Reaping Hell: Kiara Blake Book 2, page 2
Detective Ross’s grim smile fell. “We understand. Thank you—”
“But I’ll help in any way I can.”
Wilcox’s hand squeezed my shoulder. “Thank you.”
For one split second, everything felt right in the world from that simple word of gratitude. Funny how that worked.
Detective Ross nodded. “If you will please come this way?”
The hotel’s lavish modern twist of an Art Deco lobby was busy with late morning check-outs. Oblivious guests sipped from takeaway paper cups, the logo of a high-end coffee chain on prominent display while rearranging carts of luggage to the dismay of waiting bellhops. Hotel staff walked with hard lines etched around thinned lips as their eyes nervously darted toward the detectives in passing.
“No! You cannot make me work here anymore.”
The feminine voice sliced through the uneasy tension that hovered over the pleasant guest chatter. A plump woman wearing what appeared to be a housekeeping uniform marched into view. The front doors to the lobby were her clear choice of destination. A wiry framed man wearing a grey business suit followed hot on her heels.
“This place is haunted, and now people die.” She pivoted on a foot and poked the man in his chest with a stubby finger as she turned. “You did not say there were ghosts here. I don’t work with ghosts. I quit.”
Detective Ross tugged at my arm, pulling me to the side as the irate woman spun around and blazed a path out through the front doors. All lobby chatter had stopped. The sudden silence was jarring. Then the voice of the man in the grey suit rang sharp, stammering excuses to the slacked-jaw guests.
Wilcox stood behind me, and his casual nudge pushed me forward. It wasn’t until after we’d stepped into the elevator that he spoke. “This hotel was built in the early nineteen twenties, and it has been considered haunted almost since the day its doors opened. A lot of bootlegging went on back then, and there’s a hidden room off what is now the hotel bar that was used as a speakeasy. Illegal drinking and gambling led to a couple of murders over the years, and that was followed by claims of ghost sightings. There have been no documented cases in more than twenty years, but a film crew for one of the cable networks showed up last month to do a story on America’s haunted hotels. The entire hotel staff is now convinced this murder was done by a ghost.”
“Are you?” I asked.
“I don’t know. A human couldn’t have done this except for…” Pain had flashed in his dark eyes before his head jerked away. “We need to see what the medical examiner says after the autopsy.
When the elevator dinged, announcing our stop, the doors opened, and I gagged. A strong smell viciously attacked my nose. Wilcox’s reassuring hand was back on my shoulder. “Whenever you need to get out of here, let us know.”
“The smell…”
Wilcox nodded. “It’s bad. And it gets worse.”
I didn’t understand the worse part until I looked down the long corridor. Crime scene tape decorated the far end of the hallway where a uniformed police officer stood guard. I could tell the cop’s face tinted green.
The body. From the elevator bank, I could smell the body, and it was fried. A grim expression covered Detective Ross’s face. The pretense of pleasantry had disappeared as he led us down the narrow hall. My skin chilled, yet pricks of sweat had gathered at my nape. Brain screamed that it was in my best interest to run. Since I’d never been one to listen to reason, stubbornness demanded to know why start now?
About ten steps away from the yellow crime scene tape, Feet drew to a grinding halt. And it wasn’t because of my mind’s continuous pleas to flee the grisly scene I was certain to find behind door number one.
A soft grunt of pain issued from Wilcox’s lips as he rammed into my back, his injured arm that had brushed against my shoulder was barely a blimp on my radar. No, it was the ghost with a particular mark of thin circles etched into his right cheek that held my full interest.
This particular ghost wasn’t my assignment. The photograph tucked into the charred sulfur-smelling envelope placed on my front doormat that morning boasting of Hell’s newest soon-to-be resident looked nothing like the youthful face I now spotted stepping through the barred-off hotel room door. But I felt certain that he was some Praedator’s current assignment. My sword burned a length of alertness down my back, and my hand itched for its hilt, but I held steady. Not my problem. The reminder needed. But why was a marked here?
A perplexing gaze met my eyes. The ghostly irises were green, not yet the red I felt certain they’d soon be. He stilled as he took me in, and then with the shake of his head, he poofed.
“What do you see?” Wilcox’s question was soft against my ear.
“Is he young?” I asked.
“Who?”
“The victim.”
“Early thirties.”
My head shook. “This guy looks more like a high school student.”
And the ghost was young. The thought bothered me more than it should. Young and destined for eternity inside the pits of Hell instead of proms and graduation.
“There’s a ghost?”
“Was,” I corrected.
“Ms. Blake, are you ready?” Detective Ross turned to me. We’d moved past the uniformed officer, who looked like the contents of his breakfast were about to decorate the hallway floor, and beyond the yellow crime scene tape warning people to stay back—not that anyone stood near. No one would need a reminder to stay out of the police investigation area with the wretched gag-inducing odor penetrating the air.
The hotel door was opened. Room design I entered, standard. A bathroom was located off to the left, a rather large one and covered in marble. Beyond the room’s brief entranceway was a door, partially ajar, allowing a peep into a full walk-in closet. Okay, so the place was a much nicer setup than what Checking Account afforded those few times I’d embraced the word vacation. After passing the closet, the space opened wide. More expensive furnishings than what I was accustomed to seeing, lined cream colored walls, all carrying on with a modern twist to an Art Deco design style first noted in the lobby. The air was stilled in a way that only death could create. A man lay perfectly tucked into a plush king-sized bed butted against the far left wall.
My feet stumbled as a strong wave of fried flesh hit. Eyes watered while my abused nose shoved me backward into Wilcox. His second grunt of pain at my expense caused a shot of guilt to stab my heart. At the same time, the urge felt strong to bury my face into his solid chest. A feeble attempt to avoid both the sight and smell of Dead Man at best. My watering eyes didn’t want to look, and my nose was about to send a direct message to Stomach that it wasn’t a requirement to maintain that morning’s bagel.
“What’s disturbing about this death,” Wilcox said, “is the man appears to have been burned alive from the inside.”
“Except for some soot out of his nose and around the edges of his eyes, we don’t see a mark on him,” Detective Ross finished.
Eyes—mine, which didn’t contain a speck of soot—weren’t happy as I forced my gaze down to the bed. The body lay stiff, arms extended down at his sides on top of the cover while hands were folded into tight grips. Even in death, the clutch of his fists remained tight enough to pull the skin of his fingers tautly white. As the detectives had stated, dark soot seeped out of the corners of the victim’s eyes… so bloodshot the color surrounding the iris couldn’t be detected. His mouth gaped as if opened to speak, or scream, or even struggle for one last gasp of air.
My scattered thoughts searched for the word I wanted. “Human combustion?”
Detective Ross’s head shook. “We’ll call in an expert, but no recorded case of human combustion has been like this. His skin should have burned, yet it’s perfectly intact.”
“What do you think, Kiara?” Wilcox asked. “Could a ghost have done this?”
“No.” I forced a step forward, taking in more details of the dead body. The image burned a lasting impression on my mind that was certain to haunt me until my own last dying breath. I swallowed back churning acid from my queasy stomach and faced the seasoned detectives with a newfound respect. “Ghosts attack with their energy. I can’t think of any way they could use that power to burn the inside of a human body but leave the outside untouched. Causing a light to malfunction and generating a spark to catch a human on fire is more the ghostly method of killing.”
Detective Ross rubbed his face. “So we got nothing.”
“We’ve got one more theory,” Wilcox said.
Detective Ross’s already drawn face tightened. “That means we’re dealing with humans. We’re dealing with them.”
“You know they have the power,” Wilcox said. “They’ve done it before.”
“That was over twenty years ago.”
“How could a human do this?” I asked, tilting my head back to look up at Wilcox’s chiseled face. “You said one couldn’t have done this, and I agree. It doesn’t make any sense. How can a human make the insides of a body burn?” A thought struck, and I risked another glance at the bed. Other than the smell, the soot, and the disturbing eyes, the body appeared perfectly… normal. “What about his bones? Did they burn?”
Detective Ross’s eyebrows drew together. “Good question.”
An ink pen was pulled from the inside pocket of the detective’s suit jacket, and he gave a gentle tap with its tip to the dead man’s arm. The skin deflated.
Ah, crap… Too much. The sight of deflating skin, like a balloon that had lost its helium, was my tipping point. The arm now appeared like a flat piece of flesh-colored rubber. My hands flew up to cover my nose, and I turned away from the grotesque sight. Feet had already taken two steps toward the door before my voice could finally summon words to speak. “I think I need—”
“Detective Wilcox.”
A uniformed officer barged into the room. He nodded to Detective Ross. “We found a witness, Sir. We found someone who saw a man leave this room.”
Wait—a human? The killer really was human? Stubborn resistance fought the urge to turn back to the fried corpse. Mind still lingered on my previously asked question.
How the hell could a human do this?
Chapter Three
Police uniforms and business suits gathered around a broom closet. The faces of those men and women remained a blur as I surveyed the scene. Through the gaps between arms and legs, I barely made out the form of a man huddled inside the closet. A mix of mop handles, broom handles, buckets, and him all tucked into the narrow space. His face was hidden from my view by a blue slack-covered leg, but I spotted the violent shake his body gave with each breath he gasped. And from the frantic wheezing sounds, I placed him at hyperventilating status. Yet the cops and hotel management stood talking amongst themselves instead of calming down a man who was seconds away from becoming a passed-out dead weight on the stained concrete floor. Oxygen deprivation tended to do that to a person.
We were two floors below The Body. A firm hand clasped my arm. Intense heat magically seeped through the hide of my leather jacket and into my skin while familiar determination once again gleamed in Wilcox’s dark eyes. They rooted me to my spot. But it was an act. That confidence hadn’t been there moments before when I stood with Wilcox and Detective Ross alone inside the hotel room containing the dead man. Back then, inside the suite, Wilcox had appeared weary. Pained. The look had been brief, but I was certain I had caught it right.
“Stay back.” His voice was a low breath against my ear a second before he pushed away. His good arm cut a path through the small crowd while Detective Ross trailed his wake. Wilcox’s tall head disappeared from view as he crouched down in front of the frightened man. The soft voices of both Wilcox and Ross sounded over the quietened crowd, but I couldn’t make out their words. The erratic sound of the wheezing breath slowed the longer the detectives spoke.
“He’s going to kill me.” The huddled man’s voice rasped. Did he smoke? Mind pondered the question as his gruff voice continued, “He tried. He tried…”
Terrified sobs replaced his words. Again, Wilcox’s soft voice continued in hushed tones, and even from where I stood, the sound was soothing.
Yet the location nagged at me because after taking one small step back, I looked up. The ceiling stared down. Two floors above it was The Body. We were almost directly below. No matter where I stood inside the building, I knew I’d be cognizant of the dead man with the deflated arm. The vacant red eyes. An invisible pull kept turning me that direction, but there was no way in hell I’d go back upstairs to view the sight or experience that nauseating stench.
Frigid cold washed me. No longer did it feel as if I stood in the smartly decorated corridor of a five-star hotel. Now I was drowning in the waters of Lake Superior in January. Ice sliced down my backside, and I spun around to face the young marked ghost from the dead man’s room. He stood rigid. Nostrils flared as his gaze held mine steady.
“Where is he?” The lips of the marked’s mouth had barely moved, yet the rage of his tone was crystal clear.
I bit my lip and sneaked a quick glance over my shoulder. All attention remained focused on the broom closet, which would normally appear even odder then me talking to thin air, except for today. Today it was quite logical to focus on a broom handle sticking straight above a whimpering man’s head. Still mindful of the handful of people at my back, my voice dropped to a whisper. “Who?”
Ghostly green eyes focused, and specks of red infiltrated as I watched. “Praedator, where is he?”
Energy revved up, and Gut informed that, in mere seconds, my body would be making friendly with the hotel wall. Reaching behind, I felt for the clasp securing the sword under my leather jacket. “Listen, kid. You’ve got two seconds to knock off the energy, or you’ll be getting a personal greeting from Satan. Who are you asking about?”
Young Ghost swallowed, confusion now clouding his changing eye color. Life among the non-living couldn’t have been held for too long. His clothes were in trend, and he still clung to human mannerisms like the twitch of his left eyebrow, and the clenching, unclenching of his right hand that seemed eager to punch something. Or someone. Never before had I seen a marked this young. And the eye color thing? Why the heck did all of the marked ghosts have eyes that turned red? The answer had never been given whenever my question was asked.
Those red-green eyes shot up, focused on the ceiling that I’d been admiring seconds before. The Body. Lips tightened into a hard grimace as he asked, “You sent him to Hell?”
My head shook. “I haven’t seen him—not his ghost, I mean.”
“We need him.”
“Who is we?”
Several of the ghosts I’d sent onto their final destination gave dramatic departures as they incinerated into balls of fire, waiting for the hellish flames of welcome. You will not stop us were often their last words, leaving me contemplating in the silence their departure of existence left behind. Theatrics were meaningless unless there was a given reason. Advice obviously not included in the How to be a Cryptic Red-Eyed Spook welcome guide.
“We will not be stopped.” Young Ghost’s eyes now blazed red. All signs of green gone. “You will not stop us.”
Deja vu? Could those over-expressed words be any more of a pompous declaration? Suspicion they read from a script was strong. Recitation of the exact same phrase a dead giveaway. Now for the reasoning behind those words.
He poofed.
What. The. Hell? My sword was not even drawn. Etiquette dictated he give a proper goodbye—along with a gazillion answers to the questions I had—before pulling a disappearing act. Or me sending him on a one-way trip to the regions down below. But that had not been my intent.
“Can someone please answer the damn question?” I asked.
A tight grip squeezed my shoulder. The touch forced a scream out of Lips that Wits had enough sense to clamp a hand over. The only utterance was one extremely muffled holy shit, but better than a bloodcurdling yelp on this particular day and in this particular setting. Observation had slacked and Tristan, my grueling vampire mentor who preferred keeping the word focus at the top of his vocabulary, would not be proud.
“Sorry,” Wilcox said. His eyes sought every crevice in the properly maintained corridor. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a ghost searching for the dead man’s ghost.” I studied Wilcox’s face and finally asked the question that had bothered me for more than a week. “What do you know?”
The expressiveness of his eyes shuttered, and he threw a look over his shoulder. “Not here.”
Behind him, at the broom closet, Detective Ross escorted the still shaken hotel employee—maintenance, judging by clothing—over to a waiting paramedic. Discolored bruising already showed on the skin of his neck. The raspy voice now made sense. “He was strangled?”
“Not exactly. Come on. We’ll talk, but not here.”
He’d grabbed my arm. Again. Basically hadn’t stopped since I’d arrived. It was a protective gesture, I knew. Perhaps a bit overprotective that would normally irk my self-sufficient personality. But it indicated a vulnerability that I felt certain Wilcox did not normally share because his eyes were back to haunted. I kept silent and let him lead.
Minutes later, we were seated inside the hotel cafe. Coffee was my thing. Except for today. Today was tea.
“Medical Examiner has arrived,” Detective Ross said. His plop onto a hard-backed chair indicated a weariness I was certain we all felt. His hand ran over his head, leaving blond locks standing straight. “Ms. Blake, how are you holding up?”
“I’d be better if you’d drop the Ms. Blake.”
His flashed grin was charming. “Will you drop the Detective Ross?”
