Talk about a lovely sight to wake up to.
I felt like someone had cracked my skull and patched it back together with a rusty stapler. My gut wrenched as I snapped open the glove compartment, extricating three Advils which I washed down with a thermos of stale coffee. Breakfast of champions.
Ten minutes later, I finally felt coherent enough to start the car and make my way back to the converted warehouse I shared with Skulick. It served as both our quarters and base of operations, and over time the loft had begun to feel like home. On the way, I stopped off at a local taco truck and helped myself to the greasiest breakfast burrito on the menu—and possibly the planet. My stomach lurched and threatened to revolt, but I knew that a grease bomb was my best shot at salvaging the day ahead.
I even ordered a second burrito for Skulick. See, I'm not a completely terrible human being.
The smell of fresh coffee quickened my pulse as I staggered into the loft. Skulick might be a lousy cook, but he sure as hell knew how to brew a mean cup of joe. My mentor downed the stuff by the gallons. He was already seated behind his vast bank of monitors, quashing any chance of slipping into my bedroom unnoticed.
Ever since a rampaging spirit had dropped Skulick out of a three-story window, he'd been stuck in a wheelchair. I sought refuge in the bottle when times got tough, but Skulick had his shit together. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, he had turned his setback into an asset. Every moment of his day was dedicated to monitoring the web and police bands for signs of supernatural activity. He truly was the Cursed City's guardian, looking over her with the devoted intensity of a samurai protecting his master.
And as for me? I was just the muscle, an enforcer with an enchanted gun. At least that's what it felt like these days.
My relationship with Skulick had been strained since the incident with Archer, and we hadn't been talking much lately. And on the rare occasions when we did exchange words...well, let's just say that I had entered the "anger" stage of grief. I kept asking him why he'd kept a cup filled with highly infectious vampire blood in our vault, but he'd remained mum on the manner.
I'd always believed that only a live vampire could make more of its kind, but obviously Skulick had known more than he'd let on. Somehow the grail possessed magical properties which had preserved the vampire blood's power to infect the living.
I suspected that the grail and the blood might be connected to the vampire attack that had set Skulick on his monster hunting path nearly thirty years earlier. My partner hadn't been exactly forthcoming about the details of that incident, either. All I knew was that Skulick, a homicide detective at the time, had been on the trail of a mysterious serial killer who had turned out to be a vampire. The vamp had transformed Skulick's fiancée into a creature of the night, which had understandably almost pushed him over the edge. Fortunately, my father had arrived, and together they hunted and defeated the vampire. In the wake of these events, Skulick had joined my father's monster-hunting quest.
The rest was history, as they say. Seeing my own love transformed into a creature of the night was stirring up old memories. Memories he would rather keep buried.
For a split second, I foolishly believed I could steal my way into my room without having to exchange any words with my mentor. Maybe he was so wrapped up in his work that he wouldn't notice me.
"You have another productive night of feeling sorry for yourself?"
The man might've lost his ability to walk, but he still had the ears of a bat.
I caught sight of my reflection in the window and realized what I must look like to Skulick. If reeking of alcohol wasn't bad enough, my face looked like someone had decided to try out a new Zumba dance routine on it.
Skulick spun around in his state-of-the art wheelchair. For a beat, he didn't say anything. Truth be told, he didn't have to. His eyes spoke volumes. Skulick wasn't just a partner; he was like a father to me. He'd raised me after my parents were murdered by demons. His palpable disappointment stung, and I lowered my face, suddenly ten years old again.
"How long do you plan to keep this up?"
"None of your business," I said. Yup, definitely feeling like a kid who'd gotten in trouble. In a minute, I'd say something like "You're not my real dad!" and storm off to my room.
"Everything you do is my business." His wheelchair inched closer. "I invested too much in you to see you throw it all away." He paused, his eyes fixed on me. "I know you're hurting, you lost someone who was...close to you.”
"That's a nice way of putting it," I said. "I turned the woman I love into a goddamn monster."
Skulick clenched his jaw. "We've gone over this before," he said curtly. "You know all too well the powerful sway some of the relics can have. They plant seeds in our minds, wait for us to be at our most vulnerable."
"I don't need you to explain or make excuses--"
"Then I won't. You fucked up, kid. Big time. But it's time you put this behind you and focus on the challenges which lie ahead."
"Easy for you to say, old man."
His eyes narrowed as he scowled at me. "I'm tired of seeing you piss away everything we worked so hard for. We are at war, in case you'd forgotten. Our enemy has been quiet, but it's only a matter of time before the forces of darkness strike again. And we better be ready for them when they do."
I was considering another smartass comeback but caught myself. As usual, Skulick was right. Our mission was greater than any one of us. Like it or not, Skulick and I were the Cursed City's best defense in the ongoing battle with the darkness. My own personal demons paled in comparison with the literal ones that threatened our world. I reached for the steaming pot of coffee, and I poured myself a cup. The sizzling hot brew burned its way down my throat and made me feel human again. This was some powerful shit. Rocket fuel for the soul.
"How are things looking out there?" I asked after I'd drained most of the cup.
"No word on any vampire attacks but Detective Benson called just before you showed up looking like a recruiting poster for the local AA chapter."
I perked up. Benson hadn't contacted me since the events at Blackwell Penitentiary. If he was reaching out now, it meant the cops were dealing with a paranormal crime scene. It also suggested that Benson had decided I deserved a second chance to earn his trust.
"He sounded pretty freaked out on the phone," Skulick added. "Said he'd never seen anything like this before."
Now that was troubling. This wasn't Benson’s first rodeo on the dark side. We'd worked on a series of supernatural cases over the last year that would have made any sane man look forward to retirement. When Benson sounded scared, Skulick paid attention. And so did I.
"I guess that shower will have to wait for a little while longer," I said, trying to be funny. Skulick refused to crack a smile. Tough room.
I leaned over the stainless-steel coffee pot and somehow managed to fill up my thermos without spilling a drop. Nice to know my hand-eye coordination remained intact even after a beating. I was just about to leave when Skulick's wheelchair swiveled toward me once more.
"One more thing," he began.
I tensed. "What else?"
“I hope you’re not afraid of heights.” Skulick eyed me for a beat and added, “That’s what Benson told me to tell you.”
I let that sink in for a beat, imagining all the scenarios in which such a phobia might be relevant for this latest case.
"What was your response?”
A grin played across my partner's features and he said, "I told him monster hunters weren't afraid of anything."
Now there was a lie if I ever heard one.
I feared the dark.
I feared the nightmares which dwelled within it.
But most importantly, I feared losing the people I cared about.
3
I hope you’re not afraid of heights.
As I stepped onto the roof of the seventy-story office tower, Benson's words were beginning to make a lot more sense. A yawning abyss of steel and cem
ent greeted me. Wind buffeted my coat and tousled my hair. The Cursed City stretched out in every direction, a breathtaking sight from these great heights.
Instead of triggering a panic attack, the dizzying view reminded me of what it was all about. The urban sprawl was a living, breathing organism fueled by millions of lives; lives I'd sworn to protect from the forces of Hell. Whether the people below knew it or not, they trusted me to keep them safe. I'd forgotten that as I tried to drown my problems these last weeks.
I turned my attention away from the streets below. The rooftop had become a bustling crime scene. Everywhere I looked, I spotted CSI technicians and uniformed cops, the officers forced to hold on to their hats against the blistering wind.
As the crowd of cops parted, a body stood revealed at the center of the roof. Twisted limbs poked from beneath a blood-soaked sheet, the wind buffeting the edges of the shroud.
I swallowed hard. There were certain things one never quite got used to. Over the years, I'd visited some unusual crime scenes, but this rooftop murder was giving me a bad feeling in my gut.
As I gingerly approached the corpse, I overheard one of the detectives interviewing a uniformed building superintendent.
"Who else has keys to this area?" the detective inquired.
"Besides me? Nobody."
"And the roof access door was locked when you found the body?"
"Yes, sir."
The detective looked around, at a loss for a logical explanation. I felt bad for the guy; crime in the Cursed City had a way of defying standard investigative techniques. The normal rules of deductive reasoning rarely applied to the strange and gruesome crimes committed by the creatures of darkness.
Still, the detective did his best. "Well, is there another way out here?"
"Nope, just the one door," the superintended replied.
The detective was still trying to wrap his head around this information when my gaze found Detective Benson in the crowd. He acknowledged my presence but there was little warmth in the man's dark, hooded eyes.
I didn't blame Benson. After all, I'd turned his best detective into a vampire and set her loose on the city. In a way, it was nice to know I wasn't the only one who thought I screwed up royally. Nevertheless, Benson was a professional and refused to let personal feelings interfere with our working relationship.
He shielded his cigarette as he lit it and took a deep drag. Smoke swirling around his face, he sidled up to me and studied my battered features.
"What happened? You cut yourself shaving?"
I shot Benson a long look.
"Let me guess, a gang of leprechauns beat you up?"
Wow, someone was on a roll today.
"Leprechauns aren't real."
"Hard to keep track what's real and what's not these days. But thanks for clearing that up for me."
"I'm not some wizard cop chasing down the rejects of a Lord of the Rings casting call here. We're dealing with some evil shit."
"No kidding." The humor left Benson's eyes as he stole a quick glance at the shroud-covered body.
"So what do we know besides the fact that locked doors don't seem to faze our killer and that he isn't afraid of heights?"
Benson took another drag from his cigarette and stomped the half-smoked butt under his heel. I thought he'd quit months ago, but working law enforcement in the Cursed City made it difficult to break bad habits—as I knew all too well from personal experience.
"The building superintendent found the body early this morning. Judging from the degree of lividity, I'd say our vic was killed around three or four a.m."
The Witching Hour, I thought. The time at which such creatures as witches, demons and ghosts were at their most powerful. Skulick had a couple of theories as to why it was such a popular time of night with the forces of darkness. There are no regular prayers or services in the Catholic Canonical hours between three and four. Some occult scholars claimed that the so-called Devil's Hour was an inversion of the time Christ died at Calvary.
It was all superstition and useless academic posturing, if you asked me. Monsters and demons didn't stick to arbitrary timetables dictated by the religions of the world. Their power went far beyond such belief systems. Nevertheless, homicidal occultists dabbling with forces beyond their control sometimes had a hard time differentiating fact from fiction and could well draw inspiration from such archaic notions.
"The building closes to the public after nine o'clock," I said, recalling the sign I'd passed on the door earlier.
Benson nodded.
"And the only people who would have been here were the building super and a couple of guards, right? None of whom are under that sheet?"
Another nod.
"So you're saying someone broke into this tower to dump a body?"
"It's a little more complicated than that. Security mans the downstairs lobbies and there are cameras on every floor. Guards saw nothing, and the cameras didn't fare much better. So far, reviewing the surveillance CCTV feed has produced zilch.”
My eyes landed on the shroud-covered body. Only a few feet separated us now.
"Could the killer have tampered with the system?'
"Anything is possible. Either way, whoever is behind this, he's good. Better than good."
Benson had a point. Entering a high-security building and finding a way around both human and electronic security was no mean feat. There were quite a number of occult rituals that could bestow invisibility—if the person was willing make the necessary sacrifices. Or the killer could have conjured some supernatural entity to do the task for him or her.
I took in the crime scene. "This isn't just a murder. It's a statement. What better way to get the attention of this city than to turn one of its tallest buildings into a place of death?"
Benson nodded in agreement. "That's what I thought, too.”
"Have you ID'd the victim yet?" I asked.
"Ronald Davison. He's one of the most successful attorneys in the city. Was, I should say. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he also happened to be a major scumbag."
My eyebrows turned upward. "The name sounds familiar."
"Davison tended to represent some of the worst folks this city has to deal with," Benson explained. "Drug dealers, mob members, celebrities who commit crimes. If you were rich and guilty, you'd call Davison and the bastard would do his best to mine every loop hole in the book to get you off."
I considered Benson's words. "Sounds like a real loss to society."
"Agreed. But we still have to figure who or what killed the bastard."
I shifted my attention to the nearest CSI tech. "You have a cause of death?"
The tech hesitated for a beat before he replied. "We do, but it doesn't quite add up.”
What does these days? I thought and said, "I'm a pretty open-minded type of guy, so try me."
"Catastrophic injuries caused by what appears to have been an uncontrolled fall."
I frowned and motioned for him to go on.
"The way the body's crushed, the number of broken bones, the blood pattern, it all suggests a fall," the forensic tech explained. "A very high fall. At least a couple of hundred feet."
I mulled this latest revelation over. "So the killer dropped him off a cliff and then carted his body all the way up here?"
"Not exactly," the tech said. "See, based on the forensic evidence, the body's angle..."
"The victim was dropped on top of the roof," I finished.
"I know how it sounds, but--" The CSI tech broke off, at a loss for words.
I tilted my head toward the cloudy sky, the unforgiving wind making my eyes water. Something had dropped Davison on top of a skyscraper.
Benson eyed me expectantly. "You got anything for me, Raven? What kind of spooky shit is this?"
I shrugged. It was still too early to draw any conclusions.
In my line of work, I'd come across any number of monsters capable of taking to the air. Had some winged demonic beast hurled this man to h
is death?
I scanned my surroundings more carefully, my attention drawn to the four gargoyles that sprouted from the corners of the rooftop. Numerous rooftops sported these old protective symbols, but the detail on these stone beasts was impressive.
Maybe too impressive.
I approached the edge of the roof, my eyes landing on the ledge, searching for some sort of evidence that might explain the presence of the dead body. I wasn't convinced yet that this was a supernatural case. Maybe Davison had gone skydiving...without a parachute...over downtown. I shook my head at the silly thought. The case was weird but did it fit into my occult jurisdiction?
Benson appeared on my side, and to my surprise, he handed me a pair of binoculars. My eyebrows arched upward in a question, but I accepted the binoculars.
"Take a look," he urged me.
Still not sure what Benson was getting at, I followed his instructions. A series of nearby apartment buildings, most only half as tall as the Lenox Building, jumped into view. I swept the area, determined to figure out why Benson had handed the binos to me in the first place.
It felt like a test, or one of those Where's Waldo scenes. A variety of city dwellers were visible in the windows of their high-level apartments: a middle-aged man watching a daytime soap, a woman doing Zumba, a young college-aged kid nursing a smoothie on a balcony. One figure after another, a diverse cross section of the city's population.
"Bring the binoculars down a little bit."
"What am I supposed to be looking for here?" I asked at last, my voice laced with impatience.
"The victim's apartment."
Just as Benson uttered the words, I located the apartment unit in question. Peering through the binoculars, I could make out a shattered window on the tenth floor of the neighboring structure, a group of cops milling about on the unit's balcony.
I lowered the binoculars and peered down at the neighboring apartment building with my own eyes. It was located about fifteen city blocks from our crime scene.
Blood Rain (Shadow Detective Book 3) Page 2