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“Come on then.” Mrs. Officer swore under her breath. “Let’s get this nightmare started.”
* * *
Nightmare was an apt description of the scene that greeted us in the cramped bathroom.
The photos and video hadn’t prepared me for the putrid slap of air upon entering, a foul tang that didn’t remind me of death or decomposition so much as it coated the back of my throat with fetid black magic.
Hard to tell without another sampling, given the leg’s condition, but I felt certain the signature matched.
“What the hell are we looking at?” Mr. Officer was breathing through his mouth. “That ain’t right.” He pointed to the remains. “Whatever that is, it ain’t right.”
“Human flesh,” Asa supplied, kneeling beside the body as if seeing it for the first time. “It was cut from the victim in a spiraling motion, crown to toe, with no discernable break in stroke.”
“Are you serious?” Mrs. Officer cringed. “Like one of those spiralizers they sell for zucchini noodles?”
“Yes.” He pulled on a pair of gloves and lifted a thready blonde lock. “The hair on the scalp is intact.”
How he could tell was beyond me. From where I stood, I saw a heap of string. But I suppose it was uniform in length, if you pieced the sections together. Maybe he did that earlier, for him to sound so sure.
“We’re dealing with a professional.” I wedged myself against the sink. “They’ve had a lot of practice to peel it so perfectly. And by practice, I mean they’re a practitioner.” I indicated a nubby mass. “Even the individual toes and nails were preserved. I can’t see the fingers in that mess, but I’m guessing they’re the same. This is powerful black magic.”
“I’ve never heard of anything like this.” Mrs. Officer checked with her husband. “You?”
“No.” He shook his head. “This beats all I’ve ever seen.”
“We need to get the remains to a lab.” I would have preferred Black Hat handle it, but the cleaners were the next best thing. “Tell your people to determine her species first. That takes priority over COD.”
The cause of death would be a catastrophic use of black magic. Immunity to the spell was more pressing, and it reminded me. The park ranger was still MIA, but he must be here somewhere. Fort Sumter wasn’t that large. The Vandenburghs would need to question him and verify his species to flesh out my theory.
Before I forgot, I told them just that, ensuring the ranger didn’t slip through the cracks.
“How did the deckhand determine gender?” Mr. Officer squinted at the mess. “The hair?”
“Not the hair.” Mrs. Officer aimed a pointed glance at Asa. “Guys grow theirs out too.”
The vague gesture she made in his direction was enough to break me out in sweat. Though I didn’t want to swat her hand and risk an incident, I was sure she would prefer a quick smack to amputation via y’nai.
Those little boogers were crazy fast and utterly bloodthirsty when it came to defending their charges.
The creepiest part by far had to be, not their penchant for amputation, but their ability to go undetected until the precise moment some poor sucker touched his or my hair and earned a free hand removal.
“Good question.” I made a mental note to locate the deckhand and ask. “Tracy didn’t leave the boat. We were heading back early to check on her when he called out, ‘She’s dead.’” I fudged my story to cover for Asa’s earlier aquatic adventure. “She was already on my mind, so I jumped to the conclusion it was her.”
There. Totally plausible. Not at all like we had been sneaking around behind their backs.
“We’ve all been there,” Clay comforted me with a smirk. “Don’t beat yourself up over it.”
Right now, I was more interested in beating him up over helping me throw myself under the bus.
“The skin was moisturized,” Asa murmured, rubbing a curled length between his fingers. “The texture…” He flipped it inside out to show us. “It reminds me of tanned leather.” He flexed it. “It’s supple, smooth.”
“Are you saying the killer was wearing the teacher?” I pictured the mechanics, well, I tried to anyway. “It would be like wrapping yourself in an Ace bandage from head to toe. Except the seams would have to match exactly, and even then, one wrong move would unravel you, mummy-style.”
This was my chance to get a solid read on a victim for comparison, and I took it without permission.
Crouching beside Asa, I traced a crease—a knee maybe?—and the stain of black magic inked my fingers. I rose while rubbing my stinging hands, burdened with the certainty no simple black witch had done this.
No wonder Charleston had a black witch deficit. This proved they had their own dark arts practitioners.
