"All extremes of feeling are allied with
madness."
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
Lydia was working overtime. Again.
Second time this week. Tenth time this month. It was becoming an increasingly irritating habit of hers. More so irritating to her colleges and the security guard then to Lydia herself.
But she couldn't leave. Not when she was this close. She could feel the words on the tip of her tongue, like a forgotten memory that had drifted just out of reach. Lydia let out an exasperated sigh. She spots a curious pair of eyes glancing at her nervously. Again.
"What's wrong, Hale?" she asks, more to humour the girl then out of genuine concern. She's too tired for that these days.
Cora scowls at her, a look that suits her face far too well. "You know what."
"No, I don't. That's why I asked, Cora." This part is lie though, and from the way her eyes flash at this, Lydia can tell that Cora knows this too.
Sometimes she thinks that's why Argent forced them into being partners. Cora was all justice and honesty, while Lydia was carefully detached and clever. He thought they were the perfect odd couple. So much so, that whenever they were called in on behavioural issues, he called them just that. It was now an inside joke around the station.
Cora looks at her now, not angry and righteous like she always is when Lydia snaps at her. She puts a brimming coffee mug on Lydia's desk, her expression sober.
"Go home, Martin," she says, pulling on her leather jacket- which still has a few bullet holes from her encounter with some gun wielding idiot earlier in the week- and placing a comforting hand on Lydia's shoulder. "And be safe."
Lydia doesn't watch as Cora leaves. Instead, she digs out a weathered file from under the overflowing pile of papers and sugar packets. She sips at her coffee delicately, the heat burning her tongue but also kick-starting her groggy brain.
There's not much in it. Only photos of white-faced people with slit throats and dark bruises on their arms. There's also a single piece of white paper to explain the contents. It states the times, the dates, the ages, the genders, the addresses and the eye witness report.
There's no information on the killer though. No name, no face, absolutely nothing. Might as well be a ghost for all the stuff they have on him- which is jack squat. Yukimura and McCall gave him a nickname after they discovered from the autopsy that each of the victims had been tortured savagely for continuous lengths of time. From the way he had done it- Forensics suggested that the culprit was in fact a male from the force he'd used when smashing an unsub's kneecaps with a sledgehammer- implied that he had derived enjoyment from making them scream and thrash in agony. Hearing this, Yukimura had pipped up, her eyes wide with fear.
"Nogitsune," she whispered, her lips barely moving as she uttered the words. "That's what we should call him."
Later that day, Lydia had looked up the word and could only marvel at Yukimura's accuracy. Nogitsune, also called yako, were mischievous and malicious foxes.
Lydia's gut churned every time her mind drifted to those thoughts. She was suddenly very glad she hadn't gotten that turkey sandwich during her lunch break.
She was looking over the photos again, searching for something- anything. She doubted she'd find something new- she knew these pictures like the back of her hand from the amount of time she'd spent studying them- but she still hoped. Hope was about the only thing she still had right now, even though it was slowly slipping through her fingers like sand.
Lydia shoved the file into her bag, leaving the rest on her desk. She'd clean it up tomorrow, or make an even worse mess, depending on her mood. She waved goodbye to Boyd, who was stuck on the graveyard shift once again since Reyes was out doing God knows what.
Only when she had reached her car did she feel it. The hairs on her neck rose in warning, and a chill slithered it's way down her spine. She glanced around furtively, clutching her keys in a tight grip. Lydia could feel eyes on her, soaking her in and leering at her from the depths of the shadows.
She unlocked her car, throwing herself and her bag inside. She slammed the door shut, revving the engine. She had her gun tucked away in her holster, which was hidden by her jacket. She'd only ever had to use it twice- and those two times had left her traumatised- but she felt her fingers twitch in anticipation as she scanned the alleyway for anything out of the ordinary. It was like a dark, gaping mouth, with trash cans and broken glass for teeth.
This wasn't the first time she'd felt piercing eyes watching her. It had been an on-going thing ever since she had started the Nogitsune case. But only recently had she felt it's presence transition into something much more sinister then before. Lydia sometimes thought she could feel it even in broad daylight, when she was surrounded by the playful banter and smiling faces of her co-workers.
At the start, she had brushed it off as paranoia. But as the weeks rolled on, she could no longer chalk it up to her mind playing tricks on her. She wasn't going to tell anyone what was going on though. Lydia Martin could sort out her own problems- for Christ's sake, she was a detective. She could deal with her meddlesome stalker situation, even if she had to haul his little beaten ass into jail herself.
She sped off down the road, desperately willing away thoughts of cruel foxes and stealthy stalkers.
When Lydia climbed the stairs to her apartment, her blistered feet making her stop and catch her breath, she noticed a neat stack of letters on her doormat.
She leafs through them, sighing as she realises most of them appear to be bills. Some of which are long overdue, though she was sure she had paid them. She'd have to have a talk with the bank tomorrow after work.
But it's when she gets to the last envelope that she feels a sudden wave of bewilderment wash over her. It's a standard stationary envelope- nothing particularly riveting about- but it's her name that makes her blood freeze and her breath catch in her throat.
It's written in block capitals, with jagged edges to it and a few blotches of ink. That's not what disturbs her though. It's the colour of the ink. It's red. But it's not the usual bright colour that's in most ordinary red pens. The colour is off- too dark, almost black- and there's a musty smell wafting from it. Something is definitely not right.
Lydia hurriedly unlocks her door and slams it closed behind her, careful to make sure that it's bolts are secure, that nothing is out of place and all the windows are firmly shut.
She tears into the envelope, nerves and fear ebbed away by the last few months of anxiety and impatience. She doesn't know what she expects the contents to be, but she prays that it's nothing too disturbing. She peers into it, only finding a small slip of paper. She pulls it out and inspects it. Written across it is:
欲
It's the same handwriting, with the same oddly coloured red ink. Lydia recognises it instantly from her brief time in Japan with Yukimura. To suppress her urge to break down and cry, she punches the wall, biting back a string of profanities that seem highly inappropriate, given the current situation.
Desire.
Lydia assumes this is the work of her creepy shadow, the one that's been jeering at her from the dark depths of the alley way at night. If that psycho was going by the direct translation, that meant the pervert held some psychologically warped infatuation towards her.
She feels dirty- cheap and invaded- and wants to shower. To cleanse herself. To cancel out how violated she feels from this little piece of paper. She wants to rip it up and curl herself into a ball, block out the world and everything in it.
But she doesn't. She doesn't rip up the slip of paper and she doesn't curl up into a ball and she doesn't cry. She has something that keeps her grounded- keeps her sane. Something that wills her into giving a hundred and ten percent.
The Nogitsune.
She slowly untangles herself from her chaotic emotions, becoming carefully detached and slipping into her calculating, cold self. She keeps this side of herself specifically for work hours. But if she's being totally honest, when is she ever not working?
She gets called in early- apparently they've found another body- and doesn't even bother to cover up the prominent bags under her eyes. They all know that she barely sleeps anyway.
She walks into the station and then down into the morgue. Cora is already there, biting her nails and looking unusually ill at ease. Lydia catches her eye and gives her an inquiring look. Cora gestures for her to come over and Lydia raises a plucked eyebrow at her.
"What's wrong?" she asks, an edge to her tone because of Cora's strange behaviour.
"Oh, like you're always so calm and collected," she bites back half-heartedly, still consumed by whatever thoughts she was mulling over.
"I always am. Just not after eight shots of tequila," Lydia states, glancing down at the unsub.
Slitted throat and purple bruises along the arms. It's a girl, a young one at that, barely over sixteen. Lydia's heart thumps painfully as she looks into the girl's strangely innocent face. She didn't deserve that. None of them did.
She can feel the threat of heat underlying her cold exterior and counts back from twenty. She can't afford to lose it now.
"So why was I called in early if all this is just the usual stuff?"
Cora takes a deep breath and fixes her gaze on Lydia. Something burns behind those brown eyes- something that looks oddly akin to hope. Okay, this was getting pretty fucking weird.
"What the hell is going on, Hale?" she demands, hands on hips and mouth puckered into a scowl.
Cora doesn't answer her, simply takes a handful of the crinkly sheet covering the dead girl and pulls it back. Apparently actions do speak louder then words.
Carved into the girl's stomach is a symbol, one Lydia knows, and that brings a special sense of dread with it. The symbol is exact. Almost unnaturally precise. The carving looks like it was done by an ordinary kitchen knife, which only serves to unnerve her more. The knife should have at least veered off slightly, leaving some minuscule inaccuracy. But there's nothing. Absolutely nothing. Lydia shivers, not even beginning to fathom how much practise he must have had to produce something of such exactitude.
"I called Yukimura. Asked her if she'd look at this when she came in," Cora tells her, eyes wide as she stares at the victim's abdomen. "It's eerie, isn't it?"
Lydia nods as she leans in closer, absorbing every little detail. "Where'd they find her?"
"Her parents found her in the backyard. Said that she'd been late coming home from school."
"So he abducted her," she murmured, feeling for the box of latex gloves Coroner Lahey keeps on standby. She pulls out a pair, slapping them on and feeling around at the symbol for any bumps or indications that something might have been inserted into the girl's stomach. She finds nothing, which only serves to frustrate her even more. They needed something better then this.
Anger was blooming in her chest like a poisonous flower. Hope was there, sure, but the fury outweighed it all. This was a clue, a very bad clue, but it was still some small push in the right direction.
"You think we'll catch him?" Cora echoes, her strong voice almost swallowed up by the silence and gloom of the dead girl lying on the table. It was an unsettling thing that. How the dead managed to render the living humble and quiet. Especially since this girl hadn't gone out the most respectful way.
Lydia pulls of her gloves with a snap, throwing them in the bin and glancing at the girl's stomach once more.
憮
"We'll catch him, Hale. You can bet on that," she says, giving a sympathetic glance to the dead girl. She pulls up the sheet- even if the girl is dead, she hardly thinks it's right to just leave her on the table for anyone to see- and spins on her heel, making a beeline for the door.
Cora follows closely behind, expression a mixture of relief and anger. Lydia thinks she must look the same, because a few people back out of their way without even pretending to be subtle about it. She doesn't even spare them a sideways look, just marches to the coffee machine.
"Tell Yukimura she doesn't need to concern herself with this."
The other girl frowns at her. "Why?"
"Because I already know what it means."
"Oh, really?" she challenges, her voice marred with high levels of doubt. "Then why don't you tell me, genius?"
Disappointment.
"That we're dealing with a malicious fox," she replies, flashing her a cold smile. "One that likes to torture it's victims- physically and mentally."
Lydia's already pieced together that her psycho stalker and the Nogitsune are the same person. The use of kanji in her piece of paper- who she assumes is from her stalker- and the one adorning the abdomen of the latest victim isn't a coincidence. The times are too close together.
"And that he's disappointed in our progress so far," she adds, because she knows he strategically put that specific character there to voice his displeasure the only way he could. She hates that he used a young girl's body to do so, but she didn't expect any better. But she can feel it- feel his anger that they haven't managed to catch him yet.
Cora eyes her with a severe facial expression. "Well, thanks for the window into his mind, though that's not really what I wanted to hear."
"It still counts for something."
"That what Yukimura told you when you were learning Japanese?"
"Shut your mouth, Hale."
"Fucking linguist."
"Fucking Hale."
The next day, when she's flicking through her mail, she finds another envelope. Same handwriting as before, only now it just has her first name with a few red blotches beside it. It still has that musty smell and that black red ink that still seems off.
She slashes it open, desperate for another clue. She hopes it's something useful, something that gives her insight into who his next victim might be. Because, let's face it, his targets are so random that it's frankly impossible to place any sort of pattern or prediction on who will be picked next. She plucks out the white slip of paper inside and turns it over to inspect it.
飢
Hunger.
Lydia takes a minute to mull over this. There are a lot of different ways to interpret this, with how vague it is. But she suspects it has something to do with his temptation to kill. Maybe he's warning her that he's already got a target in sight. But it's too naive of her to assume he'd willing hand over important information like that.
So she places it on the kitchen counter and stares at it for a few minutes. Only when she looks back up at the clock on the adjacent wall, it shows that it's been two hours. She blinks blearily down at the paper, then at the fridge. Her stomach growls with a ferocious need and she trudges over, taking out the leftover lasagne and putting it into the microwave. Her stomach keeps growling and she puts a hand over it, trying to smooth it to a gradual rubble. Only when she takes a bite out of the lasagne does that happen though.
Lydia idly wonders if he predicted that she would be hungry when she was trying to figure out his meaning behind this kanji. Or simply if it was to predict she would be eating at this time. Either way it's more then a little ironic. But Lydia can't find it in herself to even muster a smile.
She puts the slip of paper in a folder where the other one is. She hopes it doesn't start to become a replica of a premium card collection.
Lydia turns on her TV, flicking on some program about hair salons. She's not paying much attention to what's happening to the colourfully clothed people on the screen, but she needs relief in the noise. Silence was good sometimes, but other times? It was oppressive. And Lydia didn't like the weight it brought with it, because that lead her to the dark thoughts she kept locked away in the back of her mind.
Is he watching me?
Can I catch him?
Is this his idea of a thrilling game?
Why her?
Why is he sending me these things?
Am I losing my mind?
Lydia turned up the volume, suddenly mesmerised by the high pitched bickering of two sour faced ladies on the glowing screen.
"Delivery for Lydia Martin."
The voice jerks her from the theories being concocted by her caffeine deprived brain. She feels around for the ridiculously childish Hello Kitty mug Cora bought her for Christmas. A stab of disappointment slices through her chest when she comes up empty.
"Delivery for Lydia Martin," the voice repeats, like an annoying, robotic wake-up call.
She blinks at the man- no, boy- standing in front of her. She can't see his face- it's hidden behind a bouquet of roses. Black roses. She blinks again, wondering if she's hallucinating from loss of sleep and energy. The black roses stay put.
Lydia leans back in her seat, trying to get a better view of the delivery boy. All she gets is a flash of a red hat and an equally red hoodie. No trouble finding out what his favourite colour is.
"Yes," she says, finally, "I'm her."
A pale hand thrusts the flowers in her face, permeating her sense of smell with a sickly sweet aroma. She can see that most of the boy's face is obscured by his hat, but the bit that's not is the same shade of white as his fingers. She takes the roses cautiously. She can't be blamed for that though. Not after the envelopes she's been receiving.
"Who're they from?" she asks, eyes fixed on the delivery boy's porcelain white jaw. His lips are puffy and bruised blue. She doesn't know why she takes note of this, but she does.
"Dunno," the boy replies, his voice filled with a sly undertone. "But they wanted me to give you this." He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out an envelope.
She was right to be suspicious.
The boy places it on her desk carefully and his mouth curves up into a politely delighted smile.
"Have a good day now, Detective," he calls as he walks for the door.
"Yeah, you too," she grumbles, not even trying to keep up a pretence of being one of the nicer detectives. He gives her a cordial wave and he's gone.
Lydia throws the roses on her desk and glares at the envelope before her. She doesn't want another Japanese character with a vague meaning that has infinite possibilities. But the thought of not knowing rallies up her anger.
"Oooh, someone has an admirer!" sings Reyes as she waltzes over to her desk. Lydia does her best not to bare her teeth at her in a greeting. She really doesn't need this today.
"The only admirers I have are rotting in prison," she snaps, giving Reyes a pathetic excuse for a glare. This only manages to make her curious.
"What kind of flowers he get you?" she quizzes, already grabbing the bouquet of roses and examining them with mildly amused interest. Lydia actually works her way up to her full bitchy glare when she realises Reyes still hasn't flown off to irritate someone else.
Reyes lets out a low whistle, eyes raking in the black roses. "Lover boy has got it bad."
Lydia snorts at this- one of her more unattractive expressions of amusement and contempt. "And what makes you think he has it bad, Reyes?"
"Don't you know, Martin?" she asks, too wide eyed and innocent for Lydia's liking. "A black rose means a tragic romance."
Lydia forces out a terribly fake laugh and Reyes grins at her, letting the roses drop on the table with a thud before she wanders off in search of her partner, Boyd. Lydia's blood has run cold in her veins and she can feel the loud thumping of her heart as she takes in the meaning.
Thump. Tragic Romance. Thump. Tragic Romance. Thump. Tragic Romance.
Stupid, stupid stalker. She rips open the letter with animosity, hatred making her nostrils flare and her eyes burn. She takes in the words written in the same handwriting and the same not right red. It has the same pungent odour that overpowers the sickening smell of flowers.
The note slips between her fingers and floats it's way to the ground, almost like a feather. In the distance, Lydia can hear the buzzing of a stray fly and the beeping of a pager and the fizz of a soda being pried open. Her hands feel clumsy and cold, unable to grasp anything. Her head pounds painfully with the rhythm of her heart.
Her phone starts to ring and she just manages to get a hold of it, bringing it up to her ear slowly, concentrating on one small task at a time.
"Martin?" Cora's clipped voice asks through the receiver. It sounds too loud and too quiet all at once.
"Hey, Hale," she replies, trying to sound nonchalant, when she's anything but. "You coming into work today?"
"Yeah, on the free way now. Something up?"
"I've got something on the Nogitsune."
Lydia then tells Cora about the eyes she feels watching her every time she leaves the station and the obscure notes she's been getting. She even tells her about the words scribbled on the paper in front of her. Cora remains relatively calm through the whole procedure, if not just a little bit traumatised and disturbed. When Lydia finally stops, Cora asks her only one question: "Why do you think he's murdering people?"
She blinks at the phone, images blurring together. "The regular reasons. Assaulted at a young age, looking for attention, unloved child-"
"You don't think it has anything to do with you?" Cora cuts in, something brewing in the tone of her voice.
"Wait- You think I'm the reason he's killing people?"
"I wouldn't rule it out. You are a detective; easiest way for you to notice him is through breaking the law."
"Somehow, I don't think I'm that much of catch," Lydia comments wryly, her face breaking into an uncomfortable frown.
Cora laughs, a harsh bite to it. "Well, to him you are. You said the carving on the girl's body meant disappointment, right? I've got a theory about that, based mainly on what you've just told me. What if he wasn't disappointed with us, but disappointed with you?"
Lydia mulls this over. It's a logical thing to say, given everything that's happened. It's more likely then anything else and possibly the only solid thing they have on him.
"You're not wrong," she says, a sense of dread settling over her, because she's the cause of all these murders. That's not something she's going to be able to live with easily.
Suddenly, her phone starts blaring again and Lydia checks the screen. The wildly flashing icon shows that it's Scott.
"Hold on, Scott's calling."
Lydia puts Cora on hold and accepts Scott's call. "What's wrong?"
"You're not gonna believe this, Lyds," he pants, sounding exhausted and utterly defeated, but still managing to express his excitement.
"Try me," she says, "I've had a morning filled with the unbelievable."
"We've found another body and-"
"Wait, if you've found another body, why do you sound so happy?" she cuts in, scepticism colouring her tone.
"Let me finish my sentence first, Martin," he complains, and Lydia can just see him looking heavenward and frowning in disapproval. "We've found another body, but we've also apprehended the culprit."
Her heart stops beating.
"You what?" she echoes, convincing herself that she misheard him.
"We found him. We found the Nogitsune."
The words loom before her now, branded into the backs of her eyelids.
I want to possess you.
Lydia, Cora and Yukimura stay behind the glass, as unmoving as statues. They've been there for a while, just watching Scott interrogate the boy. A boy with pale skin and puffy bruised lips. A boy with a red hat and an equally red hoodie. The boy who brought her the flowers. She feels idiotic and violated.
The boy- they're addressing him like that because they haven't found any ID on him and the facial recognition scan they did was a bust- smiles at Scott in cruel delight. Like he's enjoying this. Like he's amused.
"I'm only going to ask you this once more: why did you do it?" Scott demands, but it sounds more like he's pleading. He's supposed to be cracking this guy, but the roles appear to be reversed.
It's been hours and Lydia hasn't heard him utter a single word; she's starting to think he's mute. He just smiles mischievously, his eyes lazily absorbing the interrogation room. He pays no real heed to Scott, who's on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Lydia wonders if this is what he did to his victims too.
But what happens next made her freeze.
"Isn't it obvious? I enjoy it. I enjoy hearing their bones crack and their organs squelch. I enjoy hearing their screams as they realise begging can't help them. I derive pleasure from driving them slowly insane until I slit their throats and splatter them in their own blood," the boy explains, his voice low and lacking any warmth. It exudes cruelty, malevolence and vicious gratification. "It's a game."
Scott blinks- the definition of rabbit in headlights- and lets it sink in for a moment. The words wash over Lydia like a tsunami, leaving her cold and hollow. Just like the boy's eyes.
"If it's a game," Scott draws out, his sweet brown eyes locked on the boy in concentration, "then there ought to be players; someone to beat at least."
He lets out a hysterical laugh, clutching his sides and hunching forward. Lydia shudders at the broken sound.
"Now you're thinking, Detective!" he exclaims, slapping his knee enthusiastically. "But it's not someone to beat. It's someone to obtain."
No, Lydia thinks to herself in distraught, no, no, no, no.
The boy swivels in his chair, facing the two-way mirror with a horrid grin on his face.
"Detective Martin."
He locks eyes with her. But that's impossible. He can't know she's there- he can't see past the glass.
"Did you like the bodies?" he asks, his tone practically on the verge of a coo. "They were done beautifully, weren't they? Did you see the latest one? I'm sure you did. It's a masterpiece."
Lydia stares at him in repulsion. How can he ask her that? What sane person would think a dead body to be a work of art? But she already knew that answer: he isn't. His understanding of right and wrong were so bent that it makes her physically sick.
"Did you like the flowers? I picked them especially for you. As a forewarning," he explains, his eyes like dark whiskey and his mouth curled in a Cheshire Cat smile that promised a deadly future.
Lydia, in an attempt to keep herself from charging in there like a bull, kicked the wall. It shook with the force of her kick and the same vibrations took over her foot. It hurt; not much, but enough to blot out the white-hot rage that was threatening to seep through the chinks in her armour. She would not let him get the better of her. She would not give him the satisfaction.
She looks up to see that his eyes are still glued to her and that he has a full blown smirk plastered across his face. But she also notices that Scott is no longer in there. She hears the door open and Scott stumbles in, a mixture of shock and bewilderment.
"I have no clue what's going through his head," he mumbles to himself, "He's so- so-"
"Undermining?" supplies Yukimura.
"Total psycho?" Cora says.
Scott shakes his head, still searching for the word.
"Warped."
The three of them fix their eyes on Lydia, who's marching for the door now. She's pulled back by Cora, who grimaces. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Inside," she replies, moving forward with Cora hanging onto her jacket sleeve.
"The hell you are!" she shouts back, digging her heels into the carpet to halt her partner's steps.
"The hell I'm not! He's killed these people because of me and I'm getting some answers," Lydia snaps, her temper getting the better of her. Cora draws back, eyes of concern glaring at the back of her head as she closes the door and heads for the interrogation room.
Lydia takes a deep breathe before carefully pushing the door open. The room seems almost claustrophobic then; like there's nothing from keeping the boy from reaching over the table and strangling her, even though his hands are bound together with manacles.
She tiptoes past him, like he's a frightened animal, and takes Scott's previous seat. She folds her arms over her chest and trains her gaze on him, trying to remain poker faced.
His eyes flash with something dark and full of malice. "I'm surprised, Detective Martin. I was sure you'd be better."
She doesn't rise to the bait. "That's why I hate people who assume."
He lets out a low chuckle at that, his smile never quite reaching his crazed eyes. "I can only guess. But I do have one question for you before you start drilling me."
"Do tell," she says, voice bored.
His wolfish grin only widens. "Why couldn't you notice the pattern?"
Anger flares in the depths of her stomach. "There was no pattern. You killed at random."
"Maybe so; but there was something you missed."
"And what was that?"
The boy lets out a pitiful clucking sound, his whiskey eyes regarding her with disappointment. "Maybe you are just a pretty face."
"It's not like you made this easy for me," she grounds out, resisting the urge to bash his insufferable head into the table.
"Touché. Fine then, Detective, I'll give you your hint. But at a price."
Lydia narrowed her eyes. "What price?"
"A kiss." At her flabbergasted expression, he added, "Not now, of course. But sometime soon. It's only a kiss, Detective. What real harm can it do?"
Lydia glared at him venomously. It was only a kiss, but the thought of feeling his bruised blue coloured lips on her own made her want to recoil. But to finally find some sort of pattern- or at the very least, a clue- was too good a deal to pass up. Besides, she'd kissed worse men when she was drunk.
"Fine. Now give me the hint."
"And they say romance is dead," he remarked, his eyes hooded and cunning. "Check their lower backs. You'll find it if you look hard enough."
She stormed out of the room without so much as a goodbye.
After forcing Lahey to lay out all the victims and flip them over so their backs were facing the ceiling, Lydia began to search frantically.
All she's really able to take in at first is the black and blue bruises lining their bodies. She keeps looking though, probing with her latex gloves and magnifying glass that Lahey keeps locked away in his desk. Why he keeps it there, she doesn't know. All she does know is that it's pretty damn handy.
That's how she manages to find it. She feels herself falling slowly into darkness, the sides of her vision blurry and smeared. It's small, so microscopic that they passed it off as nothing. He was right to be surprised. This was poor work on their part.
Lydia tries to persuade herself that what she found isn't true- that it's mere coincidence that it was there. Freaky, unsettling coincidence. Lady Luck's twisted sense of humour.
She goes into a frenzy, checking body after body, hoping against hope that it won't be the same result. But it always is.
By the time she's reached the last body, she's panting- gripping the table to hold herself up. She's shaking violently and sees white spots flicker across her field of vision. This can't be the pattern- this can't be. She checks the victim's lower back again and bites back a scream.
リデイア
Lydia.
Laughter pierces through the silence, instantly putting her on alert. She knows this familiar, crazed shriek.
She spins on her heel, wanting to run through the door, only to come face to face with him. He's grinning from ear to ear like the man depicted on the Joker card and it unnerves her. She wonders if she'll collapse right here and if he'll slit her throat like he did with his other victims. Wonders if she'll be another one of his so called masterpieces. It wouldn't be so terrible to be called a masterpiece. If not for the dead part, that is.
He closes the gap between them in two long strides, pressing himself against her until she's sure she'll suffocate. He brings his face down to hers- she only realises now how petite she is compared to his towering height- and his cheeks look so hollow that it makes his cheekbones sharper; so sharp that he might cut her with them.
"I'll obtain you, Detective Martin, make no mistake about that. You will belong to me- and only me," he whispers softly, his voice like velvet to her ears, even though she knows it's poison.
He slides his hands down her arms, resting them at her elbows and digging into her skin painfully. She looks into his eyes, and suddenly, there's nothing even remotely human left; not even his cruel, tantalizing humour or his condescension. All that's left is a beast that's craving for chaos and strife; war and torture. He's a wolf in sheep's clothing- all his kind are. The ones who prey on humans for sport and twisted delusions of fun.
He presses his face into her hair, inhaling deeply and sighing in content. His iron-like grip on her tightens until she's sure it's stopped the circulation.
"I see you mulling over every picture of every victim of mine, so desperate to find something- anything to help you find me. It was quite flattering, actually," he murmurs into her hair, his cool breath fanning her face. He's cold- so very cold. It was like having ice against her skin.
She struggles against him, trying to pry herself free. The boy only sniggers at her pathetic attempts, easily handling her as if she's no more troublesome then a pesky child.
"Why did you kill them?" she blurts out, desperation working it's way into her brain.
He lets out a sharp burst of laughter, loosening his hold on her right arm. "I thought I already told you. It's a game."
Lydia bites back a rude response, clenching her hands into fists by her sides. "It's more then that. I seen those bodies- they're right here for proof. You enjoyed killing them, I know. But there's a reason besides it being a game to you."
His eyes twinkled with pleasant surprise.
"I've underestimated you, Detective. Yes, there is another reason. I feed off their pain. Causing chaos and strife- it's a need. I have to do it and I will always do it. The intense sense of satisfaction that comes with it is exhilarating," he shudders, his whole body quaking with strong, dark desires that accompany that of a serial killer.
She can feel his fingers now- like icicles creeping up her skull- and he gently tilts her head back. She doesn't dare move; doesn't dare disturb the peace that falls over him now.
"I'll be collecting that kiss now."
He leans in and seals her mouth with his- they feel as icy as the rest of him- and his other hand trails up her back, leaving a path of frostbite in it's wake. She doesn't fight him as he slips his tongue into her mouth.
Bang.
The boy crumples to the floor, blood pouring down his chest like a stream. He puts a hand over it and takes it away, examining the scarlet liquid marring his skin. A sick sneer graces his face as he looks up at her.
Lydia is steady, cocking her gun again in a warning. She never left the house without it- always wore it under her jacket- even before he had started watching her from the dark shadows of the night. This is the third time she's shot someone. And she definitely won't be forgetting this one either.
"Looks like you're more then a pretty face, Detective," he assesses from his place on the floor, a puddle of red pooling underneath him. Lydia turns to go, but his voice calls her back.
"But even if you run, I'll find you. And I'll leave a trail of bodies to follow," he threatens, but smiles at her briefly, his eyes void of emotion. "But you won't run. And you won't hide."
She glares at him, livid.
He grins at that, expression savage and hungry. "You're as obsessed with me as I am with you. You just haven't realised it yet."
Lydia's about to retort, when it slams down her. All those late nights leafing through worn folders that she knew inside out, staying up all night when sleep eluded her and trying to come up with plausible connections between the victims. She was obsessed and saying otherwise would make her a hypocrite.
So instead she tells him: "At least mine doesn't involve brutally torturing people for attention."
He regards her with dark eyes and states with certainty, "You won't stop trying to figure me out."
"Why?" It rings through the air; a horrible cry for a logical explanation.
His smirk is as sharp as a knife, the blood seeping from his chest making him inhumanly pale- almost like a wax doll. Lydia steels herself for what's about to come next- what, she isn't entirely sure, but she knows it's nothing good; especially since he's the one initiating it. He opens his mouth, tension crackling like electricity in the air.
"You're in too deep," he whispers, his voice silk and danger. He smiles at her, his mouth full of blood, staining his teeth red.
She screams.