Page 54 of Soulmarked
Sean felt it too. His casual stance vanished, replaced by the coiled readiness I was learning to recognize. One hand drifted toward where his knife would usually be, found only suit fabric, and clenched in frustration.
“You smell that?” he murmured, voice barely carrying.
I did. Beneath the moss and mildew, a metallic tang hung in the air, too faint for ordinary senses, but unmistakable to anyone who knew what to look for. Blood.
Our eyes met briefly, a whole conversation passing without words. His slight head tilt toward the wraparound porch, my equally subtle nod toward the partially open windows. We'd done this dance enough times now that coordination came naturally, despite our usual friction.
I kept my movements casual as I drew my weapon, maintaining the federal agent facade for any watching eyes. The weight of observation from the surrounding houses felt heavier now, more purposeful.
“Front door?” Sean asked, managing to make even suited elegance look dangerous.
“Clean entry, by the book.” I gave him a pointed look. “That means no kicking it down.”
“You're no fun at all,” he muttered. “Taking all the joy out of federal agent day.”
The porch steps creaked under our weight, the sound too loud in the unnatural quiet. No birds, I realized. No insects. Just the hollow whisper of wind through empty rooms.
The door wasn't locked which was another bad sign. Up close, I could see the subtle marks around the frame that spoke of forced entry, though they'd been carefully disguised. Someone wanted this to look normal while being anything but.
I took point, weapon ready but low, while Sean covered our six. Our movement through the entrance was smooth, practiced like we'd been working together for years instead of weeks. I tried not to think about what that meant.
The interior hit like a physical force, stale air thick with the remnants of violence. But not the chaos I'd expect from a demon attack. No scattered furniture, no blast patterns from supernatural energy. This was precise. Calculated.
Then we saw the body.
“Ah, shite,” Sean breathed, and for once I agreed with his assessment.
The victim matched the Guardian's description perfectly, middle-aged, academic type, probably hadn't seen sunlight in months before his death. But it was the manner of his death that made my professional mask slip.
He'd been arranged, not just killed. Arms and legs positioned with theatrical care, like a puppet posed by a meticulous child. The wounds followed the same pattern.
“Check the perimeter,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “Make sure we're alone.”
Sean nodded, dropping into hunter mode despite the suit. He moved through the house like smoke, checking rooms and sightlines while I cataloged the scene.
This was art. Horrible, precise art, with purpose behind every slice.
“House is clear,” Sean reported, returning to the study. “But there's sulfur residue in the basement. Strong enough to make my teeth itch. Definitely demon activity, the real-deal kind, not some amateur playing with a ouija board.”
I compared mental notes with other supernatural victims I'd documented. “This doesn't match any pattern we've seen. Even the ritualistic kills usually show signs of struggle, but this...” I gestured at the body. “He didn't fight back. Didn't even try.”
“Because he knew his killer.” Sean crouched beside me, close enough that I could smell his aftershave mixed with gun oil. “Look at the entry wounds. He was facing them, stayed still while they started cutting. That takes trust. Or compliance.”
“Willing sacrifice?”
“Or compulsion.” His expression darkened. “Some demons can do that, make you stand still while they tear you apart. Make you thank them for it. Nasty stuff.”
I pulled out my phone, already crafting the carefully sanitized version of events in my head. Sean watched me with barely concealed impatience as I dialed.
“CITD, Manhattan field office. Agent Cross reporting a 187 at 1482 Maple Street, Millbrook.” I kept my voice steady, professional. “Victim shows signs consistent with ritualistic homicide. Requesting full forensics team and scene containment.”
Sean's tension ratcheted up at the sound of approaching sirens. His hand kept twitching toward weapons he couldn't openly carry in his current guise, hunter instincts warring with our cover story.
“Local PD's going to be here in five,” I said after hanging up. “CITD team in twenty. We need to get our story straight.”
“Yeah, because nothing says 'normal investigation' like demonic sacrifice and sulfur residue.” He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the careful styling I'd insisted on earlier. “God, I hate working with the suits.”
“Which is why we're going with 'possible cult activity' and 'unknown chemical compounds.'” I started gathering the more obviously supernatural evidence, anything that couldn't be explained away with creative paperwork. “You're Agent Sean Kelly, transferred from Boston office last month. We're investigating a series of ritualistic murders with possible connections to organized crime.”
