“Injuries? Fatalities?” Viktor asked.
“Seven seriously wounded shifters and five humans in critical condition. We’ve been charged with collecting Callan and returning him to Annwn so Morgana can deal with him. Now that the Brotherhood is no longer a factor, neither Névé nor Saílle can offer any objections when Morgana sends him back to the time period he belongs in.”
“Good luck on that,” Viktor said. “I don’t think either one of those broads has any clue as to what constitutes a reasonable request.”
“Not to mention, now that he has a taste for the modern age, is Callan even going to want to return to his own time?” Talia asked.
Callan was an ancient Fae warrior/hero, who had single-handedly driven the Fomorians—a race of giants who were the Fae’s mortal enemies—back into the mountains. This was in Annwn, during the beginning of the Tuathan-Fomorian Wars. Névé and Saílle had combined forces when the Brotherhood had the Fae under duress, and they had retrieved Callan’s spirit, bringing a statue of him to life to act as a vessel. He was flesh and blood all right, but he wasn’t supposed to be part of our timeline and the gods had been very testy over the fact that he was running around the streets of Seattle.
“Then we’re going to have to kidnap his ass and drag him before Morgana. He might not like it, but that’s our job and we’re going to do it.” Herne lightly tossed his tablet onto the table. “I’ve made an appointment for us to talk to Saílle and Névé tomorrow at Ginty’s.”
I groaned. “Another parley? I hate that shit.” I mostly objected to sitting in a room with Saílle and Névé, trying to coax them into acting like adults instead of angsty teenagers. Plus, I always came away from the parleys feeling like dirt. They never said anything about me, and in fact, I had to admit, more than once they had been fair, but I still knew that I was dirt in their eyes.
“Well, suck it up, buttercup. You’re going. So is Viktor.” Herne grinned at me, ducking as I threw a wadded-up paper towel at him. “All right, let’s dive into these files and see what we’re up against. Angel, steel yourself. There are morgue photos in here and, given what Serenades said, they’re not pretty.”
Angel let out a sigh, but shrugged. “I’m starting to get used to it. I don’t like it, but I can handle it.” She had toughened up a lot since we started working for Herne, but she was still the most sensitive one of us, and it hurt her to see others in pain.
“All right, let’s see what we have.” Herne opened the files and began to sort through them.
Twenty minutes later, we were staring at a horrifying array of images and notes. The photographs were gritty, capturing detail in the extreme. Five victims, three male and two female, and all of them caught in their death throes. The murders had been brutal.
“Joy,” Angel said. “There’s so much joy mingling with the fear. Excitement and glee. Whoever did this got off on it, big time.” She grimaced, leaning on her elbows and holding her head. “Who could possibly get such a thrill out of torturing and killing people? I mean, I know there are perverts who do, but the reality never fails to amaze me.”
Herne shook his head as I moved to give her a hug. “Angel, I know it’s a lot to ask, but can you pick up anything more on the killer? We can use all the information we can use.”
She sniffed, then raised her head. “I’ll try.”
As she closed her eyes, I quietly slipped over to the counter to get the tissues. I knew how much it pained her to pick up on the gruesome details of a case.
“They knew the person. The killer was a friend, they thought.”
“Can you get anything more?” Herne frowned, jotting down notes as Angel spoke.
“Yes, a little. Whoever it is, they’ve got…they’re huge—but not in body. In spirit? And they’re not right in the head. There’s something terribly wrong. The killer is far more dangerous than we think,” Angel said softly, opening her eyes. “Smart, the murderer is so smart and clever and confident. The bodies are easy to find because he—she—whoever, is taunting the cops.” She grimaced. “A love for torture...a love for chaos. That’s all I got.”
“That helps,” Herne murmured. “So we’re chasing someone who gets off on torture and killing, and for some reason their targets are the magic-born. You didn’t by any chance get a clue of what race? Fae? Shifter? Human?”
Angel shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. That’s all I got.” She took one of the tissues and wiped her eyes. “I don’t ever want to meet them.”
“Let’s hope you don’t have to. Okay, let’s recap what we found in the files,” Herne said before swigging his coffee. “All five victims were brutally murdered—overkill, to be precise. And from what the medical examiner said, they were alive when the torture started. Toenails and fingernails were ripped off. Teeth were pulled out. Vocal chords were severed. There were burn marks in the esophagus, indicating that they were forced to drink some form of acid—the ME thinks it was some sort of clog remover. There was lye in it. And they had marks all over their bodies that looked like the killer used a cigarette to burn them. But nothing was quite enough to kill them. That came later.”
I stared at him, horrified. “Good gods. This isn’t just a serial killer, but a sadist, too.”
“Yeah, it looks that way. The timelines are a little hazy, but the victims were still alive after all of that. Then our killer decided to go for broke and cut out their tongues. In all cases, it looks like the victims were still alive. That is, until our psycho decided to remove their hearts. Except their hearts weren’t cut out. It looks like someone smashed through their chests and tore them out.” Herne looked a little green around the gills. I had come to realize that being a god didn’t guarantee an iron stomach or the ability to handle horrific events.
He laid out the photos of the victims, before and after. “Here’s what we have.”
There was a brief silence as we stared at the silent testament to just how far cruelty was willing to go. Finally, Viktor shifted his chair.
“What are the common links?” The half-ogre was staring at the pictures, his face bleak. I recognized the look in him by now. He was a surprisingly sensitive man, and he hated unwarranted suffering.
“They were all mediums, bone witches, or necromancers,” Herne said. “Other than that, the police weren’t able to pinpoint too many connections. Three men, two women. Four were magic-born, but one was a tiger shifter. Three necromancers, a medium—the tiger shifter—and one bone witch. Ages ranged from young—one of the necromancers—to old, again one of the necromancers. They all made their home in Seattle, but only one was born here. Two were married, one divorced, two were single. They didn’t know each other as far as we can tell, but two were loners and the other three each had a circle of family and friends.”
I frowned. That wasn’t a lot to go on. “Did they frequent the same places?”
“That we don’t know yet. The cops were looking into it, but there wasn’t much that they found. There was some overlap, but they didn’t find any common clubs or groups.”