My boots click on the wood beneath, echoing throughout the large cathedral. Putting on gloves, I carefully move a blood-soaked strand of hair off her neck.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter. There are two puncture wounds on the woman’s neck, put there after her death. I’m positive we’re dealing with a copycat. The vampire murders got a lot of media attention, and there are still a handful of people adamant the murders were done by actual vampires. They’d shit themselves if they found out the truth. Vampires have infiltrated our city for years. I might have gotten rid of one baddie and her baby vampires, but there are more undead out there than I can count.
Hours later, I leave the church feeling a bit like my old self, which isn’t something I’ve felt in a while.
Confident I’d catch the murderer.
Knowing there’s no way in hell something paranormal is behind it.
I get into my car, open the windows, and crank the air. I pull away from the church, and that confidence starts to crumble. All signs point to a copycat of sorts, and not a very good one at that. The symbols are a culture-mashup mess. The fake vampire bites were done after death, and gouging out the eyes was just a step over the top to shock and scare people.
But what if it is something paranormal? What if I put another human behind bars for life for murders they didn’t actually commit?
A foreign feeling rises inside of me, and it pisses me the fuck off. I’m good at my job. I know what I’m doing. I always catch the bad guy. I’m not going to fuck this up. I’ll get to the bottom of it, arrest a very human murderer, and get on with my life.
But there’s a first time for everything.
4
Ishuffle out of the way in the very busy Chinese restaurant. I put in a large takeout order, not sure if I should feel bad about picking up dinner tonight instead of cooking like I had planned. I’ve never been very domestic, and it’s not like I’m in a traditional relationship or anything.
I still don’t know how to classify the guys. Thomas and Gilbert don’t see the need to put a label on it, and the concept of girlfriends and boyfriends without a promise of marriage doesn’t make sense to Hasan. And Jacques…I don’t know what the hell is going on between me and him.
A large group comes in, crowding the already small restaurant even more. I have twenty minutes before my order is ready, and instead of leaning against the wall and hoping no one touches me, I check the time on my phone and go outside.
I’m in a part of the city I don’t frequent too much, so I lazily walk down the block, trying to kill time before the food is ready. I make it a street over and see a New Age bookstore.
I used to scoff at places like this. I used to question the sanity of anyone who went in there. And those who worked there? Total scam artists. But now…I bite my lip and cross the street.
A bell dings when I push open the door. The place doesn’t have air conditioning, and the large ceiling fan blows the scent of books and herbs all around me.
“Blessed be,” the clerk says to me, making me force a smile and roll my eyes the moment I look away. I might have magic powers and shack up with men cursed into gargoyles, but that doesn’t mean every pot-smoking hippy in Philly who believes in magic has powers too.
I browse through a selection of bagged herbs, wondering if everything is actually what it’s labeled to be, because it all looks like chopped-up grass to me. The little shop has everything I’d expect: crystals, overpriced bohemian clothing, little fairy statues to put in your garden to “encourage real fairies to visit,” tarot cards, and various books.
A book about ghosts catches my eye, and feeling stupid, I reach out and pick it up. The image of that guy, gray and void of emotion, floating above his body, is seared into my mind. He had to be a ghost. What else could he be?
“Trying to contact the dead?” the clerk asks, striding over. Her long black skirt swirls around her ankles, and a dozen crystals hang around her neck. If she’s trying to enforce the New Age stereotype, she’s doing a good job.
“Not necessarily,” I reply, deciding to humor her, and look back at the book.
“Good. When you go knocking on the door of the dead, you never know who will answer.”
“So you have contacted a ghost?”
“I have,” she says, not trying to hide her pride over it. “But I’ve had many years of practice and know the proper protection spells.”
I need to force another smile and leave. But, shit, this is too entertaining. “What kind of spells?”
“It’s quite complicated. I fear if I went into it more it could lead you down a dangerous road. I do offer spirit communication services.”
And there it is. Some things never change. She’s a total scam artist and should be ashamed of herself for preying on the weakness of others. Because who’s desperate enough to come into this place and hire some quack-psychic to contact a lost loved one? Someone deep in mourning, heart ripped in two, lost and confused.
“Right. Well, I’ll, uh, take this.” I hold up the book, too curious to pass it up now. She rings me up, going on and on about past clients who loved her services, and practically shoves a business card in my hand.
I roll down the top of the brown paper bag and turn to leave. A young woman with long, dark hair and pretty blue eyes hurries in through the door and bumps right into me, dropping the box full of crystals and stones she was carrying.
“Oh, shit!” she swears. “I’m so sorry.” She drops to her feet and starts picking up the crystals. “I’m such a klutz sometimes. Okay, most of the time.”
