The darkness of my room brings no promise of sleep, and certainly the tiredness that constricts me has no way of being alleviated. I lay on my bed reading through the Angel Blue file at eleven at night, I’ve been up for a total of eighteen hours. Even I consider that unhealthy.
I’ve already read up on the seven creatures crossed out on the list in Dianne’s throat, and compare it to the list in Angel Blue. They’re exact matches, not one creature is misnumbered on the list. What catches my attention is #20. I hadn’t paid close attention to it in the morgue or when I breezed through it in the locker room.
NAME: DIABLO
NUMBERS: 2
GANGS: N/A
TERRITORIES: N/A
KNOWN MEMBERS: [blacked out page]
SUMMARY: the word ‘Diablo’ translates into Demon. These creatures are known for their advanced intellect and deception. Those that are Diablo have no distinguishable markings. For example, when Shifters change, their eyes remain black no matter who they disguise themselves as. Diablo’s have purple irises when they’re around other creatures. For the FBI, they could be an asset, but for the sake of the general public and the good of America―they must be exterminated.
I run a hand through my hair to let it out of its short ponytail. So, there’s one known member that carries the Diablo gene? Dad said that the FBI had me and Snag’s casefiles, but Sam’s mutation isn’t superior enough to show through―then who…?
There’s a knock on my bedroom door, now, from my time when I was once part of a nuclear family, my parents used to knock on my door to tell me to stop playing loud music or to come down and have dinner. Over the years, I’ve been able to distinguish knocks.
Dad always uses the side of his fist, but doesn’t apply too much force whereas Mum uses her left hand because I always used to hear the scrape of her wedding ring against the wood. Helena just slams her palm against the door because I hear the jingle of her two gold bracelets. This person’s knock is for sheer attention, not just a ‘turn off your light and go to bed’ knock but a ‘something is up’ knock. Nobody that I know knocks like that.
I sweep all the papers back into the Angel Blue file and place it in my Criminal Minds box set. Nobody knows it’s in there, nobody can notice either. Dad’s been in my room twice since last week when I burst into Blake’s apartment, and he hasn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, or questioned about the file.
When the knocking doesn’t stop, I reach over to my bedside table where I’d draped my belt. I pry my gun from the leather holster and click the hammer back, since Henry Nikita’s reappearance to Manhattan, I’ve been extra cautious.
I probably don’t look very threatening in my oversized NYPD navy blue shirt and flannelette pajama bottoms, but I can at least make an attempt to be menacing. I reach to flick the lock on my door so the intruder can open it. There’s a moment of silence as the knob turns and I stand in a shooting stance so my shoulder won’t click back.
Once again, Sam and I stare at each other with our guns drawn. We’re both at point blank range. I open my mouth to speak but Sam lowers his gun and raises his hands, causing me to disarm myself and toss my gun onto the covers of my bed.
“Christ, Stevens,” Sam scratches his bronze hair, causing it to stick up. “You seriously need to start answering your calls; I’ve been trying to reach you since eight!”
“Well it’s not my fault I don’t want to talk to a prat,” I fold my arms. “Who let you in anyway? Dad and Helena are on some sort of romantic date.”
Sam simply holds up the spare set of apartment keys that’re in Dad’s spare coat pocket in his office. How Sam has them, I have no idea. Does this count as breaking and entering? I can arrest him for that. But I don’t because I notice what he’s wearing. Special Agent Samuel Pingelly of the Federal Bureau of Investigations is wearing an Arctic Monkeys Beneath the Boardwalk tour shirt, grungy bleached denim jeans and worn out black Converse.
I am too stunned for words.
“I’m sorry, are we going to an Arctic Monkeys fan reunion or something?” I ask.
“No, we’re going undercover,” Sam’s top lip curls back in frustration. “The Aries bar doesn’t permit cops, so we have to dress down. From FBI sources, the Aries owner, Thierry, likes this band.”
“Right,” is all I say.
I change into a pair of bleached Levi’s and roll them up above my ankles. I decide to wear my New York Yankees baseball jersey and my old NYPD leather boots. In the bank of the car Sam brought a crime scene kit, much similar to Dad’s, and on the dashboard are his notebook and photos of the suspect (Henry Nikita and Dianne Hemming) and a photo of Officer Fernandez.
It takes forty minutes to get from Rivingston to Harlem where the Aries bar (FOUR HORSEMEN) is located. I’ve passed the buildings hundreds of times, but only take notice of it at night. It’s a two story hub of live. The front is just a panel of tempered glass with slit-shutters. A large neon sign containing four horses trampling the name of the bar, hangs above, right under the lone window on the second floor which I suspected is the office area.
I reach into the back seat of the SUV to grab the kit. I retrieve it and pull out my phone when it starts vibrating. Snag’s caller ID pops up and I tap to answer. There’s static for a moment until Joseph’s voice carries across the line.
“Sorry for calling you so late but Snag’s passed out on the autopsy table. I said he needs to rest but he won’t allow it,” Joseph pauses when Snag shouts something at him, causing the boy to sigh and say ‘yes boss’. “Anyway, I called you because we got trace back on the rope around Dianne’s neck. We had to remove some of the paint using a combination of monoglycol ethers and glycol acetates―this means that it’s spray paint. So, I got the lab techs to link the components and only one place uses this brand in Manhattan. The Four Horsemen Bar.”
“Okay, well me and Sam are here now to question the owner,” I say.
“Wait, there’s something else,” there’s shuffling of paper and Joseph clears his throat. “Trace came back on both Dianne Hemming and Officer Langley’s arm around the awkward puncture wound. It’s saliva, but is neither animal nor human. I’m going to compare it to the saliva samples in the database but I can’t guarantee anything.”
“Hm, I’ll think on it for you,” I say, “what’s the brand of spray paint?”
“Um,” there’s more shuffling of paper, “CSS Silver Galv, it should be in a white canister with a silver lid and some kind of rainbow stripe under the company logo.”
“Alright, thanks for that Joseph,” I close the car door. “Make sure Snag gets some rest.”
“I will, good luck,” he hangs up.
Sam’s already inside the bar by the time I enter. I try not to touch the goat skull that serves as the front ornament on the door. A bell rings above as I push through; trying to be discreet about hefting around a crime scene kit is a hard task. A few blonde men turn to stare at me as I make my way through to the stools where Sam’s sitting, having some kind of cocktail and chatting with the bar tender whose busy cleaning shot glasses.
Still bet he can’t run three blocks in those Converse.
The inside of a bar is what a modern Picasso painting would look like in my opinion. Different styles of TVs are mounted on the walls, displaying negative-light abstract paintings. Coloured felts have been stapled to the wooden walls of the bar to give texture, the floorboards beneath my feet are slick with polish and I try not to slip while manoeuvring around drunken Aries.
The bar’s to the right of the front door, right up against the far wall while the rest of the Four Horsemen is set up with lounges, beanbags and snooker tables with a small arcade in the corner. All of the employees look like siblings since they all have the same tussled blonde hair, golden eyes, tall and muscular physiques.
Silver yarn tapestries of goats jumping through celestial scenes hang behind the bar while the ceiling is painted like a night sky with all the constellations connected. Some of the murals shimmer with the use of silver spray paint, meaning that the killer had to be an Aries.
The beat of an Arctic Monkeys song gives vibrancy to the already pulsing club. Some Aries that don’t work at the bar, lounge around with women. They all look human until they make sudden movements, causing their glamour to shift like it did with Mitsudome Ishizuma. A few Indian women dressed as belly dancers have scales from their torso down, others have vines for hair.
I make the mistake of stepping back into one of the Aries workers. His large hand clamps around my waist and he makes no cover that he’s currently inhaling the scent of my hair. Sam’s too busy downing his drink to notice me getting felt up by an Aries.
“Y’know,” the man breathes in my ear, “the only humans that come here end up as dessert.”
I stop dead in my tracks. The man’s hands slink lower down my waist towards the band of my jeans. I want to pull my gun on him but I can’t blow my cover, not yet. Hopefully he grabs the silver by mistake and blows off his own damn hand. I move to duck out of a waiter’s way, consequently the Aries tries to grope my arse but his hand curls around the silver coating of my gun and he shrieks.
“Fuck, silver!” he shouts, causing the bar to go silent.
I don’t hesitate to press the barrel against his throat, causing smoke to furl from his burning skin. He groans but chooses to say nothing. I clench my jaw, “I can arrest you for indecent assault on an Officer.”
“Tch, Officer you say? You’ll be taken out with the trash then,” he grits.
“Thierry I am so sorry,” Sam laughs nervously and pulls me onto one of the free bar stools. He spins me around so the crime scene case drops to my feet and my gun slams on the bar. His grip becomes constricting against my forearm, he leans in and whispers, “Don’t cross an Aries, they won’t hesitate to mount your head on the wall.”
“Andreas, vgoúme,” Thierry fills another glass.
All of the glasses contain zodiac animal symbols. Sam’s glass has Virgo on it while mine, well, what I think is mine, has a Sagittarius on it. The symbols are printed on with some kind of paint, silver. It’s spray paint.
“Allá trávi̱xe éna óplo páno̱ mou!” Andreas shouts back. I recognise that they’re speaking some form of Greek dialect.
“Vgoúme,” Thierry says again, his tone emotionless.
Andreas runs both hands through his hair and runs a finger along the V-neck of his black t-shirt, the uniform of all Aries in the bar. He mutters something else in Greek and walks out of the establishment, slamming the door behind him.
The bar seems to shrug the outburst off and they all go back to enjoying their evening. I wince when Sam’s nails dig into my arm. He slides down a drink towards me with his free hand and I can’t help but laugh.
“Is this some kind of joke?” I snort.
“Drink,” Sam lets go.
“Underage,” I say.
“Lemonade,” Sam takes a sip of his alcoholic concoction.
Prat.
I look rather disgusted at Sam’s choice of drink for me, at least give me something that I can actually appreciate, like a can of Coke. I swirl the drink around the tumbler glass and sulk while Sam continues to talk with Thierry, he’s acting like I’m not here.
I take a sip of the lemonade and force myself to swallow; it’s too sweet for my liking. Thierry must’ve mixed it with some kind of concentrated cordial mix, hence the strange red colouring to it. I stuff my gun back into the waistband of my jeans and swirl the drink some more before I notice black lettering at the bottom of my glass.
I frown and raise the glass to the light hanging over the bar, there’s a piece of laminated paper in the bottom of the lemonade, underneath the three ice cubes. I messily reach into the tumbler and remove the each ice cube, reaching to place them in Sam’s glass while he’s engrossed in conversation with the Aries.
He realises what I’m doing when the last cube makes a splash. His nostrils flare in frustration and he shakes his head at me, taking a sip of the drink that now contains five ice cubes. When I reach into the glass and pry the laminated piece of cardboard from the glass, he clenches his fist.
“Stevens, what in the name of God are you doing?”
“Shut up,” I wave the laminated piece of cardboard in the air to dry it and then place it on the bar to read it.
Why can’t a man living in Manhattan be buried in the Bronx?
It’s another riddle, well, more of a trick question. There’s no distinguishable print since the laminated cardboard was submerged in lemonade but Thierry must’ve put it in there. My eyes flick up towards the Aries but his golden eyes simply dart around the bar as he continues to mix drinks.
“Prat,” I nudge Sam.
He ignores me.
“Prat,” I tap his hand.
He continues his conversation about Arctic Monkeys.
I sweep my hand across the bar to knock his drink over his jeans. He stumbles off the stool covered in the sweet alcohol. Sam wipes his hands on the denim and glares daggers at me. He chooses not to make a bigger scene and simply scratches his forearm where the sleeve of his shirt doesn’t touch his elbow. The nicotine patch.
I hold the cardboard in the air towards him, it’s the same material found in Dianne’s throat and the list. The killer must be an Aries, and my best bet is Thierry.
“Why should a living person be buried in the first place?” I answer the meaning on the paper.
I can tell he’s pissed but he glances at Thierry. The bar tender and owner of the Four Horsemen lowers his towel and asks, in Greek, for another Aries to man the bar while he informs us to go upstairs where his office is.
In the office, my eyes instantly go to the can of silver spray paint on Thierry’s desk. CSS Silver Galv with the grey top and rainbow pattern beneath the logo. I put on one glove and bag the can.
The rest of Thierry’s desk is clean, there’s two files regarding the wages Thierry has to pay and a loose leaf of paper with a complaint. I pick up the complaint and read through it while Sam rocks back and forth on his heels, glaring holes into the back of my head.
“If you have something to say, please do,” I grunt.
“I just can’t believe how stupid you can be. First you pull a gun on an employee, which consequently blows our cover and then you magically pull a piece of paper out of your glass and spill my drink. Just because you’re able to understand riddles doesn’t make you Sherlock Holmes,” Sam yells.
“I’m the stupid one? Without me cracking these codes, you’d still be running around looking for Henry Nikita back in Louisiana! Don’t you dare call me stupid because my mistakes aren’t the ones that got my partners killed. I haven’t lost anyone on the job, unlike you,” I reply in a calm tone.
“You’re so naïve, you burst into your friend’s apartment yesterday thinking that he was dead but was actually alive and kicking. Just face the facts to know that you’re wrong! You’re just a stupid freak like the rest of your precinct!” Sam hollers.
You’re just a stupid freak; those words bring back unwanted memories of school and the students that didn’t understand me, the students that I didn’t understand. All day every day I’d be called a freak because I brought a book on Charles Manson in for silent reading in my Year Ten English class. Every day someone would want to know if my Dad was going to be the next cop shot on the news, I couldn’t take it anymore and dropped out.
I just thought the students did it because I was smarter than them, but no, this is the Diablo gene that makes me who I am. Without it, I’d be rotting behind the desk. But with the gene, I am a stupid freak. A stupid freak with blue hair.
“Stevens I’m―”
Sam tries to renounce his actions but I’m over it, it’s too late for apologies. The damage is done and the wounds are bleeding. I try my best not to cry, I just dig my nails into the desk and lower my head to hide the fact that my lip’s trembling. Just. A. Stupid. Freak.
“I hope I’m not interrupting something,” Thierry closes the office door behind him. He has a soft smile on his face, not the luring smirk of Andreas. I move from his desk so he can sit down in his chair. His thick Greek accent makes it hard to absorb his words, “I apologise for my colleague, but he’s right, human women don’t come here unless they’re here for…shunned purposes.”
“I assure you that I’m not a hooker,” my voice is uneven; “I’m Detective Akira Stevens from the NYPD. I’m here about Officer Fernandez’s murder.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Detective. I want to help you as much as I can but I do not know of an Officer Fernandez,” Thierry says. “The only Fernandez I know of is Andre; he volunteered to work here for a few weeks I’d say…four months ago?”
“There’s got to be a mistake,” I frown. “Andre Fernandez is the NYPD patrol officer that was found in the alley by your bar,” I pull off the glove and snatch the file and notebook from Sam’s shaking hands. I retrieve the photo of Officer Fernandez, the Hispanic patrol officer of the Eleventh Precinct. “This is Andre Fernandez; he was supposed to be married next week.”
“I have never seen this man before,” Thierry pushes the photo back. “I send my condolences to the fiancé, the man that claimed to be Andre Fernandez looked nothing of Hispanic descent.”
I swap photos with Henry Nikita’s mug shot. Thierry nods to confirm that Nikita posed as Officer Fernandez, meaning that the bastard had to watch the Officer and somehow provide a false ID.
“I see I have been played,” Thierry clasps his hands. “That man did the artworks of the constellations on the ceilings downstairs. He’s a brilliant artist; I never thought he could be a suspect for murder. He was extremely quiet, but made conversation with my employees. I see you collected his painting supplies…I hope you can find him.”
“Did you ever see this woman in your bar?” I show him the photo of Dianne Hemming.
“Perhaps,” Thierry thinks for a moment. “She wasn’t inside the bar but she lurked around on the corner. I thought she was a prostitute; I didn’t want bad business so I told her to leave. The Aries have a contract with the twenty-sixth precinct of the NYPD, we don’t have any illegal activity and they don’t get involved. I didn’t want to break this leniency so when she didn’t leave, I…well let’s just say that I no longer had such a friendly demeanour. She left in a bit of a hurry towards West Eighty-Sixth Street. Why, is she involved in the murders too?”
“She’s dead,” I’m rather nonchalant about it.
“Oh, I am sorry to hear that,” Thierry looks uncomfortable. “I’m not sure what else I can do for you.”
“Give us a handwriting sample,” I place the notebook in front of him and show a photocopy of the cardboard found in Dianne’s throat. “I want you to write exactly what is printed on this photo.”
“Of course,” Thierry smiles and picks up a pen.
He’s right handed and presses hard on the paper. His writing’s full of loops and squashed cursive. It’s the most feminine writing I’ve seen come from a man. Usually they were messy but Thierry’s print is neat and slightly slanted. There’s no match.
“Thank you for your time,” I say and pack up the kit.
• • •
When I get into the car, Sam doesn’t make an attempt to turn the key in the ignition. He simply sits there, staring at his hands. He keeps scratching his nicotine patch but I don’t say anything. His green eyes flick up to look at me but I keep my gaze glued to the windshield.
“About what I said in Thierry’s office…I wasn’t thinking straight,” Sam says.
“Right,” I say.
“I want you to know that I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Sam continues. “I think that being able to crack codes and riddles is a great skill, and I’m sorry that I called you a freak.”
“Right,” I repeat.
“You’re going to report me to Dc Stevens, aren’t you? I’m going to be taken off the case and sent back to Washington, he’s already threatened my position since I pulled a gun on you. But it’s not my fault that you’re―” my phone cuts him off.
I lift my arse off the seat to dig my hand into the back pocket of my jeans. I rest my gun on my lap and look at the unrecognised number. The killer doesn’t want to risk anything by calling me so it must be someone else, I tap to answer.
“Stevens,” I say.
“You say I call you when in trouble,” Mitsudome Ishizuma whispers over the phone. “I think I’m in trouble.”
I sit up straighter, “Where are you?”
“Rakkiteru. In kitchen but someone here. He kill my friends. Please help he smash things and shouts. I’m scared,” Mitsudome starts to cry.
“I want you to listen really closely,” I check the amount of ammunition in my gun before I snap the mag shut. “If there’s anywhere you can hide, I want you to be quiet and conceal yourself the best you can. Try not to make loud noises but I want you to stay talking to me, I’ll make sure you’re okay. Can you tell me about this man?”
“He very skinny and has strange accent. He came in and started attacking, he use kitchen knife to kill Kitsune. Same man speak to me about police,” there’s yelling on the other side of the phone and Mitsudome gasps. “He in kitchen!”
“I need you to calm down and try to steady your breathing,” I click my fingers at Sam and mouth the restaurant at him. He peels the SUV out of its parking place and we speed towards East Village. More pots and pans clang and Mitsudome whimpers. “Listen to me okay? I’m on my way over; me and my partner from the other day are going to help you. Did the man say he wanted anything when he broke into the restaurant?”
“He say something about smart creatures,” Mitsudome’s breath comes in rapid gasps. “I think he found me! Akira help!”
“We’re on our way,” my voice shakes. “Stay with me!” I end up shouting.
There’s a struggle on the other side of the phone, Mitsudome must’ve dropped the phone because her voice along with Nikita’s becomes muffled. He screams at her about the devil and knowing something about the Diablo’s. Mitsudome pleads for him to stop; she calls my name until the line goes dead.
I grip my head; the whispers come back like a flood. Sam hits the gas with his phone nestled between his chin and shoulder. He’s asking for backup along with Joseph and Snag. I promised to help Mitsudome, she’s our only witness against Henry Nikita threatening Officer Pike―he did nothing wrong at the Four Horsemen, and the use of the silver spray paint will become inconclusive without Nikita saying he spray painted the rope found on Dianne’s body.
Henry Nikita sure knows how to get away with murder.
Sam doesn’t have a chance to stop the car, I’m already out. NYPD officers are cornering off the restaurant and Snag’s van is parked near the dumpsters where Officer Pike’s body was found. Joseph and Snag are already in the restaurant putting the other Kitsune into body bags.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no, no, no!”
Dad gets out of his SUV and intercepts me as I push past officers to get to the door of the restaurant. His arms capture me and I struggle. I kick and scream as if Henry Nikita is butchering me, Dad’s arms constrict around my arms and chest and I calm down with tears in my eyes.
“You don’t want to go in there,” Dad murmurs in my ear. “Trust me Akira, do yourself a favour and leave it to Snag and Joseph.”
“I promised I’d help her,” I say in a soft voice.
“DC Stevens,” Sam walks over to us, his face illuminated by the red and blue patrol lights. He swallows slightly, “I’ll go with her.”
Dad’s silent for a moment before he releases me. His eyes are filled with concern as I strap my gun back into its holster and shoulder crime scene techs out of the way as they help wheel stretchers out.
The inside of the restaurant is trashed. Chairs and tables are flipped and broken. Paw prints from fleeing Kitsune scatter the checked linoleum floor, some in blood others in fallen food. Numerous blood pools line the floor and I tread carefully around them until I reach the kitchen where Snag and Joseph are processing the body. Well, what’s left of it.
Mitsudome Ishizuma’s body is up against the wall between the industrial sink and stovetop. She’s in the same silk kimono that I first saw her in; the card I gave her is on the floor, stained with her blood. A large slit opens her throat up from her chin to her collar bone. Stuffed in the wound is a piece of cardboard, Snag removes it with a set of tweezers and gently unfolds it.
Q: What can’t the NYPD catch?
A: a killer :)
Mitsudome’s eyes have been gouged out and are probably in her mouth. Snag says that this torture happened while she was alive; I just shake my head continuously. By killing off loose ends, Nikita thinks he can outsmart those with the Diablo gene. He’s wrong.
“Akira, you couldn’t have done anything,” Snag bags the piece of paper. He looks at me with pity as I stare at the mutilated body of the woman I tried to help. He places his elbow on my shoulder since he can’t touch me with his hands. “Losing one is always hard, but she’s no longer living in fear now.”
“Shut up for a second,” I press a hand to my forehead. I think my eyes cross because my vision blurs. The whispers continue to speak, waiting for me to figure out their message. A killer like Henry Nikita is cocky and proud, he knew that Mitsudome had called me; he knew the NYPD were on their way. “He’s still here,” I pull out of Snag’s grip and slide out of the kitchen. “He’s still here!” I shout.
I run out of the restaurant and click the hammer back on the gun. A silhouette stands in the middle of the alleyway. There’s sick laughter and Dad chases me along with Sam, but I charge straight at Henry Nikita.
“Henry Nikita, you’re under―”
The silhouette rushes at me with speed and disappears in a cloud of black smoke. I pivot on my heel to turn the other way but the black cloud still envelopes me. The snide laughter continues and I’m thrown against the wall of the alley.
“Silver, well that’s nifty,” the voice is sickening, almost comical. “I see you know my name, I think it’s time I learn yours.”
My back feels the bite of the metal fence at the end of the alley. Henry picks me up by my hair and chuckles, his eyes are an unholy black. His hollow cheeks are filled in and he’s gained more muscle and meat to his bones. He’s dressed in a plaid shirt, black jeans, steel cap boots and chains. He taps my cheek with his cold hand.
“Stay awake Princess,” he taunts. “You know, even the smartest of people make mistakes. Can you except defeat, Akira Stevens? Do you think your Diablo gene is strong enough to keep you alive?”
He pry’s the gun from my trembling fingers and tosses it behind him; the sound of metal skidding against concrete reverberates through the alley. Silver didn’t burn his skin like it had with Andreas, if he’s human, then how can he dissolve into smoke like that? Night Crawlers were beasts in a human form, silver should react to them.
“Henry Nikita you’re under arre―”
With my throat in one hand, Henry spins slightly and punches Sam square in the face before tossing his body to the side towards the dumpsters like trash. Dad tries to take on Henry next and presses the barrel against the back of his skull.
“Put my daughter down or I’ll paint this alley fucking red with your brains,” Dad snarls and places his finger on the trigger.
“I see you brought in FBI hounds,” Henry laughs. “That won’t make a difference; they couldn’t even find me in Louisiana. Oh would you look at the time, I gotta dash.”
In a cloud of smoke, Henry Nikita’s gone and I fall to my knees gasping for breath. Dad helps me to my feet and I stagger towards Sam whose nose is bleeding heavily. I grip his forearm and pull him to his feet. He dabs at his bloody nose and mouth with the edge of his Arctic Monkeys shirt.
“We’ll find him,” Dad says to me.
Not unless he finds us first.