Chapter One
Angrily, she paced the length of John's apartment. She'd changed into a worn pair of jeans and scrubbed her hands, but she could still feel the blood on her body. He was sitting, watching her pace. Those haunting eyes followed her, but apart from that he hardly moved. It was infuriating that he could be so calm when she was so upset. Rationally, she knew that he was not the one in the wrong, but her emotions were having a hart time keeping up with her rational mind.
"Angela, it wasn't a half-breed attack. The can't do something like that. It was purely human evil." He sounds bored- they've been having this argument for well over an hour now and he can't find a way to make her believe him.
"You didn't see the body." Her voice is a notch below pure venom. She could feel that this is not a human attack. Her body had been soaked with the very wrongness of it while she had knelt over the body. Why wouldn't he believe her? If only he'd been there, in that room with the body, he would have known like she did.
"The pictures did a pretty good job of showing it." He said dryly. "The writing on the wall doesn't mean anything. It's just a couple of Latin words."
She holds in a sigh, when really, she wants to slap him. "What did they say?"
He flicked through the pictures, finally finding the one he needs and studies it. "Has begun." A shrug, "That's all it says."
She used to read Latin at school, but had let it lapse. She hadn't even recognised the scrawling test as Latin. It was embarrassing, and her cheeks flushed just a little. Those perceptive eyes took it in, but he chose not to comment.
"Has begun? What could that mean?" She questioned. He wished that he could help her, but he was as stumped as she was. The phrase meant nothing to him on it's own. He'd never come across the phrase used in conjunction with any of the half-breeds he'd deported over the years.
Her cell phone chirped and she answered it with a frustrated "Yes?" A frown creased her face as she listened to the information being passed on to her. She gestured for a pen and paper. He slid both across the table to her, getting up to stand next to her so that he could see what she was writing. She glared at him, but couldn't stop him from reading. She ended the call with a brief thanks. Before she could speak, he voiced her most pressing worry.
"He was a Priest." His voice sounded a little hollow. He hoped that she didn't notice.
"Yes. Father John Coventry, age 64. He retired due to health reasons." He'd tried to hide it, but she had seen his expression change at the similarity in names.
He saw her looking and frowned. "What? It's just a coincidence. Millions of people have the same initials as me."
But, she thought, they weren't all being torn to pieces in the middle of the day in their own home, where they?
He fingered the medallions that he always carried with him. The cold, smooth surfaces reassured him. He touched each one, mentally naming the saint that the represented. The exercise was calming and he felt the little knot of tension inside of him relax. An idea is forming inside of his mind. He doesn't like it one bit.
"Okay, so what now?" She asks. He gives her a look that says, 'hey, you're the cop, but doesn't speak. He was thinking, the wheels turning in his head. Something had sparked a memory, but he couldn't place it. It would come to him, he knew, trying not to dwell on it.
"Has there been any more murders like this?" He asked slowly.
"We had one like it a few weeks ago. A homeless guy was found in the subway, pretty torn up. No-one could make any sense of it though." She frowned, thinking "It was written off as an unsolved. You think they're related?"
"Sounds that way to me. Was there any writing?" He questioned.
"No, I don't think there was. There was something weird though, he had a sprig of mistletoe in his hand."
"Mistletoe has been used for hundreds of years at the Winter Solstice." It was a fairly random fact, and he couldn't connect it with the other killing. She was clearly as puzzled as he was and he decided to call it a night. They wouldn't find anything by turning over the same facts endlessly. A fresh eye in the morning would be more use.
He stood, stretching the kinks out of his body. She watched him suspiciously, but all he was doing was putting a pot of coffee on to brew. Stepping around her, he took down two cups and added milk to them. The coffee didn't take long until it was ready, and he added it to the cups. Lifting both of them he led the way into his living room.
"Grab the cookies, please?" He asked over his shoulder as he left the kitchen. She loved oatmeal cookies- he'd never really liked sweet food, but was learning to enjoy it under her expert teaching.
The living room was a room he hardly used, because it was too large for one person. A huge sofa and slightly mismatched chair filled one corner of them room, but the rest of it was empty. He didn't feel the need to furnish a room he didn't use. She took the chair, sitting down with a sigh. It was extremely comfortable. The leather creaked a little as she accepted the coffee from John. There was a small table in between the sofa and chair, and he nudged it closer to her with his foot. She set the cookies onto it, taking two off the plate for herself. She bit into one, laying the other on the arm of the chair.
"This is nice." She mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs.
He glanced round the room with unseeing eyes. He didn't need to see it- he'd lived with it all of his life. He knew every mark on the furniture. "It was my mother's." His voice was purposefully flat.
"You miss her?" It was an easy question to ask, but maybe not the right one.
He gave a bitter laugh "Oh, she's not dead. She's living in the south of France with a second husband half her age." He flashed her a humourless smile "Sends me cards once in a while." He shrugged and sipped his cooling coffee. She got the impression that her apparent desertion had hurt him deeply.
Her cell phone rang again, startling them both a little. She slopped coffee on her hand as she jumped. He took the cup from her and she dug in her pocket for her phone. Flipping it open, she answered the call with a curt "Yes?" She had a strong feeling that this would not be good news.
The sinking feeling in her stomach must have shown on her face as she listened, because his questioning eyes met and held hers.
After a few minutes, she ended the call. Her mouth was dry as she spoke "Another one."