Page 55 of Marked

Eighteen

Ijerk awake when a chorus of meows fills my ears. Fumbling for my phone, I knock over the empty whiskey bottle before finally answering Scott’s call.

“Hello?” My voice is barely more than a grumble.

“Get your ass up, Dalton,” Scott says in lieu of greeting.

I pull my phone from my face to look at the time, wince at the bright light, and then groan at what I see. “It’s three in the morning on a Saturday. What exactly am I getting my ass up for?”

When I hear his heavy sigh, I already know what he’s going to say. Fuck

“We’ve got another one.” He sounds just as tired as I am.

“Are you kidding me?” I lurch upright and fling back the covers, whatever little buzz I had before sleep clearing away. “We just had a body yesterday morning. This is insane.”

“It’s definitely not good,” he agrees. “The press conference didn’t go well either, so I need you down here ASAP. It’s, uh,” My brow furrows at his pause. “It’s different from before.”

“Different?” I echo. “Different how?”

“You’ll see when you get here. We’re in a small industrial parking lot next to the Rio.”

“Did you call Jack?” I ask, standing on shaky legs before stumbling towards my closet to find something to wear.

“Oh, Jack, is it?” Scott muses, but his voice sounds hollow. “Don’t think I didn’t see how close you guys were yesterday. I think this is where I’m supposed to give you the ‘don’t date your coworker’ speech.”

My cheeks heat, but I shoot him a scowl he can’t see. “Shut up. It’s nothing.” Tucking the phone between my cheek and shoulder, I angrily tug on a pair of yoga pants and curse as I trip in the process.

He scoffs disbelievingly in my ear. “Right.”

“Get the fuck off my case and text me the address, will you? And tell Khoury!” I snap and hang up on him before he can retort. After sliding my phone in a pocket, I put on a bra and snatch a red hoodie from the ground before pulling it on.

“Please don’t be Taylor, please don’t be Taylor.” I mumble on repeat as I step into some worn, black tennis shoes. Hurrying to my kitchen, I grab my wallet and slide it into my hoodie pocket. When I finally locate my keys, I rush out of my apartment and lock the door before running to my truck.

I’m not sure what I’m staring at, even with the lights the crime scene techs put up. I mean, it’s definitely the remains of our first male victim, but other than that, I’m not sure what to make of the pure carnage before me.

Innards are strewn across the pavement in a splattered pool of blood. The intestines and stringy, red, fatty tissue look like they were both dragged and thrown across the ground. The head is missing like the others, but theirs had been broken off all at the same vertebrae. Not this one. A chunk of the spinal column stands above what’s left of the neck, the white of the bone standing out in the vast sea of red like a beacon.

Crouching down next to the tattered remains of the torso, I examine the exposed rib cage. The previous victims all had their ribs torn outwards, flayed out on either side of the sternum, but these are snapped down. Not down inside the body, but down towards the hips. Glancing at the top of the rib cage, I notice that the skin is tattered and ripped. What remains of the sternum also has a very distinct gouge.

I angle my head, trying to mentally put together the torn skin running along the outside of the shambled rib cage. I hover my gloved hand over the wound and spread my fingers out. Hooking the tips of them forward like claws, I mime the action of slashing my hand down his body.

“Oh gods,” an officer mumbles before he gags and vomits off to the side of the scene. The putrid, acidic smell hits my nostrils, and I have to press my nose into my shoulder for a second to push down the impulse to sympathy puke.

“A wereanimal?” Scott mumbles.

Taking a deep breath of my detergent, I move my face away from my hoodie. “Or some sort of other beast? I don’t know what else could cause this.” I admit as I look at the other bruises on the man’s body. I point to his hands, specifically the various puncture wounds and scrapes. “These look like they were made from teeth.”

“There’s no way an alpha would allow a member of their pack to do this,” he grumbles disapprovingly. “But I suppose it could be a packless wereanimal. Did any of our other victims have defense wounds like these?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s a first. This is also our first John Doe. And, like the last victim, he was killed here and not dumped at a club. The only thing that matches is the missing head and heart. Why the change?” The fact that it’s our first male victim is extremely concerning to me.

Scott rubs his chin. “I just had the press conference last night. You think it’s a copycat?”

“Doubt it. Plus, there’s still the magic from the first scene to account for.” I pull off my gloves and take out my phone, taking close up pictures of the wounds to show Jack later. Speaking of which. “I can’t believe Khoury isn’t here.” I mumble and tuck my phone back in my pocket, trying to smooth down my rising panic that this is our first male victim and Jack isn’t here.

Scott lifts a brow at me. “Lover’s quarrel?”

“So help me, kitten, I will take out your fucking kneecaps if you don’t stop pestering me about this,” I threaten before nodding to the crime scene techs when they gesture at the body.

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