1
Ibring my hand to my face, covering my nose, and look around. Blood stains the walls, dripping from the rafters and pooling on the floor. I take in a breath through my mouth, but the putrid smell of festering blood is unavoidable.
Pulling a flashlight from my utility belt, I carefully step over a significant puddle of blood and shine the light on the wall. It’s dank and dark in this basement, and it being the middle of the night doesn’t help the situation. CSU needs to get their asses here and set up.
“There’s something written in black ink under the blood,” I say over my shoulder to another police officer. “I can’t make it out, but make sure it’s photographed properly.”
Taking another look around the room, I do my best not to gag from the scent of not only old blood but also cat urine and the water-rotten floorboards above me. The blood splatter analyst hasn’t yet arrived, but I already know what he’ll say.
The blood was put up in layers.
It doesn’t make sense, but things that don’t make sense are my specialty. Though even for me, none of this adds up. The blood…the cryptic writing behind it…the knife I found lying in the middle of the floor that’s tip is in perfect condition and obviously hadn’t been used to murder anyone…it’s all so obvious.
As if someone was trying to get my attention.
Well, they have it, but it doesn’t make me any less annoyed. Thankful for the plastic coveralls I have on over my clothes, I go over to a storage closet door and shine my light around it.
Sometime after the first layer of blood was thrown around the room, someone opened the door and smeared it. It’s long been dried, stained into the cement floor, forever soaked into the old wooden frame. They were careful to get enough new blood over the door to try and cover it up, which leads me to believe someone of importance was once in the closet.
Suddenly, the air around me shifts, and my head buzzes with thoughts that aren’t quite my own. I blink, shaking my head rapidly to get rid of them. What the fuck was that? I could hear the voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Taking a steadying breath, I cast a sideways look at the officer behind me and reach for the door. The knob sticks when I turn it. I tuck my flashlight under my arm and twist the knob with both hands.
The door slowly creaks open. I grab my light and rest my free hand on my gun, standing back just in case something with fangs and claws jumps out at me. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Cold, musky air billows out, along with the rancid smell of a rotting body. I turn my head, but the alternative isn’t much better. The whole place needs to be burned to the ground it smells so bad.
Eyes watering from the scent of death, I flick the light around the little closet.
“If this is the body you called me in for, I’m going to be pissed,” I only half joke, raising an eyebrow. The officer comes over, face pale, and looks at the dead cat.
“We take every life seriously here at the Philadelphia Police Department,” he deadpans, and for a split second I think he’s serious. Then he tips his head, looking at the cat. “I didn’t know that was in there.”
“While I’m glad I wasn’t pulled out of bed for a cat murder, I still don’t get why I’m here,” I say, and turn around, facing the young officer who responded to the initial call.
He looks at me like I’m crazy and don’t realize I’m standing in a room dripping with blood.
“I’m a homicide detective,” I go on, trying to be patient. I wasn’t just called out of my bed at three a.m. for this. I was called out of my bed, forcing me to leave Thomas and Gilbert, who were both still naked after we had sex. I was so comfortable wrapped in Gil’s arms while Thomas rubbed my back. My time with the guys is limited to the night, and the sun rises early in the summer. “I know it looks like there’s enough blood here to say there’s been a murder, but without a body, we can’t make assumptions. This could be pig blood for all we know.”
“Right, I’m aware.” He shifts his weight nervously. “This seemed like your area of expertise.”
Keeping my face neutral, I hold my gaze and wait for him to go on. Over the years of taking on some of the weirder cases that pass through the homicide department, I’ve gotten the reputation of being Philly’s very own Fox Mulder.
“She asked for you.”
“Who?”
“Mary Green. The woman who reported the blood. She said only Detective Bisset could help.”
After solving the “vampire murders” that terrorized the city only months ago, a few articles circulated around social media about me, hailing me a hero and all that. The situation still makes me feel uneasy.
The murderer really was a vampire, not a human acting as one, like the city believes. The only human involved in the situation was more or less framed for multiple murders he didn’t commit, though he definitely aided in the deaths.
I feel guilty and relieved at the same time.
The officer’s brow furrows. “She said the voices told her to find you.”
“Voices?” I swallow hard. “Where is she?”
