Page 24 of Shadow Hunter

She frowned at the nickname, but still shook her head at him. “I’m fine. I don’t have a weak stomach.”

Reverse psychology for the win.

He shook his head. “There are some things nobody should have to see.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and planted her feet firmly.

Obviously, she wasn’t going to let this go.

He let out a long sigh. “Suit yourself.” He pulled open the drawer and fought not to gag.

Immediately Tiffany ran to the small wastebasket near the coroner’s desk and hurled. Damon wrinkled his nose, torn between giving her some space and a strange desire to take care of her, to hold back her hair. He didn’t blame her one bit.

“Still want to fuck around with vampires, Shortcake?” he called over his shoulder toward her.

Tiffany didn’t respond, only let out another audible heave.

A pang of guilt shot through him.

It was messed up for him to bring her along on this. He knew it, but better this than allow her to risk her own safety. All he could do is hope this would be enough.

He stared down at the unidentifiable body as anger slowly built inside his chest. Even if they’d found an ID, it would have been next to impossible to identify this girl, and no parent deserved to see their child like this. A large, gaping hole took the place of her face. Her lips, eyes and mouth simply gone, like some gruesome figure in a haunted house or a Japanese horror film.

As if the facial mutilation wasn’t enough, several sets of fang-sized holes marred her neck and collarbone. From the heavy, purpled bruising, they were evidence of the M.O.D.—method of death: exsanguination. Damon sighed. He’d stopped hoping for the existence of a higher power long ago, but, damn, he prayed the mutilation had occurred after she’d already been drained. The thought of her suffering from the injuries to her face as a vampire slowly bled her out was more than even he could handle.

He’d kill the sick bastard who’d done this. The worthless piece of shit deserved to die a slow, painful and torturous death.

The sounds of Tiffany still emptying her stomach came from the corner.

He tried not to look in her direction, to give her at least a small bit of dignity.

She’d change her tune after this alright.

Carefully, he examined the holes on the victim’s neck. There was no mistaking it. The victim’s wounds were definitely fang marks, the exact shape and width of the average vampire’s canine teeth. Walking to the coroner’s cabinet, he searched until he found three cotton swabs and the containers used for sending away samples for DNA analysis. He traced one around the edge of her fang bites, another near the edges of her facial wounds and the third over a small speck of dried blood on her cheek. He capped all three samples and glanced down at the body.

A feeling of disgust hit him. Desecrating the poor girl’s corpse was the last thing he wanted to do at that moment, but he couldn’t risk her turning into a vampire within one month’s time. He needed to take preemptive measures to ensure she wouldn’t turn, the measures he should have taken with Mark. Pulling his stake from inside his coat, he placed it over her heart. He closed his eyes, inhaled a deep breath and thrust the stake downward.

Tiffany hurled into the trash bin once more.

Damon opened his eyes again. Dry bloodless flesh, but otherwise there was no reaction. He let out a long sigh of relief. It was bad enough she’d been murdered by a vampire but thank God she hadn’t turned in the process. Bile rose in his throat as he thought of Mark being one of those bloodsuckers. Of Mark killing humans to fuel his own immortality. Because once turned, there was no fighting the change, and for the first year a vampire’s blood thirst raged so hard that all the self-control in the world wouldn’t aid him.

His eyes darted toward Tiffany.

What would she say if she knew Mark’s death was his fault?

He removed the stake from the victim’s heart and pulled his cleaning rag from his pocket. He wiped off the lacquered wood, placing the stake inside his jacket again, then closed the drawer, sealing the corpse inside, before he walked to Tiffany’s side.

She lifted her head from the trash bin. Shoving her hair away from her face, she inclined her head toward the drawer. “Is it closed now?”

Damon nodded. “Yeah, let’s go, Shortcake.”

She shot out of the morgue and toward the car as if someone had lit a fire under her ass. Judging by her pale white face, she was more than a little spooked. She didn’t speak again until he slid into the passenger seat beside her.

“I thought you had a strong stomach,” he said taking hold of the wheel.

She shook her head. “I thought so, too.”

Damon wasn’t surprised. Regular people thought being immune to motion sickness constituted a strong stomach. Dealing with the dead was different.

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