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The mug almost burns your hand as you carry it into the interrogation room, placing it on the cold metal table and sliding it over to the handcuffed woman. She doesn’t move, doesn't acknowledge your entrance, her features almost inhumanely blank as she stares straight ahead. Her dark eyes don’t waver even as your partner stands to give you the seat, one single shake of his head signifying that he’s gotten nothing. Not even a name. You sit, setting the near-empty folder in front of you. While your partner had been keeping her busy, you had her fingerprints run through the system. Nothing. Facial recognition hasn’t picked up anything, either. No licenses, I.D.’s, she’s off the grid, which is near impossible in this day in age, even with government help. The only way you’re going to set anything straight is to hear it, right from her. So you introduce yourself, giving her a friendly smile. That gets a reaction, the first one since you and your partner brought her in from the crime scene. The woman looks at you, straight through you almost, as though she can see your life story just from your eyes. You resist the urge to squirm uncomfortably, even as the woman’s brows furrow slightly. “Look,” you say, opening the folder, “you have been tied to multiple crime scenes in the past two years. My partner and I just need the answers to our questions.” Her head cocks as you get out some photographs of two murder victims from before their untimely demise. Both of them are the most recent, though you do have a much longer list of similar deaths to the point where your department now realizes that the murders are the work of a serial killer. “Do you know these people?” You ask, pushing the pictures closer towards her. A moment of silence as she looks at them, bits of black hair falling in her face before she tucks them back behind her ears. With one finger, she taps on the picture to your left, and says, calmly, “Anthony Myers. He killed his wife and dumped her body in the river, north side, two weeks ago.” That catches your attention. “Come again?” She points to the other photo. “Alexander Braith. Drowned his three-year-old son in the bathtub four days ago when his wife refused him sex.” You already know about the drowning, it came up on file during the routine backup check, but there had been no evidence that Braith did it himself. The other one, though… You turn around, gesturing for your partner. With a brief nod, he’s off to give the order to comb the river for a body. As soon as you look back at the woman, you find that she is already out of the handcuffs and is rising from her seat. “Whoa, wait-” You scramble up, hand out. “Stop!” “Why? You asked me questions, I answered.” She pauses, just briefly, then takes a step to the side. “Okay, well, now I have more questions! How do you know that Myers killed his wife?” You follow her movements, trying to block her exit. “She told me.” “Who, the wife? Did she confide that she was scared for her life?” The woman very calmly places both hands on your shoulders and moves you out of the way like you weigh nothing. “She told me who killed her.” At first, you are too stunned to do anything more than squeak in surprise, but the sound of metal twisting brings you back. You turn just as the woman forces the locked door open and leaves, the handle mangled and twisted with inhuman force. Quickly, you go after her, already hearing confused shouting as she walks out, followed by a loud thump. You manage to force yourself out of the stupor and into the main office area just as someone tries tasing the woman. She appears grossly unimpressed with the attempt to stop her, reaching out and grabbing the still popping weapon, crushing it between her fingers like it is made of brittle clay. “What the fuck,” your partner shouts, and you are inclined to share the sentiment. The woman keeps moving, ending another officer’s attempt to stop her by lifting him up by the collar and tossing him away like a goddamn ragdoll. Just as she exits, you jump over a desk and try following her. It couldn’t have been more than three or four seconds for you to get to the glass doors as well, shoving yourself out into the city, the sounds of horns and screeching of tires permeating your ears as you frantically look left, then right, then straight ahead, all too late. Not possible, you think desperately, trying to find the black of her outfit and hair, or the glassy darkness of her eyes in the crowd, coming up empty. Defeat leaving its ugly bruise on your chest, you walk back into the station, mouth pressed in a thin line as arguments break out among your colleagues, every department trying to point the blame at another. The finger gets pointed at you, as you were the last person to be with her, but your partner shows off the mangled door handle. “Drugs.” Someone says, shaking their head. “It’s gotta be drugs, remember those reports from Florida?” Glassy eyes, says she talks to the dead, probably drugs, you might agree. Except, you think, the woman seemed almost too lucid, too aware, like she’s not only awake, but then some. You don’t quite know how to explain it, so you keep your mouth shut and start filling out the incident paperwork. “Better hurry, the chief’s all worked up in a tizzy over the press conference disaster,” your desk neighbor mutters, stapling her papers together. You can see a replay of the live feed on the TV out in the waiting room before the lobby attendant wisely changes the channel. “That bad, huh?” “Worse.” She leaves to turn in her papers. Great, now you have to give a negative report not only to the hardest bitch in town, but the hardest bitch in town in a bad mood. You gather your statement, taking a sip of bitter coffee to steel your nerves, and walk over to the chief’s office. Two loud knocks, waiting only briefly for the gruff “come in,” before entering, pushing open the door. The chief has her glasses on, looking over a file, brow furrowed in both anger and concentration. Only when she gestures for you to take a seat do you move from the doorway, placing your incident report on the desk before obeying. “Chief Smith,” you begin, “I take full responsibility for the incident-” “Cut the shit, detective, I’ve already seen the cam footage.” She tosses the file to the side and eyes you carefully, mouth puckering around her tusks, before saying calmly, “you are the only one to get the suspect to talk, correct?” “Yes, sir,” you say faintly. “And? Would you say drugs?” You hesitate. “I don’t know.” “Best guess.” “I don’t think so, no,” you place a finger on your lip as you mull the woman’s words over, “her behavior doesn’t match up to the profiles for either cocaine or cannabis, but… she did say that the dead speak to her.” “You didn’t get a name; otherwise I trust it would be on this,” Chief Smith says, picking up your incident report and looking over your handwriting. “No, sir.” A long pause descends in the office as you nervously pick at your fingers, the chief reading your report with a keen eye. As she slams down the papers, you feel a shiver go down your spine. “I’m putting you with Rodriguez’s team.” “The- the guys hunting the killer?” “This woman isn’t just a person of interest anymore, detective, she’s a suspect. You’re the only one to get a single word out of her, so you’re going to march yourself down the hall to homicide and report in.” Chief Smith types something on the computer, and without looking back at you, says, “dismissed.” You stand, keeping yourself shaking from excitement, “yes, sir.” Homicide… is not the most welcoming department in the district. Especially not to a rookie like you, and especially not to the person who ‘lost’ one of their suspects. Doesn’t matter that she broke away herself, doesn’t matter that she’s only a suspect because of the things she admitted to you. At any rate, these people are not going to throw you any bones, so you begin to familiarize yourself with the case right away. Three days into your new job, another body is found. Eric W. Morgan was found dead by his wife in their penthouse suite. Like all the other victims, he is missing his head. It’s not a clean cut, either, bone and sinew strewn around his neck, chunks of muscle shredded around his shoulders. A very distressed Mrs. Morgan, the one who found him, is currently being treated for shock as you and Rodriguez investigate the crime scene, so you have yet to question her. Nothing new. The window is shattered from the outside, but no DNA or fingerprints from the killer can be found on any of the shards. Besides the fact that there should be almost no way someone could scale the sixty stories up the side of the building to the penthouse, why did the killer pick this window to break into, and not the one overlooking the balcony? Back down on the ground level, you are getting yourself some coffee to drown your frustration in when you see her. Across the street, leaning against the brick wall of a hotel, eyes watching you like a hawk, waiting for you to notice. You almost forget to make sure the street is clear before you jog over, tunnel vision taking hold your head. As soon as you come close, she slinks further back in the shadows. Without even pausing to think of what an awful idea it is, you follow her into the alleyway. “Detective,” she greets, her voice golden like honey, but with none of its sweetness. Almost clinical, clipped. “You,” is the only way you can think to respond. “Did you do that?” She’s holding something in her hands, small, square, offering it to you as a gesture of good faith. Hesitant, you accept it, the little paperback notebook worn at the edges with age. You flip through the pages, curious, and… “Jesus Christ.” With your time in the police force, yes, you’ve heard and seen and filed some pretty terrible things. In this journal, though, god, you want to retch the leftovers from your lunch. “Where is this girl now?” “Dead,” the woman states, eyes softening with sorrow, “strangled while being raped.” “And the one who did it…” you’re shaking now, with rage, “what’s his name?” “Eric Washington Morgan.” That makes you stop. “Eric… Washington Morgan,” you repeat, stupidly. “Yes.” She doesn’t sound proud, no, but determined and cold. “Where- where is her body?” “Eric Washington Morgan has money, detective. There is nothing left of that little girl to find.” You look back down at the journal in your hands, trying to formulate words, a sentence, but when you glance back up, she’s gone. Anguish for this poor girl, the child, boils away to rage as you storm back upstairs to the penthouse. Shaking with rage, you slam the diary into the chest of the nearest forensics specialist to submit to evidence before stopping in front of Rodriguez, face red, eyes burning. “I think I have our killer’s motive.” “Do tell,” Rodriguez responds, arching an eye. “Almost every single victim has had some kind of official criminal background, and the ones who don’t have fallen under suspicion at some point in their lives,” you take a breathe, “I think that the killer is going after other murderers.” Rodriguez sighs heavily. “Even if that’s true, and I believe you, Mr. Morgan doesn’t have a single mark on his record. What say you do that?” You point to where the specialist is bagging up the girl’s diary. “I think I’ve found evidence of the contrary, sir.” The problem with that is you had to admit where you found it. Instead of Rodriguez, though, you shrug it off until you get back to the precinct, where you end up telling Chief Smith. She isn’t what you would call pleased at letting the woman get away, but the verdict from forensics came back; either the diary is an impossibly amazing fake, or it’s the real deal. DNA had been extracted, a partial match has been found and connected to a missing person’s case. You are off the hook with one hell of a stern warning. The bodies keep dropping. None of the heads are found. One time you manage to get to the crime scene while the blood is still spurting from the warm neck of the victim, legs moving fast enough to burn, and you catch just a glimpse of black hair on the top of a building before she disappears. Despite what people think, it’s not a game of cat and mouse. She’s not playing anything, never doing it for the attention, which is so incredibly different from most serial killers’ motives. Nothing escalates, no mutilations beyond the violent beheadings. It’s like she’s doing it all for… vengeance, and only that. You need some air. The homicide department is about to be a homicide crime scene itself, everyone is at each other’s throats, no leads, not a peep or a demand from the killer. Rodriguez, you can tell, is about to be sick from being driven in circles for the past couple of months, people have bet he’s three bodies away from retiring early. Your old partner is going out on some routine rounds, and with your replacement out in the hospital from slipping down a flight of stairs, you nearly flip out of your chair to volunteer yourself. The car’s stale air brings you to the brink of nirvana, you have never been happier to take in the scent of stale cigarettes and donut powder. The first hour, everything is quiet, nothing to report. The second hour, the dispatcher announces a 911 call about some crazy cosplayer parkouring over the buildings. Your partner gives you the confused eyebrow look before flipping on the siren and heading out to investigate. The guy who had called it in is waiting, you find him standing under a streetlight, his eyes red and his speech blurry, yet still clearly frantic. “I’m not making this up, man, I fucking swear. Batgirl was racing over the rooftops, these guys were running like she was about to fucking clock them.” Your partner, you know, thinks this is all bullshit, but you don’t. “Guys were running? Where?” The man points to the half-built skyrise across the street, plastic sheets billowing in the warm night’s wind. Something loud and big clatters inside, a guttural scream echoing through the night only to be cut off abruptly. Without a second thought, you pull out your gun, switching the safety button off, and start walking, your partner hot on your heels. No easy entrances, at least none you can see, so you pry a weakly stapled board away from the makeshift wall. In you go, one foot into the shaded darkness, then the other, an eerie silence strangling the air, the crackling of your partner’s radio nearly knocking you off your feet in surprise. He’s calling for backup as you continue on, stepping over a forgotten hammer, the metallic head gleaming faintly in the flickering street lights. You think you hear your partner hissing at you to wait, but you can’t, not anymore. This could be your only shot to… you don’t know, actually confirm your suspicions? That the woman is the serial killer? Something dark and syrupy drips from above, a small puddle forming where the droplets land. The coppery scent of blood fills your nostrils, and though you should be used to the smell by now, you aren’t. There is a cheap looking step ladder that leads up to the second floor. Before you toss yourself onto the second plywood floor, you take just a minute to poke your head up out of the hole to get a good look at your surroundings. A body slumps against the floor, you already know its dead. But there, huddled among crates, sniffling like an animal, is someone else. Someone you might be able to save. “Hey.” You pull yourself up, the weak wooden floor creaking with your weight. “I’m with the police. Are you okay?” “No, no, no, no, no,” whoever is in the corner whispers in an almost sing-song voice. “No one is okay, not when she comes for you. Not when she comes for you… for me, for me, for me.” You walk around the headless body, knees bent, trying to spread your weight, so every step doesn’t loudly announce your location. Just before you are an arm’s distance, you hear the sound of someone landing on the floor behind you. “Step away from him, detective.” You turn, the silhouette of the woman barely outlined by the pulsing blue light of an electronic billboard. Her face is too obscured by darkness, but behind her… you have to be seeing things, this can’t be possible… “Wings?” Cold metal presses against your throat, the stench of piss and booze choking your lungs with its miasma. “Give me your gun,” the man hisses, a cheap, gnarled blade raking into your skin. Your grip around the weapon only becomes tighter, moving it out of his reach. Wet begins to drip down your neck as the knife digs deeper. “Give me the fucking gun!” “Do it,” the woman says, her voice almost reassuring. “Do as he says.” No, fuck that, you can’t say. You can barely breathe as more pressure is added, vision turning black around the edges. “Give me the fucking gun, bitch!” The man is screaming now, desperation seizing him like a beast. You throw the gun on the floor, barely able to toss it more than a few feet, but you aim for the woman so she could get to it first. Blood hits your tongue, warm and tangy, as you slam against the floor, cheek smarting at the impact. Fingers reach up for your neck as you try to gauge the damage, but you forget about yourself as you see the man pick up the gun, aiming it at the woman who hadn’t moved an inch. And he fires. Once. Twice. Three times, again and again until the round is empty. Tears prick your eyes until you realize that she is still standing there, fine, calm, surveying the man’s outburst as though he is merely a tantruming toddler. “Phillip Drayer, your time has come,” she says, and unhinges her jaw,
biting
his head off, a limp, decapitated body slumping onto the ground, blood spraying free from his arteries and veins. You are too shocked, too surprised, nothing of significance comes from your brain, except, “so that’s why we never find the heads.” Sirens screech like banshees, flying closer with every second that passes. You look at her, the woman, your chest trembling with breath. She takes a step, coming closer, and places a hand on your head. “Go to sleep,” she says, something red flickering around in her irises. And you obey. Coming back to consciousness is hard. Your brain feels like sludge, pooling and bubbling into the deep crevices of your skull, you have to shuffle and mop everything back together before you can even think about opening your eyes. A steady beeping whines in your ears, something pinching your index finger enough that you feel your pulse. The scent of harsh chemicals wafts around your nose, creating an environment so toxic that only 0.01% of germs can survive, and… you hear footsteps, moving back and forth, chatter loud enough to be close, though nothing specific you can pick up. The flickering LED overhead is not merciful to your eyes, the light almost strong enough to burn. Your cheek stings like there’s no tomorrow, and when you raise your hand to investigate, you drag along three wires from the heart monitor strapped to your finger. A puffy, cottony bandage is strapped over where your skin had split open, you can already tell without seeing your reflection that the wound is swollen and angry. Your neck wound sports stitch tape, the adhesive strong enough to take off two layers of skin should you try to peel it away too early. The curtain shifts to the side, a nurse stepping into your little makeshift room followed quickly by your partner. “Jesus Christ, detective,” he snaps, face pinched with worry, hand on his chest, “are you trying to put me in an early grave?” “Sorry,” you mumble, a sharp pain running up your face as your lips move. He shakes his head, once. “Chief Smith is about to have a conniption, the second you’re cleared from the ER, you better be standing at her desk giving her a full report.”
unhinged jaw, teeth sharp and pointed like needles-
“I don’t…” you shake your head, the front of your skull throbbing. “Concussion.” The nurse bends over and flashes a bit of light in your eye, resting the growth of your pupils. “A decent one, too. You need plenty of fluids, stay off your feet, and rest.” Your partner stares at you, mouth in a single, thin line. “A conniption,” he says, a reminder. A conniption would be an understatement, Chief Smith is downright furious. “You are the only witness to have seen the killer and survive.” Not counting the whole precinct, who saw her walk out of the holding cell like it was nothing. “And you don’t remember anything.” A lie. “Not even the most basic of profiles? Size? Sex? Race?” Almost six feet. Female. Unknown. “No, sir,” you say timidly, knowing the orc sitting in front of you is three mistakes away from ripping your head off. “If I may, sir,” your partner tries coming to your rescue, “the doctor at the ER said she did take a pretty hard hit to the head.” “You may not.” Chief Smith glowers at you, she knows your lying, she must, why else would she glare like that, and says, “if the injury is that bad, then you are suspended.” “What?” You rise, a wave of dizziness nearly knocking you back to your feet. “Three days, then restricted to office duty. Turn in your gun and badge.” “But-“ “I should do much worse for reckless endangerment and failure to adhere to protocol.” The chief’s glare narrows. “Count yourself lucky this didn’t end in any more death, detective.” Bitterness tastes acidic on your tongue, but you don’t offer another word to argue because anything more and you might as well just admit you are withholding information. You pull your badge out of your jacket and put it on the table. “The detective’s gun is down in evidence,” your partner supplies quietly. “Then the two of you are dismissed.” It works as effectively as a shout, but her voice is still ridiculously calm. You shuffle out of the chief’s office, arms wrapped around your chest. Are you angry? Yes, but you understand where Chief Smith is coming from. As you begin to collect your things, your partner follows you out to the lobby. “Do you need a ride home?” He asks, looking at your reckless movements nervously. “I’ll take the train.” “That doesn’t seem like a good idea.” You begin to walk, turning around for a few steps so you can face him, unable to turn your neck without a sharp stab of pain. “I am a fountain of good ideas,” you say, running into a wall. At least during day hours, the train cars are, for the most part, empty. That means you can waver on the verge of a mental breakdown without the judgment of other people for failure to hold everything together. On top of that, the bandages still holding your cheek together won’t help your case to seem any less ludicrous than it already is. The sounds of wheels against tracks help dull your nerves, though maybe it’s really those painkillers you were given finally kicking in. One little pit stop, just to pick up some things to restock your fridge, and you are home. To say you are exhausted would be an understatement, you just want to lay on your couch and let some meaningless tv fill the ugly void in your brain. You unlock the door, setting two bags of groceries on the counter, nonchalantly spinning around to open your silverware drawer to retrieve the biggest knife you own. “It’s just me.” The woman is sitting in the frame of an open window, the sounds of the city bleeding into your sanctuary. “I know, that’s why I have this.” You set the knife down on the counter and begin unloading your food. “Why the hell are you in my house? Better yet, how the hell did you get in my house?” “Your window was unlocked,” she says, looking over her nails. “I live on the fifth floor.” “Yeah?” She looks back up at you, eyebrow arched as though you are just saying the absolute obvious. Behind her, darkness shimmers into existence, the shape of wings sharpening until they are just as solid as the rest of her body. “Right.” You forgot about those. A pause. “We need to talk about last night.” The memory of blood fills your nostrils like a ghost, a tremble moving through your chest like a tide of waves. “I didn’t tell anyone.” “I know.” Her legs swing to the floor. “I would smell your guilt from the other side of the city. I suppose that I’m here to thank you for doing so.” You fill a kettle with water, mouth pressed in a tight line as you watch the faucet. “No one would have believed me, anyway.” Without thinking, you pull two mugs from the cabinet instead of just one. “I think you’d be surprised.” She stands in the living space awkwardly, thumbs in her pockets, watching your movements with an odd fascination. Two identical tea bags go into the mugs, you don’t give her the privilege of picking the flavor. It takes a minute more of high heat for the kettle to begin to steam, first a small, little puff wafting up to the ceiling, then a steadily rising scream. As you lift the pot, the handle covered in a rubber protector, you build enough courage to ask, “I’m sorry if this seems rude, I guess… but what are you?” “Vengeance,” she responds, completely serious. “Of course,” you say unconvincingly, “I should have known.” She sighs, sitting at the little table at your gestural behest. “It’s… difficult for even me to explain, and it’s many things at once. For one, I can see the crimes a person has committed, the best way to describe it is like an aura, I guess.” Her fingers reach over, stopping almost close enough for you to feel, her eyes closing. “There,” she murmurs, “some things you’ve done, some things you feel guilty for. But nothing…” her hand snakes back into her lap, “nothing that drives me to darkness.” You stare at her, eyes almost… empty, wrong, like the eyes of a corpse, her near overgrown bangs hiding them from you as she tilts her head forward in something akin to silent meditation. Her fingers weave around the cheap ceramic of the mug, her fingernails short and cracked. “And the ghosts of wrongful deaths, they all come to me. They plead with me to aid, to bring them justice, and none of them stop until… until they are satiated…” She pauses. “Forgive, me, I came here to give you something. I just need a moment to remember what.” Not entirely sure you would want what she gives, you manage a quiet, “it’s alright.” “Tisiphone,” she says suddenly, looking back up in your direction. “My name is Tisiphone. I almost forgot… You already gave me your name, so I thought it would be fair to give you mine.” You repeat the name, running the alien syllables over your tongue like a wine connoisseur tasting a vintage sample. Something about the way she offers it, like her name is the last thing of hers she can give, melts a layer of ice in your chest. “Do you want to stay for dinner?” You ask, on the smallest whim. “I don’t know… if I actually can eat. I don’t remember ever trying.” Tisiphone looks embarrassed at admitting this, so you try to smooth everything over. “Well, you can drink leaf water,” you gesture to her already half-empty tea mug, “why don’t we try to cook something up in the kitchen.” Tisiphone is fine with red meat, you discover, so long as it’s barely cooked and super bloody. Things more along the carb end of the spectrum, not so much, she can barely put a bite of wheat toast in her mouth without retching. Honey; yes, in small portions. Refined white sugar; no fucking way. Trial and error ensue, holding things close to her nose, taking little tastes, and needing to stand over the trashcan to spit anything that doesn’t vibe with her body out. Dinner didn’t really happen the first night, because there really isn’t anything in your fridge worth cooking for her. The next night, though, after returning to the grocery store with a list of foods Tisiphone can actually eat, you manage to throw something rather nice together. A slice of beef chuck, barely seared, mushrooms to the side, and a small glass of dry wine, things you had previously tested the day before, things she seems to not only be able to eat, but also enjoy. Tisiphone crawls through your window again, though this time you left it open, so she doesn’t have to jimmy it herself. “I didn’t see you working today.” You place a wine glass on the table. “I’ve been suspended.” “And that is,” she pauses, looking at the red liquid you pour, “bad?” “The chief knows I’m protecting someone, but can’t prove it. This is her way of punishing me, I guess.” You shrug, trying to act like you don’t exactly care as much as you do. As much as it pains you to admit, you don’t think you should go back to homicide, especially since the whole department is focused on catching the person trying to figure out how to use a fork across from you. “I’m probably lucky there’s no proof that I’m colluding with you or it wouldn’t just be a long weekend off work.” Tisiphone folds her hands on the table. “I am sorry about catching you up in this. But I am not going to stop.” “I know, and I’m not asking you to.” You don’t want her to think that this is an attempt to convince her otherwise when really… you don’t know exactly what this is. Not a business meeting, that’s for sure. “It’s the heinous crimes that send me into a frenzy, but,” Tisiphone cocks her head, her bangs sweeping to the side enough for you to make out some sort of tattoo on her forehead, “I can still sense other things, petty things. I could help you track down robbers, fugitives, all other crimes.” It’s a nice thought, for sure, but… “I still need evidence to convict those criminals.” She stares at you blankly. “Evidence, like… the journal you gave me? It was submitted to forensics, and they concluded that it did belong to a missing person, which helps build the case against the criminal.” Nothing registers. You sigh. “The legal system here has a set of rules in place that are supposed to keep regular bystanders from being convicted. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty, and to prove them guilty, you need to bring evidence forth.” Tisiphone wrinkles her nose. “But people are either guilty, or they’re not.” “We don’t have the privilege of sensing crime; otherwise the police force probably wouldn’t even exist.” You run your fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp. “Sensing guilt will probably come in handy, yes, but more importantly, I’ll need proof of a crime.” The soft tap tap tap of Tisiphone’s fingers against the table is the only sound for a few moments. “Alright,” she says, finally, “yes. I can do that.” “And it has to be real, too.” There’s a gleam in her eye that you need to fix. “You can’t just plant the evidence there.” Her dark mouth puckers into a little pout. “Fine.” “Deal?” You reach over, palm up. “Deal.” Her long, thin fingers grab hold of your hand awkwardly, and you shake it once. “Let’s get started,” you say, smiling for the first time in a long while. When you returned to your precinct, you also submitted a request to switch departments. It gets approved, the chief not even bothering to call you in to ask why. Rodriguez is probably relieved to get you off his team and doesn’t put up a single word of fuss, so you pack your things up and move desks, avoiding the weird looks from your coworkers. It is not easy to rebuild credibility with your new colleagues, but you manage to finagle a fraud case from your supervisor. Which you solve, of course, in almost record time. Tisiphone convinces one of the participants to turn himself in, just by appearing in the dark, wings out, eyes glowing, the whole shebang. The guy thought he was being visited by the ghost of Christmas future or something. You get another case soon following that, and solve that one, too. Soon enough, you end up on a team that is trying to bust a drug ring. The nights become sleepless and caffeine filled, your laptop becoming attached to your hip when you aren’t on it, pouring over the information over and over again until you can recite the case file in your sleep. It’s been about a week since you last saw Tisiphone, so for now, you’re on your own. Which doesn’t matter, you think stubbornly. You don’t want your career to depend entirely on the whims of some supernatural creature, even though she is very helpful. And has nice hair… and nice skin… and- A tapping rattles your window. You walk over without even a second of deliberation, opening the glass. In she rolls, mouth and hands stained with crimson, hair frizzy and askew. Tisiphone pops back up on her feet, taking in a deep breath as so she had worn herself out, and clasps her hands together. “What are we working on today?” “Um, how about getting you a phone so you can tell me when you’re about to go off? Not a word from you for eight days, Tisiphone.” You are not going to admit how worried you were, no way. She stares into space. “Eight days? Really?” “Yes,” you walk over to the kitchen, finding a rag in one of the drawers. “No note, nothing for me to know that you were doing okay.” The faucet sputters once as you turn it on, water splattering loudly against the metallic sink as you twist the handle to warm. Tisiphone stands next to you, accepting the rag, and begins to wash the blood off her face and arms. You lean up against the cheap faux granite of the counter, watching as the blood dilutes, dripping off her body and down the drain. “I’m sorry.” Tisiphone turns to you finally, placing the bloodied rag in the sink. “I didn’t… I didn’t think you would worry.” “We are partners, Tis. If my partner disappears out of the blue, what am I supposed to think? I don’t know where you are, what if you get hurt and need my help?” “I don’t get hurt,” Tisiphone says, almost insulted, then thinks better of her attitude. “I haven’t had a partner before. No one has wanted my help the way you do, this is all new.” You hug her, tightly. At first, Tisiphone stands there, arms sticking out like she is unsure of what to do with them. “What are you doing.” “Hugging you. I’m just glad that you’re okay.” Her hand snakes around to your waist and offers two stiff pats. As you try to pull away, you find that Tisiphone’s arms have locked around your waist, unmovable, so you stay in that position for an extra couple of seconds. When she releases you, her eyes are almost misty. “What are you working on now?” Tisiphone quickly changes the subject, looking over to your computer. The two of you begin to work, you with your computer, and Tisiphone listening to your synopsis of what has been going on. The drug cartel with their smugglers, dirty cops within your precinct, and the prostitution ring happening on the side. “The thing is,” you add once you see a dark look consume her eyes, “yes, the guy calling the shots has blood on his hands, but if he’s dead, then someone else will easily take his place, and the cycle will continue. We need to burn the roots of the tree before we cut down the branches.” Her face twitches. “Think of this a preventive measures against future murderers.” You know that there is a driving force that takes over when she catches the scent of blood, but you’re hoping to steer it. It takes almost a minute for Tisiphone to return to normal, the blank, faraway look fading back into her natural intelligence. “I won’t be able to go near him,” she warns, waving her index finger. “Alright,” you agree, yawning, glancing at the clock. God, it’s morning already. You’ll be lucky to get three hours of sleep. “I really have to get to bed now.” “Okay,” Tisiphone says, “can I stay here and watch your picture box for a bit?” “Sure,” you stand, “feel free to crash on the couch, too.” Sleep is hard to come by, adrenaline crawling under your skin, your eyes wide open and plastered to the ceiling. In the next room, you can hear the quiet sounds of some foreign drama, the language rolling off the tongues of the actors like warm syrup. Every so often, you catch Tisiphone’s muted voice parroting a phrase, accent not quite right, but improving with every word. You must have dozed off sometime later because you are jolted awake by the ungodly sound of your alarm clock. Eyes nearly crusted shut, you groan, forcing yourself to roll over off the welcoming mattress and onto the floor. Clumsily, you shuffle out of your room, finding Tisiphone dead asleep on your couch, tv playing some obnoxious infomercial about a miracle cleaner. Half of her hair covers her face, soft mouth open as she breathes quietly, arms sprawled in odd angles. Nothing about her says high profile killer, not like this.
How about girlfriend material?
It’s almost so natural to think that, you don’t even feel a pang of how weird it is until a moment later. Girlfriend material? Alright, detective, try to dial back the intrusive thoughts. Hesitantly, you place a hand on her shoulder to wake her. Poof, out pop her wings from nowhere, the ends smacking against your face. Tisiphone sits up like a gunshot, sudden, ready to inflict damage, stopping short when she sees you standing over her, hand on the part of your cheek that got whacked. “Sorry,” she says, running her fingers through her hair, partially fixing a cowlick that’s sticking almost straight up. “Instinct.” It didn’t sting in the slightest, you are just more surprised than anything. “It’s alright, um, I was just letting you know that I’m going to work. And you can stay here, if you want, just make sure to lock the door behind you if you leave.” Before you turn, she swings her legs off the couch. “Wait.” She walks around to where you stand, places one hand on your shoulder, and presses her lips against your cheek. “Thank you.” Heat rises in your neck, a blush blossoming in your face even as you try to fight it. You don’t want her to know how much it affects you. “Y-you’re welcome.” Like a brand, you feel the burn of the kiss the entire day. On the way to the precinct. In the morning briefing. During your lunch break. You can barely focus on your work, even though you continuously try to throw yourself further into the papers in the hopes to forget it. But you can’t. You don’t think you want to. Returning to the apartment happens with great trepidation. With an armful of groceries, you enter, finding Tisiphone on the couch as though she hadn’t moved an inch since you left. She’s already staring at you the moment the door creaks open, she must have sensed you the moment you stepped foot into the apartment complex. Closing her eyes, she sniffs the air once, immediately zeroing onto the bag with the meat. “I brought dinner.” Which is stupid to say, you suppose, because she already knows. Tisiphone smiles, a lopsided, sharp-toothed smile that you somehow find downright adorable. Though her abilities in the kitchen are incredibly lacking, she manages to make herself useful by doing everything you say. Setting the table seems like an excellent job for her, she’s already memorized the way you do it, and she can unload the dishes from the dishwasher (though not reload it, she can’t seem to understand the buttons quite yet). She sidles up to you as the vegetables fry, placing her hand over the spatula. “Show me how?” One moment of hesitation, one moment to deliberate whether or not it would be a bad idea, but you place your hand over hers and guide it towards the skillet. She’s close, so close you can feel the heat of her body on your skin, so much hotter than the stove. Her breath tickles your neck, your hair nearly standing on end. If you turn around and tilted your chin, you are certain your mouth could graze hers. Do it, the irrational part of you says. “Tis,” you say softly, turning around, “can you sense emotions, too?” She’s there, just a hair’s width away. “Yes.” And she kisses you, on the mouth. Her lips are just as hot as you remember, scorching, burning, sweet. You close your eyes and lean closer, her hands resting on your hips. Her scent is warm, like her, almost smoky, with just a sweet bit of honey. Actually, way more smoky than you first thought. Really smoky, bitter, and- “Shit!” You jerk away, too late, the veggies already well charred. Quickly, you reach over and turn the stove off, scooting the pan away from the still-hot section, then turn back to Tisiphone and kiss her again in one, fluid motion. “Stay here,” you ask, breathless, “stay with me, please.” Her forehead bumps against yours, her smile soft and beautiful. “Yes.”