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Squinting through tears, she pointed at the muted TV screen.
My stomach dropped. “Oh… oh my gods.”
The split-screen showed a journalist in front of Hartfall University’s grand marble steps. On the other side of the screen, the camera tilted up to show a figure tied to the flagpole. The silhouette stark against the dim early morning sky.
Dhalia’s blue eyes were wide and stunned. “It’s disgusting. Whoever did this is a monster.” She turned up the volume, cringing in disgust.
“… the victim has been identified as Benjamin Castile, son of President Ronan Castile, the very man who runs this school day-to-day. This gruesome scene was discovered by a human mage traveling to work at five-thirty this morning. He immediately called the police. He’s since told our city’s officers that when he’d spotted the scene, Castile’s wings were still summoned and, I quote, ‘still twitching.’ The details are unconfirmed, but there is reason to believe that Castile was still alive when he was placed on the pole. The young archangel’s eyes had been removed, and he suffered several deep wounds in his abdomen. All fingers on his left hand had been removed. Castile’s body has since been recovered with no statement yet from the coroner’s office. There’s no news on whether the school’s trials will begin on schedule as they were supposed to today, but we expect the university will release a statement soon.”
The screen shifted to the news anchors discussing the horrific murder.
I said, “Turn it off, Dhalia.”
She looked green. Out of the three of us, she had the weakest stomach for violence. The screen turned black, and Dhalia smashed Azra with a hug. “Why are people so mean?”
Azra pulled her partner in closer, her eyes on me.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled, already hearing her I told you this was too dangerous lecture. “I’m using the shower. It’ll be okay, Dhalia.” I patted her blonde head and strode to the bathroom.
Their stupid bead curtain slithered over my skin and smacked against the wall. I had to smooth them out before the door was able to shut properly.
Hippies.
What a shit way to start the morning. Not even hot water helped to clear my head. Images from the news report flashed in my mind. His eyes, his fingers, his stomach. This was a huge step up from the previous attacks. It felt systematic. Almost like the attacks slowly grew more and more severe, until… until what?
The killer gave into their worst urges? Lost control? Or was this the plan all along?
What was the purpose?
Where was the pattern?
The obsessive thoughts cycled and cycled, stuck in a manic loop.
For the rest of the morning, Azra’s eyes were on me. She didn’t stop watching, not even when we left for work or walked the few blocks. Not even as she searched for her cafe keys. Somehow she dug for them in her purse while pinning me with her feline gaze.
“You’re really annoying,” I informed her lovingly, chewing on a hangnail.
“I’m just worried—”
“Annoying,” I repeated with a pointed glare.
She faced off with me for a few seconds before relenting and turning her gaze to her bag, muttering, “Really, where the hell are they?”
I fought back a smirk and, on a whim, checked my surroundings for the stalker. What I found made my blood pressure spike to dangerous levels. “Motherfucker.”
I gently gripped Azra’s jaw and lifted her face to the window.
Inside the cafe, lounging on an overstuffed chair, sat the stalker. He observed us with his stupid, mocking smile and sipped from a coffee cup.
Dangling from his other fingers were the cafe keys.
Chapter Eight
Azra growled, “I hope the news is ready to report on another murder.”
I put a hand on her shoulder.
Her body tensed and shivered. But she didn’t turn around. “Pigeon… you shouldn’t talk to him. I know you said this was the last time, but I can’t let you.”
