Page 5 of Soulmarked (Hellbound and Hollow #1)

4

THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

M y phone rang just as I was pulling into the precinct parking lot, coffee barely touched and the sun barely up. Sterling's name flashed on the screen.

“Cross,” I answered, stifling a yawn.

“Change of plans.” Sterling's voice had that careful tone he used when something wasn't quite right. “I need you at 782 East 75th Street. Possible homicide.”

I was already pulling out of the lot, making a U-turn. “Possible?”

“Body's intact, no obvious cause of death, but...” He paused, and I could picture him in his office, choosing his words carefully. “Local PD is calling it 'unusual.' Their lieutenant specifically requested you.”

That got my attention. The NYPD didn't usually request CITD agents by name, especially not for seemingly normal homicides.

“What aren't you telling me, sir?”

Another pause. “The responding officers reported some... irregularities. The kind that tend to end up on your desk anyway.”

Ah. That's what this was about. Sterling knew about my “unusual” case files, even if we never discussed them directly.

“I'll check it out,” I said, navigating through early morning traffic.

Twenty minutes later, the Upper East Side brownstone loomed before me in the early morning light, its elegant facade at odds with the cluster of police cars and crime scene vehicles crowding the street. At 7 AM, the summer heat was already building, but something about this scene made me shiver.

Sean's business card burned in my pocket like a guilty secret. Three days since our encounter in the alley, and I still hadn't called. But standing here, looking at yet another crime scene that didn't quite fit normal parameters, I was starting to think I should have.

“Agent Cross.” Officer Rodriguez nodded as I approached, his face pale despite the heat. “Vic's name is Marcus Sullivan, 45. Investment banker. Cleaning lady found him in his home office this morning.”

I followed him up the marble steps, noting how the temperature seemed to drop with each step closer to the door. By the time we reached the entrance, my breath was almost visible. In July.

“AC's not even running,” Rodriguez said, catching my expression. “Whole place is just... wrong.”

The foyer was exactly what you'd expect from a successful Wall Street type, expensive art, antique furniture, everything screaming old money and good taste. But something felt off. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and the mark on my chest tingled unpleasantly.

“Office is upstairs,” Rodriguez continued, leading the way. “Fair warning, it's... weird.”

“Define weird.”

He hesitated at the top of the stairs. “Look, I've been on the force fifteen years. Seen all kinds of shit. But this?” He shook his head. “This is something else.”

The office door stood open, revealing a scene that made my stomach turn. Marcus Sullivan sat at his mahogany desk, perfectly posed like a mannequin. His skin was grey-white, drained of all color. His eyes were open, staring at nothing.

“No blood,” I noted, moving closer. “Anywhere.”

“That's just it,” Rodriguez said. “ME says he's completely drained. But there's no wounds, no entry points. It's like the blood just... vanished.”

I circled the desk, taking in details. The room was freezing despite summer sunshine streaming through the windows. The victim's laptop screen flickered erratically, and his smartphone's display was completely scrambled.

“First responder nearly had a breakdown,” Rodriguez continued. “Said the lights kept flickering, said she felt like something was watching her. Thought she was losing it until backup arrived and felt the same thing.”

I crouched down, examining the underside of the desk. There, barely visible unless you knew what to look for, were symbols scratched into the wood. Ancient things, the kind that made your eyes hurt if you looked at them too long.

“Three cameras have malfunctioned already,” one of the crime scene techs said, approaching with her kit as I reached for my phone. “I wouldn't bother with that.”

She was right. I'd noticed electronics acting strange since entering the building. Instead, I pulled out my field notebook and a pencil, old-school investigative techniques never failed.

“Smart move,” she nodded, watching as I carefully pressed a sheet of paper against the symbols and made a rubbing. The graphite gradually revealed the intricate patterns as I worked. The symbols seemed to resist even this method, the lines wavering slightly as I traced them, but I managed to capture a decent reproduction.

The tech gestured to some discoloration on the wall behind the desk. “And wait till you see this. Blood spatter analysis makes no sense. It's like the drops moved against gravity.”

I studied the pattern, remembering similar cases I'd marked as “unusual” in my private files. Cases that officially remained unsolved because the truth wouldn't fit in any report.

“Any signs of forced entry?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“None,” Rodriguez said. “Security system was armed, cameras working fine until 3 AM when they all went dark for exactly seven minutes. When they came back online...” He gestured to the body.

Something about the timing nagged at me. Seven minutes. Seven symbols under the desk. The number had power in certain circles.

“What did Sullivan do at Goldman?” I asked.

The tech consulted her notes. “Managed their acquisition division. Actually, he was involved in some big merger that's supposed to be announced next week. Phoenix Pharmaceuticals buying up some biotech startup.”

My blood ran cold. Phoenix. The same company that kept appearing in my case files.

“I need his laptop and phone,” I said.

“Good luck with that,” the tech replied.

I pulled latex gloves from my pocket, more for show than necessity. Whatever had killed Sullivan hadn't left the kind of evidence these people were equipped to find.

“Has anyone checked his calendar?” I asked. “Any unusual meetings in the past few days?”

Rodriguez nodded. “Assistant said he had a late dinner meeting last night at Purgatory. You know, that new club downtown?”

The same club where I'd encountered the vampire and Sean. This couldn't be coincidence.

“Right,” I straightened up. “I want everything electronic bagged and tagged. Full tox screen on the body, though I doubt you'll find anything. And get me surveillance from every camera within three blocks.”

“You think this connects to something bigger?” Rodriguez asked.

“Let's just say I have a theory.”

Back in Sullivan's office, I sat at his desk, pulling out my laptop. The crime scene techs had given up on the electronics, claiming everything was fried, but when I powered up the victim's computer, it hummed to life instantly.

“How did you...” One of the techs started.

I shrugged. “Lucky touch.”

The truth was more complicated, involving years of learning to work around supernatural interference, but that wasn't something I could explain in an official report.

Sullivan's browser history told a story of growing desperation. Research into local folklore, ancient protection rituals, myths about creatures that fed on life force. The deeper I dug, the clearer the pattern became. This was a man searching for answers.

His email inbox was worse. Dozens of messages to his wife, timestamped at odd hours, describing shadows moving when they shouldn't, figures glimpsed in mirrors that disappeared when he turned around. Each one more frantic than the last.

“Sir?” A young officer appeared in the doorway. “Found something weird in the financials. Large cash withdrawals, all to someone called 'The Guardian.' No real name, no paper trail.”

I was about to respond when a book caught my eye, an old volume on protective magic, hidden behind finance reports. As I pulled it out, a business card fluttered to the floor. The same symbols from under the desk were printed on it in silver ink.

My hand brushed the pocket where Sean's card sat like an accusation. Two hunters, two cards, and a dead man who'd been looking for protection.

“I need to talk to the wife,” I said.

Diana Sullivan's home was a study in paranoia made manifest. Every doorway had iron horseshoes mounted above it. Salt lines traced windowsills. Religious icons from half a dozen faiths crowded shelves and tables, as if she was hedging her bets on which god might save her.

She sat perfectly composed on an antique sofa, her designer outfit immaculate, but her eyes never stopped moving. They darted to corners, to shadows, watching for something she couldn't name.

“Tea?” she offered, her smile too practiced. The cups she brought out had salt crystals embedded in the rim. “For protection,” she added, catching my look.

“Mrs. Sullivan...”

“Diana, please.”

“Diana.” I noted fresh scratches on her arms as she poured, the marks forming patterns similar to those under her husband's desk. “When did Marcus start seeing things?”

Her hand trembled, spilling tea. “I don't know what you mean.”

“The protective symbols. The salt. The horseshoes.” I gestured around us. “These aren't normal decorating choices.”

Something cracked in her perfect facade. “You'll think I'm crazy.”

“Try me.”

She set down her cup, hands shaking. “It started two months ago. Marcus was working late, something about a merger with Phoenix Pharmaceuticals. He came home... different.” Her voice caught. “Said he saw something in his office mirror. A face that wasn't his. After that, he started seeing them everywhere.”

“Them?”

“The hungry ones.” She whispered it like a curse. “That's what he called them. Said they followed him, watched him through reflections. He'd wake up screaming about cold hands and endless hunger.”

She pulled out her phone, fingers trembling as she pulled up a video. “Our security camera caught this last week.”

The footage showed their bedroom at night. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then a shadow moved across the wall. As it passed their bed, Marcus's sleeping form twitched in pain.

“He found someone,” Diana continued, her voice hollow. “Called themselves 'The Guardian.' Said they could protect him, for a price.” Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “We paid. God, we paid so much. But it didn't work. Nothing worked.”

I studied her arms, the scratched symbols that matched the ones from the office. “Did you do those yourself?”

She touched the marks absently. “Marcus said they would help. Said The Guardian taught him how to make them.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “Fat lot of good they did.”

“Do you still have The Guardian's card?”

She shook her head. “Marcus burned it after... after they failed him. Said it was worse than useless now.”

I pulled out the sketch of the symbols I'd found. “Were they like these?”

Diana's face went white, her shaking fingers hovering over the paper without quite touching it. “Where did you...” She stopped, pressing a hand to her mouth. Her eyes darted to the corners of the room, to the shadows that suddenly seemed deeper than they should be. “They're here, aren't they? Right now. Watching us.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Something shifted in the decorative mirror, not a reflection, but a presence that made my mark burn cold against my chest. When I turned to look directly, there was only empty glass, but the wrongness lingered.

“Mrs. Sullivan,” I said carefully, “I need you to come with me. It's not safe here.”

She laughed, the sound brittle as breaking ice. “It's not safe anywhere. Marcus proved that.” Her hands twisted in her lap, knuckles white. “The hungry ones... they always find you. Once they start watching, they never stop. Not until...”

The words died in her throat as her eyes fixed on something behind me. I didn't need to turn to know what she was seeing, the mark's pulse told me enough. In the mirror's reflection, reality seemed to bend slightly, showing glimpses of what Marcus must have seen before he died. A face that wasn't a face, hunger older than time, darkness given form.

“We need to leave. Now.” I moved toward her, but Diana shrank back, her eyes never leaving whatever watched us from the mirror. “Mrs. Sullivan, please. Let me help you.”

“You can't.” Her voice carried a certainty that chilled me more than any supernatural presence. “No one can. I've tried everything, silver, salt, holy water. Nothing stops them once they start watching. Nothing keeps them out.”

She was right. Looking around her house at the scattered protections, the desperate attempts to ward off demons or monsters alike, I knew with terrible certainty that nothing I could do would save her. Not without time and resources I didn't have.

“I'll come back,” I promised, though the words felt hollow even to me. “With help. With people who understand what we're dealing with.”

As I turned to leave, Diana's hand shot out, gripping my arm with surprising strength. Her nails dug into my sleeve, and her eyes locked onto mine with sudden, terrifying clarity.

“You believe me, don't you?” she whispered. “You've seen things others haven't. I can tell by the way you asked your questions.”

I kept my expression neutral, but my heart hammered against my ribs. “Mrs. Sullivan...”

“They're not like normal spirits,” she continued, her voice taking on an urgent rhythm. “Marcus thought holy water and iron would save him. But these... these don't just want energy. They feed on everything, life, soul, memory. They hollow you out until there's nothing left but an echo.”

Her fingers tightened, and I noticed more scratched symbols disappearing under her sleeve. “They're patient. They watch. Wait. First in mirrors, then in dreams. By the time you see them clearly, it's already too late.”

“Diana...”

“Please.” Her composure cracked completely. “You have to stop them. Before they come for me too. Before they finish what they started.”

I felt Sean's card burning in my pocket, a choice I couldn't keep avoiding. “I'll do what I can.”

“That's what The Guardian said too.” Her laugh was brittle. “But you're different, aren't you? You actually believe what's happening. You understand what we're really dealing with.”

I carefully extracted myself from her grip. “We'll have officers watching your house. If you see anything...”

“I won't live that long.” She said it with absolute certainty. “But maybe you can stop them from taking anyone else.”

The words followed me out of her house, weighing heavier than my gun, heavier than the badge that suddenly felt useless against what we were facing. I sat in my car for a long moment, knuckles white on the steering wheel, the mark burning cold against my chest. Another person I couldn't save.

Part of me wanted to go back in, to try something, anything, to protect her. But I'd seen that look before, in others who'd glimpsed too much of what lived in the shadows. She was already marked, just like her husband had been. Just like I was, in a different way.

The drive back to headquarters felt endless, each mile adding to the guilt of leaving her there. But what could I put in my report? What officially sanctioned action could protect someone from things that fed on more than just blood?

Back at CITD headquarters, I stared at my computer screen, trying to force this case into official language. “Victim exhibited signs of extreme blood loss despite no visible wounds.” How do you explain in a federal report that something had literally drained the life force from a man?

I pulled up other cases, ones I'd flagged over the years. Similar patterns emerged: bloodless bodies, terrified witnesses describing shadows that moved wrong, victims who knew they were being hunted but couldn't escape. Each report sanitized into acceptable explanations: drug overdoses, unknown toxins, cardiac events.

All lies.

Director Sterling passed by my desk, pausing just long enough to make it deliberate. His eyes moved from the case files to Marcus's journal on my desk, then back to me. He didn't say anything, but his look carried weight.

“Agent Cross?”

I looked up to find Alana, our tech specialist, holding a file. Her usual efficiency was tempered by obvious confusion.

“Sullivan's blood work came back,” she said, setting the file on my desk. “But... it doesn't make sense. The samples keep degrading, even in stable storage. And the cellular breakdown... it's like his blood was aged decades in minutes.”

My eyes moved to Sean's card, sitting on my desk like an accusation. I'd been trying to handle these cases alone, trying to maintain the facade of normal investigations while hunting monsters in secret.

But people were dying. Whatever these creatures were, whatever game Phoenix was playing, it was escalating. And pride wasn't worth more dead bodies.

I picked up the card, running my thumb over the embossed number.

Maybe it was time to stop pretending I could handle this alone.

Before I could talk myself out of it, my phone rang. Dr. Martinez's name flashed on the screen, making my stomach tighten. Medical examiners didn't call at this hour with good news.

“Cross,” I answered, already reaching for my jacket.

“I need you at the morgue.” Her voice was clipped, professional, but I could hear the tension underneath. “Now.”

“What happened?”

“Not over the phone.” A pause, then quieter: “It's like Sullivan. But worse.”

“On my way,” I said, pocketing the hunter's card as I headed for the door. Whatever Sean's game was, it would have to wait.

Twenty minutes later, the morgue was quieter than usual when I arrived, the fluorescent lights buzzing at a frequency that set my teeth on edge. Dr. Martinez met me at the door looking more unsettled than I'd ever seen her.

“Three more came in last night,” she said without preamble. “Same signs as Sullivan.”

She led me to a row of bodies, each one showing that same bloodless grey pallor. The overhead lights flickered as we approached, and the temperature seemed to drop with each step.

“Something's wrong with these bodies,” Martinez said, pulling back a sheet. “And I don't just mean the obvious. My instruments keep malfunctioning. Digital thermometers show impossible readings. And watch this...” She held up a scalpel near one corpse's arm. The metal visibly corroded before our eyes.

“The tissue samples...” She shook her head. “It's like they're still degrading, even in preservation fluid. I've never seen anything like it.”

I examined the security footage she'd pulled up, showing the morgue over the past few nights. Shadows moved across walls in patterns that defied physics, always congregating around these specific bodies. In one frame, a dark figure seemed to watch directly into the camera, its form too tall, too wrong to be human.

“I can't put this in my report,” Martinez said quietly. “They'll think I'm crazy. But you... you see it too, don't you?”

I nodded slowly. “Keep the bodies isolated. Don't let anyone examine them alone.”

“You know what's doing this, don't you?”

I met her gaze. “Would you believe me if I told you?”

She glanced at the shadows moving impossibly on her security feed. “At this point? I'd believe anything.”

Hours later, I sat in my car outside my apartment building, turning Sean's card over in my hands. The streetlight above flickered erratically, and I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

The scene from the alley played through my mind again, Sean moving with practiced efficiency, taking down that creature like he'd been hunting his whole life.

Meanwhile, I was still trying to force supernatural horrors into bureaucratic boxes, writing reports about “unknown toxins” while people died.

Diana Sullivan's desperate eyes haunted me. How many others had I failed because I insisted on playing by CITD's rules? How many more would die while I pretended these cases could be solved through normal channels?

Three days, and four more bodies in the morgue.

Pride wasn't worth any more lives.