Another killing. Another “lone madman.”
Another official statement that ties a bloody bow on something that feels unfinished.
We’re told Richard Berkins snapped. That he’s grieving, dangerous, and delusional. Maybe he is.
But the thing about delusions is—they don’t usually leave behind physical evidence.
And they don’t stain the sidewalk with a residue the rain won’t wash away.
There’s a story underneath the story. There always is.
I paused, my fingers freezing over the laptop keyboard, as I heard a slight shifting noise coming from the sofa. I looked at the time and saw it was almost four o’clock in the morning.
Leaving the desk, I walked to the sofa and crouched, looking at the dog, whose arctic-blue eyes were open after long hours of unconsciousness. Probably due to pain. The fact was that I was no medic, let alone a vet, and thus my medical skills were severely lacking.
“Hey,” I said now, as the dog’s eyes latched on to me, narrow and full of mistrust. Or so I interpreted the look he was giving me. “I need to check your wound, so it might hurt a little. I apologize in advance.”
The dog bobbed its head slightly, as if it understood me. I wondered if it was just in my head. What were the chances of me finding some sort of a supernatural creature right outside my apartment building? If there was one thing I’d learned about supernatural beings, it was that they hid themselves very well. Too well, even.
Still, unease burrowed into my gut as I gently unwrapped the bandages from the dog’s back. After Chase and Jackson helped bring the animal into my apartment and left, I’d launched myself into work while the dog was resting. I had forced myself to focus on the job I needed to do and put all my questions in the back of my mind.
Now, those questions rose to the surface and multiplied when I exposed the dog’s back, cleaned the dry blood with antiseptic wipes, and saw something I hadn’t earlier that night.
The wound looked like someone had carved the dog’s back with a knife. It had to have been methodical because the carvings were precise, creating a certain shape.
I disposed of the bloodied wipes and turned on the flashlight on my phone to see the shape of the wound better. It looked like someone had scratched a deformed star into the skin. One line ran vertically straight down the middle, while the other six crisscrossed it, with one of them having a little wave to it, contrasting with the symmetry of the others.
Returning my gaze to the dog’s, who seemed to peer at me with its piercing eyes, I couldn’t help but ask, “Who did this to you?” even though I knew it wouldn’t be able to tell me.
A low growl came from the dog’s throat, making my eyes widen. It looked away, leaning its head on its large front paws, as if it didn’t feel like responding to me.
My heart pounded in my ears as I stared at it—or rather, him. This dog gave off a masculine energy I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but my gut told me it was a male.
Which, in and of itself, made my suspicions grow. “I see,” I murmured as I grabbed a new bandage roll from the first aid kit sprawled open on the floor and began re-dressing his strangely shaped wound.
Silence reigned in the room as the dog let me care for his injury, but once I was done, he raised his head and turned to look at me again, his gaze so full of ...something. It almost looked like he was trying to send me a silent message.
I sat down on the floor and stared back at him. “You know, I work as a columnist for an online magazine calledThe Hallowing Hour.”
The dog kept on staring at me unblinkingly, and I held his gaze, heart racing. “I write about the truth my human brethren refuse to acknowledge.” I paused, tensing, before I added, “Such as supernatural phenomena.”
No reaction, as if the dog was containing himself on purpose.
Scowling, I pointed at his wounded back. “I can tell a sigil from a random shape, even if I don’t understand its meaning.”
Still no reaction. Instead, the dog seemed almost bored with me.
But I refused to let him win. “You’re not just a dog,” I concluded, despite my incredulity over the idea that I had really come by a supernatural creature by pure chance. “The question is, whatareyou?”
The dog cocked his head, like dogs did when they heard an interesting sound. But his doglike behavior didn’t work on me. His brilliant eyes were far too intelligent and sentient for him to be a normal dog.
And I wasn’t born yesterday.
“You don’t have to confirm it for me to know the truth,” I told him, narrowing my eyes as he suddenly leaned his head back down and closed his eyes. “I’ll still take care of you.”
Because—supernatural creature or not—the dog needed help. And from my extensive research of the supernatural, I knew gaining his favor would be beneficial for me in the long run.
One thing I learned early on was that the supernatural repaid what they owed, be it good or bad.
