Ed came home just before sunrise. He went straight to his home office—this had been a long night. He needed to get rid of his bloodstained clothes, but first, he had to calm his nerves.
He locked the doors, walked to his desk, and took a box from the lower drawer. Inside, he pulled out a navy blue container. Opening it, the sweet scent of jasmine engulfed him, bringing an immediate sense of comfort. He took one of the tea bags and walked to a small coffee table near the window, which was covered by a heavy black blackout curtain. He turned on the electric kettle and dropped the tea bag into the mug beside it, waiting for the water to boil. Absent-mindedly, he shoved both hands into his pockets. Once the tea was ready, he sat down in his office chair, sipped the tea, and closed his eyes. As he felt himself relax, his fangs slowly disappeared. He sighed deeply.
After finishing his tea, he brought the mug to the kitchen, placed it in the dishwasher, and headed for the shower. He stripped off his clothes, unsure whether to throw them away or toss them in the laundry, but one thing was certain—they had to be off his body. He turned the water to its hottest setting, letting it scald his skin as his mind drifted back to Olivia. Did she know? His body tensed at the thought. What did she mean by the words she said before they parted at the crime scene?
Shit.
It was almost sunrise when they wrapped up.
Inside one of the bedside drawers, they had found a photograph of a brunette man with gray eyes, whom they suspected to be the male victim. His arm was wrapped around the shoulders of a redheaded woman with emerald eyes and thin pink lips. Her skin appeared pale—Irish, maybe, Ed thought. They needed to figure out who these people were. If their instincts were right, that woman had been taken.
Shit.
A pierced tongue was never a good omen. If this was what he thought it was, that woman didn't have long to live.
Ed walked out of the apartment building, lost in thought. The crime scene, the missing woman—he was already trying to piece it all together. He ran a hand down his face, sighing as a headache started to form. On top of that, his stomach growled. Hunger.
"Hey, ease up." Olivia's voice jolted him back.
Startled, he turned toward her and was surprised at how close she was, close enough that he could smell her faint scent. Lavender, with something sweet like jasmine—moonflower.
Shit. She smells like a moonflower. Must be a perfume, right?
She smiled, but her eyes hinted at concern. "Are you okay? You're a little pale."
"Uhm, yeah–yeah. It's just... these things, they stay with you a bit longer than the rest," he shrugged, taking a step back, shoving his hands to his pockets. He could feel his nails growing inside. The scent of moonflower usually calmed him, but there was something about her that made him feel... on edge. Damn. Everything about tonight was overwhelming—the crime scene, the pressure to find the woman, Olivia's smell, her smile.
Shit.
"The sun will be up soon. I think we should all go home and get some rest," she said, nodding toward the eastern sky. "I'll tell Elliot. We'll meet you at the precinct later? You're the consultant for this case, right?"
His body stiffened at her words. He looked at her, searching for anything in her expression. Soft eyes. A small curve of her lips. He nodded, already feeling his fangs descending.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
"We'll see you then," she said with a smile.
Christ.
She turned and walked toward her partner. Moments later, they drove off.
He was sure that when he first met her that day in the library, she hadn't smelled like a moonflower. And besides, the moonflower usually calmed him—not triggered him. So maybe it really was just a perfume?
Damn. That woman will be the death of him.
He stepped out of the shower, dressed in sweatpants, and walked back to the kitchen to make a quick breakfast. A turkey sandwich would be enough, he thought. Then, he went to bed.
Ed was woken by the ringing of his telephone on the bedside table. He groggily reached for the receiver, pressing it to his right ear.
"Hello, yeah?" he mumbled, his voice rough from sleep.
"Tucker, we need you here."
He sensed urgency in Cragen's voice.
"There's been another attack. Benson and Stabler are at the hospital with the victim—and yes, Tucker, this one is alive! So get your ass in here!"
"Okay, I'll be there in twenty."
He literally leaped out of bed to get dressed. If he was going to see Benson again, he might need to pack some tea—to be safe.
Ed arrived at an alley near a deli on Park Avenue. This was the address Cragen had given him during his drive—directing him to head straight to the scene instead of the precinct and meet with the detectives. He had a tumbler filled with moonflower tea in the console of his car, along with a few extra tea bags. He couldn't let what happened last night happen again.
Parking behind a patrol car, he made his way toward the uniformed officer standing on the other side of the yellow tape.
"Tucker. Captain Cragen called me."
The officer nodded and lifted the tape, allowing him through. Ed scanned the alley.
"You're Tucker?" asked a middle-aged man, around six feet tall, with a lean, wiry frame and a slightly slouched posture. His angular face had sharp cheekbones, a prominent nose, and deep-set eyes that carried a weary but perceptive quality—like he was sensing whether Ed was breathing through his nose, mouth, or even his ears.
"Yes. Ed Tucker, consultant for this case."
"Ahh! Consultant!" The man raised an eyebrow and gave him a sardonic smile. "So, you're here to tell us if we missed something, huh? Not to rat us out?"
"John, give the man a break. He was with Benson and Stabler last night," a woman interjected as she joined them.
She had light, curly hair and a strong, athletic build. Her sharp features—prominent jawline, full lips, and deep-set eyes—exuded a no-nonsense attitude.
"Detective Monique Jeffries," she introduced herself. "Don't mind my partner, John Munch."
Choosing to ignore Munch's comment, Ed got straight to business. "What do we know about the vic?"
"Grace Solomon, 23. She worked here at the deli—night shift. Her colleague, who was supposed to relieve her, called in sick, so the owner, Sheila Brown, asked her to extend her shift by at least two hours until she could get there. Sheila was visiting relatives in Long Island. When she arrived, the store was trashed, and Grace was unconscious, bleeding on the floor. Her clothes were torn—literally torn." Jeffries' tone hardened. "EMTs arrived five minutes after she called 911 and transported Grace to Mount Sinai."
"Was anything stolen?" Ed asked.
Munch glanced at him from under his brow. "That's the thing. We're really gonna need your expertise here. Whoever did this stole a few boxes of candles, lighters, matches, and a blowtorch from the mini kitchen."
Ed's brows furrowed.
Jeffries continued. "Do you think it's the same guy? Usually, with serials, the longer they're out there, the more they escalate, right? But this—this almost seems like de-escalation. The victim is alive. She was bleeding, but according to the EMTs, her injuries weren't fatal—unlike the previous victims. And then we have the missing woman from last night…" She exhaled sharply. "It's just—"
"A lot of inconsistencies?" Munch finished for her.
"Yeah. The crime scenes for the three previous female victims—there wasn't blood at any of them. Then we have last night's scene which, according to Stabler, was beyond grim. And now a suspected abduction… and a severed tongue?" Jeffries clenched her jaw and shook her head.
Ed stared at the two detectives, his mind working through the details. His gaze met Munch's, and almost simultaneously, they both said—
"We're looking for more than one perp."
Fuck.