Page 432 of Fated to be Enemies

“I’m not.” Macon whipped out his comm device from his back pocket.

“You’ve already got photos?”

“Video footage. My boss, Torrance, received it at home from the Morgon Guard and sent it directly to me to upload to the inter-office database, wanting all officers on this now. There’s something new here. A possible clue to the killers.”

“What do you mean?” asked Kris, hovering over the other side of Macon.

He quickly pressed keys on his touch-screen pad.

“Well, one,” I interjected, “they didn’t keep her in captivity for any length of time. We saw Layla last night.” My words stuck in my throat, dread settling in my stomach like a heavy stone. Poor Layla.

“This wasn’t a ritual killing,” agreed Macon.

I peered over his shoulder. “Then how do they know it’s the Devlin Butchers at all?”

Macon pierced me with a solemn stare and pressed play on the video that he had pulled up on his comm screen.

A wide shot of Layla on the blood-spattered snow, stripped naked, limbs askew, one arm bent backward. Broken.

“Oh, my God,” whispered Kris.

Horror and death glazed her sightless eyes. Her body was unmarked with the slashes we’d found on the other victims. Clearly, this was something done only to the victims kept in captivity. Layla was killed fast with fierce brutality.

Slit open from neck to naval. Similar to the others, but not exact. There was too much blood that had drained from her open cavity, pooling into the snow, lining her crumpled body in deep purple. Splatters of crimson streaked across her body and painted sharp lines of red in the snow, denoting savage thrusts of the knife during the killing. The camera panned to the base of a monument near her head.

“What’s that?” asked Kris.

“Torrance said it’s some memorial monument to Larkos Nightwing. Somewhere in Devlin Wood.”

The camera flashed over the harsh depiction of a towering Morgon in stone before zooming in on Layla’s upper body to a mutilation on her left breast, a carving in the skin over her heart.

“They believe this is some sort of clue, a message, which might lead to their identities. Layla was killed in a hurry, like the killer was rushed or angry, but this still has all the signs of being from our Butchers.”

“Was she raped?” asked Kris.

“Unknown. Forensics hasn’t had time yet to go over the body.”

The camera zoomed in closer to the carving on the girl’s fair skin. The fact that I was trying to decipher an image engraved in human flesh made my stomach roil, especially knowing I had talked to her last night.

Kris peered closer. “Looks like Morgon wings.”

“That’s what the officers are saying at the precinct. Along with the spear that crosses in front, it may be some kind of old Morgon warrior symbol or something. They’re digging up records, but as far as I know, the Morgon Guard doesn’t know anything more than we do.”

“Hmm.” I froze Macon’s screen and zoomed in on the image. It lost some clarity, but I was able to determine something. “They’re not Morgon wings. See this softened curve here? Morgon wings are sharp.”

“Perhaps the killer slipped with the knife.”

“Gross,” muttered Kris.

“On both sides, Macon?” I arched a brow at him. “No. Looks more like angel wings. These soft lines here look almost like feathers.”

“Maybe angel wings and a spear. Perhaps they consider themselves some kind of angelic warriors. A cult doing a service for heaven or something, I don’t know.”

None of that felt right. There was one thing I understood clearly, and it was the Butchers did not consider themselves angels. Gods, perhaps.

“This looks familiar,” added Kris, tilting the comm toward her.

I gasped, jerking the device from her and turning it ninety degrees. My pulse pounded with a dawning realization.

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