by Erin Hayes
Get a grip, Jessica. This is what you’re trained for.
“Okay. If you’re ready?”
Opening her eyes, she found Dr. Greene’s bright gaze pinned to her face. She straightened her shoulders, and nodded. She was ready. This was where she was supposed to be. This wasn’t supposed to be fun, but it was necessary.
“I am. Do you have any preliminary idea about the weapon used?”
From behind his mask, Dr. Greene smiled. Then he pointed to a row of trays on the counter behind him.
“We made molds from the wounds. Sarah, if you would.”
The assistant brought over the trays, setting them beside the body. Dr. Greene picked up a long piece of…something…and held it in his hands.
“This was the best of the lot. It’s the killing blow, without putting too fine a point on it.” His mask crinkled in what Jessica assumed was a smile. “The blade is at least thirty centimeters long, and two and a half centimeters at its widest. Considering Lansing’s torso measured…do you have that, Sarah? Ah, yes. His torso was 27.3 cm at the sternum. The blade entered here…” He pointed with one gloved finger. Both she, and Derek, leaned forward.
“This would account for the through-and-through.” With a slow and methodical gesture, Dr. Greene inserted the blade into the wound. Jessica swallowed hard, as the silicon mold sank into the grayish flesh. Beside her, Derek made a strange little noise.
“Oh, come, now. I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.” Dr. Greene pushed the blade in as far as it would go. “Here, the table keeps it from going through, like it did at his home.”
“CSI said the end of the blade went through the carpet, and into the floor underneath.” Someone had called her with that information, having torn up the carpet and removed the boards of the floor.
“Exactly. Now…” He pulled the blade out of the body, set it aside, and picked up another. “If you’ll notice the blade itself.”
“It’s bent.” Derek pointed. “Is that because he was struggling?”
“But why is the other one straight?” Jessica picked up the first example. “Are we looking for two weapons?”
“No. Only one. That…” He pointed to the cast she held. “…that was taken from the wound that went through. This…” He held up the cast in his hand. “The wobbly cast, as you call it, is a composite made from the shallower wounds, where the shape of the blade wasn’t distorted by the depth of the cut.”
She shook her head. “Not quite following you.”
“Here…” He took the cast back from her, holding one in each hand. “The thrust that went all the way through his body, obliterated the wavy edge on the lower end of the knife. Because of the wider end, near the hilt, it widened the wound as it entered. The shallow cuts, all showed various lengths of the blade, and many showing the waved edge. Since we knew how long the blade was, based on the depth of the final blow, we could estimate what the blade looked like in its entirety.”
“And how do you know it had a hilt?”
“There’s bruising here…” Dr. Greene pointed with the tip of the cast. “Around the entrance. An almost perfect rectangular mark, with the cut at its center. There was too much blood at the scene for it to be visible.”
““I know it is a long shot but, have you gotten any toxicology results back yet?”
“Nothing official,” Dr. Greene handed the casts to Sarah, and picked up a clipboard, flipping through the pages. “But we did run a few preliminary tests using some experimental reagents on some blood we collected. Now the results of those tests aren’t officially approved methods, so the results are totally inadmissible, but there was nothing in his system that would have rendered him incapacitated in any way.”
“Nothing? No alcohol, sleeping pills?” She thought—almost hoped—there would be something, anything. Men didn’t just allow themselves to be stabbed repeatedly without putting up a fight.
“Nothing whatsoever.”
“So, no sign of a struggle, but nothing that would have knocked him out? I don’t get it.” Derek sounded as confused as she felt.
“I can’t answer that, I’m afraid.” Dr. Greene picked up a scalpel. “Now, if you’re ready, let’s get started.”
Jessica would have rather been anywhere else in the world than watching Dr. Greene working on Lansing’s body. Maybe if she didn’t think of him as Jason Lansing, it wouldn’t be so bad. But she couldn’t separate the man who had a wife that adored him, the man who’d been on television, who’d been in the precinct on occasion, from the man lying in front of her. She swallowed back the urge to run, and focused on watching Dr. Greene, though she found herself turning away time and time again.
Dr. Greene worked in silence for what felt like an eternity, carefully doing things she didn’t want to think about. When he straightened up, she looked back at the table.
“Here…you can see. The aorta was sliced cleanly through. He would have bled out very quickly.” Dr. Greene stopped, poking into the open body with his scalpel. “Strange…”
Dr. Greene might have a morbid sense of humor, but autopsies weren’t funny to him.
“What is it?”
“There’s no blood in the chest cavity.” He moved an organ aside, and she grimaced at the sound. “Not a drop.”
“I thought you said he bled out?”
“I did, and yes, he did. But I’d still expect to find pooling in the chest cavity, or the abdominal area. Cadavers are basically vessels, holding onto whatever is inside of them. There was only one thrust that went through, essentially one hole in the vessel. And even though there was a massive amount of blood at the scene, I’d expect to find some inside him. But he’s dry as a bone. How very unusual.”
They were all silent for a moment before Derek turned to look at her. “So, add that to the list of bizarre findings in this case, huh?”
“Bizarre is not what I need right now.” She wanted a miracle, the killer to confess and just end this madness, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen.
“There’s nothing more we need here, is there?” She was already backing away from the table, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Can I take the casts with me?”
“Yes, there’s a set for you.” Dr. Greene’s brows furrowed together. “I’ll send you the full report when I’m finished.”
But she was already pulling off her gloves and gown, tearing the thin yellow paper away from her. This case was going from bad to worse, and seeing the mayor on the table did nothing to make her feel as though she was making any headway. The feeling that she was behind the eight-ball on this entire case, gnawed at her.
“You okay, Jess?” Derek caught up with her, as she grabbed her coat from the locker.
“Yeah. No…I’m fine. Just frustrated. And standing here…in there…doesn’t feel like I’m making any progress in getting this under control.”
As they walked to the parking lot in silence, Jessica was deep in thought. She thought about the clues, blade lengths, experimental toxicology reports, and DNA matches, as if memorizing the details would somehow make them form a pattern, and help her solve this mystery.
Chapter Five
Euros’s fingers rested for a moment on the keyboard of his computer. To those around him, he looked as if he was asleep or daydreaming with his eyes focused on something only he could see. And that was how he liked it. Co-workers tended to leave him alone, even though his desk was in the middle of the sometimes-noisy newsroom.
With just a few minutes before the midnight deadline, the room hummed with conversations and reeked with the sweat of panicked and frustrated writers. Euros didn’t suffer from either panic, or writer’s block, like the rest of them, though. He knew exactly what he wanted to write, how the story would play out, weaving in the facts of the case—precious few that there were—and the things he could reveal about his investigation that morning.
Besides, he thought, why would he panic when he knew that if he wanted to, he could snap his fingers, an
d the work would be done, not as if by magic, but by magic itself? But he refrained from using magic, at least most of the time. He liked the routine of it all, and writing his articles and news stories made him feel more in touch with his human side. At least as human as a magical creature like him, could possibly be.
What his mind was occupied with at this very moment, wasn’t on the work ahead, but on Jessica. When news broke of the murder, he knew that Jessica would be assigned lead on the case. Magic, and just plain good reporter’s instinct, told him that. When it happened, he couldn’t have been prouder of her, and the regret for having written the article that ended their relationship, became even more bitter than the day it happened. He wasn’t prepared to see her—to come face to face with the one woman that had captured his heart like no other before. Seeing her sent him into an absolute tailspin, leaving his heart heavy, and his mind full of memories that he knew he could block out with a bit of magic, but they were too precious to let go of.
She looked tired and stressed out, but damn, she looked good.
He thought back to the last time he’d seen her before that morning… and before the breakup—the day before it all ended, back when everything was good between them. Good was an understatement; it was incredible—everything he could have ever hoped for in a relationship.
Jessica had the day off from work, a brief interlude before she started her new position as detective, and they’d spent the day in bed. He had called in his article, using magic so he could stay in bed with her. She’d been playful, adventurous…sexy beyond any woman he’d ever known. And that was more than he could count, or cared to remember. She had become the center of his world.
They’d been lying in bed, tangled in the sheets, the rich smell of lovemaking rising around them. He’d run his fingers through the tangle of her dark hair, playing with the long strands, his fingers occasionally getting caught in a knot. Jessica would make a sound, and he’d apologize by kissing her…first the top of her head. The next time her neck, slowly rearranging her and himself, until he was working his way down the curve of her breast.
She’s lost weight since then, he thought. Then, before…everything, she’d been soft and curvy, round at the hips, at the slope of her stomach, the secret softness of her inner thighs, the places only he touched. And with an ass… that even now, the memory of it beneath his hands could stir him.
She’d relaxed under his touch, and then come alive beneath him, shocking him with her surprising aggressiveness. She was like that, calm and still, accepting, and then turning, rising, wild and passionate, taking his breath away. Taking control.
He sighed, looking at the blank computer screen and blinking cursor. Two minutes. He might as well do this. With a glance, he noted where everyone was—absorbed in their own work—he started to type. His fingers were a blur on the keys, and he smiled, even if he was doing this like a mortal, that didn’t mean he was going to restrict himself to typing a mere eighty words per minute. Before the midnight deadline, he typed the final sentence. With a quick glance at his work, he hit send. And then sat back.
Around him, a collective release of pent up anxiety, stress, and tension rose, as his colleagues met their deadlines. Decker, sitting two desks over, leaned back, stretching his arms over his head. Even from here, Euros could hear the snap and crack of the man’s spine.
“Finished? Thought you were cutting it a bit close, Desard. For once I thought you might actually miss your deadline.”
“Desard never misses a deadline, do you?” That was Holmes, behind him. “He cuts it close every single time. I think he’s an adrenaline junkie, and does his best work under pressure. Wish I could do that.”
There were muttered words of agreement, but he shrugged them off. The men gathered coats and scarves, trying to come to a decision about which bar to hit. Euros wondered why they bothered—they always ended up at Mick’s on the corner.
“Wanna come with us?” Decker asked. “Oh, yeah, you don’t drink.” He shrugged, and then laughed that nasty, little dry laugh of his. Euros watched the group, as they moved toward the elevator. He breathed out a sigh of relief when they disappeared through the doors, and the room was silent.
It wasn’t only seeing Jessica that had set his world at odd angles. The magic he’d sensed at the murder scene, and then followed to the portal, then the meeting with Mixt. All of it left him on edge and feeling uneasy. He tapped a finger on the keys, trying to piece together what he knew, what he thought, and the facts he’d observed. And what he sensed, the things that were still nebulous in his mind, refused to be pinned down. Those were the important parts—the bits and pieces that might be the key to unraveling all of this.
He leaned back in his chair comfortably, eyes closed, breathing in slowly and deeply. With a low rumble buzzing in his ears, he closed out the world around him, and began the process of mentally examining each piece of information about the murder, with the hope of making sense of all the jagged little pieces that refused to mesh into anything useful.
He knew there was magic involved in this murder, that much was obvious. Someone had tried to cross through the portal. He couldn’t help but growl at the thought of his sacred place being invaded by someone who didn’t belong there. The world of his birth. His true home. He couldn’t let it happen.
That piece of information was the key to this puzzle. The portals. The magic doorway between the mortal world, and the magic one that he loved so much.
They’d been sealed centuries ago, after the witch trials burned across Europe, and then crossed to the newly-formed American colonies. The remaining witches—fae, gargoyles, elves, every magical creature in existence—had retreated through the barriers into the security of the Other World. Until then, those barriers had been translucent and veiled, but open. They were hidden in standing stones, within the shadows of caves, behind waterfalls. Magic passed freely between the worlds, and those who could, who had the sense and the sight, could pass through. Sometimes even a human would wander through the portal, interested in the world beyond. And even they were welcomed.
But with the changing of the times, people grew suspicious and afraid of the supernatural, and the powers that they possessed. Before too long, the winds of change evoked an uprising, and people refused to accept those who were not merely mortal. Even wise women and crones, those who at one time were celebrated for their abilities to help cure sicknesses, were driven out and forced into hiding, for fear of their lives being snuffed out as easily as a candle’s flame.
Euros’s mother had been one of those women, living on a croft in Scotland, searching the hedgerows and fields, the woods and streams, gathering what was needed for potions and poultices to heal the weak and dying.
As a boy, he never thought of his mother as having magical powers, but he knew she was special…spiritual, and gifted. The reality was that his mother, Avalon, was a very powerful and skilled witch, a mistress of white magic, a master of her craft.
It was at her knee, as a young child, that Euros learned of his true abilities, despite his mother doing everything in her power to hide it from him, and from those who would seek to destroy him because of them.
But nothing could stop young Euros from discovering his magical gifts, and the true power that he possessed. By the time he was a teenager, he learned how to light a fire simply by pointing his finger at an object. He also learned that he could easily put out that same fire just by closing his eyes, and making it vanish in his mind’s eye. And when his mother wasn’t watching, he learned how to make himself vanish at will, read people’s thoughts, and take himself from one place, only to appear in another.
Then they’d come for his mother, the very villagers who had visited her to beg her for help in healing or in birthing their children. They’d dragged her, arms tied behind her back, into the darkness of the night. He’d hidden in the barn, quietly under fouled straw, just as his mother had instructed, until they were gone. He’d ached to follow, but she’d told him o
ver and over what to do if they ever came. At the time, he didn’t understand who they were, only that his mother was in constant danger, and that if he revealed his true powers, his life would also be in jeopardy.
And so, he’d hidden, horse piss soaking into his shirt and breeches, even afraid to make himself invisible and follow, for fear his magic would leave him, and he’d suddenly appear in their midst, where he’d be tied to the post, and set afire.
Long after they were gone, and her screams had faded into the night, he crawled out, dirty and cold. He didn’t go to the village; the smell told him he’d be sick if he did. There was no need to, anyway. He knew, in his mind, his heart, in his very cells, that she was gone from this world of mortals.
He knew where to go though, where to seek refuge. There were standing stones in the clearing at the top of the hill, behind the croft. He’d been warned away from them growing up, but he’d gone there anyway. And now he ran there, the moonlight sending his shadow racing ahead of him across the ground.
Momentum pushed him forward, headfirst through the gap between the stones. Landing hard on the Other Side, he lay in a small, crumpled heap, trying to catch his breath, tears of exertion and loss running down his cheeks.
A strange-looking man came forward, reaching out to him. He was thin, dressed in ethereal white robes, with long, white hair flowing over his shoulders. It was Mixt who had found him—a man who began as a stranger, then became a sort of father figure to him throughout the decades that followed.
On that sorrowful day, when Mixt picked Euros up from where he rested on the ground, he led him through a mysterious labyrinth of confusing paths. At first, the landscape seemed no different than the one he’d just run through, with familiar landmarks and greenery. But as he continued his journey through the maze, it began to feel different. He recognized buildings, but they were somehow out of context: the village church was missing its spire and the croft where he lived was dim and dark, just a shadow in the moonlight.