Crime Rave (6 page)

Red Feather hands Icarus his card. “Thanks for your time. Please call if you remember anything else.”

Icarus nods and moves closer to the early rays of sun that have started streaming through his window, basking like a lizard at first dawn: his first day in the sun since he was turned and thus far the most marvelous side effect of his resurrection.

The Angel Curiel

Y
ou watch the vampire settle into the sun, one of too many errors in the crossover. What kind of monsters will he breed now that he’s a daywalker? What have you done?

Without you as catalyst there’d be no survivors. Mother, The Ancient One gave you the touch that sparks miracles, the power to bring the dead back to life. Now look. Only four full-body survivors. How disappointing. But, you were under duress. Under normal circumstances you require time. The smog goddess Kaleanathi kept her monstrous plan under the radar. Nobody suspected a thing. Not even Prophesia, goddess of visions, had the slightest clue. How could you not have suspected?

Mother, The Ancient One set down rules before her big sleep. You broke all of them. You should have known better. You thought this would help.

And now look. Bringing a survivor back in fowl-human hybrid form, pure mishap. And then the screamer—she’s proving far more dangerous than anticipated with her power unchecked. You can’t figure what went wrong. You didn’t know that Kaleanathi depleted The Source. How could you? You underestimated her.

You walk in and out of each survivor’s room. The werewolf, still asleep. The vampire, who now no longer need fear the sun.

You try to comfort the woman who screams her losses in her sleep by giving her a vision of her daughter. It only makes matters worse. Nurses rush in, hands over their ears and increase her tranquilizer. Leave this for The Ethereals, you tell yourself. They’re the ones with the power, yours is just the finishing touch.

The bird girl has a fit when you walk in. She thinks you’re a ghost. You can’t blame her, with your dark clothes and translucent wings casting threatening shadows behind you. Her eyesight altered in the transformation, another disaster. You leave her be, she’s scared enough.

You try to convince The Ethereals to leave it alone. Don’t bring back the others. You beg them. This bickering between ancients must stop. Now is the time for heroes, after all. Now is the time for the old gods to shine, not drown in petty squabbles. Mother, The Ancient One expected better of us all.

But The Ethereals will have none of it. They’re going ahead. Do your job and keep out of theirs.

You always disagreed that the gods should meddle in the lives of humans; you were once human and suffered at their demanding hands more times than you care to remember. And after all these years—thousands of them—Mother finally decreed that the gods stop interfering in direct proportion to human belief. Humans developed their materialism and capitalism and no longer needed to look to the old gods. So the old ones lost interest in them in turn. Stopped breeding with them. Abandoned the creatures; Mother’s plan all along. The gods, watchers, and angels retreated into their Valhallan bubble, where there was still plenty to keep everyone busy.

You were finally happy. Let the celestials and the humes live their own existences, each free of the turmoil of the other, free from the tenuous bond that only brought pain to both sides.

Your heart seizes as you realize Mother, The Ancient One has awoken early. Kaleanathi has opened the multiverse’s Pandora’s Box. If you could feel cold, you’d be shivering.

The humans wrote about Mother in their Old Testament. She is wrath incarnate. She is vengeance personified. She is death.

There will only be hell to pay.

Mother will want the old ways back. She’ll dismantle the celestial democracy she installed before her rest and re-throne herself as Queen of All. She will destroy everyone who disrupted her slumber, all of us who have broken her trust. And the human world will be her collateral damage.

You weep for the imminent end of times. And wonder if there is time still to stop it.

5:20 AM LAPD Forensics Lab

F
our stories above the morgue where Guy Severin watches and listens to body parts creak back to wholeness, Stacey Chang, lab tech extraordinaire, pulls test tubes from a centrifuge and waits for the printout of DNA and tox results. Stacey’s entire backlog has been put to the side until all the results of the Crane Massacre remnants are IDed and her report sits atop the captain’s desk. She even gets to use the fancy new machines, the ones reserved for only the most high profile of cases.

Usually there are two other lab techs with her, bumping elbows and generally irritating her loner spirit, but they haven’t shown up to work today and neither called in sick. Stacey tries to remember if they ever mentioned going to raves. Unlike many of the other teams on her floor, hers never really gelled and conversation in the DNA lab was limited to the cases at hand and what take-out people wanted for lunch. Their one attempt at group bonding resulted in Carl getting wasted, hitting on her, and having a hard time taking no for an answer. Awkward City ever since. More so after Carl’s petition for transfer was denied.

The machine chortles and spits out a series of colorful pages. Graphs, bars, and zigzags adorn the flimsy computer paper. The tox results are off the charts for each body part sample: high levels of ecstasy, and LSD. Some of the samples contain marijuana, and one shows high levels of
Psilocybe cyanescens
, colloquially known as magic mushrooms.

The DNA results take longer, and by the time Stacey’s done it will have cost the City of Los Angeles upwards of fifty thousand dollars for the dozens of analysis kits. One of the lab’s five monitors makes a
ding ding
and Stacey rides her office chair across the room to take a gander. Clicking through the results and sending them to the printer, her first impression being that each sample noted as a body part by on-site CSIs is a unique individual, no family members or relatives.

She gets a hit in the DNA database, common alleles to Rosemary Green, likely the mother of one of the victims, but deceased. Rosemary is also a witness and victim in an assault case. Another hit on the same sample leads to Xavier Marsh, a convicted felon known as The Parking Lot Rapist, serving life in prison, who also shares alleles with what Severin sent up from the morgue.
How sad
, Stacey thinks, wondering why the woman didn’t abort.
Click click
, the printer whirrs and churns out more sheets of paper.

The next hit comes with the name Karma Devi, whose DNA was connected as a person of interest to the investigation of one Kevin Danville’s death. Stacey clicks through and reads that Danville turned up in the ER, his testicles removed. Died of sepsis shortly after. DNA samples of almost a dozen women were found in his apartment along with evidence of sexual misconduct, the details of those included in the hefty case file. Print, print, print.
Whir, whir, whir.

Stacey’s computer freezes and red words strobe across her screen:

Access Denied

flash

Security Clearance Required

flash

Insufficient Authorization

“What the hell,” she mutters to herself. Three files have been flagged; she cannot open them. The pseudo coat-of-arms with winged creature logo blinking on her screen is one she doesn’t recognize. Not DOD, not CIA, not FBI. She takes many screen shots and calls her boss, Pete Mazzotti, to give him the heads up.

What she glimpsed of the results just before the freeze-out was enough to turn her blood to ice: the samples did not have either human or animal DNA.

5:30 AM Spruce-Musa Hospital

D
etectives Red Feather and Günn smoke a cigarette in a hospital stairwell illustrated with a prominent NO SMOKING sign. She knows she shouldn’t, but her legs won’t stop shaking and she needs an excuse like nicotine in case Red Feather notices.

“I’m just gonna get it off my chest and then you won’t hear me say it again, I hope: This shit is fucking weird.” Red Feather exhales smoke and breaks off a fresh piece of cigarette to leave as an offering.

Günn takes a long drag and shakes her head. “It’s only going to get weirder. A wolf girl? A fucking werewolf? And the body parts are growing? I mean, what exactly are we supposed to do with that? How’s this all gonna read in the report?” Pauses. “Jesus H. Christ I can’t
believe
it’s us that pull lead on this case. Our reps’ll be ruined by the time it’s over.”

“Naw, we’re gonna have all the physical evidence we need to prove this madness is happening.” Red Feather sounds as convinced as the Roadrunner telling Wile E. Coyote he’s not going to drop a safe on his head. “Anyway, Severin’s filming the body parts at the morgue. We have crime scene photos of that wolf girl and her amputated leg—”

“Atticus,” Günn interrupts, “that isn’t going to mean diddly and you know it. Prepare to be scapegoated.” Günn grinds out her smoke on the stair rail, puts it in a tissue. As Red Feather takes another drag, screams of bloody murder hit them through the fire door. Red Feather tosses his smoke aside, and bolts through, gun drawn.

The screams come from the wolf girl’s room where a posse of onlookers crowd around the door, craning their necks and standing on tippy toe for a better look.

“What the hell is this?” Red Feather roars and grabs hospital staff, pulling them out of the way by the scruff of their necks when necessary. The wolf girl is awake, huddled in the corner of her room and getting her growl on, big time. She looks at Red Feather, looks back at her furry hands, places them on her furry face, and bursts into tears.

“What’s wrong with me?” She screams, a sound that is more howl than human. “What’s happening to me!” She screams again and convulses in pain, collapsing into the fetal position on the floor. Red Feather watches as her fur begins to retract into her body, inspiring another of those God-awful howl-screams. “It hurts!” Her claw hands and feet crack and splinter as they re-form into what Günn sees are human extremities. Another scream breaks Günn and Red Feather from their reverie of amazement.

“Günn, get a blanket!” She strips it from the bed and hands it to Red Feather, who turns to the bystanders and shouts, “What the hell are you people doing? You think this is a fucking sideshow? Go get the goddamn doctor!” The voyeurs jump and scurry away, embarrassed. And also disappointed. The show was just getting interesting.

Red Feather covers the wolf girl with a blanket. She looks up at him with puppydog eyes, watering with pain. “It hurts so much,” she whispers in a voice raw from screaming. Another convulsion tears through her body, her head arches in pain, the tendons in her neck an inflamed red against what is now hairless skin. Red Feather crouches next to her, gathering her in his arms, holding her as she writhes and twists in agony.

Günn watches as the transformation is complete and instead of a hirsute wolf girl, before them a twenty-something woman with dark curly hair and an olive complexion. The wolf girl looks up at Red Feather, her skin rubbed raw, but human. Red Feather is startled to see that those brown eyes have turned a blue-green, almost the color of turquoise.

“Thank you,” she moans and passes out.

Red Feather realizes that the woman is now buck-naked and blushes. Günn frowns. “Let’s get her back in the bed, shall we?” Günn tucks the blanket around the former wolf girl and helps her partner put her back in bed.

“Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” Red Feather unties his long hair and runs his fingers through, smoothing it back before retying it with the leather cord. First a vampire, now an honest-to-God werewolf.

“The captain is never going to believe this,” Günn insists.

“Everyone’s gonna believe all kinds of things we never thought we would before this whole thing is over.” Red Feather tucks the blanket around the girl and she begins to snore, a sound that reminds them she was just in werewolf form.

Red Feather and Günn quietly move to leave the room thinking it’s easier to fall on OJ Simpson’s side than explain this.

Nurse Pratchett approaches them, frowning. “Were you two smoking on the stairwell?”

“No ma’am, not us.” Red Feather’s eyes shift and Pratchett knows he’s lying. Günn smells burning tar, her ability takes no vacations even when she’s a guilty party.

“Right,” Pratchett draws out the word. She puts the wolf girl’s IV drip back in, checks her vitals, tucks the blanket in around her body. “The doctor’s on his way, but looks like she’s okay again for the time being.”

Günn is struck by her matter-of-fact-ness. “You’re not surprised by this?” Günn’s curiosity gets the better of her.

“Frankly, Detective, I’ve got a sick boy at home who’s dying very quickly of leukemia. My home is essentially a hospice at the moment. I was supposed to be with him hours ago, but instead my twelve-hour shift has become eighteen and still, I’m here. So you’ll have to forgive my lack of enthusiasm.” Nurse Pratchett feels tears prick her eyes. These overtime shifts run her ragged.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, ma’am,” Red Feather says, shooting Günn a look that says
You are an asshole
. Günn avoids his eyes, and Nurse Pratchett’s. She’s not one for apologies, even when she knows she’s in the wrong.

Nurse Pratchett takes a shuddery breath. “Well, come on then, let me show you to the other two survivors.” She begins walking down the hall. Stops two doors down. Inside, the fifty-something screamer tosses and turns in her sleep. Red Feather hears a high-pitched whining sound in his head. Günn’s fillings rattle.

“What
is
that?” Red Feather rubs his temples as if a migraine settles in.

“We don’t know, but it’s coming from her.” Pratchett shakes her head, tired of thinking about how strange all this is.

“What do you mean ‘comes from her’?” Günn’s temper is back on the precipice.

“I’ve just about had enough of your tone, young lady,” Nurse Pratchett snaps. “What I mean is that sound is being emitted from that woman right there. You should hear it when she’s awake, like someone set off a sonar bomb inside your head.”

“When will the sedatives wear off?” Red Feather takes over.

“She burns through them like a heroin addict, but it’s the only way to keep her calm. One of the nurses had a heart attack. Whatever this lady is doing messes with electronics. The nurse’s pacemaker went kaput. All the machines on this floor stopped working. We can’t have that when there are still some patients on life support here.”

Red Feather runs his tongue across his molars, as if trying to placate the amalgam within. “Can we move her somewhere else?”

“If you can find a place in this hospital with no vital machines in it then be my guest. I’ll give you a heads up though—there isn’t one. Until we can figure out what’s wrong with her, she stays sedated.”

Günn knows it’s not worth it to argue. “Dammit!”

Pratchett gives Günn a stern look. “Would
you
like a tranquilizer, Detective? Looks like you could use a little relaxing yourself.”

Red Feather interrupts before Günn has a chance to retort. “What about the fourth survivor? Is she sedated also?”

Pratchett sighs the weight of the world. “I don’t think you’ll get much from her, but come on then, I’ll show you.”

The end of the hall. A locked door.

“What’s this about?” Red Feather looks at Nurse Pratchett.

She unlocks the door and they step inside. The room is empty. Günn’s eyes widen. “What the hell is going on here? You lost her?” In her head Günn starts drafting the whoop-ass letter that Pratchett’s boss will be receiving detailing the nurse’s utter incompetence.

Red Feather hears a twitter from above. Looking up he sees the fourth survivor perched atop the closet door, her feet and hands clinging to the frame like a canary on a swing. Close cropped bleach blond hair, ethnically mixed features, a tall frame hunkered into a squatting position, all elbows and knees. Red Feather suspects she’s half white and South Asian.
Pakistani maybe?

The bird girl opens her mouth and twitters again, the sound of a mockingbird in a tree. She titters and leaps across the room, landing on the top of the bathroom door, as if to better gaze upon her visitors.

A startled Günn calls out and Red Feather balks, not expecting a human to be able to leap quite like that.

“When she thinks nobody is looking she flies,” Nurse Pratchett says not batting an eye. “Although she does use the toilet when she needs to go.” Pratchett’s shrug says
Go figure.

“Um, is she human?” Red Feather asks.

“Her bloodwork looks like someone put fowl DNA in a petri dish with human, so I don’t really know how to answer that question. How much
Homo sapiens
blood makes one human? A question that I’m sure will plague science for years to come.”

“Does she speak?” Red Feather meets the bird girl’s eyes and smiles, trying to be friendly. She shudders and chatters, jumping and turning her back to them, but craning her neck so as still to see.

“Not that we’ve heard. She makes those bird sounds. She does indeed seem to understand what we say, but without a way to communicate back…” Pratchett shakes her head. “Must be lonely.” She thinks of her son who drifted into what will likely be the coma from which he’ll never awaken just a few days ago. What she’d give to hear him say “Mummy” just one more time.

Red Feather walks further into the room. The bird girl shudders as if ruffling her feathers. “Can you chirp once if you understand what I’m saying?”

The girl shudders again. Eyes Red Feather as if considering his request. Chirps once.

Red Feather smiles wide, which makes her jump back across the room to perch atop the closet. “My name is Detective Red Feather, this is Detective Günn.”

The bird girl settles down.

“Chirp once for yes, twice for no.”

Chirp.

“We’re here to ask you some questions about the rave last night.”

The girl shudders and shakes her head.
Chirp chirp.

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

Chirp.

“We really need your help.”

Chirp chirp.

“You won’t help us?”

Chirp.

The girl chitters away in a volley of sounds.

Red Feather winces. “I am so sorry, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

She’s angry, yammering away in rapid-fire birdspeak.

“Can you write?”

She stops her unintelligible barrage, cocks her head to the side and shrugs.
How the hell should I know?

Red Feather’s phone rings, startling the bird girl who squawks in protest. He hands the phone to Günn who answers it and leaves the room.

“Nurse, can we get a pen and a pad of paper in here?”

“Right away.”

The bird girl sniffles.

“This all must be really scary.”

Chirp. Sniffle.

Nurse Pratchett returns with a legal pad, the yellow lined pages almost the same color as the bird girl’s hair. Red Feather reaches out to hand it to her. She shrinks further back into the corner. Tattering, she gestures her head toward the door.

“You want us to leave?”

Chirp.

“Okay, miss, we’ll go, but I’m just going to write some questions on this pad for you and if you can answer them that would be great.”

Chirp.

Red Feather sits on the bed and begins to write, his peripheral vision keeping an eye on her as she looks on, nattering to herself.

Günn returns, eyes wide and flustered. “We need to go, partner. Now.”

Red Feather nods and finishes, looks up at the girl. “I’m going to leave this right here and I’ll be back in a few hours to check in on you. Sound good?”

The bird girl shrugs.

“Would you feel better if the door was unlocked?”

Chirp.

Red Feather looks at Pratchett, who raises an eyebrow. “If we unlock the door, do you promise not to escape?”

Chirp!

The girl floats off the closet and claps her hands.

“Will you listen to the nurse and her assistants?”

Chirp!
A nod to accompany.

“Nurse, what do you think?” Pratchett nods assent and whispers, “Can you get her to eat something?”

“Are you hungry?”

Chirp.

“Will you write down what you’ll eat and slide it under the door for Nurse Pratchett?”

Chirp.

Red Feather senses that she wants to come down from her perch, but she holds herself back.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says with a small wave.

In a flurry of chirps, the bird girl does a little jump and waves back at Red Feather.

He points to the legal pad. She nods.

Chirp.

Nurse Pratchett closes the door softly and keeps her back to it. “Very clever, Detective. I am sorry none of us thought of that. Then again, she didn’t respond to any of us as she did for you.”

“Maybe it’s my name. We seem to have bird spirits in common,” Red Feather cracks a smile and Nurse Pratchett returns it, probably the first time she’s smiled at work in months.

Günn grabs his arm. “Come on. Nothing else we can do here. We need to get to the morgue, like yesterday.”

“Okay, okay. Nurse, you’ll keep an eye on her?”

“Absolutely.”

A piece of paper flies out from under the door:

“Sunflower seeds, gummy worms, strawberry milk, baked chicken skin. Thank you.”

Pratchett’s eyes widen. “My goodness. There are no words.”

“Agreed.” Red Feather shakes Nurse Pratchett’s hand in goodbye. Günn is already at the elevator, foot tapping.