“How was your date?” I ask Blake as I walk out of the bathroom, tussling my hair with a thick towel.
Blake attempted to sneak in without me noticing; little does he know that it’s a dumb move to sneak around when your flat mate’s a Detective. He looks rather dishelved, not his usual persona when coming home from a renound ‘date’―he usually brags about his conquests or at least tells me the girl’s name so I can pick her out of a crowd next time, but Blake does no such thing. He just looks away from me and tosses his hoodie on the couch.
“Okay,” I drawl and flick the towel over my shoulder. “I take it that nobody got based.”
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Blake counters.
“Day off,” I say.
Though my day offs usually just amount to me chasing killers around Manhattan until I ask for a time out or drink break, oh well, at least I can run three blocks in my boots. In fact, today I’m planning to wrack my brain over the case with Sam and Banks. With half of our case out the window thanks to Helena, I have to reassess everything and figure out Q’s actual motives and the game he wants to start.
Blake and I stare at each other for a few moments; we’re polar opposites of each other. I’m the epitome of relaxed (for once) whereas Blake’s shoulders a bunched with unreleased tension and looks like he’s one word away from imploding. The dark bags beneath his eyes and malicious sneer makes me wonder what exactly happened between him and his said ‘date’.
“Got any plans for today?” I query.
“I was going to get a taxi to West Forty-Second,” Blake clears his throat, “to the, uh, Public Library. I better head off.”
I make a hum of interest, even though I couldn’t really care less about Blake’s little endeavours. However, as I turn around to put the towel back into the bathroom, I see the bundle of books and printed pieces of paper bundled in Blake’s arms. I try to keep my gaze discreet but Blake turns towards the door again, forgetting his hoodie despite the winter chill outside.
I think I just found out what I’m going to do on my day off. I smirk slightly and walk into the bathroom, scrubbing the steam from the shower off the mirror and hang the towel on the railing before pawing around the couch for my phone. Once I retrieve it, I tap Sam’s contact.
Me:
To the library.
Sam’s reply is immediate.
PRAT:
To the library?
I’m sorry; did I miss the call to battle?
Me:
Sarcasm does not make you funny.
Blake is suspicious of us, I say us as in Diablos.
PRAT:
And he knows this how?
Technically I don’t know that Blake’s onto something, the only proof I have is the Diablo research regarding the JH Complex and I ‘accidently’ set that alight as soon as I sent the photo of it to Nikita. Blake’s been careful not to leave his laptop or written notes/cut-outs of newspapers anywhere for me to find.
My attention drops to the pockets of Blake’s black hoodie, the garment of clothing that’ll protect him from the ensuing winter. I place my phone–still awaiting a response to Sam’s message–on the arm of the couch and scrounged around in the pocket to reveal three newspaper clippings regarding the press conference, Blake highlighted a particular side article and the date on the paper is today’s.
JOURNALIST BRUNER REPORTS: lead investigators of case still use the cover of ‘not being able to disclose information’ to the general public. What are they hiding? Why are they hiding should be the more appropriate question, if we don’t get answers soon, the media will have to come up with the conclusions everyone so dearly craves.
Does this killer crave publicity? If I was in the NYPD I certainly would answer the questions which the public wants to know, if it regards our safety, we need to be aware of what to do. But as the leading FBI Agent says on the case he is here on the pretence of, [excerpt from live broadcast], “precautions to say the least, our lead suspect has been on the Bureau’s radar for a while…” [Close quote]. Who is this lead suspect that remains nameless, why are the FBI protecting a killer? Unless it’s one of them.
The paper creases in my fist and I pick up my phone once more, exiting Sam’s contact to message Dad. He’s probably at a board meeting or is filing through notice reports in his office, so he most likely has his phone handy. I quickly thumb at the screen and send a warning to Dad to subpoena the broadcasting companies and/or publishers to lower the chance of the public rioting―it’s plausible, this is the biggest case Manhattan’s seen in a while, it’s just a pity that they don’t see who’s really behind it.
• • •
“I really don’t want to be in an enclosed space that smells like old people, babysitting a guy that blatantly rejected me over the phone,” Banks complains as I step out of Sam’s SUV. “Seriously Akira, low blow.”
She’s been whining ever since Sam picked her up from the house, he even had to turn on the radio to shut Banks up. Sam never simply turns on the radio. It’s getting to the point where I want to take the red scarf around Banks’ neck and wrap it around her mouth to muffle her or just shove the whole thing down her throat as a gag.
“Let’s just jump one hurdle at a time, shall we?” I rub my temples.
“Aye-aye Top Cop,” Banks rolls her eyes and shoulders past me, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her jeans. She scuffs the heels of her combat boots across the threshold and I notice the white granules that she tracks into the carpeted library.
“Salt,” Sam observes, blowing on the steam that curls from his latte.
There’s no snow peppering Manhattan nor has the temperature dropped low enough at night to layer the sidewalks or roads with frost. I crouch down to rub a few granules between my thumb and forefinger before allowing my tongue to flick out and taste it. It’s salt for sure.
I look up at the roof of the library and the side of the building to see if Alkaios is lurking or even one of his henchmen like Eryx, but only the general public mingle through the open doors of the library and surrounding sidewalk. I’m probably getting ahead of myself; Vrykokolas are loyal to the NYPD―and a creature such as Alkaios wouldn’t step off his ground unless it was necessary.
At least, that’s what I hope.
Inside the library is quiet, to an extent. People line up to the front desk where a librarian scans and stamps books, others whom I suspect are students hover over one another reading each other’s answers or composing draft reports for their English assignments. Some of them stare as Sam and I breeze past, our eyes scanning the stacked shelves and isles of books in search for Blake.
Banks sits by one of the computer monitors in the far corner on the second level of the library. She’s chosen the spot wisely because her desk overseas the entire bottom floor. I know Banks hates libraries since she detests reading books, how she past her English Exam to graduate from Year Twelve, I will never know. I certainly wouldn’t, yeah me, the flunky drop out of Year Ten.
I scale the stairs and adjust the brim of my formal cap; I wear it out of habit now. Being without it seems foreign; I suppose it’s a trait Banks has given to me since she hides her afro beneath it. I pull up a chair next to Banks and wiggle the mouse so the screen comes to life, I might as well look like I’m doing something useful.
“Can’t teenagers find a better place to make out?” Banks nudges my shoulder and gestures with her eyebrows towards a couple doing the bump n’ grind against the 19th Century Classic section. “No offence Top Cop, I forget that you’re still legally a teenager.”
I internally groan. Turning nineteen is more of a curse than a blessing. I’m one step closer on turning twenty but all the further away of the respect from those in the force. I’m still heavily criticized for my age and position within the NYPD and Banks doesn’t make the situation any more tolerable by bringing up the fact that my older age still ends in teen.
“Don’t forget that I can legally arrest you,” I say.
Banks kicks me under the desk and fiddles with the wires connecting the monitor to the hard-drive. Her brown eyes flick between me and Sam, she smirks silently to herself. Sam is currently walking around the top level of the library, holding a copy of Wilkie Collins’ The Woman in White close to his face to hide the fact that he’s drinking a vanilla latte in a library, where it’s strictly a liquid free zone.
“So,” Banks drawls suggestively. “You and Mr Vanilla Latte hm?”
“We didn’t shag on the roof,” I clarify Banks’ silent question as she waggles her eyebrows at me.
“That wasn’t what I was implying,” Banks snickers to herself. “What’s going on with you and him?”
If I could answer that question, I would. I don’t know what’s happening between me and Sam, nor can I explain it. I certainly enjoy Sam’s company, being with him is so satisfying that I can’t even formulate the feeling into words, but I’m not sure if the fear has been expelled from his mind. From what he’s lead me to believe, he likes spending time with me in solitude away from the prying eyes of friends and foes.
When we’re not alone, it’s like we’re at square one again–strictly no touching and hatefully sarcastic to one another–however, as soon as we’re alone, it’s as if gravity controls us and warps our minds. Sam always makes the first moves but is never overbearing and has enough self-control to pull back when needed.
There’s still a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that this is only an office fling, or I’m a distraction while he gets over Amanda Jane’s murder―I mean seriously, I don’t have much sex appeal going for me with my blue hair, sarcastic (and sadistic) personality and the fact that I have a tendency to use my trigger-happy fingers to place silver bullets into people I don’t trust. If I’m simply a rebound, that would hurt me a lot more than a simple flat-out rejection, which I’m expecting soon because love never plays in my favour.
“I’m going to check the other side of the library,” I give a mock-salute to Banks and she flips me off, still desperate to get an answer to her pervious question―an answer which neither I or Sam can grant. I sigh and say, “I’ll tell you later.”
There’s another IT section set up in the furthest corner of the library, opposite to where Banks sits. The upper sector of the library is built in a circle, with shelves and seats on the outskirts with one stairwell leading back to the bottom floor where the main categories and popular books are kept along with the large study desks for group work.
Sam sits on a leather seat that’s backed up against the wall between two aisles of book shelves that are simply collecting dust. He’s traded in Wilkie Collins’ classic for something more of my taste, a book on profiling serial killers. Sam reclines and hoists his left leg over his right thigh tapping his foot to an imaginary beat.
I’m not the only one staring at Sam, a hooded figure two booths from me is hidden behind a computer screen, invisible to Sam but not to me. People wearing their hoods up inside is bad juju, I rest a hand on my holster cautiously and slowly approach behind the man.
There’s nothing suspicious about him, just the fact that he’s wearing an oversized hoodie inside and has pulled the fabric over his forehead so far that I can’t get a view of his face, even at the angle I’m standing on. I can tell it’s a man from the body structure, the stocky jean-clad legs and construction boots are a dead giveaway. The man is doing what Banks is, he’s observing but has taken an interest in Sam.
I take another step forward and wince.
For the first time in weeks, the whispers return. I’m submerged in a sea of voices, foreign and bilingual. They hint meaningless things to me before repeating them harshly in another language, finally fading out in broken words of English. I can’t put the words or phrases together, it’s like my mind’s become clouded―but I’m not on any medication to dim the Diablo gene.
Whenever the voices arise, something goes wrong. I’ve never been able to translate the throng of screams that echo in my mind and because of that flaw, I’m always too late. What are they warning me about?
Sam’s head twitches to the left slightly and the tapping of his foot slows, his eyes are still glued to the page in which he’s reading, but something’s disturbed his concentration. He’s out of range to hear the voices as loud as me, nevertheless he’s on high alert―his Diablo gene is certainly functioning.
I feel my knees buckle, threatening to collapse, but my body doesn’t give into the fall. I close my eyes tightly as images flood my vision, scenes which don’t make sense; it feels like I’m watching from someone else’s point of view, trapped inside the barriers of my own mind.
As if exhaling aloud, I’m standing in front of myself on the other side of a Pool table next to Banks. Our surroundings are dark and the only light is from an overhanging lamp that dangles over the green felt. I’m not alone with Banks, no; Snag and Sam are here as well. Their voices are muffled and I can see Snag snap his fingers in my face to call me to attention so I can take a shot―my body doesn’t respond, it just stays idle.
Did I just breathe out my essence? I scowl and wave my hands in front of Banks’ face but her eyes narrow at the body Snag is still trying to wake up. I’m mute; I try to call out, just to have my plea fall on deaf ears.
Think. Think. Think.
The last time I heard whispers, I had my first seizure. Through that spasm, I was able to realise that a Diablos mind was split into two, hence opening the pineal gland to awaken the Third Eye sense. Am I reaching the final stage of the gene without any provocation? The whispers heighten in response.
I watch in confusion as my body lifts its head, eyes closed and lips pressed into a thin line. I see blood weep from the sockets which crack open, revealing black eyes―devoid of definition between the iris and sclera. These aren’t the eyes of Mr Hyde; they’re that of the devil.
Snag mouths my name, causing the body to show teeth, whiter than what they should be at the group of people. Both Snag and Sam’s eyes darken, it seems to be involuntary, as if a presence is controlling the rate of how much a Diablo gene should change.
The body tries to lunge across the Pool table at Banks and me but Snag intercepts with the Pool cue. Snag presses the cue length ways against my throat, backing me up against the wood, knocking over a bottle of Carlton Draught.
“What’s going on?” Banks screeches, her voice echoes in my mind three times before fading out.
She rushes to Sam’s side; he’s coughing into the sleeve of his pastel shirt, staining it with crimson. What in the name of God is going on? First I’m detached from my actual body while it turns into some demonic creature, Sam starts coughing blood and Snag’s struggling to keep the body from attacking.
“It’s him,” Snag grunts as my body claws at the cue. “God damn it Akira, snap out of it!”
“How could he remotely do this?” Sam spits, not bothering to clarify who the mysterious ‘he’ is.
“The same way he did before,” Snag seems to follow the mutation of my body and his sclera is devoured by inky darkness.
I blink once, twice, three times.
I’m back in the library, staring at my nails that are jagged and mangled. What seems to be like the first layer of Shellac from a Pool cue is imbedded beneath my shredded nails. Was that vision real? A shiver passes through me, what the fuck was that?
“Blue?” Sam stands in front of me, holding my shoulders.
My head snaps up to the booth where the hooded man had perched himself, the seat is vacant yet the monitor is on. I pull away from Sam’s grasp and stumble over to the chair, squinting at the screen. A document in Microsoft Word has been opened and in the basic default font, the curser blinks:
Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run.
Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run.
Bang, bang, bang, bang goes the farmer’s gun.
Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run.
Don’t give the farmer his, fun, fun, fun.
Unlike the farmer, I won’t get by without my Detective pie.
Watch where you step or you–silly little rabbit–will die.
“Oi you guys I found Blake,” Banks stands on the ground floor entrance. “He’s going to hail a taxi!”
I unlock my jaw and grab Sam’s wrist, tugging him harshly towards the stairs. It doesn’t feel like I’m taking the steps one at a time, one moment I’m on the upper level and the next I’m sliding through the salt towards the sidewalk, watching Blake get into a cab. Cabs aren’t safe, not with Helena’s contact on the loose.
Sam unlocks the SUV and the pursuit begins.
• • •
I see the calamity first; the burst fire hydrant sends an arc of water towering above the SUV as Sam slams on the breaks, causing all of the occupants to strain against their seatbelts. The cab finally met its match in a back alley towards East Village and I take it that the driver wasn’t taking Blake to the requested destination.
I slide out of the SUV and pull out my gun. The whole front bonnet of the yellow cab is now scrap metal and it doesn’t help the smoking engine with the water cascading around us. However, I’m not concerned about the cab, the driver or even Blake. What makes me panic is the fact that Nikita’s body is sprawled across the asphalt from the impact.
I’ll make sure that all problems are dealt with, Nikita had assured me.
Sam tightens the perimeter around the bunged up cab and Nikita’s body. I can’t tell if Nikita’s dead or not, with pseudo maniac tendencies like Nikita, you can never tell what’s actually going on.
“Oh my God, Blake!” Banks screams.
True enough, hanging out in the back seat of the car was Blake. Banks instantly pulls the cab door open and ducks inside to remove Blake’s body. My roommate is unconscious and blood seeps from a cut on his temple, apart from the blow caused by impact, he seems unharmed. Sam checks his vitals and such when Banks places Blake’s body on the ground away from the jet stream of water.
“Don’t touch him,” there’s a large creak of metal as a form aspirates on the hood of the cab, causing it to dent slightly beneath foreign weight. Alkaios? I retract my hand from checking Nikita’s pulse, and stand. “Glykós, he would not want it.”
Sam raises the gun and places himself between Blake’s body and Banks’, “What are you doing here?”
“Under the requests of that man of course,” Alkaios twirls the gold pocket watch around his index finger, averting his muddy gaze towards Banks who’s now crying on the phone to 911. “Ne, my omorfiá, you and your fílos must trust me that Henry did this for your benefit.”
Alkaios puts a strange accent on Nikita’s first name, making it sound like it was once a part of the Greek language. The Vrykokolas drops down from the crushed hood of the car and tears off the driver’s side door. Sam and I duck to avoid being decapitated by the wrought piece of metal. Alkaios pulls a body by the scruff of their clothing. From the dead-weight, I know that the person is deceased.
“This is the týrannos in which you seek, ne?” Alkaios kicks the body towards us.
Sam lowers the Desert Eagle to drop on his haunches and inspect the corpse. The John Doe is no older than forty with a mop of dark hair cut short in a uniform-style. Sam pats down the man’s lapels for a drivers licence or a taxi permit, he comes up with nothing, but from Sam’s expression he seems familiar.
“Special Agent Colville was doing undercover work in Nevada, last time I heard he was trying to affiliate with a known drug lord and bring down a well-known syndicate,” Sam scowls. “Colville has no pretence to be in Manhattan,” he pauses for a moment and clenches his jaw, “Colville was Quinn’s contact, that’s why he’s impersonating a taxi driver.”
“Naí,” Alkaios confirms with a nod. “He is also the man that used salt around the archives to avoid me entering, he expected me to reach out to you both.”
“Why would Nikita do something like this? He knew that we needed the contact alive,” Sam stands slowly.
“Henry asked me to devour his soul before he caused this crash. Henry did not tell me his motives specifically, but promised that his soul shall remain safe until the time is right,” Alkaios extends both of his hands towards us. “I shall not repeat myself to you; I have more liking for your glykós. Come forth and see for yourselves.”
• • •
Nikita pelts across the sidewalk on Madison Avenue towards Frank. E Campbell Funeral Chapel. The mocha coloured exterior is now ashen beneath the dim lights. The doorman isn’t there to greet the Diablo and that seems to frustrate Nikita. He acts out in a fit of rage and pry’s the lock apart with his bare hands, his breath coming in rapid gasps.
Nikita blindly stumbles through the funeral rooms that’ve been immaculately set up for a Memorial Service. Nikita knocks over an easel that holds a printed canvas photo of an elderly man with thick glasses, he spits at the photo and continues through the Funeral Chapel, muttering in a foreign language―Latin?
When Nikita reaches the large wooden door, his touch alone is enough to break the glamour which the Vrykokolas set to keep their sanctuary hidden. Nikita heaves his leg back and kicks the wood in, causing it to splinter from impact.
In the green grassed space between the tombstones and weeping angels, Alkaios stands with a lit candle, fanning the smoke towards the sky with a bundle of sage. Around Alkaios are seven Vrykokolas including Eryx, all Vrykokolas bear their unholy fangs at Nikita who is still twitching and murmuring.
“You,” Alkaios doesn’t remove his crimson stare from the sage smoke.
“You,” Nikita mimics.
“Wasn’t carving me up like some kommáti kréas enough for you? Wasn’t stealing my ritual book to raise your dead lover enough to sate your lust? Wasn’t hunting those astynomía for your own enjoyment satisfying?” Alkaios’ tone remains impassive. “I am not a piece of meat, nor am I going to kill those two police officers…Detective and Agent…whatever they are.”
“I don’t want to kill the Detective or Agent, I want to save them,” Nikita pants. “I admit that using silver on you was far from civil, but I have chosen a side―you and I stand together.”
Alkaios’ irises deepen to crimson and they flit from the smoke towards Eryx. The leader nods at his second in command in some silent order. Eryx gives a gallant bow and barks a sentence in Greek, causing the kneeling Vrykokolas to aspirate into black smoke back to their hiding holes.
Alkaios exhales and rotates the sage around the candle, “By ‘picking a side’ you mean choosing those who benefit your survival, ne?”
“It just depends on your view point if I better myself or others,” Nikita simplifies. “Trust me, Vrykokolas territory wasn’t my first choice of sanctuary but it’s the only safe haven. You’re going to be betrayed, that list which the lead Baine had leaked to the FBI has become a hit list and it’s only a matter of time before you’re eradicated from this earth.”
“And this is supposed to terrify me into submission? What can a human officer do to harm me–a Vrykokolas. You are more paranoid than my glykós,” Alkaios chuckles. “Go, you bore me.”
“Who said the law will send a human?”
Nikita tosses a black bound book at Alkaios’ feet. The book has a peeling hardcover exterior, much like that of a bible and a strange symbol on the cover woven with silver thread. It’s an uppercase ‘P’ with an intersecting cross in the centre. Is this the book of black magic which Nikita stole?
Alkaios devotes his full attention to the book and pauses the ceremony, “Chi Rho has no use to me. Christogram’s do nothing to creatures, I am not a man of faith and neither are you.”
“That book is what brought Dianne back from the dead, if the government gets their hands on it then we’re all as good as dead,” Nikita aspirates next to Alkaios and knocks the candle from his hand. The wick bends as it touches the buffalo grass before igniting the pages of the book.
Alkaios turns his nose up at the smouldering paper, “And what does your lover have to do with the Detective and Agent?”
“We are all Diablos,” Nikita says. “I was betrayed and put on the hit list, nobody is safe.”
Alkaios chuckles again, “There are no such things as Diablos, Eryx would have informed me if there was a hit list, or other creatures would have retaliated against the law by now.”
“If you value your life, you would listen to my warning,” Nikita hisses.
Alkaios thinks for a moment, dropping the sage into the ashes of the book. He mutters in Greek and runs his clawed hand over the nearest tombstone, flicking a few dead leaves off with his sharp nails. His fangs recede into his gums and the Vrykokolas buckles.
“A favour demands payment,” he grins.
“My soul,” Nikita bargains. “I want you to extract my soul so I can commit one last crime without remorse.”
“A crime?” Alkaios narrows his eyes. “If I extract your soul, your body will shut down. You will become a corpse.”
“Exactly, if the FBI thinks I’m dead…then that’s one problem down,” Nikita inhales deeply. “I know you don’t trust me, but have faith in the Detective―she and her partner will die without your help. The FBI only knew of me and Dianne as Diablos, I’m supposed to be the only survivor. By faking my death, the Detective and Agent will have a few more months of cover.”
“And if this does not work, then what?” Alkaios folds his arms.
“Then my soul will repent for my sins,” Nikita smirks. “I can already feel the Detective turn, my blood still runs through her veins; with my soul extracted…the bond will be broken. The threat of her evolution will cease, please, kill me.”
“...As you wish,” Alkaios gives an animalistic growl and raises the tail of his trench coat, enveloping he and Nikita in darkness.