I stepped back from the bodies. Shifting was simply a matter of my brain telling my body what it needed to be. It was flipping an intangible, internal switch that simultaneously put one shape away while letting the other out to play. It was like letting go and grabbing hold at the same time.
Triggering the change, I felt the warm crimson scales rush across my collarbone. The plates spread. Darkening as they covered my back, they wrapped around both sides to converge over my stomach and breasts. My nails hardened and lengthened. Pupils elongated. Heart and lungs expanded. As I breathed deep, a sense of freedom drifted like a cool breeze through my mind, opening and expanding it; extending my awareness.
I pulled off my boots and stood barefoot on the rug. There was a risk of contaminating the crime scene, but it had already been inspected by practically every tech in the department. And wholly feeling a place with all my senses was the best shot my empathy had of extending its reach.
Not that there was any guarantee I could spark more than my usual brief glimpse of their death. Only the elders had true mastery over their minds and bodies. Whether it was fire, air, water, toxins, or influencing outside matter, lyrriken owned diluted versions of their dragon father’s abilities. The additional mental strength I’d been graced with was mostly latent in males. In female elders it was widespread and used as an eligibility test for leadership among the dragon tribes. It was rare for a lyrriken, with our inferior make-up, to own what I did.
That’s why Naalish condemned me, I thought. She didn’t know what to do with me.
The sudden emergence of my empathic gifts had ended my life on Drimera. Here, they’d earned my various human identities the reputation of having one hell of a gut instinct.
Sending my awakened senses out into the room, I drew long, deep breaths. Between the residue, the wounds, and the witness statement, all fingers were pointing one direction. On Drimera, that would have been more than enough. Guild operatives weren’t big on evidence. We were taught to be decisive and ruthless, to focus on who committed the crime, not why. Yet, living among humans had shown me the importance of patience and motive. Being sure was as vital as being swift.
I tasted the air.
Smoke made by lyrriken fire produced a particular odor. It was a bitter version of the residue around the bodies, and far too faint to be detected by humans. The scent can cling to us for days after a substantial burn. It lingered in enclosed spaces and clung to our victim’s seared remains. The house reeked of it. Not just of lyrriken fire, but of our bodies.
A complete transformation had been done right here in the living room. The faint impressions of clawed footfalls were all around me, minutely displacing the fibers in the living room carpet; puncturing tiny holes in the matting beneath; resting in the shattered pieces of blackened leg bones.
Noticing the subtle differences in the prints, I bent to inspect them closer.
Spreading my fingers out, I measured the distance between claws. There were three distinct sets. One belonged to a female. A faint trace of her scale pattern remained where she’d knelt beside the mother. There were other, barely visible marks and lines in the carpet around the bodies. A close proximity had ensured their work was done with perfection.
Standing in the latent impressions, digging my toes down between the fibers, I touched them as the killers had—and daylight receded. Shadows bred then lightened to gray. Wind rushed in my ears and time spiraled back, stealing my edges and my color.
Losing solidity, I faded, specter-like, becoming no more than apparition as the residue of the victims’ pain pulled at my senses. It blossomed, thick and black. Trauma overrode reality, and my present surrendered to their past.
Four
Three figures stood in the dark hall, lurking outside the slightly ajar master bedroom door. Their large shapes boasted the jagged outline of scales, thick muscled legs, tails, and the contours of wings. One possessed curves the others didn’t. Fire smoldered in her hands. She tossed it lazily from one palm to the next, occupying herself as one of the males gently pushed Ella’s bedroom door open and slipped inside.
With another blast of wind, time and I jumped forward. Carly Chandler was less than a foot in front of me on the floor. On her other side was her mother, Ella, her white nightgown stained and torn, her eyelids gone. Tears and blood overran the tape on her skin. They slid off her jawline, escaping down her neck to wet the chain of a large oval pendant lying in the hollow of Ella’s throat.
I couldn’t see the pendant well from my position, but I hadn’t seen it at all on Ella’s corpse. Why? I thought, the inconsistency standing out to me. Where is it?
Ella screamed. Bearing down, she struggled to pull her hands up past the head of the spikes. It was a frantic, desperate move. But she didn’t have the strength for it. Apology in her eyes, she stared a moment at the still body of her son, before whipping her head to the other side. Her daughter was there. So was I. But Ella couldn’t see me. I had no physical presence here. And why would she look at me, with Carly lying between us, trembling; still whole and untouched.
Overcome, Ella shook her head and screamed into the tape over her mouth. She fixed her eyes at the ceiling, as if she couldn’t stomach looking at her daughter anymore.
I had far less choice in the matter.
Watching the girl, I wished I could ease her fear, not just witness it. That I could pull the ice from her veins instead of having it invade my own; stealing my breath as Carly’s chest rose and fell. With each rapid, panicked breath, the ballerina at her neck jerked and shook like it was dancing.
Abruptly, Carly’s head turned in my direction. She stared into the empty corner of the room, unaware it was my eyes she was looking into. Uncomfortable, I didn’t want to look back. I didn’t want to see how terror had shattered her innocence. How misery and pain had scarred her soul, prompting it to birth the ghostly black trauma oozing out to surround her body.
The black flowed toward me.
Her ghost struck my chest like a fist punching its way through.
Gasping, I waited for the girl to look away. I waited to breathe. But Carly didn’t move. She kept staring, like she was looking at something—like it wasn’t an empty corner.
Two of the lyrriken moved in closer. Scaled legs and feet were around me. Their voices were distorted, but loud with disagreement. Moving again as they argued, their bodies passed through me, piercing like a blade. I should have been looking up at them. I should have been trying to catch a glimpse of their faces or the patterns of their scales. But Carly’s eyes had trapped mine. They held my focus, with one, simple impossibility.
She can’t see me, I thought. She can’t.
A new emotion leapt into in Carly’s tear-filled gaze. It grew until I could read it loud and clear: hope.
My chest tightened. I tasted Ella’s roasting flesh on my tongue.
Her anger and pain invading me, I pushed myself from the moment.
Reality returned like a flashbang in my face. I stood and lost my half-form way too fast. Grabbing onto the bookshelf behind me, wheezing and gagging on the phantom taste in my mouth, I put the rest of my dragon shape away. I thought about trying again, but my glimpses were random. There was always the risk of spending hours watching bits and pieces of a victim’s last moments without ever seeing anything useful. The odds of that happening were slim, but with this particular murder, even slim was too much.
When I could walk without falling over, I slipped into my coveralls. I put on my boots. I took notes and samples. When Evans came back fifteen minutes later with my large coffee, I was bent over my clipboard, looking engrossed and detached.
Taking the cup with a smile, I sipped gratefully. I carried it with me as I continued my work. I drank the whole thing, but the coffee didn’t help. Nothing helped. Not focusing on my task. Not Evans and his inquisitive nature. No matter where I tried to send my mind, I couldn’t shake the image of the little girl. I couldn’t stop trembling, as I silently fought with myself
over what I knew wasn’t possible.
I hadn’t been there. My sight was a peek at the echo of emotions left in a room, a glimpse of whatever death and violent energy had scarred the victim or the place of their demise. No one saw me or looked at me, ever.
Yet, for a split second, something had overridden the horror in the girl’s eyes, something in her line of sight. There had only been one thing. Me.
Carly had seen me. I was sure of it. She’d looked at me like I was some kind of angel. Like I’d come to save her. But I hadn’t. I left her.
And my leaving was one of the last things Carly Chandler saw before she died.
Five
Stepping down off the spiral staircase and onto the black tile floor, I gave my human eyes no time to catch up to the abrupt change in light. Not that navigating the shadowy basement jazz bar was an issue. I’d frequented Nadine’s many times over the years. I could have crossed its floor in my sleep. The fact that the front room was comparable to a sardine can didn’t hurt.
No one seemed to mind the size, though, or the seriously low lighting. The turn of the century décor (quaint circular tables with wrought iron chairs adorned with tea lights and a stage that was little bigger than my bathtub) more than made up for it. So did the impressive collection of bottles behind the bar. Personally, I liked the atmosphere. Nadine’s was cozy, convenient, and dark. Whatever baggage the patrons carried—whatever ghosts clung to their souls—I couldn’t see them even if I wanted to.
Most of the stools at the bar were empty. I claimed one, and by the time my ass hit the seat, Nadine was filling a shot glass. Pink-laced blonde curls framed her oblong face. Generous thick, dark lashes fluttered as she smiled. The silver glitter coating her eyelids was a perfect match to her shiny sequined top. In full makeup with bracelets up to her elbows, black skinny jeans and heels that announced her every step, Nadine was in complete contrast to my messy hair, sneakers, cropped running pants, and oversized, “Will Run For Coffee”, t-shirt. In fact, seeing as it was a Saturday night, I was in contrast to everyone in the bar. I was just too tired to care.
Lipstick perfect, Nadine’s hot pink smile was wide. It drooped at seeing the weariness on my face. “Hold on…” She pivoted. Bumping her curvy hip into the door behind her, she pushed it open and disappeared into the kitchen with purpose.
As the door swung closed, the white cat at the end of the bar rose from her tasseled pillow. Elongating her lean, stately body in a dramatic stretch, the cat sauntered down the counter and rubbed her face against my hand. Releasing a contented purr, she blinked sleepy green eyes at me and stuck her nose in my tequila.
“Sorry, Dizzy.” I moved the glass away and gave her a consolation scratch behind the ears. “I need this more than you.”
Nadine returned from the back with a small silver bowl. She placed it beside the shot glass. A trail of whipped cream slid off onto the bar. “One Dahlia Nite Special.” She grinned proudly. “Ice cream with a tequila chaser.”
“Rocky road?”
Nadine’s jaw jutted in insult. “Well, of course.”
I scooped up a spoonful. Popping the ice cream into my mouth, I savored the sweet explosion with a thankful groan. Moving onto the drink, I tossed it back and swallowed with an exaggerated sigh. “Perfect.”
Elbows on the counter, Nadine rested her face in her hands. “You’ve had a bad day.”
I pointed my empty spoon at her. “You said the same thing the first time I came in here.” I tapped the shot glass, wanting more. “And every single damn time since.”
Pouring me another, she shrugged; sequins twinkling. “You have a lot of bad days.”
“Tell me about it.” I downed the drink. Indulging in another bite, I moved my spoon aside to share with Dizzy. As the cat sat and lapped gingerly, I pulled the rubber band out of my hair and re-did my ponytail. The waves felt tangled and frizzy, but I refused to look in the mirror behind the bar for confirmation. Suspecting I looked as tattered as I felt, and knowing it, were two different things.
A blow drier would have helped, I thought. But there had been no time.
Though I’d gathered everything I needed in the first twenty-minutes, I’d spent the rest of the morning cementing my cover with the SCPD. After photographing evidence, collecting unnecessary samples and interviewing neighbors that had already been interviewed, I went home to devote my afternoon to running tests I’d already formulated answers to. By the time I sat down at the desk in my spare bedroom, shadows were growing long on the floor. Day crept into evening as I wrote and rewrote a report that was mostly fabricated. I’d become adept at camouflaging the tracks and the violence of otherworldly creatures with words like inconclusive, insufficient, and indeterminable.
With some finesse, I might have sold spontaneous human combustion as a cause of death. There were many cases supported by corroborating evidence dating back hundreds of years. Only, SHC didn’t involve premediated tools like nails and tape. They actually appeared to be spontaneous, which, for many years, had made them unexplainable, dismissible, and an easy cover up for the truth. Only, there was nothing easy about what happened to the Chandlers. Neither was SHC as mysterious as it used to be. Both of which had left me with no clear way to cover up what my fellow lyrriken had done.
The murders were too sensational, too brutal and calculated. Even if I could satisfy the police on paper that Ella and her children hadn’t been butchered by half-human, half-dragon shapeshifters from a parallel world, satisfying Gattlin Barnes was another matter. I was going to have to do better.
I’d tried to mull over how, but my desk was cluttered with vials of burnt skin and the ash of a little girl, and my lack of ideas had left me too agitated to sit still.
It never used to bother me like this.
I’m getting more like them every year.
Dressing for the gym, I’d thought a little sweat might do me good. Yet I’d been too preoccupied to even notice how far I’d walked, until I was standing outside Nadine’s Pub. I’ve had worse ideas, I thought, nudging Dizzy out of the way so I could take another bite.
I looked up and found Nadine studying me with a frown. It was a rare expression for her playful features. “What?” I said with a mouthful.
“Why did you come back?”
I gestured at my feast. “Why would I go anywhere else?”
“Not here. The city.”
“It just felt like the right time.”
“Oren would come in now and then over the years. He’d tell me where you were and what case you were working on. With all that freedom and the chance to keep remaking yourself, I was a little jealous.”
“I guess it wasn’t all flea-infested motels and greasy diners.”
“I certainly hope not,” she cringed.
“Why do you stay? You have a home somewhere, a world where you belong.” I lowered my voice. “I assume no one there wants you dead.”
Nadine gave me a smack on the arm. “No pity parties at the bar.”
Grinning, I poured myself another shot. Catching movement in the mirror, I glanced up at the man weaving his way through the tables. He was rough for Nadine’s, in a studded leather vest, a ripped tank top, and jeans that had more holes than mine did after a shift. But his curly brown hair was downright touchable, and the feral look in his eyes intrigued me.
Wondering if he’d gotten lost on his way to a biker bar, I watched the man’s reflection until he disappeared down the back hallway toward the bathroom.
Nadine grunted. “That’s the best you can do?”
I gestured at the empty tables. “It’s a slow night.”
“It’s early. And,” she threw her hands up, “you’re in sweatpants.”
“Running pants,” I corrected her.
“Whatever,” she scoffed. “All I know is, someone better have broken in and stolen all the other clothes from your closet, Dahl, because if this is your new style…” Brows arched, Nadine leaned back like my appearance might be catching. “When was
the last time you had a date? A real date.” She tapped a demanding nail on the bar. “I want details.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember when you last had a date?”
I shrugged, teasing her, “The alley out back?”
Nadine groaned. “How long has it been since you were with one of your own kind?”
“Eight years.” But I wasn’t opening that wound. “Besides.” I tilted my head toward the bathroom. “He’s alone. He’s cute enough. And he has all the right parts.”
“So do I,” Nadine said earnestly.
I lifted up to peek at her skin-tight jeans. “You sure about that?”
“Well, in my purse, of course,” she giggled, but I wasn’t so sure.
“One of these days, you’re going to tell me what you are, where you came from, and how long you’ve been here.”
“I’m Nadine—just one word, like a rock star,” she winked. “I came from my apartment about six blocks east. And I opened around 2.”
I tipped my glass at her. “Nice.”
“It’s all true. Not a lie in the bunch.”
“No. You didn’t lie. You never do.” That’s my specialty. A somberness coming over me, I drained the shot glass. I refilled it as Nadine moved off to tend other customers. With my body’s regenerative properties and fast metabolism, alcohol’s effects were short-lived. To stay under the influence, I had to drink a lot in a short period of time, and even then it didn’t last as long as I wanted. Drimeran brew was a different story. Produced in secret by a Guild mage trained in the chemical arts, no one knew what the drink was laced with or derived from. Only that it was strong and free-flowing. With no restrictions on age or consumption in the City of Spires, the street stalls would sell to you until you were choking on your own vomit.
Nite Fire: Flash Point Page 5