“Okay,” I said, and went back to looking at the bodies.
They had been slit open, a long red line running from the hollow of their throats to slightly below their navels. If there was anything . . . missing, I couldn’t tell; the flaps of skin were closed, just bloody. There didn’t appear to have been any facial or genital mutilation. This had been a ritual killing, but the ritual was one I didn’t recognize. The person or persons who had killed them had smeared blood in a wide circle around the pair, painting it directly onto the concrete floor. The edges were obscured by the blood that had continued to pour from the bodies, and any subtle markings that might have been there had already been lost forever.
The markings on the bodies, on the other hand, had not been washed away, because they weren’t painted on. Someone had carved strange runes and symbols into their flesh, slicing all the way down to bone in some places. The carving appeared to have been done after the pair was dead: those wounds hadn’t bled.
“I swear we found them like this,” said Pax.
“I believe you,” I said. “Malena, how did you get over there without stepping in the blood?” I couldn’t see a clear path to where she was crouching.
“I can stick to walls,” she said, her tone challenging. For the first time, I noticed her feet were bare.
Good. “Can you take pictures while you’re sticking to the walls?”
Malena narrowed her eyes at me. “Yes.”
I knew her tone. It was the voice of someone who expected me to regard them as both other and lesser because they weren’t human. Normally, I would have taken the time to reassure her, to try to explain I wasn’t going to judge. Under the circumstances, I needed my attention where it was. “Great. Come get my phone. I need you to get as close as you can—get directly above them, if your ‘sticking to things’ powers extend to the ceiling—and take pictures. As many pictures as you can. Zoom in, get all the details.”
Now she stared at me. “I didn’t figure you for a sicko.”
“I’m not,” I said. “Some of those symbols look familiar. I want to send the pictures to my dad, see whether he recognizes them.” They looked a lot like the symbols William’s captors had been using when they were sacrificing virgins in his name. Not identical, but similar enough that alarms were going off at the back of my brain.
William had been the living target of a snake cult that wanted to turn him into their devoted servant before they woke him up. No, they didn’t realize what a bad idea that was, and if they had, they probably wouldn’t have cared. People who think of virgins as a renewable resource are not usually the sort of people who listen to reason. Snake cults were bad news. I’d be happier if I didn’t have to deal with one.
Malena shook her head and stuck her hands to the wall, boosting herself up Spider-Man style. She still looked mostly human. There was something unusual about her hands, and her feet were almost twice as long as they should have been, with an oddly flexible bend at the pad of the toes, but those were still morphologically possible. The orange-and-black scales unfurling along her shoulder blades and circling her wrists were harder to explain away.
She got her feet braced against the wall and scuttled along it, quick and nimble as a gecko, to thrust her hand out toward me. “Give me the phone,” she snapped.
“Get as close as you can,” I said, handing it over. Seeing her sticking to the wall like that was both disorienting and envy-inducing. If I had been able to wall-crawl, there would never have been a day when I couldn’t be found lurking on the ceiling. Never.
Malena nodded before she scuttled up the wall toward the ceiling and began snapping pictures.
I turned back to Pax. “Did anyone see you come down here?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I was talking with Malena, and everybody else went on ahead. She’s a real nice girl, you know? And I figured we should stick together, since we’re both therianthropes and all.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “Did you smell blood on any of the people who passed you? Specifically, did you smell this blood?”
He shook his head again. “No, and believe me, I would have noticed. Blood is the sort of thing that attracts my attention.” He cast another uneasy glance at the bodies, and I realized I was reading his expression wrong. It wasn’t discomfort born of squeamishness.
It was discomfort born of hunger.
“We have steaks in the fridge at home,” I said quietly. “I can keep Lyra distracted while you bolt one of them raw.”
“Can you make that two?” he asked, still looking at the bodies.
I elbowed him, pulling the motion at the last second so that he was barely grazed. “Hey, I thought humans didn’t taste good.”