Chapter Nine: Blackout

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A woodsy scent lingered around Dante, creeping into his nostrils that flared to suck in several breaths. The air was redolent and heavy with the smell, and it spun his thoughts into webs—a delicate and intricate cobweb. His chest heaved, and he let out a loud sigh, feeling his lungs ease inside his wounded chest.

Two large gaping cracks there began to close up. Bones reached out from either side and quickly began to mend themselves. Thread-like tendrils of tissue wriggled and latched onto the white bones, healing him. The pain in his head was still unbearable, but he forced his lids back up to look where he was.

Blinding light of the sun seared his eyes. He snapped them shut and then opened them a second later, looking with wonder at the long ripe branches overhead. Rays of sunlight exploded into thin threads of yellow, bending over the harsh surface of the trees. Leaves quivered in the first drafts of morning breeze. I'm . . . outside? he thought.

He turned his head slightly to look around. He had fallen into the backyard. Reddish steel rods poked out of the ground and encircled the entire yard, which he thought was several meters wide. His gaze stopped for a moment on the rods again. They were corroding under the violent lashes of rain and wind. (This whole place was.)

Thick green grass surrounded him. It was cold and soggy under his cheeks. He gathered himself up to a sitting position. His chest was hurting and his head was almost blank. He had no idea how he got here. All he could remember was that sound, and after that, everything in his memory seemed to vanish into black.

Dante's hands shook a little from exhaustion. He put them to his face to wipe away the morning dews still falling on him from the lush green leaves above. He breathed out the heavy air in his lungs and loudly breathed back in as if readying himself for something, and finally, with a bit of effort, got to his feet.

A shadow fell over his eyes, and he stumbled forward but regained his balance before he fell face-first onto the ground. Slamming his hands on his knees, he breathed in the fresh air several times, watching his vision sway like a boat on a raging ocean. When a few seconds passed, the haze across his eyes cleared.

He stood up again, wiping his face on what was left of his sleeve. He looked around and found nothing but overgrown bushes, crumbling walls, and that same broken fountain standing with the last of its strength under the cloudy sky. Dante lifted his head and looked at the broken window about sixty feet above the gaping open door.

It was smashed through with something. Thinking that it was probably due to some storm, he took one step but stopped suddenly when a musical laughter rippled through the air. And that explosion of alluring smell took the reins of his senses again. He spun his head around almost mechanically at the source, feeling his throat ache and heart beat rapidly against his will.

There, under the tangled wisteria, stood that beautiful woman who had driven him mad with lust. She tapped her fingers on the wall, smiling. That smile had no allure. It was soft, sincere, earthy . . . but he did not care. All he wanted was to trap her underneath him, and just this once, taste her to his heart's content.

She stepped out from behind the wall and walked softly on the grass, holding the frills of her black dress. Her hair still looked as messy as ever upon her shoulders. He could not stop looking at her as she slowly reduced the distance between them. Suddenly, she broke into a jog. Her hair whipped about her face, and her soft breasts bounced under the silk skirt.

And then, before he could even move his arm, she passed right through him. It felt like the rush of a gentle wind. A heady daze enveloped his senses. It was as if he had tasted just a bit of her but could not satisfy himself fully. Needy, he turned around, only to find her in the arms of another man. He could not understand what was going on. A dream? A Memory?

Dante bit his lower lip, drawing out blood. They were cracked and bruised, making him look like a thirsty traveller lost in the desert. He looked on as she parted her lips and kissed the man. He felt strange. How badly he wanted her—it was almost crazy! Right now, the only thing he felt was jealousy and longing. And he did not understand why. It was like he was not himself at all ... the smell of her was so strong and it hung there in the air—an impossible weight that was beginning to crush him again.

The sound around him was suddenly cut short. She looked his way as if finally noticing his presence. His breath stopped in his throat when she let go of the man and slowly drew near him. Her face took on a puzzled look, and her eyes seemed to look at something beyond him.

"Emma?" she whispered, holding her gaze. The man behind her took hold of her shoulders as if he was trying to stop her.

Dante turned his head and looked around and stopped his eyes on that missing girl he had seen so many days ago in that aged photograph. Her face was screwed up in anger, and her brow furrowed with several shallow lines. Her gaze was so intense that it refused to leave the mysterious woman. She clenched her fingers and ran off behind the wall.

"Emma!" the woman called out behind her, holding out her hand that disappeared inside his chest like the show of a circus spectre.

"Let her go, Salome," the man said and rubbed her shoulders.

"But, Leon—" the woman named Salome protested and longingly looked at the wall right behind Dante.

Leon sighed, "fine, I'll go after her." He ran through him to where Emma had vanished, leaving her behind.

When he disappeared behind the cracked wall, Dante returned his gaze back to Salome who was still looking his way. Knowing that it was just some sort of memory or a beautiful illusion, he stretched his hand and traced the airy outline of her lips with his fingers.

She became wispy and dispersed into countless feathery threads at the touch of his fingers, leaving him alone again. Still dazed, his mind bounced back to where he had heard the sounds of those girls. "Emma . . . Salome . . . " he said lowly, talking to himself. He did not understand what it meant. Were these two the same girls?

Putting his hand on his head, he buried his fingers in his hair. Ever since that woman came to his office, he had been having strange dreams, surreal visions, and even picking up voices of long forgotten memories. As a demon, he knew about the fragmentation of the soul when it left behind a memory. But the dreams . . . what about them?

A crunch sounded behind him. He spun around and found Trish bloodied and bruised, standing under the broken pillar near the entrance door. Blood had dried on her fair face, and her jacket was wet and stained. For a few moments, he kept staring at her in disbelief, meeting her hurt blue eyes.

"Trish," he said in disbelief and ran across the thick grass to her. "What happened? Are you a'right?" He grabbed her shoulders and looked down at her puzzled face.

She put her hand against her heaving chest and took in a lungful of cold morning air. "You don't remember?" she asked and looked into his eyes that did not betray how confused he seemed.

"Trish, what happened? Who did this to you?" he asked and there was anger in his voice and face this time.

She let out a loud sigh. "I'll tell you when we get to your office. Let's just—get out of here," she said calmly and gulped down bubbles of blood still rising to her throat.

"You aren't making much sense, but okay," he said and scooped her up into his arms. "So, I guess, this trip was a complete waste of time for everyone."

"I don't think so," Trish said and leant her head against his chest. "But I doubt we'll find anything here—now that this place has been ransacked."

"So a waste of time, then?" Dante said and made his way through the backyard.

"Shut up, Dante! Just walk, okay?" she snapped at him and closed her eyes.

He rolled his eyes and muttered something along the lines of, 'doesn't care . . . always complaining,' but said nothing to Trish.

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Dante ran his fingers through his hair. They had grown long since yesterday and hung like aged, grey curtains around his face. It was about time he gave himself a good haircut, but it would have to wait. Trish was badgering him about that manor incident, and no matter how cool he tried to act, he was annoyed that he could not remember a damn thing.

"So," he began and leant against the cracked wall of his office, "you said that I did that to you, and . . . some mysterious snake tried to gobble me up?"

Trish stared back at him in mild disbelief. She was about to start something annoying again. He had a gut feeling. "You know, you make it sound almost stupid, Dante," she said with an air of annoyance.

"I never said I didn't believe you," he replied with a wave of his hand. "But it still sounds kinda fishy. I mean, me? Screaming?"

"Dante!" she warned, raising her voice considerably. "Just tell me if you remember anything at all."

"I told you everything. How many times are you going to ask me about this? This would be the eleventh time, by the way," he said and grabbed a soda can off the table. He popped it open and took a few sips.

She sighed and gulped in the stale air inside his office. No matter how many times she came here, it always felt stuffy. There were just two windows on either side of the double door, and Dante refused to open them because they made his juke-box dusty. It was one of his annoying habits that drove her up the wall.

Trish took three steps and stood close to Dante, who was busy drinking the whole can of soda. "If you opened your mouth a little more, you might swallow that can whole," she said sarcastically, getting a scowl in response. "Show me your chest."

He frowned and wiped the fizz off his lips. "What for?" he asked quickly and threw the can at the far end of his office. It bounced off the wall and ended up on the pile of trash behind his drums.

She pursed her lips, fisted his shirt in her hands, and pulled it up. There was nothing on his chest. It was as if that thing never took him inside its mouth. Not a single mark or even a line . . . that was disappointing. He swiftly pushed his shirt down, looking downright scandalized.

"Are you crazy?" he blurted out and brushed down the shirt over and over again. "Don't get kinky with me, Mom. I told you, didn't I? I feel great!"

"I swear it, one of these days," Trish growled and raised her fist in air, "I'm just gonna hit you hard."

"That sounds too dirty, mom." Dante chuckled and that earned him a tight slap on the head. "Violence is never the answer," he said behind her as she walked to the table to pick up the ringing phone.

"Devil may cry," she said into the phone, still glaring at him. "Another one? Where? A'right, we'll be there as soon as possible." She slammed down the phone and picked up his coat.

"You didn't have to slap me that hard. I can't feel half of my head," he accused and pointed his finger at her.

She pulled up the zip of her jacket and threw the dark blue coat at him. "Stop goofing around and let's go," she said and opened the heavy wooden door. Cold air gusted inside and filled the room. It had been raining again.

Dante put on his coat and pushed the hair out of his eyes. "I heard what he said . . . partially, of course," he added in a fake-serious voice and stepped out of the office. Rain pitter-pattered around them, and just occasionally, thunder rumbled in the dark clouds.

"And you wonder why you're so damn poor? This partial hearing must be to blame. Anyways," she forestalled him when he opened his mouth to retort, "the murder scene isn't far from here—let's go."

"Where?" he asked and stepped under the shed of his office. Rain drummed overhead and sprayed over his coat.

"Just two blocks away," she replied and started to the alleyway only about a hundred meters away from his office.

"This close," Dante said lowly, matching Trish's pace. His mind quickly jumped back to the catalogue of scents he had picked up. There were three scents and all three belonged to women. He could easily tell because of their aphrodisiac, musky, sweet smells; but two of them belonged to the same woman . . . or were very similar, he guessed.

He just did not understand. His eyes stared ahead, but his thoughts stayed trapped in this mystery. He did not want to tell Trish anything. There was no point to it. What would he tell her? That he was feeling sex-hungry because of some weird smell? And that scent of a woman was giving him hallucinations, dreams, and making him feel really horny? Even the thought was embarrassing.

Whatever this thing was, it was copying scents of two women. But why? What did it want with him? What Trish told him about the incident scared the hell out of him. This was too dangerous for her to handle. What if he attacked her again? He knew she was nowhere near in his power-league and could die easily. Hell, she was lucky to be alive. This thing . . . he was dead-sure now that it wanted him.

And then he was back to square one. A small frown wrinkled his forehead. Wet, grey hair clung to his cheeks. Puffs of warm breath escaped his nostrils and lips. The demon had struck again. And just like before, it chose the rain and killed right under his nose. It was taunting him. He almost felt like it wanted him to find the clues that led back to its infernal lair.

Dante clenched his teeth, moving his lower jaw from side to side. Even if he knew the rain to be the right time of reaping, it did not make any difference at all. It killed and left the mess out in the open. And he was no closer to finding it now than he was back when this whole shit began.

If it was a devourer, then there would be no bodies. It would just have eaten them whole. But it needed blood. And why . . . why did it take the form of that woman called Salome? A small smile ran across his wet lips. Salome, what an odd name, he thought, a woman that got St. John beheaded in one of those New Testament stories. He blinked a few times and then realised something: that woman had an odd scent around her when she came to his office.

Dante licked his lips. The dreams, the hallucinations, and the woman that night in his room, they were all . . . similar, somehow. The dreams he saw left him groggy and drained. He always felt disoriented. Why did this thing want him to sleep? And the odd scent that flew to him from god knows where . . . before he would see the apparition of that woman in his dreams or his room. All this drama was making his head hurt.

All that Salome woman had to do was lie under him for about four to five hours, and he would just lay bare every taste and scent that ever existed on her body. God, the thought was stirring his loins again. Back to the mystery stuff, please! he scolded himself and turned the corner with Trish beside him. He had smelt the picture Salome left him and the tangles of wisteria by the wall at the manor. There was no mistaking it—the scent belonged to Emma or whatever that chick was called. You could never trust fishy-looking ghost chicks, anyway.

But the third smell, his thought came to a crashing halt as that alluring odour the surrounding air was redolent of filled his senses in such a way that he felt as if he was a frantic animal desperately trying to get out of a small cage; but this time, his defences were a bit better because of the gentle rain, and despite the hacking of the scent at the thick walls of his shaky control, he finally managed to put his finger on it: The scent belonged to Salome!

Slowly, he made it into the alleyway. The same scene played before him like a classic murder investigation movie: the same police lines, the same churned ground, and the same heavy detective greeted his vision. He looked a tad bit heavier than before. And beyond him was another dead body that looked ten times worse than the last one.

Oddly enough, there was a little foul stench in the air. The detective looked back at him and pointed his hand at the body. "Quite a scene, huh?" he lazily remarked, returning his attention back to the woman's body who had nearly half of her face chewed off, along with a ripped-open left breast. It was not a pretty sight. The thing had mauled the woman as though it was crazy hungry.

Dante's eyes tried to find any clue again, but there was nothing other than the decaying remains of a dead young woman. Half of her head and face were bitten off all the way down to her neck. Her neck and collar bones were broken and peeking out of the torn, bitten-off muscles and skin tissues. The part of the face that remained was like a worn out mask about to get peeled off of the rough surface underneath.

Chunks of her shoulder and upper torso were missing, and the arms lying lifelessly by her sides were flexed as if she tried to put up a fight. Two of her fingers were painfully twisted, and a few of them were floating in the small puddle with the skin still attached to them. It had punched a giant hole in her chest and ripped out the heart that lay smashed into a goopy mess beside the right arm with some of the veins still attached. He wanted to vomit . . .

"This is—" Trish gasped, looking horrified. "Has anyone else been here? The forensics, I mean?"

"No, but they're on their way. It shouldn't take them long," Blake sighed out and got to his feet slowly. "I've seen all there is to see, and I couldn't find anything. Knock yourself out till they get here. But I doubt you'll find anything." With that, he left them alone with the body.

"Dante?" she asked, looking at him as he lowered himself next to the body, bending his head down to take a whiff. "What is it?" She moved forward and bent a little to look at what he was doing.

He sniffed and closed his eyes. That odd smell was that of a dead woman lingering on this one. So I've been getting horny from the smell of a dead chick? He bit his own tongue. It was almost tragic . . . and made slightly less sense than before. But there was no way in hell he could mess it up this time. It was obvious—the alluring, sexual scent was that of a fresh dead body mixed with Salome's. And every time he went to a murder site, or anywhere else, it was sprinkled everywhere like a spray of rose water on a funeral bed. It had probably marked this whole neighbourhood like a pesky cat in heat.

Feeling heady from breathing in the heavy scent, Dante stood up straight. He shook his head a little and squeezed his eyes shut, regaining just a bit of control. "Let's go back," he said over his shoulder and slowly opened his clouded eyes.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" Trish asked, a bit annoyed by his secrecy.

"Maybe," he said and bared his teeth in a cheeky grin. He made his way out of the filthy alley and waved goodbye as he walked past the detective. Trish, as usual, stopped for a proper farewell.

He did not even make it past the third alleyway when a thick cloud of that accursed scent began to suffocate the life out of him. It was close. Too close. He could feel it. But where is it? He frantically looked around but could see nothing. His quivering hand tried to reach the gun in the holster, but his head was beginning to spin like crazy and that thought just flew out of his mind; and he did not care enough to catch it again.

He staggered, and his body flung itself towards the nearest wall. A strange weakness spread through his legs and they started to buckle under his own weight. He felt as if he was getting crushed underneath something so big that his body would never be able to lift. He put his hand on the wall for support as his breath turned ragged and shaky.

"Dante . . . I need you," a needy, sweet voice of a woman said from a few meters away. He lifted his head and found himself looking at Salome clad in a soft black dress, showing the delicate frame of her beautiful body. Her nipples were stiff and inviting, completely visible behind her dress. Her hair flowed around her face like snakes, and her amber eyes sparked with such lust and wild invitation that the man in him could not resist. She walked through the man standing not far from him.

"Dante!" Trish shouted from a couple of meters away. There was panic in her voice as the slash of her thick heels resounded on the wet pavement. The dull thuds of her walk progressed to a jog, but he did not understand. It was like the world had slowed down around him. He desired her and nothing more. Even that small control he had built up to protect himself crumbled down. He took a step forward, looking dazed and hungry. Something wet bubbled up in his eyes, and suddenly, red colour enveloped them completely.

Blood flowed down his eyes and mouth, and even his ears felt wet and warm. He smelt rusty. His knees finally gave way, and he dropped down like a ragdoll, falling face first on the pavement. Trish's scream drowned under his failing consciousness. And as seconds passed, he was hurled into darkness, lying under the rain with his own blood flowing freely from his body . . .

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