“It’s dangerous what you’re doing,” he says.
“And what am I doing, exactly?”
“Trusting her.”
Javy gets out of the cruiser without elaborating and disappears into the shadowy ether. I grumble fucker under my breath, but follow him into the swamp, having his back. Mud oozes over the tops of my boots, each footstep sinking into the spongy terrain.
I click a mini-flashlight on. Pistol drawn, I follow the thin beam into the darkness.
My shin collides with something solid and I stifle a gag. “Damn, you smell that?”
When I swing the flashlight beam down, sunken eyes stare back at me. A woman’s face is slowly decomposing in the bog.
Javier’s flashlight slices over the corpse as he sloshes through the muck to join me.
“Looks like we found her,” he says.
“We?” I shine the light in his face and he squints.
“You, Detective Skye.” He gives me a nod, but I can sense his overall skepticism hasn’t diminished. “Decomp means she’s been out here awhile.”
“Hard to tell with the swamp,” I say. “I’ll call it in.”
“I still don’t like it,” Javy says.
“If you liked finding bodies, that’d make you a fucking psycho.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Relax, partner.” I punch him in the chest. “We found the body. No conspiracy.”
Javy grunts, but offers no other response.
I pull out my cell phone. “Shit, no service.”
Javy looks at his phone. “Same. Let’s call it in from the cruiser.”
“One of us should stay here,” I say. “Might not find her in the fucking dark again.”
“Tess—”
“I’ll stay here if you’re afraid.”
He rolls his eyes.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. A bird chirps in the treetops, answered by frogs in the swamp. “Just me and the wildlife.”
“How would someone find a body all the way out here?” He spreads his arms out to gesture at the vast darkness to illustrate his point. “There’s gotta be twenty square miles of marsh.”
“We found it.”
“A lot easier when someone’s leading you by the nose.”
“If there’s some big conspiracy, why’d you come out here?”
“Because you’d be out here alone if I didn’t.” Javy doesn’t move. We share a knowing look—shorthand developed from the past year of working together. “And when Captain Stella Reynolds is involved…”
He doesn’t finish his thought.
“I’ll be sure to tell the captain you’re her number one fan.”
He looks unamused. “I’m serious, Tess.”
“Relax, man, it was a joke. You’re seeing ghosts all over the place.”
“Why do you think I even took this job?”
“Thought it was because of me.” I give him a huge smile that he doesn’t return.
“Captain Reynolds is bad news, Tess.”
“So we’ve discussed. At length.” Now I’m angry. “And every time…”
“I don’t have proof yet.”
“Of course.” I take his shoulders and turn him around to point toward the direction of our cruiser. “Maybe you’ll find some while you go fucking call this in back at the car.”
He clearly wants to keep protesting. But he also knows that I won’t listen.
With an audible sigh, he starts walking away. “Be back in ten.”
“I’ll try to survive in the meantime.”
Javy disappears, his squishy footsteps growing fainter until they’re swallowed by the midnight swamp chatter.
A cool breeze passes through the air. I shiver despite the heat.
Maybe he was right about both of us going back to call this in. It is fucking eerie out here alone.
Might as well do some detective work to distract myself. I kneel into the murk and swipe the flashlight beam slowly over the pale flesh.
I narrate to no one but myself. “Two cuts along the neck. Bled out in seconds.”
Then my heart stops. I lean in closer to the body, peering at the wounds.
In the cut, the skin looks…freezer burned.
I reach out and touch her skin.
It’s lukewarm, despite the sauna-like heat.
Like someone’s stored this body on ice for a long time.
“Son of a bitch. No way you’re right about this—”
Then a memory—not my own—sears through my brain. This woman is in a shed. Trapped. Far away from here, somewhere in the middle of downtown Ragnarok.
A short bald man enters the shed. Brandishing a knife.
And I feel the edge rake over her throat—my throat.
I gasp, and pull my hand away from the body.
The memory stops, and I’m back in the swamp.
“What the fuck?” I’m panting, confused, trying to figure out what just happened.
A nearby splash interrupts my panic. I draw my Glock and sweep the flashlight beam over the empty marsh.
“Hello? Javy?”
No answer.
Then muzzle flashes erupt from the bushes across the swamp.
I dive into the mud, sinking beneath the thick surface. It feels like crawling through cake batter. Centuries of rotted plant matter seeps through every pore. When the bullets stop, I pop up and return fire.
I hear a scream.
Got one.
My magazine clicks empty. I discharge it into the mud. I slide a new one in and continue returning fire.
I fire over my shoulder as I sprint toward the cruiser. But the swamp isn’t built for running. I stumble through the darkness and then trip over a thick root hiding beneath the mud.
My chest slams against the ground with a big thud.
I groan and try to push myself to my feet. But a boot braces against my back, pushing me deep into the mud.
And a voice says, “So it’s true what they say about you, Soulwalker.”
Then rough hands drag me away, deeper into the Groves.
Seven
The Tire Kingdom blurs in and out of focus as my eyes snap open and return to reality.
The marsh is gone. It’s just motor oil and power tools.
I’m on the breakroom floor, having rolled off the table during my little flashback.
Vomit is splattered over the concrete. In the middle of the puddle is the little fanged locus worm, writhing in my stomach acid.
I swear he’s glaring at me.
I wretch and throw up again. Stomach muscles cramping, I take a beat to make sure everything is actually real. Finally, with some effort, I press myself up off the floor. The .22 is lying beneath a stool. I grab it.
Then I stomp on the worm.
“Track this.” I give it the finger.
An alarm makes me jump about six feet in the air. The culprit is a dingy clock in the corner. I turn it off and glance at the face.
8 AM.
Dots connect in my mind and I fumble for my phone and pull up the lone text message. Javy Diaz—the same Detective Javy Diaz from the marsh. The Silver Stallion. 9 AM. Bring the evidence.
I know what. The evidence is the serum.
And now I know who. My old partner on the force.
But I don’t have any evidence to give him. Nothing so much as even what the serum does.
Chains rattle outside in the main garage area.
“Finn? Gene?” I whisper their names softly.
No answer.
Voices filter across the shop floor. I duck behind a large mobile rack of wrenches.
“Finnegan…” A man calls out in a nasally sing-song voice.
If I make it out of this, Finn’s gonna get his ass kicked for leaving me behind.
“Ain’t nothin’ here,” a second guy says. “Told you this was a waste of time.”
“Kid’s worm pinged here,” the first guy says. “So did the broad’s.”
He’s not gonna win any award
s from Feminist Weekly, but it’s useful information all the same. Because I have no doubt there’s one broad in particular he’s looking for.
Me.
“Yeah, and then the kid’s worm went off the fuckin’ grid, Alvie. It ain’t exactly GPS.”
Alvie’s nasally voice shoots back, “Then why were both of them pointin’ here?”
“It’s a fuckin’ worm. Who gives a shit?”
“You got somewhere to be?” Alvie says.
“We already retired the old man. That’s enough work for one day.”
“And tell me how we tracked him?” Alvie doesn’t bother to hide the annoyance in his nasally tone.
The guy grumbles. “The worm.”
“Exactly. The fucking worm. And why are we here?”
“The other worms.”
“See, and here I thought you were a complete dipshit.” Alvie coughs and spits on the ground. “Go check the breakroom. I got the rest of the garage.”
My heart skips a beat. I clutch the .22 tighter.
“Come on, man, you know I don’t like tight spaces.”
“That room’s like twenty by twenty.”
I glance around. He’s not wrong. It’s pretty spacious.
“It’s the vibe, man. Just feels small.”
“Tell you what, Frank.” There’s a long pause. “I’ll just let Rillo know you’re being a giant bitch. He’s a nice guy. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Fine.” Frank sighs. “And when we find Finnie boy, what, we gonna retire him, too?”
Alvie snorts. “Nah, dummy, we need him and the girl.”
“But we got rid of the old man.”
“He was an example. Navigators and Soulwalkers don’t grow on trees.”
There’s that word again. Soulwalker. He’s referring to me. It was the same thing the guy who took me in the Groves said a year ago.
But I have no idea what a Soulwalker is.
I press myself tighter against the wall. Blood from my wounded shoulder seeps through the bandage and smears against the painted brick. Must’ve banged it during my hallucinatory experience.
Alvie sniffs the air like a pig trawling through shit. “Smell that, Frank?”
Frank says, “Yeah, yeah, asshole. I know you got some wolf in you.”
“All the benefits, none of the downsides.”
“Tell to that to a full-grown alpha when he’s ripping your face off and you can’t do shit.”
“Maybe I already have,” Alvie shoots back. “Besides that last part.”
“Sure man, whatever you say.” Frank snorts and adds, “Gonna tell me what you smell?”
“Blood.” There’s a pause. “Female.”
“You think it’s…?”
Suddenly, it’s radio silence. Shooting-the-shit time is officially over. They’re ready to get back to work.
Hunting me.
Yippee.
Footsteps pinball off metal with a cold, hollow ring. I clutch the .22 like a life preserver. But if one of these guys is part wolf, I’m not sure it’ll even slow him down. I feel along the nearby freestanding storage station for another weapon. My fingers find a hammer. I grab it with my other hand.
I don’t breathe as they come closer.
Alvie calls from the other end of the garage, “See anything in there?”
Frank, right outside the breakroom glass, hisses back, “Shut the fuck up.”
The breakroom door creaks open.
The pressure in my neck from holding my breath makes my shoulder throb.
Frank steps inside. I see his high-top sneaker.
Now or never. I lunge forward and pull the trigger on the .22.
I only get one shot off. He staggers forward and knocks the gun from my grasp.
I swing the hammer into his ribs. Bones crack.
He clutches his stomach and crumples to the floor, groaning.
I snatch the fallen .22 off the concrete and put one between his eyes before he can get a second wind.
Well. The .22 was strong enough to get rid of a human pest problem.
Now for my half-wolf issue.
Footsteps slap against the concrete and Alvie yells, “Hey, you okay Frank—”
I surge through the open breakroom door. Alvie is sprinting toward me, gun at his side. He’s short and stocky and has a mean glare.
I fire a warning shot over his head as he starts to raise his gun. “Drop it.”
After a sufficiently disrespectful pause, he lets the pistol slip out of his fingers. It clatters to the ground. His eyes flit over to his fallen buddy. “You fucking—”
“Tell you what, why don’t you just hold that thought.” I point at the gun. “Kick it over.”
“Fuck you.” But another warning shot over his shoulder and he follows my instructions.
“So you’re Alvie.” I keep the .22 trained on him as I reach over to pick up his gun.
It’s a .45. Much better.
I point both guns at him.
“The one and only, baby.”
“Pretty short for a wolf.”
“Put that gun down and try me,” he says.
“Last two guys who tried that aren’t having a good morning,” I say.
Alvie says, “I’m not just some guy.”
“Yeah, yeah, buddy, you’re part wolf. Total badass.” I hide a wince as I step forward. I wave the .45 toward the large garage door, which is half-cracked. “Move it along.”
Alvie complies, albeit with considerable reluctance.
“You were saying something about getting rid of Gene.”
“Nah, you heard wrong.”
“You killed him, right?”
Alvie can’t play it cool for long. “And you’re gonna end up just like him.”
He turns around to stare me down as we pass a row of cars.
“That’s not what you and your buddy said. You said your boss needed me.”
“Yeah, well Frank talks a lot of shit.”
“Talked,” I say.
Alvie growls through his teeth. “Watch it.”
“I got both guns.”
He glares at me, breathing heavily.
“Keep walking.”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
“You saw what happened to Frank.”
Alvie smirks. Then he reaches for something sitting on a car’s bumper.
I pull the trigger. But it’s a split-second too late. A wrench hits me right in the gut.
I drop both guns and drop to one knee. Both guns skitter to the ground, out of reach. Before I can react, Alvie’s on my back, his weight driving my face into the rough concrete.
I try to wriggle free. “Get off.”
“I should kill you like I did the old man.” His feral, nasally snarl is right in my ear. “But boss man’s gonna pay me a fat stack for bringing you back.”
I snap at him like a rabid dog. Not my finest moment. Even given the relatively limited selection of memories I have to choose from.
“Feisty.” Alvie leans down so his head hangs over mine. His gaze might be upside down, but it looks no less menacing. His dandruff-crusted hair glints in the fluorescent lighting. “Should’ve killed me.”
“Who says I won’t?”
His eyes gleam. “I say.”
Then there’s a single gunshot. And Alvie’s head explodes in a red geyser.
I slip and slide as I scramble from beneath his body.
When I look up, I see Finn holding the .45.
“You took your damn time,” I say, wiping blood from my face.
Finn looks shellshocked as he stares at Alvie’s body. “I—”
“You’re a lover, not a fighter, I get it.” I grimace, ribs still hurting from the surprise wrench throw. “Let’s get outta here.”
Finn just nods and tucks the .45 into his waistband.
The sunlight bores into my retinas as we step outside.
As I try to block the sun with my arm, I hear the safety click off a service weapon. “Ragnarok P
D. Hands in the air.”
And Finn just says, “Well, shit.”
Eight
The ensuing moments are a whirlwind.
I’m stuffed in the back of a cruiser, hauled to the station, and tossed in a holding cell. It all takes minutes, but it feels like seconds. Everything is so quick that the arresting officer gives me nothing more than a cursory pat down.
I’d call it shoddy policework, but this doesn’t exactly scream by-the-book operation.
Even if we’re at the precinct.
The officer locks the cell. I watch a bead of sweat trickle through his graying crew-cut.
I press up against the bars and say, “Hey, don’t I get a phone call?”
“Just wait.”
“What about a doctor?” I point at my shoulder. “You know, for this.”
“You know what wait means?”
“Like I’m going anywhere.”
He rolls his eyes. “Same old Skye. Your PI clients put up with your shit?”
Then he walks away.
I teeter over to the cell’s lone metal bench and collapse in a heap. Hard though the bench may be, it still feels good to get off my feet. Even when, over the past couple hours, I’ve spent more time on the ground, or on a table, or generally getting my ass kicked anywhere but on my own two feet.
I close my eyes and listen to my heartbeat, trying to piece together what I know.
I used to be a cop. Something went wrong out in the Groves a year ago with Detective Javy Diaz, and I got kicked off the force. I was set up by the captain of this very police station because I’m a Soulwalker. Now I’m a private investigator. And I stole a serum from a billionaire named Dominic Rillo with the help of Finn and Gene—who are Navigators.
This is where things get murky.
I can tell you what a vampire is. When they were revealed to the public—back in 1978. But neither Soulwalkers nor Navigators ring any sort of bell.
Why’d we steal the serum? Gene’s words from my vision bubble up from my limited set of memories: our way out.
I press further, but no more details come. Everything beyond that is fuzzy. But apparently they killed Gene over it.
And they don’t seem too happy with me, judging by my current palatial surroundings.
Heeled footsteps echo down the hall. I sit up on the scratchy metal bench, shoulders tense.
“Tess Skye,” the woman says, stopping in front of my cell. She’s got a four-hundred-dollar pantsuit and a four-dollar haircut. Her blouse is starched crisp enough to cut frozen butter. “I’ve spent the last year wondering when you’d turn up again.”
Drop Dead (Tess Skye Book 1) Page 3