To Kill the Dead (Hollowcliff Detectives Book 3) Read online

  To Kill the Dead

  Hollowcliff Detectives book 3

  C.S. Wilde

  TO KILL THE DEAD Copyright © 2020 by C.S. Wilde

  HOLLOWCLIFF DETECTIVES Copyright © 2019 by C.S. Wilde

  ISBN: 9798676151683

  ASIN: B081WZG5WL

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialog are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter 1

  Rushed breaths rang in Mera’s ears and sweat beaded on her forehead as she sprinted down the sidewalk, dodging passersby and pushing people aside.

  “We never catch a damn break, do we?” she shouted without looking up to the faerie flying ten feet above her, but she followed his shadow on the concrete.

  “Hard to say,” Bast replied in her head, using their mind link. “Given our history, it seems we’re magnets for trouble.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  Huffing, she tried to catch the culprit darting through the crowds ahead. The asshole was fast, and Clifftown’s packed streets certainly didn’t help.

  Mera had spent years in the academy training to be a detective. Years. Every investigator in the city went through the same arduous, pain-in-the-neck process, and yet, there they were, chasing a lunatic who’d just bitten off a woman’s face.

  Not a detective’s job.

  They’d barely gotten off the train to Clifftown when they’d seen it happen. Since they were the only police officers around, they had to go after him. Just their luck; not even five minutes back home, and already they were chasing a random criminal.

  They should have arrived at the precinct by now to start their new investigation. In fact, they had been assigned to their latest case specifically at Mera’s request, because one, she missed the human borough, and two…

  Julian.

  She hadn’t spoken with her former partner since leaving for Lunor Insul.

  When Mera returned to the mainland, she and Bast were swamped with work, courtesy of both Ruth and Captain Asherath. A serial wolf-killer in Lycannie, a vamp gang’s murder streak in Kazania, a mad sprite in Tir Na Nog, and just recently, a missing witch in Evanora.

  They had been sent out throughout Hollowcliff to solve the hardest of crimes, and they’d cracked their cases, each and every one.

  Sure, solving the Summer King’s murder—their first case together—had kickstarted the Interborough Cooperation Program, but Mera and Bast’s latest achievements had catapulted them into the spotlight. The police force marketed them as the greatest example of borough unity and collaboration. Yet, Mera wasn’t in this to be famous, and neither was Bast, so they refused to do any publicity.

  Still, many began comparing them to Mera’s favorite fictional detectives, Shehan Rolmes and John Quatson. Their stories might have been gruesome for a fourteen-year-old, but Ruth didn’t care. She would always read them to Mera late at night. Actually, those books had sparked her interest in solving crimes. That, and the fact her mo… Ruth, was a police captain herself.

  In any case, Mera had been so busy these past few weeks that she barely had time to call Julian. She’d tried a couple of times, but he never answered.

  Okay, she deserved the silent treatment.

  She’d completely forgotten about him during the shitshow with Bast’s family, and all the cases that followed, but how could he blame her for that? Mera had been jumping from borough to borough. It was part of her new job description.

  Bast cleared his throat from above.

  Shit!

  Had he listened to her thoughts?

  “We better hurry, kitten,” he said out loud, no inch of a reaction in his tone—thankfully. Mera must be getting better at blocking him from her mind. “That suket is fast.”

  Bast’s gray wings blew gusts atop her as he lowered, and his strong arms quickly hooked beneath hers. With one swoop, he lifted Mera off the ground.

  Her feet dangled in the air, while down below, the culprit ran with inhuman speed. Concealed by a black hoodie and ragged pants, he pushed people out of his way so hard they landed several feet away from him.

  “Probably a junkie high on fae crystal,” Mera guessed.

  “That would explain the strength, but not the speed. My bet is a rogue warlock.”

  “Either way, we should have called a local patrol to deal with this.” She clicked her tongue. “We’re already late for the meeting with the Cap.”

  “Perhaps, but we are Hollowcliff’s finest, aren’t we?” He turned her slightly to the side, showing her a billboard that featured a werewolf and a witch wearing clothes similar to theirs—the witch with a white shirt, black leather jacket and jeans, and the wolf with a white shirt, black vest and pants—which wasn’t even the uniform Lycannien detectives used, but whatever.

  The billboard’s big, bold text read ‘Apply today and become one of Hollowcliff’s finest.’ Followed by, ‘Tagradian Police. We’re stronger together.’

  Pride swelled in Mera’s core. It didn’t mix well with the need to roll her eyes.

  She was glad that interborough cooperation had an all-time high, but the unwanted attention could be a pain. Even then, as they dashed through the sky, some people pulled out their phones and took pictures of them, a mix of awe and curiosity on their faces.

  The memory of Professor Currenter’s voice rang in her mind. “Small actions can have enormous consequences, little fry.”

  Grim tentacles slithered around her chest, squeezing it. How she wished she could speak to him again…

  “It hurts how much you miss him,” Bast stated quietly.

  Apparently, she wasn’t that good at keeping her feelings from him.

  Looking up, and fully intending to tell her partner to mind his own business, she lost a breath to the beauty of Sebastian Dhay. Moon-white strands of hair fluttered wildly in the wind, whipping around the sharp lines of his cheekbones and squared jaw. His blue gaze matched the sky above, his attention fixed on the culprit. But there was more to Bast than just a pretty—scratch that—gorgeous semblance. He always stood by her side, no matter what, and he understood her in ways Mera herself sometimes couldn’t. After everything they’d been through, the faerie was finally cracking her tough skin, and soon…

  Focus on the running maniac! she chided herself.

  ‘Nah, view’s much better from here,’ her siren replied.

  Forcing herself to glance down, Mera spotted the hooded man turning into a small street that led toward the tenth district.

  “Great,” she grumbled under her breath.

  Also known as the Scraps, the tenth district consisted of abandoned warehouses from the industrial age. It lined the river Tigris, a mighty waterway that cut through Clifftown only to debouch at the ocean miles away.

  The densely packed warehouses, and the river, posed their own problems for catching criminals, but the real danger of the tenth district was the old underground. Its vast network of forsaken tunnels turned the Scraps into a perfect getaway for fugitives.

  Bast’s wingspan didn’t fit into the narrow street, so he went higher, chasing the offender from above the buil
dings.

  Mera caught brief glimpses of the hooded man. Each time he passed under a concrete ledge, she couldn’t tell if he would enter a building or keep going. The closer the constructions got to the line of water at the end of the street, the higher the chances that they harbored entrances to the old underground.

  “We’ll lose him!”

  “Halle. You’re going to throw up.”

  “Wha—?”

  A sharp force yanked her from behind, enveloping her in endless darkness.

  Mera floated amidst the night sky, drifting past stars that blinked in the distance. She couldn’t tell up from down, and her stomach lurched at the sudden weightlessness. Her russet locks floated around her, as a gripping cold bit at her fingers.

  It was like falling and not falling at the same time, hanging between two different realms. If Bast hadn’t been holding her tight, she might have drifted off into the vast obsidian.

  Ahead, a slit cut through the darkness, an industrial cityscape peeking through it. The slit sucked them out, nearly pulling Mera’s skin off her body.

  Her mind spun as she crashed on the hard ground.

  “Holy—” She bent over and threw up her lunch.

  Mera had never winnowed before, and fuck if she’d ever do it again. Flying was way better, not to mention she never threw up when they flew.

  “H-how did you winnow here?” she stammered, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her black leather jacket. “You’ve never been to the Scrap district.”

  “I pulled the location from your mind. I suppose our link goes deeper than we imagined.” He clicked his tongue. “Fuchst ach, he took a turn. Hold on.”

  He grasped her shoulder, and before she knew it, Mera plummeted into the endless nothing again, her stomach falling on itself. It lasted an eyeblink, and then they arrived at an empty parking lot.

  “Goddamn it, Bast!”

  Her vision blurred, and Mera thought she might throw up again. This time, however, she kept it in, probably because she’d already emptied her stomach after the first time.

  Her balance was off, but she managed to stay upright. Turning to her side, she found Bast bent over his knees, his breathing labored.

  “Bast?”

  “I’m fine,” he assured between shallow breaths.

  Winnowing consecutively took a toll on a fae, especially one who had recently learned how to do it. His brother Corvus could winnow several times before feeling weak, but Bast’s magic worked differently.

  Stepping closer, she assessed him. “Are you sure?”

  Nodding, he pointed to something up ahead.

  A vast parking lot covered in cracks and weeds stretched before them, with an abandoned warehouse at the back. Not far from them, a whip of darkness wrapped around the man they’d been chasing, like a boa constrictor. The rope of night and stars connected to Bast’s feet.

  Damn. Even while drained from winnowing, he’d used his magic to trap the undead.

  Mera patted his shoulder. “I got this, partner.” Pulling out one of the two guns from the double-holster under her jacket, she aimed at the guy’s head.

  Bast’s line of darkness retreated to his core.

  The male stood still, his eyes shining a lime-green, while the rest of his face remained shadowed by the hood.

  Maybe Bast had been right. The asshole must be a rogue warlock. Fae crystal didn’t make a junkie’s eyes glow.

  “You chose the wrong day to misbehave, dickface,” Mera shouted. “You’re under arrest. Raise your hands.”

  Slowly, he did.

  The culprit was in bad shape. Bad, bad shape. The gray skin on his hands peeled off in certain areas, revealing what could only be rotting flesh underneath.

  The man had managed to outrun them—which must have been epically hard considering Bast could fly—and he wasn’t even panting. How could someone in his condition do that?

  He would probably drop dead once the magic that fueled him dissipated.

  Mera stepped closer, but not too close. Warning bells rang in her head, telling her something seemed off.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” she went on. “Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. Drop on the ground. Hands behind your back.”

  A hiss came from under the hood.

  “Sir,” Mera warned. “I don’t miss when I shoot, even from this distance.”

  “I am no sir,” he countered, his voice sounding like whispers in the wind.

  When he raised his head, the hoodie fell back to reveal more gray, patchy skin hanging off his cheeks and forehead, plus two dark slits where his nose should have been. Patches of black hair peppered his scalp, and his teeth were brown and rotting.

  “He’s dead.” Bast stated the obvious from behind her, his breathing still awfully ragged.

  Crap.

  Mera had never seen a walking dead before.

  Jim Branson, from the seventh precinct in Lycannie, once told her he’d caught one when he was younger. He’d seemed shaken as he told Mera the story, even though at least twenty years had passed since then.

  “The gal was half-bone, half-flesh,” his voice echoed in her memory. “A decrepit thing with glowing purple eyes, and an angry cry in her throat that didn’t come from her corpse. No, Detective Maurea.” Jim gulped. “The screams came from her soul.”

  Mera hated the undead. Hated the concept of them, hated the movies about them, hated them with everything she had.

  The dead man grinned, nearly splitting open his cheeks. As if somehow, he’d recognized her. “Master, are you sure?”

  Who was he talking to?

  The prick’s bright green eyes probably matched the essence of the witch or warlock who’d brought him back.

  Aha. He must be talking to the necromancer.

  “Mera, step back,” Bast croaked. “He might infect you.”

  Could he, though?

  Jim had lost his gun when he’d grappled with the undead woman. The moving corpse bit him, yet Jim had been fine.

  Apparently, not all walking dead were created equally.

  Infectious or not, the simple possibility of a contagious undead was the reason why they had a kill order on sight—along with sirens and necromancers.

  “Need I remind you that an iron bullet kills you for real?” Mera kept her tone steady, though the sight of him raised the hairs in the nape of her neck. “Drop on the ground. Now!”

  The man chuckled to himself, as if he’d heard a funny joke. “You’ll keep a walking dead in your jail?”

  “I might.”

  “We both know you won’t. The undead have no rights.” He glanced back, toward the river, then turned to her. “Tell Morgan I wanted us to be together. That’s why I bit her.”

  “I think your victim won’t give two shits about your excuses. You chunked off half of her face, asshole.”

  “You’re right.” He sighed out of habit, since he couldn’t have any air in his lungs. “There’s only one way this ends.”

  “And how’s that?”

  His lime-green eyes burned brightly. “With me taking you to Master.”

  Chapter 2

  The dead man lunged at Mera, his movements incredibly quick.

  She fired, hoping the iron bullet would do its job, but the bastard was faster than a werewolf on meth, so he easily dodged it.

  If he had pumping blood in him, Mera could have blown him to pieces, but all her macabre could sense was an unmoving, pasty mess in his veins. Stale—dead—blood didn’t react to her commands. She couldn’t even slow him down.

  How did he move so fast?

  The dead man jumped onto her, and time seemed to stall. Mera noticed his rotting skin, his gaping mouth and his decaying teeth, ready to bite a chunk off her face like he’d done with the innocent woman on the street.

  In those few seconds that stretched for eternity, she figured she’d survived many things in her life. Her mother, manic Sidhe, bloodthirsty vamps… Truth be told, Mera should be
proud to have made it this far.

  A horrid bellow burst from behind her, a sound of pure and complete pain.

  Bast!

  Time caught up as a storm of night and stars flashed past her and slammed into the undead, throwing him as far as the abandoned warehouse in the distance. His corpse smashed through a window.

  Mera rushed to Bast in time to catch him mid-fall, her knees hitting the floor along with his. Wrapping her arms around her partner, she cradled him.

  Bast’s face pressed to the nook between her neck and shoulder, and she gently set a hand on the back of his head.

  “Partner, what did you do?”

  Mera tried not to panic at his shallow breathing, forcing herself to ignore how limp his body seemed. Desperation could be a dangerous thing for a detective, but she held Bast tighter anyway.

  “Please tell me you’re okay.”

  “Must winnow more,” he grumbled drowsily. “To get… better.”

  Stubborn ass fae.

  “You used your magic after winnowing two times in a row.” She carefully laid him on the floor, wiping a lock of silver hair off his face. “That’s remarkable, you dickwart. Now stay here and recover.” She gave him the remaining gun in her double-shoulder holster. “I’m going after him.”

  Despair flashed behind Bast’s blue eyes, and he tried to hold her wrist, but his grip was so weak… Poseidon in the trenches, she didn’t want to leave him.

  “Kitten, please.”

  “I got this.” She gave him an assuring nod, then headed to the warehouse, her gun in hand.

  Fact: The dead man was fast, remarkably so for someone with barely any muscle. Which meant Mera had to anticipate his attacks.

  Her siren scoffed. ‘Easier said than done.’

  Yeah.

  Carefully entering the cavernous space, Mera assessed every inch of the place, her gun in hand. She found the broken window, but no sign of the dead man, only shattered glass on the ground.

  The warehouse was quiet, which could be an advantage. She would hear the bastard coming, and sure enough, the sound of boots thumping against concrete came from the far left.