Shadow Visions: Shadow Warriors, Book 2

Dedication

To Mary Hamilton, editor extraordinaire. Your sharp eyes catch what we miss and you always have valuable insight to add that makes the story much stronger. Most importantly, you believe in our voice and in our concept. There aren’t enough ways in the English language to say thanks, but you’ve got them all.

We’d also like to give acknowledgment to the following people for their assistance in getting the details right. A big "thank you" goes to Margaret Taylor, former CHP officer and DHJ special agent. You didn’t blink when I mixed paranormal occurrences with police procedure. Like all of my chapter mates at RWASD, you rock and when I get back to California, the drinks are on me. Thanks are also in store for Tom Adair, retired senior criminologist and author. Your blog is bookmarked and each post saved. I appreciate the help you gave on blood testing and I know I’ll be asking more questions in the future.

Chapter One

Ixa kicked at the sheets tangling about her legs and snapped her eyes open. Unnatural humidity suffocated her. She gasped for air. Her body trembled and her gut threatened to heave. Years of being plagued by visions didn’t make them any easier to stomach.

She still tasted the desperation of the woman on the cold slab. She shook her head to dispel the nightmare. Useless. Hopeless. She couldn’t control or change the vision. She hated herself for it. Like a fly on the wall, she was a pathetic bystander. Pockets of her vision flashed in her mind. A woman’s upper arm. The tiny wings of a hummingbird fluttering, then faltering. A man in a mask of bones and tattered fur. A knife. Blood, so much blood. She couldn’t get it out of her head, rivulets of it staining everything in its path. And a beating heart held up high as triumphant laughter drowned out the screams in her head.

“No!”

Quickly, she turned on her bedside lamp. The clock read midnight. Beads of sweat trickled down her body, sticking the thin cotton T-shirt to her skin. This vision had been stronger than the last. More detailed. More frightening. She recalled vividly the cold touch of a knife on her flesh. She looked down the length of her body, relieved to see she was in one piece—no knife wounds, no blood. She was fine. The body she had dreamed of had been shorter, smaller, completely naked…and mutilated.

Despite the light in the room, Ixa felt the darkness of her vision creeping along the edge of her mind.

Her door opened and her grandfather stood silhouetted in the doorway.

“I heard you cry out,” he said as he hobbled into the room.

Ixa willed her heartrate to get under control. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

“You are never a bother,
mi brisita
.” When he’d first started calling her his little breeze as a child, she’d embraced the nickname. Now it only dredged up memories better left buried, but no matter how many times she asked her
abuelo
to stop, he’d apologize and say he’d forgotten himself. And maybe he had, she thought as he sat down gingerly on the bed, using his ever-present walking stick to lower himself. At eighty-seven, he seemed frailer than ever and it worried her.

“Did you have another dream?” he asked and ran a tender hand over her head. As a grown woman of thirty, the babying should have seemed odd, but ever since her parents’ deaths when she was a little girl, her abuelo had been the one watching out for her, doting on her like a mother hen over its chick. Now the roles were reversed, though he’d deny it. She worried too much about him to leave him on his own. They only had each other, so instead of getting a place of her own, she chose to stay and watch over him.

“You mean another nightmare?” She sighed and forced down the bitterness she felt. “Yes. I saw another woman sacrificed. This makes two.” Her fingers dug into her sheets as if to tie her to reality. “Why does this keep happening to me?”

Her abuelo covered her hand with his. “Look at me,
niña
. You have been given the gift of Sight. The gods have chosen you for some purpose.”

“Abuelo, I am not a child. Ancient Aztec gods aren’t real. And even if they were, my visions are not a gift. They are more like a curse. If the gods are as powerful as you say, why didn’t they save Xena and my parents?” Years later and she still couldn’t drown out the screams of her parents, or of her little sister. She remembered clearly the night Galante shot her father in cold blood and his laughter as he lit the match that consumed her sister and mother. All the while, she’d prayed for gods that never came.

Ruthlessly, Ixa closed the door on her memories. She’d clawed her way out of the past. She’d made a place for herself in the present.

“It is not our place to question the gods.”

“Abuelo, I called upon them for help. I didn’t abandon them—they abandoned me. Besides, I got Galante using old-fashioned detective work. He can’t hurt me or anyone else anymore.” She’d vowed over the ashes of her family that she’d see Galante pay. He’d been sentenced to life, and as good as it felt to have scum like him put behind bars, it didn’t bring her parents or little sister back.

Abuelo patted her leg. “Your father would be proud. You are a good police officer, just like him. But he believed in the gods and he would want you to believe too.”

Disappointment and sorrow clouded his features. She steeled herself against the need to comfort him, to take back what she’d said. She would not buy into her abuelo’s myths and legends. Doing so would take her down a path she refused to travel. She’d lost everything she held dear because of so-called gifts she’d never asked for, nor wanted. If she didn’t acknowledge them, they couldn’t hurt anyone ever again. She had to keep her abuelo safe. He was all she had left. So now she kept her feet planted firmly in the modern world. As a police detective, she dealt in facts and reality, and despite her abuelo’s attempts and her latest visions, she would not be sucked up into a world of Aztec gods, demons and warriors. She’d built a life for herself, brick by brick, and it kept her sane and her abuelo alive.

“You cannot continue to deny your path,” he insisted.

“The only path I have is that of a cop. We’ve been over this, Abuelo—I can’t be what you expect. You have to accept that.”

He shook his head, his expression sad. She hated seeing him that way, but it was the only way she could move forward in life.

“I understand that you are afraid of your gifts. Eventually, you will have to conquer your fears and accept yourself as you are. If I can’t make you believe, the gods will find a way to convince you.”

Again with the gods. She bit back the retort on her lips. “It’s late, Abuelo. You need to get some sleep.”

“So must you, mi brisita. We will talk of this matter again soon.” His tone brooked no argument.

Ixa sighed and nodded. She watched him leave, wishing she could give him what he wanted, but she didn’t dare. She lay back against her headboard, unwilling to turn off the light and call up another nightmare. The minutes ticked into hours and she tried to go back to sleep, but the images were too fresh in her head.

Dawn had already broken over the horizon when her cell phone rang, setting her heart racing. She eyed it warily, knowing she should pick it up, yet loath to do so. Finally, she reached out and snatched it off the bedstand. “Hello.”

“Ixa, we’ve got another one,” her partner’s voice came over the line. “It’s bad. I swear it looks like a blood sacrifice.”

Blood, so much blood.

She squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to erase the image. “I’m on my way, Boyle.” She didn’t know how to deal with myths and legends, but she knew very well how to track a killer.

She’d seen death before. Vile and savage. This one was no different. The young woman lay strapped to a metal slab inside a vacant warehouse, miles from where anyone could have heard her scream. Her lifeless eyes held the horror of her last moments. Blood congealed on her body and smeared over the table and floor. A large, ragged hole in her chest obscenely proclaimed where a madman had ripped out her heart.

It was the Latina from her vision.
“Mierda
.”
Shit
was definitely the word.

The shock should have hit Ixa like a punch to the gut, only it didn’t. This vision was her second. The last had come true and now this one had too.
Some gift
, she thought bitterly. This was a present she wished she could return. What good were visions when she couldn’t stop the violence before it happened?

She shook off the thought and peered closer at the wound. Her badge with her identification,
Detective Ixa Reyes, Homicide,
hung loose around her neck. She carefully tucked it back into her jacket. Her partner, Detective Frank Boyle, returned with his notepad in hand.

“Second one in the city and again there are no witnesses. Just another anonymous tip called in to the precinct. I swear someone is playing a game with us.” Boyle scrubbed his hand over tired eyes. A veteran of twenty years, he had seen and done it all, yet he treated Ixa as an equal. They made an odd team, but they’d developed a smooth working relationship, and they treated one another with respect. The only differences between them came down to their looks. Frank Boyle stood six feet tall, two hundred and forty pounds with thinning blond hair wisped around his pudgy face and weary blue-gray eyes masked by thick glasses two sizes too large. She could have been his teenage daughter, petite, with a tan, rounded moon face and full lips accompanied by a mass of straight black hair that hit below her shoulders, currently tied back in a no-nonsense braid.

Sometimes her Mexican-American looks worked in her favor—like the time she had to deal with the locals to track down a powerful drug lord who had been terrorizing the neighborhood. She had caught him and put him behind bars, but it had sealed her as a traitor to her own people. In the eyes of her colleagues, she had earned respect. Even so, every day felt like she had to constantly prove her worth among the boys. She straddled both worlds, yet belonged to neither fully.

Ixa had learned a long time ago to suppress her heritage and assimilate. It was best to play by the rules, follow the book and never deviate from protocol. Anything less only ended up in heartbreak, which was why she pushed aside the fresh image of her nightmare vision and focused back on the case.

“What time did the call come in?”

Boyle checked his notes. “Six in the morning.”

She nodded. “Sunrise. Same as the last victim. So how’d you arrive on the scene so fast?”

For the first time, her partner looked a little sheepish. He sighed. “Dana and the kids are away. Couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d get in early and go over everything we got on this case. I was on my way when the call came in.” He glanced down at the body and his lips tightened. “Saw right away we had another one on our hands and called you.”

Boyle drew her attention to a knife wound. “This victim has a hummingbird tattoo on her upper arm similar to the last woman.”

Ixa really didn’t need to look. The dainty painted hummingbird tattoo was seared into the backs of her eyelids. Unconsciously, she stroked her hand over her sleeve. Below the fabric she could feel her own hummingbird tattoo tingling. The sensation grew hotter, burning her bicep. She didn’t know the woman, yet they all sported the same tattoo.

Ixa bit her bottom lip. Her hummingbird tattoo had always been a part of her. Always. As a child, it had been a strawberry mark. Over time it had shaped and formed into the delicate bird—unusual and eerie, an understatement for sure. She had distanced herself from her Aztec roots, determined to make her way in a modern world, but her tattoo reminded her that she could never sever the connection completely. And this case seemed to be making the same point in a more frightening and horrific way.

“Looks like we may have a serial killer on our hands.” Although, as she said the words, deep down she sensed something far more sinister at work.

Without thought, she squeezed her arm. The tattoo radiated heat. She winced at the pain.

Boyle eyed her with acute perception. “Something wrong?”

“No. Just need some fresh air.” Ixa jammed her hands into the pockets of her slacks and exited the cavernous building.

The warehouse sat in an industrial park located between the San Diego Freeway and the Cesar E. Chavez Parkway. She’d have to check ownership of the property when she got back to the office. Slowly, she turned, taking in the dirty white exterior of the building, worn from years of salt air and erosion. From the description given by the patrolman, she knew three similarly shaped buildings occupied the property. A search of the other buildings had turned up nothing, not even cargo in the warehouse holds. Had the killer known these buildings were empty or had he simply gotten lucky?