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Hands and legs bound perimortem. Similar defensive wounds. Matching soil composition. Relatively small age range between sixteen and thirty-five. Postmortem burns on areas of the body that are commonly tattooed.
I’m equally disturbed by what I’ve stumbled upon and exhilarated, like a shark smelling blood. I know my moral compass does not point due north. It’s one of the reasons I decided to go into private and research pathology instead of law enforcement. I live in the gray zone. Being raised by the most dangerous and deadly man in Latin America tends to have that effect. But, hey, I should at least get points for self-awareness.
The one thing that varies, and perhaps why the police haven’t caught on yet, is the method of killing. There are women who were killed by strangulation, both manual and ligature, who were stabbed by multiple weapons, and others with only one clean, deep cut across the throat. Many are simply beaten to death.
But there’s not a single gunshot wound in any of the files. Most murders are committed—accidentally or not—with a gun, making these starkly different. It could be that guns and bullets can be easier to trace, but I don’t think that’s it.
Whoever is doing this isn’t interested in death. They are interested in killing.
I’m scrolling through images of the burned tattoos when something jumps out to me, turning my blood to ice. I may not have noticed if I saw each picture on their own, but together…I’m certain.
I have to see for myself.
Luckily, one of the bodies hasn’t been put in the field yet. I head to our outdoor research area, nearly running through the halls. It always amuses me how similar these hallways are to hospitals, even though all of our patients are already dead.
I have to walk through the field to our frozen storage. The acres of land that surround the institute are where the bulk of our research takes place. I pass Wrap Row, a section where bodies are wrapped in different materials—tarp, carpet, plastic garbage bags—to study the differences in decomposition. The more unique traits that are discovered, the more accurately the police can learn where, when, and how a body was killed.
But sometimes we have too many bodies and not enough active studies or research hands. The ones that don’t get put into the field right away are kept in cold storage until it’s their time. The sounds of the forest, bird calls and insect chirps, give way to the constant hum of the generator when I step into the freezer building.
I find the cabinet I’m looking for and wrap my hand around the cold metal handle, not entirely sure which answer I am hoping for. As I open it and slide the steel body tray out, my heart pounds steadily in my chest, feeling heavier with each beat. The sound seems to fill the quiet place.
Despite the purple hue that the near-frozen corpse has taken on, I can tell her skin was once a tanned shade of light brown like mine. It only makes the remnants of the tattoo on her chest even more strikingly familiar. While this one only shows the bottom edge of the ink, with the rest unintelligible from the burn, the other one I saw on the computer was the top edge.
I would never have been able to realize they were fragments of the same design if I didn’t have a matching one unmarred on my own skin.
A knot tightens painfully in my chest as I whisper into the room filled with corpses, “Oh, Papá, what have you done?”
1. Anthropocene by KR3TURE
Chapter 2
Blood-Hungry
Roan
My finger traces the condensation on the smooth, cold glass in my hand that’s resting on the arm of the leather couch. My nostrils flare in aggravation when a fresh blast of smoke wraps around the stage and the noxious smell floats to our VIP area. Finn was supposed to be training Lochlan on how to take over the management of Peaches, our gentlemen’s club, but now that he’s playing house in the country all shacked up, it’s fallen on me.
I make a mental note to take a sledgehammer to the smoke machine when I leave. Which I would like to do soon. Lochlan’s practically grown up in this club, so I don’t have anything new to teach him. But my skin feels hot and too tight, my constant simmering rage getting dangerously close to boiling over. I need a fucking release.
This feeling isn’t easily sated. It’s not something alcohol can take the sting off of. It feels like a live grenade is settled between my ribcage. It dangles off a rib by the pin, and with one small jostle the pin will be pulled. The smallest thing could set me off. I can blame my father for this hair trigger since he fostered it in all of us. He wanted his boys to be volatile and reckless because it also meant we were violent and ruthless.
I’ll never be able to get rid of it, but I’ve become better at recognizing when I’m about to reach my limit. Throwing the grenade before it detonates inside me.
I scan the floor of Peaches. Our best dancers are on the stage right now, and the place is packed. It’s filled with bored, suburban husbands who are desperate to live out their fantasies with one of the girls sliding down the pole.
Commotion by the bar catches my attention and my spine straightens, itching for a fight. My hands are already curling into fists. I quickly deflate when I realize it’s some preppy motherfucker who can’t handle his liquor and Dex is already escorting him out.
Well, if I can’t beat someone to a pulp…I turn my blood-hungry gaze to the pack of women dancing up on each other right outside the velvet rope cornering off our area. I recognize some of them. They don’t work here, but are always here vying for our attention. Their hands skate up and down one another’s hips, but their eyes are desperately trying to lock with one of ours. I’d prefer to break some unlucky bastard’s nose, but I guess a quick and hard fuck will work just the same.
I lock eyes with a redhead, and she attempts to bashfully drop her hooded gaze. When she raises her eyes again, I recline on the couch, spreading my legs. My arms drape across the back and curl my finger, beckoning her over.1
She bites her lip while sashaying toward me and away from her friends, who give her excited looks. Alfie looks back to me for approval when she reaches the rope, and I give him a nod to let her in. She strides over to me on long, toned legs that I wouldn’t mind seeing thrown over my shoulder while I fuck her…Or maybe I’ll just bend her over the armrest right here and take her without having to look at her face or fight off her attempts to kiss me.
I don’t need to bother telling her my name. She knows exactly who I am and what I could do for her—if she were more than just a means to an end. Everything’s a transaction in this world. It’s why she’s spent all night dancing in front of us. I have something she wants—money, power—and she has something I want, at least for the night.
She sways in front of me like a newborn deer on her high heels, a purple satin dress draping over her curves, but just barely. I bet I could see her pussy if I moved the fabric just an inch. “Hey, I’m Madison.”
I look to the side, dragging my knuckles across my jaw as if I’ve already forgotten she’s here. Turning back to her, I take a slow sip from my glass, letting my gaze bore into her over the rim. “I didn’t ask.”
