Under Wraps

Chapter Two

“Vampire,” I whispered, raising one alarmed eyebrow.

“That was our first thought, too,” Hayes said, his blue eyes intent on mine. “Well, not our first, but …”

Mr. Sampson and I nodded.

“But there are no puncture wounds on”—Hayes absently gestured toward his neck—“the body.”

Mr. Sampson looked unconcerned and began to shuffle papers on his desk. “The old puncture wounds on the neck have become rather archaic and cliché. Very Bela Lugosi. Everything evolves.”

“It happened in broad daylight,” Hayes went on, and Mr. Sampson paused.

“That’s a bit odd, but not impossible. Sophie, why don’t you get the file of active vampires within the city limits for the detective?”

I stood up and then sat down hard when the detective said, “Wait. There’s more.”

Hayes reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook and began reading from it. “Eight days ago there was another murder. A drifter, we think—we haven’t been able to ID him yet. White male, midthirties, pretty physically fit. His throat was torn out.”

I gulped. Somehow, I find the walking dead far less frightening then the dead dead.

“His limbs were basically shredded.”

Mr. Sampson straightened.

“Claw marks and”—the detective’s voice dropped—“bloody paw prints surrounded the body.”

“Paw prints?”

Hayes swallowed and nodded. “Large. Canine or”—his eyes flashed—“wolf, maybe.”

“That’s not possible,” I said, surprised at the shrill sound of panic in my voice. “I chain up Mr. Sampson every night, and there are no other active werewolves in the vicinity.”

Mr. Sampson’s mouth was set in a hard, thin line. “Go on,” he told Detective Hayes.

“A woman—a known drug user, so not entirely reliable—said she saw the murder. Well, sort of. She was in the upstairs window when she heard the vic scream. She said it was bloodcurdling, not like the usual screeches and howls on the street. She went to the window within a second or two and the vic had already been torn apart. Then she saw what she described as a large dog running off the premises.”

“A dog?” I said, leaning forward.

Detective Hayes nodded at his notebook. “Like I mentioned, the body was pretty badly torn apart. But … and I’m sorry, but this is pretty gruesome—the victim’s eyeballs had been removed.” Hayes wagged his head. “We haven’t recovered them. Whoever did this removed them and kept them.”

My stomach lurched and I gasped. “He took the eyeballs? That’s disgusting!”

Mr. Sampson looked at me sharply, and I felt myself redden, embarrassed. “I mean …” I sucked in a breath and then pushed it out, shaking my head. “No, really. That’s just completely disgusting.”

Detective Hayes looked at me, his blue eyes sympathetic. “We see a lot of odd things in the city, a lot of murderers who take things—souvenirs—from their victims. Usually jewelry, an item of clothing, a driver’s license. But this—” He slowly shook his head, lips pursed. “This is extreme. Unsettling.”

I chanced a glance at Mr. Sampson, who had his fingers laced together, his brown eyes set hard. “And what about the second murder, the attorney? Were there any witnesses?” he asked.

Hayes shut his notebook and tucked it back into his chest pocket. “That’s just it. No witnesses on the second murder even though it happened in a busy office during the day. No one saw anyone go in, no one saw anyone leave. There were security cameras everywhere.”

“And?” Mr. Sampson raised an interested eyebrow.

“And there is nothing on them.”

Mr. Sampson pushed out a long sigh.

“So we’re dealing with a rogue vampire and an undocumented werewolf?” I swallowed heavily, my stomach starting to churn. “Good grief.”

“Actually”—Detective Hayes sat on the edge of his chair—“that’s why I’m here. We’re not sure what we’re dealing with, although we’re growing increasingly certain that it isn’t human.”

“Why is that?” I knew it wasn’t my place, but I was interested—arms-crossed, edge-of-my-chair interested. “Why can’t it be human?”

“I suppose it could,” Mr. Sampson supplied, “but that would be unlikely. Especially with the bodily harm in the scenes you described. Was there any blood lost on the carpet, Detective? Any blood lost anywhere around the second victim?”

Hayes shook his head. “Not a drop.”

“And the other victim?”

“He was a good-sized man. If the druggie—uh, witness—was right about the time of the scream and the time she saw the body, only seconds passed. One scream and the man was shredded from head to toe. That’s not easy to do in such a short amount of time. And given the amount of destruction? I’d call it very nearly impossible.”

“And the eyeballs,” I said, my stomach gurgling. “Don’t forget the eyeballs. That had to take some work.” I looked from Mr. Sampson to the detective and swallowed thickly. “Right?”

Mr. Sampson sat back in his chair. “I see. So, Police Chief Oliver is looking to check into our files?”

“Actually, Chief Oliver has put me in charge of the case and would like us to work together.”

“What does he want us to do?” I asked, my mind already plugging my smiling mug into the opening credits of CSI: San Francisco, with Detective Parker Hayes as my love interest—er, partner.

“If we have access to your files, and maybe your … expertise with the, the kind of”—Hayes swallowed—“people we might be dealing with in this case. Well, we think things will run much more smoothly if you and I could work together, Mr. Sampson. It’s obvious you have a wealth of knowledge in this field superior to anything we can glean.”

I glanced at the beautiful old calendar over Mr. Sampson’s shoulder; the one that showed an opal moon moving across a slick, blue-marble night sky and documented the changes of the moon.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Mr. Sampson said, splaying his fingers on his desk. “It just wouldn’t be”—he paused—“prudent for me to be out, above ground, at this time.”

“I can help,” I heard myself blurt.

Both Mr. Sampson and Detective Hayes swung their heads to look at me, and I started to stutter.

“I—I—I mean, I know—I’m on top of all the Underworld documentees and conflicts and I can move up there”—I gestured toward the police station, thirty-seven floors above us—“without raising suspicion. Or without …” All of our eyes traveled toward Mr. Sampson’s set of chains. “… having any issues. Really, I can help.”

That’s right, I thought to myself, Sophie Lawson: CSI.

Mr. Sampson nodded his head slowly. “She’s right. Miss Lawson very likely will be your best bet. She can move freely in both worlds at any time.”

I stood up slowly. “I can still come in, sir,” I said to Mr. Sampson, “and chain you up. And handle all my paperwork and everything.” I was already thinking about borrowing a pair of Nina’s stiletto knee-high boots and her black leather duster. That’s totally CSI, right?

I noticed the muscle jerk along Detective Hayes’s chin again when Mr. Sampson grinned and wagged his head. “Nina can do the honors for a while with me and you’ll still check in.”

Hayes gripped his notebook. “Sir.” His eyes traveled to me and looked me up and down in a less than flattering way. “Miss, with all due respect, the department can’t risk putting a civilian in danger.”

“The department can’t risk the general public finding out that there is a supernatural animal out there, draining people of their blood and ripping out their throats.”

“And eyeballs,” I quipped, certain my usual sallow color has dipped to … more sallow.

“Sophie is going to be your best bet, Detective Hayes. She is one of the only of your kind who can sense a supernatural presence and not be affected by it.”

Detective Hayes frowned. “My kind?”

“Breathers,” I supplied. “Regular folks.”

“The population in general can’t see magic, can’t see demons unless we allow them to. It’s what we call veiling or shielding.”

“Would this veiling work on technology? Like the security cameras not seeing our first victim’s murderer?” Hayes asked.

Mr. Sampson nodded. “Yes. But veiling doesn’t work on Sophie.”

I grinned, feeling a weird mix of pride and shame.

“Occasionally, there are people who can straddle both worlds. It’s rare, but Sophie is one of those people. You need her, Detective Hayes.”

My stomach lurched when Mr. Sampson eyed the detective.

He needed me.

Suddenly all the romance of becoming a super sleuth was replaced by an image of those poor men—actual, dead people—outlined in chalk and crime-scene tape. I gripped the sides of the chair and sat down again. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.” Besides, I was really more flannel pajamas and bunny slippers than leather duster and stiletto boots.

“You’ll be fine,” Mr. Sampson said, obviously unconcerned. “I have no doubt that Chief Oliver will keep you safe and Detective Hayes here will teach you everything he knows.”

“Great,” Hayes and I both muttered.

Mr. Sampson smiled, but my stomach was too busy playing the accordion to revel in the warm creases at the sides of his eyes.

“All right then, everything is settled. Sophie will help you with whatever you need. You’ll have access to all of the Underworld files.”

I forced a smile. “I’ll start gathering them up.”

The room fell into silence as we all sat, smiling politely and staring at each other.

“Oh.” I stood up quickly. “Will that be all?”

Detective Hayes stood, reluctantly tucked his notebook in his back pocket. He reached out and shook Mr. Sampson’s hand.

I led Detective Hayes from Mr. Sampson’s office. “So,” I said casually, “I guess we’re going to be working together. How are we going to work this? Should I come up—”

“Like I said, Miss Lawson,” he started, cutting me off smoothly.

“Sophie,” I interjected.

“Sophie.” Detective Hayes seemed to bite out my name, his lips held tight. “I don’t know about this veiling and shielding stuff, but honestly, I don’t know how much help you’re going to be. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate you wanting to help, but I really think you’d be better off staying down here. Nobody wants you to get hurt, and this is police work.”

All that was missing was a lollypop and a placating pat on the head.

I crossed my arms and stopped walking. “Police work? Don’t you mean man’s work?”

“You said it, not me.” Hayes’s eyes scanned me and his big hand cupped my shoulder. “This is dangerous. Whoever is doing this is not playing games, and the last thing I want—or need—is anyone else getting hurt. No one is going to be helped if I have to worry about my ‘partner.’ I appreciate your offer, though.” Hayes turned around, striding down the hall.

My skin bristled. “Do you know how vampires feed, Detective? Or that werewolves have the ability to change every night—not just at the full moon?”

Hayes’s pace slowed, and then he stopped, turning slowly. “Excuse me?”

I jutted out one hip, resting a hand on it. “You don’t know a thing about the Underworld or the people living in it. All the detective training in the world isn’t going to help you against one of them.”

The detective’s cheek pushed up in an amused, gorgeously annoying half smile. “Is that so?”

“Have you ever seen a zombie, a hobgoblin, a troll?”

I could practically see the wheels turning in the detective’s head, working it out.

“No,” he said slowly. “But—” Hayes started and then stopped when I raised both my eyebrows, expectantly.

Hayes’s grin went full. “All right, Lawson, looks like you’ve got yourself a partner. Meet me up top at noon.”

That’s right, I thought, grinning smugly to myself. Sophie Lawson, CSI.

Hayes spun on his heel and called over his shoulder. “Just do me a favor and try not to get yourself killed, okay?”

I took a step forward and realized my knees had gone rubbery.