3.

"You are a very plain person," Nagi said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Don't mistake my meaning," he said, squinting over at me. "I find you gorgeous. There is beauty even in the slow decay of an animal in the woods, given enough distance. I am commenting on your... How do I say this… your own sense of self, in a way."

"I don't think I'm plain," I said.

"You may not, but there is an emotional core, some deep-rooted seed of unconscious thought in your mind, your heart, your soul, that tells you you are naught but a basic individual, a cookie-cutter reprint of others, another gerbil on a wheel."

"I said I'd take off my clothes, not my psychological hangups," I said.

"Clothing allows one to hide their body, and further, to hide their communication. Clothes allow us to veil our intentions from one another. There is a vulnerability with nudity that communicates more in a silence when exposed to one's partner than can be said in a lifetime's worth of spoken words."

"You're a freak, Nagi," I said.

"And yet you are so compelled by this that you come to me to seek me out. You have come to me three times now. Once when I lay dying. Another time, to save my life. And now that there is no present danger, you come again. Perhaps you seek to overcome your normalcy by embracing that which is different, that which you find—on one level or another—grotesque."

I paused.

"Yara said you've been having bad dreams."

Nagi stopped, paused, and blinked slow, his eyelids closing for some time.

"My dreams are troublesome," he said. "They don't concern you."

"How do you know?" I asked.

He paused another slow blink and then opened his eyes again.

"Not everything is about you, Stacey," he said.

I was saved a reply by his phone ringing. He sighed, put down his brush, and then stepped back from the canvas.

"Come and look at this while I take this," he said. "It's Brynholf."

I slipped my blouse and skirt back on, trying to make myself feel more put together, and then walked around to the canvas. There was a suggestion of curves—what may have been a black stroke indicative of a smile—and then some squiggles. I turned my head, stared at it, and then turned my head in the opposite direction. Didn't make much sense any way I approached it.

"Yes, yes, I see. Alright. I have Stacey with me now. Shall I bring her?" Angry squabbling on the phone. Nagi rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes. We'll be there in twenty." Nagi snapped his phone shut, and then smiled a soft, sad smile at me. "And away we are called. Ever onward to yet the next adventure."

"What's going on?" I asked.

"There's been a murder," Nagi said. "The blood spatter indicates it's a supernatural death of one sort or another. New paperwork protocol indicates when the Chicago PD get involved, we have a task force composed of two members of the council that go to work together."

"That sounds… exhausting."

"You have no idea," he said. "I'll have Yara drive us."

On we drove, charioted, as it were, by Yara. Nagi and I were quiet on the ride over. It was still full-sun out, and Nagi's windows were tinted dark. He wore sunglasses and a large-brimmed hat. We were taken clear across town, all the way to what looked like a part of the city that was… well… not well-taken care of.

"Look at all these streets," I said.

"Withhold your judgement," Nagi said.

"I didn't say anything," I said.

"You didn't have to. We've shared blood. I can feel a tingle of your emotion as it dances in your mind."

"That's intrusive," I said.

"Just look at the decay around you," Nagi said. "Take a hard look at these slums and the knock-together nature of the way the city is planned here. Consider, if you will, that my observations are coming from someone who was once human but now no longer has that as a limitation on my perception."

"Considered," I said.

"Why is the city let go like this here?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said. "High crime rates? It's not worth it as an investment?"

"What is crime?" Nagi asked. "Merely the inability to adhere to a set of established rules."

"You make it sound simple," I said. "Laws are complicated. They're a compromise, something we all agreed to follow because we've collectively decided that's the best way that things run."

"How many of those laws did you get an opinion on?" Nagi asked.

"What?"

"How many of the rules you follow were you asked about? Did you ever have a choice, or were you conditioned to follow them before you could understand them?"

"I don't understand," I said.

"You may, in time," Nagi said. "I am not much older than you, but the act of being different from birth has given me a fluid perspective. When you don't fit in, Stacey, or you don't naturally belong, it makes you think about things differently."

"We've arrived," Yara said.

Nagi bent low and scanned the horizon.

"The sun's hateful rays scorch the skin of lesser men," he said, quietly. "And yet still we persist and exist. Come along."

And he got out of the car, brimmed hat and voluminous robe making him look like Lady Gaga in a music video, and I wondered who on Earth I was riding with, and how much depth Nagi really had, deep down…

Eddie and Brynholf looked up when we approached. Brynholf had a sneer on his face. He'd worn makeup to show up in person. It helped his complexion immensely, though I wondered at his choice of shade for his natural skin color…

"You look like a grieving widow," Brynholf said.

"You summoned me before sundown," Nagi said. "We all do what we must. Surely you yourself are bothered by the golden light. Let's go inside."

"Police are everywhere in the apartment," Eddie said. "CSI beat us here."

"What happened?" I asked.

"Why are you even here?" Brynholf asked me. He turned to Nagi. "I thought I told you not to bring her."

"You did," Nagi said. "Yet, I insisted. I am not one to sit on my heels and follow orders, and you must understand that when I say I will do something, it will be done."

"She's a member of the human media," Brynholf said.

"That she is," Nagi said. "And as such. She is in a key position to understand what has happened and digest it, to translate it into something and regurgitate it for the masses. She's perfect for what she does. And she's the reason we're all standing here today, instead of strung up on crosses or staked in our sleep."

The way he said it made it feel like an insult, even while it acted as a defense of my presence. That was the hard part about it. That Nagi's opinion on me was that I was really just some… well… normal woman. It bothered me. I didn't know why, either. Everywhere I went, people had commented on my birthmark. They called me Moon-Kissed. And because of my articles, I was even starting to get popular. And I hated it. So why did it upset me when Nagi said it?

"Update us on the scene," Nagi said.

"It's a mess in there," Eddie said. He did not look at me when he said it. This hurt too. I know he was probably trying to be professional, and that our work that we did was separate from what we got up to in our spare time… but I knew he was hurting, aching even to see me show up with Nagi. I wanted to tell him—"It's not like that"—but I knew that wasn't true. Not at all.

Eddie stopped for a second, and then put a hand to his head.

"Stacey, not everything is about you," he said.

Brynholf was staring at us.

"Can't you block me?" I asked.

"It's not like social media, Stacey," Nagi said. "You have to shield yourself. You're as transparent to the both of us as a sheer piece of white wet silk wrapped across your bosom. I can see your nipples."

"Metaphorical nipples, Stacey," Eddie said, without looking.

"This is why I didn't want you to bring her," Brynholf said. "Already her presence is interfering with our investigation."

"It's our investigation," Nagi said. "Not yours. You are a paper pusher. You are a bureaucrat. You are a lead anchor tied against our ankles."

"He has a point," Eddie said. "We're all here to work. We have things we need to do. And we need to get back on that task. Nagi. You asked about the crime scene. It's a mess. We're not sure on the specifics of how it happened, but whoever was in there died."

"Means of death?"

"Inconclusive as of yet," Eddie said. "Outside appearance, though. It looks like whoever it was literally exploded into a puddle of gore. I wanted to wait until you got here so we could look at it together."

"You're exaggerating, surely," Nagi said.

"I'll talk to our liaison for a walkthrough," Brynholf said. "You know the reason I'm here is to interface with the human departments that handle these things. Our team is considered special operatives who specialize in crime-scene analysis specifically regarding gangs and gang-related activity."

Brynholf walked towards the human responders.

"How bad is it really?" Nagi asked.

"It's bad," Eddie said. "Even worse than Phoenix."

"What are your thoughts?" Nagi asked.

"We don't even know who or what was killed in there. There are human-shaped pieces, but for the most part it's ankle-deep sludge and blood splatters on the wall. The guys wore rain boots and almost had to charter a pontoon through it."

"Have they tested the residual on further human skin?" Nagi asked.

"I'll say they probably haven't," I said. "How many crime shows do you guys watch?"

"I don't watch television," Nagi said.

"Not much," Eddie said.

"It's human blood… or at least, they're going to think it's human blood. And there's a lot of transmissible diseases. Not a single crime scene analyst would touch that blood with their bare skin in the history of ever."

"We'll need to analyze a sample," Nagi said.

"We need to grab some without them seeing us, then," Eddie said.

Nagi started undoing the cuffs on his robe.

"We'll have to get more than a few samples," Nagi said. "For Gurg to look through." He said 'look' very quickly, and it sounded funny when he said it. "This will be like Phoenix again, won't it?"

"Same basic idea, I think. Brynholf's eyes are going to be on me. The detective's eyes are going to be on Stacey."

"I feel like Nagi is the most noticeable," I said.

"For now," Nagi said. "Stacey, you may feel a slight skitter across your spine or in your bosom. Possibly running up or down your legs. Just don't pay attention to it."

And then Nagi was gone. Something furry and small popped its head up my pant legs, and I tried hard not to scream. Little nails perched about halfway up my knees. I could feel a cold tail flickering gently against my kneecap.

"Every instinct I have as a woman is telling me to shriek as loud as I can right now," I said.

"Just play along," Eddie said.

Brynholf walked from the apartment with another man. He was a human. Blonde, with an arched nose and green eyes. He smiled at me. God, he was a stunner.

"Stacey, Eddie," Brynholf said. "This is Officer O'Rourke."

"Officer," Eddie said. They shook hands.

"I hear the two of you are here on special assignment, huh?" O'Rourke asked. "I gotta warn you. It's messy in there. We got hip waders, respirators, and rubber gloves. Don't touch nothing. Don't slip. And don't breathe in. Got some Vicks back in the truck but this is a bucket and shop vac job for the most part."

We walked behind him. As we neared the doorway, Brynholf waved off the gloves.

"I'm heading back home in a minute," he said. "You guys are here, and I don't need to see it again."

Brynholf walked to the far edge of the balcony, pushed past some police, and lit a cigarette as he stared into the distance. He did not look well.

"Never seen anything like this before, and I've worked homicide for about a decade in this city," O'Rourke said. "Looks like whatever it was liquefied him. Like someone put him in a blender on pulse for an hour. Here. Scrub up."

Me and Eddie locked eyes as we each slid into our PPE. O'Rourke put a fresh pair of waders and gloves on.

"Hold your breath," O'Rourke said, through the mask, and then opened the door.

We walked into a dimly lit living room. It smelled of rank body odor. Syringes and a filled ashtray were on a coffee table in front of an old tube TV that was flickering, the screen rolling over and over again. There was a group of technicians taking pictures and trying for fingerprints on the door jamb behind us.

"See. Here's what we're thinking. Syringes and surgical tubing here. Even a little arm band. That's a little further up, in the kitchen, where it fell off when he got to his feet. Everything looks normal here—excepting that bloody handprint on the wall over there by the light switch."

"And look at the door," Eddie said to me.

It looked like skin was dangling from it. I felt my gorge rise up in my stomach.

"Yeah," the man said. "Looks like a typical junkie trying to get a fix. Got some heroin here in a baggie—needs to be analyzed still, but I've seen it before. Some pure shit. Whoever this was, before he spiked whatever it was in his body, he did the good shit. See—I imagine it happened like this. He sat back on the couch. Decided he was going to shoot up. Got his whole little needle kit going here. Wrapped himself up nice and good. Popped out a big enough vein. Whatever it is didn't set right with him. He got to his feet. Maybe he popped a vein, maybe his corpuscles were already leaking. He goes to put a hand on the light switch, leans on the door frame here, where the skin is."

O'Rourke carefully pushed and held the door open.

"Careful," he said.

Eddie and I walked into the kitchen. There was a pile of something on the ground. I stared at it, my mind unable to register what I was seeing for a moment, but then my college anatomy course memories kicked in, and I started seeing recognizable bits.

My stomach bobbed again. I immediately turned and ran over to the sink, ripped off my mask, and threw up.

"Yeah, it's bad," O'Rourke said.

"It's just as bad a second time," Eddie said. "Maybe worse." I had never heard him sound so revolted before in the entire time I knew him.

I didn't know how to describe it even as I was seeing it. Footprints left bloody tatters of flesh on the ground. He rounded the kitchen table—was it a he? Nobody could know. And then more and more piles of bubbles and fleshy pink fluid. And here toe bones. There ankle bones. And some split thigh bones. A torso's worth of molten body fluid, like everything, sluiced right off the body and splashed. And then a brain and a skull, an outstretched hand clawing up against the wall between the kitchen and the hallway…

Something furry slipped from my pant leg. I tried not to look.

"That is bad," I said.

"Yeah," O'Rourke said. "Looks like whatever he injected dissolved him from the inside out."

"No kidding," I said.

Whatever the furry thing was from before had crawled its way back up my pant leg. I could feel a little pull on my knee.

"I think I've seen what I need to," I said. "You good, Eddie?"

"Yeah," he said. "Maybe good isn't the best word for it, though…"