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I went back to the folder.
There were a lot more.
Not all of them were shifters, but shifters were the only ones they skinned. From what the pictures showed, it looked like they bled out vampires, starved ghouls, and just straight-up mutilated the rest of us. Cut off pointed ears and horns, ripped out elongated canines, gouged out eyes, and shaved fauns’ legs and cut off their feet.
Each person was posed—dead—next to whatever offensive parts had been taken from them.
“Are these…” Villanova cleared his throat. “Are these all… local?”
“May I?” Raj asked. I scooted Taavi over so I could roll my chair to make space.
Raj started clicking, then pulled up information about the image files. He checked three or four, then said, “No. They aren’t. They’ve got dates and locations across the country.”
“So we need to call the FBI,” Villanova said.
I shot Raj a look, and he sighed. Then he reached into his back pocket and handed his shield—his FBI shield—to Villanova. “No, because I’m already here.”
Villanova gaped at him. “You’re—”
“Undercover. Or I was, anyway. I’m taking over this case and will no longer be undercover.” He glanced over at me, and his expression looked slightly apologetic. “I’m also going to need to borrow Hart.”
Villanova handed back Raj’s badge, his expression blank. “The RPD will cooperate fully.” In other words, he didn’t want to touch this with a hundred-foot fucking pole, and I didn’t blame him. I wasn’t terribly happy about being stuck with it, myself. But I also knew that if I wanted to see this one solved, Raj and I were probably these victims’ best bet.
Villanova nodded once, then went silently back to his office. Raj and I kept going, neither one of us saying anything more than was strictly necessary for the case, our voices monotone and expressions blank.
You had to shut down in order to keep going. There wasn’t another way.
* * *
It bitesyou in the ass, though, shutting down. At three in the morning when you wake up in a cold sweat choking on a combination of your own screams and bile because you’ve got the image of skinned shifters burned into your retinas.
I sat on the bathroom floor, leaning back against the side of the bathtub and panting after yet another wave of nausea had wrung the last dregs of my dinner from me, sweat making tendrils of my hair cling to my forehead, neck, and shoulders.
At least I slept with it braided so I hadn’t actually thrown up into it.
I heard a loud thump from the bedroom and figured Taavi had probably just decided I needed checking on more than he didn’t want to break another leg. My theory was confirmed when he hobbled his way into the bathroom, whining.
“You shouldn’t have jumped off the bed, bud,” I told him. Even to me, my voice sounded like hell.
I felt like hell.
Taavi’s nails clicked on the tile floor as he padded over and promptly inserted himself between my legs, shoving his doggy ass against my thigh and pushing his head under my chin while hooking one front paw on my arm where it rested on one bent knee.
I’d never been hugged by a dog before, but that’s clearly what was happening.
And, on top of everything else that had happened in the last seven fucking days—the MFM riot, Faith Oldham’s Ordo assassination, and now the whole fucking collection of dead Arcanids—it just fucking broke me.
I put my head on his doggy shoulder and let the sobs claw their way out.
I wasn’t going to be able to stop them, so fuck it.
15
I still feltlike ass the next morning, what with the nightmares, the two hours of mixed throwing up and utterly humiliating dirty crying into a dog’s shoulder, and not really sleeping after that… I was frankly pretty impressed that I’d managed to actually take a shower and not throw up the coffee I desperately needed for the caffeine.
I was alsoreallyannoyed that I’d cracked, and doubly so because I just fucking had to melt down in front of Taavi. Because even though he looked like a damn dog, we both knew full well hewasn’t, which put him on a very,veryshort list of people who have seen me lose it. My parents—because I had been a toddler and a teenager—Elliot, and, well, Taavi.
At least my face already looked like hell, since the bruise from Faith Oldham’s coffee mug was starting to turn yellow around the edges and was still a nice purple-green in the center right over my cheekbone. Between that and the ragged scab and bruise on my left temple, I doubted anyone would notice the bloodshot eyes and deep circles.
