Page 66 of Claiming Chaos
Macey stopped and put her hands on her hips before shaking her head at her partner. “Traffic. What have we got?” After dropping her bag near a wall, she knelt to examine the alleged rapist’s body. A series of jagged, foot-long gashes stretched from chest to pelvic bone, almost as if it had taken three slashes with the blade to lay the guy open. The pupils were dilated—the blood-red eyes frozen in a look of surprised terror.
“Victim’s over there.” Bryce gestured with his head to a stone bench near the common’s entrance. A green-eyed redhead sat, wrapped in a stiff blanket, giving a statement to a uniform. “Same story as the others. Difference is, this time…there’s evidence.”
Macey followed his gaze to the body that lay before her. “Unless it was a sloth, I don’t see how a dog or a bear could’ve done this with only three nails. Look here.” She traced her gloved hand along each rip in the flesh. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Bryce crossed his arms. “No, it doesn’t. But this is the first time the attacker is actually still at the scene.”
“I know.” Macey pulled off her gloves and dropped them in a trash bag. “Let’s talk to the victim.”
“Shall we?” Bryce motioned with his hands, and Macey took the lead. The uniform had finished his questioning, and the woman sat alone, shivering in the sweltering August heat. Funny how shock could do that to a body.
Her dark green blanket slipped off one slumped shoulder, revealing a black T-shirt with a restaurant name embroidered on the breast. The woman inhaled a shaky breath as Macey approached, but she didn’t lift her gaze from the cobblestone path.
Macey sat on the edge of the bench, the cool stone taming the Louisiana summer. Bryce leaned against the wall behind her.
“Hey there. I’m Detective Macey Carpenter, but you can call me Macey.”
The redhead sniffled and wiped her eyes.
Macey folded her hands in her lap. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Amy. Couldn’t you read that in your report?” Her sarcasm didn’t mask the fear in her voice. She wiped her eyes again and stared straight ahead.
Macey’s chest tightened. She’d dealt with her own personal grief, so she could imagine what this poor woman was going through. Although, Macey had spent more than her fair share of time in denial, and Amy seemed to have skipped that stage and plowed straight into anger. “I could have looked at the report, but I’d rather hear it from you. You know…since you were here and all. I want to help.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Amy wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders, her bobbed hair swishing forward to cover her face as she stared at the ground. “Everyone says they want to help, but when you tell the truth, do they believe you?” She blinked at Macey. “Hell no, they don’t. And why am I not in the hospital? I was raped, for Pete’s sake. Just because some…thing saved me and killed the asshole, I have to be questioned first? What? You think I killed him? I didn’t, but believe me, if I could’ve…I would’ve in a heartbeat. Men like that don’t deserve to live.”
Macey took a deep breath. She understood anger. Resentment. Desperation. Those feelings were nothing new to her, though she’d buried them long ago. And though they rarely reared their ugly heads anymore, she still hadn’t mastered acceptance. “What thing saved you, Amy? Was it an animal?”
Amy scoffed. “Animal. Man. Alien. It doesn’t matter. No one believes me anyway.”
Macey placed her hand on Amy’s. “I believe you. Trust me. I’ve been on the trail of this thing for weeks. You aren’t the first victim to tell me this story, but you are the first to have evidence. Please…I need you to tell me everything.”
Amy took a deep breath and looked her square in the eyes. Holding her gaze, Macey gave her all the trust and reassurance she could without words. Amy exhaled and slumped her shoulders. “Okay. I’ll tell you.”
* * *
As Luke Mason stepped through the door of O’Malley’s Pub, a curtain of cool, crisp air blasted his sweat drenched skin. At ninety-eight degrees and one hundred percent humidity, the Vieux Carré felt more like a Dutch oven than a French Quarter. He closed his eyes and let the coolness soothe his aching limbs as he entered the building. The low ceiling and bare brick walls were typical of the nineteenth-century structures in the Quarter. Shaded lights hung from exposed beams, casting a smoky glow over the bar.
He sat on a stool and took a long, refreshing gulp of the Blue Moon beer that sat ready on the counter, waiting for him.
“Rough day at the office?” Chase, the bartender, cocked his head toward the scar across Luke’s bicep. Luke looked at his arm and shrugged. The thin, raised scab had been a gash two hours ago.
“Piece of scaffolding jumped out and got me. No biggie.” He downed the rest of his beer and asked for another.
“Well, if that’s all.” Chase set down the mug he was polishing and poured another Blue Moon. At six foot one, he stood several inches shorter than Luke, but his height didn’t make him any less of a fighter. If Luke trusted anyone to have his back no matter what, it would be him. An intricate series of tattoos sleeved Chase’s arms, and he sported piercings in his ears and eyebrow.
Luke’s only tattoo occupied his right shoulder. A fleur-de-lis designed from a wolf head signified his allegiance to the pack. The star in the center symbolized his bloodline—a direct descendent of the first family. And he wasn’t just a descendent; he was next in line for pack leader. He finished his beer and slid the empty glass to his friend.
“What are you gonna do about James?” Chase placed the glass in the sink.
Luke wiped his hand down his face. “Is he back there?”
Chase nodded. With his hands on the bar, Luke heaved himself from the stool and shuffled toward the back room. He chuckled at the sign on the door—Employees and Werewolves Only—written in marker on a piece of cardboard. It came about as a joke from the customers—that his father, with his long, salt-and-pepper beard and almost-furry arms, looked like a wolf-man. They didn’t know how right they were.
The Crescent City Wolf Pack—at two hundred members strong and growing—was the sixth largest in the nation. Werewolves tended to congregate in towns with immense wooded areas. While New Orleans itself consisted of more city than forest, the vast swamp lands surrounding the area made for prime hunting grounds. And for tough wolves.
Hunting gators wasn’t any easier than it looked on television. While a bite rarely killed a werewolf, it sure hurt like hell. But the thrill of the hunt was worth double the pain. What other choice did they have? Nutria? The beaver-sized swamp rats satisfied the hunger, but they did nothing for the rush. Deer were abundant—and fun to chase—but nothing beat the thrill of hunting gators. They made worthy opponents.