The Cursed by Blood Saga

by Marianne Morea

  A uniformed officer pushed past the others and walked toward him, urgency written all over his face. “Detective, you’d better come with me. CSI found another victim. He’s still alive, if just barely,” he said, pulling Martinez’s attention back to the scene.

  “Where?” he shot back, shoving his notebook into his breast pocket.

  “Behind the bar,” he answered.

  The man led the way through the blown out door, his face pale against his blue uniform. His underlying green pallor made his rookie status patent, and the poor cop kept wiping his nose and mouth with the back of his hand.

  The two moved past CSI photographers, to stand just behind the crisis unit, as the medical team prepped the victim for transport.

  “Can he talk? I need a word with him before you take him,” Martinez asked, leaning over the EMT lieutenant as he worked.

  The lead EMT shook his head. “I doubt it. His throat’s pretty torn up, and he’s lost a lot of blood. If there’s any chance at saving him, we’ve got to move now. Either talk as we walk, or ride with us to the hospital. Your call, Detective.”

  The victim’s hand shot out grabbing Martinez’s arm. His eyes were wild, and he clawed at the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

  “Take that thing off his face!” Martinez yelled, but no one moved to take the mask away.

  The man’s fingers clutched at the Detective’s coat, his mouth working beneath the clear plastic trying to form words.

  “It’s going to be all right, sir. We’re taking you to the hospital,” the EMT said, shooting Martinez a dirty look. “We’ve got to go, NOW!”

  The injured man wouldn’t let go of Martinez’s coat. He opened his mouth again, his eyes pleading, but a series of gurgled rasps were the only sound that escaped.

  EMTs pried the man’s hand from Martinez’s coat, and then moved like lightning out the door, loading him into the waiting ambulance.

  Shaw walked back. “Did he make a statement?”

  Martinez’s gaze followed the ambulance’s flashing lights as it turned the corner, the telltale whoop-whoop of its siren echoing in the air. “Yeah. It was garbled, but I managed to make out what he said.”

  “Well?”

  The detective took a deep breath and turned to face his superior. “He said it was the devil,” Martinez answered, his eyes trained on the sergeant.

  The corners of Shaw’s mouth pulled down, and a disgusted sound escaped his lips. “Great. Just what we need, another crazy complete with hallucinations,” he said, stamping his feet for warmth. He shoved his hands into his pockets again. “It’s gotta be drug related, either that or he’s psychotic. Lowlife mutt probably knows he’s gonna die and is panicking about paying the devil his due.”

  Martinez frowned. “Maybe. Except it didn’t look like drugs or psychosis to me. The guy was terrified. Whoever or whatever did this scared the crap out of him.”

  “Look, I’m sorry for the guy, but it doesn’t really matter. Unless he spouts something that will actually help, I’m not wasting man-hours collecting gibberish. You know how I feel about that kind of supernatural claptrap.”

  Martinez nodded, but kept his mouth closed.

  Sticking a piece of gum in his mouth, Shaw shook his head at the bloody mess mixed with the dirty snow around their feet. “Heard from dispatch on the QT that this case follows the same profile as two others this month. Been talking to the other squad leaders, and there’s a pattern to these homicides, Martinez, at least that’s what headquarters is thinking. In my eyes, the fact that O.C.M.E. brass is here tonight confirms it. I don’t see how they’re going keep the lid on this much longer, and the Captain’s already breathing down everyone’s neck about not having any leads. Don’t know exactly how we’re going to handle this.”

  Martinez wrinkled his nose and coughed. He had no idea either.

  ***

  “What Do You Mean You Have No Leads?” Police Commissioner, Stan O’Neill, yelled as he paced back and forth behind his desk, his normally ruddy complexion getting redder by the minute. Sweat glistened beneath his receding hairline and his usually impeccable appearance was unkempt, his suit as rumpled as his demeanor. “I thought we found a survivor. Is he able to talk? Why hasn’t his statement been taken?”

  “He didn’t make it, sir. He died while in route to the hospital,” Shaw said, drawing a meaty hand across his forehead.

  “This is a nightmare, a fucking nightmare. I didn’t spend thirty years of my life being all about the job to have this sort of thing happen on my watch.” Rubbing his temples, O’Neill exhaled.

  With his back to his deputies, he faced the windows, his hands folded across his chest. One Police Plaza and the grounds of Park Row had always been a symbol of the interconnectedness of the NYPD and New York’s five boroughs. But even the river, steel gray in the distance, seemed to mock that this morning. Instead it mirrored the anxious faces of the men sitting around the office.

  Shifting in their seats, no one spoke. They had all been summoned, pulled from every source to get a handle on what was happening in the city. His City. The best of New York’s Finest—Intelligence, Strategic Initiatives, Operations and the office of Legal Matters—all were staggered by the situation.

  “Please, sir, if I can…” Bureau Chief, Mark Phillips, began, only to be cut off in midsentence. He was the Commanding Officer of Detectives, so technically it was his ass in the hot seat, but the situation did not bode well for any of them.

  “I don’t want to hear any excuses! Do you have any idea who I have screaming about this? Threatening me with things, you don’t want to know. Senator Ned Kelly. That’s right. Senator, I own everything in this country Ned Kelly. His cousin’s kid just happened to be one of the victims at this latest bloodbath down in the 9th precinct.”

  “A Kelly, huh? What the hell was he doing at a dive bar off Avenue B? If he’s anything like the rest of them, five will get you ten it was off the charts kinky,” Deputy Tom Fay snorted.

  Phillips’s head jerked left. Everyone knew Fay was a first class asshole, but now wasn’t the time to be missing a filter. Still snickering, the dickhead didn’t even pretend to look embarrassed. Deputies were usually political appointees, but O’Neill had been hardcore when it came to the men and women he surrounded himself with, demanding they all spent time on the job. Fay’s wiseass remark made it clear he was a political favor.

  O’Neill stopped pacing and slammed his hands on his desk. Glaring, he eyeballed everyone in the room. “Who the hell cares why? Perhaps he was a fan of slumming it. The only thing that matters now is that we don’t look like a bunch of incompetent idiots. This stops now! We need to get a handle on this and pronto! So gentlemen, any suggestions?”

  The silence in the room was deafening and even Fay kept his trap shut for once. Phillips looked around. Most of the men here held shields for many years, but it seemed clear years of being suits had dulled their blue instincts, either that or they didn’t want to risk their cushy jobs to O’Neill’s anger. Well, screw that.

  Phillips was still close enough to the job to want to get his hands dirty, and this shit stunk to high heaven. “I have an idea, sir, but it’s a little unorthodox,” he offered, mentally steeling himself for what he knew could be career suicide.

  O’Neill slumped down into his chair and loosened his tie. “At this point, I’d be willing to listen to just about anything. We’ve had three major incidents in the last month leaving seventeen people dead, one the relative of a political powerhouse. The press is on the verge of a feeding frenzy and we have absolutely no leads. It’s a miracle we’ve been able to keep a lid on this thus far. I have no fingers left to plug up the leaks, so for God sake spit it out Phillips. I’m all ears.”

  “We could bring in a psychic.”

  “Come on, Phillips, you can’t be serious? This is enough of a freak show without us intentionally adding to it,” Fay interjected.

  Phillips ignored the expected sarcasm, keeping his eyes on the Comm
issioner’s silent expression.

  The man’s face was a mask. O’Neill said nothing, yet his eyes narrowed, drumming his fingers as if weighing the options. Leaning forward, he pointed at Phillips, fixing him with an ice-cold stare. “Do you have someone specific in mind, Mark? This better not be some hokey, spoon bender that comes complete with a lunatic fringe.”

  The two men eyed each other in utter gravity, as everyone else in the room slowly came to realize this was no joke.

  Phillips nodded. “I know someone, sir, we’ve worked with her before and she’s the best. Very credible and extremely discreet. Her name is Lily Saburi. I’ll have my office give her a call immediately.”

  Chapter Three

  Jack Cochran pulled Lily’s Mustang up to the light at West 50th Street and 12th Avenue. The car idled while they sat in traffic adjacent to the Manhattan Cruise Ship Terminal. “Looks like New York’s winter cruise season is in full swing,” Lily commented, looking at the crowds heading toward the departure terminal at Pier 90.

  Leaning back in his seat, Jack stretched. “Why anyone would want to take to the sea in the middle of February is beyond me.” Rolling his shoulders, he flexed his fingers, letting the blood flow back through his joints before dropping his hands back onto the steering wheel.

  “You okay?” Lily asked, taking a sip from her coffee. They had been driving for hours, and traffic hadn’t cooperated at all since they’d hit the interstate outside of York, Maine. Making a face, she turned from side to side looking for a place to spit. She rolled down the window and leaned her head over the edge of the glass, but with a traffic cop standing not ten feet from the car, she thought better of the idea. With no other choice, she scrunched her eyes and swallowed, putting the cup down in the holder between the seats.

  “Okay…what was that about?”

  “Nothing. The coffee tastes like it was made with vinegar,” she answered with a grimace, wiping her mouth on the cuff of her jacket.

  Jack shook his head. “I told you the coffee didn’t smell right back at the rest stop.” Giving her a sideways glance, he smirked. “But that’s what you get for trusting that bulb in the middle of your face, instead of my finely tuned instrument.”

  Shooting him a look, she huffed. “Bulb? Really?” Rummaging in her small leather backpack for a mint or a piece of gum she mumbled, “…and Rissa wonders why you’re still single.”

  “I heard that, and for the record, I do just fine with the ladies, thank you very much.”

  “Yeah, you’re a real charmer. Why don’t you work that magnetism and slide us on over to the curb at the next light? I should take it from here. After all, this is my neck of the woods, right?”

  His lips curled into a smile, even as his hands curled tighter around the wheel. “I don’t think so. I’ve seen the way you drive, and Sean made me swear I’d get you there in one piece.”

  The light changed, and Jack eased the car forward, but hit the brakes as a gypsy cab cut across two lanes of traffic aiming for the exit. With an aggravated sigh, he added, “He didn’t, however, say anything about me arriving in one piece.”

  The cop standing on the brick median next to the crosswalk blew his whistle. “Move it, buddy! Whaddaya waiting for, an invitation from the Mayor?” he shouted, waving at Jack to get going.

  Leaning on his horn, Jack maneuvered around the cab that half blocked his lane. “Jesus Christ! Who designed this city? Gridlock my ass!” He rolled down the window. “It’s called a signal, you asshole!” he yelled at the cabby, slamming his hands down on the steering wheel. “This is crazy! I can’t believe you choose to live here and own a car! I mean, really, what the fuck?”

  If Jack didn’t relax, he’d steer them straight into Battery Tunnel, merrily on his way to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway instead of Lily’s apartment on Jane Street in the West Village. She smiled to herself at the thought of Jack trying to navigate their way back from there.

  Chuckling, Lily glanced over as he flipped another driver the bird. She froze. Holy shit! His knuckles were hairy. Like, furry hairy! “Um, Jack?” she choked. “I think we need to pull over somewhere.”

  He shot her a look. “Why? In this traffic, are you nuts? Are you all right?”

  Lily bit the inside of her cheek. “Um…yeah, I’m fine, but it’s not me I’m worried about.” Lily’s eyes flicked from his face to his hands, and then back again.

  Annoyed, Jack’s eyebrows knit together in a confused frown. His eyes tracked her curious gaze to his hands, and his mouth spread into a huge grin. “Lily, your face! Ha, ha, ha...Holy crap do you have a lot to learn about shifters! What, did you think I was going to phase while behind the wheel? I can just see the tabloid headlines—NYC Traffic Gone to the Dogs.”

  “Well, what did you expect me to think, when your hands look like they’re growing a pelt?”

  “The unflappable, Lily Saburi, freaked out by a set of hairy knuckles. Makes me wonder what we’re in for over the next few days when the moon is completely full. It’ll be fine, family fun, don’t you think?”

  Lily crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Not funny, Jack. If this is a preview of the way things are going to be while we’re thrown together, then you’d better get used to driving with one eye open, because I’m going to blacken the other one shut.”

  Jack smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Come on, Lily, you cut your teeth on things way hairier than my knuckles. Trust me it’s nowhere near a sign of things to come. But you have to understand that between the stress of the drive, where the moon is in its cycle, and your scent, my nature was bound to manifest in some way. After all, I may be in control, but I’m not immune.”

  “My scent? Oh no, not now, not you too.” She slumped back against the seat, leaning her head back.

  “I thought Sean talked to you about this?”

  Lily shot him a look, but at her pained expression, he laughed even louder. “Don’t worry I’m not going to start humping your leg or anything. It’s just the moon is waxing, and the closer it gets to being full, the more I sense things. But you’re fine, trust me.”

  Even less sure about this, than before they left the Compound, Lily didn’t say a word. She exhaled quietly and turned her eyes back toward the traffic. A half hour later, they pulled onto Lily’s Street, only circling the block once before finding a parking space.

  “I’ve got to check in with Sean first, and then I’ll bring up the bags. You know how he is, he made me promise to call the minute we arrived,” he said, walking around toward the trunk. “I’m sure he wants to fill me in on what’s going on back home, as well. Parr has to be having a field day now that you left. I don’t trust the bastard. It sucks how fine a line Sean has to walk these days. It’s not right. Not for an Alpha.”

  Lily followed him to the back of the car. “No problem. Just tell him I’m being a good girl, and following your instructions to the letter.”

  Jack snorted, putting the key in the lock and popping the trunk. “Yeah, right. You forget he knows you probably better than you know yourself, and he’ll trust matters more if I tell him how much of a pain in the ass you’ve been. All’s right with the world when you’re the bitch we all know and love.”

  Oh, come on! I’m not that bad,” she said with a frown.

  Jack raised one eyebrow.

  At his skeptical look, she couldn’t help but smile. “Okay, maybe I do have my moments, but that’s what makes me so special.”

  “Ha! Why don’t you make yourself useful and go grab some groceries? I’m sure there’s nothing but a box of baking soda in that fridge of yours. I’ll be right behind you. I’m not sure how long he’s going to keep me talking.”

  Jack handed her a wad of cash, and Lily shoved it in the front pocket of her jeans. “Anything in particular you want? Dog biscuits, a rawhide bone?”

  “Funny. I guess you want to carry your own suitcases upstairs, huh,” he said, reaching in for the biggest bag and lifting it out of the trunk with ease.
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br />   With a wry grin, she hiked her pack onto one shoulder. “No, that’s what Sean sent you for.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I live to serve,” he mumbled, flourishing a mock bow.

  Chuckling, she headed across the street to the Korean market on the corner, stopping at the curb to look up at the red brick apartment house she had called home for the past five years.

  Lily hadn’t been here since she pulled away from the same curb a week after Terry’s funeral, hell-bent on killing the creature that killed her best friend. The same creature that turned out to be Sean’s brother, Jerard.

  She sucked in a deep breath, and headed into the market.

  “Don’t forget coffee!” Jack shouted from across the street, and Lily looked back over her shoulder to wave, but he was already on his cell phone.

  With two bags of groceries in tow, she crossed the street, passing Jack as he unloaded the last of the bags onto the sidewalk. Sean had obviously kept him talking the whole time she had been in the store, and she cringed, wondering just what the hell else was happening up at the Compound.

  She unlocked the vestibule door and stepped through onto the black and white subway tiles of the main lobby. She glanced up the stairs and then back over her shoulder at the small but heavy pile of luggage out on the sidewalk. The building was a five-floor walkup, so regardless of how hairy they were, she was grateful for Jack’s supernaturally strong arms.

  The hallway smelled of street dirt and Pine-Sol, with an underlying scent of sesame oil from the Chinese takeout next door. She was home.

  The lobby door opened. “Where do you want these?” Jack asked, carrying all the bags at once.

  “Fifth floor,” Lily said shoving her leather keychain into his mouth. “I’ve got the penthouse.”

  “Great,” he mumbled and started up the stairs, her keys jingling from his teeth.

  “Wait! I need the mailbox key.”

  Jack put two of the bags on the step and tossed her the set of keys.

  She wiped the wet teeth marks on her pants, unhooked the brass colored key and tossed the rest back up. “The square key with the black rubber grip is the key to my apartment. I’ve got the whole fifth floor.”