Detective Henry Olsen was freaking the fuck out. There was a bullet hole in his windshield; shit, actually, there were two. The sound of his heart pumping was the only thing he could hear, each individual beat as loud as a gunshot. Even as the startling red and blue lights of emergency services turned into small dots in his rearview mirror, his heart kept its painful pace. His fingers twisted tightly around the steering wheel of his car, his grip hampered by a torrent of sweat. He sped down the dark city streets to his apartment, praying that one of his colleagues wouldn't catch him going a hundred miles per hour through what was very quickly becoming a blizzard. Shadowed alleyways played tricks on him, producing nightmarish visions of creatures he knew couldn't exist, didn't exist, but scared him senseless anyway. Many times, Henry thought he saw the burning blue eyes of the man he just killed, his white cheshire smile glittering in the dark, and Henry had to fight the urge to vomit. His eyes darted feverishly between the road and the weapon resting on his passenger seat.

Two to the chest, two to the head. Four goddamn bullets for a son of a bitch who wasn't worth the lead. Disbelief at the fact that he'd been wounded, and then a taunting smile, even as he was bleeding out and turning the snow beneath him into a horrorshow of gore. Fucker, Henry thought. Took him too long to die. Should've died with the first bullet to the heart, instantly. The fact that it took three more tries burned Henry, charred him, enraged him. He felt sick; he wanted to die in that moment, and wished that Stella had shot him down before he could finish his murderous assignment. "Motherfucker! " Henry screamed, slamming his fists against the steering wheel. Logan Black took too damn long to die, but he eventually did, and now Henry was a murderer. "God, oh God," he cried, swallowing a rock that threatened to choke him.

Parking, he holstered the murder weapon slowly, as if in a trance, and removed his license-plate cover. There was a throbbing sensation in his neck that was beginning to burn and sting, and when his hand touched it, he felt the wetness of his blood and the torn skin of his flesh. His stomach dropped; he almost fainted. Fear kept him conscious, though; fear of the shadows on the street, and the smile that haunted him.

Henry ran into his apartment, nearly bowling over Eric. "How'd you get in here?"

"You need better locks," Eric said, teasing, grabbing Henry's waist. "I wanted to surprise ya."

"Can't now," Henry said, pushing Eric off him. His neck was searing.

"Jesus, babe, what's the rush?"

"Move."

"Baby, what's going on? You're—you're hurt—"

Henry ran into his bathroom, locking the door. Eric wasn't supposed to be here. He'd ask questions; he was already asking them, kept knocking on the door, concerned, and the sound was loud, so fucking loud. "Four shots," Henry whispered, looking at himself in the mirror.

"Babe, you're scaring me," Eric said through the door.

"You need to leave." Henry stared at the torn flesh on his neck. Nothing vital hit, but very close; a hair's breadth from his carotid. The wound had stopped bleeding so profusely, but it wasn't a superficial scratch. He'd need stitches...probably several. He groaned. "Shit, never mind," Henry said. "Come in here." He unlocked the door and Eric entered, nervous and trembling.

"Baby…" Eric reached out. Henry flinched. "What happened?"

"Work stuff. Can you stitch me up?"

Eric gulped. "I...I don't know—"

"You're a nurse, aren't you?" Henry grimaced at the sharpness he heard in his voice. Eric was just scared, and he couldn't be blamed for that.

"Nursing student." Eric sniffed. Too soft and sensitive, Henry thought. One of the many reasons he just wanted things to stay casual between them. Eric's big, soulful brown eyes were looking up at him, and all Henry wanted to do was scream. "I'd do it myself," Henry said, softer this time. "But I can't reach it right."

"We can drive to the hospital—"

"No," Henry growled, startling himself with how angry he sounded. He shut his eyes, counted to five, and exhaled. His neck was burning. "No, babe, I need you to do it. Please."

"O—" sniff, "Okay."

So Eric set to work. Clearing and then disinfecting the wound made Henry grind his teeth together in a vice. His rage burned fiercely at Logan Black, who had not only turned him into a murderer, but had also forced him to endure this pain. Motherfucker. If Henry had noticed the wound then, in that dark street, he would've filled Black's horrific, oversized body with even more lead—Stella's presence be damned. Henry motioned for Eric to bring in the only bottle of tequila he owned, but Eric shook his head. "That'll just make you bleed more."

"Maybe I want to bleed more."

"What?"

Henry looked away. The shadows in his apartment danced, taunting him. "Never mind." He hissed when the needle pierced his skin, kicked out his feet as the thread looped through his ruined flesh. Eric stopped. "I think you need to go to the hospital."

"I already told you. No."

"Then stop fidgeting and let me work then, huh." Eric slapped his shoulder playfully. Henry groaned. "Big baby."

"It hurts!"

"Yeah, and? It's gonna. You don't wanna go to a doctor—"

"Just hurry up already. Christ." Henry's ass was starting to go numb from sitting on the sink counter. Just one more bad feeling to add to the noxious soup he had bubbling in his stomach. I want to go home, he thought, not sure what that meant. He was home, in his apartment, and yet— I want to go home. He said it aloud.

"You are home, silly."

"Doesn't feel like it."

"Yeah, okay. Let me fix this booboo and you'll feel better. You're not cute when you're grumpy." He was getting tired of Eric. Eric, who was sweet and handsome, who wanted nothing more than to smooth away his worries, who was stitching up a wound he knew he shouldn't—and Henry couldn't stand him.

He looked out into the living room of his apartment, daring the shadows to come closer. I'm here, he thought. Come and get me.

As if meeting the challenge, he saw two blue flames emerge from the gloom, at first flickering, but then growing stronger with each passing moment. The twin tongues of fire bore into him, and a wolfish, knowing grin flashed in the darkness. "Killing a man ain't easy, is it?" the grin said. Henry swallowed. Out of the shadows, Logan Black appeared, full and real, and Henry couldn't speak. "Though, you're a damn good shot, Henry. Well done."

It was surreal, seeing the man he just killed, waltz around with two bullet holes in his forehead. Logan Black squeezed into Henry's small bathroom, a subtle limp in his stride as he went to sit down on the edge of the tub. His grin never faltered. He reached into his bloodied suit jacket, pulled out a soaked pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Mind if I smoke?"

"I mean you're dead, so...have at it, I guess." Distantly, Henry felt the pull of a thread, the piercing of a needle through his flesh.

"Thank you kindly," Black said, lighting up a cigarette. He took a long drag, Henry noticed. Shut his eyes and exhaled with a sigh of pleasure that sounded vaguely erotic and made Henry flush. "Been a long time since I smoked. Needed that." He looked back up at Henry, and Henry couldn't stop staring at the blood oozing from the man's forehead. "Looking a little green there, Detective. Want one?" He held out the blood-soaked pack, and when Henry swallowed the lump in his throat, he could taste bile.

"No, thanks."

Black shrugged, rolled his great neck atop his thick shoulders. Took another drag, exhaled. His entire torso was red. Where he sat, blood started to pool; burning crimson against freezing white, just like in the snow.

"So what's this," Henry started, the urge to retch pulling at him, and growing harder to ignore, "Are you, like, my conscious now? Are you going to haunt me forever?"

Black's lips turned up around his cigarette. "You didn't answer me before, so I'll ask again: killing a man ain't easy, is it? Leaves you...stained."

"I didn't kill a man," Henry said. "I killed you."

Black laughed at that, a real sick chuckle that sounded metallic and violent, like knives being sharpened against a whetstone. He stood, adjusted his ruined suit jacket, and walked over to Henry with no limp to speak of. A towering monster, fueled by greed and hate. His face leaned in, so close that Henry could smell the iron stench of blood on his breath.

"I reckon you're right about one thing, Henry," Black said, cupping his bloody palm on Henry's cheek.

"What's that?" Henry was trying not to faint. This couldn't be real; Black was dead. Four shots that hit true! It was impossible—and Eric, well, Eric hadn't reacted to Black's looming presence at all. I'm just freaking out, Henry thought. I need a drink. But Logan Black's great paw was on his face, and he could feel the stickiness of the man's drying blood covering his callouses.

Black grinned, and all Henry could see was red. "I am no man."

"A monster," Henry said, shuddering. "A...a ghoul."

"Perhaps." Black's hand went from cupping Henry's cheek to ruffling his hair, and the unmistakably paternal gesture made Henry's stomach clench and flip in turn. "Give my regards to Cassie, kid. Tell her you got me good." He stepped back into the shadows, disappearing like black smoke in the dark.

"All done," Eric said, his light voice pulling Henry from the abyss. He kissed Henry on the cheek, the exact spot where Black's poisonous hand had left a stain of red. "Might get a sexy scar out of it—Henry, baby, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Baby, you're crying."

Henry couldn't remember the last time he had cried. It'd definitely been a few years. The wetness on his face felt alien. Another kiss on the cheek from Eric, a tender caress on his forehead. The tears flowed out of him, the dam destroyed. He saw Stella in the snow, aiming a bloody gun at him. Protecting Logan Black, when it was his fault she was there, broken and bleeding. "Babe…"

"Oh, God," Henry moaned, pressing his head into Eric's chest. Eric held him, cooed and kept him close. It wasn't enough.

It'd never be enough.