Sacrificed in Shadow Read online

  Father Night rubbed a hand over his jaw, considering. “We’ll see.”

  That was probably the best she could hope to get from him. “Do you have any young, male, African American parishioners? Maybe brothers?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. You might want to try the black church over in Woodbridge. They mostly keep to themselves.” His eyes narrowed. “Why? Do you have a suspect?”

  “Just looking for people of interest. Trying to wrap things up as quickly as possible.”

  Father Night studied her closely. “You’ve changed.”

  “I love my straightening iron,” Elise said dully. He had known her with the auburn curls. Hopefully, he wouldn’t realize that more than her hair had changed.

  “That’s not what I mean. Although, granted, it is a striking look.” First helpful, now polite? Shit, the apocalypse was probably coming. “You’re more sympathetic. You never cared about the people you saved. You only cared about stopping the enemy. But I see true compassion in you now, my daughter.”

  “I’ve always cared,” she protested. The words rang false.

  Elise had been slaughtering demons when most children were learning cursive. After seeing so much death, the victims’ faces blurred together. It was easier to focus on the killers, the goal of victory—not the grief of those who survived.

  But things had changed, and the responsibility of it weighed heavy on her shoulders. She hadn’t chosen to start caring about people. It had been thrust upon her unwillingly, like the rest of her destiny.

  “Would you like to confess while you’re here?” Father Night asked, placing his hand over hers on the desk. She was wearing gloves, but she could feel the warmth of his skin through the leather. “Your soul is burdened.”

  She tried not to show how much those simple words made her heart ache. Burdened—she was more than burdened. She carried secrets that no human could ever be expected to possess and remain sane.

  Gaze fixed to the apple behind Father Night’s chair, she blew a long, slow breath from between her lips before speaking again. “Maybe later,” Elise said, keeping her face blank and voice impassive.

  Father Night smiled. “You’ll know where to find me.”

  SIX

  LINCOLN DIDN’T SEEM surprised to see Elise waiting for him in his cruiser this time. He drove two whole blocks without speaking, then abruptly stopped in front of a diner called Poppy’s. “Lots of shade for you here,” he said, parking under the red-and-white striped canopy that ran along the side of the building.

  Elise slid the aviators down to squint over the frames. The restaurant gleamed with polished metal and art deco accents. “Here?”

  “Best breakfast food in the whole county.”

  “I don’t eat breakfast.”

  Lincoln circled around to the passenger door and opened it for her. “Then you can sit with me while I eat.”

  Poppy’s was a bakery as well as a diner. Entering through the side door, Elise and Lincoln had to side-step through racks of fresh baked bread to reach the dining room, which was rapidly filling with other church-goers. The only vacant spot was on a pair of red leather stools at the counter, which had been polished to such a shine that Elise could almost make out her reflection.

  It was too dark to see inside Poppy’s while wearing sunglasses. “Keep them for now,” Lincoln said when she tried to return them. “Seems like you need the protection.”

  Poppy’s looked like the home of an old woman that prowled antique stores the way that Elise prowled the darkness. A six-foot-tall wooden bear guarded the door to the kitchen, wearing a floppy hat and boa. Six clocks, all set to seemingly random times, hung from the opposite wall—one of which was shaped like a cat, with a tail that swung every other second. The tables were plastered with old newspapers, clippings from catalogs, and sewing patterns; the walls held so many shelves and knickknacks that it looked like the building might collapse under the weight of them.

  The residents of Northgate seemed to treat the restaurant like they were all the family of the owner, too. They milled around the dining room and bakery, visiting one another’s tables to chat, laugh, and probably gossip, judging by the looks they shot Elise. Their minds buzzed with cozy familiarity.

  Lincoln disappeared to make a phone call, leaving her stranded at the bar while people whispered. Elise met curious gazes with a hard stare of her own.

  The deputy returned a few minutes later.

  “I called the morgue. Since you’re awake, it seemed like a good time to look at evidence.” He caught Elise glaring at an old woman across the restaurant and sighed. “You better prove yourself worth this trouble.”

  She had no interest in proving herself. Elise turned her glare on him instead. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “I’m hungry,” he said.

  A busty woman in a polka dot apron emerged from the kitchen, arms loaded with plates. This was, presumably, Poppy herself. It took her a long time to get back to the counter. Every time she dropped a short stack in front of someone, she seemed compelled to stop for a five-minute conversation.

  Eventually, Poppy stopped long enough to give Lincoln a mug of coffee.

  “Don’t tell me. I’ve seen the news, and I know you’ll want the usual,” she said, pinching his cheek before turning to Elise. “What about you?”

  Elise opened her mouth to decline service, but Lincoln said, “She’ll have the same as me.”

  “Coming right up,” said the waitress.

  “I told you, I don’t eat breakfast,” Elise said. She also didn’t like it when men attempted to order for her. One of her short-lived boyfriends had attempted that a few months earlier and left the restaurant with a sprained hand and wounded pride.

  Lincoln shrugged. “But this is the best breakfast.”

  “That’s not the point. I don’t eat at all.” It was an obvious lie, but easier than telling Lincoln the truth—that she didn’t eat human food ever, for any reason. It was unnecessary and unpleasant. And he wouldn’t want to know what she did eat.

  He also didn’t seem to care about her protests. “So you know Mikhail,” Lincoln said, referring to Father Night by his first name.

  “I’m not interested in discussing my personal life.”

  “Nobody here’s listening. Trust me. They’re too busy talking.” He sipped his coffee, and Elise watched him raise and lower the mug with a twinge of jealousy. Pie and milkshake? No thanks. But she could have downed an entire pot of black coffee on her own, just for the flavor of it. “Tell you what—if you answer a few of my questions, I’ll answer some of yours. One for one.”

  “You don’t have any information that interests me. I only want to look at your files.”

  “Aren’t you curious what Father Night is doing here?”

  She was curious. “Fine. A question for a question.”

  “How do you know him?” Lincoln asked, taking another sip of his coffee.

  Totally straight-faced, she said, “We used to fuck.”

  The deputy choked. Coffee sprayed over the bar.

  Poppy reappeared instantly, wiping down the stainless steel and giving Lincoln a hard pound on the back. “Careful, boy,” she said. “What would your mama think if you died on my counter?” He couldn’t breathe enough to respond.

  “I’d also like a coffee, Poppy,” Elise said.

  “Will do.”

  Lincoln waited to speak again until he could breathe, Elise had coffee, and Poppy was gone again. “You used to what?”

  “Father Night and I worked together, in a manner of speaking. We’re both exorcists.” Elise gave him a thin smile. “Yes, he occasionally used to fuck me over, but not sexually—he just made my job harder. Don’t ask intrusive questions if you’re afraid of hearing the answers. There’s a lot about me you won’t want to know.” Without missing a beat, she switched gears. “Tell me what you know about Father Night’s presence in Northgate.”

  “The last priest that lived here—Father Davidek—was mur
dered five years ago. It was the most recent murder before the ones you’re here to…” Lincoln glanced over his shoulder. The five hundred pound lumberjack sitting on his other side was wearing a pair of Beats headphones. He definitely wasn’t listening. And everyone else was too far away to hear.

  In any case, Lincoln didn’t need to finish the sentence for Elise to understand. She gestured for him to continue.

  “Davidek was killed by a demon. A nightmare. That’s how I learned the truth, long before Senator Peterson was assassinated and the OPA started making crazy pronouncements,” Lincoln said. “Father Night was sent by the Vatican. He vanquished the nightmare, and stuck around after that. Said he likes the good people here.”

  “What was a nightmare doing in Northgate?” Elise asked, drinking her steaming coffee in three big gulps. It was even more relaxing than smoking a pack of cigarettes.

  Lincoln only shrugged.

  Demons weren’t as common on the eastern side of the country as they were on the west, nor were they likely to haunt small towns. New York City? Yes. “St. Bumfuck-Nowhere,” as the werewolf had called it? No, not without a hell of a good reason.

  “Are there more nightmares here?” Elise asked.

  “I don’t know. What do they look like?”

  “You would probably feel them, not see them. They’re dark spots, literally and figuratively. Their presence evokes fear. You might stand somewhere shadowy, start thinking about gruesome things, get the urge to run.”

  “Not here,” Lincoln said. “There’s nothing scary about Northgate.”

  “Murder is scary.” Scary for people who could actually die, anyway. Elise hadn’t put a lot of effort into testing the theory, but she was fairly certain that was one ailment to which she was immune.

  With her coffee mug emptied, she felt antsy. She took out a cigarette.

  Lincoln gave her a hard look. “Not in restaurants.”

  Fuck me. Elise put the cigarettes away.

  Poppy returned with a tray for them: two matching pieces of cherry pie a la mode, and two chocolate milkshakes with malt. “On the house,” she said. She refilled their coffee cups and pinched Lincoln’s cheek again.

  Elise was surprised to see that Lincoln’s “usual” had so much sugar. He seemed like a cornflakes and glass of orange juice kind of guy—as wholesome as his crew cut and police cruiser would suggest. There was something distinctly childlike about pie and shakes for breakfast.

  Lincoln dug into it with gusto. “Are vampires real?” he asked around a mouthful of food.

  “That’s your question? I already told you that I’m not a vampire.”

  “Yeah, you said that, but you’re pale, you avoid sunlight, and I’m wondering if you’re coming after my blood next,” Lincoln said.

  There was something a little too forcibly casual about his tone. Maybe the deputy wasn’t just into cherry pie for breakfast. Maybe he liked to get a little unwholesome in other ways, too. Elise twisted on the bar stool so that her knees touched his.

  “Vampires don’t exist,” Elise said. “Vrykolakas. Succubi. Mara. They’re demons much like vampires. But what you’re thinking of…no. They don’t exist.” She dropped her hand to his wrist, feeling the pulse point throb under his fingertips. “But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t drink your blood, if that’s what you like.”

  It took Lincoln a moment too long to pull away. He glanced around him again, as if afraid that someone had seen her hitting on him. She was a lot more discreet in a sweater than a leather jacket, and nobody in Poppy’s would have reason to think that she wasn’t human, but that didn’t mean that they wouldn’t whisper about the deputy’s date.

  “Eat your pie,” he said gruffly. “You’ll want fortification before we go to the morgue.”

  “No,” Elise said.

  “No to the morgue, or…?”

  “I don’t eat. That’s the last time I’m telling you before I assume you’re stupid and deaf.” She drained her coffee mug. It was good—it tasted like the beans had been roasted that morning. “Last question, deputy. Why did you offer a reward for people that caught me on camera?”

  Lincoln’s fork stilled. “What?”

  “I saw the email.” All of the flirtation had drained from her tone, leaving nothing but cold annoyance. “Two thousand dollars.”

  She expected him to deny it. She thought a lot better of him when he didn’t.

  “I was trying to keep tabs on you,” Lincoln said. “I wanted to know as soon as you reached town. I thought it’d take longer for you to get here, and that I’d be able to find you before you found me. Waste of money, I guess.”

  “Is your salary as deputy so good that you can afford my fee and pay to spy on me?”

  “You’re out of questions, Miss Kavanagh,” Lincoln said, drinking half of his milkshake like it was a glass of water.

  “Elise,” she said again. He still ignored the prompt to call her by her first name.

  Lincoln slipped cash under his plate, hiding it so that Poppy wouldn’t find that he’d paid for his meal until they were already gone. “It’ll hurt her feelings if you don’t at least try this,” he said, cutting off a big piece of the cherry pie and offering the fork to Elise.

  “Then you shouldn’t have ordered it for me.”

  “One bite, and I’ll let you have a bonus question,” Lincoln said.

  Elise contemplated the ice cream-streaked cherries on the fork, then flicked her eyes up to catch his gaze. She didn’t move to take the fork from him. She leaned forward, closing her lips around the pie. It tasted like over-sweetened shit. Even when Elise had eaten human food, she had hated sweets. But she swallowed.

  He watched her throat as she did it, like he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

  “Okay,” she said, licking the sugar off of her lips. “Bonus question.” Elise leaned into him, letting the full length of her body press against his side. “Do you want me?”

  Before Lincoln could answer, Poppy stepped out of the kitchen, heading over to bus their meal.

  He pulled Elise through the bakery and out the side door. The sun had shifted—she only had inches of shadowed safety to get into the passenger’s seat of his cruiser.

  “Well?” Elise asked when he started the car.

  “Let’s go to the morgue,” he said. His pounding heart was answer enough.

  She slid his aviators on again and smiled.

  The Grove County Morgue was in the basement of the general hospital. The attendant on duty, Lance, had been college buddies with Lincoln, and was ready for their arrival. There were six bodies stretched out on surgical steel tables when they arrived, each of them covered in a tidy white sheet. The lumps under the blankets didn’t resemble human shapes.

  Lincoln greeted Lance with a grin and a fist bump.

  “Who’s the lovely lady?” asked Lance, shaking Elise’s hand. She could feel his pulse pounding on her tongue as clearly as though she had pressed her mouth to his neck. It was nerves. Cheer aside, Lance’s adrenaline was running high. Why?

  “Possible witness,” Lincoln said. “Can we have a few minutes alone?”

  If Lance thought that something weird was going on, he didn’t remark on it. “Sure thing. I’ll be outside.” He left.

  Lincoln immediately began preparing. He produced a pair of face masks and aprons, handing one set to Elise.

  “You’re very comfortable here, considering how few murders happen in your county,” she said, taking latex gloves from the box that Lincoln offered to her. She swapped gloves without letting him see her palms.

  “Lots of old people in Northgate, Miss Kavanagh. Murders aren’t the only deaths that get autopsied. I keep Lance company, sometimes.” Lincoln gestured to the bodies. “Do you have a strong stomach?”

  Elise had been to Hell more than once, seen the human-meat butcher shops, dressed herself in leather cured from the flesh of mortal slaves. She had seen men divided into cuts of meat and discarded as offal. She had skinned dozens of demons he
rself, removing their brands so that she could catalog the markings that helped associate them with the masters in charge. Her stomach was so strong, it might as well have been iron.

  She answered his question by pulling the blanket off of the first body.

  Elise stared for a minute, trying to assemble the pieces mentally, like a puzzle.

  That must have been the jaw. The other piece must have been the back half of a shoulder. There was no hip left, although some connective tissues remained to hint at leg muscle. Everything else had been eaten. No wonder the white sheets hadn’t looked like they were concealing human shapes.

  Now that she understood what she was looking at, it didn’t disgust her. She was, however, somewhat surprised. The killer must have been a very hungry werewolf—or several of them.

  “You tried to feed me cherry pie before we came here,” Elise said.

  “I like to have a belly full of good food before dealing with anything this terrible,” Lincoln said.

  Cherry pie was an interesting choice, considering that its innards looked a lot like the jumble of human pieces she was studying now.

  Tooth marks scored the bone, and chunks had been taken out of the meat. Elise spanned her gloved fingers over it to judge jaw size. Unsurprisingly, it was huge. She didn’t know enough about werewolf bites to confirm the match. She would have to find a specimen to compare—dead or alive. Good thing the full moon was coming up that night.

  Elise examined what used to be the head. “Did you match the dental records to identify the body?”

  “There weren’t enough teeth remaining,” Lincoln said, standing at her side. He was pale-cheeked and sweating, although he spoke with forced bravado, as if trying to reassure himself that his masculinity was unhampered by his reaction to the bodies. He would have been humiliated to know that Elise could taste his horror. “There was still ID on the body. Driver’s license, credit cards.”

  “And which one was this?”