Valley View, indicating we were being watched.
"Have the police interviewed the owner?"
"The police weren't called first. We were."
I frowned. "That's a little unusual, isn't it?"
He reached forward and plucked a bloody thread from one of the wires, putting it in a plastic bag before saying
"Not when you're reporting that the killer is a red-faced demon."
That raised my eyebrows. "Really?"
"Seriously." His gaze met mine. "My normal response would be to suggest the witness's alcohol intake might have been a little high, but Dusty found cloven hoofprints. Which supports the whole demon thing."
A laugh escaped, then I realized he was being serious. "But demons don't have cloven hooves."
"That we know of. But there's no saying there isn't a branch out there that has."
"I guess that's true." I shifted, my gaze sweeping the park. Neither Dusty nor Dobbs was in sight, and the morning was filled with the sound of children's laughter. It was a happy noise that seemed so out of place given the brutality that lay at our feet - although we'd certainly seen far worse over the years. And done worse. Like shooting a soul mate. I bit my lip for a moment, using one sort of pain to control another, then added, "Anything else worth knowing?"
"Nothing obvious at the moment. I'll send you the report as soon as it's done."
"Thanks." I rose and pulled off the gloves.
And that's when I felt it - the rush of power, the chill of death. There was a soul here.
I scanned the park again, trying to pinpoint the soul's location. There was nothing obvious - no wispy, insubstantial form, no obvious focal point for the energy that was washing across my skin.
"Have we got an ID on the victim yet?" I asked softly.
I felt rather than saw the sharpening of interest from Cole. "His name is Wayne Johnson. He was released from prison a week ago."
"His crime?"
"Murder. I requested the trial records, but they haven't been sent through yet. He served twenty-five years."
Then it had to be a nasty crime, because the average sentence wasn't usually that long - unless you were a nonhuman, and then the sentence was death.
"I'm betting he strangled his victim." It would certainly explain the method of his demise as well as the bitter taste in the air.
"I agree," Cole said, "and it would certainly be worth finding out who he killed, and where the victim's relatives were during the early hours of the morning. You never know; it might turn out to be an easily solved case for a change."
I snorted at the improbability of that and turned, my gaze moving to the strand of trees behind us. There in the softening shadows drifted a fragile wisp no bigger than a handkerchief.
The soul.
I walked toward it. My ability to communicate with the dead was still growing, and most souls could now gain shape and talk quite coherently. Of course, it was my strength they were drawing on to materialize, and it had reached the point where the mere act of talking to the spirit world could leave me weak both in body and mind. But it was a weakness I was willing to endure if it meant catching a break and solving a crime.
Not that this soul was drawing much energy at the moment. He might be here, but I had a feeling he was of two minds about speaking.
The closer I got to him, the colder it got, until it felt like fingers of ice were creeping into my bones. No one could really explain why these souls brought the chill of the underworld with them, but the general consensus was that it had something to do with them being in between - neither here nor in heaven or hell. Or wherever else it was that souls went to.
As I stepped into the ring of trees, his soul retreated, and fear swirled through the ice of the afterworld. I stopped.
"Why are you lingering here, Wayne Johnson, if not to speak?"
The wispiness that was the soul seemed to pause and then the energy flowing from me surged, the suddenness of it making me gasp.
Why? His voice was guttural, harsh, as it flowed through my mind. Why did this happen? I paid for my crime. They should have left me alone. It's not fair that I should pay twice.
I couldn't argue the validity of that without knowing who and how he'd killed. I'd learned over the years there were some crimes that deserved nothing less than death, but whether this man's did wasn't the point. "I'm here to find your killer, Mr. Johnson. But to do that, you need to talk to me."
For a moment he didn't answer, but the chill continued to grow until my fingers and nose ached with the fierceness of it. Energy continued to flow out of me, building in the air, giving him the strength to speak.
I didn't really see him, he admitted after a moment. He was wearing a mask.
"Are you sure it was a mask?"
Yeah. I saw the elastic around his head, like. He snorted, and the sound reverberated sharply inside my head. And he was wearing these weird things around his feet that made him run funny.
Cloven-shaped heels for his shoes, perhaps? But why would someone adopt such a disguise when it was only more likely to catch the attention of anyone who might be watching?
"Why didn't you fight him, Mr. Johnson?"
I couldn't. He sprayed something into my face. The next thing I know, I'm up in these trees with a wire around my neck and the bastard is choking me.
Weakness began to pull at my muscles, and that meant I'd better hurry before he drained me too far. That was the one big fear I had - that these souls would drag me into the shadowy depths with them if I wasn't careful. And that dark part inside of me whispered that it might be easier, that eternal darkness was better than eternal pain.
But I couldn't do that to my brother or to Quinn. No matter how tempting it might seem.
Besides, Jack kept reassuring me that it wasn't likely to happen, even if no one really knew how far this skill would develop, let alone what dangers might be involved.
"So, Mr. Johnson, he approached you from the front rather than behind?"
Yeah, how else would I see him? He was slender and small, like, but he obviously packed a hell of a lot of muscle. He killed me in minutes flat.
Another clue that we were dealing with a nonhuman killer. "Is there anything else you can tell me, Mr. Johnson? Anything that would help us track him down quickly?"
He didn't answer immediately, but the energy flowing away from me seemed to sharpen. A tremor ran through my muscles and my knees suddenly felt weak.
Well, there was the car -
"Car? What type of car?" I interrupted quickly. "Did you see the plate number?"
The energy in the air sharpened yet again, making the small hairs along the nape of my neck and along my arms stand on end. The trembling in my muscles grew stronger, and I really didn't know how much longer I could hold out. Or if I wanted to hold out. I pressed a hand against a nearby tree trunk and tried to stay upright. Tried to fight the growing urge to go with the flow and let oblivion take me.
It was a Toyota Land Cruiser. Really battered, grayish in color. He paused. I only saw a little of the plate. The first three letters were BUK.
It was better than nothing, and would certainly narrow down the field. "Is there anything else you noticed?"
No. His voice was softer, but that was more than likely a result of the fatigue gnawing at my body. I didn't deserve to die like this.
I thought it likely he did but didn't voice the opinion, saying instead, "Go in peace, Mr. Johnson."
I don't want -
He might not want to, but I broke off the contact and sank down to my knees, my breath wheezing out of my lungs and every muscle quivering.
The chill of his presence still hung in the air, but I ignored it, concentrating on breathing, on getting some strength back.
Footsteps approached from behind, and a familiar, spicy scent wrapped around me. "Here," Cole said, shoving a thermos and a cup in front of me. "We decided we needed to keep a supply of the strong stuff handy in case you needed it."
"I think I love you."
"Too late," he replied, amusement in his voice. "My love is already taken."
"Overlooked again." I tried to say it lightly, but tiredness got the better of me and it came out somewhat harshly.
I grabbed the metal flask from him, unwinding the top and pouring the steaming liquid into the plastic cup. The aroma hit my nostrils and I sighed in pleasure. It wasn't hazelnut, but it smelled just fine.
"Did you get anything from our victim?" Cole asked.
I took a sip of coffee and felt the warmth of it begin to chase away the chill of afterlife. "He said his killer was disguised as a demon."
"Well, none of us actually thought we were dealing with a real demon." Cole's voice was amused. "I wouldn't imagine they'd need to use barbed wire, for a start."
Certainly the demons I'd met wouldn't, that was for sure. "He also gave me a partial plate number and a description of the car the attacker was driving."
"Did he say where the murder occurred?" Cole squatted down beside me and handed over a Mintie. It wasn't a burger or even chocolate, but a chewy mint was better than no food at all.
"Here in these trees." I paused to unwrap the mint, popping it in my mouth before replying. "He said his attacker sprayed something in his face that froze him, so you'd better do a full toxicology."
"Like I don't always." He touched my shoulder lightly. "Are you sure you haven't come back too soon?
Because you're not looking too good at the moment."
I met his concerned gaze, managing a small smile. "Meaning there were occasions in the past when I actually did look good?"
He grinned, and the warmth of it flowed over me, chasing away the chill faster than the coffee. "I will admit to thinking, every now and again, that you looked great."
"He confesses this now, when he's finally found a girl who will put up with him?" I shook my head in mock despair. "We could have had so much fun."
"I don't think I have the stamina to handle someone like you." He pushed to his feet. "And you very neatly avoided answering the question."
"Not too neatly if you noticed."
He shook his head, his expression concerned. "You need to take it easy, Riley. This job isn't worth dying for, no matter what Jack says."
Again, the frustration surfaced. "Jack doesn't want me dead. I'm of no use to him that way."
"But he will keep pushing until you begin to think you might be better off dead." He reached into his pocket and tossed me another Mintie. "Sooner or later, you're going to have to set boundaries."
"Which is easier said than done." I squinted up at him. "I don't see you saying no too often."
"My situation is not the same as yours."
"No. You haven't been injected with drugs that are changing the very chemistry of your body."
"That's irrelevant, and you know it."
It wasn't, because it was the one reason I couldn't walk away from the Directorate and Jack.
"I'm just saying that you need to be careful." He hesitated, then added, "Jack may be a good boss, but he doesn't run the Directorate. His sister does. And trust me, she's a hard bitch who won't hesitate to suck you dry and then spit you out."
Curiosity stirred, and I raised my eyebrows. As far as I knew, no one had ever met the elusive director Madeline Hunter - none of us plebs, anyway - although they did speak of her in the administration halls with varying degrees of trepidation. "You've met Director Hunter? What is she like?"
"She's everything Jack isn't, and she doesn't care who she has to use - or use up - to get the job done."
The bitterness in his voice raised my eyebrows. "So you've crossed swords with her?"
"Not me personally, but someone I know." He glanced away, his expression grim. "He died because of her, because she and the Directorate kept pushing. I'd hate to see the same happen to you, Riley."
The anger in his voice was very clear, and yet here he was, working for the very people he seemed to hate. "It won't."
"Good."
The short, sharp way he said that made me realize he wasn't about to go into details, no matter how much I might want them. So I wasn't surprised when he changed the subject.
"Did the victim have any idea why the murderer dragged him into full view?"
"No, but the most obvious answer is that he wanted Johnson's body found." I shrugged. "Someone who runs around dressed as a demon obviously isn't dealing with a full deck of cards."
"And that," he said heavily, "is the most sensible thing I've heard all day."
I laughed and rose. I finished the coffee in one swift gulp that burned my throat, then handed him the plastic cup. "You'll let me know if you find anything?"
"Nope," he said, his eyes twinkling as he slapped the cup back on top of the thermos. "I'm going to keep it all to myself."
"Heard that about you."
He smiled and walked away, and I headed down the hill to interview the woman who'd reported the murder.
As it turned out, she wasn't much help. She seemed to be the local busybody, but she was elderly with failing eyesight, and she was convinced she'd seen a real demon, not someone dressed up as one. Weirdly, the idea seemed to thrill rather than scare her.
When I got back to my car, I switched on the onboard and typed in the partial plate number, requesting a search for gray Toyotas with those letters. It'd probably turn up hundreds of possibilities, but at least that would give us somewhere to start.
