“Thank you,” she said as she took a step toward him.
“Stop!” he said with such a commanding tone, that she froze, rooted in place.
“Why?” she asked.
He combed his wet hair with his fingers, and a gasp escaped Donja’s lips as his eyes turned to a luminous gold that shined like a thousand stars.
“Iridescents, my God this can’t be real, not real, not real,” she sobbed.
He turned his chin to the sky and balled his fist as if fighting an internal battle. Finally, with time a blur, he dropped his head and to her horror, she witnessed twin fangs in moonlight, inching from his upper lips. She took a step back, rocking with fear and disbelief.
“Do you see what you’re doing to me?” he growled with a voice that had changed dramatically. “Can you not see the permeant damage of your blood…what you have done to my soul?” He backed away, shivering.
“I’m sorry, but to be honest, I don’t even know what I’ve done.” She took a step forward, all but unaware, hoping to ease the tension.
“Don’t come any closer,” he growled. “I’m begging, for you think that you fear him, but if I snap, it will be me you fear. Now get back while I’m still in control for if you don’t, I’ll take you— all of you, here, in the dirt.”
“This is insanity,” Donja shrieked, swooning. She spun to walk away, but glanced back. He was gone. She turned and ran for the door, slammed it behind her and locked it. Her knees gave way and she slid to the floor. Her tears fell.
Lamb to the Slaughter
Torin tossed and turned atop satin sheets drenched in sweat. A harsh ringing forced a growl and he opened his eyes, escaping a reoccurring nightmare of Anstosa’s death. He lay perfectly still, nude with one arm draped over his forehead. The phone rang again, echoing his head. He rolled over as the red digital numbers on the clock flipped from 3:56 to 3:57 a.m. He grabbed it. “Hello.”
“Mancini, it’s Emily Gerwick, third shift dispatcher from the Michigan Soo. We’ve got another body, a female, dark hair, same m.o., raped with her throat slit.”
Torin flew to the side of the bed, muscles rippling. “Where?” he asked, his heart stampeding.
“Inside a cab. The driver’s missing, but the car, with the girl’s body is down by the river, and from the look of things she’s been there for a day or so. I’ll text the coordinates, but let me warn you, it’s gruesome.”
“But I’m Canadian. I don’t have U.S. privilege. What about Jon Moyle?”
“Moyle’s on vacation and since you’ve already been chasing this psychopath, the chief said to pull you in. He’s already cleared it with the Ontario precinct.”
“All right, sure,” Torin exhaled, relieved that it wasn’t Donja. He cradled the phone, then wiped at his brow with the back of his hand. He stood up, Donja’s scent toying with his mind. His pulse increased, her eyes dancing before him, the curve of her neck luring him to paradise. He growled with his eyes closed tightly, then raised his hands and pressed his palms to his temples. He squeezed, crouched at the knee. “Get out of my head!”
~~~
Clutching the steering wheel, while driving a stretch of highway which paralleled the St. Mary’s River, Torin was blinded as sunlight breached the horizon. He dropped the visor as he lowered his eyes to the GPS, then slowed the Range Rover. Turning sharply off the highway into thick underbrush without the benefit of a road, bushes rattled in the fender wells. He slowly traversed a section of washed out gullies, bypassing a ravine cut deep by rain and other factors. He followed the tire tracks and flattened vegetation, but noticing that the tracks were not continuous, he concluded that the vehicle had left the road, propelled by great speed, bouncing toward the river.
Suddenly, he braked, all but slamming into the cab which had sustained heavy damage. His eyes washed over the crash site, tires blown, the vehicle leaning on one side, the weight supported by gnarled limbs and thick brush which flanked the river. The driver side door was ripped away, with remnants of mangled metal curled and dangling. The back door was wretched and angled toward the front, well past its natural alignment.
He got out, the roar of the rapids resounding. He grimaced, the smell of death wafting in the gentle breeze. A sickly feeling settled in his gut. Hearing voices, he glanced to the river, where a Michigan patrol boat which was tied off, rode the swells. He saw four Michigan Soo officers with their faces concealed by paper masks, climbing the bank toward him.
He didn’t wait, he couldn’t, the call of duty and a promise to protect the innocent surging in his veins. He stepped forward, all but nauseous and neared the cab. He climbed onto the trunk, steadied himself and gazed down into the back seat. His pulse quickened, and though it was nothing new, his stomach churned. He swallowed hard, gazing upon the wretched face, which just two nights ago, was so beautiful and warm, so alive. Her body was nude, twisted unnaturally, her neck shattered with her face gazing over her left shoulder. Her buttocks which were angled up like a buffet table were riddled with deep bites where exposed muscle was visible. He took a breath, the smell of decaying semen, that of an Iridescent, flaring his nostrils. Her throat was cut with a six-inch slash, the predator’s signature. Torin cocked his head to one side visualizing her inner body, where two liters of blood had congealed in her pelvic region. He leaned closer, gripping the outer door and saw three, perhaps more liters of blood which had bled from the neck wound, pooled into black sludge on the opposite back door. Flies swarming the corpse buzzed his face. He swatted them away.
She was trapped, the only way out was to climb, and she couldn’t. She was intoxicated
He swatted at the flies.
The bastard didn’t kill her to feed, he drank less than a liter of blood. This was just sport, thrill of the hunt…sadistic satisfaction.
He stood up, balancing his weight on the side of the cab.
He’s taunting me, the fucker’s out and out playing with my head, using these females as if…
His thoughts were cut short, the scent of men approaching. A superficial glance over his shoulder revealed the officers fighting the thick underbrush, climbing the steep bank toward him. He dropped his eyes back to the corpse.
Is it possible he knows of my promise to Anstosa or is this punishment for interfering with his lust for Donja?
He tightened his jaw which twitched mercilessly.
I’ve got to stop him, Donja’s next!
“Damn gruesome sight,” a voice behind him drew him from reverie. He spun and met the gaze of Boyce Littlefield, forensic examiner from the Michigan Soo.
Torin shook his head, drawing a breath through his nose.
“Mask?” Boyce asked, offering one which he held in his hand.
“Thanks,” Torin said donning the slip on, paper mask which slightly dampened the stench. He moved aside, offered a hand and pulled Littlefield up and onto the side of the cab. They steadied themselves, the vehicle creaking as it settled under the additional weight. Littlefield, eased himself down inside the back door, feet braced, one on the front passenger headrest, the other inches from her head.
Torin watched as the investigator began to gather blood samples, broken finger nails and scraps of her shredded clothing and though Torin liked working with Gage, who hid incriminating clues left behind by immortals, there was nothing to fear from Littlefield’s findings. This sadistic predator would never be caught, arraigned or brought to justice, at least not the human kind.
Littlefield finished his task. Torin offered a hand and helped ease him up and out of the cab. Littlefield cocked his head back to the corpse. “She was trapped, shackled by her seat belt which cut deep into her abdomen. That back seat was nothing short of a torture chamber. Sickening.”
“At least she was intoxicated,” Torin said. “It might have dulled the pain.”
Littlefield knitted his brows. “And just how would you know that without testing my tissue samples?”
“I saw her, two nights ago at Observers,” Torin answered. “
She was intoxicated and underage, so I paid the bartender to call her a cab. I had no idea I was paying for her death bed.”
“Did you get her name?”
“No,” Torin sighed, then leapt to the ground as Littlefield dusted the mangled front door for fingerprints.
Joe Effa, a senior officer, chimed in. “We found her name, Becky Highwater, on the Cabbie’s log book. We ran her stats, she’s eighteen, college student, first year. Her parents are being brought in now, but the mother reports that Becky and a young woman named Heather Boyet, who is their next-door neighbor, were at Observers on Friday night. I sent an officer to interrogate Heather, but she was gone. The housekeeper tipped us off and we caught her at the airport. Seems she is leaving the country, headed for London.
“That’s unusual, her friend’s murdered and she leaves. Is she running?” Torin asked.
“No, seems this move was planned months ago.”
“So, did this Heather have any idea as to what happened?” Torin questioned, a bit fearful that this was getting out of control and though he respected these men, he would kill every one of them to silence tongues which might reveal Iridescent lineage.
“Heather had no idea what happened, or at least that’s her story,” Effa remarked. “She reports she got sick, seems she’s pregnant and was throwing up. She stated that she called a cab around eight, left Becky at the bar and went to the casino to meet her boyfriend. She said she spent the night there with the boyfriend and never heard from the victim.”
“Does the boyfriend corroborate her story? Torin asked.
“We haven’t reached him yet,” Effa retorted.
“Any other clues?” Torin asked.
Effa met his gaze. “The mother of the victim said they had phone calls with messages on their landline from a Makayla Hampton.”
Torin felt his pulse quicken.
Makayla, oh shit, we’re not out of the woods yet.
“This Hampton girl is a Michigan Soo resident,” Effa stated. “I’ll send a detective to interrogate her and see if she can shed light on who Becky was dating, or who might have hated her enough to—”
“I know the Hampton family,” Torin interrupted. “I’ll speak to her.” He turned to leave, ripping the mask from his face. He paused without looking back. “Any sign of the cabbie?”
Effa exhaled then raised a hand to block the rising sun. “He was recovered from the river about a half hour ago, every bone broken.” He met Torin’s gaze. “Whoever did this was a goddamn sadist and I want him caught, Mancini. I don’t want this in my district, you get my drift.”
Take a number and get in line, Torin thought.
“Yes sir,” he answered, as he trudged through the underbrush to his vehicle.
Inside the Rover, he grabbed his cell, his fingers flying over the screen as he texted Gage.
I need you to meet me around two this evening. It’s important. I must interrogate your woman. Call me asap!
~~~
Cruising back toward the city, Torin opened the windows of the Range Rover, hoping to escape the putrid scent which had permeated his clothing. He dialed the precinct and informed the Canadian dispatcher Michelle Renea, a perky blonde who was always hitting on him, that he was going home for a shower and change of clothes.
“Can I join you?” she asked, giggling. “I’ll scrub that special little spot on your back you can’t reach?”
“Michelle, give me a break.” He hung up and though she usually had him in stitches and half the guys in the precinct fantasized about her hot bod, today was different, so much so that he couldn’t find a smile. Just east of the city, halfway home, his cell rang. Thinking it was Gage, he grabbed it only to see it was an unidentified caller.
“Damn,” he swore under his breath. “It’s the Council.”
“Yes,” he answered, taking control of his bounding pulse.
“Torin.”
He recognized the voice. “Good morning, Antonio.”
“I’m at your house, on your deck. I just love the view.”
Torin’s spine stiffened. “Sorry I would have prepared breakfast if I knew you were coming.”
“We need to talk,” Antonio said calmly.
“I’ll be there in fifteen, twenty max. By the way, there’s a bottle of Domaine de la Romanee-Conti 1990 in the wine cellar, bottom shelf, right side. I know it’s early, but I’ve heard it’s your favorite.”
Torin ended the call, then exhaled forcefully. “What now?”
Seventeen minutes later, Torin pulled into the garage and exited the vehicle. He noticed the paint, scratched from today’s venture.
Damn.
Inside the house, he tossed his keys upon the ornate entry table and headed for the great room. He saw the bottle of Conti open on the bar with an empty stein beside it. He stopped and poured, the red fluid splashing the sides. He swirled the stein, closed his eyes and sniffed it.
Nice.
He turned, anticipating what was to come, Antonio’s scent which still lingered in the room settling in his head. Gazing through a wall of glass, he spied him sitting on the deck, a crystal stein in hand, his signature black Salvatore Ferragamo leather shoes propped on the bannister.
Torin raised a finger and smoothed his mustache, pondering.
Why are you here?
Torin ambled by the entertainment center and pressed power on the sound system. The unmistakable voice of Luciano Pavarotti echoed through the thirty-foot vaulted ceilings. He closed his eyes, the music soothing his frayed nerves. He took a deep breath and sipped the wine.
Damn that’s good.
Finding courage, he sauntered to the French doors. He opened them and stepped through, leaving them ajar. On the deck, he paused, Antonio’s back to him. He raised the stein to his lips, the second taste so regal that he closed his eyes to swallow. He moved forward.
“As I mentioned, it’s an enchanting view,” Antonio said, eyes on a freighter navigating the lake.
Torin didn’t answer, the chatter of squirrels in the overhead canopy drawing his eyes.
“Thank you, the wine is excellent,” Antonio said, raising the crystal stein, without as much as a glance. “Nessum Dorma,” he mused. “You know I saw Pavarotti perform that very song in Moscow, hmm, I believe around nineteen sixty-two, maybe sixty-four, though I can’t be certain, the years slip by me.”
Torin took a seat beside him and they sat without words, sipping wine, eyes on the lake. Finally, Antonio said. “You reek of death.”
“With good reason, I just left another victim.”
“So I heard.” He sipped the wine. “Garret’s called a meeting. All five Siruns this time. Seems he is—hmmm, disappointed in you.” He pulled his feet from atop the bannister, crossed his legs then cleared his throat. “Talk to me.”
“I’m not sure what to say, he’s evading me, no—the sonofabitch is actually taunting me.”
“That’s not like you. Why is he so different?”
“I can’t put my finger on it.”
“So, what does your gut tell you?” Antonio asked, sipping his wine.
“That he’s a formidable force, older, at least six or seven hundred years—maybe more.”
“Interesting. His nationality?”
“I don’t know, he never spoke a word, but he bears a scar across one cheek, and if I had to guess, I’d say he’s a foreigner.”
“His Iridescent lineage?”
“I haven’t the slightest clue, like I said, a foreigner; he’s not of any bloodline I have ever encountered.”
They shared a look. “At the expense of repeating myself, that’s not like you, Torin. Something’s amiss.”
Torin averted his gaze. “Perhaps,” he said drawing air through his nose. “This case is different, I can’t explain it but believe me, he’s not your ordinary Iridescent.”
“Most likely from a distant land, here in search of a Chippewa and when she fails to meet the blood requirements, he takes his anger out on her body.”
>
“Maybe,” Torin breathed.
“It was just a matter of time,” Antonio simpered, sipping his wine. “Rumors are flying—worldwide, and though it’s been a thousand years since the Seventh Miigis walked this hallowed ground, the word has spread and now they come, like moths to the flame, seeking that which can make them all powerful.”
“He must be stopped!” Torin glowered. “He’s not just seeking power, he’s a sadistic demon who kills for pleasure, sexual satisfaction, hell, maybe both. If he gains Sirun status, the entire world will become a killing field.”
“You engaged him, one on one. Tell me about it. What are his weaknesses?”
“None that I could find. Like I said, he’s not your run-of-the-mill Iridescent.”
Antonio met him with hard gaze. “But he’s not a Sirun, so help me understand.”
“No, he’s not, so I can’t explain it, hell I can’t understand it myself. All I can tell you is that he’s quite adept at battle. He toyed with me, as if it was a game. Hell, he tossed me like a mortal and even after Gage joined in, the two of us were no match for him.”
“So, he evaded your attack?”
“Not exactly. As strange as it may sound, he seemed to enjoy the skirmish, but it was ill-planned. A group of people stumbled upon us. We were all three glowing, so I covered my face and Gage and I backed off. Scarface as I call him, since he bears a scar on his right cheek, took off, chasing after the female, a young girl from Michigan. Her name is Donja,” he paused, the word alone forcing his muscles tight. “Gage was bleeding pretty badly, so I pursued him alone. I found him on the bridge attempting to stop Donja’s vehicle. I once more engaged him, but we took an unexpected spill off the bridge and I lost him in the murky depths of the St. Mary’s.”
“Pity.”
“I will get him.”
“I have no doubt, Torin, but convincing Garret,” he paused, “well you know he can be a bit of…”
“A jerk,” Torin interrupted.
Antonio chuckled, though there was no humor in his response. “Impatient was the word I was looking for.”
Torin shook his head.