Page 100 of Darkness

Again. Yeah, Farren had encouraged rule-breaking once, hadn’t he?

He scaled the steps to the third floor and banged on the door. Then banged some more.

A gray-haired woman stuck her head out of the apartment next door. “Be quiet!” she snapped. “Y’all kept me up all night with your wild party or whatever you did over there. Now pipe down before I call the cops.”

Wild party? All night? It was only five-thirty a.m. Farren whipped out his badge, giving the woman his best cop face. “FBI, ma’am.” She eased back into her apartment, slamming the door.

Farren turned the doorknob of Morrisey’s apartment. Open. Morrisey was a paranoid son of a bitch. He’d never leave his door unlocked.

Farren considered drawing his gun. No. For this, he’d need power. He eased the door open, one hand up and sparks flickering around his fingertips. “Morrisey? You home?”

The scent of herbs smacked him in the nose. Travelers.

Wild party, Farren’s ass. Splinters of what might have once been the coffee table covered the floor, while shards from a broken lamp littered an end table. Either Morrisey tied one on and fell, or there’d been a struggle.

An oil painting of an attractive man seated on the couch playing a guitar sat sideways on the floor. Morrisey’s couch. Though Farren hadn’t noticed this painting before and had only seen crime scene sketches so far, he recognized Morrisey’s work.

The kitchen opened onto the living room but wasn’t a mess. Farren forged ahead down a short hall. No one in the bathroom. He crept toward what must be the bedroom. He’d not made it that far on his last visit. “Morrisey?” he called. Nothing.

The door stood partially open. Farren toed it the rest of the way. The room lay in shambles. Clothes everywhere. One dresser stood at an odd angle. The covers lay by the bed.

Farren closed his eyes, cleared his mind, and employed a recently acquired talent he’d never told Leary about. He opened his eyes, looking for traces of travelers. He didn’t sense Morrisey at all, but two—no, three—travelers had been in this room last night.

He stood in the wake of one image, crossing the floor to the bed, lifting an object, knocking into the dresser.

Down the hall and into the living room. Dropping whatever he held, breaking the coffee table. Something hitting the lamp. Farren mimicked carrying someone in his arms. If he carried a person through the living room, their foot could have easily hit the lamp.

The lamp crashed to the floor, startling the traveler, who dropped the body onto the table. Another traveler screamed, clouting the first upside the head. Lifting the burden.

Going out the door. Why couldn’t the nosy neighbor have peeked out then? Of course, witnessing a crime might have caused her death.

Farren repeated the process for the second traveler, and the third—the one who’d done the hitting. All in male bodies. All had been in host bodies long enough to pass for human.

What did they want? Had someone else discovered Morrisey’s past? Why the hell hadn’t the men watching the apartment seen anything?

Acid rose in Farren’s throat. Maybe they hadn’t wanted to see. The only good traveler is a dead traveler he’d heard more than once. Only one person suspected Morrisey, unless Leary shared his theory.

Yet Farren had also heard the term “corpse fucker” for those who were intimate with travelers. That part might’ve been easier to figure out if anyone had been watching Morrisey.

Farren spent a few more minutes searching the apartment, hope falling by the second. Someone had taken Morrisey. At least they appeared to have taken him alive. Since they carried him, he must’ve been incapacitated.

Some clothes in the closet couldn’t have belonged to Morrisey. Too small, and not his style. The partner who’d left, then died? The button-down shirts appeared to have been untouched for some time.

Morrisey hadn’t thrown them away.

Empty liquor and beer bottles littered the apartment. For a moment, Farren’s brain urged him to stay here and clean up the mess. No, he couldn’t. He had to find Morrisey. Biting back anger, he dialed Leary.

Leary picked up on the second ring, not sounding in the least like he’d been woken from sleep. “Leary.”

“Where have you taken him?”

“Farren? Taken who?” Leary couldn’t be faking the confusion. Farren, not Austen. Leary rarely used Farren’s first name, another sign of their failed relationship.

“There’re signs of a struggle in Morrisey’s apartment, and he isn’t here.” Farren wouldn’t tell Leary what he’d seen. No need to tip his hand by showing more of the talents he’d gained during his experience as a human.

Some gained only after his subconscious tried to bond with Morrisey.

For a moment, Leary said nothing. Farren pulled the phone away from his ear to ensure the call hadn’t disconnected.

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