by Ryan Attard
Cops who worked with wizards did not tend to last very long.
“I’m on my way,” I said. “Text me the address.”
And Roland did just that.
Except he also sent a few photos that made my blood run cold.
Not because of the mangled body that was torn to shreds, or the blood smeared all over the walls of what looked like an alleyway, or the horrified look on the cadaver, his face twisted in agony. I've seen plenty worse, trust me.
No, the reason I stood petrified outside the hospital building was that I had already seen this crime scene. Hell, I had even walked through it, smelled the putrid scent of the gutter, heard the victim talk and later scream.
And I had done all that in last night’s nightmare.
Chapter 3
It took me an extra half an hour to get to the crime scene. The small vodka bottle was half empty by the time I spotted Roland and leaned over to hide it. Two breath mints later and I was ready to face my nightmare.
Literally.
The alley was dark even in daylight. Or whatever was left of it through the grey clouds and yellowed sky. Even Mother Nature was brooding.
A legion of uniformed police officers weaved in between cruisers with their sirens still flashing. Yellow police tape cut off the area where curious passersby would often stop before stern looks and shooing hand motions sent them back along their way.
Roland saw me among the officers and waved me through. He looked good, less chunky, more muscular. I guess people deal with the unknown in different ways. Some eat uncontrollably, some obsess over details, and some apparently hit the gym with a Schwarzenegger-like zeal.
“I hope you haven’t had lunch yet,” he said.
“I saw the pictures,” I said as I followed him inside the alleyway.
Roland looked around. “Pictures don’t convey the smell.”
He was right. Alleyways never smell good to begin with. Several trash bags were torn open, their putrid contents spilling on the ground.
But the most prominent smell was the coppery scent of blood. The waft was so unique I could practically taste it, and had to fight the urge to gag. The alcohol was working its magic despite my healing magic usually eliminating any fun aftereffects like tipsiness.
The walls were slick and wet, and cordoned off while CSI people snapped pictures of the crime scene. I kept staring at the blood, following along its trail as it turned into puddles on the ground.
I had been here. The ground felt familiar, the crunch of my boots on the gravel a clear memory. Even the smell was perfectly accurate.
No. Wait, hang on. How could I have been here if I never actually was?
This was the first time I had actually stood in this alleyway, I knew that.
A premonition. That was the only explanation.
Somehow, after my resurrection, I was able to glimpse the future. Perhaps I could even project my astral self out into the world.
That would make sense. I was one of the few rare cases of having my body and soul separated and then put back together. When I had been a ghost, I had still retained a fragment of my original powers and could manipulate the raw energy of Limbo to my advantage.
Perhaps my soul was going out on trips while I slept—coincidentally, the perfect time to astral project, whilst your body is naturally dormant.
Yeah. I smiled. I wasn’t going crazy. Just had a new power was all. Nothing too-
“Erik, watch your step.”
Roland seized my arm and pulled me away from something wet and gelatinous on the ground.
“Jeezuz,” he swore. “Are you all right?”
“Sorry,” I said, my eyes transfixed by the chunk of flesh before me. “Just got distracted.”
“Yeah. Piece of human liver on the ground does tend to distract,” he said. “Watch out. This place is full of them. Whoever did this did not want our victim whole.”
And he was right.
Twenty-seven—that was the total number of dismembered bits I counted before the stench of blood and gore threatened to upset my stomach again.
As we approached the main corpse, I saw a female detective looming over it. She had dark Latin skin, cropped hair, and when she turned her stern face in my direction, there was nothing except dislike and mistrust.
Oh, good. One of those.
“Detective March,” she said, still looking me over. “I see you brought… special help.”
“He’s a consultant, Detective Diaz,” Roland said.
“No, he’s a fraud,” Diaz said. “And you’re an idiot for trusting him.” But she stepped aside anyway.
“Friend of yours?” I asked Roland.
“Lead Detective on the case,” he said. “She outranks me by a couple of years.”
Meaning, please don’t fuck this up for me, Erik.
I groaned under my breath. Then I bent on one knee to focus on the body.
Or what was left of it.
Now mangled beyond recognition, I knew this had once been a man. His face had long gashes that distorted his features, but I could see small tufts of facial hair that indicated a beard or goatee of some kind. One eye was wide open, staring in horror.
As I knelt, something dug into my knee. Before I could examine what I was kneeling on, Roland came over to me.
“Victim was Raul Vega,” he said. “Low level dealer. No known affiliations with big names.” He grimaced. “Certainly no one that would do that to someone.”
I shifted. A small metallic claw lay on the ground, partially buried by dirt and shards of stone from the wall where whatever had attacked Vega had slashed and missed.
I can’t explain why I closed my hand over it, hiding it from sight. There was a connection, something that tugged at the power buried inside me, and over the years I had learnt not to ever ignore that feeling.
Besides, if we had any hope of catching this killer, I—or rather my assistant, Abi—would need to cast a tracking spell. This piece of evidence could certainly expedite the process, and getting it back from lockup once the cops took it would take ages.
“Any ideas?” Roland asked.
I shrugged. “Angry animal?” I suggested.
“Guess again.” Detective Diaz was back. So was the scowl. “No animal would do this. Our M.E. says someone took their sweet time tearing this guy into pieces.”
“A man did this?” Roland asked. “Jesus.”
“Or a woman,” I said, winking at Diaz. “Equal opportunity, right?”
Nothing. Not so much as a smirk. Diaz’s expression was cold enough to freeze water.
“Okay,” I said, turning back to the dead guy. “If someone did this, they would need some kind of weapon.”
“What makes you think that?” Diaz asked.
I’d heard her tone before. The ‘I’m-suspecting-you-of-something-but-can’t-figure-out-what’ tone.
I raised my eyebrows and pointed at the various pieces of the body.
“Seems obvious, Sherlock.”
Diaz growled. “I don’t like your tone, Mr. Ashendale.”
“Hey, me too,” I said standing up. It was not the best of ideas to face up to a cop, but I was having a shitty day and they needed my help. “So, Detective Diaz, you wanna say something to my face?”
“Yeah.” She reached behind her and I heard a clink of metal. “You’re under arrest.”
“Hey, now,” Roland interjected. “Both of you, calm your shit down. Erik, stop being such a bitch. Diaz, relax.”
I shot her one last dirty look. Diaz walked away.
“Holy shit, Erik,” Roland chastised. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”
“Sorry,” I said. “Guess her shit caught me off-guard.”
“Yeah, well, deal with it,” he snapped. “You know what we cops are like.”
“Not you,” I said.
He sighed and I saw the barest hint of a smile. “Yeah, I’m immune to your charm. Hurray for me. Now I gotta go calm her down. Diaz holds grudges, Erik.”
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“Does she?” I said. Then I shook my head. Forget her—she was just one more asshole in a sea of assholes.
“You’re looking for someone big,” I said. “It’ll take a lot of muscle to swing the sword.”
Roland cocked his head. “Sword?”
“Or axe. Or halberd.”
“The fuck are you on, Erik?”
“The murder weapon,” I said. “Look at the grooves on the wall. Only a really heavy-bladed object could do that. But not a knife or a longsword. The blade would have snapped easy. This would be a broadsword, something more akin to a hunk of metal with an edge.”
“How the hell do you know all that?” Roland asked.
“I got my hobbies,” I said. “And look at the body. No clean cuts.” The thought sent a shiver down my spine. “Whoever did this made it last.” I exhaled. “This looks personal, Roland. An act of revenge. The fact he was a drug dealer might not even play into it.”
“I dunno,” he said. “Plenty of parents with kids in bad places say they would love a shot at a meth dealer. Maybe one of them actually went through with it.”
I shook my head. “No. You had the right instinct to call me,” I said. “Something about this feels… unnatural.”
“Yeah, no shit,” he said.
I nodded. “You guys have any evidence here I can take?”
Roland raised his eyebrows. “You know that’s not how it works.”
I grinned. “Doesn’t hurt to ask.”
“I’ll send you the report once we’re done processing.”
My hand felt the little claw in my pocket, still covered in dirt.
“Yeah,” I said. “No sweat. In the meantime, give me some known associates so I can start looking into this.”
Roland grimaced. “Erik, with Diaz on my ass my hands are tied. If she catches you anywhere near a place where we’re conducting an active investigation…”
“You know that if this is supernatural and you send in regular cops, the bodies will just add up,” I said.
Roland shot me a look, one I’d never seen on his face.
“You’re different,” he said.
“It’s been a tough few months,” I replied.
For a few seconds he said nothing. Then, “Get going, Erik. I’ll see what I can get you. And thanks.”
I nodded and turned. Something tugged at me, making me pause and turn around. As if I wanted to tell him something—something important.
But instead I paused a beat and kept on walking.
Diaz caught up to me as I got to my car.
“I know March trusts you, Ashendale,” she began. “But I got my eyes on you.”
I cocked my head. “Are you coming onto me, Detective Diaz?”
“Shut up,” she snapped. Her eyes became like black pools of hatred. “If you mess this up, if you fuck us over, I swear you’ll never see the light of day again.”
I let that sink for a moment, still looking her in the eyes. After a few seconds I realized she was leaning back, inching away from me without wanting to show it.
Fear, I realized.
Diaz, like almost every vanilla human I’ve met, was afraid of me.
“Detective, I assume you have heard the stories about me.” I paused long enough to make her nod. “You know they say every story has a kernel of truth in it but in my case, you also know that I help close cases. There is a shit-ton of evidence right under your nose that this world is vastly more darker and deadlier than you can imagine. A world that I inhabit. A world that I fight in—and win.”
I leaned in close and whispered,
“So tell me, Detective. What exactly do you think your scared little threats can do to someone like me?”
Chapter 4
My office was situated in the infamous La Fortunata district, a place where few businesses thrived and the only houses around were older than me, having been passed down from generation to generation.
No one built anything new here, because it was obvious that some unknown force was lurking about in every shadow, just beyond your focus.
Years ago, when I had inadvertently stumbled onto a case where I had to save my current assistant Abi from Lilith, the Sin of Lust, I had created a power vacuum. Not only did denizens of the supernatural swarm in, but also your garden variety of wizards, magic adepts, practitioners, and what-have-you’s. Some, like Alan Greede—the current Sin of Greed, and master wizard of the highest caliber—were powerhouses. I just had to hope that whoever had turned Vega into sushi was not as strong as Greede.
The doorbell rang out with its unique chime when I entered my office. Ever since Amaymon had destroyed it in an act of petty revenge, it had never been the same. When Abi had run the place—while I was dead, remember that?—the front door hadn't seen much use. She had opted for a more technological approach through our website, and whenever she had gone out, she had usually snuck out the back door.
Both Abi and Amaymon were inside. She looked up at me, greeting me with a smile. Amaymon, being Amaymon, kept licking his balls.
“Could you not do that here?” I chided.
“Where else am I supposed to groom, Erik?” he replied.
Oh, yeah, the cat talks. Also, he’s not a cat. Amaymon is a demon, one of the strongest demons ever actually, and an earth elemental. My ancestors had trapped him in the body of a cat, and by some glitch in the universe, I had been able to form the first-ever contract with him.
Lucky me.
“You have a whole apartment,” I said.
“But then who will entertain the succubus?”
Abi raised her head from behind the giant monitor she had put on my desk.
“First, I’m a succubus-hybrid,” she said. “Succubus-adjacent, if you will.”
“Semantics.”
“And two, I've told you several times not to do that here,” she went on, sighing heavily. “I figured I’d just ignore you and eventually you’d go away.”
Amaymon cocked his little feline head. “When has that ever worked?”
“Does this work?” I grabbed a water spray and doused him.
Amaymon hissed, yelped, and jumped off the couch. His form shimmered, turning into that of a stocky teenager wearing black cargo pants, a black tank top, and a black beanie to match. Only the yellow feline eyes and sharp fangs remained.
Abi chuckled from behind the desk and went back to tapping on the keyboard.
“See?” Amaymon said. “Entertainment. You’re welcome. And how come you’re back so early? Doctor told you you’re dying?”
Abi reared her head back up. “You what?”
“Thanks, Amaymon,” I said.
“De nada, bro.” He threw himself back on the couch.
“What doctor?” Abi insisted.
Ever since I had come back from Limbo, Abi had been super overprotective about my health, my wellbeing, and all that crap.
I sighed.
“Remember those headaches?” She nodded. “Well, they’re still ongoing so I thought I’d go check them out.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, you could have told me. It’s not as if you have something to hide.” Her expression darkened. “Right?”
I’m sure she didn’t mean that to come out as threatening as it sounded. While I was dead, Abi had gone through a metamorphosis, and not a very healthy one. Taking a page from Batman, she had dressed up in full tactical gear, put on some strange mask—which she still refused to get rid of, mind you—and patrolled the streets against anything that went bump in the night. As a result of that, Abi had become tough.
Perhaps too tough.
“Yeah,” I said. “I just didn’t wanna alarm anyone, that’s all.” I shrugged. “And as it turns out, I didn’t have anything to worry about. Doctor says I’ve got a clean bill of health. Relatively.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Relatively?”
I sighed again. No point in hiding it I guess.
“Apparently, I’m stressed,” I said.
“Ain’t
we all?” Amaymon commented. “That’s what porn is for.”
“Shut up, Amaymon,” Abi snapped. “Erik, what else?”
I pursed my lips. “X-rays showed some bruising, a few torn cartilages, maybe even a busted ACL. I’ve been noticing it too. My healing powers aren’t… all there.”
At this Amaymon perked his head up.
“That can’t be possible,” he said. “Curses don’t just vanish. And I’ve seen you tap into your Life magic.”
“Which was why I was gonna ask you to check if I have something wrong with me.” I smiled sheepishly. “You know, aside from mentally.”
“And the headaches?” Abi asked. “You said they had come back. And don’t give me whatever crap the doctor gave you. This is a magic issue, not a medical one.”
Amaymon stood up, only to casually lean against the back of the couch.
“She’s got a point there, Erik,” he said. “If your healing isn’t working, then there’s something off with your magic—more so than usual.” He scratched his chin with a clawed finger. “Aside from the bruises, what else is new?”
“Why?” Abi asked. “Do you know what’s happening to him?”
“Guys, I’m right here,” I said.
They ignored me.
“Well, he did die and then come back during a ritual intended to summon a demon,” Amaymon pointed out. “That’s bound to rewire some shit.”
“Guys,” I said again.
“Which means some kind of alternative manifestation of his natural powers,” Abi said. “The curse keeps them trapped inside but if there was a rewiring, as you called it, then it’s bound to manifest in new abilities-”
“GUYS!”
The lamp beside me smashed on the ground, the sound deafening. Abi and Amaymon stared at me.
I looked at the lamp, ice running down my spine. My fists were clenched, my throat hurt from my yell, and there was a cut on my left fist.
No. This wasn’t me. I’m not that kind of angry, the sort who smashes things and throws a fit. I rage and get pissed, but I don't get aggressive or physical.
And yet, my hand was bloodied and the lamp was in smithereens on the ground. That’s as hard an evidence as you can get.
Maybe I’d knocked it over accidentally. Yeah, that must have been it. It was all those two’s fault, ignoring me like that, talking about me like I was some exhibit in a fucking zoo.