Death Takes Wing, page 5
“His back,” she started. She took a deep breath and counted to ten. “It just really reminded me of Donovan, that’s all.”
He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sky, feeling the cold breeze on his hot skin. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” she replied softly as she shoved her hands in her pockets.
“When you were put on the case, he wasn’t mentioned, was he?” Amalia asked, hunching her shoulders as she stared at the boards that made the bridge.
“No,” he replied with a sigh.
“Did you expect this?” she pressed.
“No,” he said shortly. “We should get going.”
“You have a report to write,” she said as she stepped towards him.
He stepped back, avoiding her closeness, “And more.”
She nodded thoughtfully as she watched the wary expression on his face. “I’m going to get home then. I think I need a hot bath.”
As they silently walked towards her car, the details about the victim were stuck in Amalia’s mind. There wasn’t a drop blood in the victim. No lividity, no blood at all. The victim has been tortured, Amalia. The only other thing the coroner could tell them was that he’d been in the water for just over eight hours.
As she started to climb in her car, Gabriel softly put a hand on her arm. She paused, midway in the seat.
He cocked his head and an embarrassed smile graced his face. “So, would this be an inappropriate time to ask you for your number? So I can make sure you’re safe, of course.”
“Of course,” she murmured as she shook her head with a smile, she gave him her number and e-mail address.
It was hours later than her usual home time, but she still came in to find a happy Sheltie and a slightly perturbed cat waiting for her to settle down for the night.
Deciding a hot bath would definitely be the best way to end the evening, she started the steaming water only to have forgotten to check for a sleeping Kohl, whose favorite place was the bottom of the bathtub. As a sodden Kohl shot through the house, giving her dirty glares, she giggled as she undressed, holding the clothes at an arm’s length. She didn’t know if the smell was actually permeating her clothes and hair, but either way, she was going to slather on the vanilla sugar body wash.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Amalia had been surprised to hear from Morgan early the next day, but Morgan was interested to hear about Amalia’s escapades at the riverside. She’d curiously wondered why Amalia hadn’t gone home with the umbren, for protection, of course. Laughing, Amalia had told her cousin that she was just fine where she was, and that she’d call her after work.
When Amalia got to work that afternoon, she found an e-mail waiting for her. More than one, actually, but only one actually piqued her interest immediately.
She brushed the hair out of her eyes as she read the e-mail he'd sent. A short message, briefing her about the case he’d been assigned. She sighed as she scanned the message. With a grim determination, she read the seven names. Samantha O’Mara. Genevieve Walters. Paul Danzer. Kent Stoke. Patricia Hemly. Peg Smyth. Francesca Riley. The only one she recognized was Sam. She sighed.
There wasn’t much to go on. Genevieve was twenty-seven. Paul was thirty-nine. Kent was nineteen. Patricia and Peg were both thirty-one. Francesca was twenty-three. And Sam, she thought to herself. Sam was only twenty-four. So what connected them? She kept rolling that thought around her brain as she read and reread the names and ages.
She mutely added Vince’s name to the list. She just knew that he was connected to this, just as certainly as Gabriel knew. His death couldn’t be coincidental, wasn’t unrelated, according to Gabriel. Her thoughts flashed back to the pale, bloated face. The solan’s eyes gone, strings of rotting flesh on his bloated abdomen. The smell. Amalia shook her head, trying to shake the memory out of her head. She had a feeling in her gut, she thought to herself, and her gut wasn’t often wrong.
She started to search through the databases. She was able to pull up a few articles on Kent, for his sports, Patricia for her work with horses, and Paul for his work as a marine, but that was it. Nothing else, she thought to herself, frustrated. No article about the disappearance in any of the newspapers that she could search. Not too much about the renati either, she thought to herself. A few pieces written by journalists who had clearly been told exactly what to write. One piece was a complete conspiracy theory piece that made her laugh as she read it, but without a single grain of truth.
Disappointed, she wrote a note to herself about the findings, and went back to work.
She kept hoping that Gabriel would call so she could get more details. Although, she surmised, just hearing his voice would be nice. Talking about the missing people wasn’t necessary. Although, finding out when they disappeared would really help. Where they'd disappeared from would be nice. Anything connecting them, even something minor, she thought to herself, like if they lived in the same town, went to the same school…anything. She carefully searched through other sources and search engines as she thought of them.
She sighed as she recognized the pull of the job. The last time she’d felt this pull was before Donovan had died. Not being able to solve his death had made that pull disappear completely…Sure, she reasoned, she wasn’t officially on the case, but it couldn’t hurt for her to use her resources. Maybe she’d find something new out. Gabriel hadn’t sent her that list of names just for shits and giggles, after all. Speaking of Gabriel, she thought.
She ran a quick Google search for Gabriel, and was disappointed to find only a few mentions of him, mostly on business review sites, regarding his talented work as an Enforcer. She remembered their conversation at the wedding about his day job. They hadn’t gone into much detail about him, so she’d been left wondering how good of an Enforcer he could be in the human world with very visible wings making him stand out in a crowd of humans. Apparently he was pretty good, according to the reviews. Impressive, she thought.
Regrettably for her, he didn't call throughout her shift. Frustrated, she went back home after a long and uneventful day at the desk.
Letting Lucy out, she glanced outside into the darkened backyard. Maybe it was just her eyes playing tricks, but she could have sworn she saw a shadow moving in the darkness by the trees. She called for Lucy, and the little brown dog raced inside, barking. Amalia tried to turn the outdoor light on, but found that the bulb was burnt out.
"Damn," she said to herself, mentally reminding herself to replace it for the fourth time this week. She'd known about the light for a couple of weeks and kept forgetting to buy a new one. She glanced one more time into the backyard before shutting and locking the door. For good measure, she also shut and locked the pet door. Lucy would have to get her up to go outside, but she'd feel safer knowing no one could squeeze through the small door.
She sat down at the table in the kitchen and fiddled with the napkins that sat in the center. She jumped when she heard a little noise on the deck, but refused to go see if it was a boogeyman. Jumping at shadows wasn’t in the cards tonight, she thought decisively. Running a hand through her hair, she stood up, stretched and decided to take a hot bath, hoping it would help her relax.
Lucy started barking when she was almost asleep in the warm tub. She gasped at the interruption and looked at the clock that hung next to the mirror. She hadn’t even been in there twenty minutes. She swore as she stood up and grabbed her robe. Wrapping it around her, she called Lucy to her, who was frantically barking in the hallway, nails scrabbling for purchase on the hardwood floor.
She ran out of the bathroom, and almost tripped over the furious little Sheltie. She put her hand on the wall and screamed out of surprise as a shadow loomed in the hallway, at the edge of the kitchen.
“Eric, if that’s you, I swear to god I will murder you painfully with a rusty spoon, and bury the body myself!” she growled, reaching down to grab Lucy’s ruff.
“I don’t know who the hell Eric is, so hopefully the death threat by rusty spoon doesn’t apply to me,” the shadow responded flippantly as it moved towards Amalia.
She thought she could make out wings, a head. She flipped the hallway light on, the bright light turning the shadow into an Angelus. Amalia almost swallowed the next scream, a high pitched squeak escaping, and held the robe tighter. She clenched her jaw and felt her adrenaline rise.
"Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my house?" she demanded, fighting to keep her voice steady, out of the low growl it wanted to come out in.
"I'm here to take you to safety," the man replied, taking a step towards her as he extended a hand to her.
"Like hell you are," she snapped, stepping away from him and grabbing a glass Pepsi bottle filled with colored rocks that had been sitting in a darkened windowsill.
He flipped another light on, the kitchen light, she saw, and it lit his face up. Like Gabriel, he had darker wings. He had caramel wings, with flecks of black, no lighter shades as far as she could see. He was shorter, though, but more muscled, almost like a linebacker. If umbren could even play football, she mentally mused. His dark blue eyes flashed. He stepped another step towards her, still reaching for her. His other hand was in a pocket, making her grip the bottle by the neck even tighter. Make sure he didn’t see the bottle, she thought to herself, hiding it in the folds of her fluffy robe. She wrapped her fingers around the neck, making sure she had a good grip on the smooth glass. The letters stood out against her fingers as she slowly caressed them.
"So, who the hell are you?" she replied, narrowing her eyes at the intruder, stepping backward into the bathroom doorway.
He reached for her again, still hiding the other hand in his pocket. She glared at the proffered hand warily, and started to bring the bottle up. "Oh, you don’t need to know that. It’s not important right now. What is important,” he said, “is that Gabriel found out some...disturbing information. Information that puts you in jeopardy, and he wants to keep you safe. So I'm here to help you relocate." He stepped towards her, still reaching for her when she ignored his hand.
She took that cue unlike he’d expected, nailing him upside the head with the bottle. With a force that made his head pound and his ears ring, the bottle shattered against his skull, leaving Amalia holding the jagged neck. The colored stones that previously filled the bottle rained to the floor, almost making him trip as he slid on them.
His eyes exploded with dark bursts of light. With a pained cry, he lunged toward her, previously hidden hand filled with a hypodermic needle and clear, glistening liquid.
With hyper-aware cry, she lunged back into the bathroom, Lucy scrabbling to stay next to her, and slammed the bathroom door shut, leaning against it with her shoulder to keep it from opening.
His hand was grabbing the side of the door when it was shut, effectively stopping her from locking him out of the door. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop her from trying to slam the door harder. As much as his head hurt, her trying to close his hand in the door hurt a hell of a lot worse, making tendrils of fire go from his hand to his shoulder. After swearing a blue streak, he tried to pull his hand out. He got his hand out, but only after losing quite a bit of skin and blood in the process as she leaned against the door with her weight, and cut at his fingers with the sharp edges of the bottle.
He tried to force the door open with a shoulder that was covered with the blood dripping from his head, leaving bright smears on the previously pristine door.
With a snarl, she opened the small closet door, using it as a door-block to keep the door jammed shut.
“You NEED to come with me,” he said as he backed away from the door, touching the throbbing wound on his head with his bloodied hand. Wincing, he came away with blood, and a fresh understanding of how much he’d underestimated Gabriel’s little librarian.
"Like HELL I'm going anywhere with you!" She shouted, reaching down to grab Lucy's ruff. Thankfully the little dog had stuck close to her mistress’s side, afraid of the winged stranger. The little dog growled and barked at the door, and Amalia wondered where Kohl was, figuring he was hiding in one of the kitchen cupboards from the commotion.
"This isn't a request, Ms. Walker. I'm here to take you to safety, with, or without, your consent. Now," he paused, struggling to hold his temper. “I'd prefer it if you went with me quietly, even serenely, but if you refuse, I'll put you on your ass and carry you out, kicking and screaming, if I have to."
"You would have to get to me first,” she snarled, holding the bottle low, like a knife. Like Donovan had taught her in one of his ‘you must learn self-defense right now’ moods.
He smiled maliciously, and pushed gently against the door, testing the wood. "Oh, I’m sure that it won’t take me too long to get to you. This door? Flimsy compared to my strength. But you really, really don’t want me to have to fetch you. Now, which is it going to be? Listen, I’m only here because Gabriel wanted me to keep you safe, and while I’m sure you feel safe now in your little bathroom, with whatever the hell you nailed me with, but you won’t feel quite so safe when you hear what he found earlier. I guarantee it."
"I want to hear it from Gabriel himself that you’re here on his behalf," she stalled, breathing heavily from the adrenaline that coursed through her body. "After I get dressed. And if you’re talking about the corpse, I was there. I know about it already." She mentally refrained from adding a well-placed “duh” in there, and was proud of herself when she got over that stumbling block.
He swore to himself, but finally pulled out a cell phone with his intact hand. He ignored the pain shooting out of his injured left hand. It was already healing, not having been a fatal, or near-fatal injury. It was his fault, after all. He probably should have approached her differently. Maybe that stupid knocking thing that humans insisted on would have worked in a much less painful way.
She got dressed, pulling on some clean jeans and a soft sweater. She picked up a small pair of cuticle scissors and shoved them in a pocket. Then, she grabbed the bloodied bottle neck, rinsed it off, and put it in the pocket of the sweater. She arranged the folds so he wouldn’t notice the unsightly lump. She walked back into the hallway and followed the sound of talking into the kitchen. He was at the table, talking quietly on his phone in a fluid, lyrical language.
He saw her and stood up. "Here. Gabriel, just like you commanded," he said, handing the phone to her, a scowl on his bruised, bloody face.
She distrustfully took the phone, carefully maintaining the distance between them by keeping her small kitchen table between them. "Hello."
The voice that came through the speaker wasn’t Gabriel. She was sure of it. It was close, very close to that smooth baritone she’d gotten to enjoy listening to, but it wasn’t him. The accent was off. Barely off, but off. With narrowed eyes, she threw the phone on the table between them, watching it slide from the table to the floor. She was glad to see the umbren scramble for it. With a tight smile, she said, “Try again. I know that wasn’t Gabriel. So, who the fuck are you?”
With a tight smile of his own, he didn’t reply. Instead, he lunged at her, his supernatural speed bringing her within reach within seconds. His arm was up, once again the hand was filled with the needle.
Instinct brought one arm up to block him, and the other hand swinging the bottle at the naked throat. She felt him push her back, but she finished the move. Rewarded with a stream of hot blood, she felt a tight, grim smile as the umbren pulled away. Donovan had always told her to be the last man standing. She watched as blood ran down the bottle, over her hands as she pulled it close to her, ready to have another go
He grabbed his throat, surprise in his pale eyes as the dark blood streamed out, covering the front of his shirt.
“Bastard,” she snarled, holding the neck of the bottle protectively. She watched him as he fell to his knees, his breath a wet gurgle. He tried to get to his feet, but she kicked out, connecting with his shoulder, sending him back to the floor. His breathing intensified, sounding frothy and ineffective, and he started to struggle.
Hearing a noise behind her, she spun around to see another angelus. This one with oak colored wings. He was staring at the struggling body in amazement. She brought the bottle down, ready for another swing. If she’d taken one down, she sure as hell could take another.
“Who the hell are you?” she snarled, holding the neck tighter. When he didn’t answer, she swung the bottle at him, tearing his cheek open with the jagged glass.
Startled out of his stare, his wide blue eyes met hers, “Mathieu Girard.” He reached up and touched the blood that was streaming down his cheek.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she spit out, gripping the bottle until her knuckles were white.
“Gabe-Gabriel sent me,” he stuttered, staring at the body that had stopped flailing on her now bloody kitchen floor.
Still breathing, though, she thought as she followed his gaze. “Why the hell would he send you?”
“Because he thinks that you might be in danger.” Blood trickled through his fingers, trailing down his wrist.
“Because of the body?”
“The body, your brother and your friend,” he listed, finally relaxing enough to take a step towards the body. Taking his fingers off the wound, he found it had stopped bleeding.
“Prove it,” she said, not relaxing, feeling her muscles tighten as she readied herself for another swing.
He pulled out a phone with his other hand and quickly dialed a number. After a few liquid sentences, he handed the phone to her.
“Amalia?” came the deep tones she’d come to enjoy hearing.
“Gabriel,” she stated flatly as she watched Mathieu none-to-gently kick the unconscious body with the toe of a black boot.
“Is something wrong?” he felt his heart stop as he recognized the flat, emotionless tones of her voice.
“How many people did you send to my house?” she asked as she stared at the puddle of crimson slowly spreading, covering the maple floor with the sticky fluid.
