Chapter 35: *CHAPTER 35*

It only took a moment of watching his retreating back to decide I wasn't going to sit around in the truck. It was much too hot to be sitting in the truck.

I scuttled out the passenger side of the truck, not nearly as graceful as Malcolm had been, the door slamming too loudly behind me. I trotted up behind him until I was walking side by side with his long stride. He sighed gustily, pulling the designer sunglasses from the bridge of his nose. I didn't need the Curse Bond to sense the exasperation tumbling off him in waves. Still, he didn't order me back to the truck so I took that as license to follow along.

We rounded one of the sleek black Suburbans parked near Malcolm's truck, a few figures standing near the entrance, one crouched over something I couldn't make out in the sand. One of the taller male figures turned to face Malcolm as we approached.

"Took you long enough, Black," the guy spoke, who must have been one of Malcolm's colleagues, muttered. I don't think I was imagining the barely suppressed hostility in his voice. As he turned towards us, I realized he must've been around mine and Malcolm's ages, maybe a little older. His hair was a deep auburn, slender face cut into deep graceful angles.

His full lips were cut into a sneer that rivaled even Malcolm's usual antagonizing expression until his eyes drifted down to where I stood at Malcolm's side. His sneer fell away to surprise, then clear appreciation as he looked me over in my rumpled work uniform, "And who's this?"

"Nice to see you too, Patty," The smile Malcolm sent him could only be described as condescending. He rocked on his heels, largely ignoring him as he stepped closer to the building. Patty's expression morphed back to annoyance as he glowered at Malcolm's back. I was beginning to think irritation was a fairly universal reaction to Malcolm, not just from me.

"It's Patrick," the red-haired guy said as he turned back to me. He stuck out a perfectly sculpted hand in the space between us, the corners of his lips tipping at the corners, "Patrick Sutherton."

I took his outstretched hand with a forced polite smile, "Kassie."

"And you and Malcolm are friends?" His angel's face twisted skeptically.

"More like reluctant acquaintances," I admitted and he smirked.

Patrick held my hand for a fraction too long until Malcolm cleared his throat loudly to get Patrick's attention. The death look he shot at Patrick was enough to realize that he'd been taking it easy on me in the glare department. Even with the mental wall up between us, I could feel Malcolm's simmering rage and possessiveness as his eyes locked on where Patrick touched me. That feeling shot a wave of heat through me that was growing hard and harder to ignore. What was wrong with me? Patrick blinked and turned back to the scene spread at our feet.

A desert breeze caught and fluttered my hair, bringing with it the thick cloying scent of blood and something that nagged at memory. My nose scrunched against the staggering and sickly sweet scent of burnt sugar and a smell similar to what I could only describe as raw meat as it assaulted my nose. The smell was so thick I could feel it seeping into my throat and I worked to fight against the urge to gag.

In the baked desert sand, an area had been cleared out of weeds, rocks, and sticks until the ground was unnaturally flat. At the center of the cleared space, a spattering of rust-colored liquid clumped in the dirt. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the spatters and with a tilt of my chin I was able to see that the liquid had been stippled and smeared to create a macabre-looking image.

A symbol.

And while the symbol didn't look like the one that adorned mine and Malcolm's wrists, it had an eerie similarity to it that was hard to miss—like hearing two people speaking the same language; different, but with enough similarities in the way they spoke you knew they were the same dialect.

Is that?

My thoughts must have been loud enough—my mental walls shaky enough with the shock dancing under my skin—that Malcolm heard them because he responded in my head before my thoughts could finish taking shape.

'A Curse Mark? Yes.'

It had been a while since I'd heard his voice bouncing my own thoughts that it caught me by surprise for a moment. My eyes drifted in his direction and he looked down at me, catching my gaze. The golden eyebrow with the scar sliced through it raised in question.

And it's written in—

'Blood.'

He agreed, finishing my thought for me yet again.

A shiver overtook my arms sending goosebumps prickling my skin. I took a breath through my mouth to steady myself, trying to avoid breathing through my nose in an attempt to keep from smelling the air any more than I had to. Even still, I felt my face wrinkling in a grimace. Why was it always blood?

'What's that look for?' Malcolm eyed me for another moment before his eyes drifted back to the symbol at our feet.

I worked to smooth out whatever expression was unintentionally playing out across my face as I thought back.

That horrible smell. What is that?

Malcolm's gaze flicked back to my face, eyebrows pulling together. The subtle feel of his confusion drifted down the bond.

'What smell?' His nostrils flared, taking in the desert air, and I wondered how he wasn't gagging with that simple gesture. His eyes lit with sudden understanding, 'Ah, you must mean the vile aftershave that Patty is sporting tonight.'

'Not aftershave,' I corrected with a grimace. How was he not smelling it? 'It smells like rot.'

He studied my face for another moment, bemusement overtaking his features as he tried to decipher something in my expression. Patrick turned back to us, and we both hurriedly smoothed out our expressions.

"Mahoney came across this while doing patrols an hour ago," he said kicking at a loose stone with a wingtip shoe that had been polished to the point of shining like a mirror, "The Mark is still fresh, so we must not be far behind them. Most likely used last night."

Malcolm's head tipped in acknowledgment, "And did he find anything else?"

"We've already bagged up a few things that were a part of the Circle. Here," With a pale hand, Patrick reached into a portable plastic cooler that had been placed off to the side fishing around for something.

'Might want to look away,' Malcolm warned, but it came too late as Patrick placed a clear bag into his waiting hand. I blinked at what was bundled inside. Encased in the plastic now grasped by Malcolm, was a hand. A human hand. With a lurching stomach, I noted that symbols had been carved into the papery pale flesh. One of the sickly-looking fingers was encircled in a gaudy golden ring that glinted through the plastic.

There was a ringing in my ears so loud I almost didn't hear Patrick's next words, "We suspect the hand belongs to George Morelli based off of coroner's reports, but wanted you to get a look at it since you've been running point on his case."

I gasped in horror, "Yeah, that's George's hand." Both Malcolm and Patrick turned to look at me and I swallowed shakily, realizing I'd said that out loud.

Malcolm's eyed me skeptically, "And you know that because—" he trailed off, gesturing for me to carry on.

"That's his ring." I recognized the familiar blue gems embedded in the gold.

Patrick's aristocratic face turned thoughtful, "And how would you know that? How did you two say you knew each other again?"

I opened my mouth, not sure what I was about to say—couldn't remember what was okay to share with him. Did Malcolm's work know about me? I couldn't keep track of the lies I was expected to tell. For the first time, I was grateful when Malcolm barreled on before I had the chance to respond.

"She lived near George. Was there anything else?"

Patrick gestured to the cooler but refrained from pulling anything else out, "There was a foot that we suspect belonged to Marsha Roberts based on the tattoos. And an eye that we'll need to run through the database. So far though, none of the recent Magi victims are missing an eye, and our person in the police department hasn't had any cases of bodies with missing eyes. Though I'm fairly certain we'd have heard about a body in the morgue missing an eye."

Gross. And horrible.

But something about what he said nagged at me and I asked without thinking—"What if the person missing an eye isn't dead?"