The City Beneath Read online

  Nathan rolled his eyes.

  “I know you don’t believe me, which is why you’re stalling, but like you said, I’ve never texted you at a crime scene before. I’m only asking for this one favor.” I locked my gaze on his. “Please.”

  Nathan sighed heavily, but nevertheless, he squatted next to the man and pressed his ear to his chest. “If I had the opportunity to confront the people responsible for crimes like this, I wouldn’t wait for them to confess their side of the story. I’d make damn sure they never—”

  The man exhaled in a high, rattling hiss.

  Nathan met my gaze, his eyes rounded with shock. “Oh my God.”

  “You heard it?” I asked, astounded.

  Nathan bounded to his feet and unbuckled the backboard straps.

  “I told you he was breathing. I told you that—”

  “Fuck, don’t just stand there. Help me board him!”

  I ignored my hip and helped Nathan clip the man onto the backboard. “As much as I hate to say it, I can’t help you carry him—”

  “Hey!”

  I looked up from the backboard straps and groaned. Donavan was jogging toward us, and if the frown creasing his brow was any indication, he had a temper to rival mine.

  “What do you think you’re doing? The police haven’t processed this scene yet. You can’t just—”

  Nathan stood to face Donavan, and I finished snapping the buckles on my own.

  “He’s still breathing,” Nathan whispered hotly.

  Donavan paused, midrant. “What are you playing at?”

  “You take his head. If we can get him back to the ambulance, maybe—”

  “He’s dead,” Donavan said, shocked. “Why would we—”

  “No, he’s not.” Nathan said. “We’ve wasted enough time, time we could’ve spent treating him. Help me get him back to the ambulance.”

  Donavan shook his head. “You’re crazy. I checked him myself. He’s been dead for a while, and I—”

  Nathan leaned closer, so I had to strain to hear his next words. “Mistakes happen. Sometimes people notice and sometimes people don’t. Cassidy and I noticed, but if you help me get him back to the ambulance, no one else has to.”

  Donavan stared back at Nathan, shock and anger giving way to fear as he realized that Nathan was serious. He looked down at me. I stared back at him, trying to convey that my mouth was a steel trap, but mostly, I felt wary. He looked back at Nathan, and I knew Nathan’s expression as well as my own reflection. Even three years my junior, our shared grief and bitterness could line Nathan’s face with an identical aged determination.

  “He didn’t have a pulse,” Donavan whispered, but he bent in front of me and gripped the head of the backboard anyway.

  Nathan and Donavan hoisted the man between them, and an ambulance met them curbside just as they turned the corner. I watched as the man was packed into its rear, locked in tight, and transported to the hospital in full lights and sirens. I’d originally wanted to achieve some distance from the gore and death—reminders of my parents that seemed everywhere lately—but as I limped back to the main crime scene, both my hip and my spirits only felt more burdened.

  Meredith and I made print with an entire fifteen minutes to spare. The article flew from my fingers in hyperdrive, as was usual when faced with a perilously approaching deadline. I included a statement from Greta about the animalistic savagery of the attack, and Meredith found a shot of what nearly looked like a human bite had it not been so inhumanly wide or deep. The eyeteeth broke through the victim’s skin, and blood pooled in the center of each impression.

  I was reviewing my article and Meredith’s picture when Nathan called with the bad news. The burn victim I’d found in the alley had died. He’d gone into cardiac arrest en route to the hospital and couldn’t be revived. Nathan said that they’d brought him directly to the morgue, and I was sure that’s where he’d remain until fingerprint analysis or dental records were completed. A next of kin would be contacted to claim him once he was identified, and then he would be their albatross. I rubbed my eyes, but even after five years, I still remembered every detail of the process.

  I hadn’t expected the man to live. I told as much to Nathan, and he repeated the same back to me, but I stared at the picture of that bite mark for a long while before I could finish editing my article.

  With the paper put to bed, I was ready for bed myself, but I had an interview in four hours. As a favor to Greta—I was all for racking up the favors—I’d pitched a humanitarian piece to Carter about her cousin, the owner of a new bakery on Eighth Avenue. The article would certainly counter all the doom and gloom I’d been reporting lately, and frankly, I needed the pick-me-up. Carter hadn’t been particularly impressed with my scoop, but he also knew the merits of a favor for Greta when he saw one and let it ride.

  Jolene McCall, baker extraordinaire, was extremely excited about being featured in the paper, and even more excited for her grand opening. Her optimism was exhausting, but her miniature cupcakes were darling. She gave Meredith and me two each, and although one had been intended for the road, the little cakes hadn’t survived that long. If our samples were any indication, Jolene’s Cake Designs would be a finger-licking success, and if Jolene herself was any indication, she would spread joy along with her icing with every cake.

  Back at the office, Meredith prepared a jaunty picture of Jolene in her tall, white baker’s hat atop her tinsel-streaked, dirty-blond hair. She wore a pink-trimmed apron while balancing plates of cakes and pastries in various colors and patterns. I fluffed up the content with bakery puns to make the article light and sweet like the cupcakes themselves, so people would want to brave the murderous streets I’d depicted the day before for a taste of heaven at Jolene’s Cake Designs.

  I smiled as I stared at our edited work. I’d have to snag a few extra copies for Greta when it printed. We submitted our copy by five, and Meredith convinced me that sushi was in order after the night we’d witnessed. I agreed, but that didn’t prevent my body from powering down.

  Halfway through my second California roll, I tried hiding a yawn behind my palm and nearly poked my eye out with a chopstick.

  “Don’t you dare cut out early,” Meredith warned, waving her own chopsticks at me. “We did great. We deserve this.”

  “I know. I’m trying to enjoy it,” I said, cramming my mouth with another roll before I could yawn again. The roll was tangy and salty from the soy sauce and damn good. Sleep would have been better.

  “I am enjoying it,” Meredith said, stifling her own yawn.

  We stared at each other for a long moment, so beat that even sushi couldn’t spark our energy. I almost felt like crying, I was so tired. Meredith giggled. I smiled, and she giggled harder, and suddenly we both burst out laughing.

  “For the road?” I asked when the heaves had subsided, gesturing to my remaining five rolls.

  Meredith nodded, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Jolene really did have the right idea.”

  “Some girls just know how to do it right,” I agreed.

  Once our server had boxed the leftovers, Meredith stood, using the table as leverage. “I’ll see you bright and early.”

  “Yeah,” I scoffed, ducking under the strap of my shoulder bag so it hung across my body. “I can’t wait.”

  We parted ways outside the Japanese restaurant, still laughing from our moment of sushi insanity. Sunset was creeping later and later as summer approached; eight o’clock and the streets had just plunged into full darkness. The walk to my apartment, however, was only a few blocks and brightly lit from street lamps and storefronts.

  I was one block from my apartment, deciding against doing laundry before going to bed but contemplating a glass of cabernet, when a black and glowing blue blur smashed into my ribs and slammed my back into the wall of the alley adjacent to my building. My head snapped back and cracked against the brick exterior. I couldn’t move for a moment, dazed from banging my head.

  Inexp
licably, the first thing I noticed was my take-out box tipped sideways on the sidewalk, my California rolls spewed across the concrete. My awareness slowly pounded into focus like a jackhammer through my skull, and I realized that the blur that had hit me was a man. He was holding me off the ground against the wall by my arms, so we were eye to eye. A strange, rattling hiss vibrated from his chest. I could feel the purr of it against my body.

  I couldn’t look away. The man wasn’t a man. Well, he was the general shape of a man, complete with a body, two legs, two arms, and a head, but something I couldn’t quite account for—something crucial—was missing. He stared at me from inches away with icy white eyes ringed by a dark midnight blue. The pupils reflected a strange green tint from the streetlight as he cocked his head, studying me. The motion was almost bird-like.

  His skin was flawless, the angles of his cheeks, chin, and jawline sharp, nearly gaunt in their severity. His face was hollow, but his body was unbelievably strong. When he hissed again, the lips sneered away from his teeth. I couldn’t look away from the glint of the man’s sharp, pointed eyeteeth and the thin, puckered scar pulling at his lower lip. The scar was raised and pink and continued across his jawline, stopping near his jugular.

  “That was quite an article you wrote this morning, Cassidy DiRocco, although I was mildly disappointed not to have been mentioned.”

  He spoke, but my brain couldn’t wrap itself around the deep, cultured voice that emanated from the man’s fanged mouth.

  “The police didn’t include you in their statement,” I replied shakily. “They considered you a separate scene, so I didn’t include you in my article about the animal attacks.”

  “Fortunate for them,” he said.

  His nostrils flared on another rattling hiss, the same rattle I’d heard from him in the alley last night, and I thought numbly, I was right. He was breathing. I eased my hand along my side slowly, attempting to slide the pepper spray from the outside pocket of my leather shoulder bag. I should have carried it in my hand while I was walking. What good was having pepper spray in my bag if I couldn’t reach it when I needed it?

  Suddenly, he crushed me deeper against the brick, gripping my upper arms a fraction tighter. Talons protruded from his fingers and pierced my skin. I screamed.

  “I don’t like feeling grateful,” he said, and the rattling hiss vibrated inside his chest again as he spoke. “But I wouldn’t have survived another day if you’d left me at Paerdegat Park.”

  I shook my head, nearly panting from the sharp pain tearing through each shoulder. “I don’t . . . understand,” I said haltingly. I continued shaking my head, staring with numb awe at the scar on his chin. “You’re not possible.”

  He smiled indulgently. “How so?”

  I swallowed. “You died before the ambulance even reached the hospital. They brought you to the morgue.”

  “Yes, and I thank you for that. You had impeccable timing.”

  “You were burned beyond recognition. They said you weren’t breathing, but I could hear it. You were alive, but you didn’t have a pulse,” I said, starting to feel a little hysterical.

  “No, I don’t.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to his lack of circulation, so I stared into his unearthly white and midnight blue eyes, feeling helpless. The sound of my own pulse beating through my ears was deafening.

  He leaned in suddenly. I hadn’t even seen him move. One moment he was staring back at me, and the next, within the span of a thought, his face was buried in my neck. I could feel his swift inhalation. He held his breath a moment, and his chest rattled as he finally exhaled.

  “Your fear smells sharp and poignant, like cinnamon.” He traced a slow, wet lick from my collarbone to just over my carotid. His tongue lingered over my pulse before pulling back. “Lovely.”

  I kicked out frantically, trying to land a blow between his legs, but my struggles were useless. He merely bared his teeth at me again in a sick semblance of a smile.

  “Please,” I asked. “What do you want?”

  “I’ll get what I want,” the man said. “But I also wanted you to know that I am grateful. You saved me, so I shall return the favor.”

  My anger finally flared over the panic and pain. “I’ve never been saved before, so I could be mistaken, but I’m pretty certain that this doesn’t qualify.”

  He stared at me a moment before grinning widely. Too widely for a human mouth. “Temerity becomes you,” he replied. “Killing you, the photographer, the detective, and the two paramedics would be the easiest method of concealing my existence, but I’ll take the time to . . . disarm the five of you instead. That is less efficient, more difficult, and time-consuming, but your life, and theirs, in exchange for having saved mine, is my gift to you.”

  I kicked out again, my knee in search of his groin. I opened my mouth to scream.

  The man pulled me away from the wall before slamming me back against the brick—more ruthlessly than the first time, if that was possible. The breath punched out of my lungs along with my scream.

  “Cassidy, look into my eyes.”

  I felt a sudden pull from the core of my being, desperate to look into the man’s eyes. In defiance, I worked to fill my deflated lungs so I could prepare another scream.

  “Cassidy DiRocco, you will look into my eyes now.”

  The man’s voice soaked through my resolve and drowned my brain. Unwillingly, I looked into his eyes. The moment his blue-and-ice gaze met mine, the pain and panic and fear leaked away. I felt my body suddenly go limp as it forgot to resist. My head lolled to the side, too heavy to support, and my expression sagged with the release of tension and strain. The physical world narrowed to his penetrating gaze on mine and my willingness to act on the breath of his next word, even as my mind shrieked at me to fight.

  “You will write a retraction of the article about the deaths at Paerdegat Park,” he stated.

  Never! my mind screamed. “I will write a retraction,” I murmured. My voice was compliant and monotone and not my own.

  “The wounds on the victims were clean slices, from knives perhaps. Not animal bites,” he continued.

  “The wounds on the victims were probably inflicted by knives,” I repeated, internally horrified. “Not animal bites.”

  “You never saw me burned yesterday, and you never saw me here today. If I ever have need to seek you out again, I will kill you.”

  My anger skyrocketed, breaking his hold on my mind. The pain and fear and adrenaline spiked through the mental fog, and I shouted, “You sick son of a bitch! If I ever see you again, I’ll stab you through your fu—”

  His gaze burned into mine again, and I drooped back into limp numbness. “Cassidy DiRocco, you encountered me neither here nor at the park!”

  Fuck! “I never encountered you.”

  “Someone tried to mug you at knifepoint on your way home from dinner with Meredith. He stabbed you in the shoulder. You used your pepper spray, he stabbed you once more, and then he ran off with nothing more than having spilled your sushi. Your shoulders will heal without medical attention.”

  “I was mugged, but I don’t need medical attention.” Dear God, I thought, he knows everyone I know and everywhere I’ve been.

  “There’s a good girl,” he growled. “Is anyone in your apartment at the moment? I would hate to leave you wandering the streets with armed muggers on the loose.”

  Yes, I have a six-foot-four, ex-linebacker husband and a trained, attack rottweiler waiting for me at home. “My apartment is empty,” I droned, wanting to tear out my own throat.

  He cocked his head slightly, no longer studying me but obviously studying something. He wasn’t breathing or moving or even blinking. I realized after a moment that he was listening.

  “Most people are eating in,” he commented. “Something you should perhaps consider in the future when it’s this late. Are you on the first, fourth, or fifth floor?”

  “Fifth,” I whispered. I couldn’t tremble because my
body was limp and pliant in his talons, but my heart clenched in a hard, shivering knot of dread. He was going to know where I lived. And I was going to be the one to tell him.

  “Does one of your windows face this alley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perfect,” he said, refocusing on me. His eyes bore into mine again when he spoke. “Tell me I may enter your apartment, and you may sleep.”

  “You may enter my apartment, and I may sleep,” I gritted out smartly, and my eyes slammed shut. My body completely sagged, boneless, suspended from the wall only by his talons. My mind, however, remained awake. I felt the man dislodge his fingers from my upper arms and catch me against the front of his body. His claw-like hand pressed firmly at the small of my back, clamping me to him. He crouched forward for a moment. My head lolled back. The rattling hiss in his chest intensified, and I felt his breath move over my throat, the side of my neck, behind my ear. He smelled inexplicably like Christmas, like soft pine next to a hearth. His teeth grazed the slow, calm beat of my pulse. In my mind, I screamed and fought and died with my spirit and dignity intact. In reality, I lay bent back over his arm, immobile and defenseless.

  The man suddenly sprang from his crouch. My stomach bottomed out from the movement, and I felt a swift rush of wind against my face as if he’d leapt into the air, but gravity did not pull us back down. I heard the quick slide of a window opening and smelled the vanilla lime scent of the candles in my fifth-story apartment bedroom. His footsteps tapped on my hardwood floors, and I realized that the man must be wearing dress shoes. How his shoes could ever matter after all this, I didn’t know; I just found the thought of him wearing dress shoes, like his voice, at odds with the sheer animal of the man himself.

  He laid my body down on the bed. My head dropped at an uncomfortable angle that constricted my breathing. I heard myself wheeze. He cupped the nape of my neck and positioned my head on the pillow at a more natural angle. His fingernail scraped across my hairline to my neck. I felt his thumb caress the skin under my ear as he lingered.