Chapter 5

5

Cleaning up puke sucks.The only saving grace? White wine doesn’t stain like red. Still, given I didn’t usually vomit, the fact I’d spewed without nausea or warning bothered. I could usually hold my own. Maybe I’d caught a stomach bug.

After the cleanup, I hit the shower. Didn’t want to reek of puke if Cain returned. Not that I hoped he did.

Okay, maybe a little. My love life had been sparse of late, as in non-existent, unless my battery-powered boyfriend counted. You’d think lusting after a stranger who killed demons and claimed to be part of some brotherhood of reapers would be a turn-off.

You’d be wrong.

I won’t deny the bad boy appeal. At least his claim of being some kind of reaper explained the scythe. Had to wonder why he’d gone with reaper instead of demon hunter for a job title, though either one was kind of cool. But what did I do when faced with a sexy dude who might have literally saved my life and who claimed I was special? I told him to fuck off.

Then again, what else could I say? I’d meant it when I said I lacked the bravery gene. I also wasn’t the type to do charitable acts. I took care of myself—and sometimes helped my neighbor—but strangers? Putting myself in harm’s way? Fighting literal demons that crawled out of sewers?

Fuck that.

I went to bed. Once again I barricaded the main exit, booby-trapped the window, and shut the bedroom door. Seeing as how I’d lost my alcoholic buzz, I turned to my vape pen for relaxing relief, but after only one tug, I cursed. The blinking light indicated it needed charging.

Ugh. The timing sucked. I shoved the pen part into an outlet and flopped onto my bed, staring at the ceiling.

Thump.

The noise came from above. Mrs. Fitzgerald must have dropped something.

Scratch. Thud. Thump. Thump.

Maybe Mrs. Fitzgerald was getting some. The idea of the old lady getting frisky was enough to give me the shudders. I knew one day I’d be old, wrinkly, and gray down there, but that didn’t mean I wanted to picture it.

I tossed and turned. Ended up on my back, staring at the ceiling. Not that I saw anything given the darkness in my room. I wondered if my pen had charged enough yet for me to get that relaxing high that helped me sleep.

Before I could roll over to grab it, something wet plopped on my face.

What the fuck? I wiped at the moisture and rolled over, flicking on my nightstand lamp. A glance at my fingers had me gasping as they were smeared in red. A peek overhead showed more red moisture seeping through the light figure over my bed and rolling down the pendant light before dripping onto my bed.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say it looked like blood. It could be red wine, but I wasn’t about to taste it to find out. A tentative sniff didn’t give me any clue either.

I thought of the thumping I’d heard earlier. Had Mrs. Fitzgerald fallen and cracked her head? I should call for a wellness check. I bounced out of bed and went to grab my phone, only to remember it remained in the rice. I ran a quick cloth over my face to clean it and then threw on a robe before I headed for my kitchen. I grabbed my cell from the bowl of rice and blew on it to remove the dust. I pressed the power button several times, even held it down for several seconds. Nothing. It was either dead or needed charging.

Dammit.

I returned to my room to look at the ceiling with its steady drip and the spreading stain on my sheets. What should I do? I couldn’t contact the landlord without a phone, and it seemed kind of late to be bugging a neighbor to call. What if I panicked for nothing? Maybe Mrs. Fitzgerald had dropped some tomato soup or was making blood sausages. Heck, for all I knew she liked to sacrifice animals. Was it really my business? As a city dweller, I tended to follow the head-down, keep-to-yourself rule. At the same time… She’s always been nice to me. What if she needed help? Head wounds could bleed copiously. What if she died while I hemmed and hawed? I’d better go check on the old lady.

At the same time, I didn’t want to. I didn’t like confrontation. Or scary things. Or anything that required a bit of bravery. Heading out of my apartment at night to go to another floor, to knock on a door and be like, Hey is everything okay? Totally had my anxiety in high gear.

It took me several deep calming breaths and another glance at my bloody sheets before I marched to my door and unlocked it. Despite seeing nothing when I poked my head out into the hall, I remained nervous. The scratches on my door didn’t appear any worse, but I’d yet to figure out what left the marks.

Demon?

No way. Just because Cain claimed they existed didn’t mean they were suddenly infesting my apartment building. He most likely told me that because he saw me as a gullible mark.

There is nothing to fear. Demons aren’t real.

As I shut my apartment door and locked it, I noticed a shimmer on my door at about eye level. A squint showed it to be some kind of weird symbol. When had it appeared? Had it always been there and I never noticed?

Could I stop procrastinating? Mrs. Fitzgerald might be bleeding out while I flustered about a nothing burger on my door.

I clenched and unclenched my sweaty hands as I headed for the elevator. Should I have brought a weapon? Like what? A kitchen steak knife? I was being dumb. My building might be for lower-income folk, but the management did a good job keeping out the unsavory types. We’d not had a single violent incident since I’d moved in, I reminded myself as I slapped the up button beside the elevator. The display showed the cab sitting on the ground floor. Despite tapping my toe in impatience, it didn’t budge.

My lips pursed. Wait, or use the stairs? It was only a single flight—said every hero in a horror movie before getting pounced.

Monsters aren’t real.

I tightened the sash of my robe before heading into the stairwell in my pink fuzzy slippers. The concrete landing and stairs were clean if musty. Better than the pee smell of my last building.

I heard and saw no one as I pounded up to the next floor and burst into the hall. A hall quiet and empty. A rapid pace had me in front of Mrs. Fitzgerald’s door. where I knocked lightly first.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

No reply. I rapped a little harder and called out, “Mrs. Fitzgerald, are you okay?” Still nothing, but a glance showed her door bore the same scratches as mine. Deep gouges. Rats she’d claimed. Odd how no one else’s doors showed the same abuse.

My hand went to the knob, and I expected it to be locked. Single women always took great care. To my surprise—and unease—the handle turned and the door opened.

I kind of wished it hadn’t because the inside of her place looked trashed. The pictures on her wall were torn down. Couch shredded with stuffing all over. Her collection of fragile figurines smashed. I don’t know how I’d not heard the destruction apart from a few thuds that came from her bedroom—the place with the dripping red stuff. Her open living room window blew cold evening air, fluttering her curtains.

“Mrs. Fitzgerald?” I whispered her name as I headed for the partially ajar bedroom door. A part of me really wanted to run away. My gut could already tell this wouldn’t be good.

Her room proved too dark to see. I reached for the light switch and flicked it then blinked. Not just because of the brightness but because my mind couldn’t quite grasp what the hell I looked at.

When I did figure it out, I fled to the hall, where I dry heaved in horror until my wits found me and I pounded on the nearest door. A man answered in boxers and a shirt.

“What the hell?” he groused. “Do you know what time it is?”

I pointed and managed to hiccup, “She’s dead. Murdered! Police. Call.”

Being a man, he didn’t believe me and had to go looking for himself. The neighbor came out of Mrs. Fitzgerald’s apartment a few seconds later, pale and shaking.

His face was haunted as he looked at me and murmured, “They strung her intestines across the room like some kind of God’s-eye weave.”

Oh, so that’s what I’d seen. I dry heaved again.

I was sitting on the hall floor with my head tucked between my knees when the cops and paramedics arrived. As if they could put poor Mrs. Fitzgerald back together. She’d been strung up, quite literally, by her guts. They’d been ripped from her stomach and then used to suspend her. She’d bled out, the pool of blood being what seeped into my apartment.

Who could do such a thing? And why? Did Mrs. Fitzgerald have enemies?

The detective I’d met only the day before came to stand in front of me. Not that I looked him in the eye. I stared at his shoes. Brown leather loafers touched by the hem of his pants.

“We meet again, Ms. Butler.” His low voice had me peeking upward.

“Not by choice,” I muttered. “Who killed Mrs. Fitzgerald?”

“I think that’s supposed to be my question,” he replied as he crouched in front of me. Detective Williams cocked his head. “Odd how that’s two murder scenes you’ve been at.”

“Not by choice!” I hastened to correct.

“Yet here you are.”

“Because there was blood dripping into my bedroom.” I grimaced. “I’m going to have to toss my mattress.” Because no way I’d be able to sleep on it.

“I’m surprised it seeped into your place. This building is concrete built.”

“Tell that to the stain on my ceiling.”

“Can you show me?” He stood but didn’t offer a hand.

I struggled to my feet, the haze of the wine gone, leaving me hungover and a bit numb. I trudged down the hall to the stairwell.

The detective remained silent until we entered it. “You knew the victim?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I helped her a few times with bringing in packages and stuff.” I paused before adding softly, “She was a nice lady. Her husband died two decades ago, as did her only kid. Car accident caused by a drunk driver. She was all alone in the world. Who would do such a thing?”

“There is no accounting for evil,” he replied.

I glanced at him as we hit the landing for my floor. “What they did went beyond evil. It was senseless and depraved.”

“Like most violent crimes. There are all too many cases that defy logic or reason.”

“Does this mean there’s a psychopath on the loose?”

“Yes.”

I winced as we entered my hall. “Way to reassure.”

“There’s no point in lying. Until the perpetrator is caught, there is a risk they will strike again.”

“But somewhere else. right? I mean, like lightning, murderers usually never strike twice in the same place.”

“Usually.”

“Why do I hear a but?” I muttered as we reached my door.

“Until we know what motivated them, what drew them to the victim, there is no way of predicting where they’ll strike next.” As I unlocked my door, he crouched and pointed. “These marks. How did they happen?”

I shrugged. “Dunno. I woke up to them the day after the bus attack. I’m assuming someone had a guest over with a dog.”

“The victim had the same marks.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you. I didn’t see what made them.”

I entered my place and hugged myself as I forced myself to head to my bedroom with its bloody mattress. I’d left the light on so braced myself as I walked in.

Only to gape.

The detective brushed past me as he entered. He looked around. “Where’s the blood?”

“I don’t understand,” I murmured. “It was dripping from the ceiling.” A glance showed it pristine, just like my rumpled sheets.

“Did you really see it, or did you dream it?” he asked.

“Ew. That’s gruesome. No. I saw it. I swear. I had to wash it off my face before I left the apartment.”

“There’s no blood here.” He pointed out the obvious.

“I’m aware,” I snapped.

“Then you’re also aware that this makes you look suspicious. How else would you have known Mrs. Fitzgerald had come to harm?”

“I heard thumping.”

“And?”

Knowing my innocence and proving it were two different things. “Listen, I don’t know where the blood went. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe I sensed Mrs. Fitzgerald was in trouble. The important thing is finding the perp, and it’s not me!”

“Says every suspect I’ve ever questioned.”

My jaw dropped. “You don’t believe me.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Butler, but in my line of work, there are rarely coincidences when it comes to crime. It seems kind of odd that in less than twenty-four hours you’ve been present for two massacres. Some would even say suspicious.”

“That’s insane. I had nothing to do with the bus murders or Mrs. Fitzgerald.” I held up my hands. “And look. No blood. Check under my fingernails.”

“Thanks for offering. I’ll send a tech down to gather samples.”

“I’m innocent,” I repeated.

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“This is bullshit,” I groused.

“This is a criminal investigation, and I would be remiss if I didn’t explore all the possibilities. And that includes you. An officer will be down shortly to collect a proper statement and samples. Evening, Ms. Butler.”

More like early fucking morning. By the time I let some chick in blue swab, scrape, and pluck some hairs, I was gritty-eyed but too wired to sleep. Some might have wondered why I agreed to give them any DNA. Easy. I was innocent and had nothing to hide.

Once I had my apartment to myself, I stood with my hands on my hips, glaring at my bed. A bed once more showing a bloody stain that wasn’t really there. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I muttered. I wasn’t drunk, nor had I taken any drugs that would make me hallucinate. So explain what I saw. When I swiped the wet spot, my finger came away clean, and the fabric didn’t feel damp.

Weird as fuck.

I tore my sheet from the mattress and dragged it to my kitchen with its bright pot lights. The sheet showed no sign of blood, but I scrubbed it anyhow and threw it in with my dirty laundry that needed to go to the basement where they kept the machines. My mattress displayed a huge bloody spot that refused to fade no matter how hard I went at it with soap and stain removers, so I flipped it. The stain reappeared on the other side, making me growl.

“Fuck off.” I spread a clean sheet over top and guess what? It turned blotchy red too.

At that point, I gave up and slept the last two hours until dawn on my couch.

Or tried to.

My mind whirred with everything that had happened. And not just to poor Mrs. Fitzgerald. I thought of Cain and his crazy-ass story about demons and shit.

Cain, a killer. With a knife in his pocket. Who’d left my place and gone… where?

I stared at the detective’s card, which I’d dug out of the recycling box. Should I call and tell him about the demon reaper who’d visited me? Because, hello, I wasn’t the only person at both scenes of the crime. Why should I be the only suspect?

I would have called if my phone weren’t a dead hunk of junk —I’d tried charging it, cursing it, pleading, but it remained inert. Bloody hell. Giving the detective another suspect would have to wait until I got to the shop. Only by the time I’d made it to work, I’d changed my mind. Blame the commute, where I saw not one but three demons.

And the scariest part? They looked right at me and grinned.