Rhapsody

25: have such violent ends

Forty-eight hours later, Maverick finds himself at the docks on the Hudson. The moon hangs low over the water, full and pregnant with menace. Silver beams of light ripple amongst the inky blackness of the river, and where waves lap at the shore, the water runs red.

"She couldn't have died that long ago," Officer Cooper says beside him.

The scene is a gruesome mirror of the two previous deaths, a mess of blood with no evidence of any physical altercation. Tonight's victim, in her last moments of life, had toppled into the river according to one of the nearby crane operators. Her corpse now floats just off the dock face down in a halo of her own wine red blood. Lights from the nearby police cruisers illuminate the scene in a haunting mix of red and blue. Behind them, more sirens wail through the streets.

Damn the full moon, Maverick thinks. Always turns the city into a fucking war zone.

Deep down, though, he knows this murder would've happened regardless.

"Got statements from the dock workers." Maverick looks over his shoulder, relieved to see Cassie. "Apparently, our vic rents a panic room in one of the containers on the dock. She never made it."

"A panic room?" Officer Cooper says. "Isn't that illegal?"

Maverick rolls his eyes. "Not my priority right now. But if you'd like to follow up on that, Cooper, maybe you'll reach the rank of detective by retirement."

Officer Cooper's hawklike eyes are bloodthirsty. "Missing your attack dog, Carson?"

"Word of advice if you wanna move up the chain—don't profile every goddamn werewolf murder you see," Maverick snaps back. "You're dismissed, officer. Just tell the divers to get that body up quick on your way out."

Officer Cooper's eyes flit between Maverick and Cassie.

Annoyed, Maverick barks out a quick, "Go."

With a huff, she departs beneath the police tape.

Officer Cooper is right, technically. By law, werewolves are required to report to federally-designated wilderness parks for the full moon. The nearest one is north of the city in the Hudson River Valley. That's where Emery is right now.

Maverick shudders beneath the full moon. 

"Damn," Cassie says with a low whistle. "I hate to say it, but I think I'm your last friend in the department."

"Cooper is spineless. She sees a spot of blood, she assumes a werewolf spilled it," Maverick says. "It's pathetic."

"I never thought I'd see the day."

A brisk chill whips through the dock, rustling the police tape. Another shiver snakes down Maverick's spine. On the river, chunks of ice drift by.

When he doesn't respond, Cassie continues, "So it finally happened, huh?"

"What?"

"You and Emery."

Cassie makes a face, and Maverick pales.

"How did you know?" He furrows his eyebrows. "And how the fuck haven't you been recruited to the FBI yet?"

"You're wearing his jacket, dumbass."

Right. Emery's parting gift before he left to go fuck off in the woods with his wolfy brethren. Maverick reckons, looking at the moon, that Emery's gotta be at least two feet taller and a whole lot furrier by now.

The thought makes him shudder.

"Relax, I'm not gonna tell anyone," Cassie says. "But if you need to talk—you know, if you're so incredibly heartbroken that he's gone and you just can't take it—it's okay. You have help. Don't go for the alcohol. We're here for you."