No Grave

Tristan

It Starts Out Small

Monday, September 16th, 2013

12:10 PM

A liter and a half…that’s some bold shit, mano.

Alex adjusted his aviator shades. The sun glinted gold off the lenses as he tilted his face toward the hospital across the street.

Or desperate, Tristan replied, scratching a bristling shadow of beard. Dracs didn’t usually drain that much in one go, not off a single victim. It was the sort of thing that got noticed, and monsters lived and died by one rule: don’t get noticed.

A drac starving out in New York? Alex gestured at the crowd milling over the gum-stained sidewalk. No way. Place is an all-you-can-eat buffet for a smart monster.

Never said it was smart, Tristan muttered. He pointed to the bun nested on top of Alex’s head, Speaking of which, boyo…how many times am I going to have to tell you to get a haircut before you swing by a barber’s?

Alex’s lips parted in an off-white smirk. Least one more.

One of these days, something’s going to grab you by the hair when you’re trying to make a run for it, and that’ll be the end of that.

Alex shrugged, leaning back against the slender column of a streetlight. We’ll see.

Tristan stared at the Missing Persons posters plastered up the length of the steel pole. A young woman’s face peered back from one of them, a girl he’d place in her late teens. He studied the shape of her nose, the narrow bridge and pointed tip of it, and the way her eyebrows peaked like arrows toward her hairline. Details were important. The devil was in them, after all. A stranger remembering the slight asymmetry of a young woman’s eye height could mean the difference between a family reunion and a funeral.

He’d had a daughter, once.

He tore his eyes away from the photograph and dug his hand into his pants’ pocket to touch the purple chip he carried with him. It was a small token with a slate texture and a hundred microscopic ridges running along its spine. He’d earned it at their last meeting two weeks ago. Nine months sober. He prayed to it, clutched in his palm like a bundled rosary, and withdrew his hand. Alex was still staring at the hospital. Tristan cleared his throat. Sam’s late.

He’ll be here soon.

Tristan nodded and tried to keep his eyes away from the dozen Missing Person posters fading white on the lamp post. He focused on the revolving hospital doors. There’s a job to do, he reminded himself. A monster to catch. He put on a worn, wrinkle-chipped grin. What do you think Sammie’s going to set us up with, this time?

NYPD, bet on it. Hell, I’ll put down ten bucks.

Tristan shook his head, No deal, boyo.

You scared?

No, just not stupid.

Alex’s smirk spread into a full-faced smile. NYPD, definitely. He pulled on a silver necklace and lifted a small badge from under his shirt, Boy’s gonna get me in trouble, one of these days.

If you don’t do it yourself, first, Tristan replied. Alex had used his resources as a legal bounty hunter more than a couple times to help them track a monster through the New York streets. Of course, rule-breaking was par for the course for a hunter. Besides, Sammie’s stuff is solid.

Says the guy who didn’t want to recruit him.

"He’s a good Man in Havana, sure, but the boy’s still a bloody boy."

Twenty-five years old.

Kidding me, twenty-five years old. I was half-retired when he was shitting himself in diapers.

Yeah, and you’ll be glad to have him when it turns the other way around, old man.

Fuck you, Tristan couldn’t help but laugh at the thought.

Just saying.

And you better say a little less before I show you what kind of tricks an old dog like me’s picked up over the years.

Alex stepped away from the lamp post with a wide grin, Go ahead. Maybe I can show you some new ones.

Tristan held up a hand and nodded to a figure maneuvering through the thick downtown crowd. Sam was so grayed out Tristan barely noticed him: he wore an unaccented beige overcoat over olive pants, a plain gray shirt, and featureless sneakers—clothing picked out to blend in, manufactured to vanish. His bright blond hair was trimmed short, but not military-style, with bowl-cut bangs an inch above his eyebrows and nothing hanging loose around his ears. He was a bit pale, ghost-like except for the fading remnants of a country tan, but there was plenty of pale to go around in the Financial District. Tristan smiled. At least the boy listens when I tell him something.

"Yeah, and you still picked him out."

I got training for that.

Tristan could hear Alex’s eyes roll behind the golden sheen of his shades. Whatever you say, mano.

Sam pulled out a pair of leather-bound ID cards as he came up to them, NYPD detectives. We’re just doing a routine follow-up interview with the victim…crossing, dotting, the usual type stuff. Tristan, you’re going in as Detective O’Malley. Alex, you’ll be Detective Vasquez.

Ten bucks, Alex held out his hand.

I didn’t take the bet, boyo.

Chicken.

Tristan took the leather-bound bifold from Sam, And who are you?

Be going in as Detective Howard.

Howard, Vasquez, O’Malley…sounds a bit memorable.

Well… Sam took a deep breath, the kind people take when they know they’ve screwed up. What’s a really common Irish name?

Brennan? O’Brien?

So maybe…Detective Brennan and, uh, Detective Ramirez?

I get this feeling I’m being typecast, Alex said.

Tristan snorted, That’s half the point. Quick and forgettable.

The names’ll have to wait ‘till next time, anyway, Sam fumbled his own bifold open and showed them the NYPD emblem and ID badge inside. I already made everything up under O’Malley and Vasquez, even got it so the badge numbers call up records if someone digs into them.

Really? Alex asked.

Now, they won’t hold up to a real investigation, but as long as no one starts making phone calls, we should be fine.

Tristan nodded. Then let’s not waste any more daylight.

They split up, each one weaving away from the others through the lunch hour street traffic. It was part of their approach ritual. The monster’s axiom wasn’t just for monsters, after all. A good hunter was an invisible hand. A good hunter left a series of vague eyewitness accounts and disconnected paper trails in the wake of a downed beast. A dead werewolf didn’t look much different from a dead human, after all, and nobody did the world much good behind the coal-colored bars of a prison cell.

Luckily, 17 years of CIA field work had taught Tristan a few things about discretion.

The three of them wove through the downtown streets at strange angles, taking what might’ve seemed like random turns. They stopped for coffee. They walked down subway steps to stand in the corner of a station for ten minutes. It was a method to ferret out anyone who followed them but, more importantly, it created a diffusion of witnesses: nobody who’d seen him and Alex outside the hospital earlier was likely to be there when they got back.

They regrouped a couple blocks away from the hospital and approached the building in a tight, triangular formation.

Tristan opened his ID bifold as they approached the reception desk. The nurse behind the table glanced up at him with harried, busy eyes. G’morning, he said, sorry to bother you. I’m Detective O’Malley with the NYPD, here with Detectives Vasquez and Howard. We’re here for a routine follow-up with a patient of yours, a Mr. James Thomas.

The woman inspected his badge with tired eyes and nodded, Just sign in on the visitors’ ledger and record your badge numbers, please.

Tristan picked up the ledger, really a stack of papers lashed to a clipboard, and added his fake name and ID number to the list of visitors. He passed it to Alex and turned back to thank the nurse. She gave him a brief, forced smile and went back to punching information into the old computer in front of her.

He held back a smirk as they walked toward the elevators. Sometimes New York was like that: a lot of preparation only to find out nobody gave a rat’s ass.

*****

By the book, this time, Sam whispered.

Tristan waited for an oncoming nurse to pass them in the hall before he replied, As much as possible, as always.

Sam shook his head, his sotto voice lowering even farther, quiet as a church mouse. "There are rules for a reason. Candid and polite, nothing noticeable, nothing traceable. People remember when you brace them."

We need answers, Sammie.

This way, Alex interrupted, turning a sharp right down the next linoleum-tiled floor.

Just…remember he’s the victim, here, okay? Sam asked.

Remember there’ll be more victims if we don’t find the thing.

Shh, Alex hushed, gesturing to the door at the end of the hall. That’s the room.

Alright. Let’s go, then.

Alex wrapped his hand around the doorknob and pushed in. Tristan stepped through the threshold, walked past a nurse’s workstation, and pushed aside a thin blue curtain. He found the first bed empty, a body-shaped dimple sagged into the mattress where someone had heard either very good or very bad news earlier that day. He stepped past the ghost impression and drew back the second curtain.

James Thomas’ body was withered and desiccated, skin like crinkled paper wrapped around his bones. Brightly colored tattoos accented his pallid, withered complexion in splashes of cobalt and crimson. Tubes coiled up from his body, one filled with deep red blood, the other with what Tristan guessed was saline solution.

Judging from the marks on the man’s arm, it wasn’t the first time he’d had needles pinching at his veins.

How are you doing this morning, Mr. Thomas? Sam held his ID bifold in the air, the badge a brass glimmer in the hospital lights.

Ah, shit, James croaked.

Tristan took a position by the exterior-facing window and drew the blinds. Sam and Alex kept to the interior side of the bed as they pulled out memo pads and pens. It didn’t seem likely James Thomas would lurch out of bed and make a break for it, but rituals were rituals.

Alex played strong-but-silent, his aviators off to reveal golden raptor eyes.

Sam smiled, his typecast more pleasant in respect of his slight southern accent. We’re with the NYPD, Mr. Thomas…just doing a standard follow-up interview now that you’ve had some time to recover.

Day and a half, James croaked.

Sam nodded, I understand, sir, believe me, and I wouldn’t put this pressure on you if we didn’t need to.

Sure.

And how do you feel today, Mr. Thomas?

A grin that stank like rotten fruit crept across James’ face. How do I look?

Alex cleared his throat. Mr. Thomas, you’ve been the victim of a serious crime, and so far, our only witness. If you don’t cooperate with our investigation, the people who attacked you will probably get away.

Means you’ll be paying your own hospital bills, Tristan added.

Though we could look into victim compensation funds, Sam said. Which we would gladly move forward on with your cooperation.

James shifted in his bed, pushing himself up into a slumped sitting position. So what you wanna know?

Let’s start by reviewing the case…what exactly happened Saturday night, Sunday morning, between the hours of 10 PM and 7 AM?

You people, Jesus…I told you, already. I was at this club, whatever, just having some fun. I was drunk and…well, really fucking drunk…and I was texting a few people to see if maybe they wanted to meet up. I duck out to go to a friend’s place, yeah? Have a better time, he snickered, mucous and hyena-laugh, so I’m walking by the park, and someone grabs me, drags me into an alley, and smacks my head against a wall. Guy musta got me in the back of the head a couple times, too, coz there’s a knot back there you wouldn’t believe. Feel like the hangover champion of the world, right now. Anyway, I go out like a light. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in the park, I can barely stand up. My legs feel like I had a week-long binge and they don’t wanna carry my ass around, anymore. There’s a couple’a your goons down there at the time, and they notice me…end up calling me an ambulance. And here I am, today.

Sam nodded, pen jerking against his memopad. Mr. Thomas, what was the name of the club you were at that night?

Uh. It’s tough to remember, exactly...

Do your best.

Well, it was, um...

Where was the exact location? Or the street corner?

You think I pay attention to shit like that?

Please, Mr. Thomas, Sam pressed, your cooperation will be greatly appreciated in these matters.

"Look, man, I don’t know where the bar or club or whatever is, it was just some place I was at, a’ight?"

Tristan stepped away from the blinded window and approached the hospital bed. Alright, then, if that’s how you want to play it… he turned to face Alex, Detective Vasquez, can you ring up the judge? I’m thinking a warrant might be in order. I’m thinking Mr. Thomas got roughed up while he was selling narcotics.

Alex replaced his memo pad with a cellphone and punched in a number.

Whoa, what the hell is this!? James yelled. Yo, I’m the victim here!

Then you’d better start acting like one, Tristan replied.

What the hell, man—I’m the one that got jumped!

You’re not the first, Tristan crossed to the head of the bed and leaned in until his face was inches from James’, and if you don’t start coming clean, you won’t be the last. I take my job very seriously, Mr. Thomas.

I’m on hold, Alex chimed in.

James sank from Tristan’s gaze, Look, maybe, maybe, maybe we can make a deal, yeah?

Tristan nodded, Sure. Here’s the deal: you tell us whatever back-alley drug hideout or brothel you were really in the other night, and Detective Vasquez hangs up the phone. Otherwise, we’ll have a thorough search of your apartment in about two hours.

Jesus.

I’m real sorry about my partners, Mr. Thomas, Sam edged in, it’s been a long weekend for us all.

Hey, fuck you, Good Cop.

Tristan saw James reach for the ‘Call Nurse’ button and grabbed the man’s wrist. He squeezed, hard, and felt the bones frail in the palm of his hand. I’d suggest you start cooperating, Mr. Thomas.

Let go of me!

Tristan squeezed harder. The druggie’s bones felt hollow and bird-like in his grasp.

James grimaced in pain and grabbed Tristan’s forearm with his free hand, Come on, man, please—look, look, you don’t know these guys, alright?

Tristan felt a sneer cross his face. "You don’t know us."

Alright! Alright! Tell him to hang up!

Alex hung up the phone and slipped it back in his pocket. We’re listening.

James hissed through clenched teeth. Come on, man, let go’a me.

Tristan released the man’s wrist and put his hand down next to the ‘Call Nurse’ button. Now answer the bloody question.

Where exactly was the club, Mr. Thomas? Sam asked, glaring at Tristan.

It’s in this building, top floor of this shithole place on eighth and C. Sixth floor, with roof access, some place called Death Club, opens around ten or eleven at night and goes ‘till nine in the morning… James massaged his bruised wrist with his other hand.

What sort of place? Sam turned his eyes away from Tristan to jot notes on his memo pad.

What sort of place you think? More snow in that place than the Alps, man. Hookers, strippers, cam girl-types, a couple pretty boys if that’s your thing…you name it, man, Mr. Amnesia’s got it.

Mr. Amnesia? Alex lifted an eyebrow.

What he has people call him. Runs the place. He, um…he had an event there Saturday night, kind of a guest performance. Had to clear the dance floor and everything… he stopped massaging and sank back down in the mattress. You can’t tell ‘em I told you.

We won’t, Sam replied. He flipped to the next page in his notepad. Now, just to get the story straight, you say you were in this Death Club partying, you left, and on your way to a friend’s house, someone jumped you, dragged you into an alleyway, knocked you out, and drained a liter and a half of your blood?

James nodded, Took my cash, too.

And your drugs, Tristan said.

Do you remember anything about the men who jumped you? Sam continued, Anything you saw, anything you noticed about them?

Uh…yeah, yeah… James swallowed and cast a wary, bloodshot glance at Tristan, "There was two of em, I think…and they must’a been waiting there for me, because the way they grabbed me, it was fast."

Did you see them at all?

James shook his head, "Nah, man. Just...when one of em pinned me against the wall, I remember…I could smell leather. Could hear it bend. But that’s it."

Sam nodded, jotting a last note in his memo pad. Alright. Thanks.

Alright, then, Tristan walked back toward the door, we’ll be on our way. You’ll be the first to know when we catch the guys.

What about, uh…what about that victim’s compensation thing?

Tristan gestured for Sam and Alex to follow him back out of the room. I’m sure someone’ll be in touch.

Fuckin’ pigs, was the last thing he heard James Thomas say before he closed the door.

*****

Sam glared at Tristan from the back seat of the truck. You shouldn’t have done that.

Tristan sighed, caught up in the lurching, everpresent NYC traffic as he steered them towards Avenue C. He wasn’t going to give us anything if we didn’t lean on him, Sam. We needed the information.

Alex stayed out of it, as he usually did, staring out the passenger-side window as they rolled north.

Besides hurting the fella, who just got jumped two days ago, by the way, you also made it so he won’t forget us.

Tristan nodded. Maybe, he admitted, but if we didn’t get the address out of him, we’d be getting nowhere on the case, he found Sam’s blue eyes in the rearview mirror, it was a necessary evil, Sammy.

Sam dropped his gaze to the floor and didn’t reply. Tristan turned back to the road ahead of them, but he could almost feel Sam’s pouting through the back of his chair. Poor kid probably never hurt a fly before a witch showed up in his town making trouble…Tristan reached up and rubbed his chin. Still, boy’s gotta learn sometime.

There, Alex pointed through the window, that one.

Tristan started scanning for a parking spot.

Nicole

Off the Tracks

Monday, September 16th, 2013

1:15 PM

The page was hatefully white.

Nicole tapped the eraser of a mechanical pencil on the edge of her sketchbook. She sat on a twin mattress with her back pressed up against the headboard, where she’d curled, poised for hours, waiting for inspiration. A sketch, a design, anything would do.

Nicole DuPond abandons Idris Designs, subsequently fails. Nobody is surprised.

That would be the headline of my year.

Though ‘abandons’ seemed like a strong word. She’d been headhunted. A man named Charles Goodwin had offered her a very comfortable salary to become an inter-departmental assistant-slash-recruiter at a vaguely conspiratorial corporation. MCA. The people who inadvertently funded her art and fashion careers.

Of course, ‘careers’ seemed like a strong word, too. Careers were supposed to make profit. Hers rose and fell on whims, tugged on all sides by unseen trends and variables that couldn’t be controlled. It was hard to stay afloat even with her rent-free room, courtesy of Jimmy Sacrifice and his makeshift crew of paranormal researchers.

A little brownstone of misfit toys. Everything sold as-is.

She closed the sketchbook. These sorts of thoughts weren’t conducive to inspiration. What she needed was lorazepam. She set the book aside and slipped off the edge of her bed, bare feet touching cold hardwood floor.

Her door opened to a narrow hallway, one bedroom on either side of her. The one to her left led to Will’s room, and she could hear the muted sound effects of his favorite MMORPG whispering from inside. The one to her right led to Angie’s room, quiet and scented faintly of burnt incense. She walked past both of them toward the chipped-tile kitchen at the end of the hall.

In the kitchen, she found Jimmy’s massive frame bent over an overflowing salad bowl. Black-painted nails clutched a thin-necked fork as he shoveled romaine and chicken breast into his mouth. Jimmy had always been on the larger side, but after last year, Angie had convinced him to renew his old gym membership and start lifting weights and fight training, again. ‘Large’ was no longer the word to describe him. He was a wall of goth-pale muscle with a mane of dyed-black hair.

Hey, Nic! he called out, salad lodged in his cheek.

She smiled, Salad straight from the serving bowl?

So hungry, he replied, swallowing. His voice was gravel, worn by years of shock-rock metal and whiskey-cocaine binges. Those days were long gone, now. His public media meltdown had taken care of that.

Nicole shook her head and chuckled as she walked past him to the bathroom.

She closed the door and snapped the lock shut. She studied her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror and pursed her lips. When did I get so thin?, she wondered, turning her face to watch the light shadow her drawn cheeks. She stuffed the thought as far back in her head as it would go and opened the medicine cabinet. A thin orange prescription bottle sat on the far corner of her shelf, waiting for her.

She turned on the faucet and twisted the lid off the orange phial. She turned it over and rattled out a few pills. Lorazepam, 2mg, 1-3 capsules a day. The little pentagonal caps clustered in her palm like a honeycomb. She took a deep breath and poured all but one back in the bottle. The last one she stuck under her tongue and swallowed with water straight from the tap. The bottle went back in the medicine cabinet. She saw powdery pill residue on her palm and thought for a split second about licking it off. She ran her hand under the water, instead.

Jimmy was still at the table when she stepped back out of the bathroom.

How’s everything going? he asked.

She shrugged, It’s… failing, not as bad as it could be.

Jimmy bobbed his head, "Cool, cool. Any more, um…what’d he call em? Any more acquisitions for Goodwin?"

Not at the moment.

Well, y’know, if something comes up…

I’ll let you know.

In exchange for investing in her fashion business and paying her a livable income, Goodwin made use of Nicole’s involvement in the AWJ Investigations Group, in particular her connection to Jimmy Sacrifice. MCA had an interest in supernatural dealings, something only an extremely small minority of people had any awareness of at all, and since Jimmy had turned a good portion of his ex-rockstar fortune into supernatural artifacts, occult relics, and paranormal studies, Goodwin had sought out his resources several times. He’d also tapped Nicole to recruit, as he phrased it, ‘individuals of extremely alternative lifestyles’ to work for MCA, including a witch she’d been paid to find and hire two months earlier. Alicia? Allison? Nicole couldn’t quite remember her name.

I just got this new grimoire in, Jimmy continued, from this guy in China. I dunno a lot about Chinese magic, y’know, so maybe if you can get that Chosen lady you found to work with me on it, we could work out some kinda deal? Like, she helps me translate it and stuff, and I give them a discount on buying it for reference?

Jimmy didn’t use words like witch or drac when he spoke, preferring the more culturally sensitive Chosen or vampire. Nicole nodded, reminding herself to avoid the terminology, as well. I’ll ask next time I talk to him.

Cool, thanks. Jimmy forked another forest of salad into his mouth and started chomping away. Nicole chuckled and stepped back into the narrow hall, walking back to her room.

She slid her laptop out from under her bed and opened it on her mattress, waking it up to check her e-mail. She scanned for new messages, ignoring one from a friend who’d talked to her about opening a showroom (Impossible), and found one from Charles Goodwin beneath it.

Hello, Nicole,

I was hoping to talk to you tomorrow afternoon regarding a new job. We’re looking to recruit a couple of extremely alternative artists, and I would like you to take the lead on it. It’s a very delicate situation, but I think you have exactly the expertise and gentle touch this project requires. I should also mention that it is of the utmost necessity, and will be the most important job you’ve ever been tasked with. It’s a ‘failure is not an option’ situation. No pressure. Please let me know if tomorrow lunch will work for you to meet on the topic, say 1:30pm?

Warm regards,

Charles Goodwin

MCA Foundation NYC

Goodwin,

Yes, that would be lovely. 1:30pm is fine for me. Where would you like to meet? Let me know and I’ll be there.

Have a wonderful day,

Nicole DuPond

She hesitated before sending it, wondering if she should bring up Jimmy’s offer in the e-mail. Probably better to do it in person. She nodded to herself and clicked ‘Send.’ Her eyes drifted up to one of the photographs framed on the wall over the bookcase, a photomanipulation of a woman from the shoulders up, her face obscured in rapid inky strokes except for the eyes. The eyes were brilliant, the color of ball lightning crackling across desert ground, and bright colors blossomed from them, petals and stems of splotched blue and violet watercolors arching out. Nicole felt her hand reach up towards it, almost touching it…

Someone knocked on her door and she jumped. She gasped a butterfly out of her lungs.

Who is it?

Uhhh…Will? his voice came dull through the door.

It’s unlocked, she called back.

The door swung in and he stepped through, wearing a loose aqua t-shirt over a baggy pair of cargo pants. His clothing looked like he’d pulled them from a pile of unwashed laundry next to his bed. His arms were covered in a veritable sea of brown-orange freckles and an unstyled mop of brown hair topped his head. He had a cowlick. Hey.

Nicole gave his wrinkled outfit a look-over and cracked a thin-lipped smirk. "We have got to take you shopping."

Will considered this with a serious expression, eyes narrowing. Why?

Because, ah… Nicole took a moment to remember something she’d said in a meeting, once. Because how you dress is an external expression of who you are, a, uh, kind of personal art…getting into a style or an aesthetic can lift your confidence, your—

My confidence is fine.

Clearly, Nicole replied, but your clothes don’t—

What’s wrong with this? He tugged at his pants’ waistband.

"It doesn’t fit you, for starters. Stylistically or physically."

I like it.

"It doesn’t fit you, Nicole stressed the word this time. Everything you own is like early-90s casualwear. You could fit two of you in some of those things. Where do you shop? K-Mart?"

What’s wrong with K-Mart?

You have a closet full of suits! I’ve never seen you wear any of them.

Will rubbed his forehead. Those are for special occasions.

"Jimmy threw a party last month, invited everyone, invited Goodwin, and you wore…you wore Vibrams and utility shorts." The memory of his feet in frog-shoes while Goodwin stood next to him in Prada made her chuckle.

I don’t wear suits anymore.

"Why not?

Will shrugged. "I just don’t, okay?"

Nicole groaned in faux-dramatism. Let me take you shopping.

No.

Why not?

Last time you took me shopping, you made me put on all those tight clothes.

They weren’t tight, Nicole pressed, stepping away from the bed. "They were fitted, as in they fit."

"I’ve worn looser condoms!"

Nicole winced at the comment. Ugh. Just give it a chance. You’ll look good.

You can’t even do anything with clothes that tight. What if I have to run, or fight? I’ll tear the pants.

What? Tear the—they’re not made of cardboard!

Whatever.

Whatever?

Whatever, Will repeated, folding his arms over his chest.

Nicole shook her head. Sorry, she muttered, half-meaning it but mostly wanting to roll her eyes at him. I just—I think you might do well with something different. Anyway, I’m sure you didn’t come in here to fight about your fashion sense. Or lack thereof.

There’s a new case, Will kept his arms folded. Jimmy’s on the phone with Christina right now. There’s been an attack, a murder, down in Coney Island. She says it looks like our sort of thing.

Does it?

Will lifted his shoulders, Guess we’re going to find out.

When do we leave?

Fifteen minutes, in the car.

I’ll be there, she said, crossing to her walk-in closet. Just let me get ready…

Great. Sounds great.

I’m sorry, she turned toward him. I didn’t mean to insult you.

I’m fine.

Will unfolded his arms and swept through the doorway before she could say anything else. Nicole closed the door behind him and returned to the walk-in closet. She slipped her father’s old leather jacket from its hanger and held it up in front of herself, staring at the scuffs and scrapes growing across its surface. She liked it a little beaten, the way it looked like it had seen a life of its own. Like it had gone through something hard and come out the other side. She slipped her arms through the oversized sleeves and tugged it over her slender body. She caught a glimpse of herself in the full-sized mirror at the back of the closet and adjusted her hair, short-chopped blond hair with a lavender swath dyed into the bangs.

She walked to her dresser next and opened the top drawer to dig out her father’s old hunting knife. The knife and the jacket were the last things she had of her father, a man still termed Missing a decade after her and her mother held a funeral for him.

She slipped the blade into a tanned sheath Angie had given her the year before and dropped it in a deep jacket pocket.

She glanced back at the door and thought about the pills in the medicine cabinet. Might be good to have an extra if we’re going to a crime scene. Something to keep steady. She picked at the skin around her fingernails. Just an extra dose to make sure.

She swallowed and shook her head. The withdrawal had been bad enough the first time.

Just breathe and don’t think about it, too much.

And definitely don’t think about Keiran.

*****

When Jimmy suggested buying a car, eight months earlier, Nicole had leapt at the opportunity. Ever since Keiran had pinned her against a cool tile wall, death-cold fingers slithering across her skin, she’d avoided the subway. Even more so after they’d trudged through the reeking underground labyrinth after a killer. The car was a welcome reprieve from the memories, an escape from the ubiquitous subterranean maze sprawling beneath the streets. It reminded Nicole of Boston, the way her parents’ cars had always been a shell, hard and smooth on the outside and soft and warm within.

The difference was, of course, that Jimmy hadn’t driven his own car since 1995, and had the driving habits of a nervous sixteen year old. Hitting the brakes with the fervor of an accident victim, Jimmy let out a low whistle. Man, I just…I don’t know how my chauffeur did it. These streets are insane. It’s a deathmatch out there.

Angie, her toned, muscular body half-curled up in the passenger seat, shot an amused glance at Jimmy. A deathmatch?

"Yeah. I mean, did you see that cabbie? He swerved right, I mean, like, right into our lane. We almost died."

"We have never come close to dying in this car, Angie replied. Nicole watched her dark, buzz-cut hair sink down in the front seat. Not once."

Feels like it, Jimmy muttered.

Will, sitting across from Nicole in the back, let out a soft chuckle. Didn’t you used to play metal music?

That’s different. Like, if something happens in person, you have some kinda control over the situation, y’know? On the road, it’s…I mean, if someone falls asleep, or jerks the wheel the wrong way, you don’t see it coming. It can just hit you out of nowhere. No wind-up, nobody talking shit, just BAM! Game over. Jimmy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he spoke, his head nodding to a bassline only he could hear.

Angie stared at Jimmy with dark eyes. Maybe someone else should drive?

Jimmy shook his head, shock of black hair lifting from his shoulders, No, no, no. I bought the car, I should get to drive. Besides, I mean, it’s probably time that I learn how to ferry myself around.

Jimmy turned onto Surf Avenue when they reached Coney Island and drove the car along the remnants of the shattered waterfront. Most of the boardwalk was still closed from Hurricane Sandy, the massive storm the year before that had flooded South Brooklyn. Though Luna Park re-opened, many of the buildings along the coast were still shut-up, ‘For Lease’ signs bleaching bone-white in the sun. The closer they came to their destination, the more Nicole saw it as an almost organic process: Sandy had scathed Coney Island, and now it was trying to reassemble itself. The shuttered windows were just scabs laid over healing wounds.

It was New York empty, less than a dozen pedestrians making their way down the winding sidewalk, but maybe that was normal for late September, after the summer beach rush died down. This would definitely make for a good hunting ground, Will observed with a frown.

Yeah, Angie agreed, peering out the window. Lots of cover, few witnesses…ocean right there. Hmm…

Hmm?

The ocean’s right there. You’d think the attacker would dump the body, let it wash up somewhere later.

Eh, I dunno, Jimmy said, a lotta times these things don’t follow, y’know, normal-people protocol. I mean, a werewolf doesn’t always have control over his actions, neither do ghosts, revenants, stuff like that.

Angie nodded. People don’t always follow ‘people protocol,’ either. It was just a thought.

Nicole spotted Christina’s cop car parked by an alley down the road. Garlands of yellow police tape blocked the narrow alleyway. Nicole leaned forward toward the windshield and pointed at it, It’s right over there. Jimmy nodded and pulled into the first available space— on a side street, two blocks away.

They piled out of the car and Will circled back to the trunk to fish out the gym bag full of gear they’d brought with them. Will’s face split into a white grin as he hoisted the bag up over a shoulder, Alright, let’s get to work.

Jimmy was already bounding down the street like a giddy dog by the time the rest of them had gotten out, and they exchanged an eye-rolling glance before they followed. Will glanced over at Angie, Think one of them will finally cave, this time?

Angie’s lips curled into a smirk, You mean actually go on a date?

Yeah.

Guess we’ll just have to see if Christina asks him. Angie pulled a light military jacket over her smooth, tawny-gold shoulders, and turned the collar up against the ocean breeze.

Jimmy could ask her, Nicole pointed out.

Will snorted out a chuckle in response.

*****

Christina was a Detective in the NYPD, and kept an eye out for cases that matched up with Jimmy’s interests. The police, with few exceptions, were about as aware of the existence of supernaturals as your average citizen—that is to say, they weren’t aware at all, at least not in any official capacity. Jimmy said that he met more cops ‘in the know’ than almost anyone else, but Nicole hadn’t noticed the same trend.

Christina, as always, was garbed in some extensively tailored version of a police uniform, the fabric tight against her suggestive frame. Deep brown hair spilled in waves around her face, and she peeled a strand of it back behind her head with bright-colored press-on nails. Nicole heard her accent before she heard any words, a clipped, Staten Island tongue that always took her a few seconds to adjust to hearing.

…look like slabs of rock! she reached out and clapped Jimmy on his shoulder.

Thanks. I, uh, I’ve been at the gym a lot lately. Jimmy’s gravelly voice and massive stature seemed harmless when he stood next to Christina, a big dog who still had puppy eyes.

Well, it shows, Christina flashed him a smile bright enough to catch sunlight, look like you could tangle with a brick wall and win. Geeze, how long has it been since I saw you? Just a couple months, and look at you.

Jimmy blushed, eradicating Nicole’s high-school memories of him as the shock-rocker once rumored to eat live birds on stage. People who eat live birds don’t blush.

Guys? Will chimed in, flicking a finger towards the police tape, The case?

Christina shot Will a glare and stepped away from Jimmy, Alright, alright, I get it. See a girl once every couple months, nobody wants to catch up with her. Straight to business, then. She turned around and peeled the web of yellow tape away from the alley entrance. Jimmy opened his mouth behind her, but didn’t say anything.

What does it look like? Angie asked.

Christina shrugged. Weird, she said, as if it was obvious, beyond that, well, I’m hoping you can tell me. She balled the tape up and set it to one side, Right now, though, we’re saying it was an animal attack.

Animal attack? Angie’s brow furrowed with the question.

Yeah, Christina gestured them into the alley. And if anyone asks, you’re plainclothes, helping me work the case.

Sounds good to me, Will replied, walking past her.

Nicole followed, stepping into the alleyway expecting something to be there waiting, a creature with slavering jaws cloaked in the shadows, still hungry. She imagined it with yellowed fangs and sharp, curving claws, its black-furred body lying in one of the longer shadows coming off the neighboring buildings.

Deep breaths. Nothing here but us chickens.

The initial is right over there, Christina said, picking up the tail of the group. Nicole spotted the blood immediately, crusting red and brown as it dried against the cement.

As soon as she looked at the crimson stain splashed across the asphalt, something clicked in her head. A low-volume, high-pitched note sang inside her skull. She took a step forward and felt like she was moving under water, everything light and heavy at the same time. Her friends’ voices seemed distant and distorted, coming at her from far away and at the wrong frequency.

Wet blood slapped against the cement. The dry patch was fresh, again, glistening in the bare light. Her vision flickered and she saw bright teeth snap at the back of a man’s leg, fangs tearing through his Achilles tendon. The whistle in her head crescendoed, the distant piping of a train getting closer. She pushed forward through the light-heavy feeling, eyes tracking big drops of wet gore farther into the alleyway.

Her heart pounded in her chest, the hammering undertone to the high-pitched note reverberating in her skull. The second blow was another bite to the leg, the hamstring, teeth tearing it wide open and twisting the man around. He fell down and kicked the monster in the face, yelling out for someone to help him, but nobody did, and—she lurched forward, steadied herself against a brick wall, and gasped up a lung full of air—and how did I know that?

The whistle got closer, so loud she couldn’t even hear her friends’ voices far away, could barely even hear her own heart. She watched as tendrils of bright-hued blood flung themselves against the alley walls, spattered themselves against the ground, each one surging up from the concrete floor where the monster leapt on top of the man. He’d gotten a knife out, but it was pointless.

Nicole’s body listed to one side, and Angie caught her.

Hey, Angie lurched as Nicole collapsed into her arms. The high-pitched sound passed on, traveling through the other side of the alleyway and vanishing in the distance. Nic?

Nicole blinked, Angie’s angular face clarifying over her. I’m…I’m sorry, just… she got her legs back under her, and Angie helped her balance herself. I think I need something to eat.

Angie kept her hands poised by Nicole’s shoulders. What happened, there?

Nicole peered down the length of the alley, her eyes tracing the splashes of dried blood against the walls. I don’t know, she answered, I guess I’m still not used to seeing… she gestured with a limp hand at the red-brown stain just past the middle of the alley, where the body had been found four hours earlier.

Angie inclined her head, catching Nicole’s eyes with her own, You going to be okay, here?

Nicole nodded. Yeah, I’m fine.

So, anyway, Christina gave Nicole a pat on the back as she walked by, the guy ends up pinned, there. He manages to get a knife out, and there’s a fight, but it isn’t a long one. Whatever it is, it gets its teeth in the guy’s throat and, well, that’s all she wrote.

That’s a lot of blood just for a throat wound, Will said, unloading equipment from the gym bag, placing each device next to the last on a thick towel he’d