Now, my world is this fucking hovel in this forsaken frozen swamp.  I’m forced to hide to survive, wary of every idiot human who wanders near.  I know what it is to be afraid.  I, too, am sorry.”  Bian’s tail end slid through the water and around me, pressing me gently against her in what I could only imagine was the Nehtra version of a hug.  “We are, all of us, desperate to survive in a world being raped to death by the blindness of mankind.”

I stayed there, laying in the muted flow of the water and the warmth, head against her coils.  My fear and anxiety fled, and a deep sense of peace settled in.

I took Bian’s hand and stroked her arm; she didn’t resist.  I traced the semi-diamond pattern of scales that rode a narrow channel along her arm.  They were softer than I expected, the surface so supple.

This magnificent creature lay before me, full of power and beauty, and I’d scarcely spent a second appreciating who and what she was, so concerned was I with a shitty life that I just had to get back to.

Eventually, drained by my emotional turmoil and lulled by the warm water and the press of Bian’s body, I slipped into a magical daydream of a vast jungle.  Thick sheets of warm rain fell in fat drops across my naked body. I lay on a rock overlooking a broad green valley.  And, nowhere were there dead children, or rapist soldiers, or lost loves, only peace.

I must have fallen asleep again as I awoke to find myself lying next to the pool, Marcella standing over me.

“How long was I out?” I asked through a long yawn.

“About two hours,” Marcella replied softly.  Bian was out of the pool and futzing about her little lab station next to the kitchen.  I tried not to think about weird substances in the lab and the food she’d made just feet away.

I yawned again.  “God, why am I so tired?  I slept like the dead last night, and I felt great when I woke up earlier.”

Marcella ignored the question.  “Here, I bought these for you." She held out a bundle of clothes and a pair of black booties.  All of the clothes looked expensive.  I didn’t recognize all the labels, but the shoes were Manolo Blahnik.

"Where'd you get these?" I asked, setting down the bundle next to the pool.

"I bought them on Tuesday while I was out.  While you were sleeping, I had Robert drive them down in his Land Rover.”  Marcella stepped into the tub and began to scrub herself with the soap.

“Robert?” I queried, rubbing my eyes, then remembered.  “Oh, right. New butler.”

Bian started slithering around, uncoiling herself as she did so, slowly making her way toward us as I stepped into the bath to wash.

"I need a bigger house," Bian griped as she continued to get herself untangled.  It turned out most of her body had been coiled up by the woodstove, and I was reduced to hysterics watching her grump her way around, unraveling like a yarn ball.

"Hey, it's no laughing matter," Bian chided playfully.  She made an exaggerated grimace as she unwrapped her bulk from around the table.

I rubbed shampoo into my hair as Bian slipped her torso into the pool, followed by several feet of her length.  She rose from the water with a mischievous gleam in her eye, and Marcella suddenly grabbed me from behind.

I tried to shake loose as soap dripped into my eyes. "Hey, what the hell?”  I found out moments later as ice-cold water splashed down on me.  I threw myself further into the pool to get warm, bumping up against Bian's thick body.

I sputtered and fussed as I surfaced.  "What is this?  Some 'things that go bump in the night' hazing ritual?"

"No, Cait," Marcella said through gales of laughter. "It's just a spot of fun to lighten the mood.  But, you better start learning to go bump in the night if you want to hang out with us." She and Bian erupted in fresh guffaws.  They were entirely too entertained with their own humor.

"I go bump in the night just fine, thank you very much," I said with a pout, grabbing the soap. "I haven’t heard you complaining," I muttered.  They both whooped and convulsed in their unabashed glee at my peevishness.  Soon, I was laughing along with them.

"Bian, honey?" I said after I’d dried and dressed.

They both turned, and Marcella whistled. "Wow, you are fucking lush in that outfit.  I was right about the shoes, too."

"Thank you.  Though these shoes are going to get ruined, you know that. They're completely impractical for my job.  As I was saying, though, Bian, do you have any other food here?  Something I might be able to eat?"

"Well, there are some mice and a few rats in cages in the cellar," she replied with a very snakelike wink.

I made a sarcastic laugh. “Haha.  I mean human food."

"No, I haven't eaten a human in forever," she said and started laughing all over again.  She tried to make an evil face, wiggling her tongue, but it just looked silly.

Marcella slapped her on the shoulder and climbed from the pool, leaving the entire space to Bian, who pulled more of herself into the water.

"Be nice, Bian.  Cait, hang on. I'll get you something."

I sat down at the table and waited for Marcella to finish dressing.  She opened the fridge, plucking out an object that I recognized immediately.  My tongue played over my lips unconsciously as I gazed at the full blood storage bag.  I shivered with a weirdly, almost aroused excitement, and I ran a finger across my bottom lip.

Marcella poured some of the blood into a tin cup. "How are you feeling?" she asked, watching me intently.

I looked away from the blood with effort. "I don't— I don't know," I stuttered, distracted by the smell and taste of blood in the air.  “I—” My mind seized up.  All I could think of was the blood, and I swallowed reflexively.

Marcella smiled beatifically. "It's okay, honey. Let's see how you do with this.  We need to know how far the change has gone."

“The what?”  I whispered, distracted, unable to keep my eyes from the cup.

“Cait, please know that I didn’t want to do it, but you were dying.  I had no choice.”  I barely heard her, and she slid the cup to me.

Instinctively, I lifted the cup to my lips.  I could smell the coppery-iron tang of the blood, and my adrenaline spiked.  Hesitantly, I took a sip.  It tasted of iron, but the salty nature lingered most.  It was so good.  My body reacted, and a shudder passed through me.  My breath came short. I swept my tongue instinctively across my mouth, collecting the thickening drops.  Insatiable need flooded me, overwhelming all thought.  I had to have more.  I snatched the cup violently off the table and gulped down the contents as fast as possible.  Just a few swallows and it was gone.

“More,” I gasped as I reached for the bag, but Marcella pulled it away.

I slammed my hands into the table and barred my teeth instinctively.  A very snakelike hiss boiled from my throat.  She was between me and the blood, and I was going to get it.  I jumped at her.

"Stop!" Marcella thundered, and I dropped to the floor involuntarily, unable to look up, terrified.

Marcella cupped my face gently and turned it toward her. "Cait, It's okay.  Come back, honey."

I hissed again, baring my fangs, but I didn’t move otherwise.  She shushed me and caressed my cheek.

Marcella spoke again, voice motherly and coaxing. “Cait, dearest, come back to me.  It’s alright.”

My lip quivered, and hot tears burned down my cheeks.  “Oh—”  A lump formed in my throat, closing off any further utterance.

"Shh. It's okay," Marcella said, pulling me in close.  After a minute, she pushed me back and examined me, wiping the tears away with her thumbs.  Bian glided over, sliding the rest of her bulk around much more gracefully than before.

"It's given her a flush to her cheeks," Bian noted, turning my head left and right. "She'll be done soon."

"Yes," Marcella confirmed. “But, I think we knew that already.  Caitlin, we need to talk."

Trembling, I sat down at the table.  Marcella retrieved more blood and filled two cups, handing me one.  I forced myself to take small sips of the blood with substantial effort.

Marcella reached out and stroked my arm.  “There you go, small sips, love."

I continued drinking the blood.  Bian dropped a box of tissues in front of me; they landed with a light thwack.  I pulled one and dabbed at my eyes, noting that each tear left a tiny spot of pink.

"Cait," Marcella spoke gently. “I’m sorry.  I just couldn’t let you die.”

A deep angry part of me wanted to know why I'd been so reckless—so fucking idiotic.  But, another emotion wormed into my thoughts.  I loved Marcella, and I wanted to be with her.  Now, I could.  Maybe we wouldn't grow old, but we could have the little house on the cape if we wished to, supposing I didn't accidentally depopulate the area in my blood lust.  But did I want to be with her for eternity?  It was a sobering question for which I had no answer.

Marcella and Bian watched me as, I'm sure, all of these thoughts played across my face.

I took my last sip of blood; then, I used my finger to lazily spoon out the last of it from around the edge. "There's no way back, is there?”

Marcella's voice was gentle but left no doubts.  "I'm sorry, no."

"Will I have to quit my job, do you think?" It seemed silly to ask, but I loved my work.  And, right now, the idea of losing my job felt like losing everything.

Marcella looked at me sympathetically.  “No, you won’t have to quit your job; it will be fine.  People will assume you’re just naturally pale.”

"Carlos is going to have kittens," I said dismally.

"Carlos will be fine, after a fashion, at least."

I put my hand on hers. "How am I going to tell my ma?"  I said it in all seriousness, but it sounded so stupid it made me chuckle.

Marcella snorted a laugh as well and then covered her mouth. "I'm so sorry.  I know it's not funny, but—."

I started laughing too because it was hilarious. "It's like a line out of a vampire movie."

"Your girlfriend is a vampire; wait 'til I tell mama," Marcella said with a perfect southern accent, followed by her adorable snort of a laugh.

"Fuck my life," I said, blowing out a resigned sigh. "I guess it could have been worse; at least I'm not a zombie."

"Revenant, honey," Marcella corrected.

"Whatever."

40

“What the hell, Reagan?” Carlos almost shouted in the interview room when I returned to work.

“It was an accident!”  I wished Marcella had come up with me, but she’d been away too long and had to attend to business matters.

“No,” Carlos said, “two cars running into each other on a busy street, that’s an accident.  Eating the prize in the box of cracker-jacks, that’s an accident.  Being turned into a fucking—,” he lowered his voice, “vampire is not an accident.”

His tone was starting to irritate the fuck out of me.  “What the actual fuck are you bitching about, anyway?  You’re the one who called her.”

“And what about your next physical?” Carlos demanded, ignoring my protest. “How will you explain that pallor, your lack of a heartbeat?”

“I can drink right before my physical. I’ll seem right as rain physiologically,” I said.

“Except for your tongue, and your skin and your—” Carlos had his arms crossed.  He was pissing me off with how smug he looked, pointing out how fucked I was.

“It’s not my fault, Carlos.  Did you fucking want me to die?”

“You know that you’ll have to drink from the living eventually.  You can’t survive on stale blood for much longer.”

I’d have blanched if I could have. I’d forgotten about that.

Carlos misread my expression.  “You didn’t know.  That bitch!”

“Fuck, man!  Ease up!  She saved my life.  I know I’m not ready, but we haven’t had much time for anything else.  I didn’t ask for this!”

“Well, you better start making time before you kill someone.  I hope you’re happy that you’ve joined the land of the leeches.” Carlos slammed the door as he left the interview room.

Ouch, that one hurt a lot—especially coming from Carlos.  I sat down in the chair next to me, stunned.  Fuck.  I forced back tears, blinking them away, and stood.  It doesn’t matter.  I have a job to do, and I am bloody well going to do it.

I opened the door and stomped to Carlos’ desk.  Leaning over, I put my face in his, voice low. “Better a leech than a flea-bitten, mangy asshole.”

Carlos looked at me like I’d slapped him.  Then he just shook his head and laughed. “Fuck you, Reagan, you know that?”

“I know,” I said, suddenly feeling a bit better.

Carlos stood and wrapped his tree-trunk arms around me.

I sniffed.  “I’m sorry; I didn’t have a choice in this.”

“I know, darlin’.  I know.  I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just scared for you, that’s all. You’ve stepped into a world that’s wilder than a June bug on a string.”

“Tell me about it.  A week ago, my biggest worry was how to tell my boyfriend I didn’t love him.” I let go of Carlos and sat down at my desk.

I didn’t sit long because Carol came over and threw a bullet-resistant vest at me.

“What happened to you?” She asked, eyes wide.  “Never mind, tell me later.  We’ve got him.  We’ve got his ass.  Fugitive is already on the way.”

“Got who?” I asked.

“Blackman,” she replied and stalked off.  Carlos and I looked at each other.

“Oh, shit,” I said, eyes wide. “It’ll be a slaughter.”

I checked my service weapon, thanking all the gods there were that Marcella and I had stopped to pick up my gear before heading over.  Ten minutes later, we were flying through the streets of Boston.

According to a couple of patrolmen, it had turned out that Blackman had holed up in Gabe’s empty house. He’d been spotted by some of the guys from District E-5, right around the corner from Gabe’s.  Carlos stepped on the gas, trying to get there before anything happened.

While Carlos drove like a bat out of hell, I contacted Detective Freyer on the tactical frequency. “Freyer, you need to hold until we  get there.”

“Copy that. We’re already in position, Reagan.  How long?”

“Two minutes, Freyer,” I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice.

“You’ve got two minutes,” Freyer said. “Then we’re going in.”

“Freyer, you need to wait.”

“Two minutes Reagan,” he said with finality.

“Freyer— Freyer.” He’d switched frequencies. “Shit, Carlos, hurry. Blackman will tear through them like tissue.”

“I know,” Carlos said, both hands gripping the wheel and eyes glued to the road.  The engine of the overbuilt Ford Explorer roared as he turned out of a roundabout, and I grabbed the Jesus strap for dear life.  Carol was in the back, eyes wide, using both hands to hold onto my seat.  Lights and sirens or no, Carlos was doing nearly ninety down West Roxbury Parkway, only slowing enough not to send us into oblivion at each turn.

“Can you please slow down?” Carol shouted. We ignored her.

“Can you take him?” I worried that fighting Blackman might fall on me, and I didn’t feel one bit stronger than I usually did.

“Maybe,” Carlos replied. “Is he a good hand-to-hand fighter?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, remembering his fight with Marcella. “But, he’s fucking aces with a blade.”

“Cait.” His voice turned grim and low. “You need to be careful.  If anyone gets a whiff of what you’ve become, there’ll be a heap of trouble.”

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Carol called from behind us.

“Carol, I’ll explain later,” I hollered as Carlos took the next roundabout on damn near two wheels.  “Please just make sure you have your seatbelt on, and you stay back when we get there.”

“Cait, so that you know, the feds are already looking into us.”

“You and me?  What for?”

“No, as in people like us,” Carlos lowered his voice so Carol couldn’t hear. “I don’t aim to be a slab of meat on anyone’s exam table.  You have to be Cait the human, not Cait, the almost vampire.”

On a whim, as we rounded the last roundabout and Carlos slowed down, I felt for my pulse, not finding it at all. “Correction, that’s Cait the vampire,” I corrected in a whisper.

How the fuck we were going to bring Blackman in without exposing everything? I had no idea.

Rather suddenly, the world exploded into a cacophony of color and light, almost blinding me, strength suffused every limb.  Sundown had arrived.

“Fuck!” I swore and clamped my eyes shut.

“What?” Carlos asked, startled, jerking the wheel slightly and slowing further.

I opened my eyes, viewing everything with perfect clarity.  The night was in glorious color, every star in the sky visible through the ever-present light pollution of the city.  “Keep going, don’t slow down. I’m fine.”

We rolled to a stop at Gabe’s house, and I spotted movement on the second floor.

Carlos and I stepped out of the car.  He handed me an M4 from the trunk, along with a magazine.  I checked the magazine, slammed it home, and chambered a round.

A dozen officers in tactical gear ringed Gabe’s house.  Mills and Vic were at the front door.

“Freyer, get them away from there!” I yelled, running forward, but it was too late.

Everything seemed to happen at once.  Mills knocked one time and took in a breath to identify himself.  The front door exploded outward.  Mills flew into a squad car twenty feet away, sandwiched between the vehicle, and the door knocked off the hinges.

Blackman pushed his blade through the gap in Vic’s vest like lightning.  Vic crumpled.  He continued down the steps, plowing through the remainder of the fugitive unit faster than they could move out of the way.

I raised my rifle and stalked forward, firing at Blackman.  He was fast, but now, so was I.  His movements no longer seemed like a blur, and I could get a bead on him.  I hit him with four shots center mass— no misses.  It was all I could manage without hitting the other men around him or sending high-velocity rounds into the neighboring house.  Headshots were out of the question.  Blackman staggered but kept moving, slashing at the Fugitive team as he went.

Carlos darted forward and dove for the vampire.  Blackman spun away from the charge and took a swipe at Carlos, narrowly missing.  I waded in, delivering a bone-shattering kick to Blackman’s midsection.  It seemed I was much stronger than I realized.  The kick lifted the short man off the ground and sent him into the tactical van, six feet away, leaving a rather remarkable dent.  He dropped to all fours for a second, eyes wide.  I raised my rifle to shoot him in the head, but I wasn’t quick enough.  He launched forward, impaling me on the katana.  I elbowed him in the face, knocking him back.  He took the sword with him and raised it, looking to take my head off.  But Carlos bowled him over, and the two went down in a heap.  Blackman came up first, taking off at a sprint.  I shot after him, hard on his heels.

We charged down Parklawn, across a small stand of broadly separated trees, turned up West Roxbury Parkway, and headed north, effortlessly passing local traffic.  A car spun out in front of me to avoid hitting Blackman, and I was forced to speed vault over it.  I came down with more momentum than I anticipated and staggered for a second.

Blackman stopped suddenly, then pivoted and kicked the back end of a passing Jeep, causing it to swerve right into me, head-on. It launched me back into the trees.  Fortunately, I landed on the ground rather than impaled on a branch.  But, both of my legs were well and truly banjaxed.  I sat up, banging the earth in frustration.  The pain subsided quickly as the bones reset themselves and the wounds closed.

I stood and walked out of the tree line as soon as I was able.  The Jeep that hit me was gone.  Asshole, I thought.

I was almost a half-mile from Gabe’s.  I jogged back to the scene.  There was a bloody hole in my jeans and one in my shirt, but no wounds to match.  The shoes were covered in blood.  Fuck, how am I going to explain all this?

I looked at the radio still attached to my belt and replaced my earwig.  The radio was still working.  God, these things could take a fucking beating.

Freyer was calling ‘officer down’ on the tactical channel.  I waited for the traffic to clear on the channel and called in.

“Victor 8-9-4 Victor 8-7-7,” I said into the radio.  The tactical channel was encrypted so that we could speak relatively freely.

“Cait, are you alright?” Carlos sounded panicked.

“I’m fine.  How bad is it?” I replied, more worried about the state of the team.

“It’s bad.  Mills is dead, and Vic is in bad shape.   We have five others down, all with survivable wounds.  Where are you?”

“Walking back, I chased him down the street, but I got bumped by a car. I’m not injured,” I made sure to keep my report vague but truthful.

Two ambulances sped past me, full lights and sirens.  The scene at the house was a horror show.

A tarp covered Mills, and the EMTs performed CPR on Vic. I could tell by the amount of blood on the ground around him that he wasn’t going to make it.  Carlos was helping with downed officers.  I started taking supplies from the EMTs to care for the wounded who weren’t already being helped.  It wasn’t long before three more ambulances showed up, followed closely by four press vans from local news.  I handed off the last officers who needed care to the EMTs and sat down on the curb holding an alcohol wipe.  My hands were covered in blood.

I brought my hands to my mouth reflexively, almost licking them.  The urge was powerful and frightening.  I ripped open the wipe and started wiping the blood off.  Damnit.

It was then that I noticed the entire fugitive team was wearing body cams, per policy.  If Carlos were right, the feds would be all over this with me right in the middle of it.  Having to quit my job would be the least of my worries.  I also realized that every last officer still conscious, except for Carlos, was staring at me accusingly.

I just sighed and lowered my head.  Seemingly miraculously, a pack of cigarettes appeared before my face.

“Here, you look like you could use this.” I recognized the voice as belonging to Shandra Clark from Channel 7.  She was bent over, cigarettes and lighter in hand, wearing a sweater, jeans, and a pair of flip-flops.  I took a cigarette and lit it, taking a long drag.  It was a menthol and tasted awful, but the throat hit was worth it.  And, strangely enough, it helped quell the hunger slightly.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I said, blowing out a puff of smoke but otherwise not moving.

She pulled out a cigarette and lit up next to me.  “Looking a little pale, Detective.”

I tried to be polite, but my words came out bitchy.  “I can’t be seen talking to you; thank you for the cigarette, now go away.”

“I think talking to me will be the least of your worries.  I count at least ten body cams around here in plain view, and you were running at automobile speeds.”

I looked at her with suspicion.  “How do you know that?”

“I watched you from my front porch.  I live right over there.” She pointed across the street a few houses down toward the corner of Weld and West Roxbury.  I had run right past her front door.

“No way you and your hot girlfriend can cover this up.” Her voice wasn’t scathing or mean; she was just stating the facts.  How she knew about Marcella and me, I didn’t want to guess at that particular moment.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.

“Yes.  Well, I’ll buy you some time, at least.”

When I didn’t respond, she said, “I’ll let you get back to it, then.” She then stood up and walked back down the street. “Sorry to hear about Gabe,” she called back consolingly. “He did seem like a nice guy.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, taking a last drag off the cigarette and putting it out.

I was so fucked.  Marcella was, too. She’d said that technology would drive us underground.  I just didn’t realize how soon.

41

“Did you fucking know?” Detective Freyer screamed in my face.  “Did you fucking know what we were up against?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond.  My emotional state was tortured and twisted.  In one instant, I could feel an urge rising in my chest to grab Freyer and suck out every last glorious drop of blood.  The next, my eyes burned as I thought of David flying through the air into the squad car like a rag doll and Vic bleeding out.  I looked again at Freyer’s throat; I wanted to tear it open.  I stomped hard on the feeling and stood, turning my back to Freyer.

Freyer pulled us into the conference room and read us the riot act as soon as we got back.  Then he had zeroed in on me.

I thought for a moment whether to lie.  But I couldn’t think of anything believable.  And, frankly, the team deserved better than that.  I’d charged down the street like Captain fucking America after the Winter Soldier, passing cars doing forty.  I was screwed on so many fronts.  It sucked when you had rules to play by, and the enemy didn’t have any.  It was all too easy for them to use that against you.  But, abandoning those rules is how people justified putting children in suicide vests.

Everyone had seen Blackman cut through a half dozen men and kill two of our own.  They’d blame me, no matter what, at least in the short term.  That’s how cops were.

“Hey!” Carlos shouted, getting everyone’s attention.  “How about you back off and cut her some slack.  She’s almost died, watched her boyfriend try to kill her, and, now, two of her best friends are dead, both good detectives.”

I stood up and put a hand on Carlos’ shoulder.  “It’s okay, Carlos,” I muttered.  “Yes, Freyer, I had an idea.  I’d seen him fight at Marcella’s the other night.  I’d warned the officers that night that he was dangerous.  I don’t think I understood just how dangerous.”

“That’s not going to fly, Reagan.  Blackman ran you through with a three-foot sword, and you walked it off.  Then, you took off faster than a fucking thoroughbred at Suffolk Downs.  If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

“If you calm down, I’ll explain.”

“Reagan,” Carlos warned.

“You shut up.” Freyer spat at Carlos. “If I find out you knew about this too, I’ll be kicking your ass.”

“Just try it, muchacho,” Carlos stood up, towering over Freyer and growling right in his face.  “You wanna go, little man?”

Shouts sounded from around us, half of them wanting to see the two of them go at it, the other half trying to break up what was becoming a scuffle.

An ear-splitting whistle sounded through the conference room, and everyone stopped.

“Knock it the fuck off!” Larson stood in the doorway.  “All of you sit the fuck down, right now.”  Everyone backed away from each other, but no one sat.

“Reagan, let’s talk about this in my office.”

“No,” I said firmly.  “These guys need to know what they’re up against.”

“Are you sure?” he said, giving me a warning look.

“Yes,” I said.  “I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, Lieutenant, she knows what she’s doing,” Freyer mocked.

“Shut the fuck up, Freyer!” Larson shot back at him.  “We all make mistakes.  You are no exception.” Freyer looked hurt.  Freyer had been one of the survivors when his team had served a no-knock warrant gone bad.  Internal Investigations cleared him, but we all knew he’d fucked up.

“Fine,” Freyer said, throwing his arms out in a ‘let’s have it’ gesture.

“It’s easier to believe if I show you,” I said.  I extended my fangs and reached over with one arm, picking Freyer up by his vest.  I held him off the ground, dangling over the floor.  Everyone except Carlos slid back about four feet.  Carol was looking at me like I’d grown another head.

“Holy shit!” Freyer exclaimed, pawing at my arm.  I set him back down and pulled my teeth in.  Larson looked a little spooked.  Of course, the only person who didn’t react was Carlos.

“I’m— special,” I said, dodging the word.  It was okay, though; one of Freyer’s guys was kind enough to fill it in.

“Madre de Dios!” Soledad breathed, eyes wide with fear.  “You’re a fucking vampire!  My mama said they were real, but I didn’t believe her.  Holy shit!”

“Yes, I’m probably going to be outed nationwide tomorrow, so it’s not going to matter.  And I’ll be killed.  So, you see, Lieutenant, the best thing I can do is tell them what they’re facing.”

“Did you know about this?” Freyer asked Carlos.

“Yes,” Carlos said.  “But I knew she was forbidden to tell anyone, so I didn’t say anything.  It doesn’t matter that Blackman was the first to break the rules; she did too when she tried to run him down.”

“How do you know so much about it?” Freyer asked, looking suspiciously at Carlos.

Carlos ran his hand through his hair.  “I’ve known vampires were real for years, but who would have believed me.  Besides, we all have secrets of our own.  Some of us have cheated on our spouses.  Some of us have done other things we’re not proud of.  She tried to get everyone away from the door, but it was too late.  That’s why we asked you to hold until we got there.  Cait was trying to keep all of us safe.”

“How’s that?” Freyer asked, incredulous.

“They’d kill you too if anyone found out you knew,” I told him.  “And someone here would spill the beans.  At least now, you don’t have to worry about it.  It’s all on me.  They can’t hush this up or cover it up.  Now, I have an idea for how to fix this, but everyone in this room needs to keep this to themselves.  I’ve been on the force for seven years and part of this team for two.  I’ve been there for all of you at one point or another.  I didn’t ask for this.  It was imposed on me only yesterday, and it sucks.”  A few of the guys snorted at the unintentional pun.  “But, I’m the same person I was on Friday, so please help me out here.”  My eyes welled up a little, but I refused to cry.  “I don’t want to die, and as you’ve seen, no one here can protect me.”

“Bullshit,”  Freyer said, doing a one-eighty.  “I may be pissed off, but we protect our own Reagan.”

“They’ll kill you, Freyer, and anyone assigned to any protection detail.  You saw what just one of them did, and I plugged him four times with my M-4.”

“Who is ‘they?’” one of the other Detectives asked.  Bird, I think her name was.  I didn’t know her well, but we’d never disliked each other.  She looked terrified of me now.

“The vampires have a council.  I’m not sure I can call them evil;  I’ve never met them face to face.  But they’re all hundreds of years old, and none of you would stand a chance against one of them, let alone all.  Besides, it would all happen gradually, each team member offed, making it look like a run-of-the-mill murder or an accident.”  I knew I was embellishing, but I was also trying to save their lives.

“Now that there’s evidence—” I continued, but a dozen phones started buzzing at that moment.

“Turn on the news,” one of the men said.

Larson grabbed the remote off the tabletop and flipped the TV. Shandra Clark was on the screen.  There were a few loud boos from the men behind me.

“Hush!” I hissed.  Fuck. What else was going to happen?

“Sources say that this evening around nine, the Boston Police were serving an arrest warrant at this West Roxbury home.  If you remember, Doug, we’re only a few blocks from the scene of a murder that happened just a few days ago.”  The feed switched to footage showing EMS loading an officer into the back of an ambulance, then Shandra’s voice returned.

“A couple of witnesses swore that one of the officers took off on foot after the perpetrator and was passing cars on West Roxbury Parkway.”  Shandra made her voice sound like she didn’t believe it.

“I understand you were on the scene, Shandra,” Doug Myles said from the news desk.  “What did you see?”

Cut back to Shandra near Gabe’s house.  “Well, I didn’t see any super-cops, if that’s what you mean.  But there was a shootout here, and several officers were injured.  We’ve received reports that two officers were killed during the incident.”

Bless you, Shandra, I thought.

“I believe the mayor is about to give a statement,” Shandra said, and they cut over to the Mayor moving in front of a camera with the Commissioner and the Chief Superintendent.  The mayor began to speak.

“It is with a heavy heart that I come before the people of Boston to report that two officers were killed in the line of duty tonight while serving an arrest warrant.  We will not be releasing the names of those officers at this time so that we can notify their families.  I now turn it over to the Commissioner.  She will provide further details and answer questions.”

The Commissioner cleared her throat.  “Tonight, in the service of a warrant for the arrest of Haimon Blackman, who is wanted in connection with four murders, Mr. Blackman was able to escape from the Fugitive Apprehension Unit.  During his escape, Mr. Blackman wounded six officers and killed two others.  We would like civilians to be on the lookout for Mr. Blackman.  If seen, he should not be approached; call 9-1-1.  Mr. Blackman should be treated as armed and extremely dangerous.

“I will take questions at this time.”

“What about the reports we’ve heard from multiple witnesses of some kind of super cop?” Wow, I was the first question off the bat.  Not even questions about the other officers who were injured.  That was fucked up.

“We don’t know what witnesses thought they saw, but if we had a super-cop on the force, we certainly wouldn’t be hiding it.  Any other questions?”

My phone buzzed, and I looked down.  I stepped out the door, mouthing to Carlos, ‘Marcella.’  He nodded and stepped up in front of the door behind my exit.

I hit the answer button and cringed.  “Hey.”

“Are you okay?” Marcella sounded more worried than upset.

“Yes, I’m okay.  But Blackman killed one of my best friends, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to be fired.”

“First, you’re not going to be fired,” Marcella stated unequivocally.  “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“I’m sorry, Marcella, I fucked up.”

“It was bound to happen eventually.  Honestly, we’ve been lucky it hasn’t happened before now.  I think you did the right thing.  Blackman is a rogue, and we need to take him down before it gets any worse.  We’ve had shit like this before, and we’ve always managed to blow it off.  It’ll be looked at as a hoax.” The line was quiet for a few seconds.

“Marcella?” I prompted.

“Sorry, just thinking.  Anyway, I should have stayed with you, but I can’t be everywhere at once.  I wasn’t prepared for this to happen right now, but we’ll have to make due.  How are you feeling?  Are you hungry?”  Her voice was laced with concern.

I took a breath.  The desire for blood had been rising rapidly since my chase with Blackman. I rubbed my arms, feeling the antsiness crawling under my skin. “Yes, but I’m okay for now,” I lied.

“That won’t last.  Come as soon as you can, and don’t dawdle.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, Cait.  I won’t let anything happen to you.  This is as much on me as it is on you.”

“I love you, too.”

We hung up, and I turned around to go back into the conference room and almost walked into Lieutenant Larson.  “Come on,” he said.  “Let’s get this over with.”

We walked into his office. He shut the door.  “Good job today.”

I blinked.  “I’m sorry?”

“I said, you did a good job today,” Larson repeated.  “I’m just sorry you didn’t catch the bastard.”

“I’m not fired?” I asked.

“Fired? For what?” he asked me, one eyebrow raised.  “Cait, you’ve been with this department for seven years.  Your service record has been exemplary.  All I’ve seen from the footage was that Blackman plowed out of the door and cut down six officers.  Then you and Carlos, with no concern for your own safety, tried to take him down.

“Then, you, again with no concern for your own safety, took off after him.  You didn’t kill Mills or Vic; Blackman did.  Those guys know that.” Larson pointed toward the conference room. “And don’t mind Freyer, you heard him.  We protect our own.”

“But, Bill, I’m a vampire.  Doesn’t that bother you?”

“It might if you were the first I’d run across, but you’re not.”

The hunger began to pound on my senses.  “You’ll have to share that story at some point.”

“At some point.  Now, get out there and find this bastard.  I can’t bring him down without you.”

“Yes, sir.”  I breathed a sigh of relief as I left Larson’s office.  A teary-eyed Detective Doyle was standing outside the door.  She threw her arms around my neck and pulled me into a hug, pressing into me in a way that felt more intimate than the moment demanded, but I didn’t pull away.  Instead, I pushed my face into her neck, unable to stop myself.

“I’m so sorry to hear about David and Vic,” she whispered in my ear.  “It’s terrible.”  Her pulse was next to my mouth, and I could hear her heart beating in my ears like a drum.  She smelled— oh, so good.  I could feel my fangs lengthening as inappropriate thoughts filtered into my head.

Just a little taste.

I jerked back and nearly ran away, grabbing my things on the way out.

42

I pulled into the parking garage under Marcella’s at about midnight.  My thoughts obsessed on Jessica Doyle— the beautiful way her luscious auburn hair drew my eye to her precious throat, her pulse beating under her skin, the smell of lavender and jasmine in her hair.  I’d stopped three times during the drive, desperate to turn back, to find Jessica and claim her. It was more than enticing; it was an almost irresistible urge tugging at my chest, my emotions, my sex.  My mind repeatedly clouded with thoughts of her burning with passion underneath me as I smeared her blood across my lips and kissed her. The vision played in my consciousness, causing me to stumble as I exited the car.

A distant part of me fought for control, but it was feeble, weak. I staggered to the elevator, mashing the call button repeatedly.

“Come on, come on. Please.” The last word came out as a whimper as I leaned against the elevator door.   Underneath my skin and the banging beat of the hunger was the tiny voice of my terror.  Mixed in the arousal and predatory need roiled fear and hopelessness.

The door opened, and I fell inside. Gentle, pale, feminine arms caught me. I looked up into the unfamiliar green eyes of an unknown vampire and pleaded, “Help me.” My hands were quaking, and shivers were running down my spine.

“Shh,” the woman said. “Marcella is worried sick.” Her voice should have been soothing, but it was grating.

I bared my fangs and hissed at her.  “Shut up!”  I struggled to get loose; I needed blood.  I clawed at her face and chest, tearing great rents in the fabric of her shirt and leaving long scratches on her flesh. They bled slightly before healing, and I licked at them, desperate. But the blood was dead, cold, empty, and I spit it to the floor.

The elevator dinged, impossibly loud. She picked me up roughly and carried me into the kitchen like a rag doll. I could smell the blood as soon as we walked in. It was close— so close.

“Marcella!” the unknown vampire called nonchalantly.  “She’s back.”

“Oh, thank the Goddess.  Elizabeth, get her to the table.”  Marcella rushed into the kitchen as the green-eyed vampire dumped me rather unceremoniously into a chair.  Marcella slid a cup in front of me.  “Cait, I’m so sorry.  I shouldn’t have left you like that.”

“You need to take better care of your toys, M.”

“Shut up, Elizabeth.  Not now.”  Marcella’s voice was harsh and sounded like bristles on brass.

I looked at the cup of blood. Now that it was in front of me, I fought for control.  My whole body trembled as the hunger drove me to lean toward the cup, and I jerked back.  Holding on, barely, muscles clenching in my arms, I bit into my lip to keep from just pouring it down my throat. Pink tears, tinged with blood, flowed down my face, dripping off my chin and onto my chest.

Finally, I picked up the cup with two shaking hands, tremulously bringing it to my lips. The first sip was like sex in a drop; the relief flooded into my very being.  The blood was almost warm.  But then, control fled, and I upended the cup, gulping and licking out every drop, my tongue snaking out to find the bottom.

I looked up to Marcella, feeling so much like a child.  Her eyes scraped away my defenses with utter compassion, and a soft hand slid through my hair.  Lain so painfully bare, I started to weep.  All of the sorrow, grief, self-pity, and horror I had inside just spilled out in a torrent of ear-splitting, wrathful sobs.

Marcella sat on the floor and pulled me into her lap, wrapping me in a powerful embrace.  She anchored me to her as I shattered like glass on marble.

For days, I had been in shock with terror piled on tragedy: parasites, vampires, Gabe, Mills, Vic.  I had no more room for any more pain, and now, I could see him, a little boy named Ahmed Hadi, looking at me from across the room.  His liquid brown eyes pierced my being, shaming me—the little boy who had never had a chance to live before my bullet ended his life.  Memories, dulled by time, were now crystal clear.  I had no words for the suffering that coursed through my heart and pushed into the cracks of my soul.  So I howled my grief to the universe, raging against an uncaring God.

Elizabeth stood next to us.  “I’ll call you,” she said to Marcella and turned to go, but she stopped.  She bent down and ran a hand through my hair, pushing aside errant strands.  “Not too different than I was at first.”

Marcella continued to rock me.  “No, she’s not.”

“I’m sorry, Cait.  It shouldn’t be like this.”  Elizabeth stood.  “Goodbye, Marcella.  We’re even, now.”  She strode from the room.

I heard all of it, but it would be much later before I comprehended, so lost was I in my head.  Marcella and I sat there for almost an hour. She didn’t coo or shush or say anything. She simply held me in her arms, rocking me, waiting. When I had run out of tears and lamentations and miserable desperate screams of hurt, she handed me another cup. I drank it slowly, cradling it with still trembling fingers.  Emotionally exhausted, I looked at Marcella’s face.

“You did good,” she whispered. Her expression was one of approval—not a hint of judgment.

“Did I?” I asked, my voice small, child-like.

She chuckled. “Oh yes, the state you were in? When you staggered out of the elevator with Elizabeth, I felt awful. I hadn’t realized how far along you were when we were on the phone. Goddess, I should never have left you alone.”

“He killed them, Marcella. He killed Mills and Vic.  David Mills was one of my best friends—one of my only friends.  And Vic’s wife, Donna, just found out she’s pregnant with their child.”  I put my arms around her and buried my face in her collar.

“Come, Cait, let me take you to rest.”  Marcella picked me up as if I weighed nothing, carrying me to the elevator and up.  She was my love, my life. I’d die for her without question. I was hers.

We arrived in her room, and she lay me on the bed, covering me with the blanket.  And though I was neither hot nor cold, that simple act of compassion filled me with profound comfort.

“Rest, my darling,” she said, and the echo of command filtered through the words. I didn’t bother to resist. My eyes shut, and I was no more.

There were no dreams, no visions, no conscious or unconscious thoughts. There was no awareness of the passage of time. It was blissful oblivion, so far beyond sleep, like somehow being unmade, all my parts removed and laid to rest until needed.

“Wake up,” Marcella commanded, and my eyes flew open. Every part of my being felt comfortable and whole, feelings settled and clear.  The rage and anger of the previous night had scattered. I didn’t know if it would continue, but I felt—safe.  Since my father had died, I felt whole inside for the first time.

Fatigue overwhelmed me as the morning sunlight burned through the window. I was about to pull my head down under the covers when Marcella pulled the blackout curtains across the enormous picture window, shrouding the room.

“Here, drink this, and then rest more.” Marcella handed me another cup of blood, blissfully warm.  I downed it quickly and rolled over, licking my lips.

“Tonight, you and I need to go out so I can start showing you the ropes.  So get rest.”

“Okay, mom,” I joked tiredly, yawning reflexively and nearly dislocating my jaw.  “Who was the woman that brought me up the elevator?”

“Elizabeth Tyler, she’s an old friend.  She was dropping off some things I’d left with her in London, returning a favor.”

“Oh.  She looks a lot like you.  She’s stunning.”

“Yes, dear, it seems you have a type.”  Marcella’s tinkling laugh descended on me, making my skin prickle, as she stroked my cheek, and a touch of contentment filtered into my fogged and sleepy brain.  Then, I slipped away again.

43

Later that night, having slept to sundown, I sat on her bed and looked out the window, admiring the stars.  It had been a long day.  I laid back and closed my eyes.  The hunger returned immediately.  My skin felt as if it were burning.  My eyes felt tired, and I could almost, but not quite, taste blood on my tongue.  It was agonizing.  Visions of Doyle and her precious neck swam through my head.  I thought about calling her.  I had her number.

I jerked as Marcella interrupted me.  “Come into the bathroom; I need to do your makeup.”

“Fine!” I snapped.

Marcella looked at me, but instead of getting upset, she just smiled beatifically.  “Come now, darling.  Let’s get that hunger under control.”

I marched into the bathroom with her, and, with me seated before one of her vanities, Marcella began applying my makeup. Like her wardrobe, it was high-end stuff. After she had finished, I looked in the mirror.  I looked— beautiful.  She had even managed to tone down the sheen of my skin.  Then, she grabbed a hairdryer and gave me a blowout. By the time she was finished, I was agape at my appearance.  I looked— glamorous.   For once in my life, I didn’t think my eyes were the color of swamp water.  They were deep like green-brown glass, windowing the world.

“See, Cait,” she said, looking over my shoulder and smiling appreciatively. “You are truly worthy of the catwalks of Paris and Milan. I’d certainly give you a shag.”

I laughed nervously at the comment. “You’ve already given me a shag.”

“Well, then I’d give you another one. Okay, let’s get dressed. I have a surprise for you,” she took my hand and dragged me to her closet.

Marcella had set aside a generous portion of it for me and filled it with clothing.  I tried dressing in my usual conservative work wardrobe, but she would have none of it.

“No, no, white’s not a good color. Here, put this on.” She handed me an outfit.  I had no problem with the black silk top, but it took a minute to struggle into the tight leather pants and over-the-knee boots.

Marcella bit her lower lip.  “Perfect, except—”   She stepped into me and nibbled at my throat, undoing three of my buttons. “We’re going dancing, dear, not to a criminal interrogation.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Come,” she said, holding my hand. “Leave your badge, gun, and cell phone.” I did as she asked with the gun and cellphone but pushed my badge into a pocket.  One never knew.

We ended up at a bar called Leslie’s. It wasn’t a lesbian bar, per se; there are none in Boston—I blame assimilation.  But there were many gay women inside, some enjoying fairly involved displays of affection.

As we entered, I resisted the urge to flick my tongue.  Even so, I could taste the excitement in the air, literally. Pheromones and sexual attraction had a flavor to them. It was enticing, and the hunger immediately yanked at my attention, the palpable need making my skin crawl.  It seemed to have a mind of its own, knowing where I was and, more importantly, why.

“Do you feel it?” Marcella shouted over the music.

I nodded vigorously as Marcella led me to the bar, her body language making it clear that we were ‘just friends’ tonight.

“Now what? I’m not much of a cruiser.”

Marcella spoke into my ear.  “First of all, look at me and focus.  Filter out the rest of the noise. You need to learn to do this.”

I faced her, and she began speaking. I tried to listen to her directly, but that didn’t work. I could hear Marcella’s voice in the cacophony of shouting and the banging drum-beat of the DJ, but she was too faint to make out. I closed my eyes to listen. Around me, the noise began to separate itself into individual words, phrases, and conversations. As I concentrated on each conversation, the music settled itself into the background. It was still loud as hell, but the voices became clear.

“I’d like a martini, dirty.” The voice belonged to a woman who sounded to me in her early twenties.

“I need ID, kid.” That was the bartender.

“My husband can’t fuck to save his life,” a woman whispered further down.

“Can you?” another woman shouted. I didn’t think it was the same conversation, but the coincidence was funny.

“Oh, my God,” a woman gasped in ecstasy. Was that the bathroom? Eww. Who has sex in the bathroom?  I wasn’t one to knock people’s proclivities, but I wouldn’t do it.  Sex in a public place eeked me out.

“So, eventually, you should be able to hear me, and when you can, open your eyes and look at me.” I opened my eyes, and Marcella’s voice rang crystal in my ears. “Good girl,” she said, and I smiled. Even though I could hear Marcella, I was also aware of many conversations. I didn’t block them out, but they became unimportant— background noise.

“I thought we were going dancing,” I said sardonically.

“We will, later, if there’s time. Now we need to find you a suitable donor.”

“You mean victim?” I said flatly.

“No, you remember how you felt when you thought it was a dream?” That poked a bit of a nerve, but I nodded.

“It’ll be similar, but there’ll be no domination until it’s over.”

“So you’re saying I’m going to seduce someone and then whammy them to forget I fed on them?”

“Absolutely! Clearly, you understand.” Marcella seemed supremely confident in my abilities. I was not.

“I’m not sure who you think you turned, but—.”

Marcella interrupted me. “You’ll take to it naturally, trust me.”

She glanced around and spotted someone, then leaned in, still looking. “Behind you, against the far wall, is a woman in a gray tank top, jeans, and biker boots. She’s been scoping you since you walked in.”

I took a moment to order a drink and had to remember to speak up for the bartender. I looked around the bar, dangling my glass of scotch from my fingers. I saw the woman Marcella was talking about. Looking to be in her mid-twenties and fit, she had short dirty-blond hair in a pixie cut. Her boots were knee-high motorcycle boots, and her jeans were ripped. She was cute—hot, really.

I glanced at her, smiled, and then turned back to the bar. “I feel a little guilty right now,” I said and drank from my scotch.

“You can’t feel guilty about survival, Cait. I won’t let you hurt her, and she’ll enjoy her evening.  I promise.”

She wasn’t getting it.  “Not about that, at least not yet. I’m getting ready to flirt with a woman, and you’re right here.”

“Cait,” Marcella said with all seriousness. “You’re one of us now. Love is love, which will never change, but sex is sex, and blood is blood.”

“But I’ve always been a one person at a time lover. I don’t think I can change that.” I was suddenly getting a little uneasy, and an ugly touch of jealousy began to rise.

“Me too. And that’s okay, but you need to see this as more about feeding and less about sex. Does it bother you that I might be a little flirty with someone else?  After sharing my night with Stephanie with you, does it still bother you?”

“No.  I get why you have to do it.  But it’s different—.”

“When it’s you.  I get it.  Think of it as more of a game of flirting. We’re here to enjoy our evening, and this is part of it. Trust me, it’s enjoyable, and you don’t have to feel guilty, as long as you don’t—.” She trailed off.

“Kill anyone.  I know.”  I downed my scotch, which felt like dropping a rock into my stomach.

“Yeah, you’re going to regret that later,” Marcella said with a laugh. “Next time, don’t drink anything before you feed. It’s not going to cause a real problem, but you’ll find the experience is better in the long run.”

Why did she have to be some damn cryptic? But I already knew the answer. This was like a training patrol. She wanted me to make mistakes so that I didn’t make them later when she wasn’t around.

I ordered another scotch, top-shelf this time. Carrying the glass, I walked through the crowd to the other side of the club where pixie-cut was standing, and the hunger seemed to take on a life of its own. The music permeated all that I was, each bass note pumping into my blood. Every step became a statement of predatory intent, like a cat stalking its prey. I slid through the crowd with preternatural grace, and they seemed to part for me. Lust and wanton power fueled me now. I could feel an aura of sexuality flowing off of me in waves, causing heads to turn as I passed. I ignored them, intent on my target.

Marcella was halfway across the bar, but I could still hear her. “See, relax, and it will just happen. Did I mention you look so fucking hot right now?”

A cocky smile parted my lips at the compliment. Now, very close, I held out the drink to pixie-cut. She took it and raised the glass.  “I’m here with my girlfriend, but thanks for the drink.”

I put my arm on the wall next to her and leaned close, smiling like the monster that I was, all dark promise and seduction.

“Are you?” My breath brushed through her hair, blowing the strands about. “You’ve been over here alone for quite a while.” I could feel the heat of her body, and I heard her heartbeat quicken. Intense satisfaction filled me, knowing that I was turning her on with so little effort.

“I don’t like to dance,” she shouted over the music— a lame excuse. “She’s on the floor with one of our friends.” I could feel the underlying tension in her tone.  The way she said ‘friend’ suggested they were anything but.

I leaned just a hair closer.  “Which one is she?”

Something floated at the edge of my consciousness, previously unnoticed. There was no good way to describe it, but it felt like soft sand sliding against my thoughts. Instinctively, my consciousness touched back. It was like slipping into something private and enticingly forbidden— a peaceful space in pixie-hair’s mind that had no defense. I felt her desire for me, and it was becoming more intense by the second. Beneath that desire stirred a harsh feeling— jealousy. Pixie-hair’s eyes turned dreamy, and I realized it was something I was doing—automatic, reflexive. My will was reaching out, tentacular and dark, drawing up her most wanton needs. It wasn’t something I controlled; it just— was. And I decided I liked it.

“The blond in the pink dress,” she said, pointing lazily toward the dance floor.  Pixie-cut looked at me, her expression shot through with lust.  I had utterly snuffed out her will.  The power trip of that was heady and intoxicating all on its own.  The desire to claim this creature, this woman, was dark and powerful.  I needed to take her to the heights of pleasure, then consume her.

I finally spotted pixie-cut’s girlfriend on the dance floor. ‘Dress’ was a generous description of what she wore. It was a body-contoured little thing that ran from her ass to her shoulders. It covered the critical parts, but it screamed sex.  She was pressed against another woman in black skin-tight pants and a yellow crop t-shirt. The two of them were very, very close.

Marcella was over at the bar, clearly listening to every word and smiling like the cat that ate the canary. The guilt and unease I’d felt earlier vanished, and I understood what she had meant. It was a game.  I was the hunter now, and this woman was my prey. The burning need of the hunger stubbed out my conscience like a dead cigarette. She was mine, and it was already all over.

Pixie-hair’s girlfriend embraced her dance partner and laid quite the lip lock on her. Pixie-cut stiffened and made a face of irritation and disgust. Her eyes turned toward mine, and I could almost see the obscene thoughts racing behind them.

“Seems like you’re alone, now,” I whispered seductively and licked her ear gently.

She downed the scotch. “Let’s go,” she said.

I drew a predatory smile and let her lead me to the door. I looked to Marcella, but she wasn’t in her seat.

We didn’t get far down the street before pixie-cut pulled me into an alley and kissed me, probing my mouth with her tongue desperately. She pulled away for a second and put her hand to her lips. My fucking tongue. Shit.

“I’m into body mods; they have their uses,” I said with a wink and slid my flat, blue, forked tongue up to touch the end of my nose. She gasped slightly and pulled me in for another deep kiss. The hunger roared, but I drew the encounter out, enjoying her kiss and feeling her tantalizing need rise to an uncontrollable urge.

I nibbled at her ear and listened to her moan quietly. She pulled my hand to her breast, and I caressed it gently. She wasn’t wearing a bra, so I used my thumb to stroke her erect nipple, eliciting a series of muffled noises from her throat.

So sensitive had I become to her pulse that I felt it beating against my tongue as I ran it wet and wide across her neck. I could feel her heat and desire both physically and mentally as I brushed against her mind again. I thought to push into her thoughts to heighten her arousal, but her mind was open and seemed to be almost clawing for me to control her.  I shoved my hands into her pants, massaging her toward climax.

Then she moaned loudly with unbridled lust while I tore her throat open to drink in all that she was. She gave a modest whimper of pain, but then she sighed, and her body relaxed into me, shivering with pleasure. The blood tasted divine, so different from the stale goop I had been drinking. She tasted pure and sweet, like lust and want and surrender. My body quivered in pleasure as I drank, and drank, and drank. After a few moments, I felt something new— a brightness, a heat, a warmth. It was the sparks of her life, settling into me, consumed to keep me alive. Her blood, a dark, sinful delight incarnate, filtered through me, taking me to the crest of pleasure and then over.

I wanted more, though, to own her, possess her, and take all that she was. I didn’t want to stop. I knew I should stop, that I should let go, that she would die— was dying. She was lost in her heat, clawing at the back of my shirt, bunching the fabric in her hands in orgasm after orgasm. Her hands became weak, but I didn’t stop.  I couldn’t get enough.  Alarm bells were ringing in my head, but still, I drank.  One of her hands dropped limply to her side, and still, I drank.

Finally, a soft hand pushed at my forehead, and a voice, quiet as a whispering breeze, spoke. “Stop. You’ll kill her.”

I didn’t want to stop, but the pressure from Marcella’s grip became more insistent.  Finally, I released the girl.

“You feel the warmth?” The voice said. I nodded lazily, feeling a little drunk on the life’s blood of this young woman, now pulsing beneath my skin.

“Return a bit to her,” Marcella said.

The pixie-haired girl leaned hard against the wall, hanging on to my shirt and panting weakly.  Blood spilled slowly from her throat— too slowly. I cupped her face and felt the changed blood rise to my mouth. It was tasteless, and I pushed the cool, viscous substance between her lips. She swallowed and then gasped. I watched in awe as the gash in her throat stopped bleeding altogether and closed.

The thrill of power was heady— terrifying. What was I doing to this poor child? But, God, her response when I bit into her was so beautiful—here—in the dark alley where no one could see.  I was the beast, the monster of both nightmares and tantalizing, wet, needful dreams, and I loved every glorious drop.

“I know you feel her mind,” My senses now felt less clouded. But, the hunger remained. God, this young woman was beautiful. I could have this whenever I wanted. I could call her to me; all I had to do was find her, feel her.

“What do I say?” I asked, grasping for some way to explain the blood on my chin and her neck.

“You have time,” Marcella whispered in my ear. “Look at her and think about it. But remember, if you tell her something that conflicts too heavily with her reality, you can break her.”

What the hell do I say to explain the feeding away?

I found the same gentle space that was the core of who she was, but I could think of nothing. I released her thoughts.

“That was so good,” I said.

“Oh yeah.”  Pixie hair replied.

“I’m sorry I got a little carried away.”

“Are you okay?” She asked dreamily, her eyes starting to become focused. She looked up at my face and drew back, letting me go and staggering slightly.

“Am I okay? Are you okay?” I asked and then realized my fangs were still extended. Shit. I suck at this.

“Are you going to kill me?”  There was no fear in her blissed-out expression, just curiosity.

“No. Now, are you okay?”

“Are you kidding? That was the most intense sexual experience of my life, and you’re asking if I’m okay?” She touched her neck, finding the skin whole and unbroken.

“Seriously, are you okay?” I asked again.

Pixie-cut just nodded, hooked an arm around my neck, and turned me to the wall, kissing me passionately and unbuttoning my pants. She reached her hand into my panties. God, I was still so turned on and, suddenly, so wet. I was about to push her off when Marcella whispered seductively in my ear.

“It’s okay, Cait, I don’t mind.” Marcella was standing at my shoulder, but pixie-cut seemed not to see her.

The pixie-haired girl began working me toward my own orgasm, moving down to kiss my neck. I looked at Marcella, gliding back into the dark, watching me. I orgasmed quickly, my eyes slamming shut as I moaned lasciviously. It was like fire running through me, and my knees felt a little shaky as the climax seemed to go on and on.

“Oh, God,” I whispered.

Afterward, Pixie-cut pulled out a cigarette and then held out the pack.  “That was unreal.  By the way, I’m Pauline.”

I took the cigarette and the offered light, drawing in a deep drag. “I’m Caitlin,” I said, and she moved back in front of me, licking at my chin.

“Wanna go to my place?” Pauline breathed, leaning back against the wall.

I blew out a puff of gray smoke.  “I can’t; I’ve got to be someplace else. Another time perhaps?”

“Definitely,” she replied, backing away unsteadily. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” She grabbed my neck and kissed me deeply before walking away.

As soon as Pauline was out of sight, Marcella swooped in and pressed her lips to mine. “You are so sexy,” she said. “That was not too bad.”

“You’re kidding, right? I was completely out of control,” I admitted. “I almost killed her.”

Marcella hung her arms around my neck.  “That’s why I’m here.  You did rather well. But, next time, retract your fangs.”

“Yeah,” I said sheepishly. “I figured that out.”

“Also, you need to think a little quicker on your feet. She had a little blood on her shirt. It didn’t need to be explained at all. She probably wouldn’t have noticed if you’d licked the blood off of her neck. And carry one of these.” She held up a packet containing an alcohol wipe.

“You could have given me that advice to start with,” I said, lips pursed.

“Failures are how we learn, darling.  You’ll remember it better for next time.”

“I know.  You know, I practically dominated her will from the start.”

“That’s instinct, and it will take time for you to learn to quell it.”

“I—I’m not sure that I want to,” I confessed.

“Cait,” Marcella said, turning very serious. “They’re people, not just food. I didn’t think you, of all people, would have trouble remembering that.”

We started walking back to the car, and I was surprised by a powerful urge to go back into the club and do it again. Stopping, I wrestled with what Marcella had just said.  It wasn’t like me to take advantage of someone, especially after I’d stomped all over Marcella for precisely the same thing. But, I couldn’t bring myself to feel bad about it, and I couldn’t figure out why. And that was bothering me a lot. I should feel guilty or something. Maybe, hopefully, it would hit me later.

I looked toward the bar and watched Pauline’s girlfriend in the pink dress stumble out, clearly drunk, looking around. Pauline was long gone, it seemed. I decided to wait and see what she did. A naughty little part of me wondered what she might be like compared to her girlfriend, but I pushed that thought away. What I’d done to Pauline was surely going to upset me later, and I didn’t need to add to it. But, the temptation was strong.

Pauline’s girlfriend stumbled down the street from Leslie’s, and a guy next to a van tried to chat her up. He grabbed her and pulled her into the van when she kept going.

“Oh, hell no,” I said and tore off toward the van at full tilt, springing up on my toes in the heeled boots.

I reached the van before it got up any speed, throwing myself into the driver’s side door.  A painful shock jarred my shoulder, and I fell, knocked to the ground by the impact. The van jerked right and hit a parked car head-on, stopping cold. The steam of a busted radiator whistled through the grill.

I picked myself up and ran around to the back, yanking open the doors.  Inside, I found three men, the driver, and two others pulling themselves off the floor. Next to the two kidnappers in the back were Pauline and her girlfriend.  I didn’t hesitate. I yanked the first man out of the van and knocked him roughly to the ground.

Marcella rounded the van.  “Sit,” she ordered. The man I’d chucked out sat down and didn’t move.

I snatched the other two men out, dragging the driver out over the seat and whacking his head on the ceiling. I smelled the blood of the cut it left on his head and licked my lips.

With surprising speed and clarity, I found the spaces in their minds that were the core of who they were. Unlike Pauline, their minds were far from gentle. They were greasy and crusted with anger and amorality. “Sit down and stay quiet,” I commanded.

They did as they were told. Marcella snatched a phone out of one of the guys’ pockets and called 9-1-1. While she was on the phone, I carefully checked in on the girls, bringing them both through the van doors.

A small crowd had gathered outside the club, snapping pictures. I ignored them and used my badge to move them away from the crime scene. Marcella gave me a disapproving look but said nothing.

Pauline was a little dazed and bleeding from the back of her head. Her girlfriend was drunk and staggering but uninjured. As soon as I set her on the sidewalk, she turned and puked all over one of the men. He jerked around but did not stand.  I knew the situation was serious, but I had to stifle my laugh.

When three patrol cars rolled up a few minutes later, one of the men recognized me.

“You working vice tonight, Reagan?” he asked, waving at my outfit.

“Fuck you, Delauder,” I answered, giving him the finger.  “I’m out dancing with my girlfriend, and we happened to catch these assholes in the middle of a kidnapping.”

“Where’d the blood come from?  You hurt?”

“It’s hers.” I pointed to Pauline.  “She’s got a cut on the back of her head.”  Marcella gave me the alcohol wipe, and I started cleaning my face.

We were on scene for about an hour while we made statements and ensured that Pauline and her girlfriend, Jenny, as it turned out, had a ride home. Jenny tried to hug Marcella and me, but we waved her off.  She had vomit on her dress.  Pauline walked up to me and put her arms around my neck.

“I thought I recognized you. You’re that cop I saw on Twitter,” she whispered as she hugged me close. “Thank you.” She planted a soft kiss on my cheek and then looked at the side of the van, whistling. I peeked around the vehicle and realized I’d crushed in the I-beam behind the driver’s door.

“You should have a doctor look at your head,” I told her.

Pauline just waved her hand dismissively.  As she took Jenny’s hand and they climbed into a patrol car, she glanced back appreciatively.

Marcella and I went back into the bar, and I cleaned myself up in the bathroom sink, getting the rest of the blood off me.  Then we returned to the Jeep.

“How do you feel?” She asked.

“Like a fucking superhero right now,” I replied, totally jazzed by the rescue.

“Okay, well, that’s good because what I have to say next will be a bit of a letdown.”

“Okay?”

“I told you to leave your badge at home,” she said sternly. “What do you think will happen if you’re interrupted while feeding and drop it accidentally. You can’t ‘whammy,’ as you say, more than one person at a time, so you might have to run.  Next thing you know, you’re up on charges of, at best, attempted murder. Now, you need to follow my instructions.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said sheepishly. She was right; I’d been stupid. But, in my defense, this was my first time.  But hadn’t I just whammied two guys at once?  It felt like it, but maybe one had just obeyed because the other did.  I couldn’t be sure.  “Anything else?”

“Listen to the little voice that tells you that your donor is done. Otherwise, they’ll die, and you’ll be miserable. Now that you’ve fed, you, I assume, felt when your donor had given all she could, as I did. Pay attention to that because I won’t be there to rescue you next time.”

“Okay.” That scared me. The training wheels were coming off after one go? I didn’t know if I was ready for that.

“Also, never be seen leaving the bar with your donor. Make an excuse for the ladies’ room and meet them outside. It makes for fewer witnesses and less suspicion later if something goes wrong. And, finally, don’t ever feed in public like that again. Stick to a private place, preferably their apartment or hotel room, not your own. That way, you’re less likely to be interrupted. If you want them to live, they’ll need changed blood. How will you provide that if someone interrupts you and stops your feeding? Your donor will bleed out.”

“Christ, there are a lot of rules.”

“Yes, Cait, there are. This takes time to learn. Fortunately, I’m a pro.” She winked at me. “That’s enough for one night. There’s something else I need to show you.”

44

As we drove back to Marcella’s, my feelings about what I'd done had become much more ambivalent.  The strange high I'd felt had subsided, and I began to feel very guilty.

Pauline had been a sweet young girl, but she'd been in pain, and I had taken advantage of that.  Setting aside the fact that I'd had a sexual encounter with a stranger in an alley something I had never thought I'd do.  I felt like, somewhere along the way, I had assaulted her.

"Don't overthink it, Cait," Marcella said as she drove.

"I can't help it." I stared dismally out the window at the passing cars, my finger worrying at a bit of condensation.

"You didn't choose this. None of us did, really.  I can be honest enough to say that I’d have done it anyway had I been told what I’d become.  But I was out for vengeance.”  Her voice grew gentle, and she placed a hand on my leg.  “Cait, if you don't feed on the living, you will become a killing machine. You took the least harmful option."

"I just wish there was a better one."

"Well, you could find a pet," Marcella said distastefully.

"Does that mean what I think it does?"

"You find someone, groom them to trust you, tell them what you are, and keep them as your walking juice box."

"What happens when one of these ‘pets’ gets pissed off, jealous, or suddenly gets the John Wayne's and decides to report their ‘master’ to someone."

Marcella looked over at me, and her expression made it clear that such events only had one outcome.

"I see."

"You're less than a day from your transformation, so you'll need to feed often. Bagged blood will tide you over, but it lacks the actual life that sustains us. After a while, it won't sate the hunger at all. But, try to remember that young girl—"

"Pauline," I clarified.

"Yes, Pauline. Her experience with you tonight thrilled her. As far as she was concerned, it was exciting and fulfilling, and she walked away uninjured and happy. You didn't even have to lie to her in the end.

“On top of that, if you hadn't been there, she probably would have left the bar anyway, and then she and her girlfriend would have very likely ended up raped and murdered. Everyone won, except the bad guys. Exorcising your guilt over the encounter is a small price to pay for all of that.”

While I digested that, Marcella continued.  “I am glad, though, to see that it bothers you some. I was worried that you might get hooked on the power trip, and I speak from experience when I say that’s easy to do."

It was hard to argue with her, and it mollified my guilt somewhat. I tried not to think about how much I had enjoyed the power over Pauline, the pleasure I had given her and received in return. But, my mouth quirked in a satisfied smile anyway.  I had become the beast I had feared—and I liked it, which scared me.

“Marcella?  Every story I’ve ever read about vampires has missed the mark.”

She smiled knowingly and prodded me to continue.  “Go on?”

“They all focused on the battle against the blood lust of the hunger.  But the real battle is against the power we have over others.  It—“  I paused, considering my words. “It feels so good.”

Marcella kept her eyes on the road, turning us out of downtown and circling back toward Charlestown.  “I’m glad you recognize that because it will get the better of you at some point.  It always does.”

That was a pleasant thought.  I gazed out the window, looking at the buildings lining Storrow Drive.  Somewhere up there was Stephanie’s apartment.  I wondered, if I came to Stephanie in the middle of the night, as if in a dream would she deny me?  Probably not.  And I found that idea incredibly tempting.  “I’m so sorry about walking out over the dream.  I didn’t understand.”

Marcella glanced over and patted my arm sympathetically.  “It’s okay, Cait.  How could you?  It is all part and parcel of what we are.  But you should know that I feel bad for what I did.”

“I know,” I said.  “Where are we going?"

"I told you, I have something to show you."

We pulled up to the house and parked the car in the garage. Instead of going inside, we left through a small door to the street and headed down Mt. Vernon toward the Navy Yard.

"Marcella? How often will I need to feed? On the living, I mean."

"Right now, probably a couple of times a week. It's hard to say."

"Twice a week?" I exclaimed. "I don't know if I can do this."

"We just talked about this, Cait. You don't have a choice, and it's not like you dosed Pauline with Rohypnol and then left her to figure out how badly she'd been raped. She walked away, knowing what you were and wanting more. Just because the bite causes an almost orgasmic ecstasy doesn't make it sex."

I wasn't convinced. "You're just rationalizing."

She whirled on me, raising her voice. "Yes, Cait! I'm rationalizing as I've done for fifteen hundred years. I love you, and I don't want to lose you. If you keep looking at this like you've raped someone, you'll drive yourself mad. Eventually, you'll commit suicide or, worse yet, stop feeding and kill someone indiscriminately. It's a shitty choice, and I wish you didn't have to make it. But there's nothing for it."

Marcella scowled in frustration. Then she took my shoulders gently, her eyes gazing into mine. "Take heart in that you are trying to learn how to make this as easy as you can on everyone involved. And, again, try to remember that tonight, you saved two women from a fate worse than death. Your existence is justified by that fact alone. Sometimes, we just have to weigh the positives with the negatives. This isn't like shooting a child to save your patrol. No one died tonight."

That got me.  I’d been in worse situations and been forced to make worse decisions.  I had another question, though.  "Did you feel at all jealous?"

She'd slowed our walk to talk this out, and I was grateful. "No, Cait, I didn't feel jealous. Feeding is a carnal thing of lust, power, and need. Like I told you, love is love, but sex is sex, and blood is blood. Don't confuse the latter two with the former."

Marcella gently pressed me against a wall next to us, delivering a passionate kiss that made my toes curl. I relaxed into her embrace, tasting her mouth on mine. When she broke the kiss, I felt lightheaded and covered in gooseflesh.  I hadn’t known I could still get lightheaded.  It was nice.

"That is from a place of love," Marcella whispered and then pulled me down the street.

At the bottom, we walked under the Tobin Bridge, and I could see the entrance to the Navy Yard across the street.  The masts of the USS Constitution, just visible over the buildings, gleamed in the floodlights that surrounded her.  Under the bridge sat a large pair of metal doors set into the concrete, which opened easily and quietly.  Inside, a vertical street elevator rose to meet us.

“Mind the gap,” Marcella said with a smirk as we boarded the lift.

The descent was short, only about fifty feet.  Beyond the elevator lay a monstrous concrete storage area, probably thirty-thousand square feet, and filled with pallets of crates and boxes.

Marcella hit a switch on the wall, and overhead lights came on with the sounds of thunking breakers.

"Wow, I had no idea this place was down here," I said, looking around. "This is like—."

"The warehouse from 'Raiders of the Lost Ark?'"

"Exactly! What is all this?"

Marcella gave me a knowing smile.  "Blankets, purified water tanks, dried and canned foods. Fruits are stored in a refrigerated unit over there along with various types of fresh seafood." She pointed toward the far left.

I looked at the closest pallet, stacked high with white boxes, and I could just read the words 'FEMA' and 'Shelter' through the cling wrap. "Are these FEMA emergency relief tents?"

"Yes, they're all expired per the manufacturer, so I was able to buy them cheaply."

"What is all of this for?"  The volume of supplies here was shocking.  Now I knew where the missing supplies had gone.  But, I still had no idea what happened after they left this place.

"Come on.  It’s just a little further."

We walked across the floor to a set of double doors directly opposite the elevator.  Beyond was a long hallway lit by rusted and ancient industrial lamps. Surprisingly, the walls were clean and dry, and the floor held no dust. It seemed to be in regular use and sloped downward almost immediately.

As we walked further, maybe a few hundred yards, odd smells assaulted my nose and lit on my tongue as it flicked out. I detected a faint scent of brine and saltwater underneath a thousand fragrances of earth, flowers, and rot.  Below all of that was the faint smell of woodsmoke.

"What does it smell like to you, I wonder?" Marcella asked absently, and I smiled at how well-suited we were.

"Honestly, in some ways, it reminds me of home and my time on the water with my da. I smell butterscotch, honeysuckle, tilled earth, and something like freshly mown grass.  I smell blood, too, but I don’t think it’s human blood.  Also, someone is cooking something heavy with pepper and ginger." I was getting used to this new sense. Somewhere ahead came the voices of dozens of people, just a whisper in the darkened tunnel to my newly attuned ears.

“That’s impressive.  I think I might be a bit jealous.  I don’t smell any of that except for the tilled earth, grass, and some of the flowers, but I couldn’t pick them all out like that.  Even the blood is too faint for me to smell at this point.”

“My tongue has other uses,” I said with a wink. And we walked on.

We came to a door, beyond which was nothing I had ever expected— a forest. Giant firefly-like creatures flitted among a collection of thirty-foot oaks. On closer inspection, I realized they were tiny, nude, winged women—pixies. A soft ambient glow filled the room. High above us, the ceiling was painted in iridescent paint, giving the impression of the night sky.  Regular breaks in the tree canopy revealed enormous lights, currently off. It was breathtakingly beautiful as if I’d stepped out into a fairy tale world.

The air was warm and summer-like, and small ponds littered the chamber. Amidst the trees sat small huts.

"Are those real trees?" I asked, reaching toward one.

"Yes, but don't touch them; they're occupied," Marcella said cryptically. As soon as she had spoken, a slender hand shot out of the tree and grasped my wrist. I felt a tug at my consciousness, similar to our own vampiric influence. A young woman of perhaps twenty slid through the tree bark to stand before me.

She was soft and round and beautifully proportioned. Her eyes were a mixture of brown and green like my own but almond-shaped and inviting. Long chestnut hair hung about her naked body.

I felt the brush of a mind on my own, and my thoughts turned almost pornographic. The trance was broken, though, by Marcella's touch. The girl stuck her tongue out at Marcella and stepped back into the tree.

"Are you okay?" Marcella asked with a bit of a giggle.

"Uh— yeah," I said, looking back at the tree, seeing what looked like a girlish face in the bark. I did a double-take as it seemed to wink salaciously at me. "What was that all about?"

“Dryads occupy the trees. They can't hurt our kind, but they consume the life force of normal humans, much as we do. Rather than blood, though, they use sex, and they are insatiable. It's unwise to consort with them; their powers of persuasion are, ah, formidable.  Though, they usually lose interest in us rather quickly. The huts are for the brownies, and over there," she gestured to some caves in the far walls, "we have caves for the redcaps."

"Wait, redcaps, dryads, brownies? These are all Faeries?" I asked.

"Fae creatures, yes," she said. "They used to live all over Europe, Britain, and Ireland. Now I keep them here hoping that I can find a place for them where they'll go unmolested."

I could see into some of the huts as we passed, and I realized that, while they looked like wooden huts, the interiors were made from various things, chief among them being parts of the FEMA tents I'd seen earlier. Several had small cookstoves and other simple conveniences.

"How do you keep all this alive?"

"Above us are full-spectrum sunlamps activated in time with the sunrise. In addition, heated air is pumped from above via those vents." She pointed to several dark recesses in the ceiling. "As for food, they all share the duties of cooking, gardening, and cleaning.”

"There must be remote places to go that are better for them." I couldn't believe there was nowhere to hide.

"If there were, I'd send them there, but humans have claimed the entire fucking planet, and any temperate open spaces are occupied by territorial creatures, such as werewolves and the like.”

A man, about two feet tall and oddly proportioned, walked over. His head, hands, and feet appeared much too large for his diminutive body. On his head, he sported a red mushroom-like cap. His mouth was full of sharp teeth.

"Hello, Ms. Carson," he said in a perfect British accent.

Marcella shook his hand. "Hello, Salloweye.  How have you been?"

"Same as always. The wife is wondering when you'll stop in for dinner again. She misses adult conversation, and she said something about continuing your discussion on— post-modernism?"

"As soon as I can, you know that I am busy. By the way, Salloweye, this is Cait Reagan, my girlfriend."

"Aye." Salloweye stuck out his hand, and I shook it with a wide smile. He returned it with a toothy grin. "So are we gonna eat this one like the last one?"

"No, Salloweye, you can't eat this one." Her deadpan delivery made me wonder if they were kidding.

"She's the only one that gets to eat me," I interjected with a cheeky wink.

Salloweye stuck a sausage-like finger under his little hat and scratched for a moment. Then, after an awkward silence, he busted out in peels of thunderous laughter, too deep for his small frame. Marcella, for her part, looked absolutely mortified.

"Oh, you're gonna fit in just fine around here," Salloweye said. "Ms. Carson, please do come by soon. My wife won't shut up about those art books, and she's got some new paintings she wants you to see. She'll drive me mad soon."

"I will, Salloweye, as soon as I'm able." We bid him goodbye, and Marcella gave him a kind smile.

Salloweye tipped his cap to Marcella and patted me on the thigh. His laughter receded as he walked back into the little underground forest.

"He was kidding about eating people, right?" I asked Marcella after I thought he was out of earshot.

Marcella laughed. "Only partly, from what Salloweye tells me, humans used to be quite the delicacy. Cait, you really are a natural. You have a way of endearing yourself to people: your friendship with Daryl, Bian just loves you, and now Salloweye. It is so gratifying to watch."

"I never considered myself that way. Most of the guys just think I’m an icy bitch at work.”

She kissed me gingerly on the cheek and then took my hand, leading me on. "They're guys. Now come along."

"So, that's a redcap?"

"Yes," Marcella said. "We have a population here of about thirty. Salloweye's clan had dwindled from several hundreds when I found them. According to him, they are the last of them, so I brought them here. It was better than just waiting for their habitat to be destroyed."

The trees gave way to a tiny village, and numerous redcaps and brownies approached Marcella with lists of needs and various blessings. She took it all in stride, stopping to chat with men, women, and children whose only crime, as far as I knew, was that they looked different.

"Where did they all come from?"

"Mostly from Europe, though camp three is where the Lamia live. Being a reclusive set, they live alone."

"Wait, Lamia? Like Medusa?" My interest was now thoroughly piqued.

"Somewhat, but the baleful gaze is just a myth, and they don't have snakes for hair. They look like shorter versions of Bian. I managed to pull them from the Paris sewers. Don't ask me how they ended up there; I have no idea. But, they've literally nowhere to go to avoid discovery."

"How many people live here?"

"In this community? Two-hundred-four at last count. There are a few expecting mothers, so the number may have changed."

"Expecting mothers?" I hissed. "Oh my God, Marcella. What is the infant mortality rate like down here?"

"Very high; one in three won't make it.” Her voice was neutral, but I could see the pain in her eyes.

"What about medical care?"

“I have a doctor who comes in every so often to help, and I take some to him when I have time. But that's not nearly enough. There are eight other camps like this, and I just can't keep up with the need?"

I stopped and stared at her, thunderstruck. "Wait, you did all this? I spent a summer in college interning with an emergency crisis contractor overseas. This is a heavy lift. We spent over a million dollars just to build schools and shelters for a village of fifty. You said there are nine of these total?" I whistled in astonishment.

Marcella looked around, sounding embarrassed. "I had a great deal of help, and it was a very long hard slog. Now, we're out of space. Eventually, people will start dying, or they'll be discovered, and that could be worse. I'm at my wit's end trying to keep this working.

"It started small, but habitat destruction, logging, and pollution continue unabated. Before I knew it, over a thousand people were living down here in these slums. That's the real reason I started Carson Logistics. So I could find a way to provide for these people. With twenty lifetimes of experience, I thought I’d be different from every other ‘white savior,’ but I’m not.  And now they have nowhere to go. I've just made a mess. Humans, on the surface, are destroying everything in their path and all I can do is try to prolong the suffering. It's hellish." She rubbed her face and covered her mouth.

"How long do you think before it's untenable?"

"A year, maybe two?  Assuming no one here gets an infectious disease.”

"What happens then?"

"I don't know, Cait. I'm terrified for them. If they go to the surface, it's almost assured they'll be persecuted and just as likely murdered or hemmed up in some kind of internment camp. Look what Hitler did to the Jews, or Roosevelt to the Japanese, or Trump to Latin children; it's fucking despicable, and they were human. Just think what they might do to poor Salloweye and his children."

I watched her in sympathy and wonder. I hadn't realized that she was supporting an entire city beneath Boston. She wasn't just providing medical care for the sick; she was feeding, housing, and, I suspected, educating a thousand or so people. I knew the logistics of such an undertaking; it was staggering.

"How are you managing for money?" I asked.

"So far, we're fine, but eventually, the expenditures will become so large that I can no longer hide it from the board. Even though a lot of this comes from my own resources, I couldn't have ever provided this without the company's help. It's all booked to various charitable efforts for taxation, but essentially, I'm embezzling from my own company to support this."

I had a sudden thought. "You know," I said, looking around. "I have an idea on how we can turn this around and possibly make it work. Tell me you have some records of the people living here."

"Yes, we've kept records of immigration and birth almost since the beginning. Almost everyone living down here was born here."

"Who else knows about this?" I asked, curious how much help we might find.

"Just a handful outside these communities. The other vampires all know. I couldn't have done this without bargaining for their help. Of course, they all think I'm mad. Ninetta knew, and so did Jesse. I have a couple of trusted people at the office. And, now you."

"Is anyone down here acceptable enough to people on the surface to serve as a sympathetic spokesperson?"

Marcella looked at me, and it seemed the light went on. "Oh, yes," she said, and her face cracked into a cautious smile. "I think I have just the person.

45

We walked further through the camp and stepped into another tunnel that was as neat and tidy as the one running from the warehouse.  We passed three side passages that ran off the tunnel in various directions; Marcella indicated that those were closed off because of instabilities. The scent of salt and brine became more pungent—an alluring song filtered through the tunnel, almost hypnotic.

Marcella touched my shoulder, pulling me out of my reverie.  "You'll need to stay focused in here, Cait.  The song you hear can affect us, and you can fall under its spell.  I'll keep you safe, but I don't fancy getting wet."

"Who is that?" I asked, suddenly extremely curious.

"You'll see."

At the end of the tunnel was another chamber, about half the size of the first and decorated very differently, mimicking a tropical beach on a sunny eighty-degree day. The ceiling above was animated with puffy clouds. The floor was covered in sand except for a group of ten bungalows along the wall.  One of them held a young human-looking woman with blue-dyed hair at a high-end computer.  The rest of the cavern was filled with women from every ethnicity in various states of dress, though most were nude. All of them were fit and beautiful.

In one corner was a small open lagoon-like pool under several sun lamps. The walls around it were painted like a tropical seascape. I couldn't see into the lagoon itself, but it was undoubtedly the source of the mesmerizing music.

"Okay, what's with lesbian beach blanket bingo?"  I asked, still dazzled by the display of beautiful skin.

Marcella laughed. "They're mermaids, Cait."

My eyes went wide. "Real mermaids? You're shitting me."

"No, I am not, and these are the last of their kind, at least as far as I know."

"I see seventeen, and I think there are some in the pool. Is that it?"

"Twenty-two in total." Marcella looked as if she might cry.

The young woman I'd seen on the computer walked up to us and wrapped Marcella in a tight hug.

"I wondered when you'd be back," she said smiling. "Who's the gorilla?" She pointed that last comment at me. I supposed, compared to her skinny ass, I was built like a gorilla. But I didn't appreciate the comparison.

"Gretchen, please mind your manners," she said. "This is my girlfriend, Cait. Cait, this is Gretchen."

"Hi Gretchen," I said, putting my hand out. She didn't take it; she just waved. "You have a girlfriend, Marcella? Wow. I thought by now everything had shriveled up."

"Gretchen! Honestly," Marcella protested and popped Gretchen on the butt playfully.

I tried to stifle a snort of laughter and failed. The kid was precocious, that was for sure.

"Well, it was good seeing you, and it was nice meeting your gorilla friend.”  Gretchen dodged another butt slap from Marcella. As she walked off, Gretchen stuck her tongue out at me.  In return, I flicked my tongue up to my nose and winked. She flushed deep red and hurried away.  I grinned in triumph.

"Don't mind Gretchen; she's brilliant but precocious.  She doesn’t get much socialization that’s not on social media or video chat.”

"Um," I said, looking around at the encampment. "Forgive my ignorance, but it's a wide ocean out there with hundreds or thousands of uncharted islands. Why are they here?"

"The reasons you'd expect, pollution and overfishing. Microplastics are harmful to humans, but they are potentially deadly for these women. So, everything they consume has to be carefully monitored. The lagoon water has been specially treated to strip out pollutants, and the air is pumped down through multiple filters. We have to make up for the lack of other natural minerals in different ways, primarily through their diet, which is farmed, frozen, and shipped.

"If they wished, they could go topside and stay there, eating human food, living human lives, and in short order, they'd become almost human. They might even live relatively long lives if they were careful about their bathing and eating habits, but they'd still die far too young.

"I'm looking into something more extensive to relocate them to an island in the Caribbean potentially, but there are other risks even if we could solve the pollution problem. Could you imagine the exploitation they'd suffer if they were discovered?

"It's things like this that tax my faith in people. Humans consume their way from crisis to crisis, only working hard on a problem when it bites them in the proverbial arse."

I shivered at the idea. I could easily see the US Government using these kids as guinea pigs for experiments or, worse, turning them into killers for the Navy.

I pulled off my boots and socks, enjoying the feel of the sand as we walked toward the lagoon. A gentle heated breeze blew from a vent on one wall. All the place needed was a few palm trees. Several sets of eyes followed us. More than a few eyed me suspiciously. I tried to ignore them.

"I could spend a week down here, just enjoying the atmosphere."

"I should think so," Marcella said playfully.

"Why, Ms. Carson, are you suggesting that my motives for such an excursion would be less than pure?"

Marcella’s demeanor turned to mock primness.  “Most certainly not.  And I have never stayed down here for more than a few minutes, myself.  No, ma’am.”

The mermaids in the lagoon looked very different from my expectations. Princess Ariel, they were not. Their skin appeared smooth, their bodies sharklike.  Black, soulless eyes watched us with predatory intent. Razor-sharp teeth filled their mouths, and their hands ended in vicious claws. Their upper bodies still resembled humans to some extent, but it was just a passing likeness—except for their faces.  Other than their teeth, their faces were beautiful.

As it turned out, the singing came from a group of three sitting on the rocks in the far corner. Unlike either Gretchen or those in the water, the singers were different, halfway transformed. I asked Marcella about it.

"This is their usual form," she said, pointing to the water. "But, they are shapeshifters after a fashion, similar to werewolves.  Unlike most werewolves, mermaids have no control of their shapes once submerged in saltwater.”

One of the mermaids swam up to us and pulled herself halfway out of the water. Swiftly, her upper body transformed into that of a beautiful woman probably in her late twenties, the spitting image of Gretchen, except her hair was dyed pink.

"Hi Marcella," she said, propping herself upon a rock.

"Speak of the devil; this is Kaja," Marcella said.

I leaned down and stuck out my hand. "I'm Cait. I met your sister."

"Yeah, I saw you talking to her," she said, shaking my hand politely. "You're that vampire cop I saw on the Internet. That was so cool. Can Gretchen and I get an interview with you at some point?"

"An interview? I suppose. Are you a journalist?"

"Really? Oh my God, this will push our subscribership through the roof."

"Hold on," Marcella said firmly. "Cait and I are thinking of a way to make that possible, but that may take a bit. So you'll have to wait."

"Marcella, Cait's trending right now. We need to jump on this."

"I'll see what I can do," Marcella said noncommittally.

We bid our goodbyes to Kaja and Gretchen and headed for the door. A deep sadness suddenly struck me as I looked back. Despite how friendly Kaja and Gretchen were, I wasn't stupid enough to think they were 'nice people.' Mermaids had a reputation for luring sailors to their deaths. And, given that their song was still pressing on my thoughts, it was probably well earned. But they were sentient beings, and we'd ruined their habitats. They were going extinct.

"You know, if protected, they'll live at least a hundred and fifty years each, and almost a hundred of those will be child-bearing years.  Any human man can mate with them.  They can survive."  I placed a sympathetic hand on Marcella's shoulder, and she sighed heavily.  It sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than me.

"If it weren't for the pollution, they'd be a robust lot. In the meantime, like the redcaps and brownies, many of them hold down remote jobs and help with the expenses as best they can. Gretchen works in remote video editing, and she's quite the prodigy at it. She and Kaja have a YouTube channel called The Mermaid Twins, where they laze about in the lagoon and pick apart movies they've seen. It's quite funny. You should watch it. There's a PO box delivery for them a few times a week with newly released movies sent by the studios.  Their review of Disney’s ‘The Little Mermaid’ had me pissing myself."

I stifled a laugh. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I am not." Marcella smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.  Her desolate expression told me all I needed to know.  This level of support was unsustainable.  Something had to change outside this little haven.  "They're not going to make it, are they?"

"No, Cait, probably not. We need serious research into some way to protect them against the ravages of pollution. Something that doesn't involve—all of this." Marcella gestured at the carefully purified artificial cavern. She ran a frustrated hand through her long blond hair, and I could see tears floating on the edges of her lashes.

I looked back at Gretchen, suddenly enraged at what people were doing to the planet.  It seemed like such an insurmountable problem, not because it couldn’t be done, but because humans were a stupid lot.  We were handed a paradise, and all we knew how to do was destroy it.

46

We spent the remaining hours of Tuesday morning making out after retiring to the bedroom.  But, both of us drifted off in the middle as the sun rose.  It wasn’t a terrible way to fall asleep, but it was kind of funny.  One moment, we were hot and heavy; the next, we were ostensibly dead to the world.

I woke early for some reason.  Nothing seemed out of place, but I couldn’t get back to sleep.  I looked at my watch—1:00 PM.  Outside it had rained at some point, leaving ice dangling in the bare limbs like drops of liquid light.  The scintillating patterns of afternoon sunshine sparkled and shifted as the branches swayed in the wind. Frost covered the ground below, leaving me feeling as if I were standing in a bowl of silver mist lit with a million prisms.  My senses were so different now, so vivid. Every day things had become extraordinary, and extraordinary things, like this view, had become beguilingly beautiful.  I could have stood there until sunset, but my musings were interrupted as my skin began to crawl, and a violent shiver ran down my back.  I sighed heavily— the hunger.

Down in the kitchen, I pulled a fresh bag of blood from the Traulsen, chuckling at the memory of Ninetta trying to keep me out of it that first day.  I still hadn’t asked Marcella where she got the blood; I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.  After my encounter with Pauline, the cold blood tasted stale and listless.  It was a little like finding yesterday’s coffee in the car the following day.  But it satisfied my hunger for the most part.  “Well, this sucks,” I said to the air as I drank.

“Sorry, ma’am, but we haven’t anything fresher,” a man’s voice said from the doorway, causing me to jump.  I turned to find a tall man, at least six-foot-three, standing in the doorway.  He filled out a black three-piece suit complete with a tastefully striped tie of blue, yellow, green, and red.  Beautiful green eyes sparkled from under his business cut of thick red hair.  He looked like a movie version of something between an expensive butler and private security.

I walked over and offered my hand.  “You must be Robert.”

“And you must be Ms. Cait,” he replied with a voice like warm chocolate.  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”  He took my hand and kissed it.

I wasn’t interested, but the gesture made me blush all the same.  No one, and I mean, no one, had ever kissed my hand before in introduction.  “Wow, you are a smooth one, aren’t you?  It’s nice to meet you as well.  And, you are quite wrong, Robert; I see something much fresher right here in front of me.” I winked and went back to the table to finish my blood.

Robert cleared his throat.  “Rather droll, ma’am.  Would you prefer me filleted or roasted?”

I laughed at the joke and then imitated a British accent.  “Excellent riposte, sir.  I think we’ll get along splendidly.”

“Goodness, I’m sure we’ll do fine if you never do that again.”

I stuck my tongue out at him, wiggling it, then dropped into a brogue.  “Yeah, I made bags of the accent, for sure.  But ya don’ need to eat the head off me.”

“A bloody mick, brilliant,” Robert muttered, and we both chuckled.  I noted a bit of swagger and military bearing as he took off his suit jacket, laid it carefully over the chair, and walked to the coffee maker.

“Where did you serve?”

He sat down across from me.  “Garmsir, Afghanistan.  Royal Marines.  You?”

“Mosul.  Two tours.  Left me with a gammy arm.”  I held it up.  “Blown up in 2009.  But it could have been worse.”

He tapped his right leg. It made the plastic thunk-thunk sound of a false limb.  “Certainly could have been.”

“I’m sorry,” I said with genuine sincerity.

“Not to worry.  The replacement’s pretty good.  I can run on it very well, though I won’t break any records. So, onward I march, I suppose.”

A kindred spirit, I thought.  I suspected his service record played a part in Marcella hiring him.

“Indeed,” I said, lifting my cup in salute.  Robert poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down with me.

“Isn’t there some kind of rule against fraternizing with the household?” I asked, really just joking.

“It’s frowned upon.  But I don’t care about all that.  Marcella didn’t select me because I adhere to silly customs.  I’m an experienced soldier, and I’m a guild member.  But, also, I have known Marcella for a few years and am well aware of what she is.  It makes things— simpler.” He leaned in conspiratorially.  “And she pays above rate,” he whispered.

I laughed.  “I bet she does.”  I poured more blood into my cup.  “To old friends, departed and gone.” I offered another toast.

Robert returned it. “To old friends.”

I drank the rest of my blood, feeling the bees crawling under my skin finally recede.  “Can I ask how you and Marcella met?”

“Sure, you can ask.”  He joked and took a sip of coffee.  “Seriously, though, I was down on my luck after being discharged, and Marcella found me drinking away my misery at a pub in Crowthorne.  The next thing I know, she’s convinced me to dump the booze and go to University.  I got a degree in hospitality at Cornell here in the US and then worked for a few wankers back home.  For a while, I even worked for her friend Elizabeth.  Don’t know if you’ve met her.”

“Only briefly,”  I replied, sipping from my cup.

“Yes, well, Elizabeth got herself into a pickle one night and needed help disposing of a body.  I agreed to help her, but then she tried to wipe my memory with that mental thing you do, except it didn’t work.” He tapped the side of his head.  “I didn’t let Elizabeth in on that fact initially, though eventually, she figured it out.  Turns out, I’m immune.  It’s a rare gift, apparently.”

My eyebrows shot up.  “That’s fascinating.  May I?”

“Sure, yeah, give it a go.”

I looked Robert in the eye and tried to pull his thoughts into mine, I could feel him, but the soft spot that should be at the center of his mind wasn’t there; it was solid and impenetrable.  “How did Elizabeth not know that it wasn’t working?  It’s like trying a whammy a brick wall.”

“Marcella says that Elizabeth isn’t very good at it.  Worse than most.  I guess that’s why she couldn’t tell.”

The elevator opened, and Marcella stepped into the room.  “Oh, good, you’ve met.  Wonderful.  So, how are you getting on?”

I grinned and barked a laugh.  “Suckin’ diesel.  We’re kindred spirits, I think.”

“I thought you might be,” Marcella said, grabbing a glass from the cabinet.  “So, what did you talk about?”

“Well, Robert was filling me in on Elizabeth’s shortcomings in the whammy department.”

Marcella laughed.  “Yes, she’s somewhat hamfisted when it comes to that.  On the other hand, she has a nasty ability to clamp down on a person’s will and snuff out their senses.  It works on humans and vampires alike.”

“Well, that’s handy.”

Marcella poured some of the blood into her glass and sat with us.  “Unless you’re the one she’s using it on.”

“Fair enough.”  I didn’t bother to argue the point.  I barely knew the lady.

My phone buzzed on the table shortly after Marcella had finished her blood and headed back upstairs to get a shower.

“Homicide, Reagan.”

My mother was on the other end, and she sounded nervous.  “Cáitlín, are you alone?”

I hopped up from the table, holding up a finger to Robert, indicating I’d be back in a moment.  Once I was in the sitting room with the door closed, I continued.

“Okay, I’m alone.  What’s wrong?”

“I need you to come to see me at my office.  Don’t bring Marcella.”  Now that I was paying attention, I could tell her voice was shaking.

“Mom, tell me what’s going on.”

“I will, but I need you to come over right away.  And be quick about it.  Don’t tell Marcella you’re coming.”

“Okay, okay.  I’m on my way.  Let me get dressed.  Mom, by the way, before we see each other, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Cáitlín, you can tell me whatever you like when you get here, but please hurry.”  She hung up.

I stared at my phone in confusion.  I’d never had a call like that from my mother, so I hurried upstairs to find Marcella just stepping from the shower.  I didn’t waste time with a shower and got dressed.

“Everything okay?”  Marcella asked as I was gathering my gear.

“Yeah,” I said.  “There’s something I need to do today.  I’ll be back in a bit.”

“You want me to come with you?  It’ll only take a moment—.”

“No,” I interrupted.  “I need to take care of this myself.  I won’t be out long.”

She looked at me suspiciously, but I ignored her and left, taking the stairs to the garage.

47

I struggled with a feeling of dread as I climbed the steps of Lyon’s hall.  Stepping out onto the third floor, I could see that my mother’s door was open, and a brunette co-ed was leaving.  I ducked my head slightly, not meeting the girl’s eyes as she passed.

I stopped just outside and took in a deep breath before entering.  This was going to be complicated.

My mother was sitting at her desk, pouring over a sizeable, ancient-looking tome of a book.  She looked up and gasped, jumping out of her seat and hurrying over to me.

“Cáitlín, what happened?  You’re so pale.”  She touched my face, her thumb stroking my cheek as if she were trying to rub the odd color off of it.  “And so cold.  Oh, God, no.  She turned you.  Damn that woman!”

My eyes went wide.  “Ma?  How do you know?”

My mother swallowed hard.  “Sit down, dear; let’s talk.”

I started to feel a little shaky as she pulled her chair around, and we sat in front of her desk, face to face.

“Cáitlín, I have known what Marcella is for many years.”

My eyes widened in shock.  “What?”  My brain ran in a hundred directions at once, and my anxiety rose.  “Ma, has she been watching me this whole time?  Did she do this to me on purpose?”

My mother closed her eyes and blew out a breath.  When she opened them, the deep sadness was beyond anything I had ever seen in her face, not since Da died.

“Ma, what is going on?”

“Your father—“ she started, then stopped, blowing out another heavy sigh as tears welled in her eyes.  “Cáitlín, I know you love your father, but you have to know, he wasn’t the man you thought he was.  And he got himself into some serious trouble.”

I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and handed it to her with a shaking hand.  “What do you mean?”

She sighed.  “At this point, you’re likely to find out eventually.”  She collected herself and wiped her tears.  “Before you were born, your da was involved with the Patriarca’s.”

“What?”  The Patriarca’s were an infamous crime family in Boston.  I couldn’t believe that my father had been mixed up with them.

“It doesn’t matter.  Erik Schmidt, one of the—”

“I know who he is,” I interrupted.  “Why is this the first I’m hearing of this?”

“Because you were a child.  What good would it have done to tell you after he’d died?  You loved him.  I didn’t want to ruin that.”

“So you let me believe a lie?” I shot back.  “How was that supposed to help?”

“Cáitlín, you weren’t supposed to be involved in this.”

“Involved in what?  What does any of this have to do with Marcella or me?  And why would you say something so shitty about Da?” I demanded, raising my voice, a deep rage building inside me.

“He wasn’t your da!” My mother shouted, then she gasped and covered her mouth.

I shrank back, speechless.  “What?”

She composed herself and calmed.  “Our marriage was troubled.  Michael was cheating on me almost from the start.”

I blinked.

“The year before you were born, I discovered his indiscretions.  So, I returned to Tourmakeady, and I ended up having a fling with Donny Moylan.”

I ran a hand through my auburn hair.  “Uncle Donny?”

The man we called ‘Uncle Donny,’ my favorite of ma’s friends, had taken me to Limerick to shop on one of our trips to Ireland.  As I thought about it, something began to nag at the back of my mind, something I should remember, but I couldn’t grasp it.  Before I could think on it further, she continued her story.

“Yes, dear.  And it was the worst mistake of my life.”

“What are you saying? Did you not want me?”

“No!  Don’t be ridiculous.  I love you, and so did your da.  Donny didn’t want kids, and he was perfectly happy with the arrangement.  Your father was thrilled for us to be back together.  He swore he’d treat you like his own daughters!  And he did,”  She paused, and her face fell.  “’til it all went wrong.  I promise you; I didn’t know what he’d done.”

“Mother?  What is it?  What did he do?”  Before she’d answered the question, though, something else occurred to me.  “That’s why Larson said I wasn’t the first vampire he’d run across.  Wait, daughters?”

She brushed past the question.  “He and Michael were going to be indicted when the FBI came for the Patriarca’s.  Erik got them out of it.  I didn’t ask how at the time.  But, I found out later that, in exchange, they had promised to hand you over to Erik at some point.”

“Oh, my God!  Why?”

“I’ll show you in a minute.  When Schmidt came for you, Mike and Bill reneged.  A week later, they were both shot.”  She trailed off.

“The night Michael was killed, Marcella came to me, and she offered to keep you safe.”  Tears were running down her face now, and she sobbed.  “I was desperate.  I knew what she was, but I didn’t dare turn her down.  Schmidt was coming for you.”

I didn’t know what to do.  So, I sat very still.  “And what did she want in return?”

“Nothing.  She’s never asked for anything.” She started to shake.

“So, was that what you were talking about in the hospital—when you switched to Swedish?”

“No, not exactly.  She protected you from Schmidt for sixteen years.  So when Gabe attacked you and Marcella said she wanted you to come home with her, I knew she’d protect you again.  But, it never occurred to me that she’d turn you.  I didn’t know, mo chroí.”  She put her face in her hands and began to cry again.

I pulled her into a hug and shushed her.  “It’s okay, Ma.  You only did what you thought was right.”  I didn’t know what else to say. My mind was reeling.  Mike Reagan wasn’t my father.  My mother had known who Marcella was.  She’d been keeping this from me for years.  What else had she not told me?  And Marcella!  She’d known who I was from the start.  “Ma, I have to know.  Why did Marcella bring me into her life?  Do you have any idea what her game is?  She says she loves me, but—all this.  I don’t know anymore.“

After a long few minutes, she stopped sobbing and wiped her eyes. “I don’t know, child.  But I don’t think courting you was part of her plan.  I’ve spoken to her since, and she seems sincere if very torn about the situation.”  She then held out her hand.  “Come with me, Cáitlín.  I’ll show you why Schmidt wants you.”

We crossed campus to Higgins Hall and entered the imaging lab.  An Asian man in a lab coat with safety goggles on his head was staring at a giant smoking drill.  Next to it sat a fire extinguisher.  On the bench in front of him rested the tablets Marcella had mentioned.  The air reeked of ozone, burnt electronics, and smoke.

My mother crossed over to him.  “Hi, Kenji.  This is my daughter, Cáitlín.  Cáitlín this is Dr. Kenji Imai.”

He removed a thick glove and wiped his hand on his jeans, offering it to me.  “Hi, your mother has told me a lot about you.  She’s very proud.”

I took his hand, and Kenji paused for a moment.  He seemed like he wanted to say something, but the moment passed, and he released my hand.

“Any luck?” My mother asked Kenji.

Kenji studied me for a moment, then answered.  “No.  I’ve tried everything.  This is an industrial drill with a diamond head that I borrowed from the materials lab, and it didn’t even scratch it.  Nothing I’ve tried will hurt them in the slightest.  They look like granite, but it’s some kind of material I’ve never seen.”

“Are you trying to destroy them?” I asked, looking first at the smoking drill and down at the tablets.  This close to them, I felt something, almost like they were calling.

“Yes,” my mother answered.  “Marcella asked me to.”

I looked at her, surprised.  “Marcella did?  Why?”

“To protect you.”

Confusion played across my face.  “What do you mean?”  I reached out absently and touched one of the tablets.  There was a flash, and I jerked my hand back.  It felt like placing my finger in a light socket, almost electrical.  “Ouch.”

Kenji grabbed my hand and looked at it; it was unharmed.  “Wow, they haven’t done that before.  What did you do?”

“I—I don’t know.  I just touched it.”

“That’s what I mean.  That’s why Schmidt wants you,” my mother said.  “Kenji, show her the rest.”

Doctor Imai walked over and picked up the small tablets, placing them under some kind of sophisticated camera.  As he did so, he began to make idle chit-chat. “So, is your mother just as bossy at home as here?”

“Hey!” My mother protested.

I laughed, deciding I liked Kenji.  “Absolutely, worse even, I’m sure.  She was a slave driver when I was a kid.”

“I was not,” my mother muttered, pursing her lips.

Kenji turned on a monitor, showing the feed from the camera.  The tablets appeared with complex pictograms hovering just above their surface.  “What are those?”

“Oh, that’s probably the coolest thing.  So the marks in the tablets aren’t a language; they’re angular reflectors of some sort.  We shifted the frequency of the light sensors in the camera to cover a wider portion of the spectrum.”  He spun in his chair, looking at me. ”The engravings reflect more wavelengths than we can see with the naked eye.  We’re looking at the regular spectrum plus infrared, turning what looks like simple tool marks into that elaborate cartouche.  It’s remarkable.  I’ve studied every kind of imaging known to man, and I can’t make heads or tails of it.  We can’t even take a sample of the material to see what they’re made of.”

I gestured to the pictograms.  “Can you translate that?”

“I already have,” she answered softly.  “But we’ll get to that in a minute.  Kenji, are you sure these are safe to touch?”

“They should be.  There are no indications of radiation.”

I reached out and touched the stone tablets.  They gave me the same mild shock, but it quickly settled into a tingling sensation.  A streamer of energy quickly spread between them, coalescing into a purple and black whirlpool.  It was eerily silent, and the lights in the lab dimmed slightly.

“This feels weird,”  I said, then gasped as my entire body lit up inside like a Christmas tree.  Bolts of energy shot through my blood vessels, causing my muscles to clench and unclench.  Strength permeated every part of me, and I felt almost invincible.  The hunger rushed in, forcing my fangs to extend.  My thoughts twisted with rage, hatred, and a desire to destroy everything.

I sensed Kenji’s and my mother’s minds near me.  My mother’s mind was strangely shrouded, and I could only feel the surface.  It was much like Robert’s, though more a deep pool than a brick wall.  I pushed deeper, hearing her whimper.

Let her scream.  I thought callously.  She’d left me to Marcella.  She’d done this to me.  She’d abandoned me, the bitch.

I had a flash of myself again, with short hair, looking about fifteen, but I couldn’t hold on to it.  Kenji’s mind was chaotic and jumbled like some growling beast, all instinct and baser thoughts— food, water, sex.  I snatched at it but couldn’t get hold of anything.  Then another mind opened before me, seemingly far away, like an echo in a canyon, almost a reflection.  My mother screamed and clutched her head.  Before I could probe further, Kenji yanked me away.  The rage receded, along with the rush of power, leaving me with a deep feeling of remorse.  “Oh, God, Ma, I’m so sorry.  I don’t know what came over me.”

My mother stood up, leaning hard against the table and breathing heavily.

Kenji had returned to his screen, staring, mouth agape.  “Wow, look at this.”

“I don’t see anything,” I said, trying to figure out what I was missing. “It just looks like a black dot at the center of the energy stream.”

“Look at it at ten-times magnification with the light emissions masked out.”  He selected part of the image and blew it up.  A shiver of anxiety ran through me.  There, in the magnified photo, was a circle. And within that, I could see something I’d only seen in my wigged out visions when I had been dying; a blasted volcanic landscape precisely as I’d dreamed it.

“Oh, God, it’s real.”  I clamped a hand over my mouth.

“Yes.”  My mother said, looking at me askance.

“That place.  I’ve been there.  Or at least I’ve dreamed I’ve been there.  It’s hard to explain.”  I reached out and touched the screen as if my fingers might pass through it, naming it just a horrible dream.

“Cáitlín, that place, it’s a hellscape.  There are things there that we can scarcely imagine.  And these tablets are designed to open a gateway to it.  According to the tablets, it’s a source of magic.  The kind of magic we tell stories of.  But it is also a place of unspeakable evil.”

I stared at the tablets.  The urge to touch them was powerful, but the awful feeling that followed stayed my hand.”

My mother tugged at my sleeve, getting my attention. “Are you okay?”

“No, mother, I’m not.”  I pointed to the screen.  “What does that say.”

“It’s a prophecy of sorts. Along with the description of a ritual.”  My mother began to recite the writing in English.

“Do not open the black gate, the place of the Avra, closed by the Mother of Darkness, the Phantom Queen.  The beasts of hate lay within.

On one side is the life of a child; on the other is the death of the world.  Bonded by two birthrights, she shall decide the fate of all.  The dark ones come for knowledge and power.  The older shall find the younger in pain.  The magic of the world will be renewed.”

My mother finished and touched my face.  “You are the only one who can make them work.  That’s why Schmidt wants you.”

My mother read through the rest of the tablets, describing a ritual that involved some kind of device bathed in the blood of power, whatever that meant.

Just as my mother was finishing explaining everything, my phone rang.  I answered it. “Reagan.”

“Cait?” It was Carlos.  “I need you to come to Schroeder.  There’s something you need to see.  Right now.”

“Okay, I’m on my way.  I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Mom, that was Carlos; I have to go.”

“Before you go—”  She paused, collecting herself.  “There’s something else I need to tell you.”

I rolled my eyes.  “I’m not sure I can take any more.  Tell me later, okay? I need to get to work.”

“Okay, come by the house after work.”  I bid them goodbye, giving my mother a hug and a peck on the cheek.  Then I left.

✽✽✽

Carlos wasn’t at his desk, so I browsed my email, waiting for him to show up.  It wasn’t more than a few minutes when Agents Reynolds and Rees accosted me.

I tasted Reynold’s scent in the air, recognizing his shitty cologne instantly.  “What do you want, Reynolds?” I asked without looking up.

“We need to talk.” His tone was demanding.

“No, Reynolds, we don’t.  If you want to talk, here, call this guy.”  I pulled Phillip’s business card out of my wallet.  He could go through Marcella’s lawyer.

Reynolds took the card and set it back on my desk.  “We know.”

I smiled crookedly and continued going through my email, waiting for Carlos.  I still didn’t bother to look at him.  “Know what?”

“What you and Ms. Carson are,” Reynolds said ominously.

“Lesbians, Agent Reynolds.  It’s okay, you can say it.  Also, I don’t think it’s been illegal in Massachusetts for some time.”  I did turn to look at him, then, smiling sweetly.

Reynolds’ face flushed with anger.  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

I didn’t bother to play with him.  Instead, I reached into his head and latched onto his will, snuffing out any agency, snagging Rees at the same time.  I had been right; I could do it.

“Gentlemen, there is no such thing as Vampires.  Furthermore, I don’t know anything about Marcella Carson’s business, so you need to leave and forget you saw me today.”  Both men turned and left the building. It was about as subtle as a sledgehammer, but it worked and got them out of my face.  I wasn’t sure if I would pay for it later, but I didn’t care.  I was sick of people being in my shit.

“Fuckers!” I muttered as I returned to the screen.

“Hey,” Carlos said somberly as he walked up with a cup of coffee.  “I just saw Reynolds and Rees.  What did they want?”

“No clue.  I sent them away.  What are you doing here on your day off?”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, then frowned.  “Sent them away?  Did you—“

I looked up at him. “Yes.”

Carlos’ frown deepened.  “Do you think that’s a good idea?  Glamor can have some nasty side effects.”

“I don’t care,”  I said, casually looking back to the screen.  “I’m sick of those guys crawling up my ass and trying to strong-arm me.”

“Hey!” Carlos shouted, causing me to jump slightly.  “Those are people, Cait.  You can’t just go around fucking up their heads as you see fit.  Or, did you forget what happened to Gabe?”

“How could I forget, Carlos.  But, fuck, man.  If Reynolds and Reese want to play hardball with me, I’ll play hardball with them.”

Carlos shook his head.  “You’ve changed, Reagan.  And not entirely for the better, I don’t think.  This is what I was afraid of.  You’re becoming like them.”

“Fuck you, Carlos.  I’m finally feeling like a whole person after years of suffering.  Maybe I’m just sick of being a fucking doormat for everyone.”

Carlos sighed.  “I don’t want to fight with you.  But, you should give some hard thought to why you suddenly seem to think it’s okay to push people around at your fuckin’ whimsy.”

I closed my eyes and sighed.  “Fine, I’ll think about it.  What is it you wanted me to see?”

“The footage that TSA sent us verifying Marcella’s entrance.”

“Why?  Did we miss something?”

Carlos took another sip of his coffee and pulled up the video on his computer.

I looked over his shoulder, watching several people pass through passport control.  Carlos grabbed the mouse and scrolled to where Marcella first walked up.  As the border agent asked her questions, the bottom dropped out of my entire world.  The person standing at the counter looked very much like Marcella Carson, amazingly so.  But it wasn’t Marcella Carson; it was Elizabeth Tyler.  I wanted to throw up.

“Who is that?” Carlos asked, placing a hand on my arm.

“One of Marcella’s friends, Elizabeth Tyler.  Fuck, me.”

Snatching up my phone, I almost dialed Marcella’s number.  Instead, on a hunch, I grabbed my burner and dialed the number Celeste had given me for Blackman’s phone.

“Hello?” It was Marcella’s voice.  I couldn’t think.  I couldn’t move.  “Hello?” She said again; then, there was a long pause.  “Oh, Goddess, Cait? Wait—.”

I hung up.  “Fuck this,” I said and marched into the conference room.  A dilapidated old wooden desk sat in one corner that had probably been there since Lazarus died.  I snapped off one of the wooden legs and stalked toward the door.

Carlos grabbed me before I got very far.  “Slow down, now, darlin’.  We don’t know what this means.”

I jerked loose.  “Yes, we do, Carlos.  It means that she killed Caldwell and that the phone I chased down that fucking tunnel was hers.  It means that she infected me and turned me on purpose.”  I dropped back and hissed at him, baring my fangs.

Carlos shot forward and grabbed me around the arms again, dropping his coffee and knocking the makeshift stake from my hands.

“Let go of me,” I said, but there was no fight in it.  “Let go.”  I beat at his chest weakly, tears flowing down my cheeks.

Carlos held me still.  “You can’t kill her, Cait.  It’ll be open season on you.  The Vestry and the Council will call you rogue.  You won’t last a day.”

“Why, Carlos?  Why is this happening to me?”  I pushed out of his arms and sat down in one of the chairs.

“Come back to my desk,” he said cryptically.  I got up and followed him.  He handed me some tissue, and I wiped my eyes, looking miserably at the pink tears.

“What have I done to myself?”

He dug into his bag for something but apparently couldn’t find whatever he was looking for.

“Fuck it,” I swore.  “I at least need to find out why she did all this.  I loved her, Carlos, and this is what she did.”

“Okay,” Carlos pulled me into an awkward hug, and for a moment, it felt like he was feeling my ass.  “Go talk to her, but don’t do anything stupid, and be careful.”

48

I drove recklessly, lights and sirens blaring through rush hour traffic.  I made the entire twenty-minute drive in just over ten.  Jumping out of the Jeep as I parked in front of the building, I stalked toward Marcella’s.  So focused was I on my burning anger that I missed the white panel van on the corner.

The hood came down fast.  Strong arms grabbed me and wrestled me into the van.  All of my senses were extinguished before I could respond in any meaningful way other than thrashing wildly.  Elizabeth, I thought.  I guess she’s working for the other side.

I felt nothing, and, honestly, I could have been like that for days.  Eventually, though, the veil of shadow draped across my thoughts lifted, revealing a bare concrete cell.  At one end was a thick steel door.  The cell was eight feet or so long and maybe three feet wide.  A light embedded in the ceiling provided the only illumination.

A thick steel cuff and heavy chain bound me to the wall.  I yanked at it and was rewarded with stabbing pain.  Long steel pins penetrated the flesh anchoring the cuff to my arm.  If I wanted out, I’d have to rip my forearm off.

The cell itself, otherwise, was a featureless concrete block.  I shifted on the floor, and something dug into my back from the waistband of my jeans, a slim card-like device with a light on it.  It was a portable GPS tracker.  The range was limited, but it meant someone knew where I was.  Someone would find me.  Bless you, Carlos.  I slid the tracker into my back pocket.

“Hello Detective, my name is Schmidt,” a voice said from beyond the door.  “I believe you’re feeling quite hungry, ja.  We took the liberty of draining you some before putting you in there.”

“You can go fuck yourself,” I spat.  “I know you don’t care, but you’ve kidnapped a cop.  I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass for your life at this point.”

“Such language, my dear, I promise you’ll not be harmed as long as you tell us what we need to know.”

Keep him talking, I thought.  “You don’t need to go through all this.  If you wanted directions or something, you could have just asked.”

“They said you were prone to use humor.  Good to see my information is solid.  But, I need more than directions around town.  Perhaps you’d be so good as to tell me where Marcella has hidden the tablets?”

“I have no idea.  I guess you’ll have to get it the old-fashioned way.”

“Oh,” he sounded almost gleeful.  “I was hoping you’d say that.  We have ways of making you talk.”  He laughed at his humor, and his footsteps receded into the distance.

I sat there for quite a while with the hunger burning under my skin, and I rubbed my arms unconsciously.  It wouldn’t be long before the shivers started.  Exertion would make the situation worse, so I slept.

Sometime later, as night fell, I opened my eyes, yanked awake by the sudden influx of strength.  Pulling myself gently to a sitting position, I saw a pretty female vampire with black hair and brown eyes standing in the doorway.  She was dressed in ‘basic bitch’ wear: grey fleece leggings, brown riding boots, and a brown sweater, complete with white puffy vest.  She sipped from a steel camp cup as she watched me.  My tongue slipped out involuntarily, and I tasted blood.  I’d half expected pumpkin spice.

After a minute of staring at me, she finally spoke.  “They call me Nastasia.”

“That’s nice,” I said snidely, giving her the finger.

She took another sip of the blood but said nothing.

“So, that’s it; you’re going to starve me until I talk?”

She raised an eyebrow and smiled over the cup as she took another sip.  “Not exactly.  We believe another incentive would be more effective.”  Nastasia stepped out of the doorway as two men threw a young girl into the room.  She looked no more than seventeen.  I could hear the girl’s heartbeat racing and smell her fear.

“Enjoy your snack, Cait,” Nastasia crowed from beyond.

The hunger roared within me, and I backed away from the girl, eyes wide.  I covered my mouth with my fist and pressed my lips together.

“Stand by the door,” I ordered, stomping as hard as I could on the urge to take her right then and there.  My fangs extended, and my vision tunneled in on her.

As gently as I could manage, I asked her name.

“Katie,” she said as she pressed against the door.

“Of course it is,” I muttered, shaking my head.  “Good girl, Katie. Stay where you are.  Right now, I can’t get to you without tearing off my arm.  Do you know what is happening?”

Katie nodded.  “Are you a vampire?  The others told me you were.” Her voice was so soft, so innocent, so frightened.  I could sense her mind.  It would be so easy to soothe her fear.  But to do so meant loosing the hunger.  It would only be a little bit, but I was terrified I’d lose control.

“Yes, Katie.  My name is Cait.  I will sit over here on one wall, and you stay by the door.  Understand?”

“Okay.”  She sat down cross-legged, as directed.

“That’s so that I can’t reach you.  I haven’t fed in a while; being near me is dangerous.”  A violent shiver ran down my spine, and I started fidgeting.  “Now, I’m not a bad person, and I didn’t become this by choice.  They want something from me that I can’t give them.”  I knew this arrangement wouldn’t last long, but the talking was calming her fear and thus lowering my excitement.  “I’m a cop.  I’ve sworn to protect the public, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“If you bite me, will I become one of you?” she asked.  I tilted my head at that.  It was an interesting question to ask.  She was frightened, but the excitement I tasted in the air wasn’t the terror I’d assumed; it was anticipation.  She wanted to be turned.  I had a momentary pang of sadness, but the hunger tore through it like tissue.

“No, Katie.  That’s not true.  Now, how old are you, kid?”

“Fifteen.”  She had a bit of the street about her.  They’d probably grabbed her near one of the homeless shelters.

“Where are you from?”

“South Boston, near Dorchester.”

“I figured.  Grew up in Dorchester myself.  Parents?”

“What is this?  Twenty-questions?”

“Look, kid,” I snapped at her.  “I’m trying to get to know you.  It’ll help me stay sane.  The people who put you in here will let you die.  They are going to let my hunger make me kill you.  Don’t you get it?  The only thing keeping you alive is knowing who you are.  It makes you a person and not just the walking equivalent of a drink box.”

She shrank back slightly, and I realized that I was almost snarling at her.  A few more feet of chain fell out of the wall, giving me enough slack to reach the door, enough to reach little Katie, enough to feed.  “Fuck,” I whispered.

“Detective Reagan, just tell us what we want to know, and we’ll take her out of there.”  The voice was female, the accent English, deeper and richer than Marcella’s, with a street quality.  I was pretty sure it belonged to Elizabeth Tyler.

Katie stood then and started banging on the door, screaming in tears.  “Please, I just want to go home.”

Tears of rage and sympathy flowed down my cheeks as I listened to her pitiful cries.  I shook with the effort of staying still, biting my lip.

Katie continued to plead.  “Please, pick someone else.  I want to go home.  I have a little sister; she needs me.”

I launched forward and grabbed Katie, wrapping my hand around her mouth.  “Tell them nothing,” I hissed.  She struggled for a second, and then I finally broke down and allowed my will to settle onto hers.  I twisted her fear into a deep sense of caring centered on me.

She stopped struggling and turned, burying her face in my chest.  The tears still flowed, but she was quiet.

“I’m sorry, kid,” I whispered, straining for control.  “I’m so sorry.”

“Cait, we’ll take her home unharmed if you just tell us what we want to know.”

I was having trouble thinking clearly.  “What is it you want to know again?”

“Where are the tablets?” the voice asked.  They followed a pretty standard enhanced interrogation playbook, one I knew well.  Unfortunately, it was a playbook that often worked.

“I don’t know,” I replied flatly and heard footsteps as several people walked away, closing another large door somewhere.

“Are you going to kill me?” Katie asked, voice shaking and tiny.

I said nothing but shook my head no, placing a trembling finger to my lips to silence her.  I pointed to my ear and the door.  She seemed to get the message.

I leaned in very close to her.  The hunger sang in my veins, desperate to drink.  I set her in the back corner of the room, away from the door, and released my mental hold.  To her credit, she did not move or scream, and I motioned for her to cover her eyes.

I stepped to the length of the chain, feeling the spikes in my arm tug painfully.  I began to pull at the chain, grabbing at the edge of the door and digging the fingers of my right hand into the steel frame.  The metal creaked and dented under my grip as I used it as leverage.  The pain was excruciating, and I screamed in rage and agony as the spikes tore into my arm.

The door flew open, and a well-built male vampire tackled me to the floor.  I pushed my arm back into the steel sleeve and wrapped the chain around his neck in one swift movement, jerking sideways, disconnecting his spine.  He continued to struggle, head canted at an impossible angle, and I dug my fingers into his neck, tearing his head from his shoulders.  I ran back to the door and yanked at the chain with everything I had.  My arm tore at the elbow with a sickening ripping of flesh and cracking of bone.

I fell to the floor, the stub pouring blood.  I scrabbled forward but slipped.  Slender arms grabbed my shoulders, trying to drag me out.

“Get away!” I snarled at Katie, causing her to run back. “I don’t want to hurt you.”  I pulled myself forward and looked out the door.  Beyond the cell, a dark hallway ran left and right.  Safety lights burned sickly yellow in the darkness.  I didn’t get far before several vampires dragged me back inside, removed the dead vampire, and snatched Katie away, slamming the door behind them.

“Honestly, Detective, was that absolutely necessary?” Schmidt called through the rust-covered steel, voice snide and condescending.  “I think you’ve earned punishment for your charge.  Don’t worry, though; we’ll save some for you.”

“You fucker,” I whispered, knowing he could hear me.  “I’ll be the one that kills you, you fucking Nazi.”  His steps down the hallway stopped.

“Detective, I was not, nor have I ever been, a member of the Nazi party.  I supported the allies during the war and even saved your precious Marcella’s life.  So, if you’ll please dispense with the slurs, that would be appreciated.”

“You’re still an asshole,” I muttered and dragged myself to a corner, huddling, my back to the door.

49

I pressed my face against the cold concrete.  My body burned, and agony raged in my savaged arm.  I laughed out loud, not that anything was funny.  My emotions were out of control.  What good is deep breathing when you no longer need oxygen?  Thick tears like glycerin slid down my cheeks, each one banging in my ears as it plopped to the floor.  I clawed at the wall with my good hand and cursed my sensitive ears as Katie’s screams echoed into the darkened room.

My tongue flicked, pulling the velvet-copper taste of blood into my mouth.  I tumbled into a vivid half-dream, walking through Leslie’s, eyes on Pauline.

She leans against the wall in her painted-on jeans and leather boots.  Her shirt clings to her young body, contoured by her soft, round breasts.

“Looks like you’re alone now.” I lick her ear suggestively, and Katie’s beautiful young eyes stare back at me, hungry with desire.

I tried to banish the image, squeezing my eyes shut, but it wouldn’t leave.

“Oh, God,” she says as I lick at her throat, mesmerized, in the throes of lust.

“No, no, no,” I whimpered as if the hunger could hear me.  “You can’t have her.”

“Dear God, anyone, please let me die.”

My throat grew tight, and my shoulder muscles taught.  I barely noticed the pain in my arm as the last of the blood in my body completed its grisly task, pulling new flesh and bone to order.

Katie’s ecstatic intake of breath sounded from somewhere beyond the door.

“You bastards!” I shouted against the burning need within me.  I had no more tears, only rage for another child I could not save.  The door opened, and rough hands thrust Katie’s limp body inside.

Before I could rush the door, they closed it and dropped the crossbar.  I looked at Katie, black hair spilling across the blood-soaked floor.  Her throat was torn open, draining her blood to the ground.

I dropped to her side, fighting against the screaming, pulsing hunger.

“Please,” Katie whimpered.  “I don’t want to die.”

I looked to the door.  “Anyone, please help me!”  There was no answer.

I battled furiously against my instincts, trying to put pressure on Katie’s gaping wound, but it was no use.  Her heart hammered, a massive drum driving through my body.

My vision distorted, and I realized that it wasn’t Katie; it was Pauline.  I shook my head, but Pauline remained.

“Come to me,” she beckoned, smiling sweetly.  Her voice was hollow and echoing, but I did as she bid.  I dipped my head into the crook of her neck and drank deeply.  Her hand grasped at my hair, weakly caressing through it while her blood, a flood of salt and ecstasy, filled my mouth.  I shivered as the hunger took its final hold, forcing another long pull against her throat until the last of her light burned bright within me.

My arms shook, lifting my heavy, near immovable body away from Pauline, but it was Katie, lying on the floor.

“Oh, God!” I pleaded with her as I opened her mouth and tried desperately to get my body to release changed blood.  But I had been so starved my body had consumed it before I could bring it forth.  I ran my bloody hands through my hair.  I didn’t know what to do.  They’d made me kill her.  “Why?” I screamed.

“Please, don’t die,” I whispered as tears, real and thin, rained from my eyes to her face.  Finally, with no other ideas, I reached up and tore open my own throat, letting my blood flow into Katie’s mouth.  Please, turn, I thought.  Please, turn.  Please, be okay.

For long moments, nothing happened, and I thought her dead. Then a grip, solid and powerful, slapped to the back of my neck, pulling me downward.  Katie’s eyes flew open, but there was nothing of the young girl within them.  Her tongue slipped out and caressed the skin of my neck and chin, sweeping away the blood—  her blood— that coated it.  She bit down, new fangs descending into my flesh, tearing and pulling at my throat.

I pressed my hands to her shoulders and pushed away.  She lurched unnaturally from the floor, burying her face in my neck and tearing at it again to reopen the closing wound.

I staggered, falling backward, but she held on, taking more blood, and I began to drift away.

It took a moment to martial my sluggish thoughts, but I pushed her off, sending her sailing to the corner of the room. “No!”

She rolled up, snarling and watching me, an animal waiting to strike.

The hunger still rode behind my eyes, and my emotions still tumbled through my head one after the other, fear, loathing, excitement.  Now that I’d fed, I wanted a fight.  Katie began stalking toward me, a predatory gleam in her narrowed eyes, still growing fangs bared.  I marveled at the speed of her change, not instantaneous, but nothing as slow as mine.  Katie hunched down, bunching muscles to strike.

“Stop!” I commanded at the top of my voice, shocked to feel the power within me rise into the command.  She obeyed, flinching back to the corner.  I stalked over imperiously and turned her head to face mine, eye to eye.  All she had been lay submerged within a sea of wanton need for blood.

Oh, God, I thought.  She’s a revenant.

Until now, the concept was only a story.  Revenants were terrible beasts craving only blood, like zombies.  But the truth was far worse.  This creature before me was flesh and blood and whole.  It wasn’t just some horror that skulked the night.  Katie was still in there, somewhere, lost, the essence of her shrouded in the curse.  I could feel that essence buried within, hurt and alone.

I reached out and cupped her face, holding her under my influence.  It wasn’t wholly slack; there was recognition of a sort there.

I caressed the poor child’s head, and she bowed it before me.  She wasn’t an unthinking monster or a beast at all.  She needed blood and lacked much agency beyond that.

“Can you speak?” I asked, knowing that she had undoubtedly understood my command.

“Y-y-y,” she stuttered, but nothing coherent came out.  Most of the Katie I had met was suppressed or gone, but she had understood the question.

“Sit.”

Katie obeyed, sitting cross-legged, as you might expect from a kid her age.  Her face was blank, and she worked her jaw involuntarily as her canines finished lowering into fangs.  I sat down across from her.

You fucking bastards, I thought. I will kill you all for this.

I closed my eyes and reached out into the empty gulf that was Katie’s mind.  Deep within, I could feel the core of who she was, gentle and pliable.  Even deeper still, I pushed.  She started to move in front of me, squirming.   My hands struck out in a flash, grabbing her arms, keeping her seated.  The touch of my hands seemed to strengthen the bond between us.

I slipped through the fog of the curse into the space within.  Distantly, I could hear Katie’s whimper of pain.  It was hurting her, I knew, but I needed to know.  I wasn’t sure exactly what I was doing.  The only time I’d experienced anything like this, I had been on the receiving end.

The blackness resisted, not wanting to let me in.  I pressed against it and heard another sob echo from Katie’s lips.  But, for just an instant, I could feel a warm light of purity and wonder pulsing beneath the dark.  It reached out, and there was a spark of connection for just a millisecond.

There were no memories, just a few images, but there was a budding personality, beating and alive.  She was like a newborn, possessing many traits, ready to learn but bereft of identity.  The darkness became more insistent, and Katie’s cry of pain became a wail.  I drew out of her mind quickly, panting unconsciously.

Revenants were vampires like any other, but they had no will because they had no memories.  They hadn’t the mental strength that a lifetime of experiences would give them, girding them against the ravages of the accursed hunger.

Katie wasn’t gone; she was a child, regressed from where she had been.   I could help her.  She could grow again.  There was some hope.

I held out my arms, and she curled within them.  “Rest,” I said gently, feeling the power of command flowing through my words.  Her eyes closed.

I sat there for over an hour like that, with Katie lying in my arms.  The emotions I had been pushing aside now threatened to overwhelm me.  It wasn’t the fear or the panic.  Those were long gone.  Instead, I felt a deep sadness for the poor child within my lap, resting in a sleep that mirrored death.  I closed my eyes to rest with her.  There was no point in staying awake.

50

I woke as Elizabeth Tyler strode in.  I couldn’t decide if it was surprising or inevitable.  She carried two blood storage bags and a large plastic tumbler.  Ah, I thought cynically, so it’s time for good cop.

Four vampires, all with blades, waited for me to make an untoward move.  They needn’t have bothered. I knew my odds of escape at this point.

“Nastasia and Schmidt are such barbarians,” Elizabeth said as she opened the bag and poured a cup.  “None of this was necessary.  I told them that.”  It had been Liz I’d heard earlier.  She placed a finger to her lips in a shushing gesture and said, “I’m Liz.”

I played along.  “I’ve heard of you.  Feeding time, is it?”

“Yes.”  She knelt in front of us.

“Wake up, Katie,” I whispered.  Katie’s eyes opened, and she turned her face toward Liz and the cup of blood she presented.  Shocked, Liz fell back on her rump.

“I thought she was dead,” Liz said.

I stroked Katie’s hair.  “No.  Please feed her first.”

Liz handed the cup of blood to Katie, who took it and began to drink heavily.  Then Katie did something even more to Liz’s evident surprise.  Katie offered me the cup, still half-filled.  I took a small sip and pushed it back to her.  She continued to drink, not like some animal, but like a small child with a cup of milk or juice, two-handed.  It might have been cute if it hadn’t been so tragic.

“How did you do this? She’s a revenant.”

Katie held the empty cup out, licking the blood from her lips and teeth.

“It doesn’t matter.  If they touch her again, I’ll kill them all.”

She barked a laugh.  “Bloody hard to do from in here.”

I ignored the comment.  “Are you going to give us the rest of that blood, or are you leaving?”

She refilled the cup with the remaining contents of the first bag and stood pacing a bit.  This time I went first, drinking half of it before giving the rest to Katie.

Liz stopped and turned.  “Where are the tablets, Cait?  Just tell me, and I’ll make sure they send you home.”

“No, Liz,” I said firmly but gently.  “That’s not how this works.”

Liz snorted, cocking a hip and staring at me, incredulous.  “Oh, still loyal to your lady love?  She’s not worthy of it.”

“And why’s that?”  I asked derisively.

“You aren’t the first person she’s done this to, you know.”

“What, she trapped you in a tunnel with a ravenous beast that almost killed you?”

Liz turned and snapped.  “No, she infected me with the bubonic plague!”

“What?” My response was a little loud, and Katie stirred in my lap. I shushed her, stroking her hair.

“Oh, yes.”  Liz’s tone had shifted, becoming softer, friendlier, and she sat down next to me, pushing the chain and bloody cuff aside.  “Marcella met me in 1665.  My marriage had been arranged when I was twelve, and I had three children.”

Liz paused as if lost in thought.  “Marcella brought me under her shadow quickly.”

“Well, you look great for having had three kids,” I commented glibly.

“Why, thank you.”  She winked at me.  I didn’t bother to tell her that I wasn’t flirting or looking for a friend.  She continued.  “When Marcella and I met, I was twenty-seven and a great deal heavier. In any event, we started a rather torrid affair.  Then, a few months later, I came down with the plague.  It wasn’t suspicious at the time.  The disease was running all about England.”

“Then how did you know she’d done it?”

“Marcella keeps rather meticulous journals.  These days, they are locked in her basement along with her various treasures.”  She stood and walked to the door, making a show of banging on it.  “Can we get someone to clean up in here and a chair or two, please?”

I was more than a touch skeptical.  “So, she actually wrote down in a journal that she poisoned you?”

“Yes, she placed infected blood into my wine.  I suffered horribly for three days before Marcella told me that she could save me.  Of course, I already knew what she was.  I’d known almost from the beginning; we believed in such things back then.  But I begged her to save me anyway.  I didn’t want to die.”

I didn’t say anything, looking for any indications of deception, but there were none.  Until that moment, I’d held out a slim hope that Marcella hadn’t known what was down in the tunnel.  I was starting to wonder who was worse.  Schmidt and Nastasia, who had tortured a fifteen-year-old girl, or Marcella, who had manipulated me from the beginning and then fed me to the literal master in the cellar.

“It gets worse.  Two nights after I was turned, she left me all alone, at home— with my family.”  Liz’s expression grew dark and pained.

“Oh, God!”  I hissed in shock and horror.

“Yes.  I couldn’t help myself.  I killed my husband and all three of my children.  And she let me blame myself.  Worst of all, I think, now, is the fact that I followed her like a puppy dog for fifty years after.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I thought she’d saved my life.  She had rescued me from a loveless marriage, rescued me a second time from the plague, and then supported and loved me when I’d been tearing myself apart over my children— the husband I was less concerned with.”

As a captive audience, I was forced to listen, but if she spun a lie, it was damn convincing.

“Usually, she finds someone she can trust and keeps them around until they leave, or eventually, die, like Ninetta.  But, over the last hundred years, she’s turned six other people in defiance of council rules—a  council that she sits on.”

“Six?  Why haven’t you stopped her?”  I asked, utterly baffled by the fucked up politics of these people.

“Because we can’t, Cait.  She can make any one of us commit suicide or kill one another with a word.  She’s that powerful.”

Liz paused and took the empty cup from Katie, dumping the last of the first bag into it and handing it back.

“Did she tell you that you made her feel things she thought long dead or some shit like that?”

I didn’t answer.  I didn’t have to.  I was sure it was plain on my face.

“She did, didn’t she.  ‘Oh, Elizabeth, my love, I am drunk upon thy presence and thy grace.’  Sound familiar?  I bet you just intoxicated her.”

I stifled burgeoning tears.  I was so tired of all this—completely worn out.  I’d been victimized in one way or another all of my life.  There was literally no one I could trust.  My da had sold me out to these nutjobs.  My mother, God, my mother had sold me out to Marcella.  And Marcella, in service to whatever twisted fantasy she had, had turned me into this monster.   “Why?  She didn’t need to do this.  I didn’t want any of this.  I just wanted—.”

“Love?  Yes, Cait, I know.  I was the same.  I’d spent twenty years, almost, pining for the one thing I couldn’t have—the love of another woman.  In truth, though, I’m not sure that she doesn’t actually love you in her own mad, twisted way.  When you came staggering into Marcella’s place, overwhelmed by the hunger, she and I had been arguing about you.  She had expressed genuine remorse over what she’d done.  And, I felt so bad for you that night, but there was just nothing I could do.”

Liz’s arrow had hit the mark.  The worm of betrayal slid into my heart, gnawing its way home.

“I’ll never understand this.  I’m a nobody, just some kid born in Dorchester.”

Liz bent down and stroked my hair, looking into my tear-filled eyes.  “No, Cait, you’re not just a nobody.  You’re special.”

“Those fucking tablets.  You know what, you can have them.  They’re in the imaging lab at Boston College, Higgins Hall.”

Liz looked at me, genuine surprise painting her features.

“Please, just don’t hurt my mother or Dr. Imai,” I pleaded.

Katie fished out the remnants of blood from the cup with her finger and stuck it in my mouth.  I hugged her to my chest, knowing that a single innocent life was worth the world.

Liz gave me a sad smile and stepped out, closing the door behind her.

51

Without watch or sun or moon, I had little concept of the passage of time.  But I hadn’t felt the rush of fatigue that came with sunrise, so I knew it hadn’t been too long.

Katie and I sat in the corner of the room.  We were playing a child’s game.  I would make a face or raise an eyebrow, and she would mimic it.  After a few rounds, I stuck out my tongue and wiggled it.  Katie seemed to notice that mine was different, and it fascinated her.

I stuck it out again, and her hand shot out, grabbing my tongue and pulling it to its limit.

“Hey—.” I tried to say around my tongue, and she let go, laughing a childlike giggle.  The bloodthirsty, mindless revenant laughed.

Katie’s eyes turned bright, and I saw a hint of something flow through them.  “K—K—,” she stuttered, and it was gone.

“Katie?” I queried, watching her closely.  But she seemed not to recognize the word.  I smiled sadly and pushed a strand of her matted hair behind her ear.  It occurred to me that she might be better this way, blissfully unaware of her life before, absent any memories on which to base judgment.  Carlos had been right; I was a hard-as-nails bitch on the outside, but my insides were fucking marshmallow.

Elizabeth knocked at the door.  “If I open this door to feed the two of you, will you be difficult?”

I struggled for control, but my emotions were too raw, too wild.  Finally, I pushed out a few words. “I’ll try not to.”

In the meantime, I was trying to square the intimacy and vulnerability I had seen in Marcella with what Elizabeth had told me.  Marcella was so beautiful and strong.  She was dynamic and capable.  I just couldn’t imagine that she would twist me around like that.  Was she manipulative? Sometimes.  But a game player?  I hadn’t thought so.  It was infuriating, and I couldn’t find any resolution to my feelings in my ragged state.

These guys weren’t pros at coercion.  But, they understood my relationship to the hunger better than I did myself.  Had I been human, I might have held out, but how could I battle them and my curse when I didn’t understand the latter hardly at all?

Elizabeth opened the door and walked in with a tall blond Ken doll of a man.  Katie stood and looked at me, and I nodded.

Whatever Elizabeth had thought about Katie’s condition, any thoughts she might have had about Katie being anything but a revenant fled as soon as she latched onto the blond blood doll.  She went at him with ravenous hunger, tearing into his flesh and dropping him to the floor.  After about thirty seconds, he looked extremely pale.

“That’s enough!” Elizabeth shouted, but Katie ignored her.

I looked up languidly.  “Stop, Katie.”

Katie released him, letting his head bounce on the floor.

Elizabeth looked at me coldly as two men, whose scent I didn’t recognize, came in and dragged the Ken-doll out.

I just snorted. This was so insane.  Liz spoke in exasperated tones outside the door.

“He’ll live, thank God.  Bring Donna in.”  Elizabeth returned through the door with a brunette in a dark red velvet dress.

“Nice color choice,” I said sarcastically.

“You think so,” Donna said, turning in a circle. She was a pretty girl. The dress she wore hugged her body closely, revealing a curvy figure. I couldn’t bring myself to care much, though.  This was all functional.  Katie and I needed our strength, and I needed to be able to think. The hunger had been gnawing at me, again, steadily.

I stripped off my shirt and handed it to Elizabeth. “Be a dear and hold this for me, will you?” I was sick of being covered in blood all the time. I’d been so blasé about what I’d become, so tied up in the emotional drama, that I hadn’t considered all the effects.

Blood used to be something I saw as part of the tragedies I investigated. It had been disgusting and gross. Now it was not only a need but something I reveled in. After feeding, that first kiss, passing the blood back to my victim, had felt addictive.  Feeling my victim’s heart pump with the power I’d returned to them, hearing them as the changed blood heightened their sexual pleasure, it was a heady trip, for sure.  But, this experience had soured that.  I just wanted to be clean.

Donna strode over to me and threw her arms around my neck.

“Tell me what you need,” she whispered in my ear. The blood lust tore through my senses and thoughts, stripping away my doubts and depression. I could hear and feel the anticipatory rise in her pulse and respiration. I could taste her arousal in the air.

I buried my nose in Donna’s hair, smelling her scent. She carried an aroma of apples and cinnamon.  I was spellbound instantly.

Donna pressed her mouth to mine, sweeping it with her tongue. Like Pauline, she pulled back and touched her mouth in an almost identical unconscious movement. I stuck my wide blue tongue out to its maximum length just over my nose, feeling weirdly playful—in the mood.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “We need to talk later.”

I was too excited by the thought of blood to respond. The idea of sliding her dress up her supple thighs drove itself into my head.  My emotions were all over the place now.  And it had only been a few hours since I’d fed on Katie.  Dear God.

I bent into the nape of Donna’s neck and proceeded to feed. The blood was pleasurable, and Donna shivered beneath me, hitching with ecstatic breaths.

“Yes. Oh God, yes,” she cried. “Take it.” She threw her arms around my head, knotting my hair in her grip.  Donna began to grind her hips into me, one leg wrapped around my ass.

I drank hard, and her cries became weaker, still ecstatic, but more pitiful, too. Her grip slackened, and her legs buckled. I lowered us gently to the ground, but I didn’t stop. I could feel her consciousness fading, but I still didn’t stop. If I knew one thing, this woman was an addict. It was atrocious; it was wrong. I loved it.

Liz pulled at my shoulders, and I ended it, forcing a bit of changed blood into Donna’s mouth.

I stood, the hunger more than sated for the moment. “Bring me something to clean up with.”  Liz started to look obstinate.  “Please,” I added quickly.

Donna’s wound had closed; she would live, I hoped. It was the closest to angry, public sex I had ever gotten in my short life.

The two men carried Donna out as Liz left and returned with two buckets of water, soap, and a washrag. “Here, you can clean up.”  Liz nodded to Katie. “Cait, I’m sorry that they did this to her. She didn’t deserve that.”

“Thank you for the supplies, but you need to remember that ‘they’ includes you.” I stared at her accusingly, and she actually looked chastised. It might have been an act, but I didn’t think so.

Liz just stood there while I stripped. I washed the blood off of my chin and the few dribbles that had slipped into my cleavage. Then I called over Katie. Her shirt was soaked through, so I took it off her and began to wash her down. Katie stood quietly, watching as I washed the blood off her hands, face, and chest.

I turned back to Liz. “Can we have a change of clothes?”

There was an exasperated sigh, and she left.  The door opened a few minutes later, and Liz handed me some clothes.  For Katie, she held out an ill-fitting dress that was too long.  She gave me a shirt and a pair of jeans.  I palmed the GPS unit as I changed.

Liz came to take the bloody clothes, and I grasped her hand gently. “Thank you.  There are things on the other side of the gate. It may not work out the way you plan.”

She said nothing, but there had been something in her eyes.

Katie and I sat away from the blood on the floor, propped against the wall. If I’d had to guess, I figured it’d been no more than a half-hour when I heard another steel door groan open and close, followed by a hint of sandalwood in the air.

“Marcella?”

“Cait? Are you okay?”  She was close, the cell across the hall.

“Not so much. How did they get you?”

“Blackman, he ambushed me with a stake.  It was total luck.” She sounded irritated like he was a fly she’d meant to swat and kept missing.  “Have they hurt you?”

“No more than you have, darling.”  I spat the words like venom.

“What do you mean?” A whisper of fear slipped into her voice.

“You lied to me. You manipulated me. You’ve been playing on my emotions from the start. That’s what I mean. You know you could have told me anything, including the truth, and I would have followed you into hell. Instead, you fed me this bullshit story about being alone and all the feelings you felt that you’d lost the capacity to feel.”

“Liz,” she whispered hoarsely.

“Liz,” I confirmed.  I didn’t dare mention my mother and what she’d said.  “She told me how you turned her.  I also know you killed Caldwell and trapped me down in the tunnel with that— that— thing.”

“Cait, wait, you don’t understand—“

“No!” I shouted angrily.  “I’m still talking.  I thought I’d been chasing Blackman, but it was your phone that led me to the Rodriguez place, wasn’t it?  You experimented on her, and you murdered her.  A twelve-year-old girl Marcella.  You tore out her heart.  What kind of monster are you?”

There was a long period of silence.  “I’m sorry, Cait.  I don’t expect you to understand.  Jesse and I fucked up.  We were trying—.”

“Trying to what?  Make more vampires?”

“What?  That’s ridiculous.  It had nothing to do with that.  Acacia’s parents came to me and begged me to help their little girl.  She was eleven years old and had already faded away.  They’d written an application to the American Cancer Society for help with treatment costs, and Acacia’s doctor had just thrown it in the trash.  We weren’t just randomly experimenting on people.  Acacia’s parents knew what I was doing and understood the risks.  I’m not Joseph Mengele.  We were trying to find a cure for fucking cancer.  I was trying to help Jesse, and Kaja, and Gretchen—all of them.  But the Vestry discovered her, and they insisted that I kill her.  They gave me no choice.  It was her, or—“

“Or what?”

Marcella was silent for a moment, then she spoke.  “It was her or war.  There aren’t nearly enough of us to survive that.”

I wasn’t about to let her off the hook, but then Katie shifted closer to me, leaning against my arm.

“Who’s in there with you?” Marcella asked, forestalling my planned diatribe.

“That’s just Katie, the fifteen-year-old girl they made me turn.  Let’s just say she’s not all here at the moment.”

“Oh Goddess, Cait. Did they leave her in there with you? Are you safe? Is she chained?”

I rolled my eyes.  “No, she’s not chained. She’s sitting here quietly. I’m looking out for her until I can figure out how to help her.”

“Cait, you need to be—.”

I lost it.  “And you need to shut up!  You don’t know everything, you condescending bitch. These people absolutely hate you. And, frankly, I’m beginning to understand why. Why did you lie to me? Just, for once, be honest? How long have you been planning this?  How long have all of you been watching me?”

“Since you were a child,” Marcella whispered, resignation in her voice.  And there it was, confirmation that she’d known exactly who I was when I’d first met her.  “Your father promised you to Schmidt when you were ten years old.  You and your sister.”  Her voice was flat, but underneath was an ocean of regret.

“What?  I don’t have a sister.”

You could have heard a pin drop for the next few moments; then I caught the scuff of a shoe from the other side of the door; it was Liz.  “Tell her the rest, Marcella.”

“No, she’s not ready, Liz.”

“Not ready for what?” I asked.  What else could they possibly say that would be worse.

Elizabeth replied first.  “Not ready to hear just how awful it really is; what Marcella really did to you.”

“Liz, don’t,” Marcella pleaded.  “It’s not that simple.”

“Come now, Marcella, isn’t it?”

“Liz, please, don’t.”  Marcella was begging now, tears distorting her plea.

“You could make me stop,” Liz said to Marcella.

“You know I won’t,” Marcella answered, defeated.

Liz opened my cell door and waved for Katie and me to step out.  For an insane moment, I thought it was a trap, a kind of ‘shot trying to escape’ thing.  But I brushed the thought aside as stupid.  We stepped out of the cell.  Steel doors barred each end of the hallway.  Along each wall were three identical doors to the one I’d just exited.

Marcella’s fear-filled eyes showed through an open slot in the cell directly across from ours.  Fat tears flowed over her lashes.

Liz walked us over to the door.  “Show her the rest, Marcella.  She deserves to know.”

Marcella whined, almost childlike.  “Why are you doing this, Liz?”

Liz didn’t answer.

I stepped up to the slot, looking at what little I could see of her face.  “What is she talking about?”

“Caitlin, you need to understand something.  I’ve changed.  After I show you this, it may not seem like it, but I have.  We’ve been on this crusade to save us ever since our ability to turn others began to fade.  I thought that survival was the most important thing for a very long time.”

My rage waivered again as I listened to her pitiful tone.  I tried to tell myself it was for show or that she was only upset because she got caught, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe that.

“Enough pre-amble,” Liz demanded.  “Show her!”

“No, Liz.  I will take the time to explain.  You all owe me that for getting us this far.”  Marcella’s tone was hot and brooked no argument.

Liz rolled her eyes.  “Fine.”

“Cait, I won’t belabor this.  I promised your mother I’d keep you safe, and I succeeded for sixteen years.  I kept Schmidt busy looking for the tablets all that time, playing out a long shell game.  But then Schmidt finally discovered where they were.  I was able to get to them first, but he became relentless, pulling together everything he needed.

“I had intended to approach you directly, but then Jesse lost his shit and turned me in to both the feds and Schmidt.”

I crossed my arms, looking at her eyes through the slot in the door.  “So Liz provided your alibi while you killed Jesse.”

“Yes.”  There was a genuine sadness in her voice.  For what, though, I wasn’t sure.  “After that, it was easy enough to have Larson assign you to the case.”

“But, then why lie after you turned me?  I asked you point blank, and you lied to my face.”

“Because I didn’t want you to think I—.”

“What?  Was a murderer?  Jesse knew the risks, just as I do.  I wouldn’t have blamed you.  You didn’t have a choice.  Or did you?”

“No.” She said flatly.

“Then why did you trap me in the tunnel with that thing?”

“I was looking for information on this place.  You showed up, and I panicked.  I knew you’d survive for at least a few days if it infected you.”

There was absolute silence for a moment as the truth sunk in.  Up to this point, I’d held out hope that she hadn’t done it, that maybe she didn’t know it was me, or it had been a mistake of some sort.

Marcella continued.  “I came back to the house a few minutes later, but Carlos was skulking around outside, and I realized it was too late.”

I leaned my head against the cell door.

“Cait, I know.  I’m sorry.”  She reached her fingers through the slot.  “Liz is right, though; you should know the rest.  But you’ll hate me when it’s over if you don’t already.”

A deep sense of emotional fatigue washed over me, and I touched Marcella’s hand.  “Honestly, I just want out of here.”  I turned to Liz.  “Can’t you just let us go?  I gave you the tablets.”

“Unfortunately not,” Liz replied.  “They still need you.”

“Because I can activate the tablets.”

Liz nodded.

Marcella released my hand.  “Liz, I need you to show her.  I can’t do it.”

Before I could ask what she meant, Liz placed her hands on my face, turning my eyes to hers.  I felt the tug of her mind.  The pull was weak and gentle, it didn’t have Marcella’s force, but I could tell she was trying to share a memory.  I could have shaken it off and probably should have, but I relented, and she swept me away into her gaze.

✽✽✽

I see everything from Liz’s point of view.  She is standing outside the restroom at the church.  Marcella is in front of her, speaking with a young woman in hushed tones, a woman I recognize.  It is my mother, and she has been crying.

“Look into my eyes, Róisín.”

“No.  I can’t do this.“

Marcella grabs my mother’s face.  “Look at me.”

My mother’s face goes slack as Marcella’s will washes over her.  “You will forget what she told you and that we were ever here.  Aoife was never born.  You will forget her.  That’s all you need to remember.  Your husband died in a drug deal gone bad.”

I can see the struggle playing across my mother’s features.  “No—” she says, resisting Marcella’s influence.

“Yes!  You will forget we were here.  She belongs to me now.  Michael promised both of them to us.  Michael died in a drug deal gone bad.  Now stay.”

“No, you bitch.  Where is my daughter?”  I can’t help but feel impressed as my mother stares down a fifteen-hundred-year-old vampire, throwing off her influence like a prom dress.

“Yes, unless you want one of them to die.   You don’t get it, Róisín; I’m their only hope.”

My mother stops, horrified.

The door to the bathroom opens, and a young girl steps out, no more than sixteen.  The image is surreal.  I am looking at myself as a skinny kid in a black dress, long hair in a tight braid.  Marcella turns to young me and captures my will instantly.

“Your mother told me what you said last week.  You will forget coming out to your parents.  You will forget that discovery about yourself until the time comes.  I will let you know when that is.  You will forget we were here, and Aoife; she was never born.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  My voice is droning, automatic, emotionless.

My mother pulls me to her breast, cradling me.

“Marcella, stop,” Liz says.  “You can’t do this.”

Marcella spins on Liz, enraged. “I have no choice, Liz.  There’s no other way.”

“You’re mad.  Think about what you’re doing.  You know what?  I’m having no part of this.”  Liz turned, stalking away.

“Liz, stop.  You still owe me, and you know what will happen if you betray me again.”  The force of her command halts Liz in her tracks, and I am very aware of the dangerous line Liz is walking as I come back to myself.

✽✽✽

Tears were streaming down my horrified face as Liz looked on with genuine compassion.

“Why?” My voice was a choked sob of devastation.  “Why would you do this to me?”  Katie began to growl, looking at Liz with cold, heartless eyes.  I shushed her with soothing strokes of her hair.

“I am so sorry, Cait.”  Marcella’s voice was quiet— small even.

“You took away my identity.  If I’d known then what I know now, I might not even have been raped.  My life has been shit for twelve years because of you!”  I suddenly felt cold, and my whole body began to tremble.  “Why?  Why any of this?”

“It was a different time, Cait.  Liz and I were different people.”

Liz chimed in.  “Speak for yourself, Marcella.  I begged you to stop.”

I looked at Liz.  “Who is Aoife?  That name, it sounds so familiar, like I should know it.”

Her expression was coaxing, waiting for me to make some monumental connection.

I struggled to remember why it was important, but it wouldn’t come to me.  The name kept bringing me back to a single inexorable memory.  My father and I were at Arnold’s restaurant, on the cape, for my fifteenth birthday.  But it was strange.  Almost like I was someone else watching myself participate.  I watched myself eat ice cream, but I had a short, sort of butch cut instead of my long auburn hair.  The same image of myself I’d seen in my dreams.  I was wearing a—. Then it hit me; it wasn’t me.

Daughters, my mother had said.

My mind exploded with a thousand memories: memories of hopscotch, jump rope, and singing, memories of a secret language that we had shared, a sort of shorthand, memories of a sixteen-year-old girl who looked just like me, screaming for help from the back of a car.   I had just watched her disappear, unable to remember who she was.

I couldn’t control my sobs as I stared away, unseeing, my thoughts stuck on the image of my sister being stolen away in the back of a black Mercedes.  My knees buckled, and I choked on the sudden revelation, finally stuttering out a broken “Oh my G-God.”  I looked at Marcella.  “You took her.  You stole my sister from us.”

Liz was crying now, and tears floated at the edge of Marcella’s lashes.  Even Katie, so lost in her head, had knelt, hugging me tightly.

Marcella dared to try to apologize.  “Oh, Cait, I’m so sorry.  We didn’t steal her.  It was all wrong—.”

A cold rage blew through me like a winter wind, and before Liz could react, I’d risen, yanked up the crossbar, and dragged Marcella from the cell, pinning her to the wall.

“You’re Sorry?” I screamed.  “Sorry?  Do you have any idea what you crazy bitches did?  You destroyed my life!”  The anger was hot now, and Marcella crumbled, tears flowing like rain.  I wasn’t done with her, though, not by a long shot.  I clamped my hand around her throat and dug in with my fingers, choking off her voice.  Blood spilled past my knuckles.  “Where is she!  Where is she!  I’m going to kill you.  I’m going to—”

A shot rang out, and Marcella’s head rocked backward.  She dropped like a sack of sand.

52

“Marcella!” I screamed, dropping to her side, cradling her bloody head. Liz grabbed me and yanked me up roughly.  Looking back down the hallway, I saw Schmidt, a pistol in his hand.  But I could do nothing further as Liz and another vampire cuffed me.  Two more vampires I didn’t recognize caught Katie and cuffed her as she kicked and struggled violently.

“Thank you for keeping her busy, Detective.  I had no idea how we would have kept her contained without your distraction.”

I struggled, but Liz and the other vampire held me tight, and I turned a questioning gaze to Liz.  She said nothing, and her stare was blank, giving little away, though tears still flowed on her cheeks.

“You fucking sleaze!” I shouted at Schmidt as they dragged us away.  “I’ll be the one that kills you.  Do you hear me?  I’ll be the one that kills you!”

We were led out of the cellblock, down a short hallway to a pair of thick steel doors.  Liz muscled past Schmidt, leading us into a large chamber, bumping him roughly on the way in.  “Get the fuck out of my way Schmidt. I’m not sticking around for this.  I’ve had enough.  You got what you wanted; now I want to be as far away from you fucking psychopaths as possible.  I’ve paid my debts to everyone these last two weeks.  I’m done.”

“Fine, Elizabeth.  Thank you for being so helpful.”

Liz threw him two fingers and stalked back out the double doors.

That fucking bitch.

Beyond the door was another narrow hallway that led into a large, almost amphitheater-like chamber. Around the room was a broad ledge of rock about ten feet up, upon which stood about thirty people, all vampires. Schmidt had been busy.

A large brass tripod sat over a low flame in the center of the room; I could smell blood wafting from it.

Schmidt’s little helper, Nastasia, was sitting on the edge of a small dais rising above the tripod, dangling a leg.  She still had her tin cup in her hand, twirling it around one finger, over and over.  Behind Nastasia, unrestrained and looking very calm, stood my mother.

To either side of the dais stood large curved stone columns of some gray metal.  The same style of marks I’d seen on the tablets embossed the columns.  In the center of the brazier, hovering just above a swirling pool of bubbling blood, was a small metal sphere plated in what looked to be gold.  Gyroscopic circles turned and slid around it slowly.  I was baffled at how the blood didn’t cook, coagulate, or separate in the heated brazier.  Hell, it didn’t even steam.  I felt a much deeper dread that something far worse than I could imagine was about to take place.

Schmidt nodded to them curtly.  “Nastasia, Róisín, is everything ready?”

Nastasia just nodded and took a sip from her cup.  Then, she cracked a crooked, malicious smile at me.

My mother smiled at Schmidt sweetly.  “Of course, my dear.”

I looked at my mother, brow furrowed in puzzlement.  “Ma?”

“It’s okay, Cáitlín.  It will all be over soon,” my mother replied.  Something about the way she said it frightened me beyond measure. She then proceeded to pull the tablets from a silver case next to her, placing one on each of the bookstands.

“Why are you helping them?” I asked plaintively.

She turned slowly, smiling beatifically.  “To make things right, of course.  Your father failed in his duties, so I am completing the task.”  Her voice was droning, and her eyes were empty.

Shock and horror shot through me.  “What did you do to her, Schmidt?”

Schmidt looked at me, his face painted with a self-satisfied, malignant smile.  “I—suggested that she help us.”

The vampires pushed Katie to the center of the room and led me to the dais.  Schmidt stood in front of me, the mocking grin still on his face.

I looked back to the assembled vampires, wondering just how many people they’d turned to revenants and consequentially murdered to get this many functional vampires.  Regardless, we were out-gunned and out-manned, and, at this point, I just wanted to get all of us out with our lives because we were well and truly fucked.

Blackman and two other vampires dumped Marcella’s body roughly into the center of the room, just in front of the dais.  Blackman secured a gag around her face, cuffed her arms behind her body, and walked to the dais.  One of the other vampires held a shotgun to her head.  Now that I was examining her, I could see the bullet fragments pushing from under her skin as the entry wound began to close.  A moment later, her eyes fluttered open, locking Schmidt with a hateful stare.

Oh, thank God!

Schmidt looked at her and then back to me, a cocky smile on his face.  He stalked off the platform, his shoes clanking across the metal grating as he strode down to Marcella.  Without slowing, Schmidt slapped Marcella across the face, the force of the hit whipping her head around and, almost, but not quite, dislodging her gag.  He took a moment to right it and tighten it, and it took all the self-control I could muster not to yank at my chains.

While Schmidt was staring at Marcella, as if on a whim, Katie struck out with her foot and caught him right in the groin, lifting him several inches off the floor.  It wouldn’t hurt him for long, but he doubled over in agony from the strike.

“Katie, stop!” I exclaimed through my laughter.

Katie looked at me and blinked.  “Scum!”

Nastasia chuckled.  “Seems she has your number, Schmidt.”

Schmidt looked up, a mixture of agony and annoyance on his face.  As he turned his back on her, I saw the glimmer of a malicious smile wrinkling Marcella’s eyes.

“The great Marcella Carson,” Schmidt began. “The Savior of us all.  I have had to put up with you for over three hundred years, your arrogance, your demands, your stupidity.  All you had to do was give us one of the girls, and we could have done this a dozen years ago.  But no, you hid Aoife away from us and then refused to hand this one over as we agreed.”

Schmidt continued.  “We could have controlled the planet and stopped this insanity.  But you decided it wasn’t our place, and what Marcella decides, we all just accept.”

Marcella, to her credit, didn’t make a sound.  She just watched Schmidt’s little rant.  Though, if looks could kill, Schmidt would have been turned to ash by Marcella’s baleful gaze.  I noted that Blackman wasn’t paying any attention to Schmidt at all.  He was watching me.  I smiled inwardly at that.  I’ve got something for you, asshole, I thought.  You just wait.

“Hey, Schmidt,” I called.  “I thought we were past the part where you explain your evil plan.  This is where you’re supposed to quit monologuing and tell us that we’re all going to die.”

Blackman punched me in the stomach, dropping me to my knees, where I stayed.

“Fräulein Reagan,” Schmidt said in that same snide and condescending tone.  “I don’t think I’d be the one making jokes right now if I were you.  I had planned for the final sacrifice to come from Marcella, but little Katie will do just as well—better, in fact.”

“You bastard!” I cried, yanking at my cuffs.

Nastasia reached under the dais and pulled a pair of goggles from a bag hidden under the dais structure.  “Here you go, dear,” she said as she handed them to my mother, who placed them on her head.

Schmidt walked back over to me and yanked me in front of the tablets.  “Activate them, now!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Schmidt snapped, backhanding me to the floor.  Marcella and Katie both jerked but were rewarded with a whack to the back of the knees with the butt of a shotgun.

“I am done playing games with you, Cait!” Schmidt screamed, spit flying in my face.

My mother’s head dropped, and she refused to meet my eyes.

“I will make this simple for you.”  Schmidt snarled.  “If you do not activate them, Detective, I will have no use for any of you.  I will kill your mother, but not before I kill young Katie and Marcella.”

Katie started to stand, but I shook my head as one of the vampires cocked a shotgun and pointed it at her head.  Katie knelt back down next to Marcella and then did something odd; she leaned against her, placing her head on Marcella’s shoulder.

Marcella tilted her head, resting it briefly on Katie’s.  There was something in that simple gesture that struck me, and, whereas a moment before, I might have been tempted just to let Schmidt kill her, I thought maybe what she’d said was true.  Maybe she’d really fallen in love with me.  And after what Schmidt had said, perhaps she had been trying to protect me.  I realized I couldn’t let her die, angry as I might be with her.

I sneered at Schmidt.  “Fine, uncuff me, and I’ll do it.”

“You know,”  I said as Nastasia started unlocking the cuffs. “if he gets what he wants, you’ll be just another threat to him.”

Nastasia laughed.  “I’m over eight-hundred years old, dear.  I invented mind games.”

“Yes, well, you may be eight-hundred years old, but Schmidt has all the classic signs of malignant narcissism.  So, you might want to keep an eye on that, just sayin’.”

“Enough!” Schmidt said.  “Nastasia, go kill the little girl if Cait doesn’t activate the tablets.”

Nastasia stood bolt upright from uncuffing my wrists and stared daggers at Schmidt.  “Do not presume to give me orders, child.  Cait will do as she’s told, won’t you, Cait?”

I shrugged at Nastasia, giving her a smug smile, saying, ‘See, told ya.’

I stepped up and placed my hands on the tablets, and they lit with purple light, though, this time, the stream of energy flew to the golden orb in the brazier rather than coalescing between them.  The blood in the brazier began to draw up into the sphere, turning the light a deep, ominous crimson.  My mother began to chant.

“Trisores deiwas, pehúr, dagome, woder, ósmí dworis haregos.”

There was no slow build-up.  One moment the feeling of the tablets was just a buzz in my fingers, then my body jerked, and I froze.  I became almost, but not entirely, a passive observer as another personality fused with my own.  Ungodly power raced through me as it continued raising gooseflesh on my skin.  A hot wind from nowhere blew through my hair.

My mother’s chanting shifted from something unintelligible to words I understood, beckoning Mother Darkness, the Avra, and the Phantom queen to open the black door.

I screamed as something infiltrated my consciousness.  On one side, the vampire was dark and full of predatory delights.  The creature invading my mind, though, was something much worse, demonic, chaotic, and evil.  My thoughts turned alien and malignant.

My mother chanted the ritual into its fifth verse.  The ball began to pulse, and a deep thrumming filled the cavern.  My mother, the evil bitch who’d helped strip me of my identity, completed the second triplet of the song, the shómen, the ritual of opening.

A word spilled from my mouth.  “Rhendos!”  The tablets rose off their stands, hovering in the air for a moment, then they exploded in a swirl of purple and black fire.

My head keened as the sliver of another reality began to form around the golden ball.  Schmidt, Nastasia, and Blackman drew closer, thinking to basque in the power of the budding portal.  I drew a crooked smile.  “Mr. Blackman, be so kind as to kill Schmidt.”  My words were flat, almost polite, but the vast well of power now open to me ensured he’d obey.  They had all been fools to believe that they could control this or understand the forces they were playing with.

There was a swift flash of metal, and Schmidt’s head fell to the floor, followed by his body.  Liz charged in and knocked over the two vampires guarding Katie and Marcella.  Before they could recover, she’d unlocked Marcella’s cuffs.

Realizing what had happened, Blackman darted forward, sticking his blade into me and twisting it painfully.  He kicked me in the chest, and I flew through the air, sailing across the room.  It all happened too fast, so I didn’t have a chance to see his face when he realized I’d grabbed hold of the sword, yanking it from his grasp.

I twisted in the air, skidding across the stone on all fours and sliding to a stop next to Marcella.

“Yup,” I said through gritted teeth as I pulled myself up.  “That hurt.”  I pulled out the sword and breathed a sigh of relief as the pain vanished.

“You know, we are going to have a serious talk about trust and honesty when we get home,” I said, getting the first strap on Marcella’s gag loose.  “Though, I really should just kill you right now.  Actually, I think I will.”  I stood and raised the blade, rage-filled and eyes narrowed, as the beast in my head scrabbled for control.

Marcella’s eyes widened, and she grunted around the gag frantically.  “Mmph, mmph, mmph!”

I couldn’t understand her.  “What’s that, dear?  You’re sorry for fucking up my entire life?  Why Marcella, thank you so much for being so contrite, but it’s too fucking late.  May Mother Darkness have mercy on your soul. Because I will not.”

53

Liz’s pale hand landed on mine, stopping it mid-stroke.  “Cait, stop.  This isn’t you.”

“Get off me,” I shouted, jerking loose, as something tickled at the back of my senses.  I swung the sword backhanded and took the head off one of the vampire guards who was just rising from the floor.

“I could kill all of you with a word,” I shouted to the room.  Something in my mind rebelled, though.  What am I doing?  I snatched at every powerful, happy thought I could find, Aoife and me playing together, Marcella and I embracing on the beach, anything.

My thoughts spun chaotically.  I couldn’t hold on to anything for any length of time.  I could feel myself slipping away, subsumed in the depths of a raging monster—a real monster.  My emotions shifted once again, angry, torturous, sadistic.  I was going to kill them all and tear them apart.  What do I care? They cannot stop me.

“Cait!” Marcella shouted, finally loose from her gag.  Her voice snapped my head around.  Hatred filled me as I looked at her, but she grabbed my face.  Immediately, I felt her presence deep in my consciousness, piercing and cold.  It was like a spike in my mind.  I cried out in horror as every awful experience, every terrible feeling bubbled into me, and I fell into a heap.

“Pull yourself together; it’s the tablets.  They’re evil.  I’m so sorry I did this, but we have other problems.  Please, Cait. Get. Up.”

I shook my head, trying to push aside the crushing depression and helplessness I felt.  The assembled vampires began jumping down from the ledge above.  I didn’t see Blackman anywhere, which was deeply worrying.  That guy was too good with a blade.

I turned to Marcella.  “Can’t you just order them to murder each other or something?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Marcella replied.  “It only affects one of them at a time.”

“Shit, then we’re fucked.”  I counted just over thirty vampires.

Nastasia began marching in our direction.  She didn’t speak, didn’t taunt, didn’t make any demands.  She just stalked toward us with absolute confidence.  If I was being honest, it was a little intimidating, and the closer she got, the more nervous I became.

Someone hit me from behind, knocking me prone and causing the Katana to skitter from my hand.  Before I could rise, Blackman darted past me and snatched up the blade.

All of the power I’d felt from the tablets had largely faded, leaving only my hand-to-hand skills.

Blackman and Nastasia were staring us down.   Several of the other vampires had drawn weapons as well, eyeing Marcella, seeing her as the greatest threat.  My mother’s eyes were still closed, chanting.

“Mother!” I shouted.  “Stop!”  If she heard me, she did nothing.

Nastasia smiled wickedly and tensed to strike, probably convinced that we couldn’t fend off this many vampires at once.  They would have been correct a moment before, but then everything changed.  Howls sounded from outside in the passage.  And, while Marcella was formidable, the ninety-foot-long Naga charging through the doorway was a fucking wrecking machine.  I hadn’t known anything so large could move so fast.  I didn’t get much time to appreciate it, though, as Nastasia charged forward with a powerful one-two punch, followed by a rain of blows.

I blocked several, but she got in a few body shots.  God, she was fast.  In all my time in Iraq, as a patrol officer or as a Detective, I’d never fought hand-to-hand in the field against a competent opponent.  After her first few shots, I figured I had a good measure of Nastasia’s skills.  Liz stepped up next to me, and Nastasia hesitated, but I waved Liz off.  “Go help Marcella; I got this.”  I smiled and squared off with the eight-hundred-year-old Russian.

Bian slithered back out, leaving a dozen bodies and many more groaning figures in her wake.  It was way too cold for her to be down here long.

Nastasia ran forward, raining down blows against my arms.  She even launched a vicious kick at my ribs which I ate, though it picked me up and tossed me into the wall.  Fighting a vampire was so different.  I couldn’t take a lot of hits like that.  I straightened up, my bones mending almost instantly, and leaped back quick as lightning, bringing my knee into her chin as I jumped.  Nastasia’s head snapped back, and she launched backward, flying into one of the dais supports.

I didn’t wait for her to recover; I ran forward and kicked out at her prone form, getting a stiletto in my calf for the trouble.  I screamed with pain as she tore the knife through the muscle in my leg, doing no permanent damage but spilling precious blood all the same.

Shit!

I backed off, yanking out the knife and letting Nastasia pull herself up while my leg healed.  Behind her, my mother continued her chanting.  The clockwork orb was spinning faster now.  Blue-black strokes of lightning and smoke danced between the columns, and a steady glow began to light the runes, one by one, bottom to top.

I had no choice.  I had to stop her.  “God damnit.  God damnit, mom, please stop,” I cried.  But she didn’t seem to hear me, so I did the only thing I could.  I threw the stiletto at my mother.  The blade seemed to sail in slow motion, tumbling end over end.  Then it just stopped inches from my mother’s outstretched palm and fell to the ground.

Nastasia stepped into a punch and grabbed my throat, digging her fingers into my neck.  I could feel the pressure as she started pulling against it, trying to lift my head from my shoulders.  I drove my right arm down across hers and pulled her in close, head butting her multiple times in the nose.

She snarled in my face, fangs extended.  I was no actual match for her strength, it turned out.  She picked me up, running and driving me into the wall, knocking me almost senseless.

Carlos, partially transformed, plowed into Nastasia, taking them both to the floor like a pair of titans locked in battle.  Carlos’ long teeth tore into Nastasia’s neck, and arterial blood spewed across the floor.

I looked around.  Werewolves had poured in the door, and a chaotic battle raged amongst us all.  The vampires were physically stronger, but they couldn’t match the ferocity of the werewolves who were rending them with tooth and claw.

Marcella was slicing her way through a group of vampires.  Around her, four dead bodies lay.  Katie was nowhere to be seen, and Blackman wasn’t in the corner where Marcella had kicked him.

“Cait!  Forget Nastasia!” Marcella called.  “Stop your mother before she opens the gate!”

“Shit,” I swore and started toward the dais, but a flash of movement to my right caught my attention.  I’d found Blackman. He had Katie run through with his katana.  The words of the prophecy rang in my ears.

On one side is the life of a child, on the other is the death of the world. A woman bonded by two birthrights shall decide the fate of all.

Blackman pulled the blade from Katie’s gut and raised it, ready to strike a killing blow.  I had no choice, not really.  I wasn’t going to sacrifice another child for the sake of someone else’s fucking war.

I leaped at Blackman’s back.  The world seemed to slow down precipitously, and my vision went completely red as my body exploded into a red mist, twisting across the distance in an instant.  One moment I had been leaping toward Blackman, and the next, I was standing behind him.

I didn’t pause to consider what had just happened.  I delivered a sharp kick to Blackman’s side before he ever knew I was there.  Ribs were pulverized as he flew through the air, slamming into the wall with a grunt.  I didn’t wait for him to recover before I barreled in on top of him, delivering strike after strike to his head, staving in his face.

“You motherfucker,” I screamed as I beat him, knuckles covered in blood.  “You. Mother. Fucker.”  He stuck his blade into my side and twisted, but he missed my heart, and I ignored the searing pain, hitting him again.

A tumbling werewolf bowled into me and knocked me off of Blackman,  wrenching me free of the blade.

Marcella was screaming at Carlos, gesturing toward the dais, but she couldn’t be heard over the screaming squeal of the spinning orb.  I grabbed my ears, feeling the air pressure in the chamber suddenly increase.  Time seemed to slow down; the fighting ceased, and the room was layered in an eerie silence.  A twisting distortion like gravitational lensing grew from between the columns.  The spinning orb burst into a circling cloud of black smoke, shining from within with a bruised blue and purple light.

Blinding light flashed several times as concussive thumps filled the air, the blasting pressure wave throwing us all backward against the chamber walls.  I drew myself back up and turned to see Katie scrambling toward me, arms behind her back.

My eyes went wide as a massive hole in the universe swallowed the dais and my mother— the black gate was open.

I screamed.  “Ma!”

You could have heard a pin drop in as it seemed the entire world took in a long, deep breath.  Power flooded through me, healing my wounds and filling me with ungodly strength.  The battle began anew, intensified by the burst of magic flowing into everyone.

In the depths of the black gate, I could see the blasted volcanic landscape of my nightmares.   Beyond the gate, black, spider-like shapes darted and moved across its surface.

I charged toward the portal as, abruptly, my mother stood up and dusted herself off.

“Run!” I screamed, but it was too late.  Something enormous, black, and powerful scooped her away with a scream.

“No!” I cried.  Something darted past me impossibly fast.  Before I could react, Elizabeth had shot through the portal and leaped into the air, pulling my mother free from the winged beast.  I ran forward as Elizabeth carried my mother’s limp and bleeding form back through the gate.

“We have to get out of here.  Something’s coming!” Elizabeth cried.

Over Liz’s shoulder, I could see the black spider-like things skittering across the basalt plain, frighteningly fast and heading right toward us.

I looked to the ensuing carnage. Carlos and his wolves were still fighting. Marcella sprawled on all fours; a black mist composed of irregularly shaped bits of— something— circled, cyclonic around her.  Within, I could catch glimpses of Marcella writhing in agony, growing larger and larger.  Then she stepped free of the black smoke, hugely tall now, great black bat-like wings protruding from her back.  Her long hair had turned deepest black, seeming to absorb all light.  She looked like an angel of death or a demonic creature of old.  She was beautiful and powerful and terrifying.

It was ancient magic, and it flowed through us all.  Under my skin, I could feel the roaring hunger, the curse flowing within my veins.  I dropped to the ground, stunned by its power.

I sensed Blackman’s presence before the blow landed, but there was no way I could move.  When the impact didn’t come, I turned to find Marcella looking down at me, Blackman’s headless torso in her hand, a grisly smile of satisfaction on her face.

Marcella turned away, wading through the amassed vampires, swatting them like so many flies.  Long claw-like fingernails rent flesh and bone alike as she cut them down like wheat.

I found Katie, finally, and lifted her from the floor, shattering her shackles as if they were made of peanut brittle.

Gooseflesh popped all over my skin, and I turned back toward the portal.  The spider-like shapes were looming much closer.

“Stop!” I bellowed, my voice filling the chamber.  Dust and small pebbles rained from the ceiling.  The clamor and howling ceased momentarily, and all eyes turned toward me, small and bright and burning.  “Let them go; we have to get out of here.”

“We have to close it!” Marcella shouted as a hot, violent wind blew from the portal.

“You can’t,” Elizabeth shouted back.  “It’s self-sustaining.  The orb is gone, and so are the tablets, destroyed when the gate opened.  You need another set to close it.”

Marcella didn’t have time to respond as five-foot-tall, five-foot-wide monstrosities poured from the other side of the gate.  Each ran on six legs ending in long, razor-sharp sword-like points.  I could see mouths on their undersides filled with spiny teeth that seemed to grind together like gears as they jumped through the air, landing on anything they could.  One landed on Marcella’s left wing.

I grabbed Blackman’s discarded blade and sliced into the spider-thing on Marcella.  A Black soupy ichor leaked out, smelling of a foulness I couldn’t describe.  Marcella flung the thing off into a corner where it spasmed and died.

“We have to get out of here,” I shouted to Marcella as the creatures crawled about, taking down some of the vampires.  I ran to the door, pulling Katie behind me.  “We don’t have the weapons or manpower to fight this battle.  We need to get out and barricade the exit.”

Marcella looked at me.  “How am I supposed to fit through the door,” she shouted as she swatted away another of the spider things.  The noise was deafening.

“I don’t know.  You didn’t do this?” I shouted, pushing Katie out of the room.

“No!  I have no idea what this is!”

I took another swipe at a spider thing, but it dodged back. “Well, concentrate or something!”

“What?” Marcella called back, tearing at another spider.  It had one of its bladed legs stuck into hers.

I cut another spider-thing down.  “Try imagining you are yourself again and believe it.”  It sounded stupid, but I had no other ideas.

Marcella kicked another spider thing back into the gate and then closed her eyes.  At first, nothing happened, then there was a crack of bone, and she whimpered softly as her form violently shifted back to normal.  She was naked, still covered in blood and ichor, but it was her.

My eyes widened in shock.  “Shit!  I can’t believe that worked.”

Marcella pulled herself up off the floor, looking exhausted.  “You and me both.”

The spider-like things were all around us now, charging in.

“Fire!” a voice called from near the door, and the spiders began to drop like— well— flies.  I looked back, finding Freyer and a group of officers, armed with M4s, firing at the creatures.  They moved forward as a unit, clearing a path toward the gate, giving us room to retreat.

“Everyone out! Now!” I screamed over the gunfire.  Nastasia was gone.  Apparently, some of the vampires had decided discretion was the better part of valor and fled; the rest were dead.

A spider jumped on one of the officers, impaling him through the chest.  I tore it off and threw it, scooping up the officer and his weapon.

“Katie, carry him!” I said.  She didn’t seem to comprehend, so I threw him over my shoulder and fired backward, one-armed.  Eventually, we were able to make a fighting retreat.

A spider landed on my back, grazing my shoulder and knocking me to the ground.  The officer I was carrying fell forward through the doors.  I grabbed the spider and tried to throw it off, but I just couldn’t.  It was like every ounce of my strength had fled.

Marcella cut threw it with a blade she’d picked up somewhere along the way.  I started to gasp for air, and my arm was bleeding profusely.  I pulled myself up against the doors and fired the remaining rounds from the M4, downing two more spiders.

More spiders poured through the portal as Carlos yanked me out and slammed the door shut.

Spent, I collapsed to the ground.  Carlos picked me up and launched himself down the hallway.  A scrabbling and pounding sounded at the door behind us.  Fortunately, for all their hideous appearance, the spiders were just numerous, not particularly strong.

We burst through a side tunnel and into the cold.  And I could feel it.  I was in jeans and a t-shirt in thirty-degree weather.  Shit.  I started to shiver.

We were in a section of the old Tremont subway line that had been abandoned years and years ago.  Behind us, Marcella slammed home the final door of the facility, and we did a headcount.  Miraculously, we had all survived, including the werewolves.  Freyer and I were huffing and puffing.  My shoulder still hadn’t healed, and I wasn’t feeling all that great.

Katie sat on the ground next to several werewolves, now all in human form.  Carlos was giving them orders, but I couldn’t concentrate on them.  My whole body hurt, and my head throbbed.

Liz was standing away from everyone, apparently keeping her distance.  She had a dejected look on her face, and I put a hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you,” I said and gave her a gentle squeeze.

Marcella marched over and snatched me into a hug of her own, and I screamed in agony.  My ribs were broken.  Marcella let me go as I gasped in pain.  I looked around; my mother looked terrible.  She had a gash across her belly that was bleeding profusely from the right side.  Katie looked none the worse for wear, but she was covered in black syrupy ichor.

“We have to go,” Carlos said, picking my mother up off the ground.

Marcella leaned toward me, but Katie picked me up, hissing at Marcella as she did so.

We emerged from the tunnel at Eliot Norton Park.  On the southern edge was a line of cars and a tractor-trailer.  I could see Bian’s head peeking around the trailer doors, motioning us to hurry.  We looked like a nudist camp run amok in downtown Boston with the naked werewolves, now in human form, charging across the park toward the cars.

54

The werewolves had scattered off in different directions.  Someone had taken Bian back to Hockamock, but I never saw who.  Frankly, after a couple of days of the council’s hospitality, I was cooked emotionally.  Physically, I felt even worse, literally sick.  My joints ached, and fatigue racked my limbs.  Sinus pressures had taken residence in my forehead.  I was breathing shallowly, gasping for air, almost hyperventilating.  I shivered with a fever, too.  Something was terribly wrong.  Vampires don’t get ill.  Scariest of all, though, my heart was pounding in my chest.

The ride back to Marcella’s seemed to take forever, and I began to panic, unable to draw in enough breath.  Finally, as we rolled into the garage, I gasped for air, and Marcella, eyes wide with fear, carried me to the elevator.

“Something’s wrong, dear,” I wheezed dazedly.

“It’s okay, Cait.  I’ve got you.”  The panic in her voice was unmistakable, though.  Something about my appearance had rattled her.

Marcella rushed me into the kitchen, laying me on the long counter.  Carlos had taken my mother to the hospital.

I shivered weakly as I lay on the chilly marble.  “I’m so cold.”  The panic that had been rising subsided, and my eyes drifted closed.  My thoughts became leaden and disjointed.  All I wanted to do was sleep.

“Cait!” Marcella shouted.  “No, no, honey.  You can’t go to sleep.”

Marcella held a cup to my lips.  I took a sip and tasted the blood.  My body rebelled, and I rolled sideways, puking red and black blood all over the floor, the remnants of Donna’s blood.

“Thas naw goo—,” I said, tongue thick, swollen, and sluggish.  With some effort, I opened my eyes and saw Katie staring down at me, a deep furrow on her brow.  Her hand stroked my face, but it felt distant, and a warm numbness permeated my body.  I let my head loll to the side again, eyes closing.

There was a pinch first in one arm, then the other—needles.

Marcella shook me.  “Hold on, Cait. This will help.”

I opened my eyes once more.  Marcella was holding a bag above her head marked O-Neg.  She was squeezing it for all she was worth, pushing the blood into my veins.  Liz stood next to her, holding a bag of clear fluids, also squeezing.  Someone lay a blanket over me, and in a few minutes, the numbness and buzzing in my head fled, leaving behind a dull ache all over my body.  Finally, the bliss of sleep began to take me.

“Cáitlín, child?” It sounded like my mother’s voice; I had to be imagining it.

“Yes, mother,” I said softly, eyes still closed.

“Stay with us, honey, please.  I can’t lose you.”

“Okay, Ma,” my voice sounded small, like a child’s.

I woke later, in our bedroom, as I’d come to think of it, to find Katie curled up and resting next to me.  Marcella sat on the edge, staring out the enormous window.  I tasted her sandalwood scent; it was heavy in the air.  Outside, it was mid-day, and the stark winter sunlight streamed into the stuffy room.

I pushed down the covers and tugged at the sweat-soaked, blue button-down pajamas sticking to my skin.

Marcella turned to me, placing her cool hand on my face.  The look in her sad eyes was devastating.  “I’m so sorry, Cait.”

I didn’t know what to say.  I loved her, but I couldn’t get past what she’d done to me, to Aoife.  I stared into those frost-blue eyes, desperately wishing I could go back to her house on the cape, before I’d been turned, before all this shit happened, and before I knew.

“Is she still alive?” I asked finally.

Her voice was so soft, mired in regret.  “Yes.  Liz knows where she is; I don’t.  We arranged it that way so Schmidt couldn’t find her.  We split you up.  Given it was just two of us, it was easier to protect you alone and hide your sister.”

“But why did you make me forget her?”  I needn’t have asked, though. I already knew the answer.

Marcella sighed and turned back to the window.  “So that you wouldn’t go looking for her.  Your mother we could trust, but you were sixteen.  We were certain you’d track her down at some point, and it would all be for naught.”

“But, why did you turn me?  Why did you send me down into that hole?”

“Because I let my heart get the better of me.  When you entered my office, I did find you captivating.  You were beautiful and strong and so vibrant.  I couldn’t help myself.  I—I wanted you.”

“I don’t understand.”

Marcella turned and ran her hand through my matted hair.  “When we met in the park, Schmidt’s people watched us.  I had led him straight to you.  It wasn’t long before I realized I wouldn’t be able to stop Schmidt; too many were against me.  You could have activated the tablets if you had been human, but I am certain it would have killed you, and I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

“But—“

“But, why the tunnel, the parasites, all that?” she finished for me.  “Simple, really.  I didn’t want to be your villain.  I wanted to be your hero.”

“Liz was right.  It was like you did to her?”

“In a way, I suppose, but my motives were purer this time, I think.”

I ran a hand through my hair, fingers catching among the tangled, matted mess.  “So, now what?”

“Now, you go back to a normal life, and I leave you be.”

My eyes flew open, and I jerked up painfully.  “What?  No.”  I moved my aching legs to the edge of the bed.  I realized I couldn’t feel her presence.  It was like suddenly going blind.  That vampiric sixth sense upon which so much relied was just silent.  I felt isolated.  I tried to brush it off, but I couldn’t shake the terrible sinking feeling in my gut.  “Marcella, what’s happened to me?”

“You’re cured.  As near as I can guess, your interaction with the tablets unwound the curse from your soul.  You’re human again, Cait.  You can have the normal life I wish I could.”

I felt suddenly desperate, and anxiety clawed at me.  “No.  We can still be together.  I’m still alive; I’m still here.”

Marcella’s tone took a hard edge to it.  “How can you say that?  Look what I did to you?  I took away your life.  I stripped away your identity.  I broke your world.  I am a monster.”

“No, you were trying to protect me.  You made mistakes, and it all got fucked up.  But that’s what happens to people in love.  They fuck up, but they move on.”

She stared at me silently, stroking my cheek.

“Well, say something,” I begged.

Marcella hugged me close.  “Let’s get some food into you and see how that goes.”

Marcella helped me to the kitchen, propping me up while we were on the elevator.

“I know what your thinking,”  I said softly.  “But you can’t.  Please, don’t.”

She didn’t argue; she just held me close and kissed my forehead, which was worse than if we’d fought.  It meant she wasn’t going to entertain anything I would say. She’d made up her mind.

She made me a breakfast of toast and eggs, then sat quietly, watching me eat it, face impassive.  When I finished, I took a deep breath and told her exactly what I thought of her fucking contemplations.

“I can’t stop you from dumping me, but it’s bullshit.  How can I have a normal life now, anyway?  I can’t.  Not with what I know, with what is out there, and yes, with what you did.  Besides, if it’s because I seem cured, you could turn me again.  And with the flood of magic back in the world that I can still feel, I might add, you could probably do it instantly.

Like a gentle pulse under my own, I could still feel the magic, beating warm and alive.  I didn’t know what it meant, but it meant—something.  “The risk would probably be low that I’d become—”

“Cait,” she interjected quietly.  “You don’t want to live forever; you never did.” She raised her voice passionately then.  “And there is no fucking way I’m going to deprive you of the possibilities you deserve, finding that someone who will live with you, love with you, and grow old with you.  You have the second chance I never had, and I won’t take that away from you.”

“But,” my voice sounded small.  “But, I just found you.  What the fuck am I supposed to do now?  If you leave me, I’ll have no one.”

Tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over, running down my cheeks, dripping off my chin.  “You just can’t.”  I buried my face in my hands as the sobs came.

“Cait—.”

“No!” I snapped and moved to stand, a little unsteady.  Marcella caught me, pulling me into a deep embrace.  She tilted my head up, and I looked into her eyes.  “I wish you wouldn’t hate me so much,” she said, and I felt the brush of her mind against my own.

I jerked my face away. “No, you don’t,” I shouted, struggling to get free.  “You don’t get to take this away from me.  Leave if you want, but I won’t let you take my love.  I won’t.”  She grabbed my chin and pulled my face back toward hers, holding my arm painfully.  “No!”  I cried.  “I won’t let you.  Please, Marcella, don’t take it away.  Don’t make it bad.  Don’t make—.”  I was wailing now, hopeless.

Her will settled over mine like sackcloth, and I went limp in her arms, captivated by her gaze.  I loved that feeling; it was peaceful, with no decisions, no responsibility.

“Oh, my love,” I said, the words deep from my heart but unbidden.

“I wish—,” she started, but some deep part of me rebelled suddenly, and I furrowed my brow, furious.  Hot anger flashed through me, breaking her mental hold.

“I said no!” I shouted and pulled at her arm.  I wasn’t going to let her do this.  She couldn’t leave.  I drew her to me with my free hand, kissing her deeply.  I nibbled her bottom lip and swept her mouth with my tongue.

“Stop it, Cait,” she said as she pulled away, pushing me back.  “It’s over.  Stop acting like some slattern.”

It was like a slap.  I knew she didn’t mean it, but it still hurt.

“That was shitty, even for you, M,” Liz said from the doorway.  How long had she been standing there?

I took the moment of distraction to break loose from Marcella’s hold and stalk out of the room.  “You fucking bitch.” I whispered through my tears.

The clothes Marcella had bought me still hung in her closet, and though I hated to take fucking anything from her right now, I had nothing else.  So I dressed, ready to leave.

I tried to rouse Katie, but she didn’t move.

“Fuck, what am I going to do with you?” I asked her sleeping form.

“Wake up!”  Liz’s command was clear, and though it lacked Marcella’s power, I’d felt it.  I’d had no idea she shared that trait with us—well, Marcella anyway.  And I didn’t understand how I could still feel it if I was cured.  Glamor was different, speaking directly to the mind of the victim.  Vampiric commands were raw power, overwhelming the will.  I should have only felt the former, not the latter.

Katie stirred and stood.  She was in a pair of rolled-up linen pants and a tank top.

“Come on, Katie.  We’re leaving,” I said, headed toward the elevator.  But she didn’t move.  She sniffed at the air and looked at me with a predatory gaze, baring her fangs.

“Oh, shit!”

Katie leaped at me.  Fortunately, Liz was faster and managed to get between Katie and me.  “Stop!” Liz shouted, and the power of the command forced me to my hands and knees, gasping.

“Cait?” Liz queried, turning toward me.  “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, can you be a little more directed with that?”

“That’s interesting,” she said.  Then, she donned a sly smile, quirking one corner of her mouth.  “Strip!”

I started lifting my shirt and then realized what I was doing and stopped.

“Hey,” I snarled hotly.  “That’s not okay.”

“That is so fucking fascinating.”  Clearly, her wheels were turning, and I felt I needed to leave right then.

“Probably the remains of the curse.  I must be in some kind of vampire remission.  Obviously, Katie is hungry, you’ll need to help her feed since I can’t, and Marcella is going to run the fuck away.” My voice was hard and full of resentment.

“Don’t worry; you and I will manage Katie together.  And, go easy on Marcella,” Liz said.  “She’ll probably figure out her fuck up here in a year or two.  She’s just trying to protect you.”

“Me?  Oh, no,” I spat.  “She’s protecting herself.  I have a fucking dangerous job anyway.  She’s not saving my life or anything. She’s running away to protect her own feelings so she doesn’t have to face me after what she did to me.  Don’t you fucking dare say it’s about protecting me.  You, of all people, should know better.”

I walked over to Katie, who seemed to recognize me this time, and hugged her.  I collected Jabba and found his carrier in Marcella’s closet.  After he was loaded, I headed for the elevator.

Liz blocked the way for a moment, placing her hand over the call button.

“Liz, please.  I appreciate that you want us to figure it out, but after everything, she’s probably right.  Maybe we need some time apart.”

“You don’t believe that any more than I do.  But, fine,” Liz said impassively.  “Have it your way.  But, she will come back to you eventually, hat in hand.” She stepped aside.

I walked by and pressed the elevator call button.  I heard Katie step into the sitting room, and Liz put her hand on my shoulder.  “I’m sorry, Cait.  I know we’re not mates or anything, but I’ve been where you are right now—with Marcella, I mean.  If you need to talk, you know where to find me.”

“I may take you up on that.”  Liz’s tone was so sincere that, on a whim, I gave her a quick one-armed hug. “Thank you for saving my mother.”

She returned it with a squeeze.  “You’re welcome.  I just hope she’s okay.”

I swallowed hard several times and blinked back more tears.  We got off on the first floor, and I found Marcella sitting in the kitchen nursing a glass full of blood.

“Well,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster.  “I’m going, just like you want.” I could tell from her dismal demeanor that this was the last thing she really wanted, but I wasn’t going to play games.

“Okay,” she said softly.  “Carlos called.  Your mother is out of surgery, and it looks like she’ll be okay physically, but Carlos is worried about her mental state.  You should see her.”

My shoulders slumped.  “I will.  And, Marcella, for what it’s worth, I love you.”

Tears spilled over my lashes again as I took the stairs to the garage, not wanting to stand awkwardly by the elevator where she could hear me cry.

Epilogue

One Month Later. . .

I looked at the stack of boxes, wondering how, after the last fourteen years, all that I owned fit into such a small space, minus the Jeep down the garage.  On one hand, it had been easy to move out of the apartment.  On the other, the sum total of my possessions fit into six boxes.  It was pretty pathetic.

“It’s kind of sad,” Liz said from the doorway, mirroring my thoughts, sipping from Marcella’s ‘I’m Not a Morning Person’ mug.

I looked at her.  “Isn’t it, though?”

“Not the boxes, Cait.  That there’s a perfectly gorgeous California king on the fourth floor, and you’re staying down here.”

I shook my head in disbelief.  “Liz, we’ve had that conversation.”

“Just friends,” she finished for me, smirking devilishly.  “I know, I know.  At least step one of my evil plan is in motion.  I finally got you to move over here rather than staying in that dungeon you called an apartment.  Good God, that place was bloody depressing.”

“Hey, that place was fine for me for four years.  It wasn’t that bad.”

Liz walked over and sat down on the bed.  “Cait, it was dreadful.  All it needed was a rack and an iron maiden, honestly.  Besides, your little furball seems much happier over here.”

“Speaking of which, where is my baby?”  I hadn’t seen Jabba for hours.

“In the TV room, curled up with Katie, watching a movie.”

“Is everything ready for my mother?” I asked, changing the subject.  “She gets out of rehab tomorrow, and she’s still not fully recovered.  We need to make sure we can take care of her.”

“Yes, her room is right down the hall and ready to receive her.  Robert has some experience with the mentally disabled, so he will be able to help.”  She took another sip of blood from the mug.  “I’m sorry Schmidt fucked her up.  We’ll find a way to help her.”

“Yeah.  Okay, G-Great,” I stuttered, losing my concentration as I tasted the blood from Liz’s mug in the air.  I watched as Liz drank and licked tiny drops from her lips; it was mesmerizing.   My tongue flicked out, bringing more of the scent to my vomeronasal duct.  God, it was so tempting.  I shook myself.

“Are you okay?” Liz asked, watching me.  She moved her cup left and right, and watched as I followed it for a second.  I shook myself again.

“Yeah, I’m fine.  Probably just memories.”

“You want to try it?  See what happens?”  Liz asked.

I didn’t bother to answer.  I reached out and grabbed her mug, taking a small sip.  It was cold, salty, and thick with the appropriate coppery tang.  But there was no feeling at all.  No hunger to be sated roared in my consciousness.  The blood was just—blood.

“Oh, well, good to know,” Liz continued.  “Anyway, I met Gretchen and Kaja, and this reporter friend of Marcella’s, Shandra?”

I barked a laugh, interrupting her.  “Shandra is a friend of Marcella’s?  That’s a shock.”

“I don’t know; she seems nice.  We’ve brought the Channel 7 producers down to the camps, and they’re working with Gretchen and Kaja on a half-hour special.  Gretchen said not to worry about the interview.  She said you were ‘old news.’”

I laughed at that, too.  That sounded like the precocious little twerp.  “That’s fine.  I didn’t want to do it, anyway.”

“On an unrelated note, Lieutenant called again.  He wants you in on Wednesday.”

I laughed.  “Well, that’s too bad. I’m on leave for the next two weeks, so he’ll have to wait.  Besides, he’s got his hands full with the feds and that hole in the world we left behind.”

“True.  Though, he seemed pretty insistent that you call him in the morning.”  Liz finished the last of her blood and set her mug on the nightstand.  I noticed for the first time that she had a tube of lotion in her other hand as she patted the bed.  “Come here. Strip off that sports bra and lay down on your stomach.  I want to show you something I learned overseas.”

I raised an eyebrow but did what she asked.  I had an idea of what she had in mind, and I was all for it.

I wasn’t stupid; I knew she was trying to seduce me.  And, frankly, I was tired of pining over Marcella.  I would probably never get over her, but Jennifer had been right; it was okay to move on.  I just wasn’t ready, not yet.

Liz squeezed a bit of the lotion into her palm, the tube making a somewhat rude noise.  Then, an involuntary groan escaped my lips as she began her magic, massaging my lower back muscles.

“You know, I think I see what she saw in you,” Liz said.  Her voice was husky and low.

I closed my eyes and finally began to relax into Liz’s ministrations.  “Mmmhmm.  Go on.”

“Good God, you really are beautiful, Cait, but I’m sure you know that.”  I didn’t, but I let her go on.  “Now, I would never want to make you do something you don’t want.”

I rolled my eyes.  “Good to know, just please don’t stop,” I grunted as she massaged up my spine.

“If you want me to leave, you just need to ask,” she said, working her thumb into a particularly stubborn knot under my shoulder blade.

“Yep,” I groaned in agreement.

“Aren’t you worried about the gate?” Liz asked as she began to work my glutes.  “You have a nice rear end.”

I blew out a breath.  “Knock it off, Liz.  And—” I groaned as she hit a kink in my right thigh.  “No, the gate isn’t my problem anymore.  All this paranormal shit was giving me hives anyway.”

Liz slapped my butt.  “Now, Cait?  Honestly? I give you hives?”

I laughed.  “Sorry, I just meant the politics and the skullduggery.  You’re plenty nice in small doses.”

Liz gasped in mock indignance.  “I’m hurt.  I’ve been nothing but lovely to you since—“

“Since you trapped me in a fucking concrete cell and let Schmidt torture me?”  I let out another groan of pleasure as she worked my other thigh.  “Oh, God, I needed this.”

“Well, that was before I knew you.  And did you just use the word skullduggery in a sentence?  You’ve been around us too much, I think.”

“Yes, despite the muscular exterior—” I moaned as she hit another knot, this time in my shoulder. “As I was saying, despite my appearance, my vocabulary extends beyond the monosyllabic. And, are you saying your compassion only extends to people you know?”

She stopped and grew very quiet for a moment.  I turned my head to look at her.

“Only people I trust,” she said softly, and the corners of her mouth crooked in a sad smile.

“Why would you trust me?  I swore at one point I’d kill you.”

“Because you tore off your own arm to save a child you scarcely knew.  It’s hard to find someone that dedicated to doing the right thing, Cait.  Truthfully, the more I think about it, the more inspiring it seems.”

“Turning your back on your sinful ways, are you?”  I asked, jerking my thumb toward my back.  “Keep going.”

“Hardly, darling.”  Liz sounded a little choked up.  “Just—oh, shut up, Cait.”

Liz went back to work, and I said nothing else for the next half hour as she massaged my back, working out the kinks like an expert.  She had probably been doing this for a hundred years, so I was in good hands.

Eventually, she leaned forward, and I felt her breasts pressed against my back, soft and cool.  “How does that feel?” she whispered.  When had she stripped off her shirt?

“Lovely,” I said tiredly, eyes feeling heavy-lidded.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Elizabeth said, running a finger down my back, causing me to gasp loudly and arch.  “Oh, my!  We are sensitive, aren’t we?”

“No,” I whimpered.  “Don’t you—”

Her tongue, wet and soft, ran up my spine, causing me to jerk spasmodically and pulling a harsh, aroused breath from my throat.

“That was not okay, Liz,” I said with a laugh.  I began to lift, trying to get off the bed, but she jerked me onto my back roughly, pinning my arms.  A wicked smile split Liz’s beautiful face as her fangs extended.

“No,” I breathed, my eyes wide with terror.  “Don’t.”

“Too late, little girl,” she murmured, leaning down.

“Please, Liz, stop,” I whimpered as her grip tightened painfully on my wrists.  I struggled against her as she leaned in, licking my neck.  Then her will washed over mine, and I felt as if I were falling into darkness as the world around me dissolved, leaving only her eyes, those beautiful green eyes.

For a moment, I wanted her so badly, but I shook off the influence quickly.  Robert had been right; she sucked at glamour.  But, unable to break free physically, I turned my head and closed my eyes, waiting for the inevitable.  A gentle kiss pressed to my cheek, and Liz lifted.  She was still straddling me but left my hands free.

“Whew, I’m sorry, I got a little carried away,” Liz said cheerily as she lifted off of me, moving to stand next to the bed.

I jerked myself up and backed to the corner of the bed, hands shaking, fighting the instinct to curl myself up very small.  “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be a tease; I just—.”

Liz’s eyes widened in sudden realization, and sympathy crossed her face.  “Oh, God, I had no idea.” She placed a hand on my arm.

“Yeah, well, now you know,” I said.  “And it sucks.”  My emotions spun jumbled as feelings of arousal and attraction warred with fear, shame, and mistrust.  Slowly, I stretched out my legs and forced myself to uncoil.

“Yes, it does,” she said.  Her voice was low and sympathetic, and her face spoke volumes about her own experience.  “Have you ever spoken with someone about it?”

“No.”  I had told Jennifer it had happened, but I hadn’t recounted any of it, not ready to open that can of worms at the time.

She placed her hand on mine.  “Would you like to?”

Before I could think about it, I just started blabbering, the words tumbling out.

“It was in 2008.  I was deployed to Iraq for my first tour.  I had just finished my first patrol, and we were all sitting around drinking.  After we’d been having fun for a while, a couple of guys joined us.  One of them was named John Holley; he was a Marine Scout Sniper.  He had classic good looks, you know: square jaw, cleft chin, black hair, blue eyes.  He kept making eyes at me the whole night, and I was pretty drunk, so I was probably being a little flirtatious.”

Liz sat and listened, pulling one leg under the other.  It was strange how much of Marcella I saw in Liz.  It was also refreshing that she was so not like her.  Where Marcella was demanding and pressuring, Liz was coaxing and respectful.

“Anyway, I began to feel a little queasy.  I wasn’t an experienced drinker, you know?  So, I went into the latrine and puked my guts out.  And that’s where Sergeant Holley found me.  I didn’t like him.  He liked killing.”  I snorted in derision.  “He got off on being a sniper and ‘the pink mist’ or some shit.  Anyway, I told him to leave, but he pushed me down, banging my head on the sink.”

“I thought he found you puking.”

“No, sorry, I skipped that part.  When I finished puking, I went to the sink, and that’s when he came in.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted. I was just making sure I understood.  Please continue.”  Her voice was gentle and supportive.

“So, he pushed me to the ground, and I cracked my head on the sink.” My voice had started to shake a little.  “I tried to call out, but he—.” I stopped, taking a breath and swallowing hard.  I could feel pressure in my eyes.  Liz held up a finger and then brought me a glass of water from the bathroom.

“Here,” she whispered.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t have to apologize.  Keep going, please.”

“Are you sure? You look—.”  I could see the pain in her eyes as I spoke, and I knew she was reliving her own trauma, maybe more than one.  I took a drink of water.

“I’m sure.  Keep going.”  She placed her hand back on mine as I set down the glass of water.

“Anyway, I tried to scream, but he punched me and banged my head onto the floor.  Then, he pulled down my pants, and he—.”  I broke down into sobs, and Liz put her arms around me.

“Shh, I’m here.  You’re safe with me.”  Her hold was gentle, and I wanted to sink into it, but I pushed away as a rush of anger boiled inside of me.

“No, I need to get through this.  It’s been ten years, and I haven’t been able to talk about it with anyone, not ever. He flipped me over and pulled down my shorts.  I wasn’t wearing any panties at the time, having just come out of the shower before the party.  I just remember wishing I’d had more clothes on, you know?  To make it harder for him.

“Then, he—uh—.” My head was spinning. “He raped me,” I whispered.  “He put himself inside me.  And I couldn’t—.”  I began rubbing my hand reflexively on my legs as if I could wipe the memory away.

“Anyway,” I said, voice trembling.  “I reported him.  Morgan went with me.”

“Morgan?” she asked.

“Specialist Kennedy, my would-be girlfriend at the time, though we were never—.  Anyhow, when I went to report it, they just said it was my word against Holley’s.  They didn’t bother to do a rape exam.  He was never charged or even given a slap on the wrist.  A year later, I was deployed to the same post with him.  The ironic thing is that I ended up saving his life.  We were in his sniper nest when a grenade came in.  If Morgan hadn’t been there at the time, I would have just let us both die.”

Now that I’d said it, I felt nothing, neither relieved nor miserable.  In movies, there are moments when the hero spills their guts to someone, and suddenly, now that trauma is out, they are all better.  I call them ‘Good Will Hunting’ moments.  They don’t exist.  Dealing with trauma means re-living it repeatedly until you process your feelings.  Eventually, if you’re lucky, it becomes a faded memory that never goes away but doesn’t ruin your life anymore.  I had a very long way to go to get to that place with the rape.

I ran a hand across my face and looked at my watch—2:07 AM.  I gave Liz a gentle hug.  “Thank you for listening, and please don’t think I don’t appreciate it.  But I’m suddenly exhausted.  You can stay or go. It’s okay, but please don’t expect anything.”

Liz stood but said nothing as I fished a t-shirt from the dresser, turned out the light, and crawled into bed.  A few moments later, the light in the hallway went out, leaving me in darkness as Liz closed the door.

I had thought she’d left until she slid silently into the bed, her cool flesh pressed against my back.  I didn’t speak or protest; I just closed my eyes.

✽✽✽

I woke to an empty bed around nine the following day, and I staggered down to the kitchen to forage for breakfast.  The elevator dinged, and Liz walked out, freshly dressed but looking a little peaked.

“Hey,” she said.  “We don’t have much for food in this house, did you know that?  So I picked up some coffee and a fresh cannoli for you.  I also stopped by the store and got you some breakfast food.”  She held up a pastry box and a coffee cup from Modern.

“Oh, baby, you are speaking my language,” I cooed.

“Oh, is that all it takes,” she said with a smirk.

I bit into the cannoli and spoke around a mouthful.  “It takes more than a cannoli—“

“Hello,” Liz said, interrupting me, looking at the table.  “What’s this?”

I had left Morgan’s letters from my refrigerator door there, and she picked them up, eyebrow raised.

“Those are private.”  I went to snatch them away, but she moved her hand preternaturally fast and put an arm out to block me.

“I’ll say.  This one here is over ten years old and unopened.  And it still smells of—of perfume.” She flipped them over, looking at the return address.  “Are these from the same girl that you mentioned last night?”  Liz wiggled her eyebrows.  “Wow, Cait, you have taken useless lesbian to new heights with this.”

“So I’ve been told,” I quipped.  Unable to stop her, I crossed my arms and watched her cut open the first letter.  My cheeks flushed as she leaned against the island and read it.

“Oh, my,” she whispered.  “Um, Cait, why didn’t you ever open this?”

“Because she chose a man over me, Liz.  She got married, and I never forgave her for abandoning me; that’s why.”

“Oh, Cait,” Liz whispered, hand over her mouth and shaking her head.  She looked like she was in shock.  Liz’s eyes were even a little wet.  “This is just fucking tragic.  I mean, look at me.” She wiped her eyes with a thumb and held out the paper.  “You, Kitty Cait, should more promptly open your mail.”

I snatched the letter from her at the mention of Morgan’s pet name for me, and I almost fell to the floor as I read it.

Dear Kitty Cait,

I couldn’t help but notice that you haven’t been returning my calls.  I think I know why and I can only hope this letter reaches you.  So, if you listened to my voice mails, you know by now that there was no wedding.  I couldn’t do it.  I don’t love Clay, and I never could.

Now comes the hard part.  I couldn’t ever love Clay because I’m in love with you.  There, I said it.  I wrote it down for all the world to read.  I am in love with my best friend.  I am hoping that you’ll call me after you get this and we can talk.  I am hoping that the reason you stopped returning my calls is the reason that I think it is.  I am hoping that you’ll call me back and let me know that you feel the same way I do.  I am hoping that you can forgive me for leaving you in the state you were in.  I wanted to kiss you and tell the cab to piss off, but I was afraid.

I have an interview next week with the Chicago PD.  Please, please, forgive me and call me.  If you don’t, just know that I think I’ll always feel this way for you.

Love,

The fire-haired goddess extraordinaire

“Fuck,”  I swore loudly

I sat at the table and read the letter three times over.  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“It fucking figures,” I whispered.

“What does?” Liz asked.

“That, in my fucked up angry brain, I’d chosen to cut her off and ended up cutting off my fucking nose to spite my face, that’s what.”

“Okay, well, yes, that was a colossal fuck up, darling; I can’t lie.  And there’s no fixing it.” She waved the second envelope at me.  “Or is there?  Aren’t you just the least bit curious about what she has to say after ten years?”

“I’m fucking terrified, is what I am.  I’m a total bitch, a total asshole, a fucking idiot,” I admonished.  I put my face in my hands and screamed in frustration.

“Yes, all that may be true, but—.” Liz waved the second letter at me again.

I looked at her for support as I took it, and she just nodded, grinning like she knew what was inside.

I started opening it but stopped.  “What do you think it is?”

“I have no idea, but this is too dramatic and delicious to pass up.  It’s like a soap opera.  So come on, open it.”  Liz was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Have a lot of experience with soaps?” I asked as I tore open the envelope.

“Over sixty years of Coronation Street,” she said indignantly.  “I’ve seen every episode except last week’s, so fuck off and read the bloody thing.”

I unfolded the letter.

Hey Kitty Cait,

Been a long time.  I can’t believe it’s been ten years since we’ve talked.  I’ve been doing well.  I’ve spent the last three years on SWAT for the Chicago PD, but I’m feeling it’s time for a change.  I put in for an open spot on the Fugitive Apprehension Unit in Boston, and I got the job.  Shocking, I’m sure.  Not having heard from me in ten years and suddenly poof.  But I didn’t want you to get blindsided.  I was hoping we might get together and maybe bury whatever is between us.  You were my best friend, and I’d like to have her back.

I’ve been out there a few times.  I even saw you stomping out of the Homicide Lieutenant’s office.  You looked pissed, so I didn’t think it wise to approach you.  It was funny, though; you walked right by me.  You probably wouldn’t have recognized me with the scar and the short hair.  You looked just as I remembered you.  Maybe a little more buff than the day I left.  The day I screwed up.

I asked one of the detectives about you, a guy named Tony.  He said you were a first-class bitch.  Attagirl.  Well, here’s to hoping!  See you soon.

With Love,

Morgan

“Holy shit,” I whispered, handing the letter to Liz, who just squealed in delight.

Cait and Marcella will return in Black Mirror. . .

Coming 2023

About The Author

Aoibh Wood

Aoibh Wood has been a practitioner in the cybersecurity space for over 17 years and has worked in technology for 35 years.  Blood Rituals is her first novel.  She lives in New England and is a strong believer in the power of women and our ability to support each other.