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Not from a wound. Or rather, not from a normal wound, like a gunshot or stabbing.
Dunleavy had been skinned.
From the base of his neck right down to his heels. Not prettily, and not particularly neatly. In some ways, it reminded me of the sort of mess an apprentice butcher might make while practicing his cuts of meats.
My stomach rose and I closed my eyes, taking quick shallow breaths through my mouth rather than my nose. It didn't help much. The stench of blood and death was so thick I could practically taste it, and the image of the bloody mass of muscle and meat seemed burned onto my retinas.
I'd seen a lot of gruesome things over the last few months, including Gautier's fatal maiming of the innocent girl yesterday. I'd welcomed some of those deaths, had mourned or cried for others. But skinning a human like he was just another animal seemed oddly worse than anything else. And the fact that the killer had draped his somewhat shredded skin neatly over the bed end, as if it were a gossamer fine but bloody blanket ready for reuse, only made it seem worse.
I dug the vid-phone out of my pocket and called in both a medical team and a Directorate forensic team. Then I set the vid-phone on record and send, sat it on top of a nearby drawer and, ignoring my still squirmy stomach, stepped into the room.
"Mr. Dunleavy?" I pulled on a glove and pressed my fingers against his neck. No pulse. I picked up his wrist and tried again. Again, nothing. It made me wonder if I'd really heard the moans or something else. Something that stepped into the realms of the spiritual.
Goose bumps ran across my skin. I tried to ignore the odd premonition that more was to come, and reported Dunleavy's death, as well as the time, for the benefit of the taping vid-phone. As I dropped his hand back to the bed, a wisp that seemed little more than steam began to rise from his body. A chill raced across my skin, and it suddenly seemed a whole lot colder in the room, as if the emergence of the mist had sucked the warmth out of the air.
Only it wasn't just mist, I realized. It was Dunleavy's soul.
This wasn't the first time I'd seen a soul rise, though I'd certainly been hoping that the first time had been the last time. That it had been an aberration rather than a strange development in a recently awakened talent. I didn't want to see ghosts or souls or anything else along those lines. What the hell use was the ability to see dead people? Especially when it was dead dead rather than vampire dead? How could the dead be of any earthly help when they were no longer a part of the physical world?
As the last wisp of mist emerged from Dunleavy's bloodied body and converged with the rest, his body seemed to collapse in on itself a little and another moan escaped - this one so soft I could barely even hear it.
And it sounded like a word. Dahaki.
I blinked, wondering if I was hearing things. Wondering who or what the hell Dahaki was.
I glanced at the vid-phone, hoping it had been close enough to record the soft sound, then steeled myself mentally and looked at the mess that was his back.
In some areas, the layers of skin had been stripped as one, leaving muscles and meat totally untouched. In others, skin and muscles were a raw and ugly mess. There was blood, and lots of it, because the skin is the body's cover - it seals and protects, and blood runs rich under its surface. Which was why simple wounds often bled the worst. But to achieve something like this took skill, practice, and a razor-sharp knife. Why would Gautier bother, when he was one of the most efficient killing machines the Directorate had ever produced?
And yet, besides Dunleavy, there were only two other scents in the room. One was Gautier's. The other was more flowery and feminine, so it undoubtedly belonged to the girlfriend the old girl had mentioned.
So, if this was Gautier's handiwork, where the hell had he learned to skin a body this skillfully? Dunleavy's back might be a mess in places, but the knife work was still way above that of an amateur. Which Gautier surely would have been. He might have been off the Directorate leash for months, but was that enough time to learn the ins and outs of skinning without the benefits of a teacher?
And if he had been practicing, where were the bodies?
Then I remembered all the body parts I'd found in the factory. Maybe, if I'd taken the time to sort through the bits and pieces, I would have found skins, whole and not.
Maybe the bits and pieces weren't the result of a baby vamps feeding frenzy, but rather, Gautier's efforts to learn new and terrifying skills.
I shivered and rubbed my arms. Perhaps the more worrying thought was the fact that Gautier had obviously left the town house after dawn had risen. The old girl had said the noise all stopped hours ago, which still placed the fall of silence well after dawn. And the stickiness of the blood on the sheets and on Dunleavy's body would probably match that estimate.
Gautier was a young vamp. He shouldn't have been able to go anywhere once the sun was up, and yet it looked like he had. I had a bad feeling we'd better find out how real fast, or the shit could really hit the fan.
I took a breath and released it slowly, and let my gaze travel across Dunleavy's body. There was no obvious sign of a struggle - neither his hands nor his feet were tied, and nothing in the room was upturned or knocked over.
Which meant Gautier had used mind control to bring Dunleavy in here, and he'd obviously used it to control the girlfriend, because the old girl in the first town house had heard no shouting. So who'd been destroying the place? And why not stop that as well? Gautier was certainly powerful enough to fully control the actions of two humans. Unless, of course, he didn't want to.
It was a thought that had chills skating across my skin. Gautier didn't do anything without a reason - how often had I thought that in the past?
Frowning, I lifted my gaze from Dunleavy's body and looked around. The walk-in closet was filled with a mix of women's and men's clothing, meaning Dunleavy's girlfriend either lived here, or spent a hell of a lot of time here. But there was little else in the room. Dunleavy was a man who didn't spend a lot on furnishings, because everything in this room was bargain-basement type furniture. Either he wasn't a very successful thief, or he spent his takings on other things. Maybe the living room might hold that particular answer.
As I turned to leave the room, a tingle of awareness ran across my neck, even as the scent of musk reached my nostrils.
"Riley Jenson?" an unknown voice said. "Cole Reece, Directorate cleanup team."
I smiled at the caution in his voice. Obviously, Cole was a man who'd worked around a few too many quicktempered - or perhaps that should be quick-reacting - guardians. "In here."
Footsteps echoed down the hall - three sets, all men. The heavy weight of their steps was as much of a giveaway as their thick scent. A tall, craggy-faced man of indeterminate age appeared, his gray hair glinting silver in the harsh light streaming in through the window. His musky, spicy scent swum around me, as refreshing as an evening sea breeze in the less than aromatic atmosphere of the apartment. My hormones did an excited little shuffle - not that that took a lot of doing when the moon heat was rising.
