Wicked Creatures

by Jessica Meigs

  “The kind that gets dragged out of bed to come out to stuff like this,” he snapped, holding up the police tape for Angelique to pass under. She did so, wincing noticeably as she leaned over. “You okay?” he asked, realizing he hadn’t bothered to ask her how her back was. Jesus, had his mind really become so one-track focused on Ashton that he’d forgotten about other people?

  “Yeah, fine,” she said. “Just getting over a gunshot wound, that’s all.”

  “I’ve been meaning to thank you for that, by the way,” he said, striding toward the epicenter of the crime scene’s activity.

  “For what?” she asked. “For getting shot?”

  He snorted. “No. For trying to protect him.”

  “I was just doing my job,” Angelique said. “He’s my director, even more so than Hartley. I’ve never worked for Hartley, and he’s never gained my trust. Ashton has.”

  “Well, thank you anyway,” he said. “I wasn’t there when I should have been, but at least you were.”

  Zachariah stopped near the corpse and sank into a squat, resting his forearms against his thighs and examining the body. He’d been puzzled over how Angelique or the police had been able to tell that the victim was female, but seeing her, it was obvious. Her skin—what was left of it—was charred black, but her hair somehow hadn’t burned at all, and it lay on the ground around her head in a tangled mass of long blond curls. The body was curled up, fingers curved into claws, arms drawn to its chest, heels dug into the grass like the person she’d once been had writhed in agony. Her mouth was pulled into a rictus, and what was in her mouth—a set of shining white vampire fangs—almost made Zachariah rock back on his heels, though he refrained, keeping his face carefully neutral.

  This must have been Chloe, he realized as he studied the body more carefully. The overall look of the body matched what he remembered Elise telling him and the photo she’d shown him. Well, I guess this means Ashton and I won’t have to hunt down where Brandon was hiding her anymore, he thought, and he was surprised to feel a note of sadness. He’d promised Elise he’d find her sister and, by tacit implication, make Brandon pay for what he’d done to the two women. Now, though he’d found Chloe, he was sure Elise hadn’t intended for it to be in this manner. He curled his hands into fists and ground his fingertips into his palms, trying to keep himself from flying off the handle as he rose from his crouch.

  “Who’s in charge here?” he asked.

  A man in a suit approached him, a fairly handsome man with dark brown hair peppered with gray and a lean physique; if he were unattached, Zachariah certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed. “Detective Hanson,” he introduced. “And you are?”

  “Special Agent William Jackson with the FBI,” he said, offering the man a quick look at his badge before tucking the leather wallet into his back pocket. “My supervisor asked me to come out here and take a look, make sure it doesn’t have anything to do with any active cases we’re working on.”

  “Does it?” Detective Hanson asked.

  “Possibly,” Zachariah acknowledged. “I was hoping to ask if I could have access to the autopsy report once the medical examiner has completed it.”

  “I think we could make arrangements to have that happen,” the detective agreed, “so lon gas you’re willing to assist us in anything that might further our investigation.”

  “I’ll talk to my supervisor, see what I can do,” Zachariah said, though he had no intention of actually sharing any information with the detective. He gave Hanson one of his business cards that listed his fake FBI name and retreated to rejoin Angelique, who was still examining the body.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Just wrangling my way into a copy of the M.E.’s report.”

  “Smart,” she acknowledged. She motioned to the body. “Any particular thoughts?”

  “Yeah,” he acknowledged. “I think it’s Chloe.” When she gave him a puzzled look, he remembered he hadn’t told her who that was, so he explained. “She’s the sister of Elise, the vampire who turned me. Brandon was holding her captive, using her as leverage to make Elise do whatever he told her to do. That’s why Elise killed those twenty-seven Agency operatives. They were the ones Brandon sicced her on like she was his personal attack dog. She was only doing it because she was trying to save her sister.”

  “Oh, damn,” Angelique said. “So how old was this girl?”

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Though she looked biologically about twelve or thirteen. Very young. I don’t know how long she’d been a vampire, though.” He glanced toward the crime scene crews and added, “We should get out of here. Leave them to figure out what the hell is up with her teeth.”

  “Think they’ll figure it out?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, and I don’t care.” He started toward the edge of the crime scene, holding the tape up again for Angelique to pass under before ducking beneath it himself. “You need a ride anywhere?”

  She shook her head. “Nah. I’m parked a couple of blocks away. Give me a call when Ashton’s ready for visitors. I wasn’t kidding about wanting to see him.”

  He smiled and nodded.

  “Oh, and thank you for the fruit basket,” she said, a large grin breaking across her face. “The cantaloupe in particular was a nice touch. And the card made me laugh. Whose idea was it to write, ‘Thank you for saving my lover,’ on it?”

  “Guilty,” he admitted, raising his hand like he was in a classroom. Then he clapped her on the shoulder. “You know, I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he told her, and she laughed.

  “Yeah, I think I am, too,” she agreed before waving him off to his car.

  Twenty minutes later, Zachariah unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped inside, a strangely nervous flutter roiling through his stomach. He had no idea what he was going to find, and the suspense almost made him queasy.

  As he entered, he realized two things: Damon was gone, and Ashton was sitting at the computer workstation against the living room’s far wall, pecking away at the keyboard. A half-eaten sandwich sat on a plate beside the keyboard, violating every rule Zachariah had about food and drinks around his workstation, but he didn’t care. He was too damn elated seeing Ashton out of bed to care about a few crumbs between his keyboard’s keys.

  He didn’t let his elation show, though. He tossed his keys into the wooden dish on the table by the door and moved fully into the room, cutting right into the kitchen and rummaging through the pans in one of the cabinets. He set the ones he needed on the counter that opened up into the living room and asked, “You hungry?”

  “I had a sandwich,” Ashton said, not turning to face him.

  “Funny,” he said. “Because I still see half of it right there.”

  Ashton tapped the edge of the plate. “This is my second one.”

  “Well, I promised you dinner, so how about I make you some real food?” Zachariah suggested.

  “Not now,” Ashton muttered.

  He banged the pan down on the counter, and Ashton flinched. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No,” Ashton replied. He kept his eye focused squarely on the monitor in the center of the trio that spanned the workstation set-up.

  “Then why won’t you even look at me?” he snapped, the impatience he’d been struggling to hold back surging forth.

  Ashton shook his head and pushed out of the chair, using the edge of the desk for support. “I’m going back to bed.”

  “The hell you are!”

  Ashton swept his arm across the desk, sending one of the keyboards, a wireless mouse, and the plate with the half-eaten sandwich tumbling to the floor with a crash. “You are not my boss! You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do.”

  “The hell I can’t!” Zachariah said. He circled around the counter. “I’m not going to sit back and let you wallow in misery. I’ve had enough of it. You’ve barely even moved since Tuscaloosa, and I’m not watching
you fall back into that.”

  “Don’t you dare presume to lecture me,” Ashton snarled. “You have no comprehension of what I’ve been through. None.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. Because you haven’t talked to me!”

  Ashton slouched against the workstation, dropping his head into his hands. “I can’t,” he said, the anger in his voice melting away. Now, he just sounded despairing. “I don’t know how.”

  Zachariah recognized what was going on with Ashton, probably better than he did. The man had been through something particularly traumatic, and he was dealing with a bad case of PTSD. He didn’t know how to handle this Ashton; he’d never seen him like this before, at least not to this extent. Ashton was always the stronger of them. He always knew what to do for Zachariah after his bad assignments. Zachariah felt helpless that he didn’t know the same.

  He stood at the end of the counter, wavering. Finally, he moved forward, picked up the plate and sandwich remains, put them on the counter, and scooped up the scattered keyboard and mouse. The keyboard was missing several keys; he’d have to crawl under the desk to find them later. He set the mouse and keyboard on the desk behind Ashton and asked, “What were you doing on the computer?”

  Ashton didn’t answer right away; instead, he scrubbed at his face, scowling as he felt at the copious stubble on his jaw—really, it almost qualified as a beard now—and sighed, shaking his head. “Just catching up on work. I don’t know who’s been running my division, if anybody has been, but they’ve made a bloody mess of it.”

  Zachariah hesitated then slowly slid his arms around Ashton, pulling him into a loose embrace. “Maybe you should step away,” he suggested, resting his cheek against the top of Ashton’s head—a feat accomplished only because the man had slouched down so far. His hair was damp and smelled heavily of shampoo. “I mean, we don’t have any reason to stay here anymore…”

  Ashton pulled back, not far enough to dislodge his grip but enough to look at him with confusion. “What do you mean? What about Chloe?”

  “We don’t have to look for her anymore,” he explained. “She’s dead.”

  “Oh, son of a bitch,” Ashton murmured, much to Zachariah’s surprise. He hadn’t seemed to care much for Elise or Chloe—he definitely hadn’t liked what Elise had done to Zachariah—and seemed willing to search for Chloe primarily out of some sort of moral obligation than anything else. “How did she die?”

  “She was found burned and mostly decomposed in Meridian Hill Park this morning,” he said. “Other than that, I don’t know. With Elise dead, maybe Brandon had no more use for her and dumped her in the sun to die.”

  “Callous asshole,” Ashton growled. He sighed and dropped his head, resting it against Zachariah’s shoulder; Zachariah slid his fingers through the hair at the back of his head, soothingly, like he was petting a barely restrained feral animal. Ashton breathed in deeply, tilting his head to press his nose against Zachariah’s neck. “What now, then?” he asked, his voice muffled, his breath hot against Zachariah’s skin. “If she’s dead, what are we supposed to do now?”

  “I don’t know,” Zachariah admitted. “Maybe…something normal for once?”

  “Like?”

  “Cook dinner, watch something on Netflix, the kind of normal, couple-y things we never get to do,” he said. “I think the kids these days call it ‘Netflix and chill.’”

  Ashton chuckled and lifted his head, smiling. “I think that’s something I can get behind.”

  For the entire brisk walk back to their hotel, Scott did two things simultaneously: he kept an eye out for anyone who looked like they were following them, and he brooded over what he’d seen on Bourbon Street. It was a gruesome scene, that was for sure. His brain wasn’t going to erase that particular image for quite some time; it wasn’t every day that one saw a man turned into raw hamburger. Still, something about the body had seemed…off. Well, other than the man being shredded beyond recognition.

  “You going to tell me what all that back there was about anytime soon?” Riley demanded as they entered their hotel’s lobby. “Or am I going to have to start guessing?”

  “Wait,” he ordered. He led her to the elevators and jabbed the appropriate button. She scowled at him, looking like she wanted to slap the hell out of him, but he didn’t care; he wasn’t discussing this in public.

  Once they were sequestered in their hotel suite, the deadbolt latched and the “do not disturb” sign securely in place, Scott faced Riley with a sinking feeling in his gut. Just the thought of what he was about to broach made him feel ill. He’d thought they’d left trouble behind in Alabama, but it had followed them anyway—in spades. And if his suspicions were right, they might be gearing up to enter a world of hurt.

  “Spill,” Riley ordered, flopping onto the sofa in the communal area and dumping Linus onto the cushion beside her. “What did you see back there that has you so rattled?”

  “I think we’re dealing with something Unnatural here,” he said, starting to pace.

  “No shit,” she replied. “Did anything about that corpse seem particularly natural to you?”

  “I meant unnatural with a capital U.”

  “Oh.” She fell silent, mulling over what he said as she played with the strap of her backpack. Then she asked, “What makes you think it’s something Unnatural?”

  “Well, probably the condition of the body for one,” Scott explained. “It wasn’t just torn up. It was brutalized. It was something…animalistic. But no coyote did that.” He paused, debating whether he should bring up the main issue that he’d noticed about the body. He decided to hell with it; he needed to tell her, because if they were dealing with what he thought they were dealing with, then she’d need to know exactly what his suspicions were. “His heart was missing.”

  “His heart was missing?” she repeated. “How in the hell could you even tell that? His entire chest and stomach were a shredded mess. There were no discernible organs left for you to recognize.”

  “Yeah, but it didn’t take much for me to figure out what wasn’t there,” he explained. “His heart was definitely missing. I don’t know what that means, which is why we’ll probably have to call Ashton or Zachariah. They know more about this shit than we do.”

  “No,” Riley said, shaking her head. She stood and started moving toward the suite’s bedroom. “We don’t need their help. We can figure this out on our own. We’re smart. We’ve got this.”

  “You hope,” he said, following. “Because me? I don’t know where to start. I’ve never led an investigation like this.”

  “But you’ve led investigations before,” she said. “Hell, you used to work in Internal Affairs. That’s nothing but investigations. If you could handle that, then you can handle this just fine.”

  “I’m so glad you have that much faith in me,” he replied. It was, admittedly, far more faith than he had in himself. Like he’d told her, he wasn’t sure where to start looking for the information about what could have killed someone in the manner that the young man had been killed. It had been brutal, and he didn’t know anything that could slaughter a person like that, though a wild animal came to mind every time he dwelled on it. But what wild animal would shred its prey like that and only take the heart?

  His mind kept coming back to the same thing, over and over again, and his heart sank. His mind conjured a memory of a movie he’d seen once when he was younger. He looked at Riley, knowing the second he brought up the name of the film, she’d understand exactly where he was going with this.

  “Have you ever seen American Werewolf in London?” he asked.

  “Have I ever seen American Werewolf in London,” she muttered. “‘A naked American man stole my balloons,’” she quoted. “Of course I’ve seen it. Though if you’re talking about the shitty remake and not the one from the 1980s, I’m kicking the shit out of you.”

  “I don’t care which one you think I’m referencing,” Scott said. “The point I’m trying to make is the s
ame regardless.”

  Riley stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “You can’t possibly be serious,” she said. “You’re not seriously suggesting we’ve got a David Kessler on our hands.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m suggesting,” he said. He flopped down onto the edge of the king-sized bed in the middle of the room. “Hell, I’m not even suggesting it. I’m saying it outright. I think what killed that man was a werewolf.”

  Riley groaned and toppled over, falling onto her back on the bed. She scrubbed her face with both hands and said in a tone suggesting she was talking to herself but was loud enough for Scott to hear, “Somebody in this camp ain’t what he appears to be.”

  “Dare I ask what movie that line is from?”

  She dropped her arms and repositioned her body so she was spread-eagled on the bed. She waved her arms and legs a few times like she was making invisible snow angels then said, “Only the greatest Kurt Russell movie ever made.”

  They were silent for a few minutes, during which Scott tried to figure out what they were supposed to do about a possible werewolf in their midst. Despite what Riley had said, he had every intention of calling Zachariah or Ashton and asking for advice. All he knew about werewolves was what he’d seen in movies and read in books, and it mostly involved lots and lots of silver bullets. But considering when he and Riley had gotten recruited into The Unnaturals he’d learned that vampires could be killed with silver bullets and that half the bullshit Hollywood put out about vampires was just that—bullshit—he figured he’d better ask anyway, just to make sure that killing a werewolf didn’t involve sacrificing a chicken while dancing naked under a blue moon on the twelfth of January.

  Then again, they were in New Orleans, which as far as he knew was one of the capitals of voodoo. That meant pretty much anything was possible. Maybe he needed to start googling for places to buy live chickens.

  He sighed and rolled his head to loosen the muscles in his neck. “So,” he said, “where the fuck do we start?”

  Riley didn’t budge from her sprawled position. “I think I might know just the place,” she said. “You up for a walk back to Bourbon Street?”