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The body lay prone across the road, head resting across its outstretched arm. Its muzzle, human if you squinted through a kaleidoscope, had a pug nose; deep-set wrinkles and opened onto an interspecies mixture of teeth. The eyes were enlarged and the pupils constricted. The skin was dark, its fur short and ruddy over a wide scalp and sparsely furred bat ears. Dew coated its body. The abandoned gatehouse and dead flowers loomed some distance behind.
I hovered a few steps behind Caelan, holding my elbows because there was no holding his hand. “We’re safe?”
Rocks crunched underfoot as the sheriff paced ahead toward the creature. “Stand where you are and you will be.”
Crickets and nocturnal insects buzzed through spidery branches. Sparing a longing glance at the truck, I bucked up and strode alongside him, cursing every so often as my bare foot discovered a sharp pebble. He glanced over his shoulder at me, eyebrows raised.
“Piggyback? Promise I’ll be gentle on the dismount.”
I frowned but accepted.
When we reached the corpse illuminated in the headlights, Caelan put me down. Crouching, he set two fingers into the gloss of fur covering the werewolf’s throat.
“Touch,” the sheriff said in soft request, reaching for my hand. While he seemed confident its clouded eyes wouldn’t roll nor its jaws clamp around his arm with a shark’s blind fury, I was hesitant. But the assurance of his grip and a "deader than disco, trust me" was enough to lure a couple of my fingers toward its neck.
“Swear to God, if you scare me—”
“You’re both victims, Marcy. I wouldn’t.”
I believed the sentiment in his eyes and pressed my fingers against one bulging, cold vein. “Damn! Didn’t realize you had to break through ice to crawl outta hell.”
“Cold, damp bodies upon demonic departure: these particular spirits were dredged from the seafloor,” he began. “They serve L’enfer Requins, a religious organization built of muddied waters and shark’s teeth. Their high priest is known as the Second Head. I believe he was the 'devil' that young man claimed to have seen.”
“Who’s the First Head?”
“The thing that spoke through the kid.”
“A demon? Demons know details, right?”
“Think of them as mentalists with access to an undead search engine. They know more than you, but require references to succeed. I’ve been tracking this thing for a while. Not sure what it is, but it’s got some demonic tendencies.”
He retrieved gloves for both of us from the truck and had me angle a flashlight at its mouth. The light flickered in my palm. I gave the batteries a tentative shake.
“What are you looking for?”
“Signature.” Caelan grabbed the werewolf by its hairy chin and pushed back first the upper then lower lip. “Note the stitching on the forearm, Marcy. Reattached after death, fungal growth between stitches; this fellow died elsewhere. Appears to be a hyena variant, none of which belong to Talon or Metacombet.”
I felt embarrassed for not recognizing the animal influence, but kept quiet and listened.
“The inside lip is a popular inscription choice for golems, homunculi and the controlled dead.”
He tipped the werehyena’s snout, and, holding its tongue flat, pried the jaws wide. A piece of burlap no larger than a tea bag had been pinned to the soft palate. Caelan reached inside and peeled the fabric away. Translucent flakes glittered in the corpse’s throat.
“Fish scales, bone dust, and octopus powder,” he explained, lifting the slimed burlap. “The Second Head strikes deals with a certain type of demon, in this case an ancient follower of a deity long dead or dormant, so he uses a particular potpourri to attract them.”
Under the truck’s headlights it was easy to recognize the anatomical human heart similar to what had been painted on Stephen’s tail. Paying more attention, I noted tentacles in place of the aorta and arteries.
“Patches mark bodies for a higher class of demonic possession, one capable of commanding its brethren and sharing control with a necromancer. Without a mark, a necromancer can invite spirits in, but it’s more a case of whatever’s meanest and closest gaining possession. The necromancer can’t speak through them, and there’s no guarantee whatever moves in will listen to its raiser. Every Halloween our department’s plagued with calls from morons who thought it’d be a good idea to bring someone back from the dead, come to find out what returned isn’t the person and they can’t be controlled. Necromancers, the dangerous ones, strike deals with powerful demons beforehand and use the patch to draw it into the body.”
“James was alive. He couldn’t have had a patch, could he?”
“James troubles me,” Caelan admitted, bagging the evidence. “Once something moves in, it’s near impossible to give it the boot, unless it wants to leave or the magic breaks. Necromancers climb inside the dead, not the living. Hence why killing James brought the demon to the forefront, but—”
“—there was a noticeable difference between the first time he rose and the second.”
“Exactly. Reckon the Second Head could’ve promised the kid he’d survive his wounds if he wore the patch and spouted whatever tale he was instructed, but the kid was hiding in a box. We’ll need to recover his body to even entertain that possibility.” He sealed the bag shut. “It’s rare, but a strong enough demon could have clawed the lesser spirit out of the body and taken its place. A patch would strengthen the odds. Should’ve snagged his head, but I was saving my teeth for you.”
