Midnight Ash (A Blushing Death Novel)

by Sabol, Suzanne M.

  “Local news, please,” I asked, shoving my phone back into my pocket.

  Patrick grabbed the remote, pushing a mysterious series of buttons and the television flickered to life.

  The breaking news streamed along the bottom ticker as a reporter stood outside a line crime-scene tape. I recognized that house, that street, and the little dog yapping in the background.

  “That’s a few doors down from my house,” I muttered. To no one. To everyone.

  “Police are releasing very few details at this hour pertaining to the random act of violence that occurred just a little over an hour ago on this quiet residential street. The police are saying that the unusual nature of the crime may demand a more specialized investigation. Back to you,” the field reporter said as Patrick turned down the volume.

  “Take me home,” I ordered. A small quake rocked my voice. I turned to grab my coat and bag. Patrick was close on my heels as I stormed out the door.

  The police had closed off the street and we had to walk the two blocks from where Patrick’s Audi was parked to the crime scene. Crime scene tape circled an area three houses down from my own front door, covering the entire street, sidewalk, and some yards of the surrounding houses. My breath quickened and my hands started to sweat even in the cold as we approached the yellow police tape. The area was surrounded by the bright fluorescent lights of the crime-scene techs, giving everything an exaggerated eerie brightness. My stomach sank a little more with each step as we got closer to that damned yellow tape.

  The cold air was brutal as it blew through my clothing, whipping my hair around my face, and sending gooseflesh to creep across my skin.

  I knew the little dog immediately. I hated that dog. Pumpkin. All that damned little Shih Tzu did was yelp and bark anytime someone came within twenty feet of it. The little bastard’s owners, Dr. and Mrs. Corning, were pleasant enough so I forgave the yapping mongrel.

  Dr. Corning stood alone on the sidewalk with that damned dog in his arms and clutched tight against his chest. The dog squirmed and yelped but couldn’t get away from Dr. Corning’s crushing grip. Dr. Corning had a stricken, almost lost, expression on his face. I made my way to him. My stomach tightened as I followed his sightline to the cluster of police huddled behind the crime-scene tape. Beyond the police officers was what appeared to be a body. I could see the slightest flash of white hair through the shoes of the cops as they hemmed and hawed.

  I didn’t know what to say to him that didn’t sound cliché or contrived. I wasn’t very good with people. I, however, needed to know what happened. I needed him talking. So cliché and contrived it was.

  “Dr. Corning?” I asked, my voice soft and consoling. He looked through me, showing no recognition of who I was for a very long moment. “Dr. Corning?” I couldn’t hide the concern in my voice as I spoke. He’d always seemed larger than life, so strong and younger than his 67 years. As I laid my hand on his broad shoulder, he suddenly looked all of those 67 years and then some.

  His pupils were dilated and his entire body trembled under my hand. One of the EMT’s should’ve been looking at him, probably in shock. He shouldn’t have been standing on the sidelines watching the hordes of police maneuver around what had to be his wife.

  His eyelids fluttered as awareness filled him and he finally saw me.

  A small, sad smile crept over his face, lighting his eyes with the anguish he tried to hide from me. He clutched me into his surprisingly strong arms, crushing me against him and the dog. It was like hugging your uncle; it’s not unpleasant just uncomfortable. I lingered there as long as he needed me, being uncomfortable and on edge. After a few silent moments, he pulled away and looked down at me with tears in his eyes.

  “Dahlia, my dear, how are you?” he asked, as if it mattered.

  “What happened?” I whispered. I turned my head, following his line of sight to the cluster of uniform police officers and plainclothes detectives further up the sidewalk. He tried hard to hold his tears back so I wouldn’t see him cry.

  “Joyce and Pumpkin had gone for a walk. They were only gone a few minutes . . .” He paused. “When Pumpkin scratched at the door, I opened it, thinking that Joyce had forgotten her key but she wasn’t there. Pumpkin’s tail was between his legs and the leash still attached.” Dr. Corning wiped a stray tear from his cheek but his eyes were still blurry and full of his unshed anguish as he stared off into the blaring lights of the crime scene. “I ran down the front porch steps,” he said, his eyes wide and no longer lost as he turned to me. He was instantly in sharp focus as if he could see the whole thing again, vivid and clear. “I thought maybe she’d tripped or had a heart attack or something of that nature. I never imagined . . .” His eyes drifted back to the police barricade and the jumble of people on either side of the street as his words fell away. His hand covered his mouth in horror. “Oh God, I never imagined . . .”

  “What did you see, Dr. Corning?” I asked, stepping into his line of sight. I needed him focused on me and not what was going on around his wife.

  “Umm . . .” He hesitated. He closed his eyes tight and shook his head as he tried to push his words out. “She was lying there on the ground. As I ran to her, I tripped on something in the middle of the sidewalk.” He opened his eyes and stared down at the dog, squirming in arms. He glanced up at me with eyes that begged me to make the hurt go away but I couldn’t. I wasn’t sure that anyone could take that pain away.

  “I thought I’d kicked Pumpkin, you see,” he said, his bottom lip trembling as his eyes welled up with tears. “I tripped . . . I tripped . . . on Joyce’s head,” he said, swallowing hard as he wiped away the salty tears streaming down his face. “They cut off her head. Why would someone do that?” he whispered, horrified. The look on his face made my heart ache and lit a rage filled fire in my gut that burned bright, hot, and wild.

  “There was very little blood,” he whispered. “Dahlia, they cut off her head.”

  My mind quieted and my body relaxed as the idea of killing whatever had hurt this man and his wife shifted easily, too easily, into place. His fingers tightened on my arm and he held on to me in quiet desperation, digging his fingers into my biceps hard enough to bruise.

  “With a wound like that, the pavement should’ve been covered in blood,” he whispered. He looked at the crowd again as if none of them were actually there, like all he could see was the crumpled lifeless heap that had once been his life. “There was barely a drop on the pavement. She wasn’t gone that long.”

  I took him by the arm and led him back to his house. “Come on, Dr. Corning, let me take you home. It’s too cold for you to be out here all night without a coat.”

  “That doesn’t matter anymore,” he mumbled absently. “Nothing matters anymore.”

  This, his pain and her death, were both my fault. All of the carnage was meant for me, a message. Well, message received, you stupid ninja bitch.

  I escorted Dr. Corning to his door, keeping the tension that stiffened my shoulders from my grip on his arm. He was hurt enough already.

  “Take care of yourself, Dahlia. She always liked you, you know.”

  I hadn’t known either of them very well but they’d always said hello, were kind. They didn’t deserve this.

  I stood on his porch, waiting for the dreadful gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach to go away. I was left with the sickening acidic feeling of responsibility to eat a hole in me. I’d let this happen.

  Patrick stepped up behind me on Dr. Corning’s porch, his cool power wrapping around me in the even colder night air. His hands fell on my shoulders in a light touch of comfort and stood behind me silent, solid and strong. It wasn’t enough to wipe the putrid taste of responsibility from my mouth.

  “Did you hear that?” Staring at the Cornings’ front door seemed like a much better idea than letting him see the quiet sh
ame that I knew filled my eyes.

  “I did.” Patrick wrapped his arms around me, pulling me back against him in a firm embrace against his cool body. “We should examine the body,” he whispered, regret making his voice rough and husky, his cool breath caressing my neck and ear.

  “How the FUCK are WE supposed to examine the body?” I hissed. I let my anger bubble up and take over as I clenched my jaw. I was tapped emotionally. Nothing left in the tank to even pretend I could keep my temper. There was just too much fear, anguish, regret, and failure in me to remain calm. I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I wanted to collapse into a heap and disappear from the world, my life, Patrick, and everything that went with him. I wore every emotion I had on my sleeve, unable to shield anything from him. Rage was the only emotion I knew how to deal with so I pushed that to the front and let it consume me, ignoring everything else.

  Patrick took a cautious step back from me, putting a bit of distance between him and me.

  “Perhaps you’d prefer the mutt,” he bit out, anger and venom dripping from his voice.

  I dropped my head and let the cold night air fill my lungs. I knew in the back of my mind Patrick would smell everything on me but I’d been so caught up in Jackson and Dean that I’d pushed it away to the back of my mind. And now, he was shoving it in my face. My patience had worn terribly thin and my nerves were shot. I didn’t want to have this argument on Dr. Corning’s front porch. I didn’t really want to have it at all, actually. I already felt like shit about the whole thing.

  “Is this really the time to discuss it?” I ground out through clenched teeth. I licked my lips and tasted the salt of my tears. I pulled my hands into tight fists at my sides and dug my nails into my palms to curb my frustration, my anger, my guilt.

  “No, it is not,” he said, stiff and formal. I heard the hurt in his stern voice and the distance he put between us. “This is a conversation best left for later,” he growled, turning his back to me. He stalked back down the stairs toward the media trucks camped out on the street and surrounding the area, leaving me alone and angry.

  “Oh good, something to look forward to,” I snapped, following him down the porch stairs.

  I stormed to the edge of the crime scene tape and waited for my opening. Why couldn’t Patrick go in there and look around himself? It’s perfectly fine for me to end up in jail. I won’t burst into flames when the sun comes in my cell. So, I suppose I already knew the answer to my own question.

  My way in presented itself like a ray of sunshine through the clouds. Derek.

  Derek Hamlin had been a friend of Jade’s. He’d been at the accident scene when Candace had run us off the road in one of several of Candace’s attempts to kill me a few months ago. Jade and Derek had dated briefly—very, very briefly—like half a date brief. It hadn’t ended well. They had an unofficial détente declared, which worked for me since Derek had become a friend of mine. He was fun and low maintenance. I needed low maintenance . . . normal.

  I whistled, quick and high pitched, catching Derek’s attention, and the attention of every person within a 15-foot radius. He turned and smiled at me, sauntering over as Patrick disappeared into the crowd behind me. I guess I really was on my own. Sonovabitch!

  I smiled back at Derek as he strode up to the tape, ignoring the pissed-off vampire somewhere behind me.

  “Hey, Kid. You should be at home. I’m just glad this wasn’t you,” he offered, his smile falling as he glanced by me at my house three doors down.

  He didn’t realize how lucky I was. It should have been me, could’ve been me if Danny and I hadn’t high-tailed our asses out of there. “I need to ask for a favor,” I asked, clearing my throat. I could think about the guilt later.

  “I’m kinda busy here.”

  “That’s what the favor’s about.” I took a moment and a few quick breaths, trying to slow my thundering heart before I asked the impossible. “I need to look at the body.” The words fell from my lips and I stepped back, out of reach. He grasped for my arm, reaching for me. I managed to dodge his grip. I wasn’t about to be dragged around by a cop with no way to defend myself without going to jail. Best to just stay out of reach.

  “Are you crazy?” he asked in hushed antagonism. He motioned for me to move off to the side where no one could hear us. I followed but stayed at least an arm length back. “I can’t just let you stroll up next to a body at a crime scene. What the hell do you need to see the body for anyway?” He eyed me, waiting for an answer to a question I couldn’t provide.

  I had to come up with something quick. I didn’t have a plausible excuse except for the truth and that was a problem. The truth was that a ninja vampire assassin was gunning for me and had quite possibly killed poor Mrs. Corning. Yeah, that’s not something you spring on a guy in the middle of the street, especially a cop. He would probably have me hauled away to the loony bin. I’d already seen the inside of a psych ward and I wasn’t anxious to go back.

  “Look, I promise to tell you everything but tonight I need to get a look at that body. My life and the lives of others depend on it.” That was all I could say without causing an even bigger scene.

  He pursed his lips, his large bottom lip sticking out just a bit further than the upper. His gaze raked over me from head to toe as he evaluated me, deciding.

  “I swear. This is important, Derek. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”

  He sighed with a defeated shake of his head. I think he wanted to say “hell no” and be done with it but he knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t ask without a reason. A pretty damned good reason, too.

  “I can bring you under the tape and take your statement but what happens when the statement is finished is up to you,” he said, lifting the tape for me to duck under. That was the best I was going to get and more than I’d expected.

  I ducked under the tape and followed him. The forensic guys, who were still taking pictures of the body, unzipped a body bag, preparing the body for transport. I’d have to be quick. There wasn’t a whole lot of time left before my window of opportunity closed.

  Derek took a deep breath and turned worried eyes on me just before he look around over my shoulder. “So, Ms. Sabin, what did you see?” he asked, his tone professional and matter-of-fact. A tone that was all cop.

  “Ah, nothing. Danny and I left my house at about 6:30 p.m. and there was no one on the street at that time. It was quiet. We just got back a few minutes ago.”

  He handed the pad to me and I signed and dated it.

  “When?” Derek hissed.

  “Meet me at Damsel at 8:30 p.m. We’ll talk then.”

  He nodded once and turned his back on me. I was on my own.

  People hustled in every direction and my path to Mrs. Corning’s body was blocked at every turn by uniforms, crime scene techs, and flashing bulbs from the media sneaking behind the tape. I walked, my head held high as I nodded to whoever caught my eye, convincing them I was supposed to be there. I couldn’t get caught before I got to the body. After, sure but not before.

  The coroner bagged up Mrs. Corning and carried her away before I could get within twenty feet of the body. I stood frozen in place, completely fucked.

  What the hell am I going to do now? I can’t break into the city morgue. Can I? No, that’s ridiculous.

  As I berated myself, I failed to notice the lanky ginger guy strolling by.

  That voice hummed in my mind and my neck snapped up to meet deep chocolate brown eyes. A push of soft, comforting warmth that was almost too soft to notice as it brushed against my face.

  “Excuse me,” he said, turning to gawk at me.

  “No problem,” I replied. I turned my head away but noticed the camera clutched in his hand and the badge reading, ‘Taggar’ across his chest. He was uploading the pictures he’d taken onto the laptop lying powered up on the table. I
peered over his shoulder to all the gruesome pictures displayed on screen as they uploaded. The coroner’s office definitely didn’t pay for speed in their computers as megabyte by megabyte crawled across the task bar.

  Puncture marks sporadically marred Mrs. Corning’s body. I counted quickly before the picture disappeared, one, two, three, four. Seven or eight sets of teeth marred her skin but I couldn’t be sure as the upload sped up. The pictures of Mrs. Corning’s head were gruesome. The stroke across her neck was deliberate, without hesitation, a single, clean slice that separated her head from her body. The blade, whatever it was, had taken her head off.

  The pictures continued to flicker across the screen, revealing her torso. “Wait!” I called out. The ginger tech turned to peer at me with a quizzical eye and stepped in front of the screen.

  Shit! Caught.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his gaze narrowed on me and his nostrils flared. I ignored his question and continued with my own.

  “There’s a hole in her chest,” I said, pointing to the laptop around Ginger’s wide but somehow scrawny chest. He appeared frail, like he needed to put on about thirty pounds of muscle. I stared him square in the eye with my shoulders back, my chin up, and took a step toward him. “What caused that?” I asked, pointing toward the screen.

  “What are you doing here? Who are you?” he asked me again. He seemed rattled as he glanced over my shoulder and motioned with a jerk of his head to the uniform cops on the other side of the crime scene. I kept my mouth shut as the uniforms approached. I’d been caught. Time to make this work to my advantage if I could. I was just hoping to get out of this without getting arrested.

  Both officers were of equal size and weight, as if they had come off the police officers assembly line specially made for the uniform. The two men stood, stiff, imposing, and controlled with an intimidating expression on each of their faces as they peered down at me.