Boots hit the floor like bad news.
Click.
Clack.
Click.
The woman wearing them smelled like cheap gin, two hours of sleep, and half-burnt cigarettes. Her coat was wrinkled, her hair looked like it had lost a fight with a ceiling fan, and her badge hung sideways from the front pocket like even it was embarrassed to be seen with her.
Detective Mara Bancroft, whether she liked it or not.
She stopped beside a metal desk piled with overflowing folders and cold coffee mugs. The man slumped across it snored softly, cheek smashed against a smear of ink, one hand still clutching a half-eaten sandwich like he'd fallen asleep mid chew.
Mara kicked his shin. Not gently.
"Up."
Johnson jerked awake with a high-pitched yelp, almost falling out of his chair. His eyes were red-rimmed and confused, like he'd briefly forgotten his own name. "What-? Bancroft-? What time is it?"
"Time to pretend you still work here," she muttered, lighting a cigarette she technically wasn't allowed to smoke indoors. "Get up."
Johnson wiped drool from his face, blinking to focus. "You smell like a distillery."
"And you smell unemployed if you don't get your ass moving." She tossed a thick file down on top of him. It landed with a wet splat. Photos peeked out the side. None of them pleasant.
His face sagged. "Is this more of the cannibal case?"
Mara blew smoke at the ceiling. "Victim number four. Female. Found in pieces behind a butcher shop on East 9th. Missing a finger, chunk of shoulder, all of her tongue, and most of her face."
"Jesus." Johnson scrubbed his hands over his eyes. "You seriously think it's the same perp as the alley ripper?"
Mara's mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Same teeth patterns. Same bite radius. Same level of artistic flair."
Johnson paled. "So this guy isn't just eating people he's enjoying it."
Mara took a long drag from her cigarette, eyes half-lidded.
"Oh, Johnson," she said quietly, "you have no idea how much fun he's having."
Johnson flipped through the photos with a grimace, stopping on one with a half-chewed wrist. "Sick bastard. Any leads?"
Mara tapped ash into a chipped mug. "One."
She reached into her coat and pulled out a recorder. Clicked PLAY.
A burst of static filled the office speakers… followed by wet, uneven gurgling. Somewhere in it was a voice female, trying to talk with too much blood in her throat.
Then came a sound that made Johnson's skin crawl.
Soft. Comforting.
A woman's voice.
"Sweetheart? Darling? Where did you go? Come back to Mommy…"
Johnson stiffened. "That's… the fourth victim?"
"No," Mara said flatly. "That's the fifth."
The recording crackled again.
A younger voice cried a girl, maybe eight. "M-Mommy? Mommy, I'm here..."
The line abruptly filled with screeching. High. Inhuman. Metal-on-bone. Something large thundered across the floor toward the phone...THUD THUD THUD.
"Mommy what's happening"
CRUNCH.
Wet chewing noises followed.
Mara hit STOP.
Johnson sat frozen. "It… copied her voice?"
Mara didn't answer right away. She just stared down at the ashes in her mug like she could read fortunes in them.
Then, quietly: "Whatever is killing these people… once it eats them..."
She flicked the recorder with a finger.
"...it can be them."
Johnson's blood ran cold. "That's not a cannibal…"
Mara finally met his eyes.
"It's not human."
Johnson was still processing when Mara dropped another folder into his lap thinner, but stamped with URGENT across the front.
"Here's the part that keeps me up at night," she said, smoke curling out the corner of her mouth.
Johnson opened it slowly. Inside was a grainy security photo, time-stamped two days ago a woman walking down Truman Street at night, head slightly bowed, purse in hand.
"So?" he frowned.
Mara leaned over and stabbed the image with her finger. "Victim Three."
Johnson's eyes widened. "That's impossible she died over a month ago"
"Yeah, I remember scraping half of her face off a storm drain," Mara said bitterly. "But the camera doesn't lie. Matching facial points, exact gait, same clothing from the night she vanished." She leaned back, jaw tight. "This thing… wore her like a costume. And nobody on that street knew the difference."
Johnson swallowed thickly. "So it pretends to be them… until it's ready to hunt again?"
Mara's silence was answer enough.
She picked up her coat, crushing her cigarette into the side of her mug. "And now we've got two new voices on that tape."
Johnson sucked in a sharp breath. "Which means..."
"Victims Five and Six are already dead," she cut in bleakly, heading for the door. "We're not looking for a psychopath, Johnson."
He stared after her, horrified. "Then what are we looking for?"
Mara didn't slow. "Something that's hungry…"
Her coat flared as she pushed through the station doors.
"…and doesn't want to hunt alone anymore."
***
Art
The library loomed ahead of me like a quiet confession tall windows, dusty stone, a place that smelled like rain that wasn't coming back.
I wasn't sure why I was here.
Actually, that was a lie. I was sure. I was here because Caroline told me to come whispered it against my skin in the dark like a secret I wouldn't remember until it hurt.
But why this place?
I stepped between the heavy wooden doors, boots scuffing the old tile floor. The air inside was still and papery. Shelves rose around me like towering ribs, ancient and dry and filled with spines that had forgotten even who wrote them.
"...What am I even looking for?" I murmured under my breath, glancing around before picking a lonely table to sit at. The chair creaked beneath me as I leaned forward, rubbing my face with trembling hands. "Caroline, what are you trying to make me see?"
Was I supposed to find something here?
Or was something supposed to find me?
I barely had time to finish that thought before I felt a presence behind me so sudden my heart lurched before my body could even turn.
She stepped into view like she'd been waiting for a cue.
A girl- no, something like a girl wearing a gothic Lolita dress spun of black lace and ribbons. Her skin was corpse-white, her hair dark as midnight, cut in neat straight bangs. Her eyes… red. Glimmering like wine and ember and blood.
She smiled sweetly at me.
And when she did, I saw her fangs.
"Good afternoon," she purred, voice soft, melodic, much too gentle for those teeth. "Are you busy, Artorian?"
My throat went dry. "Do I… know you?"
Her smile stretched. Something inhuman flickered behind those red eyes.
"My name is Seraphina," she said, curtsying as if we were at some grand old ballroom rather than a forgotten library. When she rose again, her gaze sharpened hungry, playful.
"May I trouble you," she whispered, leaning closer across the table, "for just a little sip of your blood?"