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VIC

“ W ant to run that by me again?” Vic did his best not to go into what Simon called cop mode over the phone. “We’ve got his bike, but no body. Where the hell did he go?”

“Short answer—something like the fay took him to pay this year’s tribute for a deal made forty years ago to avert a gang war,” Simon replied.

Vic was quiet for a moment, reminding himself that Simon was his husband and not a random witness. “I don’t understand.”

Simon sighed. “Check your records. A member of the bike club, the Low Rangers, has gone missing every year for forty years. None of them were ever found. I can have Pete send you the research he did before I conducted the séance. Carter Edwards is now the most recent addition.”

Vic knew Edwards’s name from the motorcycle registration, and he guessed the club membership from the stickers on what was left of the bike. Simon got it right on both counts.

“When did you see Edwards?”

“I squeezed him in for my first appointment. He was here for about an hour, and then he left.”

Vic pinched the bridge of his nose. “And Edwards was dead—or gone—by noon.”

“Fuck,” Simon muttered.

Ross gave him a questioning look, overhearing Vic’s side of the conversation, and Vic mouthed, “later.”

“Yeah. No blood, no body, no squishy bits. Like no one had been riding the bike, except witnesses all described the same man from moments before the crash.”

“How is that going over?”

“About as well as you’d expect.” Vic took a swig of his coffee and wished he was off duty to have a shot of something stronger. “This is South Carolina. Half the population is going to blame the Rapture, and the other half is going to think it’s a secret government death ray.”

“Do you want me to come down there and make a statement?” Simon asked.

Vic sighed. He hated dragging Simon into what might become a high-profile case once the media heard about it, but he didn’t see another option. “Yeah. Since you were maybe the last person he talked to.”

“If I park in the back and you let me in the staff door, anyone watching might just think I was visiting my husband,” Simon suggested. “That keeps the rumor mill from getting ahead of us.”

“Sounds like a plan. Do you mind bringing dinner with you? Ross is here too. We’re both fine with meatball subs. Make it easy.”

“Will do. Give me time to order, and I’ll be over.” Simon ended the call. Vic looked up to see Ross’s questioning expression.

“Simon did a séance with the missing motorcyclist earlier today. He’s coming over to give a statement. You’d better sit in on it if there’s nothing else going on. It’s going to be a strange one,” Vic told him.

Half an hour later, Simon showed up with warm subs, cold drinks, and a dozen Hot Now donuts.

“Bless you,” Ross told Simon as they unpacked the food in the break room. “I really didn’t want dinner from the vending machine—again.”

“I had to eat anyhow,” Simon replied. “And I wasn’t going to cook since Vic wouldn’t be home.”

They kept the conversation light as they ate, chatting about the weather, the big-name concerts playing locally, and the wind-down to the tourist season. When they finished eating, they moved to the interview room. Simon and Vic took up seats at the table across from each other. Ross sat in a chair in the corner.

“Okay. Tell me what happened.” Vic started the recording.

“We got a phone call from Edwards, who wanted a psychic reading as soon as possible,” Simon told them. “He didn’t say why, but said it was urgent. I fit him in, and then Pete did some background research.”

“Do you usually look up your new customers?” Vic asked.

“Not always. For most people, there wouldn’t be much to see except their social media. I generally prefer not to have preconceived ideas when I meet someone so I can be open to what I pick up from them in person.” Simon seemed to be trying not to use language that might seem too woo-woo to someone reading the notes.

“But you did look up Edwards. Why?”

Vic kept his tone moderate, reminding himself again that Simon wasn’t a suspect. The situation felt uncomfortably like the early days in their relationship when he was aggressively skeptical about psychic abilities. Plenty of first-hand experience had changed his mind.

“Something seemed off,” Simon replied. “Pete picked up on it before I did because he took the call. Edwards seemed a little panicky. I get clients like that sometimes who want a psychic reading and are really looking for a prediction or advice. Should they accept the job? Is the person they’re dating the right one? That sort of thing.”

“What was off about Edwards wanting a séance?”

“The urgency. The things people want to say to those who have passed aren’t usually time-dependent. They want to apologize or make things right or say goodbye,” Simon replied. “Occasionally, a client wants to know where the deceased hid the life insurance policies or extra cash, or they need some detail for important paperwork. But that’s as urgent as it gets.”

“Did you worry that researching the client’s background might color the information you provided?” Vic didn’t believe that, but he knew someone less familiar with Simon and psychics was bound to ask.

“No. Like I said, it struck Pete as odd, and he had already looked into a lot before he told me about Edwards. We get clients of all ages and walks of life. But in general, hard-core motorcyclists don’t stop in often.”

“Go on.”

“We knew the big rally was coming up—it’s fall, so there will be lots of bikes in town. But when Pete looked up the club, he found rumors about the group being cursed. He dug deeper because that sort of thing—if it’s true—can make a reading dangerous if I’m not prepared.”

“How?” Vic wanted the answers for the record, even though he had worked enough supernatural cases with Simon to understand the process.

“In my world, curses are real. If a witch with real ability has put a root or a hex on a person, I need to know that before I use my abilities. Otherwise, the combination can be bad. Sort of like a supernatural version of mixing bleach and ammonia.”

Vic knew Simon was doing his best to explain for any listeners who didn’t know much about the paranormal or didn’t fully believe it was real. He and Simon had gotten past that point long ago.

Simon twisted his wedding ring, and Vic read the fidgeting to mean his husband was tired and stressed. He knew how much a major spirit reading could take out of Simon, and he likely hadn’t had time to rest between then and now.

“Back to the séance. Can you please, for the record, walk us through what happened?”

Simon looked at the microphone. “Normally, I do my best to keep those conversations in confidence, even though I know that provider-client privilege doesn’t apply. But since Mr. Edwards is dead and the conversation is directly related, I’m volunteering the information.”

Vic nodded encouragingly, and Simon recounted the séance in detail, both the comments by Edwards and the information from the ghosts.

“I can email you the research that Pete and I did so you can follow our sources, but what we found matches what Edwards told us,” Simon concluded. “I sensed the entity. It acknowledged the contact but didn’t promise anything. Given the accident, it seems like Edwards got what he wanted.”

“When you say entity, what sort of creature is powerful enough to make the kind of bargain you’re talking about?” Vic asked. He and Simon had gone up against many different paranormal beings in their cases, so he had a few ideas of what might be involved.

“Unlikely to be a ghost,” Simon replied. “A powerful witch might be able to lay a curse like that, but the legends that have sprung up around the deaths didn’t sound like they were dealing with human magic. The most likely creatures would be a djinn, fay, or demon, but there are many variations of those beings from cultures all around the world.

“By all accounts, the creature kept their side of the bargain. There hasn’t been a gang war in Myrtle Beach since the deal was made,” Simon went on. “So the bargain didn’t just affect the club leader who struck the agreement—it worked a spell that affected the behavior of hundreds of riders over more than half a century. It’s very old blood magic.”

“Do you think that next year, another club rider will disappear to keep the deal?” Vic asked.

“Yes. Edwards didn’t change the deal. He just offered himself as a substitute this year because he was going to die anyhow. The terms didn’t require the victim to be young or healthy and left the picking to the entity. So next year, and all the upcoming years, unless someone breaks the curse, someone will die to keep the peace,” Simon summarized.

Vic motioned for him to remain silent and turned off the recording.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. That’s one hell of a story,” Ross said.

“It’s not much weirder than the stuff we’ve already run into,” Vic mused. “Just a bigger scale.”

“I’m going to ask for help researching this further,” Simon told them now that the recorder was off. “We’ve got friends who are good at figuring out the supernatural side of things. I’d like to know what we’re dealing with.”

“There’s also an interesting dilemma here.” Vic leaned back in his chair. “If the club members are told about the risk of joining and the history of deaths and join anyway, embracing the possibility that they could be the next sacrifice, then they are consenting to the danger,” Vic said. “People agree to accept the dangers of all kinds of activities, like horseback riding and surfboarding. Sometimes people die doing those things. I’m not sure what authority we have to end the situation—even if we could.”

“I thought about that,” Simon replied. “And there’s also the issue of the truce. Trouble between the motorcycle clubs—especially the less savory ones—happened every year before the deal was made. Club members died—and so did tourists who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Break the deal, break the truce.”

“So the motorcycle club members join knowing they could be sacrificed,” Ross said. “The people who would be killed if the clubs start fighting again haven’t agreed to the deal.”

“Shit.” Vic ran his hands through his short, dark hair. “Why does anyone need to die?”

“Because I’m guessing this entity feeds off the death energy. From its perspective, it’s gone on a diet by taking one sure meal instead of going feast-or-famine with pure chance,” Simon replied. “So the only way to stop the deaths and not start a war?—”

“Is to destroy the entity,” Vic finished. “Is that even possible?”

Simon shrugged. “Theoretically? Yes. Even gods can die. Look at the Greek myths. But right now, we don’t know what this being is, what other powers it has, where its vulnerabilities are—nada. All we know is that one-on-one, with human protections, it’s got us way outgunned.”

Vic sent Simon home to relax while he and Ross finished the paperwork. Familiar sounds from the squad room provided a dull hum of ringing phones, humming printers, and the low buzz of conversation. Ross was more quiet than usual, and Vic could sense there was something on his partner’s mind.

“Okay, spill. You’ve got something in your head that’s spiraling,” Vic said after an hour of seeing Ross fidget.

“That obvious?”

“We’ve worked together how long? You’re not nearly as stealthy as you think,” Vic replied.

Ross leaned back and sighed. “Normally we get all kinds of weird stuff around Halloween, but until I started working with you and Simon, I thought it was all just strange people doing bizarre stuff. I always thought Halloween was fun because of that, and I never really understood why some church folks are so set against it.”

“And?” Vic suspected he knew where Ross was heading.

“Knowing the kinds of things that you and Simon have dealt with, what’s really out there, it’s a whole ’nother dimension to the holiday,” Ross mused. “Not that I think Trick-or-Treat is of the devil or something. But I wonder if some of the watered-down arguments are rooted in much older, darker legends involving the kinds of creatures that modern people don’t think exist.”

“Probably.” Vic rose to fill his coffee cup again. “People learn to do things the way those who came before them did. But they don’t always learn the reason, so over time, the action loses its point.”

“I heard a story about a lady who always cut a piece of brisket in half before cooking it because that’s how her mother did it. She thought it was something to do with the meat. Turns out her mother had a small pan, and that’s the only way the brisket would fit,” Ross said with a chuckle.

“Exactly—only in our case, with monsters.” Vic deleted another email on his laptop, glad he was nearing the end of his inbox.

“Yeah—still getting used to that,” Ross admitted. “The world is a scary place just with humans. ”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Vic muttered.

“I liked thinking that all the stories about magic and creatures were ways people explained things they didn’t understand. Finding out that there’s truth underneath the stories is mind-blowing.”

“Welcome to my world.” Vic glanced at his email when it pinged. “Simon just sent me the information Pete and he compiled on the cycle club. I don’t doubt what he told us, but fresh eyes might see something they didn’t.”

“I did find something interesting,” Ross replied. “In the years from 1944 to 1974, there was at least one motorcycle gang war every year in the Carolinas. Anywhere from five to fifteen people ended up dead in each altercation, not to mention tens of thousands of dollars every year in property damage. Also pretty common for bystanders to get hurt too.”

“Huh. So five people a year for thirty years might be on the low end, but it’s still more than one person a year over forty years,” Vic said. “Not counting hurt bystanders, damage, business disruption, and losing tourist traffic.”

“We can’t turn that loose again, Vic. The bargain the club made is a raw deal, but it’s better than what went on before.”

Vic rubbed his forehead. “I know. And I’m wondering if the entity is something that has always been here or if it hitched a ride with people who settled here from somewhere else.”

“If it’s from here and it needs to feed, then there should be a pattern of multiple deaths happening at the same time each year—like plagues, fires, floods, that sort of thing,” Ross said. “Except this thing makes people disappear. That’s a little harder to cover up than just leaving bodies behind.”

“Not really. We can’t always account for everyone after a flood or a wildfire. When there’s an outbreak, it’s going to hit homeless people worse, and no one might notice if they disappear,” Vic pointed out.

“If whatever-this-is can summon up fires, floods, and plagues, why is it focusing on motorcycle gang wars?”

Vic stared at his coffee as if it held the answers. “We’ve gotten better at predicting natural disasters and doing damage control. Better record keeping and more cameras. Gang wars are unpredictable, messy, and involve people who stay off the grid. Gang members are also insular—they don’t talk to people outside their groups. Easier to hide the damage.”

“Why not other types of gangs? Drug dealers, traffickers, stolen goods?”

Vic thought for a moment. “I’m going to go out on a limb here—Simon’s the one who knows about folklore. But those other types of gangs are run-of-the-mill criminals. Motorcycle gangs have a dark romance to them—like armored knights from the wrong side of the tracks.”

“Romantic criminals? Really?”

Vic shrugged. “People still talk about Billy the Kid, Bonnie and Clyde, Al Capone in a larger-than-life way. Anti-heroes. Truth was, they were scum, but they had something about them that caught the imagination, and they ended up as legends.”

Ross thought for a moment before nodding. “Okay. Not saying I agree with that view, but I know what you mean.”

“Except for the rallies, I kinda look forward to fall,” Vic admitted. “Not as many tourists and fewer teens and twenties or families with kids—so not as many of the problems that come with them.”

“I won’t say that retirees and empty-nesters don’t throw keggers that get out of hand, but it’s a lot less common.” Ross chuckled. In the squad room, several people laughed loudly, and Vic guessed someone had shared a funny meme.

“The clubs cause noise, and we have to put patrol units out to remind them not to cruise, but they spend a lot of money, and they mostly mind their manners.” Vic finished his coffee, eyed the pot, and weighed having another cup. He set his mug aside and got a sports drink out of his drawer instead.

“The regular cops are probably just as busy as ever, but we usually get a break on the murders once things settle down for the winter. Or maybe it’s just locals killing each other instead of visitors,” Vic added.

“I’m sure there are statistics on that if you really want to know. And one of our cases takes a lot longer than writing tickets for noise complaints and bad parking,” Ross pointed out.

“True.” Vic shut down his laptop. “I’ve finished all the forms I can do tonight. Should be interesting when Cap reads them and hears Simon’s testimony.”

He didn’t doubt that Captain Hargrove would believe them—he had proven himself to be receptive to the idea of supernatural elements when he approved adding Simon as an official consultant. Others in the chain of command weren’t as open-minded, so they usually had to figure out how to frame the paranormal issues to avoid problems with city hall, local churches, and the media.

Simon sat on the couch watching a movie when Vic got home. He put the popcorn aside and went to kiss Vic, folding him into a hug.

“Long day, huh?”

“You could say that. We don’t have people disappear like that all the time.”

“You want some popcorn? I made enough to share.”

Vic cracked open two beers and carried them to the couch, sitting down close enough to Simon that they pressed together from knee to hip.

“I need to decompress.” Vic noted that the action flick was halfway over, and it was one they had watched many times.

“Want me to start the movie again?” Simon offered.

Vic shook his head. “I think my concentration is shot to hell, so I’m fine with just zoning out a little. Sorry not to be better company.”

Simon leaned over to brush his lips across Vic’s cheek. “I think you’re fine just the way you are.”

Vic sipped his beer and watched the familiar movie, glad he didn’t have to think hard to follow the story. “We read what you sent us. Makes a great story. Hard to believe it’s true but…maybe so.”

“I’m going to talk to Father Anne and give Miss Eppie and Mrs. Teller a call.” Simon cited three of his best sources for supernatural information. “See what they’ve heard and what they think might be the best way to handle things. Maybe some poor suckers in the past have tried to kill the entity and been poofed out of existence, so we’ll know what to avoid.”

“Promise you’ll be careful.” Vic took Simon’s hand. “Don’t get poofed.”

Simon folded Vic’s hands between his own. “I will do my very best not to. I have plenty to stick around for.”

Vic knew he was being hypocritical making Simon vow not to take chances. Vic was a cop, and risk went with the badge. Growing up in a law enforcement family, Vic had learned to rationalize the dangers and remain cautious without dwelling on the possibilities.

Their time together had proven that Vic was not as good at dealing with the threat of harm when it came to Simon.

Especially since the supernatural problems that threatened Simon’s safety were things Vic couldn’t punch or stop with a bullet. Although he often backed up Simon when he and his colleagues worked spells or took on paranormal dangers, Vic always fretted that his lack of magic or psychic abilities meant his protections fell short.

“Quit worrying.” Simon looked at him with a smirk. “It doesn’t take a mind reader to pick up on what you’re thinking. And I feel the same way every time you go out to deal with a police problem.”

Vic leaned against Simon’s shoulder. “I know. We’ve talked about it and muddled through before. But it doesn’t get easier. Like being deployed—there’s always risk.”

“That’s where it helps that we have such an awesome bunch of friends who can save our asses.” Simon rested his cheek on the top of Vic’s head. “I’m not going to do anything about the entity or the deal until I know what’s involved—and if it isn’t worth the downside, we walk away and let things go on the way they have been.”

“Promise?”

Simon kissed Vic’s hair. “Promise.”

Vic turned toward Simon and pulled him in for a kiss, slow and tender. He licked at Simon’s lips, slipping inside his mouth. Simon’s hands moved across Vic’s shoulders, down his back, then back up to the nape of his neck, caressing.

“What do you want?” Simon murmured next to his ear, voice deep and sensual. “What will make you feel better?”

Vic pulled back from the kiss far enough to speak. “You. Maybe just slow tonight.”

“We don’t have to do anything except touch,” Simon assured him, letting his hands rove. “We can snuggle—clothing optional.”

“I like that,” Vic murmured. “Never thought I’d be playing the too tired to tango card as a newlywed.”

Simon kissed him again, and Vic let him take the lead. “There isn’t a sex quota.”

“Are you sure?” Vic joked tiredly.

“Yep. Positive. That’s what weekends are for,” Simon assured him. “Although if a hand job would relax you, I’m happy to oblige.”

“Sounds just like what the doctor ordered—Dr. Kincaide,” Vic teased, using Simon’s university title.

“I can make that happen.” Simon’s hand slipped lower, moving between Vic’s legs and stroking over his bulge. Vic spread his thighs wider, knowing his jeans were going to get tight very quickly. He returned the favor, rubbing his palm over Simon’s half-hard cock.

“How do you want it?” Simon’s voice sounded like whiskey and sin.

“Want it together. Want to feel you,” Vic replied, already a little breathless.

Simon worked Vic’s belt and then unbuttoned his jeans. Vic hurried to slip them off as Simon pushed down the sweatpants he had changed into while waiting for Vic to come home.

Vic closed his hand over their cocks and bit back a moan. They were both leaking pre-come, but not quite enough to ease the friction of rough palms. Simon reached between the couch cushions for the lube he kept handy and added a daub, slicking their hands.

“Not going to last,” Vic warned.

“Didn’t expect to. Just want to make you feel good before bedtime.” Simon’s mouth was so close to Vic’s ear that his breath made Vic shiver. “Let go, Vic. Come on. Give it up for me.”

The low rumble of Simon’s voice and the warmth of his breath on Vic’s neck was all it took to push Vic over the edge. Vic gasped and arched, spilling over their joined hands. Simon followed seconds later.

When the aftershocks ended, Simon leaned in to kiss Vic. “Better?”

Vic kissed him back. “Much. I like this married stuff.”

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me now.” Simon reached for the box of tissues and cleaned them.

Vic toyed with the ring on Simon’s hand. “I think we already established that.”

They weren’t quite ready for sleep, so Vic brought more beer back while Simon found another favorite movie to rewatch, one that was a comedy instead of a drama and not monster-focused.

Since they were both half-dressed already they ducked into the bedroom to put on sleep pants and T-shirts, tossing their clothes in the laundry basket and washing.

“Good pick,” Vic told Simon when they slouched on the sofa together. “Distracting, but I don’t have to pay attention.”

They switched on who was the little spoon just like they traded places top and bottom with sex. Tonight, Vic was happy to feel Simon’s solid body and strong arms anchoring him.

Vic focused on the rhythm of Simon’s heart and the pattern of his breathing. That calmed him and helped him finally release the tension of the day. Knowing that Simon didn’t judge him for his reaction helped a lot and was one of the many things he loved about his husband.

The movie was enough of a distraction to short-circuit Vic’s spiraling thoughts. He didn’t have Simon’s psychic talent, but cops depended on instinct and intuition, and Vic’s rarely proved him wrong.

Those hunches told Vic they hadn't seen the last of problems with the bikers’ entity, even though another sacrifice wasn’t due for a year. He knew Simon would canvas his friends in the supernatural community and that they would come up with a plan. But that same intuition warned him that finding a solution was likely to be more dangerous than expected, especially when dealing with a powerful creature who was not going to easily accept losing its guaranteed food source.

He laced their fingers together over his belly. Simon nuzzled against his neck, more interested in cuddling than in the movie.

Let it go, he told himself, drinking in Simon’s scent. If it’s been going on for forty years, another few days won’t matter. We don’t have to solve it on the first try.

Vic wanted to believe that, but he couldn’t shake the sense of urgency that there was more to this case than they knew, and what they hadn’t figured out might be the most dangerous part.

“Hey, let’s go to bed,” Simon nudged him, and Vic realized he had dozed off. The movie was over, and the credits were rolling. “I’ll check the locks and meet you in there.”

Vic shuffled off, glad to put an end to a very disquieting day. His familiar bedtime routine was a welcome comfort. By the time Simon returned from his late-night rounds, Vic had slipped between the covers, waiting for his lover to join him.

“I’ll be right there,” Simon promised. “Hold my spot.”

“Always.” Vic managed not to drift off until Simon climbed into bed and threw an arm over him. They would roll apart before long, too warm to sleep like that, but Vic appreciated the gesture.

“Sweet dreams,” Simon whispered. “I’m already planning to give you a very happy morning.”