“Did you talk to the building manager yet?”
Benson nodded. “Doorman didn’t see anyone coming or going. No signs of forced entry. Some of my men are in the process of reviewing the security tapes. They show a woman entering the building not long before the murder, but her face is blurred out in every shot. I bet you have some perfectly logical explanation for that one, don’t you?”
I did, actually. But I doubted Benson would be too keen to hear the truth. Celeste must’ve used one a cloaking spell, allowing her to enter and leave the building undetected. We both were camera shy in our own way.
“Where’s the body?” I asked.
Instead of answering me directly, Benson said, “Detective Archer, show him the vic.”
I flinched and turned toward the female detective who’d snuck up on us. Detective Jane Archer is half Puerto Rican and a quarter each of Irish and Italian. Average height and fit enough to make an American Ninja contestant envious, she had a penchant for leather jackets and a habit of wearing her curly hair short. Archer is a skilled martial artist, great shot and excellent detective capable of thinking outside the box. Like any strong woman with a badge, most of her fellow officers assume she swings for the other team.
I know from personal experience that they’re wrong. Big time. But I never kiss and tell. Especially not when the lady in question could break my bones in a variety of creative ways.
“Follow me, Raven.” Her voice was all business. I didn’t even get a smile.
“How have you been?” I asked.
“Fabulous. By the way, there’s a new invention I’ve heard about—you should try it sometime. It’s called a shower.”
“Charming as always, Detective.”
That almost got a smirk, so things were looking very slightly up. “How is the ghoul fighting business?”
“The pay’s shit, the nightmares keep me up at night, and there are zero fringe benefits.”
She shrugged. “Sounds a lot like being a cop.”
I wanted to say something else—maybe along the lines of “Sorry I snuck out of your apartment at the crack of dawn, I’m an idiot, please call me”—but the moment passed. In case you’re wondering, Archer and I did hook up. Once. Copious amounts of alcohol were involved. Our partnership never quite recovered.
Archer pointed at the back of the room. I spotted a doorway, which I assumed led into the victim’s bedroom. The details of the crime scene, as far as I could see, seemed tame compared to some of the other weird cases we’d worked on in the past.
“Any idea why Benson called me in on this one?
“I think the message convinced him.”
I arched an eyebrow. “What message?”
“You better take a look for yourself.”
That didn’t sound good. Taking a deep breath and steeling myself for the worst, I brushed by a cluster cops. Their wary, mistrustful glances followed me. You would think they’d appreciate my help—and some did. But for many of them I represented an unknown variable, and they didn’t quite know what to make of me. The supernatural was terrifying to the average person, and even some of the most hardened officers on the force wished they could forget some of the shit they’d experienced in the months following the breach. I could easily imagine what went through their minds when they looked at me. What kind of guy voluntarily seeks out these nightmares? Was I some occult ambulance chaser, a deranged crackpot, or a big phony selling myself as an expert?
I blocked out their stares and entered Gabriel Horne’s bedroom. It matched the luxury of the rest of the penthouse, with vast skylights offering up yet more spectacular views of the city. A forensics team was busy collecting evidence around the king-sized bed.
The demon’s mark was smeared on the wall above the bed.
“Do you mind?” I said as I approached.
The forensic guy, some baby-faced kid who looked way too innocent to be spending his days studying dead bodies, quickly checked with Archer. The detective nodded her okay, and the kid stepped aside, allowing me closer access to Gabriel. The man was only wearing a pair of blue boxers and it appeared Celeste must’ve killed him in his sleep. I still couldn’t imagine the girl I met in the coffee shop the other day committing a violent crime like this.
I leaned over the bed and studied the wound on the man’s chest. He’d been stabbed in the heart. Two smaller punctures flanked a larger gash and left no doubt as to the murder weapon. The three-pronged soul dagger had claimed Gabriel Horne’s life.
And his soul.
“Take a look at the eyes,” another member of the forensic team urged me. “Never seen anything like it.”