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Marc turns to Mayn. “We better offer our support.”
The siren dips her chin in acknowledgment, and they join the line, adding their power to the guards.
Sharpe ducks beneath the tape, then holds it up for me to follow. Sweat beads at my temples, and I push a strand of ash-blond hair from my face.
Walker’s people stand off to the side, pulling on protective gear and setting up a folding table for their collection trays.
My gaze shifts to Lethoba, and the churning in my stomach worsens. “Does he appear…bigger?”
With his gut ripped out, it shouldn’t be possible, but his stomach looks swollen.
Sharpe studies the body before he glances up at the blistering sun. “Do demon bodies bloat?”
My shoulders lift with helpless uncertainty. “They usually disintegrate.”
Sharpe turns to his people. “Let’s get to work. Don’t be sloppy, but make it quick.”
The techs divide into two teams, Walker leading the taking of samples while the other team snaps pictures of the surroundings. As they comb over the scene with meticulous speed, the heat of the day increases.
I wipe sweat from my forehead and peer up at the broad, waxy leaves of Lethoba’s tree. They were vibrant green and healthy an hour ago, but now they wilt, the edges curling in on themselves.
It’s not native to this climate, and now it’s dying without a demon to sustain it.
The minutes tick by, an acrid stench filling the air that wafts from Lethoba’s bloated body. It neither belongs to the living nor the dead, but something caught horribly in between. It sticks in the back of my throat, and my nose wrinkles in disgust, my fingers itching for one of the masks the techs wear.
“This isn’t natural.” Muscles stiff, Sharpe oversees the processing and bagging of evidence. “We need to figure out who did this and why.”
My hand tightens on my baton. “We will. We have the best people working on the scene.”
“What will they compare it to?” Frustration fills his voice. “There’s no data on the anatomy of a frog demon to cross reference what might be foreign in his tissue samples. We’re blind.”
“Just give them time.” Time may not be on our side, though.
As the techs move around Lethoba’s body, his spongy red flesh continues to swell beneath the day’s heat, a balloon rising from his maimed stomach. Invisible waves rise from the sidewalk, making the air shimmer, and an unpleasant scent of cooking meat joins the foul stench of death.
When the stomach grows taut as a drum, worry fills me, and I step closer to Sharpe. “I don’t like the look of that.”
“Me, neither.” He rubs his nose, dragging in a clean breath from the cup of his hand. “The smell is getting worse, too.”
A gurgle comes from the body, and instinct takes over. “Take cover!”
I grab Sharpe, spinning him around and pushing him downward, shielding him.
The onlookers recoil from the line of tape, and Johannsson spins toward us, his hand on his weapon just as a sickening pop rends the air.
For a moment, time freezes, my heart thundering in my ears as I wait for pain. Instead, warm, wet flesh splatters across my back, sending a shudder of revulsion through me.
Rancid green goo coats Johannsson’s face, and those closest to the tape flinch back from the spray.
Silence falls over the crowd.
Johannsson wipes his eyes and mouth clean. “Can I get a towel?”
“Don’t drop that!” A tech rushes over with an open plastic bag. More green goo covers her jumpsuit, and an entrail hangs from her shoulder.
A piece of flesh drags against my hair, and I lean forward to stop it from falling.
Sharpe straightens and grimaces at me. “Thanks.”
