Shadow Hunter (The Execution Underground) (5 page)

Without a word, Damon pulled the car to a stop outside Golisano Hospital.

She raised a brow. “What are we doing here?”

He turned to face her. “Would you cooperate more if I said I’m working a case and you could help me as long as you listen to my instructions?”

“I’d be more inclined than when you’re ordering me around for no reason.”

He fixed her with a hard stare before he exited the car. Once he pressed the unlock button, she scrambled after him, eager for more information. She’d never been part of an official case before. She’d only worked to avenge her family’s deaths, and always alone. Sure, she’d killed other vamps in the process, helping one innocent soul or another, but she had never worked a case.

Apparently there was a first time for everything.

CHAPTER 4

D
EAD
WAS
AN
awful smell to get used to. The scent of formaldehyde hit Damon’s nose as he and Tiffany walked into the morgue. After a few calls to the E.U. in order to clear things with security, they were able to enter the room with ease. The reflective silver surfaces and sharp sterilized instruments laid out on tray tables made the room as cold as the chilled air around them. She coughed and covered her face with her sleeve. Though Damon was new to working on his own, he’d shadowed some of the world’s most elite vampire slayers for the past several years. The smell of dead bodies no longer churned his stomach.

But the thought of all the children in the silver drawers lining the walls
did.

There was nothing worse than working on a case involving children. The fact that Jane Doe was on the older side of childhood didn’t make it any easier. So much for sweet sixteen.

He walked to the small coroner’s desk in the corner and riffled through the files. There was bound to be more than one Jane Doe in the morgue, but only one with the type of extensive damage they were looking for.

Tiffany cleared her throat, still wiping desperately at her nose as if she were trying to erase the smell. “Do you know who we’re looking for?”

He continued searching through the stacks of papers without answering. She had to be somewhere near the top. He noticed a freshly printed page sticking out of a manila folder. He pulled at the edge. The header of the report identified Jane Doe by her extensive mutilation. This was not going to be pleasant.

“Damon,” she said again.

He turned toward her with the paper in hand. “Yeah, I know.”

Reading over the IDs, he matched the number on the report to the corresponding label on a drawer. He placed his hand on the cold metal handle as Tiffany walked to his side.

He nodded toward the drawer. “Don’t watch this.”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. I don’t have a weak stomach.”

“There are some things nobody should have to see.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and planted her feet firmly.

He let out a long sigh. “Suit yourself.” He pulled open the drawer and fought not to gag.

Immediately Tiffany ran to the small wastebasket near the coroner’s desk and hurled. Damon didn’t blame her one bit. He stared down at the unidentifiable body as anger built inside him. Even if they’d found an ID, it would have been next to impossible to identify this girl, and no parent deserved to see their child like this. A large, gaping hole took the place of her face. The lips, eyes and mouth were gone, like some gruesome figure in a haunted house or a B horror film.

As if the facial mutilation wasn’t enough, several sets of fang-size holes marred her neck and collarbone. From the heavy purpled bruising, they were evidence of the M.O.D.—method of death: exsanguinations. Damon had stopped hoping for the existence of a higher power long ago, but, damn, he prayed the mutilation had occurred after she’d already been drained. The thought of her suffering from the injuries to her face as a vampire slowly bled her out was more than even he could handle. Every inch of his being longed to kill the sick bastard who’d done this. The worthless piece of shit deserved to die a slow, painful and torturous death. And he intended to make sure that happened.

He carefully examined the holes on her neck. There was no mistaking it. Her wounds were definitely fang marks, the exact shape and width of the average vampire’s canine teeth. Walking to the coroner’s cabinet, he searched until he found three cotton swabs and the containers used for sending away samples for DNA analysis. He traced one around the edge of her fang bites, another near the edges of her facial wounds and the third over a small speck of dried blood on her cheek. He capped all three samples and glanced down at the body.

A feeling of disgust hit him. Desecrating the poor girl’s corpse was the last thing he wanted to do at that moment, but he couldn’t risk her turning into a vampire within one month’s time. He needed to take preemptive measures to ensure she wouldn’t turn, the measures he should have taken with Mark. Pulling his stake from inside his coat, he placed it over her heart. He closed his eyes, inhaled a deep breath and thrust the stake downward.

He opened his eyes again. Dry bloodless flesh, but otherwise there was no reaction. He let out a long sigh of relief. It was bad enough she’d been murdered by a vampire, but thank God she hadn’t turned in the process. Bile rose in his throat as he thought of Mark being one of those bloodsuckers. Of Mark killing humans to fuel his own immortality. Because once turned, there was no fighting the change, and for the first year a vampire’s blood thirst raged so hard that all the self-control in the world wouldn’t aid him.

Removing the stake from her heart, he pulled his cleaning rag from his pocket, wiped off the lacquered wood and placed the stake inside his jacket again, then closed the drawer, sealing the corpse inside, and walked to Tiffany’s side.

Tiffany lifted her head from the trash bin. Shoving her hair away from her face, she inclined her head toward the drawer. “Is it closed now?”

Damon nodded. “Yeah, let’s go.”

She shot out of the morgue and toward the car as if someone had lit a fire under her ass. Judging by her pale white face, she was more than a little spooked. She didn’t speak again until she slid into the passenger seat.

“I thought you had a strong stomach,” he said as he slid behind the wheel.

She shook her head. “I thought so, too.”

Damon wasn’t surprised. Regular people thought being immune to motion sickness constituted a strong stomach. Dealing with the dead was different. She would need to toughen up for med school, if that was still her goal. She’d been prepping for her studies when they’d last communicated, several months ago. He opened his mouth to comment, but caught himself.

Do not go there, Damon.

He shifted the car into Drive and paused to plan out his next move. Getting the samples into the headquarters database via his personal analysis equipment before the evidence could be comprised needed to be his first priority.

Within a few seconds they were back on the street, and he sped away from the hospital.

She slumped against the headrest and closed her eyes. “Where are we going now?”

He held back a string of profanities. Sending off the samples meant taking her to his place. What the hell would Mark say if he knew he was taking Tiffany home with him? His hands tightened on the steering wheel. The image of her lying across the black Egyptian cotton sheets of his bed sent his sexual imagination into overdrive.

No. Nothing would result from her being in his home, near his bed. He owed Mark that respect. “To my apartment.”

She let out a long sigh. “What for?”

Damon shifted into gear. “To analyze the samples.”

When they reached the Temple Building on Franklin Street, Tiffany’s eyes widened.

“Holy guacamole! You live in the Temple Lofts?” Her eyes scanned the tall brick building. “Very nice.”

He didn’t respond.

She gave a slight laugh. “That’s definitely not where I expected you to live. I mean, obviously, driving this Beamer, I’d be stupid to think you didn’t have some dough, but dang. My little hellhole of a college apartment is nothing compared to this.”

Damon slid out of the car and slammed the door. Tiffany followed suit.

He led the way to the entrance as she trailed behind him. Several minutes later they were on the third floor. He unlocked his door and flipped on the lights.

Tiffany followed him into the two-story loft apartment. Her face lit up. She glanced at the twenty-five-foot-high ceiling, clearly admiring the open staircase and the high quality furniture. Mostly black, white and tan. He’d gone for muted but classy, not to mention that he prided himself on keeping his apartment virtually spotless.

“Wow. Very impressive.” She walked to the skyline window and studied the lights of the city.

Damon closed the door behind him and locked the deadbolt. “What were you expecting?”

She spun to face him. “Huh?”

“You said this wasn’t what you expected from me. What
did
you expect?” He stripped his jacket off and laid it on the kitchen island.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess something a little bit...rougher around the edges.”

He removed the Desert Eagle from the back of his pants and placed it on the counter.

* * *

T
HE
LARGE
SILVER
gun thunked as it hit the countertop. Rough around the edges? Try jagged on every corner.

He watched as Tiffany ran her hand over the banister of the wooden staircase.

“If you’re a member of the Execution Underground, what are you doing in Rochester?”

Damon froze for a moment, but then forced himself to relax. He kept his back to her and managed to speak evenly. If she knew he was responsible for her brother’s death, she’d never trust him. Sure, there were other reasons for hunting Caius, but he knew how sharp Tiffany was. He would need a damn good excuse to make her think he had absolutely no connection to her brother, much less any knowledge of his death. Keeping his mouth shut was the best option.

He walked to the refrigerator and pretended to search for something to drink. “Who said I was a member of anything?” He grabbed a bottle of water and closed the fridge. After chugging down the water in a few quick swigs, he turned to her again.

She rolled her eyes. “Look, my brother was one of you, okay? I understand how you guys are with keeping your secrets, never admitting your true occupation to anyone, blah, blah, blah, but there’s nothing to hide here.” She shrugged as if secret international networks of lethal hunters chasing the supernatural were no big deal. “I already know the Execution Underground exists, so why the tight lip?”

He recapped the now-empty plastic bottle and placed it on his countertop. “Organization or not, I don’t make a habit of sharing my personal life—with anyone.”

She gestured to the large open space around them. “Uh...I’m in your apartment. How’s that for
personal?
”

He smashed the empty water bottle with his palm. Man, she drove him up a wall with the nonstop questions. But what wouldn’t he give to throw her over his shoulder and carry her up to his bedroom. Maybe in another life.

Another life where he wasn’t a worthless excuse for a hunting partner, where his mistakes didn’t cause innocent people to get killed and where the deaths of more than one person didn’t rest on his shoulders. Mark could have gone after Caius without the need for a transfer, closing in much sooner than Damon could. And any extra time meant bodies piling higher.

“There’s no division of the Execution Underground in Rochester. I know that because otherwise my brother would have worked here. So why are you here?”

He took the samples from his coat pocket and walked toward the tech room. It had been meant as nothing more than a bedroom, but it hadn’t even taken him two days to hardwire everything in place. His own personal contact with headquarters.

“Stay here.”

She shot him a scathing look before she marched to the other side of the room and flopped on to the white leather couch.

Certain she was firmly planted in place, he slipped down the short hall to the tech room. He punched in several series of codes to unlock the door and stepped inside. The wall was lined with monitors of all shapes and sizes. The highest-end technology headquarters could supply him with was all contained within this one room. It was a tech nerd’s wet dream.

Damon dropped into the desk chair and typed several numbers on the keyboard. The monitor rang like a telephone until a small beep confirmed that Chris had answered the other line. Seconds later his face appeared on one of the monitors.

Chris’s expression was one of concern. “Hey, Damon. How you holding up?”

Damon held up the three samples. “I need these processed as fast as possible. If I load them into the DNA analysis machine, can you connect with my database and look them over?”

“Yeah, sure. Though...want to trade jobs? I’d rather be an assassin.”

Damon fought back a small smirk as he rolled his chair to the opposite wall and carefully loaded the specimens into the scanner, which processed the data instantly, locking the genetic code into Damon’s control system. Only the technological abilities of the Pentagon and the CIA rivaled those of the Execution Underground, and even they sometimes fell short.

“The samples are from the latest victim. One blood culture, one saliva analysis and one unknown.” He fixed Chris with a hard look. “Looked like the killer
ate
the body. Ate it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the bloodsucker ate it.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “Like a zombie?”

“Sure, whatever you want to call it. But vampire, zombie or who knows what, I don’t care what it is. I just want to know who and where it is so I can stake it straight through the heart.”

Chris focused on one of his monitors and typed at full speed. “The blood looks normal, nothing unusual about it. But the saliva and the unknown, I’m going to have to get back to you on those. There’s something off about them.”

“Off like how?”

“Like there’s a different genetic marker that’s screwing up the whole code. They don’t look anything like normal.” Chris pounded away at his keys. “Are all these from the victim on the far side of Franklin Street?”

Damon gripped the arms of his chair like a vice. “What do you mean, the far side of Franklin Street?”

Chris stopped typing and looked at Damon through the screen. “The most recent killing ten minutes ago on the far side of Franklin Street. A P.D. informant tipped us off. He said he’d call you. He saw it on patrol, and he’s been holding off on calling the cops. I thought you said this was the most recent one? I—”

“I have to go.” Damon stood and jabbed at the keys, beginning to shut down his system. “Chris, I didn’t know about the newest killing and F.Y.I., I live on Franklin Street.”