Chapter Twenty-four

Ahomeless man found the body—or parts of it—behind a dumpster, causing the team to leave the compound in the wee hours of the morning.

Strobes flared from four Atlanta PD cars, and the crackle of radios might well have become the background music of Farren’s life.

He squatted, taking in air through his mouth to avoid the putrid scent of rotting and dead things, which nearly overpowered the lingering herbal tang. The victim hadn’t had a chance. At least two travelers had been here.

Morrisey stood to one side, glancing right and left, moving to a new angle, then perusing the area again, his usual method of evaluating a crime scene, but without his notepad and pen this time. Finally, he crouched next to Farren, showing no sign of disgust at the smell or the condition of the body.

Farren imagined he felt the heat radiating from Morrisey and smelled soap and clean skin. A touch of booze and cigarette smoke, too, but faint. Farren fully understood why Morrisey avoided him. The bond between them wasn’t complete, but didn’t seem inclined to stop trying.

Tendrils of Farren’s psyche reached for Morrisey’s. Farren pulled them back by force of will. At least Morrisey hadn’t run away—yet.

Morrisey snapped Farren from his musings. “What we got?”

At first glance, only a pile of tattered rags showed—shredded shirt, bloody tie—until Farren rose and stepped behind the dumpster. Bloody rags and a rib cage. The low light hid details, but some of the team set up floodlights.

Farren kind of wished they hadn’t. Morrisey maintained his composed facade as he approached, only his heart rate spiked. Sour notes invaded his scent.

What? Farren had never noticed a heartbeat or change in a human’s scent before. Was this specific to Morrisey, or were new abilities coming online?

“Shit,” Morrisey grumbled. Ah, the king of understatement.

Farren quirked an eyebrow. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“Uh-uh.” Morrisey tugged on gloves, kneeled, then gently moved remnants of the T-shirt to view the damage beneath. He released a soft whistle. “I’ve seen gang fights, crimes of passion, and even sadistic motherfuckers, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Farren squatted next to Morrisey, keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard by Atlanta PD officers. “Some less than savory travelers fed from the victim’s fear. They might still be hungry because fear doesn’t nourish the body well. This is rage. This is a tantrum. There’s no sign of the murder weapon.”

Morrisey indicated the dumpster with a tilt of his head. “Yet. My bet’s on in there. Did he have ID?”

“Not that they’ve found.”

Morrisey bent close to whisper, “Can you do your… you know… thing?”

Farren shook his head. “The victim is too far gone.” Judging by the condition of the body, even attempting might cause Farren irreversible trauma.

Morrisey pulled off one glove and rested the knuckles of two fingers against a patch of clear skin. He closed his eyes, drawing in a long breath. His eyes popped open. “Nothing.”

“What did you just do?” Farren hadn”t commented on similar behavior before.

Morrisey turned away, but not before displaying a momentary flicker of guilt. “Sometimes I get… impressions from victims. Just what they were feeling right before death.”

Farren had met a few psychics throughout the years who”d claimed they could do the same. They couldn’t. But if Morrisey could... What a brave sonofabitch to voluntarily experience the poor victim”s feelings. “Who knows about this hidden talent of yours?”

“Counting you?”

“Yes.”

Morrisey kept his voice to a nearly indistinct mumble. “Two. Me and you.”

So many questions Farren wanted to ask. They must wait for later when he got Morrisey alone.

A member of the task force took pictures from the angles Morrisey had first viewed. Atlanta PD held back as the officers waited for the FBI to finish their initial investigation. Some grumbled about delays, while others were in no hurry to come nearer. The task force’s presence usually meant situations the average person wanted no part of.

Unless they were a sick fuck.

Morrisey rose, offering a hand up.

Farren took the gesture he saw as a peace offering—especially after being avoided all day—rising to his feet but not actually needing help. “Thank you. Now let’s let forensics get to work. Come with me.”

Morrisey cocked his head to the side but fell into step beside Farren. ”Where are we headed?”

“I want to check the perimeter.”

“For what?”

”Unless someone stumbles into this world accidentally, moving between realms calls for a portal. Those require a great deal of energy, and hints linger for days, sometimes weeks.”

One of the rookies approached before they could leave the alley. “Sir? You need to see this.”

Farren retraced his steps, Morrisey on his heels.

A bloody blob lay on the ground, partially obscured by shadow. The rookie turned the blob. A face. A head?

Beside Farren, Morrisey groaned. “I know him. He was a rookie cop.”

“Come with me.” Farren pulled Morrisey with him. Time to get away from here.

Morrisey jogged to keep up, an unusual turn of events given his longer legs. “We lost several law enforcement officers right before I joined the task force. My captain suggested the killer might be looking for someone in particular. Someone who looks like you. This latest vic fits the profile.”

Farren stopped, whipping around to meet Morrisey’s eyes. Morrisey continued, “Someone must think you can stop them, so they’re after you. The asshole got a good look at me at the last scene. My time in Atlanta PD is public record. Easy to trace me. He might be sending us both a message.”

“I’ve never let anyone intimidate me. What about you?” Hopefully, Morrisey felt the same.

Morrisey lifted his chin to a stubborn angle. “This motherfucker declared war. He’s started this shitstorm, and by God, I plan to finish it. Demons are the reason I lost my last partner. I won’t lose you too. And for the record, I don’t consider you a demon. I’ve decided to call these demons because of what they do, not because they come from your former world, Doormouse.”

“Domus,” Farren corrected. Former world. How thoughtful of Morrisey to make that clear.

“I think I’m in over my head,” Morrisey groused. ”I”m not sure what”s happening. Too much new. I can’t stop thinking about you, what I saw when you entered my mind.”

“Saw? You shouldn’t have seen anything but your own thoughts.” What the hell had Farren let Morrisey see?

“I feel you. You appear in my dreams, and I don”t know what it means. I have to push it away, concentrate on our cases. You’re too distracting.”

There it was. The bond didn’t intend to listen to petty human minds. It knew what it wanted. Fighting wouldn’t help. Farren glanced right and left, ensuring no one watched, then did something he’d been longing to do since looking into Morrisey’s mind, feeling his isolation and wanting to make him feel less alone.

Farren took Morrisey into his arms, the way humans sought comfort from each other.

Like the day they first shook hands, electricity tingled between them, a feeling Farren hadn’t experienced in years and should only with his own kind. Yet, Morrisey, for all his prickles, felt warm and solid against Farren’s chest, the scent of tobacco and booze on Morrisey’s breath a familiar mix, driving away the stench of the alley.

How long since anyone held Farren? Just like emotions or food, he needed contact and just now realized he’d been starved for it.

Morrisey lifted his head from Farren’s shoulder, staring down with intense, burning eyes. “There’s no stopping it, is there?”

“I’m afraid not.”

An unspoken agreement passed between them, and then they pressed their lips together. The kiss wasn’t passionate but tasted of desperation and loneliness and taking a moment to seek comfort in another.

Like the day in the infirmary, something reached out from them both, intertwining in a way that scared and thrilled Farren in equal measure.

As Magestra, Farren was duty bound to surrender his life for others and had taken similar vows many times. Nobody had ever made him the same promise.

Yet Morrisey did, the promise clear in his suddenly possessive kiss. This prickly, alcohol and nicotine-addicted man who doubted his own worth promised to guard Farren. The speaker may or may not have actually spoken the words, but anyone with even a kernel of insight could discern the message.

Even Kele would never have imagined saying those words.

All too soon, the kiss ended, and with it the wonderful connected feeling.

Morrisey straightened. “Thank you. I think I”ll be fine now.”

He strode back toward the carnage, leaving Farren to caress his lips, wonder what just happened, and feel like he might’ve died without that kiss.

He pressed himself close to the wall, catching his breath and willing his spinning thoughts to calm. He sent out his senses, searching, searching. No portal. The perpetrators either came from a distant portal or had been here a while.

They were still no closer to finding answers. Especially when a killer could be anyone.

When Farren came back to the dumpster, Morrisey stood in triumph, holding aloft what appeared to be an ordinary butcher’s knife.