Page 11

ASHES IN THEIR EYES

SEAN

I straightened my tie in the rearview mirror, grimacing at my reflection.

The cheap polyester felt like a noose around my neck, a reminder of why I don’t put these things on often.

Next to me, Cade adjusted his own tie with practiced ease, his movements precise and methodical.

Too precise. Too methodical. Like everything else since his return.

“Ready to be federal agents again?” I asked, pulling our fake CITD badges from the glove compartment and handing one to him.

Cade accepted the badge, studying it with a slight frown. “These still work?”

“Like a charm,” I confirmed, tucking mine into my jacket pocket. “Local cops see a fancy badge and hear 'federal' and they practically trip over themselves to help.”

We climbed out of the Impala, the morning chill raising goosebumps on my skin despite the suit jacket.

The crime scene was cordoned off with yellow tape, uniformed officers milling about with coffee cups clutched in their hands.

All standard procedure, except for the palpable unease in the air.

Whatever happened here had spooked even the veterans.

“Something's off,” I muttered as we approached the police line.

Cade nodded slightly, eyes scanning the scene with clinical detachment. “They're nervous. Not just regular homicide nervous.”

We reached the tape where a uniformed officer stood guard, his complexion the color of day-old oatmeal. I flashed my badge smoothly, the practiced motion automatic after years of hunting.

“Agents Tennant and Smith, CITD,” I said, my tone authoritative enough to discourage questions. “We need to see the body.”

The officer barely glanced at our credentials before lifting the tape. “Thank Christ. Maybe you feds can make sense of this one.”

The alleyway was narrow, dumpsters lining one side and a brick wall the other. Crime scene techs photographed the area, their flashbulbs creating stark white flashes in the shadow of the buildings. At the center of their attention lay the body, slumped against the wall like a discarded mannequin.

“Son of a bitch,” I breathed.

The first thing that hit me wasn't the burnt-out eyes, but the expression frozen on the victim's face. Pure agony, mouth stretched wide in a silent scream, skin contorted into a mask of terror. This wasn't just death. This was torture.

I'd seen psychic vampire victims before—they looked peaceful, almost blissful in death, drained of life force but not tormented. This was something entirely different.

Cade moved forward with that same disturbing calm, snapping on latex gloves he'd pulled from his pocket. He knelt beside the body, examining the burns around the eye sockets without flinching. The skin was charred black, the flesh beneath shriveled and cooked.

“No sign of accelerants,” he muttered, voice low enough that only I could hear. “This wasn't fire. It was . . . different. External heat would have damaged the surrounding tissue more evenly.”

I crouched beside him, the old hunter instincts cataloging details. “What are we thinking? Demonic? Some kind of ocular-specific entity?”

Cade's expression remained studiously neutral as he carefully turned the victim's head, examining the burns from different angles. “The pattern is unusual. It originated inside the eye sockets and burned outward.”

“Like something reached into his brain and turned up the heat,” I suggested, recognition dawning. This wasn't random violence—it was targeted, surgical.

“Possibly,” Cade agreed, standing smoothly. His gaze met mine, and for a brief moment, I caught something lurking behind his professional mask. Not emotion, exactly, but recognition.

Before I could ask about it, a detective approached, notepad in hand and exhaustion etched into his face. “You two the feds?”

I straightened, smoothly shifting back into agent mode. “That's right. What can you tell us?”

The detective, a heavyset man with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that had seen too much, shrugged wearily. “Victim's name is Martin Reeves, 42, investment banker. Found by a homeless guy around 4 AM. No witnesses to the actual attack.”

“Security cameras?” Cade asked, scanning the alley.

“None pointed this way,” the detective replied. “But we've got footage of him leaving Jake's Bar across the street about an hour before the body was found.”

“Alone?” I prompted.

“That's where it gets weird,” the detective admitted, flipping through his notes. “According to the bartender, Reeves was talking to someone at his table, got real quiet suddenly, then left. But the security footage shows him sitting alone, then getting up and walking out by himself.”

Cade and I exchanged glances. Invisible entity or something moving too fast for cameras to catch—neither option was good news.

“We'll need to talk to that bartender,” I said.

The detective nodded, apparently relieved to hand off the case to someone else. “O'Malley's opens at noon. Owner's name is Thomas Kelley; he was working last night.”

“Any connection to the other victims?” Cade asked.

The detective looked startled. “Other victims? This is the first case like this we've had.”

Another glance between us, this one heavy with understanding. Whatever we were hunting, it was mobile, and Reeves wasn't its first victim.

“Just covering all bases,” I covered smoothly. “Any chance we could get a copy of that security footage?”

“Already on it,” the detective said, gesturing to a tech who approached with a USB drive.

Cade pocketed it with a nod of thanks, and we stepped away from the body as the coroner's team moved in to remove it.

“This contradicts my earlier assessment,” I muttered once we were out of earshot. “Whatever did this, it's not a psychic vampire. Too violent, too focused on the eyes specifically.”

“Agreed,” Cade said, his voice low. “This is something else entirely. More violent, more . . . personal.”

“Right then,” I sighed, loosening my tie slightly as we headed back to the Impala. “Back to square one. At least we know what we're not dealing with.”

O'Malley's Bar was exactly what I expected from the name—a dim, wood-paneled establishment that smelled of beer and poor decisions. The neon signs advertising various brews cast a sickly glow over the scarred bar top, where a wiry man in his fifties was stacking glasses with practiced efficiency.

“Thomas Kelley?” I asked as we approached, badges already in hand.

The man glanced up, wariness immediately settling into his features. “That's me. You the feds the cops said would be stopping by?”

“Agents Tennant and Smith,” I confirmed, settling onto a barstool. Cade took the one beside me, his posture rigid and professional. “Mind if we ask you a few questions about last night?”

Kelley sighed, setting down the glass he'd been polishing. “I told the cops everything,” he muttered, running a hand through thinning hair. “Guy came in alone. Left alone. Next thing I know, he's dead in the alley.”

“What about while he was here?” I pressed. “Anything unusual about his behavior?”

Kelley hesitated, his fingers drumming restlessly on the bar top. “He was a regular. Came in two, three times a week. Always the same—scotch on the rocks, kept to himself.”

“But something was different last night,” Cade stated rather than asked, his eyes never leaving Kelley's face.

The bartender's shoulders slumped slightly. “Yeah. He was . . . talking to someone.”

“You saw who he was with?” I leaned forward, interest piqued.

“That's just it,” Kelley admitted, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

“I didn't see anyone. His table was in that corner.” He nodded toward a shadowy booth near the back wall.

“He was sitting alone, but talking. Animated, like he was having a real conversation. Thought maybe he was on one of those Bluetooth things, you know? But then . . .”

“Then what?” Cade prompted when the man trailed off.

“He just went quiet. Dead silent. Staring at nothing for a good five minutes. Then he stood up, left his drink half-finished, and walked out. Never seen him do that before.”

I exchanged a look with Cade. No signs of compulsion or possession, just . . . influence of some kind.

“Any other customers notice anything strange?” I asked, glancing around the now-empty bar.

Kelley shook his head. “Place was dead last night. Tuesday, you know? Just a couple regulars at the pool table, and they left before Reeves did.”

“Mind if we take a look at that booth?” Cade asked, already standing.

“Help yourself,” Kelley shrugged. “Cops already went over it. Found nothing.”

We moved to the corner booth, sliding into the seats where Martin Reeves had spent his final hour alive. The vantage point offered a clear view of the entire bar while remaining partially obscured by shadows. Strategic, I noted.

“EMF?” I murmured, low enough that Kelley couldn't hear from his position at the bar.

Cade subtly withdrew the homemade detector from his jacket pocket, keeping it hidden beneath the table as it lit up with a series of rapid blinks.

“Definitely supernatural,” he confirmed, pocketing the device again. “But it's faint, residual.”

I ran my fingers along the tabletop, finding nothing but sticky beer residue and old scratches. “So what are we thinking? Ghost? Demon? Some kind of invisible entity?”

“Hard to say,” Cade replied, his eyes scanning the booth methodically. “But whatever it was, it didn't need physical contact to influence him.”

“Could be something that feeds on specific emotions,” I suggested, drawing on years of hunting experience. “Fear, guilt, despair. Gets them isolated, then strikes.”

“Possibly,” Cade said, but his tone suggested he was thinking of something specific. “Or something that needs to verify what its victims have seen before eliminating them.”

We finished our examination of the booth and returned to the bar, where Kelley was pretending not to watch us with nervous intensity.