The Beast (Black Dagger Brotherhood 14)

There were two offices, a reception area, a unisex bathroom, and a pair of steel doors, next to which were hard hats covered in dust hanging on hooks.

“Let’s go through over here. It’s easier.”

Heading to the left, Troy led them to a third option, standing aside once again as they went through a much narrower door. On the far side, he hit not a light switch, but something that looked like a fuse-box pull.

With a series of bangs, huge panels of lights came on one after another in a cavernous manufacturing space that was mostly vacant, nothing but empty brackets bolted into the floor and great grease shadows on the concrete indicating where machines had been.

“The massacre happened over here.”

Jo popped her eyebrows. Yes, it most certainly had, she thought as she caught sight of the pools of coagulated blood, once bright red, now browning with time’s passage. There were more of those drywall buckets here and there, and when she walked across and got a closer view of everything, she put her hand over her mouth and swallowed hard.

“It’s just like the farm,” Bill commented as he wandered around.

“Like what farm?” Jo said as she shook her head at the gore. “God, this was so violent.”

“You remember—almost two years ago? There was a scene just like this one only ten times more blood.”

“No bodies,” Troy interjected. “Again.”

“How many people do you think died here?” Jo asked.

“Ten. Maybe twelve?” Troy came around and crouched down next to a series of swipes through the blood on the floor—as if someone might have tried to escape but had slipped and fallen. “We can’t be sure. This place has been on the market for a year or two. The bank stopped using the security cameras five months ago when a lightning strike knocked them out during a spring storm. We’ve got nothing.”

“How do you get rid of that many bodies?” Jo wondered. “Where do you take them all?”

Troy nodded. “The homicide division is looking into all of that.”

And as for the vampire angle? she thought to herself. Those types usually took blood, right? They didn’t leave it behind in five-gallon lots.

Not that she was about to pose that one to Troy. Way too crazy.

She glanced over at Bill. “How many other mass murders or ritual whatevers have taken place in Caldwell in the last ten years? Twenty years? Fifty?”

“I can find out,” he said as their eyes met. “I’m thinking the exact same thing you are.”

FORTY-THREE

“It’s so peaceful out here. So beautiful.”

As Bitty said the words, Mary glanced over at the girl. The pair of them were strolling down one of Pine Grove Cemetery’s miles of paved lanes. Overhead, the moon was giving them more than enough illumination to see by, the silvery glow landing on the tops of fluffy pine boughs and also the elegant bare limbs of maple and oak trees. All around, headstones, statues, and mausoleums dotted the rolling lawns and shores of man-made ponds, until you could almost imagine you were walking through a stage set.

“Yes, it is,” Mary murmured. “It’s nice to think that all this is for the ghosts of the people buried here, but I believe it’s more for the folks who come to visit. It can be really hard, especially in the beginning, to come visit a family member or a friend who’s passed. I mean, after my mother died and I put her ashes in the ground, it took me months and months to come back. When I finally got here, though, it was easier in some ways than I’d thought, mostly because of how lovely it is—we’re going over there. She’s right there.”

Stepping off onto the grass, Mary was careful where she trod. “Here, follow me. The dead are in the front of the markers. And yes, I know it’s weird, but I hate the idea of trampling anyone.”

“Oh!” Bitty looked down at a beautiful headstone inscribed with a Jewish Star of David and the name Epstein. “I beg your pardon. Excuse me.”

The two of them wended their way in farther, until Mary stopped at a rose-colored granite marker with the name Cecilia Luce carved upon it.

“Hi, Mom,” she whispered, getting down on her haunches to pick a fallen leaf off the front the headstone. “How are you?”

As she ran her fingertips over the engraved name and the dates, Bitty knelt down on the other side.

“What did she pass from?” the girl asked.

“M.S. Multiple sclerosis.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a human disease where the body’s immune system attacks the coating that protects your nerve fibers? Without that sheath, you can’t tell your body what to do, so you lose the ability to walk, feed yourself, speak. Or at least, my mom did. Some people with it have long periods of remission when the disease isn’t active. She wasn’t one of them.” Mary rubbed the center of her chest. “There are more options for treatment now than there were fifteen or twenty years ago when she was first diagnosed. Maybe she would have lasted longer in this era of medicine. Who knows.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Every day. The thing is . . . I don’t want to freak you out, but I’m not convinced you ever get over a death like that of your mother’s. I think it’s more that you get used to the loss. Kind of like getting in cold water? There’s a shock to the system in the beginning, but an accommodation happens so you don’t notice the chill as much as the years pass—and sometimes, you even forget you’re in the tub at all after a while. But there are always memories that come back to you and remind you of who is missing.” were two offices, a reception area, a unisex bathroom, and a pair of steel doors, next to which were hard hats covered in dust hanging on hooks.

“Let’s go through over here. It’s easier.”

Heading to the left, Troy led them to a third option, standing aside once again as they went through a much narrower door. On the far side, he hit not a light switch, but something that looked like a fuse-box pull.

With a series of bangs, huge panels of lights came on one after another in a cavernous manufacturing space that was mostly vacant, nothing but empty brackets bolted into the floor and great grease shadows on the concrete indicating where machines had been.

“The massacre happened over here.”

Jo popped her eyebrows. Yes, it most certainly had, she thought as she caught sight of the pools of coagulated blood, once bright red, now browning with time’s passage. There were more of those drywall buckets here and there, and when she walked across and got a closer view of everything, she put her hand over her mouth and swallowed hard.

“It’s just like the farm,” Bill commented as he wandered around.

“Like what farm?” Jo said as she shook her head at the gore. “God, this was so violent.”

“You remember—almost two years ago? There was a scene just like this one only ten times more blood.”

“No bodies,” Troy interjected. “Again.”

“How many people do you think died here?” Jo asked.

“Ten. Maybe twelve?” Troy came around and crouched down next to a series of swipes through the blood on the floor—as if someone might have tried to escape but had slipped and fallen. “We can’t be sure. This place has been on the market for a year or two. The bank stopped using the security cameras five months ago when a lightning strike knocked them out during a spring storm. We’ve got nothing.”

“How do you get rid of that many bodies?” Jo wondered. “Where do you take them all?”

Troy nodded. “The homicide division is looking into all of that.”

And as for the vampire angle? she thought to herself. Those types usually took blood, right? They didn’t leave it behind in five-gallon lots.

Not that she was about to pose that one to Troy. Way too crazy.

She glanced over at Bill. “How many other mass murders or ritual whatevers have taken place in Caldwell in the last ten years? Twenty years? Fifty?”

“I can find out,” he said as their eyes met. “I’m thinking the exact same thing you are.”

FORTY-THREE

“It’s so peaceful out here. So beautiful.”

As Bitty said the words, Mary glanced over at the girl. The pair of them were strolling down one of Pine Grove Cemetery’s miles of paved lanes. Overhead, the moon was giving them more than enough illumination to see by, the silvery glow landing on the tops of fluffy pine boughs and also the elegant bare limbs of maple and oak trees. All around, headstones, statues, and mausoleums dotted the rolling lawns and shores of man-made ponds, until you could almost imagine you were walking through a stage set.

“Yes, it is,” Mary murmured. “It’s nice to think that all this is for the ghosts of the people buried here, but I believe it’s more for the folks who come to visit. It can be really hard, especially in the beginning, to come visit a family member or a friend who’s passed. I mean, after my mother died and I put her ashes in the ground, it took me months and months to come back. When I finally got here, though, it was easier in some ways than I’d thought, mostly because of how lovely it is—we’re going over there. She’s right there.”

Stepping off onto the grass, Mary was careful where she trod. “Here, follow me. The dead are in the front of the markers. And yes, I know it’s weird, but I hate the idea of trampling anyone.”

“Oh!” Bitty looked down at a beautiful headstone inscribed with a Jewish Star of David and the name Epstein. “I beg your pardon. Excuse me.”

The two of them wended their way in farther, until Mary stopped at a rose-colored granite marker with the name Cecilia Luce carved upon it.

“Hi, Mom,” she whispered, getting down on her haunches to pick a fallen leaf off the front the headstone. “How are you?”

As she ran her fingertips over the engraved name and the dates, Bitty knelt down on the other side.

“What did she pass from?” the girl asked.

“M.S. Multiple sclerosis.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a human disease where the body’s immune system attacks the coating that protects your nerve fibers? Without that sheath, you can’t tell your body what to do, so you lose the ability to walk, feed yourself, speak. Or at least, my mom did. Some people with it have long periods of remission when the disease isn’t active. She wasn’t one of them.” Mary rubbed the center of her chest. “There are more options for treatment now than there were fifteen or twenty years ago when she was first diagnosed. Maybe she would have lasted longer in this era of medicine. Who knows.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Every day. The thing is . . . I don’t want to freak you out, but I’m not convinced you ever get over a death like that of your mother’s. I think it’s more that you get used to the loss. Kind of like getting in cold water? There’s a shock to the system in the beginning, but an accommodation happens so you don’t notice the chill as much as the years pass—and sometimes, you even forget you’re in the tub at all after a while. But there are always memories that come back to you and remind you of who is missing.”