Storm of Sin - Patricia D. Eddy Page 0,11

few hours with your new partner, but have you told her anything about your past?”

He shakes his head, every muscle in his body strung so tight I swear he’s about to snap like a guitar string. “You know I do not like speaking of it. I have never told any partner.”

“Well, that ends now.” Eve presses a button at the corner of her desk, and the glass walls turn opaque, writing and images flaring to life all around the room. “Take a moment.”

Rising, I follow the progression of dates and photos of so many missing all across the country—pictures from their lives. Happy, smiling faces. In some, the women have shifted—or partially shifted—into their animal forms, and in others, they look completely human. Except for the eyes, I realize. Every single one of them has an otherworldly quality to their eyes. The men, however...they all look human. Dates and cities are scrawled under each photo.

January - New York City. Twelve dead. Nine women, three men. March - Chicago. Twelve dead. Nine women, three men. May - New Orleans. Twelve dead. Nine women, three men. Dallas, St. Paul, Salt Lake City, Las Vegas, Phoenix, Los Angeles.

Nine cities. Over a hundred women and twenty-seven men.

“And now, you think whoever did all this,” I wave my hand around the room, “is here in San Francisco? Why?”

“Because of the faery tattoo,” Eve says. She picks up a tablet, taps the screen a few times, and the images and notes on the walls change. Now, the dead aren’t so pretty. In many cases, they were only identified by DNA or dental records.

But in more than sixty percent of them, at least a partial tattoo was still visible on the body.

“Every ink sample is identical,” she says. “And imbued with powerful magic. Not that we understand what it does.

“I don’t know a lot about tattoos,” I say, “but there can’t be that many ink suppliers. I agree this seems like a high number, but are we sure—“

Sin clears his throat from the chair. He hasn’t looked at any of the photos. In fact, he’s staring straight ahead at the commander, and crimson rings his irises. “Shifters cannot be tattooed with regular ink, Zoe. The design will fade the moment they shift. It is their nature. That is very likely the purpose to the magic. Commander Eve was not talking about the chemical composition of the ink, but the magic infusing it.”

“Oh.” I look to Eve, and her blue eyes confirm Sin’s words. “And our shifter?”

“The labs won’t come back for another few hours,” she says with a frown. “The magical analysis unit has never been one to rush. Not even for a case like this. But the design matches the others, as do the visual qualities—which alone are quite unusual.”

“It must be him.” Sin rises and walks over to the far corner of the room to a photo of a dead woman lying in a heap. She wears only a pair of lace panties, her neck broken and her head twisted at an unnatural angle. Jabbing the wall over her back, he snarls, “These marks, along with the ink…they prove it.”

Joining him, I frown as I examine the broken lines of skin along the woman’s back. “They’re not standard whip marks, and today’s victim had these same triangular-shaped injuries.”

“That is because they are not from a ‘standard’ whip.” His tone turns harsh and rough. “May I?” he asks as he holds out his hand for the commander’s tablet.

She passes him the device, and he pulls up another photo. It looks a little like a thin, metal bar, but every two inches, there are other, odd protrusions almost shaped like triangles.

“What is that?” Sin rotates the image, and my stomach clenches. “Is that the letter T? In…cursive?”

“Yes. He calls himself Thorn. Part incubus, part something much, much stronger. He feeds off of fear, and he marks all of his victims so they can never forget they belong to him.” Sin rubs his shoulder, then drops the tablet back on the commander’s desk. “How long do we have?”

Eve frowns. “Unsure.”

“Do not give me that bullshit!” Rounding the desk, Sin gets right in her face. “They never deviate from their pattern. Not in over a thousand years. The men are taken every four days. A week to train them. Then, nine women, one every third night! How. Many. Missing. Women?”

With each word, the edge to Sin’s voice gets harder and harder, and I’m afraid he’s about to grab the