Magicstorm (Heart of a Vampire, Book 4) (2 page)

One of these days, she was actually going to
remember, so when she was called into a crime scene unexpectedly,
she didn’t have to deal with the looks she was getting now. It was
difficult enough being a female detective without flaunting her
femininity. More importantly, it got in the way.

Like usual in Arizona, the weather had
bypassed spring entirely. Sweat dampened her neck, making her loose
curls cling uncomfortably to her skin.

“Daily, let me in,” she growled at the
nearest officer blocking the alley.

He hurried to pull back one of the sawhorses.
“Yes, ma’am.”

She pushed past him, taking in the scene.
Phoenix PD officers guarded the sight from the lookie-loos, while
the coroner hunched over a body only partly hidden behind a rusty
dumpster. Overlaying the scent of rotting garbage, she caught the
distinct coppery odor of fresh blood.

“Who was first on scene?” she demanded from
an obvious rookie as he nervously flicked his notepad open and
shut.

“Um, I was, detective, um, ma’am.”

She read his name-tag. “All right, Portensky.
Details.”

He fumbled open the notebook, nearly dropping
it. “The call came in at 8:02 p.m. I was dispatched, and arrived at
8:09. I didn’t see anything at first.” The kid paled, swallowed
hard, then continued. “Then I smelled it.”

“Any information on the caller?” She studied
how the dumpster had been pulled away from the wall. Black and red
lines of wax snaked from the brick to the center of the alley.

“No, ma’am. Distorted voice, barely clear.
Dispatcher said she wasn’t sure she’d even heard the address
right.”

“Make sure your report is on my desk by
morning.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hustled toward the street,
as if trying to put as much distance between himself and the
body.

Unfazed, Celeste headed right for it.

Hovering over the body, the coroner, Frankie,
glanced up. Weariness dulled her dark eyes. “Hey, girl. Rough
night?”

“About to get worse.”

Frankie sighed, pushing her long bangs from
her eyes with the back of her hand, then waved at the body. “No
name, no ID.”

“I assume that’s why I was called in. These
are my streets,” she replied.

“Sad state this last month, with all these
killings.”

Shrugging, Celeste stepped closer. The woman
lay mostly exposed, tattered remains of her clothing spread back
from her chest. A small piece of red cloth had been draped over her
face. Bleach-blonde hair spread around her head, the tips soaked
with blood. The killer had taken a knife to her throat and
chest.

“Time of death?”

“Her temp is still high. I’d say in the last
hour.”

Considering Portensky had been dispatched
less than a half-hour ago, it was possible the rumors were true.
This
c
abrón
was calling it in
before
his
victim was dead.

Frankie pulled off her gloves. “What kind of
sicko mutilates young girls? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“Aren’t they all sickos?” Celeste replied,
forcing her emotions away. The victim’s wounds were ragged, as if
caused by a serrated weapon. They still hadn’t figured out what the
killer was using.

“We’re ready,” Frankie said.

Nodding, she replied, “Go ahead.”

Frankie lifted the red cloth from the body to
seal it in an evidence bag.

Celeste’s breath caught, hitching in her
tightening throat.
“
La madre que te parió!”
she
cursed.

No woman, just a girl.

Baby had been fifteen, max. She’d worked the
streets, saying it was better there than at home.

Trying to get these girls into shelters was a
trial. Every time Celeste got one off the streets, five more took
her place. But Baby had been sweet, mostly clean, not the hardened
type Celeste was used to dealing with.

And next week, there was an opening at one of
the shelters Celeste worked with that Baby had agreed to enter.

Three damn days.

Swallowing hard against the dark, useless
emotions trying to choke her, Celeste forced herself to move, to
get on with the job. She noted the wounds and the bruises covering
the girl’s face and upper arms. A broken necklace of cheap,
brightly colored glass lay discarded near her left hand.

A dark smudge against Baby’s pale skin caught
her eye. “What’s that?”

Frankie bent closer, snapping some photos,
then gently turned the girl’s hand over.

A black mark had been drawn on her wrist. A
question mark with a bar crossing the center of the straight line.
Celeste drew a replica in her notebook.

“Didn’t see anything like this on the other
bodies,” Frankie said as she took more pictures.

“I didn’t either. They were only left on the
walls.” She continued to note the details of the crime scene as the
morgue techs wheeled away the body, along with the scattered trash
on the ground. They took it all. Anything could hold a clue.

As the other officers dispersed, Celeste
stood back and watched. Waited for the scene to clear so she could
search for clues. See if she could find more of the strange
markings, some sort of runes, like at the other scenes.

As she waited, tapping her foot impatiently,
her anger burned hotter.

These “Cult Murders” as the press called
them, were supposed to have been solved weeks ago. They had
disbanded the taskforce on her captain’s orders.

The city began to breathe easier.

Until a few nights ago, when they’d started
up again.

Only, there were differences this time.
Captain Michaels was adamant it was some sort of copycat, but then
the question became how the perpetrator had learned so many details
about the original murders.

Celeste didn’t buy it. There had been no
arrests, no one found guilty. All the captain would say was the man
responsible fled to some little town up in the mountains and had
been brought down, killed during a fight with the local cops.

It didn’t satisfy her at all.

Especially now.

“Detective Wilder?” Officer Daily called. She
glanced back at Baby, one last look at a vision that would haunt
her forever.

With a quick, silent prayer for the girl’s
soul, she headed over to the cluster of cops, all staring at the
ground.

Daily glanced up, his Irish complexion
reddening from excitement.

As the others stepped back, her gaze fell on
the pentacle drawn in what looked like blood. She recognized the
symbol, same as at the earlier murder scenes.

As she studied it, another mark, further down
the alley, caught her eye. “Daily, with me.” He followed her to the
second mark, this one a triangle with an eye in the center. They
found a third rune and followed it like a trail of breadcrumbs.

This was new. “Call this in. Get someone
taking pictures,” she said, drawing the symbols in her
notebook.

They spent three minutes finding the next
mark, then another.

Celeste realized she could no longer hear the
crime scene. An itch crawled down her neck. She opened her mouth to
tell Daily to call for backup.

Three men dropped to the street with loud
thuds. She glanced up. Her mouth dried and her heart thumped
loudly.

The only place they could have come from was
the roof, but the buildings were both over forty feet tall.

Impossible.

“Hey, little pig. What we got here?” one man
crooned.

Smoothly, ignoring her confusion and the
growing, deeply rooted fear, Celeste drew her
Glock
. “Freeze, all of you.”

Reaching for her belt, she studied the three
men. Something was off about them. She clicked the radio, shouting,
“Officer needs assist--”

The radio was jerked from her hand. Something
sharp raked over her fingers. She bit back a hiss of pain.

“Stop right there,” she called, trying to
come up with an explanation of how her radio had disappeared when
she hadn’t even seen them move.

Tall and over-muscled didn’t intimidate her.
It was when one of them smiled, revealing a mouth full of teeth
sharpened into points, that made the itch on her neck explode down
her spine.

One man shot out his hand, nearly too fast
for her to follow. Daily flew through the air, slamming into the
brick wall on the other side of the alley.

Crumpling to the ground, Daily moaned
weakly.

“Back up against the wall, away from the
officer,” she ordered.

The men smiled at her, their eyes freaking
glowing. Some trick.

Her stomach quivered as the hair on her nape
stood straight up. “Now.”

“Little pig, little pig, let me in,” a
gravelly voice came from behind her.

She spun, sidestepping to put her back to the
nearest wall, cursing herself that she hadn’t even heard the fourth
man coming.

“All of you, against the wall. Hands above
your heads.”

The newcomer, this one a redhead, raised his
hands high and spun in a circle like some demented ballerina.

The other three guys inched closer to
Daily.

“Last warning. Get away from him and backs to
the wall.”

Before she could blink, one man lifted Daily.
The rookie screamed as his head was slammed against the brick wall,
then fell silent.

She fired at the man holding him.

He disappeared, only to reappear further down
the alley, Daily still dangling from his grip like a rag doll.

Red Hair stepped towards her. She turned and
fired in one smooth motion. She missed. Not possible. She shot
again, this time catching a wavering motion as the man stepped out
of the path of the bullet.

“Impossible,” she whispered. Her stomach
flipped.

“Try again, piggy. Pain is such a wondrous
feeling. See if you can hit me.”

She fired. Missed, as he once more moved
faster than the bullet.

He ripped the gun from her hands so fast she
didn’t even see him reach her.

Pain exploded over the side of her face and
she spun, falling against the wall. Clutching the brick, she
inhaled deeply against the grayness edging into her sight.

Something sharp dug into her shoulders,
spinning her around and slamming her back against the wall. Red
Hair stared at her, leering as his gaze traveled down her face and
chest. “Yummy. Never knew bacon looked so good.”

“Back the fuck away,” she gritted out through
the pain.

“Ah, no.” He tilted his head. “Don’t think I
will.”

She fisted her hands, striking his nose. Bone
crunched. He howled, hands cupping his face as he stepped back.

It gave her an opening. She slammed her boot
into his groin, then grabbed his wrist, twisting it violently.

Before she could blink, the others were on
her. Nails dug into her skin, ripping her clothing. A fist tangled
in her hair, jerking her head back and bringing tears to her
eyes.

She bit her lip, tasted blood, held back the
cry of pain.

Red Hair drew closer, his face only inches
from hers. Blood dripped from his broken nose, but he merely
grinned. His eyes were pure red, shining with unholy light.

“
Madre de dios
,” she whispered a
prayer to the Mother Mary, her heart skipping a beat. “What the
hell are you?”

He leaned closer, whispering, “Your nightmare
come true, piggy.”

Chapter
two

Brandon Wulfgar hunched at the edge of the
roof as four vampires terrorized the female cop. She was a
spitfire, fighting for the other cop’s life, and her own, with no
hesitation.

She raked her nails down the cheek of one
vamp, jerking from their claws as she tried to get away. She
shouted a scream of curses in what sounded like Spanish.

Brandon jumped to the alley, silent, deadly.
The other vampires didn’t even notice him, the power of his age
cloaking his presence as his dark duster helped him blend into the
shadows.

He grabbed the closest vamp by the shoulder
and rammed him against the brick wall. The guy hit with a scream.
Brick crumbled.

Spinning, Brandon tore the others off the
woman.

Their leader was occupied with drinking from
her neck. Brandon ripped him away.

He was unprepared when the woman clawed at
him, then kicked a damn heavy boot into his kneecap.

“Get back,” he growled.

She met his gaze, shivered, then cursed once
more in Spanish.

“I’m here to help, unless you’d like me to
leave you to them.” He waved at the vampires rising to their feet,
fury etched in the lines of their bodies.

The woman glanced at them, back to him. She
blinked, understanding dawning.

Brandon drew his claymore from the sheath
strapped across his back, ignoring her gasp as she stared at the
four-foot-long broadsword.
Tyrfingr
vibrated in his hand,
thirsting for the kill.

He didn’t like putting his back to the woman,
but a mortal couldn’t possibly do much damage.

“Brother,” the leader sneered. “Don’t worry.
We’re happy to share.”

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath. He
swung his sword with an ease learned from centuries of practice.
His blade bit cleanly through the necks of two of them. Their
bodies fell, smoke rising as they decomposed.

The other two vamps stared at him, the
leader’s eyes flashing with fury.

“Want more?” Brandon asked pleasantly.

The leader hissed, baring his fangs, and
leapt. He barreled into Brandon. They flew back, crashing against
the wall.

Claws dug at his chest as the vamp tried to
reach his heart. He slammed
Tyrfingr’s
hilt against the
leader’s head.

The vamp jerked away, eyes unfocused.

Brandon lifted his blade and swung,
decapitating the weaker man. The fourth vamp had disappeared.

With a sigh, he turned to the woman, only to
find himself staring down the barrel of her gun.