We approached, and I saw that there were a half-dozen forensic types examining the scene. A handful of uniformed cops stood guard to prevent anyone from ducking under the tape. I didn’t recognize any of them—they were clearly from a different station.
“Detective,” one of the uniformed cops said when Harris flashed his badge at her. She gave Thierry and me a sidelong look. “Police only.”
“They’re with me,” Harris told her, ducking under the tape. “They’re… specialists.”
She frowned but didn’t protest when Thierry and I followed.
Harris led the way to the bodies. Just like he’d told me on the phone, there were two victims this time. Both were men. One was exceptionally pale and had golden blond hair, almost the same color as mine. His features were delicate and aristocratic, just like mine. There were savage bite wounds on his throat but very little blood on his clothing.
Next to him was a sweet-faced Hispanic man who looked like he could have been Eli’s brother. Both of them had their eyes closed, as though they were sleeping. They were holding hands.
“They were probably posed that way after death,” Harris said, watching my reaction with a puzzled expression. “We’re still working on an ID that will give us some clue as to why these two were attacked.”
But I already knew why they’d been selected.
They looked like me and Eli. That was the only reason. It was a message.
The vampire who had done this knew about Eli.
“And the note?” I asked, my voice hoarse and sounding unlike it belonged to me.
Harris pulled a pair of nitrile gloves out of his back pocket and handed them to me. “We’re preserving the evidence this time,” he said. “There might be fingerprints or—”
“There won’t be any evidence,” I said, staring down at the victims, my brain locked up with horror. “The vampire who killed these two has been doing this for a very, very long time. He knows better.”
“He?” Harris demanded, giving me a sharp look.
“Separate their hands,” Thierry told him, his voice a monotone. “There will be markings. I’m sure of it.”
“Do it,” I agreed, trading a look with Thierry. The hollowed-out expression on his face mirrored exactly how I felt. Though my voice shook, I didn’t feel anything at all. My dread was so total that I just felt numb and blank.
Harris, oddly enough, didn’t protest. Instead, he did as Thierry asked without a word.
On the palms of both victims, a small cross had been cut into the flesh.
I stared at the wounds, unable to believe what I was seeing.
The only vampire I had ever met who had done that to his victims was Magnus.
Our maker.
Thierry was right. He was here in Los Angeles. And he knew about Eli.
I felt sick. I couldn’t think. The late-afternoon sunlight was too much—too hot, too bright, an oppressive force beating against my skin. The air felt too thick to breathe. But despite theawful heat, a deep cold settled inside me. I felt frozen in place, staring down at the victims who looked so much like Eli and me.
Harris stood up and turned to me, concern creasing his face. “Cole—” He fell silent for a long moment, studying me. “You know this vampire, then?”
I let out a sharp bark of laughter, even though his question wasn’t funny. “Oh, yes.”
He was the monster who had turned my brother and me.
He was the one who had forced me to kill Eliott, the man I had loved. The one who stripped my humanity away and turned me into something that killed without mercy for eight centuries—just because it was fun.
“The note,” I managed to force out. “I need to see it.”
Harris picked it up from the ground beside the victim. The paper was cream-colored, heavyweight, and expensive-looking. There was spiky handwriting on the inside when I opened it.
“Magnus’s handwriting,” Thierry said softly. “He wrote this himself.”
