Page 20 of Dropping Like Flies

I got it. He didn’t want anyone else’s blood tainting his crime scene. Completely understandable. Luckily for him, I wasn’t in the habit of spreading it around. Even the relatives of loved ones brought back for one last conversation weren’t grateful enough that they’d ignore blood on their cream carpets. Not when they’d already paid a small fortune for the service.

Tension filled the room as I drew the sigil over the victim’s heart with my blood. It wasn’t crucial, but that and the candles positioned at ley lines sped the entire process up and meant I could call on energy that wasn’t my own. And I was keen to get this done and get out of here. Very keen.

Chapter Eight

Ben

I might have known the basics of what Griffin did and how he did it—we’d once had an unusual line in pillow talk—but knowing it and seeing it first-hand were two very different things. His efficiency in setting everything up surprised me. It didn’t fit with the new jaded version of Griffin that had come crashing back into my life. I’d known his sister’s death had changed him. It was impossible not to when it had caused our split. But I’d hoped time would heal him, rather than leave him as a mere husk of the man I’d once known. One who used alcohol as a crutch.

The drawing of the symbol on Rupert’s chest threw me, its presence a little too similar to the ones drawn on the wall, and I found myself comparing them. Both drawn in blood. Both with a circle as its base.

“What’s the purpose of that?” I asked.

Griffin answered without looking up. “It’s a message.”

“A message to whom?” This time he did look up, his expression saying I could have picked a better time. “Humor me.”

“A message to those beyond the veil that I want a temporary loan of the soul. I could tell them that, but it’s easier and quicker this way.”

Interesting! I pondered it for a moment. If the one Griffin drew was a message, then it was likely the ones on the wall were too. The question was who it was aimed at, and why? I needed to push harder to get them looked at if this didn’t go as well as we hoped. Lou could do it. Make his desk time count. Fucker would get lazy if I didn’t keep him busy.

I held my breath as Griffin crouched next to the victim and extended his gloved palm toward the symbol he’d drawn. He stopped before he made contact, his fingers hovering above Rupert’s skin. “What’s wrong?”

“The hands,” he said flatly. “If this works, he’s going to see that someone has removed all his fingers and freak out. You’ll be lucky to get anything but screams out of him.”

“Shit!” I should have thought of that myself. “Towels,” I said, as I carefully stepped over Rupert to access the small bathroom. The space was unremarkable. Tiny, like most bathrooms in London were unless you had loads of money to throw around, with white bathroom furniture. A shelf contained the usual things you’d expect to find in a man’s bathroom: shaving foam, deodorant, and an electric razor. Even though I wore gloves, I was careful not to touch anything as I grabbed all the towels off the rack.

“You can’t,” Patrick said as I reappeared. I ignored his protests as I dropped to my knees and placed towels over Rupert’s body—one large towel to cover his crotch, and two smaller towels to cover what remained of his hands.

“Jesus!” Patrick said in the background. “This is fucking ridiculous. Whoever allowed this needs to take a long hard look at themselves and their morals. And I’ll be happy to tell them that if I ever find out who it is.”

Griffin threw a look in Patrick’s direction, his jaw tight. “I can’t do this with him mouthing off. I need to concentrate.”

I sighed. “Right.” Standing, I went over to Patrick. The forensic pathologist had the look of a caged animal, one who desperately wanted to pace, but couldn’t because he knew he’d disrupt the crime scene even more. Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place. I lay a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look at me. “We know you don’t like this. Trust me, we get it. But it’s happening and either you accept that or you need to step outside until we’re done.”

Patrick’s chin lifted in a show of defiance. “I’m not leaving.”

“Then…” I tamped down on the urge to finish that sentence with shut the fuck up, summoning some diplomacy from the depths of my soul instead. Patrick wasn’t the only one who was tense. I was tense. Hell, even Griffin was tense. Patrick might not be able to tell, but I knew that man inside and out, and all the telltale signs were there.

I patted Patrick’s shoulder, resisting the urge to curl my fingers around it and dig my nails in, but barely. “Just… let us get on with it, please. The quicker it’s done, the quicker we can all get out of here. Hopefully to arrest the bastard who did this.”

Conflict raged on Patrick’s face for a few seconds before he finally gave a tight nod. I spun on my heel and returned to Griffin, crouching back at his side. He waited for sixty seconds of silence from Patrick before continuing, a miracle occurring and it happening. Tension built as Griffin pressed his palm to the symbol on Rupert’s chest. I’d expected words, but if he said any, he kept them in his head. Probably wise, given Patrick’s earlier mumbo jumbo comment.

Griffin’s eyes were closed, his breathing steady. In contrast, my chest felt like someone had wrapped a rubber band around it. A very thick and tight rubber band that made even the slightest breath difficult. A couple of minutes ticked by, each second seeming to last a lifetime. Should something have happened by now? I should have questioned Griffin more before we got here, found out what the process entailed, how long it took, and whether the subject came back slowly or all at once. It would have been a better use of time than sniping at him about his alcohol abuse.

Just as the atmosphere in the room reached breaking point, Griffin opened his eyes and rocked back on his heels. “It’s not working with the glove on. I need skin to skin contact.”

Patrick started forward, but it was already too late, Griffin ripping the glove off and pressing his bare palm to the victim’s skin. I shot Patrick a glare that warned him not to kick up a fuss.

“I’ll need his fingerprints,” he mumbled with his eyes glued to Griffin. “To discount him from the investigation.”

I conceded the point with a slight nod. “I’ll make sure it’s done. You’ll have them by tomorrow at the latest.”

And then the whole waiting game began again, my heart doing its best to beat right out of my chest. When I’d been told about this, I hadn’t realized the impact it would have on me. It had seemed so easy. Bring the victim back. Get the details of what had happened. Arrest the perpetrator. But this was anything but easy. This was reanimating a badly mutilated man who should have had his whole life ahead of him. A man who’d had hopes and dreams, and presumably ambitions. A family. Friends. Now, someone had ripped it all away from him. And for what? Because someone had wanted his damn fingers. For what purpose? And why him? Had they picked him for a reason, or was it nothing but bad luck that had placed him in the killer’s sights? Did the end really justify the means here? Maybe I should have put my foot down and refused to play any part in this. Maybe Patrick was right.

“His heart’s beating.”

I jumped at the sound of Griffin’s voice, so lost in thought that I’d forgotten to watch Rupert for signs of life. I focused on his face, the pallid white of his complexion slowly infusing with color, and muscle tone returning to replace the slackness. His eyes were still closed, but he’d started to breathe shallowly.