Chapter 90 Ch. 60
"Hmm, this is so good," Zara grinned, shoving another spoonful of the sauce into her mouth. "You know, Dad, when I grow up, I'm going to hire you as my private chef."
"I already have a well-paying job, so no, thank you," he smiled at her. "I'm happy to invite you over for dinners, though."
Zara snorted. She mixed some of the basmati rice with the beef Stroganoff. "You'd be too old to be a coach anyway. A more relaxing job like cooking would suit you."
"Cooking isn't necessarily relaxing, but whatever floats your boat."
"Can I have more?" She was scraping the last bit into a spoon.
"Sure! Just don't eat too much that you can't move."
"Cook horrible meals next time." She stood up with her plate and walked towards the stove. Just as she set it on the counter, a sharp pain shot through the side of her arm. "Fucking hell," she screamed. The pain blinded her vision temporarily.
"Zara, what's wrong?" Her father was already standing up, pushing his seat backwards.
"Oh my goodness," she gasped. Tears clouded her vision. She clutched the arm hard, then momentarily pulled her hand away to see a red mark... like something had grazed her skin.
"Did you burn yourself with the pot?" He asked, brows furrowed in puzzlement. "That's... We should get that treated."
She wanted to tell him she hadn't, but what other explanation could she possibly give him? The last thing she wanted was her father thinking she was going crazy—or for him to worry.
"How's a burn bleeding?" Santiago had his arm locked with his daughter's.
"I have no idea," she murmured, then groaned, feeling a jolt in her stomach. There was a sick, nauseous feeling creeping up her throat, and she had no idea where it was coming from. Her hands started wringing. She could see flashes of his eyes in the fire, and everything about herself just felt wrong.
"Zara, what's going on with you?" Her father's voice reached her, faint but urgent.
All she knew was that she wanted whatever this was to end. She wasn't even sure what could explain exactly why she was feeling this way. Then a thought crossed her mind. Ethan. Ethan had to have somehow gotten caught up in a fight, or in a fire, or something dangerous—and that was why she felt whatever the hell she was feeling.
She definitely could not explain it to her father. "I'm fine," she groaned, fighting back tears. Her body felt weak, drained, and completely exhausted of energy. She hated this.
She wondered what would have happened if this had gone badly. Ethan needed to be careful—and she needed to warn him to be careful because of what they had.
++++
"Where did you go last Friday night?"
"What the—" Ethan jumped, his hand flying to his chest as he whipped around sharply. "Damn, Zara, you scared the hell out of me!"
Zara rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest, giving him a deadpan stare. "Didn't peg you as the type to get scared. Where the hell did you go?"
"I had some errands to run. Why?" he narrowed his eyes at her in suspicion as he adjusted his backpack and finally shut his locker.
Zara sighed, rolling her eyes again as she pulled up her sleeve. "And how—and why—did I get this?"
"Oh," Ethan said softly, his hand touching her arm lightly. "I'm sorry. It wasn't something I could avoid," he added after a few seconds of silence.
"Something you could avoid?" Her brows shot up.
"Well, I can't exactly say no to my dad," he sighed. "But I promise I'll be more careful."
"Well, I do not know your definition of careful," she muttered. "Because Friday night was so not it. I swear, I almost died. I gave my dad a freaking heart attack—and I couldn't even explain it to him. You know, he thought I burned my arm with the hot pot of food he made. But when I started showing other symptoms, he got scared."
"I'm sorry, Zara," Ethan said quietly. "I can't promise it won't happen again, but I'll find a way out of this—some way where I'll be more careful."
"You had better," Zara said firmly. "You know, this is my season. I have a lot of races going on. I can't afford any major injury or pain because of this bullshit thing that somehow makes us bonded. Crazy, if you ask me."
"Yeah, it's crazy," Ethan murmured in agreement.
From a distance, he could spot Prunella and Noah moving toward them, laughing about something. "Hey, y'all are early," Noah commented. "What's the occasion?"
"Um, we're good students?"
"Coming from a truant like you, Zara... Hard to believe."
"Heyyyy," she shoved him lightly. "I'm not a truant."
"Sure... Oh, and by the way, there's news on our serial killer," Noah sighed dejectedly.
"Shit," Prunella whispered. "Did another blondie end up dead?"
"Not a blonde, actually," he sighed. "Don't y'all watch the news? Anyway, the police are now suspecting it's probably a gang thing."
"Gang?"
+++++++
Two Days Ago (Saturday) – Police Headquarters
"I was wrong for dropping the case," Connolly said, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "And I'm sure some of you agree with that, especially Marcus, who I'm certain kept digging behind my back."
"No, sir. I'd never disobey your orders," Marcus said quietly, looking down at the files in front of him even though that was a lie.
Connolly leaned back in his chair, and yawned. "Well, turns out you were right. We've got four more bodies this morning. All men, not women this time, but the same thing. Drained of blood, weird ass neck marks and shit. There was struggle this time, though—gunshot wounds... knife stabbings in some, and some even had their clothes burned."
Marcus said nothing. He only nodded, flipping one of the photos toward himself.
"The local police in that particular area are calling it gang violence," Connolly continued, flipping through his own pile. "Some are saying a new gang's trying to send a message. But tell me, Marcus, have you ever seen anyone drain a man completely of blood in a street fight?"
"No, sir," Marcus replied. "That doesn't happen."
"Exactly," Connolly said. He tapped the table and looked around at the few officers standing by the wall. "Somehow, all four were found in the same alley. No witnesses, no cameras in the area, so all we have are just bodies."
Marcus shifted in his seat. "That's strange," he said quietly. He didn't add what was really in his mind.
He remembered his talk with Dylan that he had recorded the other night. The confessions Dylan had made after the confrontation—and of course, he had re-looked into the evidence, by asking the companies to resend the files he filed a subpoena for. His accusations and Dylan's confessions made sense.
It hadn't been a hallucination. Marcus knew that now. Vampires were real, and they were in this city. He just couldn't say that here, especially not when Connolly would think he'd lost his mind and needed a psych eval.
Connolly sighed, pulling Marcus out of his thoughts. "The press already got wind of it. They're linking it to the blonde victims from a few weeks back. You remember them, right? Three women, all drained too. I should've kept that case open."
"We didn't have much to work with then," Marcus said, crossing his arms. "No suspects, no motive, no leads."
"That's not the point," Connolly said, shaking his head. "Now we've got men turning up dead the same way. If it's the same killer, then the pattern changed, and I need to know why."
"We will obviously reopen the files," Marcus said. "Go through the evidence again. Maybe there's something we missed."
"I already called for it," Connolly said. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You think it's possible we're looking at a gang with some kind of medical setup? Maybe they're using it as a signature or ritual?"
Marcus hesitated. "It's possible," he said slowly. "But I don't see why they'd drain blood completely. It takes too long."
"Yeah," Connolly muttered. "The lab said the wounds are clean. Not torn like a knife or animal. More like something precise... Maybe a new kind of tech. Or a medical device we don't know about yet."
"Could it be a group of scientists into gang violence, maybe?" Henshaw suggested.
Marcus only nodded, but the thought of what happened previously flashed through his mind.
They don't use knives, they use their fucking teeth!
He'd wanted to tell Connolly then, but how could he? How the hell was he going to say "it's vampires" in a police station without being sent for a psychiatric evaluation?
"Marcus?" Connolly's voice pulled him back again. "You alright?"
"Yes, sir," Marcus said, sitting up. "Just thinking."
"Well, think faster," Connolly said, pushing a folder across the table. "I want you and Henshaw to take point on this. Visit the crime scene again, talk to the coroner, get whatever you can. I need answers before the press turns this into a circus."
"Well, good thing that Neon 24 journalist is gone, eh?" One of his coworkers said. "Ivanna, isn't it?"
"Shut the fuck up," Marcus hissed, wanting to punch him in the face.
"Not funny," Connolly scolded. "Do all I said earlier."
"Understood," Marcus said, taking the folder. He glanced at the photo again. A man in his late twenties who had his eyes half open. A small puncture on his neck, just like the others... it was the same every time.
Connolly stood up, stretching his back. "We're running out of explanations that make sense, Marcus. And I don't like that feeling."
"Yes, sir," Marcus said, closing the folder. He stood too, and after a short pause, added, "We'll find whoever did this."
"Good," Connolly said, nodding once. "Because if this keeps up, we're going to have a city full of bodies before the month ends."
Marcus waited for him to leave before sitting again. He looked at the folder, then at the window, watching the sunlight creeping through the blinds. He wished Dylan hadn't been right, and he hadn't discovered it and had left the case alone. He wished vampires were still just stories.
But they weren't. And now, he had no idea what to do about it.