Page 13 of Soulmarked (Hellbound and Hollow #1)

12

DEAD END LEADS

M illbrook, New York had all the charm of a town that time forgot, and from the looks of things, time had good reasons for the abandonment. Victorian houses loomed like rotting teeth, their paint peeling in strips that reminded me uncomfortably of flayed skin. The few locals we passed hurried by with downturned eyes, as if eye contact might invite conversation or worse.

“Stop fidgeting with the tie,” I muttered, reaching over to adjust Sean's windsor knot for the third time in as many minutes. “You're supposed to be a federal agent, not a teenager at prom.”

“This thing's trying to strangle me,” he growled, Irish accent thicker with irritation. “How the hell do you wear these torture devices every day? Pretty sure there's a hunt for whatever sadist invented these things.”

“Practice.” I smoothed his lapels, definitely not noticing how the tailored suit transformed his usual rough style into something almost civilized. Almost. “Now remember, we're CITD agents following up on suspicious deaths in the area. No mention of monsters, magic, or anything supernatural.”

Sean rolled his eyes, but his posture shifted subtly, shoulders squaring, stance becoming less obviously lethal. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. Play nice with the locals, don't threaten anyone, pretend I give a damn about proper procedure. Just your standard government monkey routine.”

“And no stabbing,” I added firmly.

“You're really taking all the fun out of this, you know that? Next you'll be saying no drinking on the job either.”

We moved down Cedar Street, past houses that probably hadn't seen renovation since the Korean War. The address Hallow had provided was supposed to be around here somewhere.

I watched Sean from the corner of my eye, noting how he automatically checked sightlines and escape routes even in broad daylight. The suit might have changed his appearance, but underneath he was still pure hunter. Every movement calculated, every sense alert for threats.

“So,” he said as we turned onto a particularly decrepit block, “how exactly does this arrangement with Sterling work? He just lets you chase monsters on the government's dime?”

I kept my voice neutral. “It's complicated.”

“Complicated meaning you don't trust me, or complicated meaning you don't actually have permission?” He smirked. “Come on, I showed you mine, now you show me yours.”

“Complicated meaning it's none of your business.” But there was no real heat in it. After what we'd been through, he deserved some answers. Just... not all of them. Not yet.

“Right.” His smile was sharp enough to cut. “Because CITD's totally fine with one of their agents running around with a hunter, investigating things that officially don't exist.”

“Says the man wearing a two-thousand dollar suit to play federal agent.”

“Two thousand?” He looked down at himself, horrified. “You've gotta be kidding me. For this monkey suit? I could buy a decent arsenal for that kind of cash.”

I refused to acknowledge how good he looked in said monkey suit. The tailoring emphasized his broad shoulders and lean strength in ways that were entirely unfair.

“Speaking of waste,” he continued, “your Director Sterling. He knows more than he's saying, yeah? About Phoenix, about what's really happening in the city.”

I tensed slightly. “What makes you say that?”

“The way you talk about him. Like you're not sure if he's protecting you or watching you.” Sean's eyes scanned the street as he spoke, professional despite his complaints. “Plus, no one gets to his position without knowing what really moves in the shadows. Trust me, I've dealt with enough government types to know when they're playing dumb.”

He wasn't wrong, but I wasn't about to admit it. “Sterling's complicated.”

“Everything's complicated with you, isn't it? You ever give a straight answer, or is that against some federal code?”

I stopped at the next corner, checking the address against my notes. “Life's complicated. Especially in our line of work.”

“Doesn't have to be.” His voice dropped lower, carrying an edge of something that definitely wasn't professional. “Sometimes it's simple. Like right now, you're avoiding my questions because you don't trust me, but you keep watching me when you think I won't notice.”

Heat crept up my neck. “I'm making sure you don't blow our cover.”

“Sure you are.” His smile was knowing enough to make me want to punch him. Or do other things I definitely shouldn't be thinking about while on a case. “Just like you were making sure my tie was straight by getting that close.”

“You're impossible.”

“That's what all the gents tell me.”

Movement caught my eye. A curtain twitching in one of the Victorian monsters that lined the street. Just for a moment, but enough to raise the hair on the back of my neck.

“We're being watched,” I murmured, resisting the urge to reach for my weapon.

Sean's posture shifted subtly, predator replacing federal agent. “Yeah. Have been since we turned onto this street. Whatever's hunting here, it's got eyes everywhere.”

The houses seemed to loom closer, their shadows stretching despite the mid-morning sun. A wind chime tinkled somewhere nearby, the sound discordant and wrong.

“Still think this is a simple case?” I asked, scanning windows that reflected nothing but darkness despite the hour.

His shoulder brushed mine as we walked, the contact seemingly casual but deliberately grounding. “Nothing's simple with you involved, fed. I'm starting to accept that.”

The admission shouldn't have warmed something in my chest. But like everything else about Sean, it complicated things in ways I wasn't ready to examine too closely.

“Let's try the local coffee shop,” I suggested, nodding toward a faded storefront with peeling paint that proclaimed “Millbrook Morning Brew” in vintage lettering. “Small towns like this, baristas know everything about everyone.”

Sean gave me a sideways glance, a hint of respect in his eyes. “Not bad thinking for a fed. Though I'd have gone with the bar.”

“It's 10 AM.”

“Yeah, and?” He shrugged. “Early bird gets the gossip. Plus bartenders are way more likely to know the good stuff. Nobody tells their darkest secrets to the person making their latte.”

The bell above the door jingled as we entered, drawing the attention of the few patrons scattered among mismatched tables. Conversation faltered momentarily as locals sized us up with that particular small-town scrutiny reserved for outsiders. I could almost hear their thoughts.

I approached the counter where a woman in her sixties with a nameplate reading “Martha” watched us with undisguised curiosity.

“Morning,” I offered my most disarming smile, the one that made me look more academic than federal agent. “Could we get two coffees, please? Been driving all night.”

“Sure thing, honey.” Martha's eyes darted between us. “You boys passing through or here on business?”

Sean leaned against the counter, adopting the casual charm I'd seen him use on witnesses before. “Bit of both. Actually, we're looking for information about a former resident. Professor O'Brien? Taught at the university a few towns over.”

Martha's hands stilled on the coffee machine. Just for a moment, blink and you'd miss it. “O'Brien? Don't know much about him. Kept to himself, that one.” She busied herself with the drinks, avoiding eye contact. “Two sugars?”

“Black for me,” Sean said, sliding a twenty across the counter. “And we'd appreciate anything you might remember. Even small details help. We're documenting local academics for the university archive.”

I fought to keep my expression neutral at his improvised cover story. University archive? But Martha seemed to relax slightly, the lie more palatable than whatever she'd imagined.

“Well, he lived over on Maple Street. That big Victorian with the wraparound porch. Moved in about three years ago. Quiet type, but polite enough when he came in.” She slid our coffees across the counter. “Though if you're asking around, you might want to talk to Sheriff Miller first. He doesn't much like people poking around without introducing themselves.”

Sean flashed a winning smile. “We'll be sure to do that. Thanks for the tip.”

As we collected our coffees, I noticed a bulletin board crowded with community notices. Among faded flyers for yard sales and lost pets, a peculiar pattern caught my eye, several missing pet notices clustered together, all from the past month, all from the same neighborhood.

“You see that?” I murmured as we took a table near the window.

Sean's gaze followed mine. “Missing pets. Classic sign of something supernatural settling in. Next comes the cattle mutilations, then missing hikers. Same song, different verse.”

“All from the area around Maple Street,” I noted, sipping the surprisingly decent coffee.

A man in faded overalls at the next table cleared his throat. “You folks asking about the professor?”

Sean turned, interest sharpening. “You knew him?”

“Did some carpentry work in his house last summer.” The man lowered his voice, leaning in. “Strange job. Wanted his basement floor reinforced with concrete, walls soundproofed. Said it was for a 'home laboratory.' Paid cash, triple my usual rate to finish in two days and not ask questions.”

“Did you see this laboratory?” I asked, my research instincts kicking in.

The man shook his head. “Never went back after the job. But I heard things. My nephew delivers groceries, said the professor started ordering weird stuff. Salt by the bagful. Iron filings. Specialty herbs you can't get around here.”

Sean and I exchanged glances. Protection supplies.

“Anyone else have contact with him?” Sean pressed.

“Marge at the hardware store. Professor bought out all her silver items about a month before he disappeared, candlesticks, picture frames, decorative stuff. Said he was collecting.”

I made a mental note. “And when exactly did he disappear?”

“About three weeks ago. Sheriff says he probably just moved on, professors do that, you know? But...” The man glanced around the coffee shop, then back to us. “His car's still in the garage. Mail piling up. And there've been lights in that house at night. Sheriff says it's just kids messin' around, but...” He trailed off, taking a long sip of coffee.

“But you don't believe that,” Sean finished for him.

“Something ain't right with that house.” The man's weathered face creased with genuine concern. “Never was, if you ask me. Built in the 1890s by a doctor who got run out of town for his 'experiments.' Place has a history. People avoid it.”

Martha appeared with a coffeepot refill. “Don Wilson, stop filling their heads with ghost stories,” she chided, though her expression was tense. “These gentlemen are here on university business.”

“Just making conversation, Martha.” Don stood, leaving a few bills on the table. “You boys take care if you're heading to the O'Brien place. Something about that house...” He paused, seeming to reconsider his words. “Well, some places just feel wrong, don't they?”

After he left, Martha lingered. “Don means well, but he loves his stories.” She fidgeted with her apron. “Though... if you are going to that house, maybe go during daylight.” She caught herself, forcing a laugh. “The porch steps are rotten. Wouldn't want you taking a fall in the dark.”

We finished our coffee in thoughtful silence, piecing together the unspoken concerns beneath the townsfolk's carefully edited warnings. As we headed back to the street, Sean's expression had hardened into focused determination.

“Salt, silver, soundproofing,” he listed off. “Looks like he was preparing for something.”

“Or hiding from it,” I countered, my mind already working through possibilities. “The question is what was he hiding from, and why here? Small towns like this usually don't attract supernatural activity without a reason.”

We walked down Elm Street, where pristine colonial homes gave way to Victorian monstrosities as we approached Maple. Each house seemed to watch us pass, curtains twitching, shadows moving behind glass.

“You know what doesn't make sense?” I kept my voice low. “If O'Brien was preparing defenses, why would something still be in his house after he's gone? Shouldn't it have moved on?”

“Unless it's looking for the same thing we are,” Sean replied. “Whatever O'Brien was doing, whatever he found, it was worth killing for.”

The houses grew more imposing as we turned onto Maple Street, their ornate gables and turrets looming against the cloudy sky. The neighborhood felt frozen in time, preserved in amber and slowly rotting from within.

The house at 1482 Maple stood slightly apart from its neighbors, as if even the other buildings wanted to maintain their distance. Victorian architecture gone to seed, with gables that looked like raised hackles against the pale sky. But it wasn't the decay that made me stop at the gate, it was the wrongness that radiated from every weathered board.

Sean felt it too. His casual stance vanished, replaced by the coiled readiness I was learning to recognize. One hand drifted toward where his knife would usually be, found only suit fabric, and clenched in frustration.

“You smell that?” he murmured, voice barely carrying.

I did. Beneath the moss and mildew, a metallic tang hung in the air, too faint for ordinary senses, but unmistakable to anyone who knew what to look for. Blood.

Our eyes met briefly, a whole conversation passing without words. His slight head tilt toward the wraparound porch, my equally subtle nod toward the partially open windows. We'd done this dance enough times now that coordination came naturally, despite our usual friction.

I kept my movements casual as I drew my weapon, maintaining the federal agent facade for any watching eyes. The weight of observation from the surrounding houses felt heavier now, more purposeful.

“Front door?” Sean asked, managing to make even suited elegance look dangerous.

“Clean entry, by the book.” I gave him a pointed look. “That means no kicking it down.”

“You're no fun at all,” he muttered. “Taking all the joy out of federal agent day.”

The porch steps creaked under our weight, the sound too loud in the unnatural quiet. No birds, I realized. No insects. Just the hollow whisper of wind through empty rooms.

The door wasn't locked which was another bad sign. Up close, I could see the subtle marks around the frame that spoke of forced entry, though they'd been carefully disguised. Someone wanted this to look normal while being anything but.

I took point, weapon ready but low, while Sean covered our six. Our movement through the entrance was smooth, practiced like we'd been working together for years instead of weeks. I tried not to think about what that meant.

The interior hit like a physical force, stale air thick with the remnants of violence. But not the chaos I'd expect from a demon attack. No scattered furniture, no blast patterns from supernatural energy. This was precise. Calculated.

Then we saw the body.

“Ah, shite,” Sean breathed, and for once I agreed with his assessment.

The victim matched the Guardian's description perfectly, middle-aged, academic type, probably hadn't seen sunlight in months before his death. But it was the manner of his death that made my professional mask slip.

He'd been arranged, not just killed. Arms and legs positioned with theatrical care, like a puppet posed by a meticulous child. The wounds followed the same pattern.

“Check the perimeter,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “Make sure we're alone.”

Sean nodded, dropping into hunter mode despite the suit. He moved through the house like smoke, checking rooms and sightlines while I cataloged the scene.

This was art. Horrible, precise art, with purpose behind every slice.

“House is clear,” Sean reported, returning to the study. “But there's sulfur residue in the basement. Strong enough to make my teeth itch. Definitely demon activity, the real-deal kind, not some amateur playing with a ouija board.”

I compared mental notes with other supernatural victims I'd documented. “This doesn't match any pattern we've seen. Even the ritualistic kills usually show signs of struggle, but this...” I gestured at the body. “He didn't fight back. Didn't even try.”

“Because he knew his killer.” Sean crouched beside me, close enough that I could smell his aftershave mixed with gun oil. “Look at the entry wounds. He was facing them, stayed still while they started cutting. That takes trust. Or compliance.”

“Willing sacrifice?”

“Or compulsion.” His expression darkened. “Some demons can do that, make you stand still while they tear you apart. Make you thank them for it. Nasty stuff.”

I pulled out my phone, already crafting the carefully sanitized version of events in my head. Sean watched me with barely concealed impatience as I dialed.

“CITD, Manhattan field office. Agent Cross reporting a 187 at 1482 Maple Street, Millbrook.” I kept my voice steady, professional. “Victim shows signs consistent with ritualistic homicide. Requesting full forensics team and scene containment.”

Sean's tension ratcheted up at the sound of approaching sirens. His hand kept twitching toward weapons he couldn't openly carry in his current guise, hunter instincts warring with our cover story.

“Local PD's going to be here in five,” I said after hanging up. “CITD team in twenty. We need to get our story straight.”

“Yeah, because nothing says 'normal investigation' like demonic sacrifice and sulfur residue.” He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the careful styling I'd insisted on earlier. “God, I hate working with the suits.”

“Which is why we're going with 'possible cult activity' and 'unknown chemical compounds.'” I started gathering the more obviously supernatural evidence, anything that couldn't be explained away with creative paperwork. “You're Agent Sean Kelly, transferred from Boston office last month. We're investigating a series of ritualistic murders with possible connections to organized crime.”

“Organized crime?” His eyebrows shot up. “That's the best you could come up with?”

“You'd prefer 'demons opening dimensional gates under Manhattan'?” I shot back.

“Point taken.” He helped me secure the journal and other compromising items, movements precise despite his obvious discomfort. “But you do this often? Just... lie to your own people?”

Something in his tone made me pause. “You think I enjoy it?”

“Didn't say that.” He met my gaze steadily. “Just trying to figure out how someone who clearly values truth ended up building his career on carefully crafted bullshit.”

The sirens were closer now, red and blue lights starting to paint the walls. I didn't have time to unpack everything wrong with his assessment.

“Sometimes the truth gets people killed,” I said finally. “Sometimes the lies protect them.”

His expression softened slightly. “And who protects you?”

Local PD burst through the door with admirable enthusiasm and terrible tactical awareness. Sean shifted seamlessly into federal agent mode.

“Agents Cross and Kelly, CITD,” I announced, showing credentials. “This is now a federal crime scene. We'll need your officers to establish a perimeter and keep civilians back.”

The next hour was a careful dance of procedure and misdirection. The CITD forensics team arrived with their usual efficiency, and I watched Sean adapt to their presence with surprising skill. He asked the right questions, made the right observations, all while carefully steering them away from anything too supernatural.

“Signs of struggle are minimal,” Dr. Martinez noted, examining the body. “Toxicology might tell us more about why the victim remained compliant during the attack.”

I caught Sean's slight tension at that observation. We both knew toxicology wouldn't show the kind of compulsion used here.

“Check for residue around the wounds,” I suggested, knowing they'd find traces of sulfur but attribute it to something more mundane. “And we'll need detailed photos of the cutting patterns.”

“Already on it.” Dr. Martinez's team worked tirelessly, documenting everything except what really mattered. “But I have to say, Agent Cross, these wounds are... unusual.”

“Ritualistic killers often develop unique signatures,” I offered, the lie smooth from practice.

Sean drifted closer, pitching his voice low. “We're not going to find anything useful in the official channels, are we?”

“No.” I watched the forensics team bag evidence that would end up in reports that explained nothing. “But we needed to do this by the book. Establish the pattern through proper channels.”

“So when more bodies drop, we have documentation.”

“Exactly.”

He was quiet for a moment, watching the organized chaos of a federal crime scene. “You're good at this,” he said finally. “The balance between what they need to know and what they can't handle knowing.”

“Had a lot of practice.”

“That's not actually comforting.”

I smiled despite everything. “Welcome to my world.”

The scene processing continued with methodical thoroughness, every piece of evidence carefully cataloged and completely missing the point. I maintained my professional mask, directing attention where it needed to go, keeping the investigation firmly in the realm of the explainable.

But this was another dead end, and we both knew it. Whatever answers we needed wouldn't be found in official reports or forensic analysis. They'd be in that journal we'd secured, in the symbols that hurt to look at, in the patterns only visible if you knew where ancient forces left their marks.

“We should check for more evidence of supernatural activity,” Sean murmured as the teams started packing up. “That sulfur trace wasn't natural. Maybe there's some leftover hex bags or sigils the cleanup crew might've missed.”

“After they clear out,” I nodded to the forensics team.

His shoulder brushed mine, the contact brief but deliberate. “Just us? No official backup?”

“Would you trust them with what we might find?”

“Fair point.” He straightened his tie, the gesture unconscious but drawing my attention to how the suit jacket stretched across his shoulders. “But next time we play federal agents, I'm wearing something that doesn't feel like slow strangulation.”

“The tie looks good on you.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. Sean's eyes met mine, something flickering in their depths that had nothing to do with our investigation.

“Careful there, fed,” he said softly. “Almost sounds like you're noticing things you shouldn't.”

I forced my attention back to the body, where Dr. Martinez was taking liver temperature readings. Sean's words hung in the air between us, heavy with implications neither of us could afford to examine too closely.

“Time of death approximately four to six hours ago,” Dr. Martinez announced, confirming my worst suspicions. “Based on lividity and tissue decomposition.”

I frowned, my mind immediately comparing this information with what we'd learned from the locals in town. “That can't be right,” I said quietly. “The townspeople said O'Brien disappeared three weeks ago.”

Dr. Martinez shook her head. “The evidence is clear. This man hasn't been dead more than six hours.”

My eyes met Sean's across the body, both of us coming to the same realization. “Which means,” I said carefully, keeping my voice low, “that the professor didn't disappear. He was here the whole time, possibly under duress or in hiding. The strange lights people reported seeing in the house at night...”

“Were the good professor,” Sean finished, studying the body with renewed intensity. “Someone was keeping him alive until they got what they needed from him.”

“And once they had it...”

“They had no more use for him,” Sean concluded grimly.

I nodded slightly, keeping my expression professionally neutral for the team. “Dr. Martinez, those incisions along the body's torso, anything unusual about the marks?”

She bent closer, frowning. “Actually, yes. The wounds are precise, almost ritualistic, but the edges show signs of... burning?” She looked up at me. “Like whatever made them was superheated, but there's no other thermal damage to surrounding tissue.”

Sean and I exchanged glances. Demon claws left marks like that, precise when they wanted to be, but always with that telltale burning. Not that we could put that in any official report.

“Could be some kind of heated implement,” I suggested, giving her a plausible explanation to work with. “We've seen similar wounds in other ritualistic killings.”

“The patterns though...” She traced the air above the marks. “They form some kind of design. Almost like...”

“Like someone was drawing something,” Sean cut in smoothly. “Cult symbolism, probably. We'll need detailed photos for analysis.”

I moved to examine O'Brien's hands while Martinez's team documented the wounds. No defensive marks, confirming our theory about demonic compulsion. But there was something else, subtle indentations on his fingers, like he'd been gripping something tightly before death.

“The Guardian knew something,” Sean said quietly, positioning himself to block Martinez's view. “Something big enough that they sent a high-level demon to silence him.”

“These cuts seem controlled, but look closer,” I murmured back. “The deeper wounds show rage, personal attention. Classic demon signature when they're sending a message.”

“A demon taking its time,” Sean agreed grimly. “Making it look professional while still enjoying itself. Though who sent it? That's the million-dollar question.”

“It fits the Phoenix pattern. They're not just working with any demons anymore, they're commanding the kind that know how to cover their tracks.”

The implications of that settled like lead in my stomach. If Phoenix was hiring hunters or others with knowledge of the supernatural world, our job just got a lot more complicated.

As the forensics team finished their work, I caught more details that didn't quite fit. Scorch marks on the windowsills that formed perfect circles. Salt residue in the doorways, but arranged in patterns I didn't recognize. Everything pointed to someone who knew exactly what they were doing, and wanted us to know it.

“Alright people, wrap it up,” I called out finally. “Dr. Martinez, I'll need preliminary findings on my desk by morning. Focus on the tool marks and any chemical residue.”

The teams packed up with practiced efficiency, leaving Sean and me alone in the study. The moment the door closed behind them, his careful federal agent posture vanished.

“That was a fecking waste of time,” he growled, loosening his tie. “We could have been tracking whoever did this instead of playing nice with the science squad.”

“We needed the official documentation,” I reminded him. “If this connects back to Phoenix...”

“If? For God's sake, Cade, look at this place.” He gestured at the crime scene. “It's got Phoenix written all over it. They're cleaning house, making sure nobody talks about whatever the Guardian was helping them map.”

“But why here? Why Millbrook?” I studied the room again, trying to see the bigger picture. “This town's not random. Something about this location matters to them.”

Sean moved to the window, scanning the street with hunter's instincts. “Could be ley lines. Old towns like this, sometimes they're built on power points. My old man used to say the oldest churches were usually on top of something ancient, something the early settlers either feared or worshipped.”

“Or burial grounds, or ancient sites, or any number of things that could help them punch holes in reality.” I ran a hand through my hair, frustration mounting. “We're missing something. Something obvious.”

“So what's our next move? And please don't say more federal paperwork.”

I pulled out my phone, already texting Alana. “We need to dig deeper into this town's history. Property records, old newspapers, anything that might tell us why Phoenix is interested in Millbrook.”

“And the Guardian's research? That journal we found?”

“I know someone who can decode it. Someone who specializes in this kind of thing.”

Sean's eyebrows rose. “Another fed with unusual expertise?”

“Something like that.” I met his gaze steadily.

“You're full of surprises, aren't you?” He laughed softly. “Let me guess, some nerdy professor type who lives in their mother's basement surrounded by ancient texts?”

“We should go,” I said instead. “Before local PD gets curious about why we're still here.”

“Lead the way, fed. But I'm driving.” He dangled the keys with a grin. “And I get to pick the music.”