by Jasmine Walt
Slitting my eyes open, I steal a glance at him, feeling even hotter when I see the look on his face, knowing he’s enjoying this just as much as I am. His breathing becomes ragged, and I know he’s getting close to coming.
But I don’t want it to be over for him. Not yet.
I plant both hands on his chest and push, having to use all my strength to get him to move. His eyes widen and he opens his mouth to ask me what’s wrong, but I don’t give him a chance. I move out from under him, shove him back down on the ground, and climb on, straddling him.
Taking a hold of his cock, I slowly lower myself onto him.
“You said you like when I’m on top.”
His lips pull into a grin. “I did. And I do.”
Hands gripping my waist, he watches me fuck him, tits bouncing in his face as I ride him hard, feeling a third orgasm start to come on, winding deep inside me. I pitch forward, hands on his chest, almost weak from sex-induced bliss, and move my hips in a circle.
Hasan’s breathing quickens and his fingers press into my flesh. He bends his legs up, hitting me from another angle and bringing me down against him. Then he comes, and feeling his cock pulsing inside of me is all I need to send me over the edge.
In a swift movement, he holds me tight and rolls over, finishing on top with his cock buried balls-deep inside of me.
Panting, heart racing, and sweat dripping down my brow, I let my arms fall to my sides. Hasan pulls out and lies down next to me, pulling me onto his chest. We stay like that, recovering in silence, for a few minutes.
“I’ll get the shower ready for you,” he says, brushing hair out of my face. He kisses me once more and gets up, flying up to the second story and landing over the balcony instead of taking the stairs. I smile and exhale heavily, not yet ready to get up.
I wake up alone, which isn’t unusual. Hasan isn’t much of a cuddler after sex, and after sleeping all day the last thing he wants to do is lie in bed with me as I sleep. My heart is racing and my mind is fuzzy. I had a nightmare, but I can’t remember what it was about.
But I know Jacques was in it.
And Braeya.
I close my eyes and push my hair out of my face. It’s still damp from the shower, letting me know I haven’t been asleep for all that long. Seeing everything through Braeya’s eyes, I saw her with Jacques. They were standing around a fire, and Jacques was holding something.
Thinking back, I try to conjure the image from the dream. It was a necklace. That’s what he was holding. There was some sort of symbol engraved onto the stone, but I can’t remember what it was.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I replay it all in my mind. And then it comes rushing back. Jacques holds up the necklace, and firelight reflects off the shiny obsidian stone.
“Be careful, Acelina,” he says, eyes drilling into mine. “The Dark Ones are coming.”
6
I rake my hair back over my shoulder with my fingers before twisting it up into a messy bun at the top of my head. I stare down at the papers on the desk. I’ve been at work for an hour staring at the few details we have on the murder from yesterday. Picking up the crime scene photos, I lean back in my chair and prop my feet up on the bottom drawer of my desk.
The body was moved. Posed and displayed for shock value. I look over each photo and trade them for the coroner’s report. The official cause of death was blunt force trauma to the back of the head. My victim has defensive wounds all over her, but there’s no sign of sexual assault.
We still haven’t gotten an ID on her.
I set the files down, mind jumping back to the basement filled with animal blood. The Dark Ones. What the fuck are Dark Ones? It’s such a vague term used over and over throughout literature and in movies to represent something bad.
Crazy cat lady Mrs. Green is just that—crazy. And dreams can just be freaky dreams. Not every single dream I have with Jacques in it is some divine intervention. I’ve had my fair share of normal dreams about all the guys before.
But this was different. I just know it.
“Hey, Ace,” Tiffany Woo, a crime scene photographer and the closest thing I have to a friend, says as she walks by my desk. “Are you all right?”
I snap my head up, blinking rapidly. “Yeah. Fine. Just, uh, deep in thought.”
She lowers her eyes to the photos on my desk. “I’m glad I wasn’t the one to photograph that scene. You know that weird stuff freaks me out.”
Nodding, I force the old Ace to come to the surface. “And you know that weird stuff is a bunch of bullshit.”
I hate lying, specifically when people lie to me, but it doesn’t feel much better when I do it too, even though it’s for her own good.
“I can hope. That looks like a demonic sacrifice or something.”
I bring my finger down on the symbols painted in blood on the walls. “They didn’t know which demon to summon, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“These symbols aren’t what you’d use if you were really trying to summon or sacrifice something to a demon. If demons were even real at all,” I quickly add.
“That makes me feel better. Maybe. Actually not. Because now we’re dealing with an even crazier psycho killer.”
“Maybe. Or maybe someone is trying to cover up a murder by making it look like the vampire murderer but got their facts wrong.”
Her lips pull into a half-smile. “Good thing you’re in charge of this investigation.”
“Yeah. Good thing.”
“See ya later, Ace.”
I nod a goodbye and get back to work, having a hard time concentrating again on my case. It’s unlike me and it’s frustrating as hell. Rubbing my forehead, I rest my head in my hands.
The blood in the basement…the newest layer was fresh. How did whoever put it there know Mrs. Green would go look at the house that night? She rented out the shitty space and rarely went there. It was unoccupied so it’s not like she was checking on a tenant issue.
I open up my laptop and log into the system, ready to pull up Mrs. Green’s name and get her address so I can go talk to her.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself. I’m getting further and further away from my investigation, the one I’m getting paid to work on. But the blood…the Dark Ones…the ghost…I can’t stop thinking about them. They’re calling to me, and I know it’s important.
“Detective,” an officer calls, standing in the threshold of a conference room. “You ready?”
Ready? Ready for—oh fuck. “Yeah. I’ll be right there.” I gather up the case files and go into the conference room to discuss the case with the rest of the team. I don’t have much to go on, which is outside of my norm. Though, with a murder like this, no one questions me.
I comb through missing persons’ reports after the meeting and come up empty-handed. I refill my coffee mug and sit back at my desk. Staring at the crime scene photos again, I try and get inside the mind of the killer. Why this church?
The murder was premeditated, obviously, but I feel the killer is new to this by the mistakes made. Fingerprints were wiped down, but we were able to get a few partials off the marble altar. Nothing that matched in the system, of course.
We got decent skin scrapings from under the victim’s nails. Being able to match fingerprints and DNA to the fucker who killed her will bag us a win in court. Well, as long as we can catch the guy.
The phone on my desk rings, and a glance down tells me the call is coming from the front desk of the office.
“Bisset,” I say into the receiver.
“There’s a young woman here to see you,” the secretary says. “Gemma Hayes.”
“I’ll be right up.”
I close my files, lock them away in my desk, and go to the front of the building.
“Hey,” Gemma says, face tight. She’s holding two coffees, and looks nervous. “Sorry to barge in here on you like this. I don’t think I actually thanked you yesterday. I was a little flustered.”
“It’s all right.�
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She holds out a coffee. “I wasn’t sure what to get you, so I just got my usual order, an iced caramel frap.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, and take the drink. I don’t go to Starbucks often, but when I do, this is what I order.
“Have you had lunch yet? I’d love to buy you something to eat. It’s the least I can do, and I feel like such an asshole for leaving without thanking you.”
I’m about to tell her no, but I am hungry. “I haven’t, but you don’t owe me anything.”
“Please. It’d make me feel better. I could hardly sleep last night I felt so bad.”
“Fine. Let me grab my shit.”
I go back to my desk and get my purse, then lead Gemma out of the station. “I was just doing my job, you know,” I remind her as we stop at a crosswalk.
“Oh, I know. And if you weren’t there, I would have lost this vintage Chanel bag and a few thousand bucks. I don’t usually carry cash with me, but as you saw yesterday I was selling a few things.”
I just nod, a little curious but not caring enough to go into it more. The light turns and we cross the street.
“I’m doing that minimalist lifestyle,” she continues. “You know, that trendy one right now where you thank your things before letting them go.”
“You thank them?” I lift an eyebrow.
“Yeah, but it’s not as hokey as it sounds, I promise. It’s a good way to let go of the past and make room for new beginnings. And now that I’m saying it out loud, it does sound really hokey.”
I chuckle. “Hey, if it works I guess that’s all that matters, right?”
“Right. And it has been. I hang onto a lot of junk, and getting rid of it feels good. Want to eat here?” She waves her hand at a diner on the corner. “I’ve never been here before, but it looks cute.”
“It’s decent,” I say, having eaten here a handful of times since it’s close to work. We go in and get a table in the back. Gemma looks over the menu, and things start to feel weird already. I haven’t gone out with a friend or even a coworker one-on-one like this in a while. I didn’t realize how much I’d alienated myself until the guys came into my life and reminded me how good it felt to be alive.
“Can I ask you something?” Gemma sets down the menu.
“You just did.”
She flashes a nervous smile. “I mean something personal.”
“You can.” I lean back. “But I can’t promise I’ll answer.”
“Fair enough.”
The waitress comes to take our order, and once she leaves Gemma picks up her straw wrapper, twisting it between her fingers.
“You said you weren’t going to try to communicate with the dead, but did you?”
“No.”
She rips the wrapper in half. “No, as in not yet, or no as in…”
“As in no.”
“Do you even believe in ghosts?”
I pick up my Coke and take a sip. “I didn’t until recently.”
“What changed?” She leans in. “Did you see a ghost?”
I shrug. “Just trying to keep an open mind, that’s all.”
“Right, right. I bet you see a lot of crazy stuff being a detective.”
“I do. I’m a homicide detective, so crazy is kind of my thing.”
“Oh, wow. That’s insane. No wonder you’re interested in ghosts,” she says with a laugh. “I believe in ghosts and all that stuff. Obviously, right? And I have tried to contact the dead.”
“Tried?”
“It didn’t work.”
“Oh, I’m, uh, sorry?” I watch Gemma’s face fall, eyes dropping to the table.
“It’s probably for the best. My parents died when I was eleven in a car crash. They’d just dropped me off at a friend’s house and were on their way to dinner. I still feel guilty about it.” She shakes her head and pushes her dark hair back. “Anyway, I’ve tried a few times over the years to contact them with no luck. Though if I did get a hold of my mom’s spirit, she’d probably throw her shoe at me or something for playing around with a Ouija board.” She smiles, eyes glazing over as she remembers her mother. “She believed in this stuff too.”
“I’m sorry,” I say genuinely. “I lost my parents when I was nine. If I were to try and contact someone, it’d be them.”
Gemma looks up, lips parting. Remorse is salient in her eyes again, and it doesn’t make any fucking sense. “I had no idea. Sucks, doesn’t it? Growing up without them.”
“Yeah. It did. It still does.”
“Were you adopted by another family?” she asks hesitantly.
“No. I lived with my uncle for a while, and then he split up with his wife, who wasn’t related to me, but she let me stay with her until college. We haven’t talked in years.”
“I moved in with my aunt and uncle too. They’re way older with grandkids and stuff now. I always felt like a burden.”
“Me too,” I admit. I always knew there were many other kids out there like me, but despite the therapist’s efforts that first year after my parents’ death to get me into groups and talk about my feelings, I never went. Mostly because no one was there to take me. “Do you still talk with your aunt and uncle?”
“Yeah. We’re close. They’re a bit overbearing, which is why I moved into the city. They’re Amish.”
“Oh, cool. But I bet that made being into ghosts and magic interesting.”
She laughs. “Just a bit. So…how did you lose your parents?”
“They were killed.”
“Like, murdered?”
I press my lips into a thin line, fighting back emotion. “Yeah.”
“Oh my God. How? Sorry. That falls into the I’m too nosey realm.”
“It’s okay,” I say, but don’t go into any further detail than that.
“Did you find them?”
I don’t answer that either.
“Sorry. It’s just…I’ve never met anyone who lost their parents so young before.”
“Neither have I. And yes. I did.”
Her face pales. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” I catch a dripping bead of condensation off my glass. “So…what do you do?”
“I’m a nurse. Right now I’m at a nursing home and in school again to get my bachelor’s so I can hopefully move to a hospital soon. I like my patients, but we’re so understaffed.”
“I don’t think I have the patience for that.”
She gives a wry smile. “Sometimes I don’t think I do either.” She talks about work, and then we chat about magic a bit. The awkwardness fades away, and as weird as it is to sit here talking to her, it’s nice.
When we get up to leave and she asks if I want to get together again, I say yes. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I think I might finally have a friend.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” I say again, feeling a tug on my heart. Lily Turner’s parents returned home from a business trip to find their daughter missing. With her being nineteen and in college, they didn’t jump to conclusions right away, and it was only after a few hours of calling and texting that they grew to worry and contacted the police.
They just identified her body.
“Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Lily? Did she have any enemies?” They’re standard questions, but the murder is anything but.
Her mother’s face is pale and she hasn’t stopped crying since she set foot into the station. She looks at me, mouth opening but unable to form any words.
“No,” her father answers instead. “Not that we know of. Everyone liked Lily.”
I nod, and give them another minute or two before going on with the rest of my questions. They’re both too emotional to give me anything to go on. I tell them to go home and get some rest, and I’ll follow up in the morning.
“Online,” Mrs. Turner croaks out as she rises unsteadily to her feet. “Lily was bullied online.” Her jaw quivers and she starts crying again, calling out for her baby.
I shift my gaze to
Mr. Turner. “Do you know anything more about this?”
He shakes his head. “Lily didn’t seem bothered by it. It didn’t seem serious. Just online trolls.”
“Anything can help. The more I know, the faster I can catch the asshole who did this to your daughter.”
He swallows hard and nods. “She got cyberbullied on Facebook in a group she ran with friends.”
“What was the group about?”
“Spirituality and Wicca.”
“Lily was Wiccan?”
“In some ways.”
I pull out my notebook. “What is the group called?”
Mr. Turner pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t remember. She said these people joined the group, harassed everyone and told them they were going to hell. She got a few private messages but blocked the guy messaging her. She told me she felt sorry for him to be filled with such hatred.” His eyes fill with tears. “That’s the kind of person she was. Saw the best in everyone. Felt for everyone.”
“Do you have access to her Facebook account? Or any other social media for that matter?”
“Her computer stores all her passwords,” her mother says between sobs. “It’s in her room.”
“Would it be all right if I stopped by? I’ll take a look around for anything out of the ordinary and pick up the computer.”
“Do whatever you have to do.” Her father takes my hand, eyes set with heartache and rage. “Find the asshole. And give me five minutes alone with him before turning him in.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
The Turners stay at the station, making funeral arrangements. I feel bad for them, I really do, but I can’t put any more emotion into this. I need to stay rational so I can find the killer.
And I will.
With the key to the Turners’ house in my pocket, I get into my car and drive to their house. They don’t live all that far from the church, which makes me wonder if the killer is nearby as well. I survey the house, looking for any sort of signs of forced entry before going inside.
Lily’s mother spoke to her the night before she was found murdered. She was on her way home from work, and judging from the discarded uniform on the floor of her bathroom upstairs, it looks like she made it home.