The Light Who Shines (2 page)

Bluebell Kildare: May 26, 2022, Red Ages

The boy is stark naked, and dried blood streaks extend from
the crushed area of his forehead down to the hollows of his eyes where it pools
like small, bloody twin lakes. The lines of his ribs stick out so much I could
climb them like a ladder. A stark white shaft of bone sticks out from his leg,
gleaming against the bloody rupture on his thigh. A pattern of crimson, crossed
lines decorates his crushed left hip. His skin is dirty and he stinks like crazy,
but not from death. Not yet. More like a latrine.

Under his layer of grime is a layer of bruising, both fresh
and old. His feet and toes are black. How he was able to stand on them, I can’t
imagine, as it looks and smells as though they are rotting. Calluses surround his
ankles and wrists. I think he must have been tied up. Another pool of blood spills
from under his head, spreading wide on the asphalt road. He looks to be sixteen
to eighteen years old with the slightest bits of young facial hair growing
about his chin. His body sprawls out on the street with his limbs twisted at
awkward angles around him.

I’m going to catch the person who did this. I want to tear
his heart out with my bare hands and squeeze it into a bloody pulp.

My fantasy of mushy heart muscle squeezing through my
fingers as blood drips to the ground is unsatisfactorily interrupted. Dr.
Nathan Perlman leans over the boy’s hand with a pair of tweezers and carefully
plucks out a piece of dark red thread snagged on a fingernail. It gets tucked
away safely in a clear plastic evidence bag for future analysis. Realizing that
my hands are still fisted from my little fantasy, I release them and try not to
look like the vengeful murderer I momentarily wish I were.

Nathan looks up at me and says, “I’m ready to move the body.
Can you step back?”

“Sure.” I remove myself from the body, giving room for the Medical
Examiner and his assistant to hoist the body onto the gurney.

While the men are in mid-lift, I take the opportunity to
examine the boy’s underside. With one hand squashing my hat to my head, I lean
over until my hair drags on the asphalt. “Holy Plane of Fire!”

Nathan’s assistant stumbles at my exclamation and drops the
boy’s leg.

Nathan’s fury overflows. “Holy shit, Patrick! Hasn’t this
boy been through enough?”

Four hands jostle the body until they manage to get it on
the gurney.

Nathan’s foul mood and abuse of Patrick is unusual. His typically
jovial face is soured, and his smile lines twist in the wrong direction. My chest
tightens at the pained look on Patrick’s face. My heart goes out to both of
them, really. I can feel the anger and pain rolling off Nathan. Patrick is
feeling empathy for the boy and anxiety at having made a mistake on the job. I
try to push their pains aside as I have to focus on the matter at hand, and
dealing with my own emotions is enough. Luckily I can’t feel everyone’s emotions
all the time, just the stronger ones—unless I open up my sixth sense, that is.
Then I can feel it all.

When the body is safely enshrouded in clean white linen, I
turn to Nathan. “Did you see the lacerations on his back?”

Nathan grimaces. “I hate to see shit like this.”

I agree, and my heart squeezing fantasy transforms into
daydreams of watching the perpetrator’s flesh slowly disintegrate in a vat of
acid. Propping my hands on jean-clad hips, I observe Nathan and Patrick load
the destroyed body into the hearse.

Senior Detective Tony Gambino, who stands on the sidewalk
next to the street where the body was found, is spilling over with anger and
determination. I can feel so many emotions at a murder scene where the angst runs
high. However, the job at hand requires that I focus on the victim’s emotions.

“Gambino, can you give me a minute? I have some questions,
but I need to take some time here first.” Why can’t someone hanging around here
just feel guilty? My job would be so much easier.

Gambino nods his assent, and I admire how despite his abundant
emotion he looks the epitome of calm concentration.

I circle the taped off crime scene, stopping here and there,
closing my eyes, feeling with my sixth sense for lingering signs of magic or
strong emotion. A biting breeze blows by, sending a chill up my spine. The air,
independent of the breeze, is awash with emotion. Coming directly from where
the body had lain, a strong, sharp pulse of pain mixed with duller threads of
anguish hits me. My pulse escalates and my heart stammers as the pain and torment
submerge me. I seek solace in slow, deep breaths, reminding myself that this
pain doesn’t belong to me.

Another emotion tickles my consciousness a few steps from
the body. It’s a small sliver of emotion, which indicates that it only lasted a
small moment of time, but it’s intense. Confusion? No—it’s surprise. I walk
into the cloud of surprise only to be hit by another emotion. My feet are
positioned exactly where the shards of glass were scattered when it hits me. The
fine hairs on the back of my neck rise as I am pummeled by a blast of shock and
horror in one small space. This emotion is incongruent with the first because
it comes with a different signature, a different resonance left in the air. There
were definitely two parties here.

My feet carry me down the street a few steps and the
emotions shift back to the first signature. I do not own these emotions, but I
certainly enjoy them. I sense liberation and triumph! Not the usual feelings
one would expect to be haunting the body of a severely tortured young man. I
sense something else warring with the feelings of liberation and triumph. It’s
a deep, primordial fear, the feeling of being prey. This boy was hunted or
chased, or perhaps he was hiding from something terrible.

I stand still and further ratchet down my normal senses,
turning them almost completely off so I can feel more fully with my sixth sense,
searching for any hint of magic. Emotions wash over me freely. Reaching past
them, I search for something deeper and more elemental.

Something is coming from where the boy’s body had lain. It’s
nothing more than a light tingling in the air, low to the ground, but I can
feel that it has great significance. Moving closer to stand outside the outline
of the body, I crouch down and fan my hands through the air close to the
ground. A slight buzz zips through my hands, telling me the boy had a magical gift.
The magic is clear, but its purpose is vague. It’s something basic yet
powerful, but the reverberations don’t speak to a specific gift. I sift my
fingers through the prickly air. I can’t feel that any magic was used, but
rather just that magic had been there in the boy. Damn it! It’s too elusive,
and I don’t have much to go on.

I stand and open myself up to the world again. Gambino stands
well outside the perimeter of my work area wearing a quiet, thoughtful
expression. His fellow officer’s face is full of wonder. Gifted sensitive work
must be new to him. Well, at least it’s curiosity and not fear that radiates
from his expression. I shake off the lingering emotions and try to collect
myself as I move toward them.

Most detectives work to blend in with the everyday
pedestrian, but Gambino is most at home dressed in a suit and tie with gleaming
dress shoes. With his suave Italian looks, he wears it well. However, it only
takes drink or anger to bring out the Irish side of his heritage, causing him
to turn a signature shade of cherry red. Right now bright red spots highlight his
cheeks, announcing his controlled anger to those who know him well. I know him
well enough, but his freckled and fresh-faced companion is new to me.

As I approach, Gambino gestures to a man in the crime scene
clean-up van. Two men unload industrial-sized power washers and vacuum equipment,
obviously preparing for an inefficient bout of manual labor.

“You know, Gambino, any one of a number of magic potions,
powders, or spells would do the job more effectively,” I say.

Gambino grunts. “Humph. You know the precinct isn’t ready to
use magic craft like that. You can’t change the world in a day, but I’m working
on them.”

A familiar exasperation washes over me. It’s the twenty-first
century of the Red Ages, and the Gifted have helped keep the Norms safe from
Dark Vampires since year one, but still they will not get over their fear and hatred
of us. It’s an old, festering wound that I try to ignore. I turn my mind back
to the situation at hand.

“Okay, I’ve gotten what I can. What do you have?”

Gambino inclines his head toward his companion. “Officer
Warren was exiting the Cock and Bull Tap with some guys from the force when
they heard tires squeal. They saw the body when they turned the corner." Gambino
indicates the corner where the Cock and Bull Tap makes its home.

I address Officer Warren. “Did you see anyone or see a car?”

Officer Warren stands at attention, eager to divulge any
detail that might be required from him. “No, Ma’am. We thought someone was just
driving like an idiot when we heard the tires squeal. We didn’t hear anything
else. We actually didn’t see the body right away when we turned the corner
because of those shrubs right there.” His sweeping hand takes in three medium-sized
bottlebrush buckeye shrubs that grow a few feet up from where the body had lain,
positioned between the sidewalk and the street. The dense foliage could easily
have hidden a body from view.

“It couldn’t have taken more than a minute and a half for us
to pass the shrubs and see him lying there. He was already dead, Ma’am. I ran
to him right away and checked. No heartbeat, no breathing. The car was long
gone.”

“Did anyone move the body?”

Officer Warner’s mouth tightens at the perceived slight to
his professionalism. “No, Ma’am!”

I nix my next question, switching it to accommodate his
pride. “Do you remember anything else?”

We seem to be on smoother ground with his next reply. “No,
Ma’am. Besides that, it was quiet. No cars or pedestrians were on the street. This
is the end of the Warehouse District, and there isn’t much between here and the
river except the cemetery. Most first shift workers around here get off at three
o’clock, and either they head over to the Tap for a drink or they head straight
home. It was approximately 3:47 when we left the tap, and we found the boy at
approximately 3:49.”

My lips twitch in a smile at the fact that Officer Warren
knew exactly what time it was. My guess is that he’s never anything even close
to approximate. “Thanks, Officer Warren. You’ve been very helpful."

Gambino turns his intelligent gaze to Warren. “Thanks for
staying, Officer. That’s all I need right now. Let me know if anything, anything
at all, comes to mind.”

Officer Warren dips his head slightly in deference as he
accepts his dismissal. “I sure will, Detective Gambino.”

As he leaves, I see the forensic guys take down the tape and
start closing up shop. I throw Gambino a look. “Did your guys find anything?”

Gambino’s eyes shift over to the team before shrugging his
reply. “Some paint chips, some glass. Nothing much. Hopefully we have enough to
identify the car. The boy was pretty young, I doubt even eighteen. I hope he’s
on our missing persons list and we can identify him easily.”

I hope so too. “I’ll stop by tomorrow after I visit the
Medical Examiner to check out his findings.”

Just then, my chimerator tightens, so I flip open the lid
and see Jack’s countenance reflected in the dark, glossy surface of the black
pearl. “It’s my boss,” I tell Gambino.

Gambino’s eyes flick down to my ring, but unlike most Norms,
he doesn’t flinch at my use of it. A chimerator is an enchanted ring that
projects the image and voice of a person trying to contact you. It also
generally gives Norms the heebie-jeebies.

A smile ghosts over Gambino’s lips. “Well, I’m heading out.
We’ll talk tomorrow.”

As I watch Gambino walk to his car, I say “Hola” into my chimerator,
trying to sound casual. My boss, Jack Tanner, is quite possibly the sexiest man
alive. He exudes danger in a quiet, stealthy sort of way. I often think I
should be frightened of him—quite possibly because he’s a very old and
incredibly strong Vampire. But I can’t seem to muster any fear for him, even
when he’s in an obvious rage. That only makes me question my sanity. It’s a
constant struggle to actually feel casual, so I usually end up settling for
sounding casual.

“Hi, Blue. So what’s happening?” Jack asks.

Jack is not one for small talk, so I give him a quick
rundown. “Well, an older teen boy, approximately sixteen to eighteen years old,
was apparently hit by a car. Some off-duty officers were just leaving a tavern
and heard tires squeal before they came upon the scene. The car was gone and
the boy was dead when they reached the body less than two minutes later. Forensics
picked up paint chips and glass at the scene, and the deceased has a large
impact injury on his hip. The scene is located behind the Cock and Bull Tap at the
intersection of the alley behind it and River Road. No other evidence was found,
and no one else appeared on the street at the time of the incident. Unfortunately,
I didn’t sense any magic used at the site in the perpetration of the crime.”

Jack asks, “So a standard hit and run?” He pauses a moment. “Wait,
Blue, how did you see an impact injury on his hip?”

I scuff my boots on the sidewalk. “I wondered if you would
catch that. This is no standard hit and run. Before this boy was killed it
appears he was stripped, starved, beaten, tied up, and left to stand in his own
excrement.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jack mutters.

“What’s worse is that he felt free. I got the impression of
a feeling of triumph before he died. He thought he had won. And then he got hit
by the damn car and his brain was bashed in.”