Dead Rising (9 page)

Half an hour later I was regretting my decision. There had been a lot of crime in Baltimore forty years ago. There was probably just as much now, but catching the news every now and then meant I missed a lot, and I’m sure many robberies and petty crimes didn’t make the papers. This was all laid out in front of me—day after day of car break-ins, assaults, thefts, drug arrests. It was hard, reading all of this. And it was hard not to get sucked into the details of cases that had nothing to do with the Robertsons. One carjacking of a priest had me especially intrigued.

Finally I found something, but it wasn’t exactly what I’d been looking for. Shay Robertson had been reported missing by her parents four months before their murders. Interesting. She’d been listed as pre-deceasing her family in the obituary, so I’d just assumed she’d died much earlier. Turns out she must have passed away not long before her parents and three of her siblings.

Lincoln and Tanya had reported that their eldest daughter, aged fourteen, hadn’t come home after school one day. They suspected she had a boyfriend, but had never met him. The officer taking the report noted it as a possible runaway, although the parents had insisted they had a good relationship with Shay and there hadn’t been any arguments or friction at home.

Three days after her parents visited the police station, Shay Robertson was officially listed as a missing person. The officer assigned the case had spoken with her friends, and they stated she’d been sneaking out of her house to meet a boyfriend late at night—someone older, someone her parents definitely wouldn’t approve of.

The case remained open. Shay was never found. I frowned at the casual detective work in the case, the lack of urgency. Nowadays there would have been amber alerts and the girl’s picture on milk cartons all over the country. Fourteen, and probably run off with some creepy pedophile. Had things been that different forty years ago? Had the race or economic status of the girl played into the less-than-adequate police attention?

And just as important, how had her relatives known she was dead? They’d listed her as pre-deceasing her family, but the case was still showing open.

I made a note and kept going. With just fifteen minutes to go before I needed to leave I found the microfiche, buried deep in the second box of tapes. It was a grisly murder, attributed to gang revenge, although the detective assigned to the case could find no evidence that any of the Robertsons were involved in gang activity. A few neighbors wondered if they’d maybe angered someone involved in organized crime. A few connected the case to Shay’s disappearance, conjecturing that she’d become involved with a gang member who was upset with the parents’ attempts of find her. Ultimately the case went cold with lack of leads and evidence.

Not much more than the paper had reported, except the microfiche had scanned copies of crime scene photos and the coroner’s report. I wrote frantically, my hand cramping as I tried to get it down as fast as possible. The pictures I snapped with my cell phone were less than ideal, but they’d have to do until I could see the originals. I hastily boxed everything back up, and went out to thank Rob.

All the murdered Robertsons had died the same way. Their throats had been cut from side to side, in a slash so deep it nearly decapitated the younger ones. They’d died from blood loss, and there had been quite a mess of red on the carpet. But I didn’t need to be a CSI junkie to know something was wrong with that crime scene—very, very wrong.

It was the blood. The coroner’s report said the family had bled out—completely bled out. But their room hadn’t shown anywhere near the amount of blood it should have. Lincoln would have had about 8 pints of blood, the rest of his family a bit less. All totaled, there should have been approximately twenty-two liters of blood on that living room floor. The place should have been saturated, painted in blood. The carpet would have been soaked. From what I could see, over half the blood was missing.

And there were no signs of struggle, no evidence of drugs or other wounds that would have rendered the family unconscious. Just a whole lot of throat cutting. I wasn’t an expert on gangs, but far as I knew they didn’t waltz into your house and convince you to politely stand still while they slit your throats and carted away half your blood.

I was an expert on plenty of creatures that
did
do so. I wasn’t ruling out humans, either. There were plenty of texts in the Temple documenting death magic rituals where a spell held the victim in a state of compliance and blood was collected in a bowl.

“Thanks, Rob.” I gave the man a slip of paper with my phone number on it and grimaced at his excitement. “Can you give me a call once the files come in? I’m particularly interested in the crime scene photos. The microfiche ones weren’t the greatest resolution.”

His face fell. “Sure. I also looked through the log, and last year a reporter with the Sun had requested the same file. Evidently she was doing an article on crime in the area back then versus now. She might still have her copies.”

Whoa, that would be a huge stroke of luck. Rob handed me a sticky note with the reporter’s name and phone number, and with his own name and phone number written below. “Just in case you need me to help you with anything else,” he added sheepishly.

I really needed to watch that smile. I was breaking hearts all over the place. “Thanks. I work at Holy Grounds on Pratt. Stop by some time and I’ll comp you a chai latte.”

His face brightened. “Will do.”

I pocketed my notes and the reporter’s information, and ran to my car. The rest of my research was going to have to wait until later, because I was about to be late to work.

I
WAS LATE,
but managed to sneak through the back and clock in without anyone noticing. Sean and Petie were working this afternoon, and I slid right in beside them, calling orders and frothing milk as needed. By five, things had tapered off, the work crowd heading to happy hour to start their weekend. By seven, we were the only ones in the shop and I was helping Petie stock shelves in the back while Sean twiddled his thumbs up front, just in case someone stumbled through our door.

I loved working when it was busy. There was no room for anything in my head besides coffee orders and the customers lined up in front of me. I could let my mind wander, imagining who these people were with their iced espresso, sugar-free caramel mochas, their double-shot dirty chai’s. What lives did they lead outside the doors of my store? What kept them awake at night? What brought them joy? They fascinated me, and for a portion of my day I got to forget all about my abandoned Templar duty, the responsibilities that had been assigned me by accident of birth.

What if I didn’t want that life? What if I wanted something else? I hefted a box of cinnamon dolce syrup and looked down at my Templar tattoo. Branded, before I knew what this really meant. My life given over before I was even eating solid food. Yes, the research and the guarding of the Temple were important. Yes, it was essential for Templars to continue doing what they had been tasked with since the day they received their message from God. Yes, I felt like a complete loser for walking out on that. We all had burdens in this life. Every one of those people I handed a coffee cup to had their own cross to bear. Who was I to refuse mine?

Not that taking an Oath and spending the rest of my life guarding a bunch of magical artifacts and researching dusty manuscripts was a cross to bear, especially not with the lifetime stipend all Knights received. It wasn’t the duty that bothered me, it was the lack of meaningfulness in that life. A Knight today wasn’t what the job was a thousand years ago.

“Hey Aria, can you get down that box of Kenyan beans?”

I hopped up and climbed the ladder. Petie had pulled his shoulder a few months back and struggled to handle boxes above his head. That, and I think he liked looking up my shirt as I reached my arms up to grab stuff. These button-down blouses they had us wear came right to the waist, which meant I showed a ton of skin every time I lifted a box. No biggie. I liked Petie. If it gave him a thrill to see less than I showed in a bikini, more power to him.

“What the heck did you do to yourself, girl?”

“Where?” I climbed down and sat the box to the side. Had I cut myself cleaning up the glass last night? I’d been careful, but between the wine bottle, the goblet, and the window I might have sliced myself and not noticed.

“There.” He pointed to my left side. “Looks like a burn.”

I’d had burns before and they weren’t anything a reasonable person could ignore. They throbbed and ached, driving every other thought from your mind. It can’t have been all that bad if I didn’t even know I’d done it.

I lifted my shirt and squashed my boob, trying to see the spot on my waist Petie had indicated. He was of no further help, transfixed, no doubt, by the cleavage effect of me squishing my ta-tas.

It did look like a burn—an old one. It was circular, like someone had singed me with the lit end of a big, fat cigar. I touched it and felt nothing. The skin was numb, the white scar raised and bumpy. When had I gotten that? It was summer, and I’d sported plenty of sports bras, bikinis, and halter-tops over the last month. Someone would have mentioned it before now. I should have seen this in the mirror. Although it was in an odd place, hidden from my view by my breasts, and I wasn’t exactly the sort of girl who was always examining herself in the mirror.

“Curling iron accident?” Petie teased. Brandi was always claiming her hickeys were the result of a hair styling mishap. Nobody was that clumsy with a curling iron, and Brandi’s boyfriend clearly had a neck fetish. But this wasn’t on my neck. Admittedly it had been a long time since I’d seen any action—so long that my memory was probably a bit fuzzy on the details—but I didn’t recall getting a hickey on my waist so violent that it would leave a scar. And this was a weird shape, as if something with tentacles, or an eel had attacked me.

And no, I’m not into being burned as a part of sex. Thanks for asking.

“No idea,” I told Petie. “Must have been really drunk to have slept through that one, huh?”

“Damn, girl.” He gave me a thumbs up. “Can’t say I’ve ever partied quite that hard. Shame it’s scarred like that. You’ve got real pretty skin.”

Yeah, the parts that didn’t have sword-fighting scars, road rash scars, magical weapon burns. Oh and the skateboarding scar. That was one sport I didn’t try more than once.

I winked at Petie. “Just gives you one more thing to look at when I’m pulling boxes of beans off the shelf.”

He smiled, like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Maybe we need one more box of Java.”

I swatted him lightly on the arm and picked up the box of Kenyan. “Think you’ve seen enough today, big boy.”

By the time I’d driven home the sky was orange and violet with the setting sun. Warmth rose from the asphalt into the cooling evening air. Locusts sang from the scant trees that had managed to find a withered life in this urban jungle. Somebody’s battered Honda was in my space so I found a spot on the street and walked a couple blocks back to the apartment building. I’d be leaving in a few hours, and calling the tow truck in this neighborhood had repercussions. People had long memories, and I rather liked my little car. If it happened again, I’d make a charm for my spot. Something long term. Maybe an illusion of lots of vomit. Nobody wanted to park in that.

Upstairs, I finished off the last cannoli—yes, that was six in one day plus the donut—and listened to my messages. Brandi left one saying the LARP people wanted to meet Monday evening to strategize our plan of attack for Saturday. I was starting to get pretty excited about this whole thing. Armor, sword, some kind of warfare simulation and a potluck afterward. It sounded a whole lot more fun than the practices I’d done with other Templars. We never had a potluck.

The second message wasn’t as pleasant. It was my mother, reminding me that this was family weekend, and that she expected me to put aside my sulking for a few days and come home to do my duty. Mom was all about duty. She also took it as a personal affront that I hadn’t taken my Oath. Mom was the Guardian of the family, the warrior, the protector of the Temple. She’d had big plans for me, envisioning her daughter a high level Knight influencing Templar policy and perhaps even becoming an Elder. I can’t say my running off had ruined her plans, just delayed them, as well as irritated her that I wasn’t already on my way to Templar greatness.

Well, she’d soon get a chance to tell me all of this again in person. Erasing the message, I went into my room and started to pack. I didn’t need to take much. I’d left a lot of my clothes at home. A barista in Baltimore doesn’t need formal dress, tennis outfits, or jodhpurs. I had a go-bag pre-packed. Just needed to add some casual clothes, some makeup and I’d be ready to leave.

There was a knock at my door. Then the squawk of hinges as it opened. I’m sure there were many beings, paranormal and otherwise, who could open a locked door, but only one seemed to be regularly stopping by my house. I slung my duffle bag over one shoulder and walked into the living room. Dario was still standing in the doorway. I knew he could walk right on in after the first invitation, but appreciated his manners in waiting. Plus I couldn’t be too pissed at a guy who’d brought me cannoli.

“Come on in.” I tossed my bag on the table. “I’m sorry for losing my temper and storming out last night. I hadn’t slept. Not that it’s any excuse. Anyway, I appreciate the dinner. And the cannoli.”

He eyed the white box crumpled in the trash. “You ate them all?”

I shrugged. “What can I say? I love my pastries.”

His lip twitched, and I smiled in response. It was good to see something on his face beyond that bland, mildly alert expression.

“I’m sorry, too. I didn’t speak to you with proper respect, and I apologize. I’ve never been around Templars and I find it hard remembering that you’re not just another human.”

I wasn’t sure how to take that. I
was
just another human, circumstances of my birth aside. Did he treat his victims that way? Some women might get off on that domineering approach, but I didn’t. I’d like to think if a woman was going to risk losing her life, she’d at least get the white glove treatment beforehand.