Page 12 of Soulmarked

3

NIGHT STALKER

Each report in front of me was an exercise in creative writing that would make any fiction author proud. My latest case file lay open, its clinical language hiding the truth beneath layers of bureaucratic bullshit.

“Victim shows signs consistent with animal attack, likely bear or large predatory cat...”

Right. Because New York was just crawling with bears these days.

“Subject exhibited extreme psychosis, possibly drug-induced...”

Sure. If by “drugs” you meant “being ripped apart by something with too many teeth.”

“Gang-related violence suggesting ritual elements...”

At least that one was closer to the truth, if you replaced “gang” with “vampire nest” and “ritual” with “feeding frenzy.”

My fingers drummed against the desk as I stared at the crime scene photos spread before me. Three victims in the past week, each with identical wounds. Surgical precision in the organ removal, entry wounds that matched no known weapon. The pattern was clear as day, if you knew what to look for.

The mark over my heart throbbed faintly, a reminder that I knew exactly what to look for.

Around me, the office hummed with typical federal agency activity. Phones ringing, keyboards clicking, the occasional burst of forced laughter at someone's bad joke. Everything perfectly normal, perfectly mundane. No one talked about the things that went bump in the night, about the real reasons we had a dedicated “unusual occurrences” division.

“Cross!”

Director James Sterling's voice cut through the ambient noise like a thunderclap. I looked up to see him standing in his office doorway, his tall frame filling the space with authority. Every other agent suddenly became fascinated with their computer screens, pointedly not looking in my direction.

Great. What now?

I straightened my tie and stood, feeling the weight of unseen eyes as I crossed the office floor. My reputation preceded me, the agent who took the weird cases, who saw patterns where others saw coincidence.

They called me “Spooky Cross” behind my back, thinking I couldn't hear them. If they only knew how right they were about the spooky part.

Sterling's office was exactly what you'd expect from a federal division director, awards on the walls, perfectly organized desk, family photos arranged just so. But I knew better. The seemingly random arrangements of his desk items formed protective sigils. The “modern art” piece behind his desk contained hidden wards. Even the pattern in his tie wasn't random.

He held up my latest report without a word, his expression unreadable. But I knew that look. It was the same one he'd worn when I'd first joined CITD, when he'd taken me under his wing like the son he'd lost years ago.

“Explain this,” he demanded, though his tone suggested he already knew what I'd say.

I met his gaze steadily. “Three victims, all with identical wounds, all missing the same internal organs. The evidence supports...”

“The evidence,” Sterling cut me off sharply, “supports something else entirely, and we both know it.” He set the report down with deliberate care. “You're pushing too hard, Cade. Making waves.”

“Sir, these people were murdered. Whatever did this is still out there, still hunting.”

“And what exactly do you think did this?” He leaned forward slightly. “Bears? In Manhattan?”

I could hear the real question beneath his words. How much did I know? How close was I to the truth he worked so hard to keep hidden?

“Sometimes,” I said carefully, “the official explanation doesn't fit the facts.”

Sterling sighed, some of his official persona slipping away. He looked tired suddenly, older. “Be careful, son. Some doors are better left closed. There are things out there...” He trailed off, his hand unconsciously touching his left arm where I knew he had a scar.

“I know,” I said softly.

“Do you?” His eyes searched my face. “Because from where I'm sitting, you're asking questions that could get you killed. Or worse.”

“I can handle myself, sir.”

---