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“Except for the young and pretty.”
A nascent thought, a memory from when I babysat my nephew two years ago, flashed to mind. Upon returning from the Vaengar Stadium where a popular Morgon sport was played, my sister’s best friend, Sorcha, made a snide remark. Yeah, doesn’t matter if they’re tall or short, human or Morgon. Vaengar players just like them beautiful, like that fucking blood cult. Jessen had shushed her up, eyeing me in the corner of her kitchen. My overprotective sister had always been secretive about the Morgon world, though I never understood from what she was protecting me.
I sat back in my chair, staring at the morbid remains of the latest victim on the comm screen, one I still suspected was the result of some ritual cult. Perhaps the very one Sorcha mentioned with a slip of the tongue that time a few years ago. The signs were all there. I knew I was right. Whatever instinct policemen and detectives had, so did I. “I’m assuming her body was found in Devlin Wood. In Drakos.”
“Yep. No different than the other two victims.”
Drakos, a Morgon-only province to the north of Gladium. “And where was she last seen?”
“At the Vaengar Stadium here in Gladium.”
“Just like the others.” I combed my hands in frustration through my long hair before pulling a hair tie off my wrist and piling the dark mass into a messy bun out of my way.
“Well…” Macon straightened, his eyes following my impromptu hair-styling, “I think she?—”
“These are much better photos than the others, Macon. Nice work.” I scrawled some notes inside Maxine Mendale’s folder, victim number three, then plugged my printer cord into Macon’s comm device to get still photos for my file.
“Thanks.”
“I’m sorry. I interrupted. You think she what?”
“Uh, I overheard Torrance say Maxine didn’t leave with her whole party that night.”
“I know that, Macon. She was abducted from the premises, so of course she didn’t leave.”
“I mean, they interviewed some guy named Bennett Cremwell, a friend of hers. He said they stayed behind for an after-party, some kind of hush-hush event. You have to know the right Morgons to be invited.”
He had my full attention now. I stopped scanning the comm screen. “Okay. Let’s go over this step by step.”
I flipped open my journal with handwritten notes scribbled on every square inch and in no certain order. Not to the average eye, anyway.
“Why don’t you just use your comm device for all that? It’d be much more efficient.”
“I like paper and pen. Helps me think better.” Macon scrunched up his brows, shaking his head at me. I flipped to a clean page and wrote Maxine Mendale’s name at the top. “So victim number one, Sasha Blake, was also last seen at the Vaengar Stadium. However, her last contact with her friends was during the game itself. She disappeared when she went to the bar.”
Macon nodded and nudged his glasses up again.
I glanced at my notes. “Sasha was also found in Devlin Wood in Drakos three days after her disappearance.”
Leaning forward, he peered at my scrawl. “How can you even read that? There are arrows and dots and scratch-outs all over the place.”
“I have a system.” I blew out a short breath, moving on. “So the bruises and form of killing were the same. Victim number two, Clarice Mitchell, was last seen walking toward her car following the Vaengar Games. Her body showed up in Devlin Wood three days later.”
“Right.”
“But now, we have Maxine Mendale. Victim number three, found seven days after her abduction. I’ve checked the Vaengar schedule for who played our local team those nights—two from Drakos and one from another province farther north. Cloven.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Macon sat on the edge of my desk, crossing his arms. “Morgons from all over come to the games. It may have nothing to do with Drakos or Cloven, as far as we know.”
“Hmm. I don’t know about that. I want to do some digging on this place, Devlin Wood.” I tapped my pen on my chin, staring at the printer as it churned out photo after photo. I pulled one from the print tray, a close-up of Maxine’s throat. I peered closer. “Macon. What are these marks?”
He leaned in, examining with me several centimeter-sized scratches along her throat in varying places. He pulled the other photos from the print tray. “Look. There are more here.”
Little slashes along the inside of her wrist, even the inside of her elbows.
“On her inner thigh, too.”
“Damn.” I shuffled the photos. “They’re not killing marks. Maybe it’s part of the cult ritual. Or torture.” Acid churned in my stomach.
