The sun was peeping through a hazy blue horizon when I squeezed between the carriage doors. I wiggled inside the sleeping bag and zippered it. A gnawing sound alerted me to a mouse nibbling on the blood-soaked fibers, a result of the tears I’d shed earlier. After unzipping the bag and depositing the creature on the carriage floor, I watched it scuttle beneath a rusty lawnmower, manufactured long before the invention of the gasoline engine. Finding it impossible not to think about Tristan and the baby, I counted to one-hundred, first in English, then Spanish, French, and finally Latin . . . the majority of the languages I didn’t even realize I knew. Eventually, I grew sleepy, the competing heartbeat lulling me into a dream state.
Tristan awakened me, his nose nuzzling my ear first, soft warm lips exploring mine soon after. He slid in beside me, his hand reaching beneath my pajama top to grope a breast. My stomach churned and I bolted upright, lunging for the bucket I’d stored nearby.
“You are not well, my love?” he asked, bewildered, once I’d returned the bucket to the floor.
I shook my head. “Why are you here?” I asked, stalling. He patted the space beside him, but I remained on my feet.
The valley between his brows deepened. “I’ve missed you. Why are you in the carriage house? Why aren’t you inside with Raina?”
“We need to talk.”
“I can’t stay long,” he said, reaching for me. “Can’t we—”
“No. It’s important, Tristan.” I searched his eyes. With no way to adequately prepare him for what I was about to say, I blurted it out. “I’m pregnant.”
I took a step back, nearly tripping over the bucket, when an angry flush masked his beautiful eyes and a crimson mist hung heavy throughout the carriage house.
“Why are you telling me this, Celeste?”
A response caught in my throat. This wasn’t the reaction I had expected. I knew how much he had missed his son and for centuries. And I’d convinced myself Tristan would be happy—thrilled—to welcome our child into the world. Clearly, I was wrong. “I know it comes as a surprise—it was quite a shock to me—but I thought you’d be happy. Think of it, Tristan, a baby, our baby, a sibling for Raina.”
“No, Celeste,” he said wagging his head. “I forbid it.”
My mouth hung open, harsh words on the tip of my tongue, words I’d never, in a million years, thought I’d want to say to Tristan. “You what?”
“You will destroy it. The sooner the better,” he said, zipping in front of me and blocking my path.
My legs crumpled and I sank to my knees. “You’re talking about our baby, Tristan. How can you say something like that?”
Towering over me, his eyes wild, a snarl corrupting his beautiful face, he said, “I will not be responsible for unleashing a soulless perversity onto the world.”
“And if I refuse?” I demanded, my anger palpable, the crimson mist heavier, more vivid somehow—the color of betrayal.
“If you refuse, Celeste, I promise you, I shall do it for you.”
Speechless, I searched his eyes for an explanation, for the love I thought he had for me, the kind of love that was one of a kind, unconditional and enduring, and I found nothing but revulsion and indifference. “Tristan,” I began, my arms reaching for him, my eyes begging he remember the extraordinary memories we had made together. “I-I think if you just take some time to think about—”
He rejected my touch, his finger poking my breastbone. “Get rid of it. Before someone discovers your mistake.”
“My mistake? Tristan! Get back here, so we can discuss this,” I screamed through the evaporating mist. My rage grew when he didn’t return, all the things left unsaid to him escaping my mouth in a violent eruption, the timbre in my voice bursting every window. How could I have misjudged him? How could I have been such a fool? Everything I thought the future held, Tristan had obliterated in a few short moments. Even should he come to his senses and apologize, could I ever forgive his words or the animosity behind them? I cried myself to sleep once I’d decided Tristan would no longer be a part of my life.
Vibrations from my cell phone jerked me from a fitful sleep, alerting me to a missed call. I wrestled the phone from its cramped leather confinement and listened to a recording left by Cheyenne Foraker, a forensic expert who was new to the team. She’d managed to decipher the phone number assigned to Cahill’s burner. Now I needed to provide Verizon a warrant so the carrier would release the phone records. Judge Brinkman wouldn’t welcome another intrusion, and I wasn’t looking forward to our interaction. I did claim an enormous victory when Cheyenne informed me the team was able to match Callie Sutherland’s DNA to the panties I’d found in Cahill’s house. I couldn’t wait to tell O’Leary, but if I had to disturb Brinkman so soon, I thought it best to do that at a decent hour. Tristan entered my thoughts briefly, and I resented the sob lodged in my throat.
I snugged into a Kansas City Chiefs sweatshirt and tugged the hood over my forehead, securing it in place by jerking the drawstrings taut. I had an overwhelming urge to see Raina before work and headed toward the house. I drifted through the cheery yellow exterior and inched her casket open, careful not to wake her. I studied her peaceful expression for as long as I dared, then closed the lid. I had just entered my bedroom when Fane appeared in the doorway, his rushed momentum stirring up dust particles and segregated strands of his purple and black hair.
“I can hear it, you know. That forbidden entity growing within you. It would seem you have not as yet come to the proper conclusion.”
“It’s not an easy decision, Fane,” I said, hating that my tone implied submission. I blinked hard, willing the tears away, and cursed myself when I once again thought about my conversation with Tristan.
“It is the only one.”
“How can you be sure?” I shoved my hands behind my back when sparks flew from my fingertips. I needed him to maintain his loyalty. I felt sure Bianca would side with Tristan, abandon the battle, return to Kansas City, and badger me until I gave in. But this was my decision, one I didn’t intend to make hastily, and I wanted to keep her in the dark as long as possible.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Would you have your own offspring join the ranks of our foe?”
I drifted closer, struggling to keep my fangs at bay. “Who’s to say whatever plagues the Harvesters isn’t more of an environmental consequence versus a congenital one? Has that ever occurred to any of you?” Even I didn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth.
A golden aura bathed his face, and he leaned closer, his breath sweet yet musty like a beloved old book. “Are you willing to take that chance, dear friend?” he asked and faded away.
As much as I tried to deny it, regardless of the things he had said, I still loved Tristan. But I was no longer in love with him. Tossing several blood-soaked Kleenexes into the console, I slinked from the car when I arrived at the Brinkman residence. Summoned by a uniformed housekeeper, Judge Thaddeus Maxwell Brinkman begrudgingly left a dinner table boasting fourth-generation, twenty-four-karat-gold candelabras; a silver platter brimming with assorted pastries; and a handcrafted dinner plate hosting succulent prime rib, garlic mashed potatoes, and a heap of seasoned green beans plucked from his own garden. Twitchy bushy eyebrows acknowledged my presence on his marbled stoop, but he didn’t invite me inside.
“You again, Detective?”
I apologized for my unexpected arrival and explained the reason behind my urgent visit.
“Wait here,” he snarled, partially closing the door. He returned moments later with a document containing his unique baroque signature. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I’d like to finish my dinner. And, please, don’t keep in touch.”
With a bruised ego and the warrant in hand, I returned to the bullpen, scanned the document, and contacted Verizon’s headquarters in New York City. Obtaining an email address to the appropriate department, I sent a cover letter and attached a facsimile of the warrant. After that, I decided to patrol gang-infested territories, hoping for a break in the case, and thought this best accomplished from a bird’s-eye view.
I cringed, anticipating the excruciating effort usually required to make myself invisible. To my surprise, I succeeded on the first attempt. Skirting the treetops above Fifty-First Street and Hardesty, the unmistakable sound of lead striking sheet metal below caught my attention. Hovering directly over a ramshackle house, its roof more holes than shingles, I caught a glimpse of the gunman—a juvenile who fired bullets at traffic signs the way suburban kids lobbed baseballs at batters. I swooped down, confiscating the gun as I glided past, and the momentum knocked him off-balance. Confused and frightened, he looked everywhere, his eyes wide but hawk-like. He dashed across the street and locked himself inside a weather-beaten house, the door displaying a No Soliciting sign that only an idiot would disregard.
This street relatively quiet, I decided to look farther east toward the most dangerous part of town. Bane Manor was a two-block area that even career criminals were eager to forfeit once the Manor Marauder Gang hustled its way in. Suspended in an oak tree, I turned my attention north when a barrage of bullets echoed down the littered and graffitied corridor. I flew in that direction, dodging whizzing projectiles.
Sirens screamed past moments later. Police cars screeched to a stop and formed a disjointed line. A SWAT wagon lumbered behind, taking up the rear and spewing choking exhaust. Gun-wielding males scattered, high on cocaine and latent testosterone, leaving trails of sweat, blood, and gunpowder behind.
I saw no reason to add to the line of blue and drifted over Prospect Avenue. My instincts took me south toward Eighty-Fifth Street, where gang members often gathered to exchange stolen property for cash, guns, or illicit drugs. Superior hearing alerted me to the sound of feet moving rapidly, muffled as they stomped tall grass and amplified once reconnecting with asphalt. Gravel pinged off an old train trestle, and I turned in that direction. A hooded figure crouched near a rusted metal column overlooking the Little Blue River. My stomach churned angrily as a laser beam danced across the tracks. The concealed runner uttered a gasp and froze. A precise red dot snaked across the wide steel beam before illuminating a sampling of his bald head. I traced the laser’s origin just as the shot rang out and the runner fell from the trestle and splashed into the river below. His body surfaced soon after, facedown, the full moon spotlighting the crude tattoo on the back of his skull.
A car engine roared a quarter mile away. Tires reeled against hot, sticky pavement, afterward gaining purchase and righting a course toward Prospect Avenue. More interested in the victim than catching the killer, I hovered over the water. I levitated the body then inverted it. Soulless eyes stared back at me, more a consequence of life choices than death itself. A telltale scar marred the corpse’s slack cheek, and I felt sure I’d found David Snyder.
The current picked up, waves lapping at the muddy banks and floating hypodermic needles and used condoms downriver. Because I was afraid the body might wash downstream, I telekinetically propelled it toward the shoreline. Snyder’s ripped shirttail fluttered as his body glided above the water, revealing a leather belt, ornamented with bands of sterling silver and blue turquoise, and an empty scabbard that could have secured a twelve-inch knife. I searched the river, preternatural vision penetrating both the bed and every square inch of the bank.
Whooshing back toward the station, I dove inside the Dodge, the car fishtailing as I left the lot. I stomped the accelerator and the well-equipped engine responded with an indignant roar. Weaving in and out of cars filled with teenagers dangling limbs and their bottles of unsanctioned alcohol, I turned onto Eighty-Fifth Street and returned to the crime scene, sequestering the Dodge a half block away. A pack of wild dogs surrounded Snyder’s body, fur bristled, tails erect, heads low to the ground. My fangs emerged over curled lips, and I soared toward the pack. Fire spewed from my fingertips and ignited rankled fur. With a collective yelp, the pack scurried in various directions, the majority seeking concealment in the surrounding woods. I called dispatch and reported a one-eight-seven—a homicide. After reciting the coordinates, I waited for the ME’s arrival.
Shifting anxiously from foot to foot, I approached Romano once she’d removed her gloves and had turned away from the body.
With her hands plastering her hips, she said, “Did you move the body?”
I pointed downstream. “The current didn’t leave me much choice.”
Her gaze raked over me, head to toe. “You’re dry.”
I shrugged. “That was nearly an hour ago.”
A pronounced squint revealed her skepticism. “Another 9mm. No surprise. But this time, the killer set his sights higher. I guess he didn’t plan on sticking around long enough to watch this one die, so he put one through his skull.” She sighed. “No ID.”
I know who he is.
I thanked her and slugged back inside the Dodge, returning to the crime scene once I felt sure Romano and her team had left the area. After camouflaging the car within a grove of trees a mile away, I made myself invisible and went in search of Snyder’s missing knife. Scouring the path he had taken to the railroad trestle, I widened my aerial search to include a three-mile radius. With nothing to show for the time spent, I drifted toward the riverbank and cursed when thick mud slurped at my ankles, now visible since I’d reversed the Hidden Cloak.
Soon after, a red dot danced across the front of my jacket, and, for a moment, I completely disremembered my immortality. My law enforcement training took over, and I dove sideways, landing face first in six inches of gooey, foul-smelling mud, a bullet whizzing well over my head simultaneously. I heard exhaust rumble—the same sound I’d heard earlier that evening—and fade as the car headed toward the highway.