Raia opened the case and took out a black, matte pistol. It looked almost like a toy, but when she pulled back the top metal piece and looked at the side, it made a loud clacking sound, just like guns did in movies.

She put it down on her seat and started pushing real, actual bullets into an empty clip.

Shay cleared her throat. “Um... Raia, I don’t-- I really don’t think we’re gonna need that.”

Raia gave her a mean side-eye. “Yeah. I fucking hope we’re not gonna need this.”

Fair.

Ah, wait. How was she even--

Suddenly, Raia reached behind her seat. And she pulled out... a bright pink hoodie with a rainbow on it? Really?

Err. It did have a big, front-of-stomach pocket. But--

“Raia, is that... yours?”

Raia rolled her eyes. That was her answer.

Was it... Tyvan’s, then? No... It looked too small to be Bishop’s. Oh. It probably belonged to Raia’s girlfriend.

That was incredibly interesting and Shay wanted to ask more, but the timing was not at all appropriate.

Once Raia was finished with her bullet-loading (and started driving with her hands instead of her elbows,) Shay asked another question.

“Raia... are we gonna be okay if we actually do run into some vampires?”

“If it’s just one, yeah-- no problem,” she explained. “Big names don’t mingle with the peasants that roam the streets. And if we do run into one o’ those cowsuckers, we might be able to parley with our organization on the line.”

That made sense. Their organization, ❴The Kingdom❵, had a lot of weight in the supernatural community. How much weight, though, Shay had no idea.

“What if... there’s more than one?”

“Can. you. notTt??” Raia seethed, “If there’s more than one, we’re gonna have to figure it the fuck out. But let’s hope your dad’s not in danger, this very... instant?”

Raia slowed to an ungentle stop. There were cop lights flashing alongside the street lights down the road they just passed. So after a rough, five-point turn, they started driving toward them.

“Tell me if you see him.”

Shay nodded, looking at the patrol cars they were slowly passing by.

...And one of them had more than a dozen expired air fresheners hanging from its rearview.

----------------------------------------

“Shouldn’t we wait for SWAT or something? Detective?”

Walter kept his attention on the open front door, not bothering to give Officer Pomplun a response. Rancho PD’s all-star rookie always had something to say. But since the sun went down, the shit that came out of his mouth had a whole lot less bravado than he had the patience for.

It was normal to be nervous as a cop. There were lots of bad people in the world-- and they liked to act out against folks wearing badges, because fuck them for wanting to make the city a little bit safer.

But there was a time to be nervous... and a time to tell your fear and logic to fuck off because things had to be done. With Pomplun’s nerves frayed to a hair’s breadth, he was a liability-- and not just to himself, but to every officer on site.

“And why are you even here, sir?” Pomplun whined, “Aren’t detectives supposed to show up after everything’s clear?”

Was that how the rookie thought of him? Walter figured it should’ve been obvious why he’d show up. It was the latest entry to a string of break-ins he’d been following.

--all loosely related to a certain case he’d been strongly advised to avoid.

And, on top of that, he had a conscience. He was in the area. And he wasn’t going to let a bunch of juvenile officers head into a high-risk situation without some form of guidance.

...even if he had to be the old, unlikeable prick to keep them safe.

“Pomplun, switch out with Officer Lockhart. I need you to coordinate with--”

“Sir, you gotta be fuckin’--!”

“Check yourself, kid,” Walter scowled. “I need level heads, not shaky hands. Take a breather. Go back. Send Lockhart.”

Pomplun stopped and stared, furious and indignant. Was it the first time he’d been given an order he didn’t like? Lockhart was fine. She was a little older-- and a military brat, to boot. But the rest of her graduating class acted like elementary schoolers.

The image of another military kid came to mind-- a certain, expressionless annoyance. That guy listened to orders. He got trained as an officer, so he could even give out orders if needed. And that kid wouldn’t piss himself at the prospect of a simple house search.

Pomplun went back to his patrol car. He’d be shit at minding the radio-- but... fuck it. It was better that way.

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

Four LEO’s. One two-story house. One potentially violent offender. High-risk-- as if that needed to be stated.

They didn’t have a warrant, but the door to the house was broken off its god-damned hinges.

Probable cause-- they had it.

The suspect used a door ram. That’s what Lockhart said. That’s what Walter kept telling himself.

He was actively trying not to think of what Valorum said. Face always serious. Voice always even. He didn’t even blink when he suggested some thing was out there that could bend stainless steel with its fingertips.

Several pairs of shoes at the front-- women’s heels among them. The general decor had a woman’s touch. The choice of pictures on the wall. Something about the way they were arranged.

Earlier, Lockhart had run the address on her MDT. Single resident with a driver’s license: Korean female, early 20’s.

Lived alone. Neighbors reported their suspicions.

Lost minutes they could never get back.

The lights had been cut. Not a good sign.

Flashlights. Possible blood splatters on the carpet and some on the peeling, striped wallpaper.

That was more than enough for Walter and his peers to draw their weapons.

Probable. Fucking. Cause.

“I’m checking upstairs,” he said.

“I’ll go with,” Lockhart offered.

That got some glares from the other two. Maybe they thought of themselves as Lockhart’s white knights-- as if any officer, male or female, needed special treatment. Idiots.

Unfortunately, Walter had already stepped on the toes of the commissioner’s favorite rookie. He’d have to let it go.

“Don’t bother,” he said. “I’ll be quick.”

And so he went.

Alone.

Against his instincts. Against a certain brat’s perfectly reasonable warning.

Blood near the top of the stairs.

Streaks leading into an open door.

Fuck.

Close quarters. Even if he called for Lockhart and the others, they could do fuck-all.

“Rancho City PD!! Come on out with your hands up!”

Walter cursed before adding, “If you require medical attention--”

“Fuck off, pig!” someone called back-- someone in the open-door room.

Shit. Heart pumping. Adrenaline high. It was one of those nights.

The blood. Was it a nosebleed from hell? Or was someone bleeding out, seconds away from death?

To act... or to call for backup?

Walter thought of his wife, Bai. What would she say if she were still around?

He thought of his daughter, Xue. The possible victim was about her age.

What would he do if the victim was his own daughter? --what if he knew it was Xue’s blood on the carpet and walls?

“Damn it all to hell.”

Walter kicked open the god-damned door, pistol forward, safety off.

His flashlight shone on a single adult male. Covered in blood. Smiling.

Pool of blood on the bed in the center of the room.

Up.

The victim-- she was on the ceiling. Korean girl. Barely an adult. Multiple wounds. Long black spikes or nails stuck through her forearms-- her legs.

Blood. Staining her long hair. Drenching her blouse, dripping off her skirt. Open wound on her neck-- red and dark like it was the void.

Eyes back to the suspect. Still smiling.

Walter connected the dots in his brain.

‘I am in danger.’

‘Even a casual observer would rationalize my use of deadly force.’

‘No warning shots.’

He pulled the trigger.

Too slow.

Three well-placed shots in four seconds-- center of mass.

The fourth shot bore into the drywall. The perp had slumped down against it.

Adrenaline. Shock. Disgust. Hypersensitivity.

Absence of movement. The stench of iron from the victim’s blood. The smile that didn’t leave the perp’s face.

The image of his daughter’s face superimposed on the victim’s.

Walter aimed the smoking barrel of his pistol at the perp’s forehead. He flexed his forearm muscles, willing his blood to flow back into his cold, numb fingers.

Young-- just a kid, early 20’s? Caucasian descent.

No, not a kid. It was a fucking monster.

“Put your god-damned hands up,” he growled... hoping and fucking praying that he was talking to a dead man.

The perp’s mouth lolled open.

But his lips rolled back in as he spoke.

“Fucking pig.”

Movement from the side. Walter pulled his hands back, on reflex-- a swipe or strike hit his service pistol.

It fell, thunking on the blood-soaked carpet.

Second perp. Long hair. A woman? Heavy set.

Walter grounded his footing. Forward palm.

The woman dodged, deceptively fast for her size. Her long hair fanned out in a circle with the flourish.

He swung with his heavy flashlight. It struck her in the temple.

‘Go down, damn it,’ he pleaded in his mind. ‘Be human. Please be human.’

She stumbled back, hand to her head-- no, they were shadowy, misshapen claws with only a passing resemblance to hands.

Fucking FUCK.

No time to think.

Not human. No gun.

Scream? Run? Fight.

Die.

The monster moved. Claws out. Fast.

--going for his throat.

And all was dark.