HALEN
Sleep deprivation can cause disorientation, impaired judgement, and memory loss. But suffer this ailment long enough, and it’s the strain on the heart which inflicts the most damage.
I’d like to blame my disjointed presentation to the FBI task force today on my lack of quality sleep—but I’ve worked off of less; I know what my body and mind can tolerate. I know my breaking point.
And the need for sleep has nothing to do with the palpitations attacking my heart as I watch Kallum stalk toward me on the sidewalk.
Dressed in an all-black suit, his leanly cut form slices the night like a razor. He’s the devil of every ailment come to inflict damage to my heart.
This is the first time I’ve seen him since his manic episode at the scene last night. And I’m unsure if it was that episode or what came before that has me so unnerved.
As he and Dr. Verlice approach the entrance to Pal’s Tavern, I touch my chest and clasp the solitaire diamond, distractedly returning my attention to the revised profile on my tablet.
I’ve been reworking it since Aubrey relayed our director’s dissatisfaction with my report. Agent Alister’s initial briefing with my unit expressed as much with my performance.
I’ve had to deliver more bizarre and far-reaching profiles to authorities before, but trying to deliver a ritual ground crime scene where the unnamed suspect tears apart animals with his hands and teeth and consumes the flesh has its own unique challenges.
Then there’s the added layer of difficulty when explaining the associations to secret societies and mad philosophers to outline a suspect who aims to ascend into a super human.
Besides the obvious credibility issue, the profile gets no one any closer to locating the missing victims.
When Agent Alister pulled me aside and reprimanded me about withholding the evidence of the engravings and lack of communication, all I could do was nod and chew back retorts.
Alister’s admonishment was fair and even warranted. Using Kallum’s eccentric methods as an excuse wasn’t an option. I was the one who requested his participation on the case. He’s my responsibility. He’s my problem to contain.
And as his blue-and-green smoldering gaze drags over me deliberately, stoking embers long ago doused, I know it’s not just the urgency of the unusual case affecting me and my ability.
Something is wrong with me.
Dr. Verlice glances at the wooden sign above the worn door of the local townie bar. “This doesn’t seem like an ideal method of investigation,” he says.
“There isn’t much of a nightlife in town,” I reply. “This is the only place still open. I’m almost finished…” I toggle between documents on my tablet.
In an effort to condense the overabundance of information in my report, I presented my quickly hatched profile in bullet points to Agent Alister’s team:
• Suspect will display fixation with ancient Greek philosophy. Will feel strongly connected to the three master philosophers, but especially the philosopher Socrates. Will show disdain toward his teachings i.e. preaching mediocrity, but covertly believes Socrates passed down a hidden wisdom to worthy scholars to ascend to a celestial plane within the mind.
• Fredrick Nietzsche: German philosopher / Übermensch – rough German translation: overman. Suspect harbors delusional belief in a supreme, god-like being. Believes the philosopher Nietzsche constructed secret instructions within his doctrine that document his discovery of the masters’ hidden wisdom to ascend into an enlightened being he dubbed the overman. Nietzsche’s hidden wisdom cited as the Philosopher’s Stone (fabled alchemic substance to convert base metals into gold): a psychological alchemy concealed in the depths of the subconscious which one reaches to ascend to a higher, enlightened state of consciousness.
• Dionysian Mysteries / ritual / ascension. Nietzsche’s later doctrines centered around the Greek god Dionysus (god of madness and frenzy) and metaphors of invoking the god himself. Dionysian Mysteries were a secret rite of the Maenads (followers). Not much is known about the rituals other than cryptically written dogmas that cite a ritual of animal and/or human sacrifice, orgiastic sex, wine, death, and rebirth in order to invoke Dionysus into one’s “spirit”. The suspect will display extensive knowledge of the Dionysian Mysteries, along with knowledge of Nietzsche’s philosophy incorporating Dionysus.
• Hemlock / Suspected use of poisonous plant to either mimic Socrates and take own life in event suspect is discovered before goal is realized (ascending into overman) and/or overman philosophy is rejected by society (i.e. Socrates’ introduction of new deity).
My finger hovers over the remark about the hemlock. An ill feeling coats my stomach, and I feel as if my assessment is still off. I’m tempted to delete it. I’m tempted to delete the whole profile.
There are other descriptors such as likely age, gender, education level, behavioral traits—but those are vague and pale in comparison to the extreme belief system of the suspect. Which is the main reason Agent Alister dismissed my first profile to begin with.
I hit Send on the email to Alister with the revised profile attached. Then, with a resigned sigh, I tuck the tablet away in my bag. I’ll either wake up tomorrow with a suspect list, or jobless. Most likely the latter.
Turning toward Dr. Verlice, I hold out my bag. “Can you please put this away in your room for now?” I ask. At his perplexed expression, I lift the hem of my dress to reveal the bandage around my ankle. “I injured myself in the field. I’d really appreciate the help.”
He pushes his wireframe glasses up the bridge of his nose and glances at the hotel across Main Street. “That’s why I didn’t go gallivanting in the dark last night.”
When he accepts my bag, I thank him. “A wise choice. We’ll wait here for you.”
As I watch Dr. Verlice cross the street, I feel Kallum’s consuming presence pushing against me. I finally meet his narrowed gaze, and a flash of something primal and starved registers there.
“You lie so pretty,” he says with a crooked grin.
Choosing to ignore the comment, I turn toward the bar entrance. “Let’s go.”
We had agreed that, in order to infiltrate the house party without drawing negative attention, we’d have to ditch Dr. Verlice, and find a way to keep the two special agents out of sight.
But that was before last night. Before his unhinged episode. Before he said what he said…and before I was even more wary of being alone with him.
Despite my rational reservations, the temptation to unravel the mystery of this case is too dangerously strong.
I want to locate the missing residents before something extremely bad happens, yes—but beneath my desire to do good is the dark and seductive lure to unravel the mystery of Kallum.
I need the answers only he can give me.
As we enter the dimly lit interior of the bar, we’re engulfed in a smoky pit where a few pool tables crowd the center. The twang of folk music drifts through the sullen atmosphere. We pass the small bar top with a handful of patrons and too many feds to count. Apparently, this really is the only nightlife.
Moving quickly, we make our way toward the back exit. Once we hit the street, I pull up the GPS on my phone for the party location the waitress gave Kallum.
I toss a purposeful glance at his ankle. Without my need to point out the obvious, he says, “Don’t worry. The house is safely within bounds of the monitor.”
We veer off the road toward the destination, and I send a quick text to one of the tailing agents: Please hang back. I’ll alert you if needed.
I have no authority to give this directive. I’m hoping the please stresses this scene is not FBI friendly, because no one will talk if the agents are spotted anywhere near us.
The GPS leads us to an aged Gothic revival home with a steeply pitched gable roof and castle-like tower. The arched dormer windows have a touch of classic tracery, utilizing a swirled black, ornate design. It’s gaudy and elaborate, denoting old money.
Like every other house in town, the siding is chipped and peeling. The worn appearance reflects the sad tone of the people that inhabit these houses regardless of status.
The heavy thump of bass escapes the open windows as we draw near. Before I approach the slender columns of the wrapped porch, I bend down to remove the bandage from my leg.
“We should start by locating Tabitha the waitress.” I toss the bandage in a shrub and start toward the house. “Since you have a rapport with her, we can ask her—”
“Wait.”
Kallum’s stark command is delivered in a deep baritone that resounds in my chest. I linger near the concrete steps as he advances, the sliver of moon cast in the pale hue of his eyes. I brace myself for some mention of last night…
“This is what you decided to wear to a party?” he asks, his gaze absorbing me. “The plan was to blend.”
Relieved, I glance over my black maxi dress. It’s the only semi-formal outfit I ever pack, yet this is the first time I’ve worn it. I also put my hair in a high ponytail and sported dangly silver earrings.
“Let me guess,” he says, “you googled current fashion trends and found out funeral-chic was all the gen-z rage.”
His words summon a blistering ache to my chest, snatching the breath from my lungs. An image of a funeral dress rises up from the trenches of my mind to try to drag me under.
I force my voice steady. “As opposed to your choice of goth chic?” I say, refusing to let him see his effect on me. “Were you going for nineties emo-kid, or Anne Rice vampire groupie?”
Kallum runs his tongue along the ridge of his teeth. “Vampires prefer to see a little skin.”
I shake my head and turn away. “No one will care—”
I make it a single step before his hand wraps my arm, drawing me to a stop. My gaze drops to where he touches me. My heart flips inside my chest as he grazes his hand down to the tapered hem of the sleeve.
“What are you doing…?” A shock of fear strangles my breath as he rolls the sleeve to reveal an inch of skin.
“Your part of the deal is to trust my methods,” he says, tone casual, as if he’s not causing my heart to tear through my chest wall.
“No… Please.” I manage to free my wrist and shove the sleeve down.
“Do you even know what you’re pleading for?” His question leaves me speechless, but he doesn’t wait for the answer. “Either you hold up your end, or—”
“Anything…else.” I swallow the ache clogging my throat.
He cocks an eyebrow, then rakes his gaze over my dress. A sinful gleam alights behind his gaze to make me regret my words and then, with a groan, he drops to his haunches.
He grasps the flare of my hips, igniting a searing heat that threatens to burn me to ash as his palms travel painstakingly slow down my thighs. His fingers bunch the fabric, driving any rational response from my mind.
His hands stall above my knees, and I feel the pressure of his fingers…then cool air touches my skin as Kallum tears my dress down the seam. He grunts as he rips the material, leaving me with half a dress.
Mortification envelops me as I stare down. He discards the shredded lower half of my dress in the same shrub as he stands.
I grab the torn hem, a raw ache burning my throat.
Features shadowed by the dark, he inspects his handiwork appreciatively. “You do care,” he says. “And I care.” He moves in, and I’m unable to escape him before he clasps the back of my neck.
He pulls the hair tie free, letting my hair fall loose around my shoulders. Then, trailing his fingers up the curve of my neck, he touches one of the dangly earrings. “These distract from your eyes.” After he removes my earrings, he says, “Natural beauty should never compete with decorations.”
He places the earrings in my hand as he steps around me.
I stare at the silver jewelry in my palm, unable to move, feeling as if I’ve just been stripped naked by Kallum—and my body is betraying me.
Curling my fingers over the earrings, I give myself a moment to let the infuriating mix of emotions sear through my veins, then I throw them in the bushes. By the time I’ve caught up with Kallum, he has the front door open and reaches behind to grab my hand.
A shocked second where his fingers lace between mine, then he pulls me over the threshold and into a throng of undulating bodies.
Multi-colored lights strobe and pulse with the beat of the raging house music. The dense body heat coats my skin in a balmy wrap, making me partially grateful I’m not suffering the full coverage of the dress. Shouts and obnoxious laughter bleed over the music, and as we head deeper, the dim lighting obscures my vision.
But none of the distractions are enough to remove the heightened awareness of my hand in Kallum’s.
As we weave through the gathering in the main room, I’m met with bloodshot eyes and slack features. Despite crashing into several intoxicated dancers, no one really notices us. But I notice a familiar face on the edge of the crowd.
I tug at Kallum’s hand, and he looks back as I nod toward Devyn. “I’m going that way.”
Brow furrowed, he releases my hand. “I’ll find drinks.”
I won’t be ingesting anything from here. However, I refrain from telling him as much, using the much needed space away from him to breathe, even if it’s laced with vape smoke.
Devyn spots me, regarding me curiously as I weave a path toward her. She’s wearing civilian clothing. Jeans and a cropped blouse. Her hair is pulled back in a thick headband. She’s attractive and stylish, and she could pass for one of the teens. I lean in toward her ear. “Are you undercover?”
She laughs. “In this town? That’d be impossible,” she says, her voice pitched over the music. “I’m helping cover for a friend on the force. Someone called in a noise complaint.”
Eyebrow arched, I glance around. “Your approach doesn’t seem to be working.”
Her throaty laughter makes me smile. “This is the Lipton house,” she says, implying a common local knowledge. “The Liptons pretty much do what they want, and so do their entitled asshole offspring.” She nods to a tall blond guy who looks like he was DNA-coded to be a star quarterback. “I’m just here to make sure no one gets hurt and nothing burns.”
I nod toward her plastic cup. “And the incentive to babysit the prom king doesn’t hurt.”
“Oh, you’re a funny fed.” But her voice is playful, and when she laughs again, she holds up the plastic cup in mock toast. “To whatever gets us through the day.”
As I’m empty-handed, I tap her cup with my knuckles.
It’s been a long time since I was able to actually make a joke, or be around anyone I wanted to joke with. A familiar twinge blooms in the center of my chest, reminiscent of homesickness.
Shoving the sensation aside, I cast a look around the scene. “I haven’t seen Detective Emmons around town. Is he avoiding the feds?”
She lowers her cup as her features fall. “DNA on one of the remains was matched today,” she says. “Came back a positive ID to his brother.”
“Oh, my god.” I shake my head, not knowing how to respond. I recall his hostility at the crime scene, his reluctance to be there, and I now understand why. “I’m sorry,” is all I can manage.
She waves her hand, relieving me of the burden. And I wonder who went missing from her life, who she’s thinking about—hopeful, or dreading the outcome—every time a match is announced.
“So I take it you are undercover.” She switches the topic as she scans my wardrobe with interest.
“The sick dress gave me away, huh?” I lift the torn hem for emphasis.
“Look at you with the hipster lingo. You won’t stand out at all.”
A full laugh slips free, and my head catches a tiny buzz from the effect. Then, as an electric current zips across my flesh, I feel his eyes on me. I can sense him drawing near, and like a droplet of ink clouding water, Kallum’s presence permeates the air like a dark vapor.
“Want a drink?” Devyn asks, but then she spies Kallum circling back with a bottle in his hand. “Oh, this must be the consultant, and I think he has you covered…in more ways than one. Damn.” Her voice drops low as she makes an obvious point to check him out. “Well done, Halen.”
I should object, but my mouth goes dry at the way his heated gaze traps me.
“You made her laugh,” he says to Devyn, his eyes never straying from my face. “A difficult feat to pull off.” He then turns his attention on Devyn. “I’m Kallum.”
“I know who you are.” Devyn apprises him with a smirk. “I’ve heard rumors.”
The panty-melting grin he pulls off should be illegal. “Well, rumors are entertaining, but only Halen and I know the truth.” He winks at me, and the frantic need to escape and find fresh air assails me.
Before I can devise an excuse to leave, he leans in and whispers, “You sound like a pixie when you laugh. It’s fucking adorable.”
I put space between us and say to Devyn, “Can you do me a favor?”
“Feds and favors.” She tsks teasingly. “This time, you’ll owe me one. And tomorrow, I want a full update on what the feds have. No one is getting anything done around here.”
“I promise, I will,” I assure her. “Actually…” I go to grab my phone and curse. Realizing I left it in my bag, apprehension grips my chest. I never forget my phone.
“Are you okay?” she asks, worry creasing her features.
“Yeah…yes.” I shake my head. “I was going to send you my profile, but I’ll have to send it later. But I will. Then you can help me narrow down a suspect.”
This seems to persuade her, and her expression turns serious. “All right. What can I do?”
I nod in the direction of the arched hallway. “There are two very obvious special agents stationed out front,” I say. “Keep them from crashing the party?”
She downs the rest of her drink. “I have practice marking my territory with the feds.”
After seeing her handle the reporter, I believe her. “Thanks.”
I’m not sure why I’m just now realizing she really can help on the case. Devyn is a local. She knows this town, its people. Having her read over the profile would garner more information then observing a party full of wasted youths.
“Nice to meet you, Professor Locke,” Devyn says to Kallum, then touches my arm, leaning in conspiratorially. “I want intel on more than just the profile tomorrow.”
As I watch Devyn clear a path through the mass, I push farther into the corner, trying to put distance between me and the bad boy of academia. Since his confessions last night, it feels as if every barrier has been stripped away, and I can’t re-erect my walls fast enough before he’s tearing them down again.
I lean my back against the cool wall and drag in a breath, letting my gaze roam the clustered groups. Every single person here is too young to be a real, potential suspect.
“Stop trying to force it,” Kallum says, disturbing my thought process.
He pushes in too close, his body blocking my view of the crowd. I have to angle my head back to see his face. “What am I forcing, Kallum?” I can’t mask the panic bleeding into my unsteady tone.
I haven’t thought about taking anxiety meds for months, didn’t even take them when it was necessary, and suddenly I wish I had access to them.
Something is wrong with me.
“This is a small town.” He pushes in even closer, strangling my air. “They’re curious. They’ll talk. Let the answers come to you.”
This corner is suddenly too tight, his body heat an invasive touch against my skin. My clothes are too binding. His clothes are too abrasive against my now-bare thighs. As if he realizes I’m about to flee, I feel the chilled glass of the wine bottle against my palm.
“The Liptons have decent taste in wine,” he says, his deep voice carrying over the music.
I drag a hand through my hair, then push the bottle back toward him. “No thanks. I’m good.”
“I can grab an unopened bottle,” he offers. “Open it right in front of you. But drugging you unconscious would hardly be any fun, Halen.”
This time, he forcefully places my hand around the bottleneck, pressing the issue without verbally reminding me of our agreement.
“Trust your methods,” I say beneath my breath. Trusting Kallum’s methods is a deliberate descent right into his fucking madness…this case’s madness…and once I fall, I’ll never crawl out of the dark void.
Not this time.
I don’t have the strength to crawl out twice.
Reminding myself I’ll be unemployed by morning, I bring the rim to my mouth. Fuck it. “And we’re drinking straight from the bottle.”
“Just like heathens.”
I turn up the bottle and slug back a generous sip. The red wine is bitter and robust, and goes straight to my head. I breathe out the fumes to clear my teary eyes. The lights flash with the swelling tempo of the song, and the crowd responds. Hands thrust into the air, bodies roll in a seductive a wave.
Kallum’s warm hand covers mine around the bottleneck. He draws closer to me, his proximity overriding my anxiety, his scent as intoxicating as the wine. Keeping my hand pressed to the bottle, he brings it to his mouth and drinks. I watch the way his Adam’s apple dips, stare at the tattoo swirled along his smooth skin. It’s entrancing.
He then places the bottle rim to my lips.
“Heathens,” he says, eyes flashing in time with the pulsing beat. “Like the Maenads, let all your reservations go, Halen.”
I tilt my head back farther and let the wine flow over my tongue. Face flushed from the alcohol, I lick my lips, savoring the tingling effect. I decide wine works well in place of anxiety meds.
Kallum removes the bottle from my hand and places it on a side table. Then he slips his hand around my waist and palms the small of my back. The intensity of his stare pins me to the wall.
His other hand cups the side of my face, his fingers rest along my jaw. He uses his thumb to tip my face up toward his. I suppress a shiver at the feel of his cool thumb ring along my skin.
A roar fills my head as we stand still amid the heaving party. The music fades into the background, the flashing lights slow to a hypnotic beat, inducing a trance-like state.
“Relax,” he coaxes. His pinky settles over the pulse point in my neck and, as he begins to sway us away from the wall, my heartbeat throbs violently in my veins.
It’s too dark, too loud, too crowded and isolated all at once.
And I’m too aware of the feel of him—of every overstimulated spot his body touches mine.
I’m struck with the reckless impulse to push onto my toes and link my arms around his neck. Blinking hard, I turn my head away to break his hold. I place my hands on his chest to force space.
“I’m not well,” I hear myself say.
His hand covers mine, and the furious beat of his heart thunders beneath my palm. “I disagree. I think you’re getting better.”
His statement clouds my thoughts as much as his inebriating, woodsy scent.
“My jacket still smells like you,” he says, a lopsided smile slanting his mouth. “It tortured me all day.”
“And where were you all day?” I ask, avoiding his remark.
“Waiting for my muse to return,” he says without missing a beat.
“You never answer my questions.”
“I always answer them. You just refuse to hear.”
I release a strained breath and drop my gaze. “And this isn’t accomplishing anything. No one is approaching us. We’re not getting any answers.”
“You’re too anxious.”
A humorous laugh tears free. “And you’re too…close.” I push against his chest. “This isn’t what we agreed on.”
When I meet his eyes, a flicker of heat sparks amid that soulless darkness, and I’m livid with myself for how easily I give in to him. How easily he can charm and manipulate.
What I am is too exhausted after taking today’s licks, and I need to regain control over this situation and my senses.
Kallum finally releases me from his penetrating gaze as he lowers his mouth next to my ear. “Alister doesn’t respect your profile,” he says.
It’s an observation. As I was working on the profile tonight, Kallum can determine the logical outcome of the briefing.
“He doesn’t understand it.” I correct his assumption. “I don’t really understand it,” I confess.
“Then let’s make you understand it.”
I shake my head. “Visualizing a scene in the middle of this chaos—” I wave my hand at the raucous party “—with an erratic consultant isn’t really how I work.”
“Don’t limit yourself,” he says as he starts to sway us. “Sometimes, to connect with your suspect, you can’t just walk in his footsteps. You have to dance in them.”
There’s a moment of urgency, one second where I have control to stop the descent, but I falter. I’ve already stepped off the ledge.
The sensation of falling pitches my stomach as Kallum carves a path through the dancing throng, then he draws me against his solid chest.
As he wraps his arms around me, the gauzy feel of webbing coats my skin and, too late, he catches me.
And I’m caught.
