Rhapsody

27: in the haze, you'll see colors

Before Maverick knows it, the sun is shipwrecking across the city skyline and sinking below the horizon, leaving nothing in its wake but the distant memory of warmth. Hours have passed since his visit to the Johnson residence, and he's supposed to be meeting his brother to explore the tip at the human-only club tonight. But in spite of Callum's urgency over the phone yesterday, he hasn't bothered to offer up any additional information apart from a time: 10:30 p.m.

Maverick's guts always twist up at the idea going in blind. So he spends most of the evening perched outside of the club, just out of sight of the two bouncers guarding the door. It's been nearly twenty-four hours since the full moon and hardly a soul dares to move. The only motion comes from the taxi headlights as they pass in an endless, whooshing parade.

The skyscrapers stretch above him like silent monoliths, nearly imperceptible against the backdrop of the dreary indigo sky. He can't remember the last time he saw Manhattan in such a ghostly state. He reckons this must've been how it appeared years ago when the Eselheim matriarch was found dead in her penthouse.

Maverick remembers the photos vividly from the sleepless nights he spent in the precinct's file room. He imagines his mother hustled along these same sidewalks years ago when she got the news, her head full of questions and her spirit alight with the passion of the chase. The thought makes him ache.

He looks up to the glittering amber-toned windows in the skyscrapers above, wondering who still remains that remembers when the block was wrapped in yellow tape and bathed in blue and red. Oh, what stories those people could tell.

Maverick's phone buzzes in his hand. He peeks down.

Wolfy

[09:57]
Hello, detective.

Guilt settles in his gut. He should've known Emery would be back from his full moon romp by now. He left the wolf's coat in his apartment out of fear of its picking up the scents of tonight's dishonesty. Though he craves the warmth—this ratty replacement he pulled from the back of his closet just isn't cutting it—his lungs revel in the freedom.

Without Emery's saccharine scent of bergamot, and all of those perplexing feelings that come along with it, he feels like he can finally think clearly.

He clenches his jaw and shoves his phone back in his pocket.

In the next hour, only a few patrons meander down the desolate alley towards the bouncers. The south door appears to be the only entrance and exit, another thing that makes Maverick's blood pressure spike. Each time it opens, streams of light the color of bewitched maroon cascade across the puddles outside. Though not quite a color as bloody as red, it still makes Maverick queasy.

Footsteps on his six alert him. He looks over his shoulder. A slight mist has arisen, brave against the batter of a light drizzle. From the haze, a figure emerges.

"You're late," Maverick huffs.

"Sorry. Got caught up at the office."

Callum shakes out his damp hair, which gleams as gold as the windows above. He cocks his stupid, crooked smile with that stupid, crooked tooth he chipped when he was eight.

"Did you read the headlines from this morning?" he asks.

Maverick grimaces. "I've made a habit of not doing that." Usually because I'm involved.

"This string of killings is all over the front page."

Journalists are perceptive folk. He's thankful Lieutenant Darcy is already their precinct's designated media point person.