Embers

by BlackBloodClowns (Adrian_B)

Summary:

Ten years have passed and for many former students, their lives have settled into a sense of normalcy. Meisters and weapons hunt corrupted souls, the war between witches and humanity has not ceased, all that has changed is that they have grown older, perhaps wiser.

Now, between a serial killer on the loose and children going missing, Maka and Soul are sent to Europe to investigate.

Chapter 1

Ten years.

Ten years had passed since that fateful, tragic day. Since that battle.

On this day, only ten years ago, the DWMA had won the war against the Acolytes. Ten years since the Witch of the Seas, Kai Palakiko, had died. Ten years since the deaths of so many students, since the snow of Antarctica had turned crimson, soaked in the blood of those who had fought.

The aftermath had been immediate. For the DWMA, they had been more busy than Maka had been used to. The battle may have been won, but that hadn’t meant everything could go right back to how it had been.

Death had buried the souls of the students who had died in his expansive room, under the crooked crocks and fake daytime sky. The bodies had been sent back to their families. A lot of calls had been made the day they returned from war. Death had personally informed each family, each loved one, of their loss.

People had screamed and cried. There had been a protest outside the academy within a month, and had lasted weeks. Friends and family had stood at the long stairs yelling and screaming, waving signs and throwing whatever they had on hand at the staff, angry at the school, at the system. Angry at Death for sending children to fight.

Maka wished she could say that the protests had been all that had entailed in the aftermath, but that would have been a lie.

The Witch of the Seas had died—Poisoned, Stein had surmised after an autopsy—and the Acolytes had not taken that lying down. Those that had escaped the battle had remained active, those that had refrained from joining the fight had lashed out.

A lot of people had died during the fight, a lot of people on both sides. But, even more had died in the following years.

During the first year after victory, things had only gotten worse. Members who had survived had retaliated against the DWMA and against Death in whatever way they could. They killed their neighbors in the name of the Witch of the Sea, had set off bombs in public places, had committed suicide attacks, killed meisters and weapons they caught. The DWMA was still hunting down the lingering members, and only a few years ago had the violence from them truly died down.

Still, so much damage had been done, it would take time to heal. It had taken a long time before those who had been involved could relax, stop looking over their shoulders.

The battle had been horrible, bloody and cruel. Primarily it was human against human, a few witches, but not many. Most souls still blue, not yet a corrupted red. Normal, good people brainwashed through generations of cultic beliefs, believing they were doing the right thing.

Maka had seen the videos of the attacks, had watched the clips of their ‘sermons’. She could emphasize, she could see where the anger had come from, that their hate was from a misguided place. Their intentions may have well-meant, wanting a better world.

But, that does not justify their actions, that does not absolve them of the guilt of their crimes. There was blood on their hands, and that wouldn’t go away because they meant well.

She could emphasize, but that didn’t mean she forgave.

Ten years. That’s how much time had passed,

Ten years to put the world in order again. Ten years until the DWMA was able to once again stand firm in the face of opposition by witches, Kishin Eggs, and heretical cults. Ten years until it truly began to recover.

But, even the world needed a distraction. Even if just for a single night, the world had needed something to help forget, and something to honor those who died fighting the Acolytes on Antarctica and the following skirmishes around the world. They needed something to help remind the world of the good that the DWMA stood for.

The Winter Festival was created, eight years ago on the day of the battle in Antarctica. To celebrate victory and honor the dead. A year where all around the world people gathered to celebrate.

And no place was more festive on that one night than Death City, the seat of Lord Death’s power, home to many veterans from the Battle of Antarctica. The city always went all out for the Winter Festival, so much so that entire roads were shut down days in advance to set up preparations for festival night. Lanterns in the shape of Death’s face illuminated the streets, hanging on wires strung up between buildings and on light posts. Flowers hung from signposts and windows. Ribbons and banners, black and white, billowed in the breeze.

Vendors set up booths and tents all along the main roads. Performers set up little stages, playing music and performing plays. Children dashed between booths, spending their parents money on games and sweets, while the parents fought a futile battle to keep their children in sight and at their sides. Students and teachers got surrounded, people asking to hear stories of the battle, of the Acolytes.

At the top of the stairs to the DWMA a shrine was erected, pictures of all who died fighting the Acolytes encased in flowers stood above the festival as friends and families climbed the steep stairs to honor the their sacrifices.

The air of the night was buzzing with life and delight beneath the laughing moon. The Winter Festival was a night where everyone gathered together for a good time.

Well, most of everyone.

It wasn’t that Maka didn’t like the festival, it wasn’t that at all. She understood the necessity of it, especially for this early on, when wounds were still fresh.

It was just that Maka had been there. She had been out there in the midst of the fight. She had seen classmates die, had watched the blood drench the snow as blue souls hovered in the air, dozens upon dozens of them lingering over dead bodies.

She had nearly died, she had nearly lost Soul. She had been there and watched as BlackStar was carried out, bloodied, his face covered in a drenched cloth, Tsubaki trying hard to look strong and not cry as she helped carry him onto the ship with the other wounded. She had seen Fire bawling as Killik cradled Thunder, screaming for someone to help her, even though the bones of his leg were visible through his tattered pantleg.

 She had seen the damage that fight had brought. 

She had seen her classmates die. Had seen Maleko die.

Maleko Palakiko, even now, ten years later, it still filled her with heartache. He had been a child, nine years of age, innocent and full of wonder. He was young, naïve, had been brought into the care of the DWMA unaware of the war between witches and humans. He had been brought into the school, not knowing that while he grew close to the students, the DWMA was hunting his mother.

He had been a wild child, but he was kind and generous. The urge to hurt and destroy had not yet come upon him. Maka had, during the short time she had been with him, grown fond of the child. He was a sorcerer, was supposed to be her enemy, but in the end he was something more akin to a little brother. Someone to watch out for and protect. He was such a kind child that it was hard not to grow fond of him. Marie had certainly taken a liking to the child, so had her father, Maka swore it was like he had adopted another child. Which wasn’t necessarily bad, if he focused more on Maleko, he’d bother her less.

He was a good kid. He was a sorcerer, but he wasn’t evil, he wasn’t irredeemable. He was good.

Then he and Soul were kidnapped, and things changed.

Maka still, to this dad, didn’t know what happened in that warehouse, nothing certain, only theories. She only knew that the two had been hurt, the two Acolytes who had captured them dead. Maleko had set a fire, had probably spiraled out of control because of the fear, and who could blame a child? He was a kid who was hurt, who was threatened, who’s life was at risk, no one could blame him for lashing back, fighting back.

No one would have blamed him for what happened in there.

But, that warehouse incident had changed everything for him. The once cheery and happy boy had become withdrawn and angry, he had stopped talking to others, had locked himself away in his room beneath the school. He had lashed back. He knew. Malako had found out.

Maleko learned the true relationship between the school and witches. He must have learned from the Acolytes. It must have frightened him, made him feel like a mouse in a den of cats, where any day could be his last.

It should have come as no surprise that the boy fled as soon as the chance arrived. No one had been any the wiser, either, not until he had gained far too much ground. He had learned Soul Protect within the school—though how he did, no one knew. Had masked his soul and ran, had kept running, and by the time anyone realized he had gone missing, he was too far to find again. Too well hidden.

Kim saw him in another city miles and miles away. But he had ran away before she could catch him, and she had ultimately lost him again. Maka remembered how worried she had felt when Kim reported the incident—the boy had tried to be a hero. He had intercepted a Kishin Egg and had tried to protect a woman who had been attacked. He likely would have been killed had Kim and Jackie not gotten there when they had.

No one saw them again, no one was sure where he would have popped up next. The school couldn’t afford the resources to keep looking for him, they had finally tracked down Kai and the gathering Acolyte forces to the Antarctic. There was no time to waste, and Maleko’s retrieval would have to wait.

She hadn’t liked it, had felt conflicted after catching speeches by the Acolytes and by Kai. But, ultimately, Maka and Soul had volunteered to go to Antarctica to join the fight.

No one had expected Maleko to be there, to have already reunited with Kai.

Then, just like Kai, he died.

Maka had bore witness to him and Kai falling to the sea as the tower of ice crumbled. She had hoped that he had survived, had hoped that the reason she couldn’t sense his soul was because of the drugs the Acolytes had managed to hit her with.

But, when Stein and Sid fished the bodies from the freezing waters, she had to accept reality.

At first, Maka wanted to be angry at him, blame him for dying. She had felt heartbroken over losing a friend, had tried to rationalize that there was something she could have done differently that might have saved him. It had been a rough few months and she might not have recovered as swiftly as she had if not for Crona and Soul. Her grief remained, even now she still mourned him in her heart, but it was manageable now.

She had accepted that, had Maleko survived, he would never have come back with them to the DWMA, not willingly. Though Kai’s death was the result of a betrayal, the DWMA held some of the blame, and they would be an easier one to blame. They were his natural enemy, it would be easy to hate them, and there was little doubt that Maleko would, indeed, hate them. The death of his mother would have only driven him further into the arms of the witches and their destructive natures.

Maleko may have very well grown to be one of their worst enemies, fueled by a want for revenge. He’d have the aid of witches who also shared his hate of the DWMA, he’d be able to seize control of the remaining Acolytes as the son of Kai. He’d most likely do anything he could to bring the DWMA to ruin.

And, in the end, Maka wouldn’t have been able to be angry at him, because he’d still just be an angry and hurt child trying to avenge his mother.

Maleko had changed her, the Acolytes and that battle had changed her. It had been hard for Maka to go back to how things had been before the bloodshed and slaughtered, to how she had been.

Before, Maka had always held strong to her ideals. DWMA good, unwaveringly so, Lord Death’s rule absolute and his decisions unquestionable. Witches bad, evil by design. Then she met Crona, and she learned the world was not black and white, that despite the many they had killed, how far on the path of becoming a Kishin they had been, Crona was still able to become a good person—and they had! Then, Maka met Maleko, and she was allowed to the idea that witches were not all evil, were not all monsters.

Then, she was allowed to entertain the Acolytes perspective.

They followed Kai because of brainwashing that spanned for generations, an ideal nurtured and passed from parent to child. But, it was not based on nothing. It stemmed from a hate of Death, and—they weren’t wrong in their feelings. No parent could easily accept that their children were being sent to fight evils that could get them killed.

The had a different world view and were led astray by a witch. They had thought Death was a danger to the world and Kai was their salvation, and had waged war on Lord Death and the DWMA as a response.

And they were killed in retaliation.

Of course, the Acolytes were not good people. Many had become killers, fanatical killers, but, they were still human in the end, not yet Kishin Eggs.

Maka had come to the realization that it was no longer simple, knowing what the right thing to do was, what was right and what was wrong, it wasn’t a simple choice anymore. Things weren’t black and white, the world was made of greys. There was no more ‘this is good’ and ‘this is bad’. There was no longer a true ‘right’ choice.

Many of the people they had fought, Maka had to wonder how much choice they had in their lives before they became Kishin Eggs, was there something that had driven them to such crimes, were they believing they were in the right?

Crona, oh sweet Crona, they were a perfect example of grey. They had been raised by Medusa, someone Maka would always view as the worst of the witches, had been raised and conditioned to be a killer, to become a Kishin. And they had been well on the path of making that a reality, living a life of bloodshed and madness, knowing little outside the insanity and terror, marked to be killed for their crimes. They had known no other life because they had never been allowed the chance to.

But, once given the chance to be something different, something better, Crona had blossomed and had become something amazing.

If Crona could change for the better, if Maleko had been good despite his race, then why should others not have that chance of changing? Why was it that killing them came first, questioning them came second?

It wasn’t as though she could just stop hunting Kishin Eggs, however. She and Soul were a team, they had made a promise to turn him into a Death Scythe, to make him a greater Death Scythe than her own father had ever been. But, it was harder for her to look at the missions and requests and not question them.

Were the ones requesting a hunt, a kill, truly evil? Was there more to the story than what they had been made privy too? Could they perhaps resolve this without death, and instead giving the target a chance at redemption?

Could it be resolved not with taking a soul, but saving one?

She had grown more careful about the missions she and Soul picked. Hesitant where she would have been decisive. Soul had noticed. Crona had noticed. Both had supported her decision.

The remaining years as students had passed in a blur, and eventually everyone had gone their separate ways.

BlackStar and Tsubaki had gone to Japan soon after graduation, moving back in with Tsubaki’s parents to focus on training and aiding Azusa in keeping the local witch covens and yakuza clans from getting out of control. From the letters that Tsubaki sent, BlackStar enjoyed his time there, and her parents adored him.

Kid came back to the city now and then, but he primarily worked around the world, traveling from city to city, country to country with Liz and Patty, communicating mostly through calls and postcards. With Lord Death tethered to the city, Kid did the work his father could not do in person. He was busy, far more than he ever had been as a student. He wasn’t too focused on making a Death Scythe out of the sisters, as it had become an accepted fact that they would be his main weapons regardless.

Though they were living a primarily nomadic life, the sisters had taken up jobs, too. Patty apparently took up odd jobs here and there whenever the three were staying in a town for a longer period of time. And Liz had gotten a job with a magazine, writing articles about the cities they went to, the events they got to participate in. Maka always kept an eye out for her articles.

The only ones who truly stayed in the city were Soul, Crona, and Ragnarok. Not that the Demon Sword had a choice. He often complained about how he was stuck here and how he would leave if he could. Maka doubted it, though. Despite all his grumblings, Ragnarok cared for his meister, he wouldn’t abandon Crona that easily.

Her relationship with Soul and Crona had continued to grow during the years.

Spirit had suggested that Maka apply to become a teacher at the academy, and Maka had considered it. She was suited to be a teacher, she knew all the materials, had graduated as top of the class—something Ox had mourned for days over—and she felt that she was good at mentoring the younger meister-weapon pairs. But, Maka had ultimately refused.

She didn’t want to be anchored to Death City, she loved the city, but she wanted the freedom to leave that she wouldn’t have being a teacher. She wanted to be able to go out into the world and do good, take on missions and make a difference. Staying in Death City would mean a better opportunity to choose her missions, especially as she was no longer just blindly accepting that everyone on the list was irredeemably evil.

Some missions, though, even Maka had a hard time trying to see how someone could do something so evil and still be a good person.

“And, so you see, this makes the seventh child in the past month to go missing in the area,” Death said, bouncing in his spot as he stood before Maka and Soul, his form bent just slightly as he towered over them. There was a map shown on his mirror, a large area of England circled in red. “A further study showed that there have been over fifty reported abductions in this area in the past two years.”

No matter how much Maka may try, she couldn’t fathom what reasoning a person might have to justify child abduction.

“You want us to go investigate, correct?” Maka asked, standing straight and stiff before the god, ignoring her own papa who stood at his side.

Death gave a slight bow, “Yes, that is correct. The police have done all that they could that was in their power, but have made no new progress, and so they have asked for one of our own to offer aid. A new perspective on the case that may be what they need to break through,” he said. “It will just be the two of you. A bigger group might tip off the kidnappers of our involvement and make them go into hiding, then we might never find a trail.”

“Going around taking kids, how uncool can you be?” Soul shook his head, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. His expression was the usual carefree, ‘cool boy’ face, but Maka could see the underlying anger in his eyes, an unspoken loathing towards the kidnappers. “Not one has come back yet?”

“Unfortunately, none have been found,” Spirit said, holding a stack of papers in his hands, glancing through them. “On one hand that is good, there’s no body, which means there is a good chance that they are still alive. The police can give you more information on the case when you get down there, we’ll be arranging your lodgings in the meantime, as well as some financial assistance.”

“Considering that tonight is the Winter Festival, the police there are on high alert with the risk of another child being abducted,” Death added.

Maka frowned as he said that, Death was right, the Winter Festival didn’t occur only in Death City, but rather all around the world. People were going to be out, the streets bustling, it would be easy to snatch a child who wandered away from their family when the children would be running around all over. The kidnappers could disguise themselves as a vendor or a performer, lure the children away and then, poof, another kidnapping.

“There’s no way we’ll get England before morning,” Maka warned, already doing the math in her head, calculating the time it was in Nevada, the time it took to get to England, no, they’d arrive by morning at the earliest. Long after the festival, unable to stop anything if another child was kidnapped.

“I’m aware,” Death’s tone hadn’t lost that jovial tone even in this situation. “I would have arranged for you two to head out sooner, but until now the British Government had refused aid, wanting to solve this themselves. The DWMA’s aid has only just been requested.”

They couldn’t do anything if the government hadn’t requested their aid.

That had been one of the changes implemented after the war. The U.N. had held a meeting and come to an agreement that the DWMA had too much free reign to intervene as they pleased. They had implemented a vote and the majority had agreed; the DWMA could not intervene in non Kishin Egg or Witch cases without their aid being asked first.

Because of that new ruling, they couldn’t just throw teams into situations without consent, nor could they take charge. They would be under the command whoever was in charge of the case, and could be dismissed if the agency in charge felt they were no longer of use to the case.

Even so, this kind of mission was one where Maka could do and not feel doubts over. Kidnapping children—there wasn’t any sort of justification that’d absolve them of guilt.

“When we get there, where are we going?” Soul asked.

Clapping his hands together, the reaper gave them a nod, “Yes, yes. We’ve booked your plane and train tickets, you’ll be heading to Pocklington. Small town, yes, but it’s the epicenter of the kidnappings. You’ll be meeting with Detective Cain from the local police department, he’ll update you on everything that’s going on. He’s the lead detective on this case, so you will be working closely with him.”

Spirit crossed his arms, his face a scowl. “I’ve heard that this detective is a real hit with the ladies. So be careful, Maka. Don’t fall for any of this jerk’s charms.”

It took all of Maka’s willpower to not roll her eyes at him. She was a grown woman now, a grown woman in a committed relationship, and her father still acted like this. It was annoying. “I can take care of myself, papa,” she reminded him. “Besides, I’m not going to fall for some guy I’ve just met.”

Even if she was the sort of person to believe in love at first sight, what could this detective have to offer that could make her toss aside the loves she already has for him? Besides, that was beside the point. “Is there anything else—anything important,” she added with a side-eyed glance to her father, “that we need to know?”

Death was still bouncing in place, bubbly, uncomfortably so. “Nothing that the good detective can’t fill you in on. We have already taken the liberty to pay for your travel fares and lodging.  All that’s left to be done is for you two to pack. Your plane leaves in three hours.”

“Make sure you call me once you land, too!” Spirit added, which Maka promptly ignored.

Instead, she gave Lord Death a bow. “Understood. We will head out as soon as possible.”

“We’ll catch these kidnappers in no time,” Soul added with a crooked smirk and a nod towards their superiors. “Those kids are going to be home, safe and sound, before you know it.”

---

At the completion of the mission debriefing, the two had gone straight to their shared apartment to pack up, and to inform Blair that they would be gone for at least a few weeks, maybe longer, and so she was in charge of keeping the apartment in their absence. Maka also had to make sure Blair would have money for groceries any emergency expenses. Sure, the cat made money at the club, but it wasn’t a lot in the long run, especially with how bad Blair could be when it came to money.

Because of how long the investigation had been going, Maka had packed for a long trip, stuffing two suitcases full of clothes and other necessities.

But, for the most part, the rest of the time had been uneventful. They had packed, they had boarded the plane and sat through a sixteen hour flight. It had been boring, cramped, and Maka had read through three books in that span of time. They had landed in Yorkshire and then had to wait for and then take an hour long bus ride to Pocklington

It was well past morning and into the afternoon when they had finally arrived in the small town.

Carrying her bags, Maka and Soul had an easier time getting off the bus than they had getting on. There were a lot less at the Pocklington stop, probably because it was such a small town it had a lot less traffic than the cities.

Her body felt cramped and sore from sitting for so long, and she felt the fatigue hitting her like a hammer. “Well, here we are,” she said, glancing to Soul. The people didn’t seem too upset or anxious or upset, so perhaps nothing had transpired during their travels? “Should we hit the hotel first, or go to the station?”

Soul yawned, somehow still sleepy despite the nap he took on the plane. “We should check in with the station; let them know we’ve arrived,” he licked his lips and moved aside for a mother and son to walk by. “That way they can contact us if something happens while we go settle in at the hotel.”

“Right. Good plan,” Maka nodded and started walking. They’d need a map, or maybe they could ask someone to point them in the direction of the police station. “Let’s give Crona a call when we get to the hotel later. I want to know how their mission is going.” Plus, it had been a while since she got to hear their voice; the demon swordsman had been sent on a mission by Lord Death two months prior, and since then they only got to talk over the phone a small number of times.

Soul laughed as he slung one of his bags over the shoulder, “I’m sure Ragnarok is making in entertaining for everyone involved,” he joked, and then gave a shake of his head while smiling. “But, yeah. I’d love to check up on them, too. Make sure their doing okay.”

They could talk, maybe not for too long—Crona was probably busy, and a lot of the specs of their mission was classified. But, even just a short call to say ‘hello’ ‘do your best’ ‘we love and miss you’ would be enough.

Yeah, Maka was looking forward to the call.

But, before Maka could take another step forward, a hand landed on her shoulder, bringing her to a stop and roughly tugging her backward.

Instinctively, Maka reeled away, wrenching herself free from the vice grip of whoever had grabbed hold of her, dropping her bags to the ground as she reached for Soul, readying herself to face some thug who thought he was trying to be tough by harassing and mugging them.

However, it wasn’t some street thug who had stopped them. Not even a witch or Kishin Egg, though that was obvious by the blue soul.

When Maka turned around, who she saw was a man, a good few years older than her and Soul, probably in his early thirties if she had to guess. Dressed nicely all things considered, in a white button up and black slacks, holding a suit jacket over a shoulder. The stranger had a handsome enough face, thin and clean shaven, with long hair that was a shade more orange than red tied back in a ponytail. He looked rough, unfriendly, but not a thug.

His eyes were gold in color, yet much like Souls in shape and vibe. He stared at the two impassively, bags under the eyelids. With one hand hanging onto the jacket he had, the other, the one that had grabbed Maka, pulled back to hang at his side. Maka stared at him in return.

“Maka Albarn? Soul Evans?” the stranger asked after giving them an unimpressed once over.

Soul took a step forward, staring up at the man with a frown. “Yeah. You are?” he asked carefully. Like Maka, he seemed a bit suspicious of being stopped and called out by a stranger. Plus, it was clear on his face he hadn’t appreciated Maka being tugged back like that.

To answer Souls question, a police badge was plucked from the hip and held up for them to see. “Elijah Cain,” the stranger introduced. “You two will be coming with me.”

It wasn’t a request.

Leaving them little time to speak or process, the detective had turned away and was walking, badge back where it had hung on his belt. He didn’t wait to make sure the two followed, but it was clear that they had little choice in the manner.

Soul frowned as he helped Maka pick up her bags. “That’s detective Cain?” he muttered.

Maka frowned, but followed the man a good few steps behind. They had only heard of him through the debriefing, and that had given her an idea of what he might be like. The reality was very different. “I expected him to be a bit…”

“Less of a dick?” Soul finished for her.

“Yeah,” Maka chuckled. “Papa said he was charming, but I don’t see the charm anywhere.”

Elijah didn’t even turn to look at them. “How about you two quit your jawing and pick up the pace?” he asked. “Or did you forget you’re here to work and not on vacation?”

He was unpleasant, and Maka was finding that she already wasn’t a fan of his. However, she did quiet down and walk a bit faster; as much of a grump the detective seemed to be, he had a point. They were here to help find missing kids, not play around. With how stressful this must be for him, she couldn’t blame him if he was a bit short fused.

So, she followed Elijah through the streets with Soul scowling at her side, making sure to keep any snide remarks to herself. Now was not the time or place to be snippy.

Eventually, they were lead to the precinct, a rather nondescript building on the outside. Elijah only had a few words to say to a few other cops as they entered, taking the pair to a glass meeting room with a long table over the center of it.

There were a number of whiteboards littered with case notes, scene photos, and names. A few cardboard boxes were on the table, stuffed full of files that Maka could only assume were about the case. A few cops were already in there, talking and discussing theories while sipping on cold coffee and flipping through files.  The trashcan was filled with empty Styrofoam coffee cups.

The people in the room looked tired and stressed. With how severe this case was, who could blame them?

“Those are the files,” Elijah said, dragging one of the boxes over and shoving it towards Maka. “At least, some of the files. Look through them, we’ve a list of people of interests, but no solid suspects yet for each kidnapping. What have you been told so far?”

Maka picked up the first file in the box and flipped it open, skimming the contents. “Kids have been getting kidnapped. You’ve had about fifty in the past two years, all seemingly connected,” she answered, closing the file and picking up another. It’s information was fairly similar to the other file; child had been alone, parents had left them for a few minutes to do something, and when they got back, the child was gone.

Taking a seat, Elijah threw his jacket over the back of the chair. “Half right,” he said. “Three have been fifty-eight reported cases of children going missing in a thirty-five kilometer radius of this city. All within two years. Considering not all the parents actually care, the exact number is undoubtedly higher.”

That didn’t make Maka feel better.

Soul took a seat, leaning back and staring at Elijah coolly. “It’s been two years, why haven’t you asked for help sooner?” he asked. “You waited a real long time to ask Lord Death to send someone to aid you, this isn’t an attempt to save face, is it?”

He was baiting him, looking for a reaction, but Elijah gave him none. His gaze wasn’t stoic, it wasn’t uncaring. It was tired. A look of a man who didn’t have a single fuck left to give. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, mate. Call it bureaucratic bullshit,” Elijah reached to grab a coffee from the table, not caring that it belonged to someone else or was already cold and half-drank. “Politicians wanting to protect their bloody pride by refusing outside help or some other bullshit.”

“You don’t sound like you agree with their choice,” Sou said.

“I don’t. They sat on their hands too fucking long and look where we are now,” Elijah responded, downing the cold coffee in one go, slamming the empty container back on the table. “Should have called for aid when it became clear that these kidnappings were connected. But, no, they waited two years. If I'd been callin the shots, I would have been sending in the calvary at the start. We needed help on this case, maybe not from the DWMA of all places, but you're here now, so beggars and choosers. So, yeah. I'm not exactly a fan of the decision."

And he wasn't a fan of the DWMA either by the way he said it. That was going to make things a bit harder if there was already a bias against them. But, they were going to need to work together, whether Elijah liked them or not. 

Maka closed the file she had been reading, looking at the detective, listening as the other officers tried to go about their work like it was just background noise. "who was the first victim in this case?" she asked. 

A pause of silence filled the room before Elijah pushed himself up and dragged over a different box. He said nothing as he rummaged through it, but eventually found the right file as he withdrew a thick folder and slid it over to the pair. “Amanda Lewis,” he answered. “Twelve years old, resident of Pocklington. Left for school one day but never made it home.”

Maka took the file and opened it, looking at the girl in the photo. Small and young, long black hair and dark eyes. What Maka noticed first was it was a school photo, not a personal one, not the kind a family would have kept in the home. She moved the paper to look at the other photos; her school was listed, her main route home, her house, her room. A list of friends and classmates and teachers.

Soul leaned over to look at the file and then glance at Maka. “What’s going on in that brain of yours, Maka?”

She frowned, looked at the papers. This was the official start of it all. The first child who went missing. If the two of them were joining the case, they needed to start at the beginning. “Detective Cain, would it be possible for us to speak with the Lewis family tomorrow?”

Elijah raised a brow, “You have their statements in the file.”

“I have questions I’d like to ask that aren’t found here,” Maka responded. She wanted to talk to the parents herself, there were questions not found in the files, information she wanted confirmed. Her and Soul were coming into this case two years late, they had a lot of work to do to catch up.

There was a pause, and then Elijah once again shrugged. “We would like to avoid causing more distress to the families, you can understand how traumatic this is to them,” he said slowly, warningly. “But, if you’re sure it’s important, I’ll make the call and arrange a meeting. Can't promise that they'll want to talk, but I'll see what I can do. Anything else you need?”

Maka began reorganizing the files, putting them back into their boxes. “For now? Just the files. Can we take these boxes with us? I want to read through all the files here, know what you've already found so far."  They needed to familiarize themselves with the details of the case if they were to be of real help here, and while Maka would have been fine staying in the precinct the entire day and night to read it, she knew Soul wouldn't be able to. 

“We’ve got digital copies, so go ahead and take the boxes. Just don’t loose anything,” Elijah said with a nod of approval, grabbing the other two boxes and shoving them towards Soul. “That’s all for today, you two can head to your hotel rooms or whatever, Officer Watson can give you two a lift.” He waved down a female officer as he said that, before turning his gaze back to the Maka and Soul, giving them a level look. "I know you two might think you're something better cause you're from the DWMA, but this is going to be nothing like hunting monsters. So I hope you two know what you're doing, otherwise this is gonna be a big waste of time."

Soul chuckled as he stood up, picking up two of the boxes, carefully balancing them in his arms. “If that’s your way of saying we aren’t up to snuff, you’ll be in for a treat. We’re going to find those kids.”

Notes:

Well, I hope you all enjoyed this first chapter to Embers. As always, I would love to hear what you thought of it, so leave a comment to let me know.

Chapter 2

Notes:

Warning for this chapter: Torture and blood.

True to words, the DWMA had arranged a place for the two to stay during the duration of their time in Pocklington and had wired a sizable amount of money into their account to cover any financial needs. Only the necessities, of course, any personal charges they had to cover themselves. True to his word as well, Elijah had arranged for Grace Watson to drive them to the inn and help them with the boxes. Police supervision to make sure the files stayed with them the entire way to the Sleeping Lamb.

The Sleeping Lamb was a small and cozy little inn, with the owner being a friendly old woman who had been more than happy to accommodate to Soul and Maka’s situation

It hadn’t taken much time to get their clothes situated, leaving the bags under their beds, ready to be pulled out as needed on the table, Maka and Soul placed the boxes that they had been given by Elijah, carefully removing the lids from the boxes to look at all the files stuffed inside. It was going to be a lot to read through, going to take a lot of time, and they still needed to get up early tomorrow for plans to meet Elijah and officially start on this case.

Maybe Maka would just pull an all-nighter, read through the files, and not sleep. No, then she wouldn’t be at the best mental state come morning. She would be of no use to anyone if she were dead tired.

So, they needed to read through as much as they could before exhaustion took over.

“Let’s start with Amanda’s case file, then work from the earliest to the most recent,” Soul offered, digging through the files to find the manilla folders that held hers. He handed a few of the folders to Maka, splitting the work between them as equals. “We can see if there are any similarities between kidnappings, find where they differ. That sound like a good starting point?”

Maka gave him a smile and took one of the folders that he’d brought out, taking a seat on the edge of one of the two twin beds. “That’s a good plan, Soul,” she agreed, pausing only to grab some notepads and pencils, handing some pages and pencils to Soul. “So we can make notes, keep track of things.”

He grunted, taking it, and settled into the chair, getting to work.

Opening her folder, Maka frowned as she was once again staring at the face of Amanda Lewis. The girl, so young, was only twelve when she was stolen away. Her gaze as she stared at the camera was solemn, no smile on her lips or in her eyes. It looked more like a mugshot than a school photo. It was unsettling.

Looking at her, Maka couldn’t help but to wonder.

What had she been like?

Had she been the quiet girl who sat in the back? The loud, rebellious one who always caused a scene? Was she the smart girl who did her best in class, worked hard? Had she a lot of friends? Had she only been comfortable with a small group of people? What kind of hobbies had the child had before being kidnapped? What dreams had she had for the future? Did she want to be famous, grow up to be a star? Or had she wanted a quiet life doing hard, but fulfilling work? Did she enjoy being outside, or did her interests tend to be more indoors?

Who was she? What did she want to be?

Why was she kidnapped?

Maka tried to imagine possible answers as she read through the file, tried to think of what kind of girl she could have been at the time. A kind girl, not too loud, not too quiet, someone who didn’t like to cause problems, but the sort who’d protect her friends. Maybe she was that kind of person.

Flipping to another page, Maka read through the contents more closely as opposed to the skimming she had done at the precinct. Details on the girl, from physical appearance to details of her life.

Twelve-years-old at the time; DOB October 11th, 2006; birthplace here in Pocklington; only child; blood-type A Negative; in Year Seven at school; went missing on March 3^rd. Reports in the file matched the brief debriefing she got at the precinct. Amanda had gone home after school, with several students as witness that she had left school on her own, no one new had been seen lurking around the property. She walked home, but never actually got home.

They couldn’t rule out that Amanda may have just run away from home. But, due to the surge of kidnappings that had followed, they couldn’t rule out that she was another victim.

Maka frowned, glancing up at Soul who read quietly, scribbling down notes of his own on his case file, and wondered what sort of things he was thinking, what theories and possibilities were filling his head. She glanced back to her own file.

There were photos of the school and of the house. A map with the route she primarily took highlighted. Photos of the parents and of the bedroom. Street cameras along her route circled in red. There was nothing, however, that struck out as unusual to her. Nothing that raised a red flag.

Everything seemed normal.

With nothing on Amanda’s file that struck out, Maka finished up and moved onto the other files, going to the next confirmed kidnapping, going into sequential order, slowly climbing through the names of children who had gone missing after Amanda.

Alexander Griff, eight, last seen in Haxby. Cassandra Drudey, five, last seen in Rillington. Jaime Afton, ten, last seen in Howden. Daniel Simone and Elena Lee, ten and five respectively, both from Molescroft. Patrick Fitzgerald, eight, Pocklington. The list went on, kids all over the Yorkshire area, going missing within the past two years and not being found.

She paused. Then, she began skimming through her files again, looking at the ages.

“Hey, Soul,” Maka looked up from her files, “How many kids in your half were over ten when they got abducted?”

Soul frowned and flipped through his pages, “Ah, none? Yeah, none,” he confirmed with a nod to himself. “Tens the oldest the kids are in this stack. The youngest one was five. Why do you ask?”

She got up from her seat and came over to him, showing the notepad where she had written down everyone’s ages. “Save for Amanda, everyone has been in the five-to-ten age range,” she explained. “Doesn’t that seem a bit odd to you?”

It was strange, at least Maka thought so. Why suddenly change the age of the people you kidnapped? Amanda would be fourteen now, but the other kids, at most they would be twelve. While it may not seem a big difference, it was a divergence between the cases.

Soul scratched his chin, “Maybe they ran into issues getting Amanda. She would have been twelve, a twelve-year-old would be harder to drag off than say an eight-year-old,” he theorized. “Amanda could have proven to be too old for whatever reason, and they decided to go younger instead.”

“Maybe,” Maka agreed, not entirely convinced. She was going to bring this up to Elijah in the morning, though he had likely already noticed the sudden difference in age, it wouldn’t hurt to discuss it with him. “I’m going to keep looking. Maybe something else will stick out.” Soul mumbled an agreement, returning to his own readings.

But nothing else did. Other than that discrepancy in age, Maka couldn’t find any threads that connected the kids. They were for the most part close in age, mostly in different towns, though a few were in the same town. But there was nothing obvious.

Eventually, Maka’s eyes had begun hurting from reading so much and she was getting tired.

Sighing, Maka leaned back and looked over to Soul who wasn’t even reading the files anymore, just poorly pretending to do so by leaning back in his chair with a file folder over his face. She would have thought him napping if it were not for how he kept moving and shifting. He hadn’t spoken up, and so she could trust that he hadn’t found anything yet, either.

“It’s frustrating, haven’t found anything yet,” she admitted, stretching, and letting her back pop before straightening out the files she had read, making sure that they were still in order and tidy. Best to not earn the ire of the police for messing up the case files they’d borrowed. “How about we call it a night for now? I think we’ve gotten as much as we can from the files for now, and we do have to get up early tomorrow.”

Soul nodded, already getting up to collect the files that Maka had left on the side of the bed, straightening out the already organizing the folders and putting them back into their boxes. “Want to try giving Crona a ring before we turn in?” he asked her as he closed the last of his boxes. “I know it’s pretty late over in Brazil right now, but it wouldn’t hurt to check in with them.”

That got a small smile from Maka as she looked for where she’d left her phone. There it was, hanging out on the pillow. “We can try. But we won’t talk for long,” she said. “We’ll say a brief hello and make sure they’re doing okay, and then we’ll let them get some sleep and hit the hay ourselves.”

“I could do with some sleep,” Soul agreed.

Maka nodded and waited until Soul took a seat beside her on the bed, the weapon sidling up close to her as Maka began dialing numbers into her phone and setting it to speaker so that both could speak and hear.

A few moments passed; they could hear the phone ring. One ring… a second…a third…

“A-ah! Hello?”

Maka perked up and beside her Soul smiled, leaning in closer to her and to the phone. “Crona, hello! We didn’t wake you, did we?”

There was a nervous pause, the sound of music in the background, the sounds of constant movement and chatter, laughter, and conversation. Maka got the feeling they hadn’t woken Crona up.

“Oh, no, no it’s okay.” Even now, after all these years, Crona still had a soft voice, still had their timid disposition, though they had gained more courage and certainty in the decade since joining the DWMA, the effects of Medusa hadn’t fully disappeared.

Though, as Maka listened, there was something else in their voice, something that just sounded off. “Sorry! I know that it’s late, I sh-should be sleeping, I really should. Just—something came up, the team wanted to unwind, and—ah, sorry!”

There was a wet squelch. “H-h-h-heeeey! Who d’ya think yer talking too?” Ragnarok slurred, cutting into the conversation, his voice peppered with hiccups. There had been a cry of alarm and Maka shared a look with Soul as they waited a minute or two as Crona and Ragnarok bantered and argued, their words muffled. A dull, but solid ‘whmp’ let them know that Ragnarok was bullying Crona as he usually did.

“Damnit! Are you talking to those two idiots? Piiiigy! What do you want now?!”

Maka felt a quick flash of annoyance at the nickname but refrained from snapping. “Ragnarok. What a shame, I’d been so close to forgetting you,” Maka muttered, earning a laugh from Soul. “What’s up with you two? You guys sound kind of weird.”

Letting his laughter die out, Soul tilted his head to the side, still smiling but his brow raised. “You two kind of sound kind of drunk,” he commented, but then paused to think, his smile falling. “You’re not actually drunk, are you?”

Crona yelped, seemingly dropping their phone to the floor by the sound of it, and then there was a loud thunk. Some people were laughing, and even Crona let out a forced laugh. “Uh, we… I think so. Maybe?” they offered. “Sorry, I, ah, stood up and the room started spinning, then my legs stopped working. I’m on the floor now.”

Maka bit her lip in worry, “Are you okay?” she asked. Was that why people were laughing? Were they laughing at Crona for falling?

“I think?”

Maka shook her head, trying to think of what was going on over there. “Okay, how did you two end up drunk?” She asked, or rather, demanded. The idea of Crona drinking just did not compute with her. “You’re not the type to drink, Crona.” She couldn’t remember them ever drinking something more than a few sips of wine during the occasional formal party Kid would throw or at an event at the DWMA.

“R-Ragnarok,” Crona said and everything made sense.

While Crona was not a drinker, Ragnarok had quite a fondness for alcohol. If he was offered a beer, Maka had never seen him willingly say no. Which, considering that Ragnarok was both Crona’s weapon and blood, well, Ragnarok couldn’t exactly drink and not effect Crona in doing so.

“Agent Barrichello, we, ah, he said we ought to have fun—a break from the case, so that we can destress, and he, um, took us to this bar,” Crona hiccupped, pausing to pull themselves back to their feet, or that’s what Maka assumed from the sound of scuffling. “We hadn’t—hadn’t made any new ground or, or got any new evidence on the case, so he thought we needed it, morale booster—Ragnarok’s been drinking a lot, because Barrichello said he’d cover the tab.”

Soul laughed, resting his head on Maka’s shoulder, and smiling warmly at the phone. “Sheesh, tell the guy to take it easy. Don’t need him being a drunk, and it certainly ain’t cool, I’m sure Maka can attest to that.”

An image of Spirit flashed across her mind and Maka gave a huff. “Just make sure you’re drinking plenty of water! Trust me, you and Ragnarok are going to have quite the hangover if you don’t,” she cautioned and then added just as hastily. “And be safe! Make sure you stick close to the agent who brought you, or anyone else you’ve made friends with out there! You’re both drunk, I don’t want people thinking they can take advantage of you because of this!”

“T-take advantage?” Crona yelped, letting out a soft whimper. “W-why would…?”

Ragnarok let out an ungodly screech, “Like anyone could! Let them try! Let them try!” he yelled. “I’ll beat them! I’ll kill them! Kill em and eat their souls! Just like the old days!”

“Ragnarok! No! We don’t do that anymore!”

“If they fuck with us, then they’re juuuust asking for it!”

“No they’re not!”

“Yes they are!”

Soul shook his head, looking to Maka and mouthing ‘dorks’ to her with an amused smile. Maka covered her mouth, stifling her laughter. It took her a minute before she was able to speak again, cutting into the argument the other two had. “Alright you two, settle down,” she waited a moment for them to calm back down. “You said you guys have made no headway on that case Lord Death assigned you on?”

“No,” Crona confirmed gloomily, and Maka felt a little bad asking since it seemed to have brought down their spirit. “We’ve been searching and searching through all the past incidents, yet we still don’t have a lead. We’re at a point where we can’t do anything b-but—” a hiccup broke the sentence, “but wait and see what he does next.”

“Bastard is playing with us!” Ragnarok added. “Just wait, when I get my hands on him—I’ll gobble up his soul!”

“That soul you… could probably eat,” Crona mumbled. “I think.”

Soul chuckled, “Well, you’ll probably be able to eat his soul, hard to imagine that someone like that isn’t vibrant red. When you two finally catch him, make sure you give the sicko a good thrashing.”

“We will!”

“Ragnarok, quiet down, the waitress is staring at us!”

Maka smiled fondly, though the smile was only for a moment. Just as her and Soul were on an important mission regarding a serial kidnapping, Crona and Ragnarok were dealing with a serial killer. Though at least those two had an idea of who they were after; a man who had been dubbed the Podcast Killer by the public, a name deriving from how he sets up a live podcast to stream him torturing and killing his victims.

It was horrifying, terrifying, the person behind it was undoubtedly a monster. But he was smart, Maka would give him that. The police weren’t able to track him down by his podcasts, and the corpses of his victims showed up all over the world, making it hard to narrow him down to one place when he seemingly had the ability to travel all over. Because he was an international killer, Interpol was heading the case, and they had called in assistance from the DWMA, hence why Crona had been sent.

The last few bodies had apparently been found in South America, with the most recent being in Brazil, so the team was staying there for a while until they picked up the trail again.

Honestly, though Maka was well aware of Crona’s capabilities, they were strong, probably one of the strongest meister-weapon pairs in the DWMA, she couldn’t help but still be Worried. Worried that they might get hurt. Though, realistically, this killer didn’t stand a chance against Crona and Ragnarok.

Crona being drunk right now didn’t make her feel any less worried.

“Just be careful, both of you,” Maka said, speaking a bit softer. Soul yawned beside her and she found herself smiling gently again. “It’s late, you two should get to sleep soon, Soul and I are going to be turning in for the night, too.”

“Ease up on the drinking, Ragnarok,” Soul added.

She could just picture the weapon sticking his tongue out at the phone with the wet, slobbering sound that it gave. “I don’t have to do what either of you say.”

“I’ll try to drink plenty of water,” Crona promised, “I’ll, um, I’ll see with Barrichello when we can head back to the hotel. I, ah, might call someone else to give me a ride back.”

Maka kept smiling as she heard Ragnarok complain over Crona’s words. “Got it. You two have a good rest of your night and make sure you get plenty of sleep, I’ll call you in the morning,” she said, feeling like a mother hen, but really she just wanted to make sure Crona was taking care of themselves while out there. “Good night, Crona, sleep tight, love you.”

There was a tiny, embarrassed squeak that they gave at the proclamation, and it made her heart swell. “L-love you, too. Both of you!”

Soul laughed fondly, “Get some rest, and best of luck on your mission.”

With a few more minutes of drawn out farewells, Maka hung the call up and abandoned her phone on the bedside table, letting out a yawn of her own as she felt sleepiness catch up to her. She blinked, licked her lips, and then turned to look to Soul.

“Think they’ll get their mission done before us?” she asked.

Soul shrugged out of his shirt and undid his belt, “Who knows? They’ve been on their mission a lot longer and we’ve only just started, though the killings been going on for a little longer than the kidnappings,” he mused as he pulled back the covers on the bed. “Wouldn’t be surprised if by the time we catch the kidnappers Crona’s already waiting back home for us.”

Maka smiled and slowly undid her pigtails, letting her hair down and leaving the hair ties by her phone. “Maybe we could make it a race, see who gets done first.”

“You’ll just overwhelm them if you do that,” Soul laughed.

“You’re right, that wouldn’t be fair,” Maka conceded, turning the lights to the room off and then climbing into bed beside Soul. “I do hope that they catch the guy soon. Feels like they’ve been gone forever, and just talking on the phone isn’t the same as being beside them.”

Soul nodded, pulling the blankets up over the both of them, “I know how you feel, but I think you should be focusing more on our mission at the moment instead of theirs. Crona knows what they’re doing. Let’s just focus on the kidnappings, and once ours is done, you can fret about Crona’s all you want.”

Yawning, Maka nodded and nestled in closer to him, “Fine, deal.”

But, for now she had time to not worry about either missions, let her mind be free of thoughts of kidnappings and murders and instead embrace the freedom of sleep and dreams. She and Soul could sleep, rest up their bodies and rest their minds so that come morning, when they go and meet up with Elijah, they could give the mission their all.

Right now, though, they just needed to worry about sleeping and not to sleep past their alarms.

---

“Sea may rise, sky may fall. My love will never die~”

Singing softly, he spun around his workroom, light on his feet and ever moving. On a counter was a laptop and attached to it were a few microphones located in different parts of the room. Pinned to the walls was red-stained soundproof foaming, covering every inch of the walls so that not a single sound could escape the room—and not a single sound could get in.

He needed to ensure only the best audio for his fans, make sure his audience heard every little detail they could without interruption so that they could paint the gruesome image in their own heads.

“Please!”

He ignored the sobbing, the crying, continuing instead to sing along to the music as he prepared his tools, opening the toolbox, and withdrawing both old and new. Hammers, screws, nails, wrenches, pliers. He hooked a few to the table his laptop rested on, placed others on the little metal table next to his guest.

The smile on his face only grew as he thought of all the things he could do with just these tools. “Go on, go on, go bravely on, into the blackest night~” he sung as he picked up a nail and held it carefully between two scarred fingers. “Hold my breath, till your return. My love will never die~”

The room was dimly lit, a few flickering lights hanging from the ceiling, and terribly cold, too. cold, concrete floors and walls, not a window to be seen, counters littered with bloodstained equipment, more hanging from the walls. Ropes, straps, gags, and numerous candles and other toys stored nice and neat, in perfect visual range for his friend to see. On a coat rack hung a few bloodied and full-bodied aprons to keep him as clean as possible, in a box were numerous long gloves drenched in blood.

He smiled, tightening the straps of the apron he currently wore—had to make sure his clothes stayed nice and clean, and then pulled a pair of gloves from the bin and tugged them on. They snapped against his forearms when he let them go, reaching almost as far as his elbows.

His smile didn’t cease as he stared at himself in the dirty and broken mirror, looking at his fractured reflection in satisfied delight; “My heart, my heart, my drowning heart, oh all the tears I’ve cried,” he felt his heart racing in his chest, the excitement of what he was going to do, of the people who would be listening, of the pleasure this would bring. “Oh I may weep forever more. My love will never die.”

Spinning around, he stared at the poor sap strapped to the old, worn, leather dental chair before him. “Such a lovely song, isn’t it? I just adore it! Played during Lucifer’s season four finale. Such a powerful scene, really, just that final ‘I love you’—it brought a tear to my eye. I don’t know how anything could top it! Oh-ho! Spoilers, though, for those who haven’t seen it!”

Laughing, he leaned against the wooden worktable, still maintaining eye contact with his new friend. “But love? I suppose as powerful of a scene it was, I can’t really understand it. I’ve never loved someone, especially not as dearly as our two leads had loved each other,” he confessed, his voice full of sorrow. “I’m envious. I can’t have an undying love when I’ve never loved. Though, I suppose it doesn’t matter. I may not have a loved one, but I have my passions. And you, my dear friend, get to share in it with me today.”

The man he had caught was middle-aged, probably in his thirties. He had a head full of curly brown hair, eyes bloodshot and teary, and a face unshaven. His wrists were bruised as he continued to fight against the leather straps holding him down, more straps holding him by the ankles and one holding him down over his bared waist.

He was naked, save for the briefs, as Samael had taken the liberty to strip him down to his skivvies while the man was still fast asleep from the drugs. It made the process so much easier when his prey didn’t have their pesky clothes in the way. He hated having to waste time tearing and cutting the fabrics away during his sessions just so he could get to the flesh and bones beneath, he didn’t have the patience for that kind of thing, and he didn’t want his audience to grow bored because he had to spend a few minutes removing clothing while they waited in tantalizing suspense to know what he would do next to his prey.

“Please,” The man begged, struggling ever so pointlessly. “I’ve done nothing wrong, please let me go!”

Samael laughed, “Why, what makes you think you’re here because you did something wrong?” he asked playfully as he began walking to his victim. “If I only chose to hurt people who did wrong deeds, well, I might as well apply for a badge and gun~!” he laughed heartily as he said that, leaning in close, careful not to bump the microphone hanging by them.

He spoke with a smile, but his voice was low, dangerous. “You don’t need to do something wrong to wind up here, my friend. Otherwise, only people who did something ‘wrong’ would get hurt, and we both know that is far from true.”

Pulling away, Samael spared a glance to the laptops he had positioned carefully on a clean table, look at the screen that was pulled up. The chat log was full, moving far quicker than most could read as hundreds listened and talked. His viewers in the hundreds, a number that steadily climbed higher as the stream went on.

Of course it was an audio-only stream. No, as much as he loved his audience, he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t going to reveal his face to the camera. No, no, no! They could make do with his voice! It gave them a different sort of experience if they could hear but not see.

Some commenters weren’t sure if this was real or fake, others knew what was going on and were begging for him to stop, and even more, others who thought this was fake were egging him on and laughing. Even more were staying silent and listening, knowing this was wrong but unable to tear themselves away from the scene. Seeking to know what happens next, begging to be entertained. And Samael was nothing if not an entertainer.

“What shall we do first, my dear viewers?” Samael loudly asked, clapping his hands together in giddy delight. “I’ve him strapped down to the leather chair—not gagged this time as you can tell. I thought you’d like to hear his screams and begging more clearly. His wrists, his ankles, his neck, and waist are all tied down by leather straps to keep him from going anywhere. We could tighten the straps up, too. Cut off the circulation to his hands and feet—oh they’d turn into such a lovely shade of color, don’t you think?”

He smiled, humming as he circled the man strapped to the chair, keeping an eye on the ever moving chat on the computer, his discerning eyes picking out a few comments here and there in the rush. Some telling him that he was a sick fuck, others laughing and asking if he was being ‘for real’, and even fewer actual suggestions from the brave few. Samael chuckled, coming to stand behind his prey, fixing his hair and running fingers through the dark curls.

So many ways to start this off, so many things he could do to this poor sap. The lad was beyond himself with whimpers, begging and crying, shaking like a leaf in a storm. “You’re absolutely adorable like this,” Samael whispered to him with a laugh, looking back up at the screen and pushing himself away from the nameless chap. “Ah! Righty! Brilliant ideas, my wonderful audience. I now know just what to do to really set the ball rolling.”

He turned the chair, letting it spin a few times before forcing it to a sudden stop with the man facing him. Kneeling down onto the grimy, dirty floor, Samael took hold of his right hand and shifted his thumb right under the nail of the index finger, smiling up at his new friend. “Do you know how much if hurts when someone pushes hard on your nails?” he asked, slowly applying pressure.

The man squirmed, trying to pull his hand back but unable to between the restraints and Samael’s own grip on his wrist. He whimpered and cried as more pressure was applied. “There’s a sharp pain as the nail is ripped off, and then a dull pain follows and persists.” Slowly the nail began to raise higher, blood running down the flesh of the finger. “Blood oozing…dripping. The pain just takes control of your mind.”

A pause as Samael looked up at his friend, his smile stretched across his lips, his own face aching, hurting, the taste of copper on his tongue and the cold air brushing the roof of his mouth. The man’s screams and sobs were muffled by his gag, but even so they were beautiful, the song of angels to Samael’s ears. It was pure euphoria.

“Just how much of that pain can you withstand?”

The man let out a horrible screech that devolved into sobbing as the nail fell to the ground, and a wave of ecstasy rushed through Samael at the music as he leaned his head back and took a deep breath. Yes, yes! Keep screaming, he thought with glee, his body trembling, his breathing hitching.

Samael took a deep breath, exhaling it in a stream of laughter, his body felt hot, prickles running across his flesh. “It hurts, it hurts a lot, doesn’t it? Oh! But that’s the best part!” he wanted to jump and dance and sing! Oh, the feeling this gave him, that this always gave him, words could not describe the pleasure. “One fingernail torn off, or rather, pushed and pushed until it popped off like a soda pop tab. Oh! So much blood, so much blood oozing from just one finger! So much crying, too.”

He stood up and took a seat on a stool next to the primary microphone, crossing a leg over a knee, he smiled as he stared at his sobbing friend, at the blood. “Oh, my dear friends, quiz time!  Do any of you know why it hurts so much underneath a fingernail?” he asked in his sing-song like voice, letting his gaze slowly turn from his sobbing friend to look at the chat on his computer.

GaminBro69 :: HOLY SHIT

GotItMemorized :: Daaaaaaamn I thought sticking a pencil under the nail hurt but this is next level!

Alison :: Isn’t there hundreds of nerves or something under the nail?

Liv G :: Come on, don’t hit us with a bio quiz!

Goatsimp :: Lol is this for real? it sounds so realistic!

The-Christian-Server :: IKR?! Props to the acting! Like damn!

Kiiiiryuchan :: I mean anything would really hurt if you tore it off.

Zodiaker :: This reminds me of that one ep of HSL

Cyril :: Dude! Come on, at least have some taste in anime.

Zodiaker :: I do!

ItwasIDio :: Yeah and your taste is trash lol

Natsplok :: Says the one obsessed with Euphoria

ItwasIDio :: I am a man of culture

Tempest :: Well it’s gotta be the nerve endings

TotallyHawkin :: Lots of nerve endings!

He smiled as more messages ran through the screen, more usernames, clapping his hands to applaud his audience. “Such good answers! Yes, yes! Why, you are all just so smart. Yes, nerve endings are correct, but there is more to it~! You see there is indeed a large number of open nerves underneath the nail. The nail itself acts as a barrier instead of the skin, and so unlike the pads of the fingers, the tops don’t receive the same kind of stimuli. That’s why they feel so raw when exposed, and why you can end up like this fine gentleman here when a nail gets torn off.”

He continued to smile as he picked up the bloodied nail and held it between two fingers. “Did you know that claws and nails are not the same thing?” he asked as he looked to the chat once more. “Yes, they’re both formed from keratin, but nails are evolved from claws. Though really, the main difference is formation. Claws tend to conform from a narrow finger bone, wrapped round the tip and protruding forward in a cone shape as opposed to the flathead of nails that only cover the top of a finger. That’s why when you got those witches and sorcerers who can summon claws as part of their silly little magic power suite, only a few of those people are actually creating claws. Usually they’re just extending their nails, but not actually creating claws!”

A few people in the chat commented on that interesting fact, and a few complained about the divergence, wanting to go back to the violence. Well! Samael couldn’t disappoint, now could he? With a smile, he dropped the fingernail back to the concrete floor.

The man was still heaving and sobbing, but it had begun to die down as he adjusted to the pain, or perhaps that pain was just fading. Regardless, neither options were good. Not good at all! Oh, Samael wanted him to keep screaming, keep crying, keep the music going!

He took a pair of pliers from where they hung beside the laptop.

“You know, I was up at a hardware store last month, restocking my supplies as one must always make sure to have all the tools they need before a performance. While there I came across just an adorable set of pliers. Milwaukee brand. Came with four different ones,” he said as he twirled the plier between his fingers. “A long-nose, straight jaw, diagonal, and then a six-in-one. Ah, such interesting names, aren’t they? I haven’t gotten to break any of these in yet, but. But, but, but! I think today is a straight jaw day, don’t you think?”

Samael had drawn closer and closer to his victim as he spoke, settling down to kneel before him. He reached for the hand, and when his friend flinched and tried to pull away, he clicked his tongue and tutted a little before taking hold and holding tight. “I could just keep using my fingers. Ah, but that would take too long and we’ve so much to still do and a short amount of time to do it. Time management is an important skill to hone, and no matter how much you might enjoy one method,” he took hold of the nail on the thumb, closing the steel teeth of the pliers over it in a firm hold. “Sometimes you just got to go with what’s more efficient.”

The smile had returned to its full unnatural size as he stared the man in the eyes. “We’ve taken off you’re index nail. Nine little piggies left to go. But that’s still too many piggies, don’t you say? So let’s just fix that.”

He gave a hard yank and the nail came off as easy as a knife in butter. The man screamed and the euphoria returned.

Samael could only let out a deep sigh as he let the bloodied nail fall to the ground along with the other, listening to the man scream and cry in pain, as the chat continued to move, even faster than before, letting out a choir of alerts singing in the air along with the music playing in the background. He didn’t need to turn and look at the chat, the initial response to the first strike was always the same.

Horror, confusion, doubt, laughter. Enjoyment.

Humans bearing the ugliness of their souls to the world under the safety of anonymity.

He smiled, his teeth fully bared, “Ah, where are my manners! My dear watchers can’t see what’s going on, and I completely forgot! Well, fret not everyone! As you can hear from his screams, I’ve another little piggy gone, his fingers are bleeding quite badly now. Though he’s quite the overreactor, now isn’t he? Why, it’s only two nails from his index and middle fingers, and he’s gone and soiled himself!”

Samael chuckled, reaching for the ring finger. “But we can’t stop, now can we? Not until we get all ten. So let’s just get the rest of these pesky little things out of the way.”

There was only an hour to work, well Samael could have spent more time, he was the one in control, but he needed to exhibit some self-control, and for him that was maintaining a strict timeframe for how long he let these sessions last. An hour to create his works of art, an hour to entertain the masses with torture and horror.

It was a messy process, and his apron and gloves were well used, coming out soaked in blood by the end of it all. He had used quite a few of his tools; his knives to cut into his skin, hammers to break bones, he’d driven rusty nails into the flesh, had burned him, poured hot oil into open wounds. Everything had been wonderful, had driven him mad with delight, and it wasn’t even his best work.

Samael heaved a happy sigh; the recording done and dragged the body from the chair and onto an empty table. “You were such a wonderful partner today,” Samael said, giving his mangled corpse a pat on the shoulder, finding a clean scalpel to work with. “But we’re not done, not yet.” He spun the knife between his fingers, running his hand over the cold chest, smearing blood on the gloves he wore.

He was going to need to think of where to leave the body after he had all his fun with it, had to make sure it was somewhere fitting, somewhere that his little followers could find—a treat for them. It wasn’t any fun if his so-called hunters couldn’t find the trails he left them. He wanted them to think they were getting closer to finding him while feeling like they weren’t making progress at all. But where oh where would he take them? Samael smiled as he looked to the wall of maps, to all the colorful circles he’d left over areas of interest.

Yorkshire, both East and North Riding circled in vivid red.

Oh he’d love to go there, to have some fun in that area. His favorite person in the whole wide world was there, how he missed him dearly. But no. No, no. He promised, and so long as he wasn’t needed, he’d honor that promise. Nevada was another place he had to avoid, though more out of choice than promise. Too many annoying flies. It was honestly beneath him to pay them a visit.

He could always leave it in some Brazilian city, just to mess with his hunters further. Oh, the possibilities were just endless, weren’t they? It just added to the thrill, to the fun.

With a song on his tongue, he drove the blade into his chest with acute precision, cutting through the skin and muscle, pushing past the bones until he had torn the untouched heart out of the chest. His smile grew, his body vibrated with anticipation and excitement as he held it carefully in his hands.

Oh, now this was his favorite part.

Chapter 3

The café was small, and had an even smaller number of customers within it, though it wasn’t strange with it still being early morning, what with it only being seven. Each table content to chat happily with their own respective groups, keeping to themselves.

There was a smell of coffee that lingered in the air, which served to help shake away the last bits of drowsiness from Maka.

“Any idea what you want?” she asked as she picked up a menu from the table, looking over the list of drinks offered.

Soul grunted and held a hand over his mouth to muffle a yawn. “Bacon. Definitely,” was his response as he stretched and then lazily flipped through the menu.

It had been a rough morning for the both of them considering how late it was when they finally went to sleep. They’d spent so much time looking over case files, and Maka had a feeling that Soul had been plagued by thoughts of the kidnappings just as much as she had been while trying to sleep. It wasn’t their first time suffering through a tiring morning, however, and so long as they could stay awake and focused as they worked today, then that was all that mattered.

“Bacon sounds good,” Maka agreed as she flipped to the breakfast side of the menu. She could smell it coming from other tables and it made her mouth water and stomach rumble. Though really, any sort of food sounded good with how hungry she felt at that moment.

The plan for the day was that after the two had some breakfast they would head back to the police station to meet up with Elijah before he’d take them to meet with Amanda Lewis’ parents. That was still a good hour away, and they had time to eat and relax before being thrown into the thick of it again. After the meeting, then they’d head back to the station to meet with other officers on the case, go through debriefing and go over what they had learned from the files and from the interview.

It was going to be a fairly busy day, at least Maka expected it to be so.

If they had time after all of that, Maka was considering giving Tsubaki a call. It wouldn’t hurt to see how she and Black*Star were doing, and she definitely wanted to give Crona a call later, too. After last night’s talk and how much Ragnarok had been drinking, Maka wanted to make sure they were okay.

A waitress came to their table, a bouncy, cheery woman who looked just a few years younger than Maka, though a good several inches taller. Her red hair was tied back and she wore the standard uniform of the place, with a pen and notepad in hands.

Maka spied the nametag she wore; Amber.

“Hello and good morning,” the server greeted with a bright smile that was too much this early in the morning. “I’ll be your waitress today. Is there anything I can start you two off with?”

Maka returned her smile with one of her own, “Hello. I’ll take a house blend, black, if that’s okay,” she said as she closed her menu and pushed it to the side. “Some bacon and eggs too.”

“Make that two,” Soul added as he put his menu on Maka’s and leaned back into his seat, stifling back another yawn.

Amber nodded and wrote their order down on her notepad. “Right, righty. House blends, eggs, and bacon. Would you like yours black as well, sir?” she asked, looking up at Soul.

He thought about it for a few moments. “Milk and sugar.”

“Gotcha. I’ll make sure to bring some out for you. Anything else I can get for the two of you?” Amber asked, and when they both said no, she smiled and gave a nod of the head, tucking her notepad into the pocket of her apron. “Righty, I’ll be back in a jiffy with all it, so just sit tight.” With that, she was off, heading to a window to the kitchen to inform the cooks, and then heading to help other tables.

Soul chuckled, eyes watching the waitress before looking to Maka. “So. What do you think we’ll even find by talking to the Lewis family?” he asked, resting his arms on the table. “It was two years ago. Cops have already investigated the hell out of the place and the parents when Amanda went missing. We might just be opening old wounds by doing this.”

With a frown, Maka folded her hands on her lap. “Their daughter was kidnapped, it’s not something you’d get over, so opening old wounds is inevitable,” she pointed out. Maka couldn’t imagine how she would feel if she had a kid and then had that kid stolen from her, but she figured she’d feel horrible about it, wouldn’t ever get over it. “I’m hoping we might find something new. Maybe there were details that at the time didn’t come to light because they didn’t think it relevant. Maybe there are some similarities between her and the other kids that got missed.”

“A hidden thread connecting them all together,” Soul hummed. “We still don’t have that, a link between victims. Maybe they all went to the same camp, or had the same plumber visit their houses.”

“Exactly.”

As it was, these were just random kids who were taken without any kind of similarity. Usually targets of serial criminals had something in common. Location, trait, occupation. The only thing close to a similarity was the age range, but nothing else stood out. Maka could only hope that they found something during the chat with the Lewis’ that might help.

The two chatted for a little longer, about the case and about Elijah Cain. About Crona and the serial killer case they had been working on. About nothing in particular, about everything. For a few minutes, at least.

Their food and coffee came soon enough with Amber balancing the platter on one hand, and giving them a charming customer service smile. “Here we go!” she said, chipper as can be. “Two house blends, two platters of bacon and eggs. And here’s the milk and sugar for you, sir,” she put each item in front of them, with a small pitcher and a small container for the milk and sugar. “Is there anything else I can get the two of you?”

Soul smiled, taking a spoon to start scooping sugar into his cup. “I think I’m all good. How about you, Maka?”

“I’ve got all I need, thank you very much.”

Amber nodded, still smiling. “Alrighty, then I’ll be back to check on you in a little bit,” she said, turning to walk away, only to freeze after just a few steps as the door gave a jingle and clicked shut.

From their seats, Maka and Soul had a perfect view of everyone who came and left the café, and so Maka let her gaze follow Amber’s to stare at the newcomer who had just come in.

He was young, Asian by the looks of it, though it was hard to narrow the ethnicity down beyond that from where they sat. He looked to be roughly the same age as Amber, which would have put him a few years younger than the DWMA pair, and Maka would wager a guess that he was just a couple of inches shorter than Soul. He had a head of messy black hair that went past his jaws and a pair of bright green eyes, though there were heavy bags under it signifying many sleepless nights, something Maka and Soul could both relate to.

As far as clothes came, there was nothing that stood out. Black work pants, a grey hoodie. The most unique was the black face mask he wore that hid his entire lower face. Though for her, it wasn’t that standout-ish. She was used to unique and creative outfits from the DWMA students and agents, a face mask was pretty normal in comparison, plus, it could just be that he didn’t like germs or was a little sick. It would explain why he also came in wearing a pair of black latex gloves covering his hands. That just meant the only skin they could actually see was his upper face and a little bit of the neck.

Amber nearly dropped her tray as she fumbled to search the pockets of her apron. “Oh! He’s wearing a new hoodie,” she whispered hastily, probably trying to be discreet and doing the exact opposite, seemingly forgetting the tables around her, or her job for that matter. She was acting completely different now, as if this guy was some famous celebrity, one she stalked on social media for years.

Maybe he was, but that didn’t make her reaction any less weird.

The confusion between Maka and Soul was palpable, and the pair exchanged a look before Soul reached an uncertain hand out, refraining from touching her but hovering it close. “Uh, miss?” he asked, brows furrowed together as he looked to her and to the man making his way across the café. “You okay?”

“Oh?” Amber looked at them and gave a surprised jolt, as if remembering where she was. “Right, no, I’m fine—oh I gotta get the shot,” she was quick to return her attention to the guy, holding her phone up and—was she taking a photo of him? She was taking multiple, by the shutter sounds, and Maka felt very uncomfortable with the situation. “He’s cute, isn’t he?”

Well, cute wasn’t what Maka would say. He looked half dead.

Soul looked to Maka and then back to Amber. “Hey, I don’t think it’s entirely legal to be taking photos without his permission,” he said carefully, trying to dissuade her from doing anything stupid as best as he could without risking her lashing back. “It’s kind of… um… stalkerish.”

“I got to agree, it’s kind of creepy,” Maka added.

Actually, it was really creepy, but you don’t just say that to your server. Though, she didn’t know the extension of privacy laws in the U.K. she wasn’t sure what Amber was doing was exactly okay. Even if it wasn’t illegal, it was probably very frowned upon.

Amber nearly dropped her phone at that, “Hey now, come on, I’m not a stalker!” she defended herself quietly, but not sounding convincing at all.

Though it was enough to get her to stop as she looked around. Most of the people had gone back to their own business, attention off of Amber and the two, focusing on their meals and conversations. Satisfied with what little privacy that amounted to, Amber drew closer to whisper to them, as if she was sharing a dangerous secret that no one else could hear. “It’s just… I really like him. But, you see; Haruto’s not a social person and he’s really hard to approach.” There was a pause as she considered her next words, glancing around them once more. “It’s not like I plan to do anything weird with the photos. They’re just for me—I like looking at his face.”

Well, it was… well intentioned? But still weird and creepy.

Soul sighed, frowning as he took her words into consideration. “Look, I can’t say I agree that it’s not creepy,” he said and shook his head. Another pause and he glanced past her and raised a brow. “By the looks of it, I don’t think he agrees, either.”

Both Amber and Maka turned to follow his gaze, and sure enough; Haruto was lingering by the kitchen door, partially held open by his foot and staring at their table. Though stare was a generous way of putting it. It was more like he was glaring at them. The young man had undoubtedly noticed the commotion, not that it was hard to do, and clearly wasn’t happy by it.

Flushing a deep red, Amber shoved her phone into the pocket of her apron and offered the two a quick, embarrassed goodbye before hurrying off to help her other tables, as if trying to pretend nothing happened. Neither would have been surprised if she later got an earful of a scolding from the manager for her behavior.

Even after Amber resumed working, Haruto had remained at the door for a few seconds longer. His eyes followed Amber as she scampered from table to table and then shifted back to stare at Soul and Maka. A chill ran down Maka’s spine as her eyes met his and she felt the intensity of his glare at them. She brushed against his soul and an unsettling sense of familiarity filled her.

Their gazes remained locked for several more seconds before Haruto broke contact and slipped through the door to the kitchen.

Maka waited until the door had shut, electricity running across her skin and a lump in her throat as she looked to Soul. “Hey, Soul,” she began in a hushed voice. The weapon looked over to her, a piece of bacon hanging out of his mouth. “Did you feel something… off… about him?”

Humming and swallowing the strip of bacon, Soul waited until he had chewed and swallowed before responding. “You got to elaborate, Maka. What do you mean by off?” he asked, reaching to take a sip of his coffee. “Guy looked fairly normal.”

“I don’t really know how to put it. Something about his soul seemed off,” Maka admitted, and even now she could still sense his soul from within the building. It was human from what she could tell, but something felt wrong. “I can’t really describe it, but there was something different.”

Soul shrugged, and though he looked carefree, she could see the gears in his head turning. “I can’t really say anything stuck out to me. I can’t see souls like you, so I couldn’t really say.” She shook his head and then held out his last strip of bacon  to her. “You could just be hungry and it’s messing with your perception.”

“Yeah, you might be right.” She didn’t really believe it, but, as odd as it had felt, it hadn’t come across as dangerous. Probably best to leave alone, for now.

They continued to eat, talking between bites in a voice low enough to not disturb the other customers. Occasionally Amber passed by their table to check up on them, to see if they needed anything else or if she could refill their drink. They suspected she might have been feeling a tad embarrassed by the earlier incident, but then again, maybe she wasn’t.

It was only when they had just about finished their breakfast that they interrupted.

Elijah Cain stood before them, dressed up in a casual suit and tie, his hair tied back as it had been yesterday, only this time the ponytail wasn’t as messy or loose. He wasn’t smiling, his eyes as cold as they had been the previous meeting, and at this point both Soul and Maka couldn’t help but wonder if he knew how to smile, or if his time as a cop had made him forget how.

“I thought we were supposed to be meeting you,” Soul began carefully, taking a drink of his coffee.

Elijah shrugged, looking all too unconcerned, “I saw you two as I was passing—not many people with white hair walking about, after all. Meeting you two here, as opposed to waiting for you two to find me, is quicker. We’ve a busy schedule ahead of us,” he explained. “I assume there’s not a problem with this?”

His words said one thing, but his tone was saying something entirely different, and it made the two bite back any complaint they might have had.

“Are we still on for meeting the Lewis family?” Maka asked, fishing through her bag for her wallet.

“Of course. We will head there right away, unless you two have found something in the files you read last night that you think needs to be investigated.”

Soul groaned, leaning back as he threw two fives onto the table for a tip while Maka got her card out. “Unfortunately, we haven’t found anything yet,” he confessed and scratched the back of his head. “Not that I really expected us to? You guys know these files front to back, it was pretty unlikely we’d find something you missed.”

“I figured. A fresh pair of eyes may not hurt, but sometimes there’s nothing new to be found,” Elijah nodded his head.

And with that, the two paid for their meals and then followed Elijah out of the café to where he had parked his car.

With them on the road and driving, Elijah nodded to a plain folder on the dashboard. “Go ahead and read through that,” he said as Maka reach over to grab it. “It’ll help you two prepare for the interview. It’s not an interrogation, or even an official questioning session, but there are still do’s and don’ts. This family has gone through a lot losing their daughter, and I don’t need you two stepping on any toes.”

“Relax, we’re not dumb,” Soul said, biting back a yawn as he looked out the window. “Be polite and respectful, we get that.”

“That’s good. At least I don’t need to worry about you two ruining the sense of trust between victims and officers,” Elijah didn’t even look at them as he spoke. “People aren’t that willing to talk and cooperate when they don’t feel like they can trust you. Can this family trust you?”

Maka bristled at the unspoken accusation, “Of course they can.”

“Then make sure to prove it.”

 

---

 

The drive wasn’t too long, fifteen minutes at best of winding turns and stoplights. They had just barely finished the pile of papers Elijah had given them on what to do and not do, what to say and to avoid, when they had pulled up to the house.

It was a simple, old-style brick townhouse with two floors plus what looked like an attic space at the top. There was a metal fence separating the property from the main sidewalk, with a gate situated across from the door of the house and one for each neighboring townhouse down the line. It was small, quaint even, a good home by the looks of it.

“Here we are,” Elijah said, adjusting his jacket after locking the car. “Be polite, and be careful of what kind of questions you want to ask.”

“We know, we know,” Soul groaned, as if Elijah wasn’t already treating them like they were incapable of doing this. He was getting a bit annoying at this point, but was careful to bite his tongue as he secured the case files under one arm.

The detective didn’t say anything, just walked past them, pushed open the gate and knocked on the door. Soul and Maka stood behind him, waiting patiently as they heard movement on the other side of the door.

A minute passed, and then another…and then when the door opened, it showed a middle aged woman with short, curly dark hair and tired eyes. “Ah… Detective Cain?” she said slowly as she looked at Elijah, as if trying to remember if that was his name or not.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Mrs. Lewis. Do you mind if we come in?” Elijah was polite as he spoke, nodding to the inside of the house as he gestured to Soul and Maka.

For her part, Mrs. Lewis hesitated a moment, but then pulled the door open all the way. “Of course, of course. You’ll have to forgive me, my husband isn’t home right now, he had to go in to work early.”

“That’s fine,” Elijah assured her with a compassionate smile. “As I said over the phone, we would just like to go over what you told us during the initial interviews—for these two. We’re hoping that with some fresh perspectives, we can find something we missed.”

They were lead to a sitting area with two couches facing one another. Elizabeth Lewis sat on one end, Elijah, Soul, and Maka on the other, with a low coffee table between them. Maka looked around the room as she sat down. Flowers, simple home decorations sitting on shelves, a few basic paintings hanging on the walls.

No family photos. No photos of Amanda. Perhaps it was just to painful a memory to keep up?

“—We could start at the beginning. The day Amanda went missing?” Elijah was speaking, though Maka had missed the beginning half as she snapped her head back to look at the detective, and then to the mother.

Mrs. Lewis put a hand to her mouth, frowning slightly. “It’s been a while, I don’t think I’d be able to provide an accurate recounting,” she warned, her voice soft.

Nodding his head, Elijah folded his hands over his knees. “It’s been two years, but I have little

“Just tell us what you can,” Maka said, offering her a sympathetic smile. “We can cross reference it with your previous testaments to fill in any potential gaps. But, please, just tell us everything you can remember.”

There was a moment of hesitation before the woman lowered her hand and gave a low nod. “Okay… okay…” another moment passed, passed as she took in a deep breath, as if to steady her nerves. “It was a school day—Amanda, she, she left early. She always did leave early in the mornings, before her father and I even went to work. We work late into the evenings most days, and that was one of them. I didn’t get home until after seven in the evening. She wasn’t home when I returned, and I thought she had possibly run to a neighboring convenience store for a snack. But then it got later and later and she still hadn’t come home.”

Mrs. Lewis hunched forward, bringing her hand to her mouth again. “That was the last day I ever saw my baby girl.”

“Why did you wait so long to call the police?”

All three turned to look over at Soul who had his attention focused on the files he was reading on his lap. He paused, lifting his head and letting his red eyes lock onto Mrs. Lewis.

“I’m sorry?” Elizabeth Lewis spluttered, matching his gaze with a glare. “What are you trying to imply?”

Soul shrugged, looking back down at the file he had been reading. “Well, it’s just that the day you listed her as being missing was the fifteenth, but you didn’t file a missing child report until the seventeenth,” he held that page of the file out for her to read. “I mean, I suppose it’s possible for the police to have put the wrong date, but it’s unlikely. So, I guess I just don’t understand why it would have taken you so long to report that your kid was missing.”

The woman looked absolutely offended at the accusations. She began to stand, “How dare you! Are you trying to suggest that I might have had something to do with it?” Mrs. Lewis demanded, her voice rising in pitch. “Just because of when I filed a report?”

Elijah cleared his throat, his face having returned to an impassive mask. “Ma’am. My colleague doesn’t mean any disrespect. But, the time frame does warrant suspicion and concern. We aren’t trying to accuse you of anything, but we would like to know why it took you so long to call the police.”

She huffed, unconvinced by his empty platitudes, but slowly sat back down, her arms crossed over her chest. “I assumed she was spending time with a friend. We had a fight in the morning, she left angry. It wasn’t uncommon for her to spend the night with a classmate when she was angry at us. That’s why it took so long for us to notice something was wrong.”

Things didn’t seem to line up and Maka furrowed her brow. “The school would have called you when she didn’t show up,” she pointed out.

“Amanda frequently skipped classes—it was one of the causes of our fights. Getting a call from school that she was absent was hardly unusual.”

Elijah spoke before Maka could follow up on that question with another, crossing one leg over the other. “You didn’t list any of her friends or close contacts when we first talked, do you think you could provide us with some names for people your daughter hung out with?” he asked patiently.

But Mrs. Lewis only shook her head. “Heavens! Amanda rarely spoke to us about her personal life as it was, what friends she had we rarely ever saw, let alone knew the names of,” she brushed off. “I would tell you if I knew, but I don’t know any of the kids she spent her time with.”

Maka was growing frustrated with this interview, so far they weren’t finding very little new information—if anything, the mother was telling them less information than what the case files provided. She glanced to Elijah and saw that his jaw had set into a firm line, not seeming to be happy with this either.

“Would it be okay if I check out her room while you continue talking?” Maka asked, her question directed to Elijah, but she looked at Mrs. Lewis all the same. “I would like to see if there was anything there that might be a clue.”

The mother had a frown, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I’m not sure how that will be any help,” she said slowly, but then shook her head, rethinking the refusal she had been about to give. “Her room is upstairs, the last door on the left.”

“Thank you,” Maka got up, bowing her head to the woman before making her way to the stairs, leaving Elijah and Soul to continue the interview.

When she got to the bedroom at the second floor, pushing it open, Maka was rather surprised by the layout.

It was a very bland room, especially for what would have been a twelve-year-old.

The walls were simple white. There weren’t any posters on the wall, nothing on the shelves or desks that suggested any interests. The desk was empty, a computer shut down on it. The bed made, white sheets and comforter. A blue rug on the middle of the floor. A closet door on one wall.

The room felt so empty, so…boring. Any other kid would have given the room as much life as possible. Maleko had.

Maka bit her lip as the thought crossed her mind. Maleko had lived in what had essentially been a dungeon repurposed as spare rooms for academy visitors. It was cold and dim, with a thin mattress on a metal frame, stone walls and floors. Yet, he had filled the room with so much life; covered the walls in drawings, had toys in every corner, he had even clawed into the stones to mark it as his.

This room felt like an office that doubled as a guest room.

A sense of unease filled her stomach as the thought came to mind, and with that, she got to work looking around, looking for something that might be a clue, no matter how old, something that could help tie Amanda to any of the other victims. Something that might suggest why she had been abducted.

So, Maka worked. She searched  both high and low, in every corner of the bedroom for something, anything. And she found quite a few things.

The furniture was new. While it wasn’t really easy to tell, Maka figured that it was bought after Amanda had vanished. There was nothing suggesting a kid might have ever used it. No stray pencil marks from a kid doing homework or drawing, no scratch marks on the wooden floor from the chair being pushed in and out. The bed, too, would have likely left scratch marks on the floor from the frame, or on the wall that it was against. There was nothing.

When she’d opened the closet, it was void of clothes, of hangars. All that was in there were a few large tote boxes full of miscellaneous things. Maka spotted wrapping paper stuffed in one, older window curtains in another. Simple enough things that wouldn’t necessarily be out of place in any room but a kids room. She would have expected to see clothes in the boxes, maybe Amanda’s old belongings kept stored away.

But, no, nothing of Amanda’s was in here.

Though, as Maka looked deeper, she did see something on the floor, a crack, maybe? Perhaps nothing, but there was an uneasy feeling inside of her that compelled Maka to investigate. She pulled the bins out of the closet and to the side so she could empty the space and see it fully.

What she saw were splatters of red staining the wooden floor, and scratches on the floor and walls.

Deep. Frequent.

Old.

Nothing fresh, perhaps nothing newer than two years old.

Some of them looked like they had been from nails digging into the wood, others look like something else, something sharper, had dug in. On the closet door, there were a few cracks in the wood, as if from someone frequently banging on it from the inside, and surrounded by more claw marks.

What was going on in this house? What had been happening to Amanda Lewis?

The information was swirling in her head, all pieces to a puzzle that Maka was slowly putting together as she withdrew her phone from her pocket, taking careful pictures of the room, making sure to get every piece of the room to examine later. Clearly something bad was going on here, what else could the marks in the closet be from? Wouldn’t the police have noticed earlier, though?

“Maka.”

She had given a frightened jerk as she had been taking a photo of under the bed, nearly dropping the phone and succeeding in getting a very blurry image. Adjusting herself, she pushed herself onto her knees and looked to the doorway. Soul stood there, leaning against the frame.

He looked her up and down, then around the room. “Should I ask?”

“Not here,” Maka said, shaking her head and glancing past him. Not when others could hear, though perhaps they wouldn’t have heard—she sensed Elijah and Mrs. Lewis’ souls as still down stairs. But, she didn’t want to risk it. She wanted the safety and privacy of outside of the house before she explained her theory.

Though, could it be called a theory with such damning evidence in the room?

Soul nodded, not questioning her, trusting her, and pushed himself away from the frame. “Elijah says it’s time we wrap up and head back to the station. The two of us exhausted all our questions for her. Did you get everything you needed from the room?”

“I think so.” Plenty of photos. Plenty of mental notes to write down when she got a hold of some paper and a pen.

“Good.”

He led the way back down stairs. In the sitting room, Elijah and Mrs. Lewis were standing and still chatting, though it seemed to be more idle chatter than an interrogation this time. Simple platitudes and farewells.

Maka looked to her and felt her stomach churn. She had doubts since Soul brought up his line of questions, and now Maka felt a boiling sense of distrust and disgust at the woman and what Maka suspected she had done. Even so, Maka forced herself to hide those feelings away as she held a hand out to the woman.

“Thank you for letting me investigate the room, Mrs. Lewis,” She said with a smile.

There was a brief moment of hesitation as Mrs. Lewis looked at Maka before she took her hand, “You’re welcome,” she said pleasantly enough. “I hope you found something that might help.”

“Oh, I found plenty, thank you,” I found the scars of what had been happening here. Her grip on Mrs. Lewis’ hand tightened as the unsaid message passed, her eyes not leaving the mothers. She saw Mrs. Lewis’ eyes widen just a little, felt the quick rush of nervousness in her soul.

She smiled. “I’m glad, so long as you can bring my daughter back home.” She wasn’t afraid, or she refused to show it. She didn’t believe that they were going to find Amanda, did she? Perhaps she knew something more about the disappearance, or perhaps it was because of how long it had been it was reasonably unlikely that the girl was going to be found.

“Do call us if you find anything you think might be of use,” Elijah cut in with a curt nod. “And if you see anything you find suspicious. We’re going to find your daughter and bring in the ones who took her, you have my word.”

“Thank you, detective,” Mrs. Lewis said, letting go of Maka’s hand. “Do have a safe trip back, you three.” She guided them out of the house, offered them more empty goodbyes before closing the door behind them.

Maka wouldn’t be surprised if she went right up to Amanda’s room and got to work hiding the markings. Not that it would do any good, Maka had more than enough evidence.

She waited until they got into the car, with Elijah starting it up and driving off once they were all buckled up.

“Her responses to the questions were fairly basic,” Soul said, speaking before Maka could begin, trying to catch her up on the interview. “Couldn’t name anyone Amanda might have known that could have seen something, didn’t really have any specific places she hung out at when not at home.” He sighed, scratching the back of his head.

“It was like she barely even knew her own kid.”

That didn’t surprise Maka one bit. Even when the questioning first began, something about Elizabeth had struck her as indifferent. She seemed worried, but it didn’t seem…genuine. “I don’t trust her,” Maka said plainly.

“Yeah, I don’t really, either,” Soul agreed. “What kind of parent would wait a few days to even report their kid missing? That was messed up.”

Maka fished her phone out of her pocket, thumbed through the photos she had taken. “You saw Amanda’s room when you came to get me. It didn’t look like a room anyone lived it. It was void of life.”

“I mean, maybe they took all her stuff into storage, use it as a guest room now? It’s what it looked like. Though it feels heartless to do, like they don’t believe she’s ever coming back. I know it’s pretty unlikely, but, still.”

“That wasn’t the worst of it,” Maka shook her head, finding the photos of the closet and thrusted her phone to Soul. “These were old. Probably from when Amanda was living there.”

She waited as Soul took the phone and stared at the photo. Then, he took in a sharp breath of air. “That’s… if that’s from what I think—it’s fucked up.”

The blinker on the car was a dull sound in the background as Elijah turned onto another street, the car gently shifting between speeds, weaving around in traffic smoothly. “You saw the closet?” the detective asked.

Maka whipped her head around to stare at him. “You knew about it?” she asked, though it came out as more of a demand. You knew? And nothing has been done about them?

He gave a harsh laugh. “You’d have to be blind and dumb not to notice. We investigated her room when she went missing—it was obvious the furniture had been bought recently when we went in. No sign of wear on anything. That was the first red flag, and the closet wasn’t locked. Of course there had been some boxes there, their attempt to hide it, but it proved useless.”

“It’s not in the report,” Soul said carefully, if not curtly.

Elijah shrugged as he let a biker pass. “Our superiors at the time thought it better to leave it out, said that it was unrelated to the case.” The man spat as he said that, tightening his grip on the wheel. “I called him out on it, told him he was making a mistake, that it should be considered relevant. Clearly, my words meant nothing since, like you said, it’s not in the report. Besides, it wasn’t as if we could do anything. The closet alone isn’t solid proof that they were hurting her, and if we are going to try them for it, we need Amanda to testify.”

“With Amanda out of the picture, they will get the public’s sympathy while also avoiding being charged with child abuse,” Maka said slowly. “Is it possible they did something? That she might not even be involved with the other missing children’s case?”

“It’s a possibility,” Elijah confirmed. “But, right now we don’t have proof for one side or the other. Everything right now is just theories and guess work. That’s why it’s crucial that we get some kind of lead, something that can get us closer, not just for her, but for the other kids.”

Maka agreed. They needed to find something. They had to find these kids. They couldn’t just keep waiting and guessing, they had to start gaining ground, somehow, someway…

As if waiting for them, Elijah’s phone began to ring.

He grunted, carefully tugged it out of his pocket while he held onto the steering wheel with his free hand, a few finger taps to the screen, he tossed it onto his dashboard. “You’re on speaker. What is it?”

“Cain?” The voice was young, perhaps a little older than her. Shaky, too, nervous. “You need to get back to the precinct now.”

She couldn’t see his face, but Maka could just feel Elijah rolling his eyes. “We’re on our way don’t worry,” Elijah said, his tone of voice clearly annoyed by the call. “What happened that’s made my return so urgent, anyway?"

“Another kid went missing.”

Chapter 4

Soul didn’t have a lot of experience with small children. In fact; the only real experience he had with them was when he hung out with Kilik, but to be fair the twin pots were quite well behaved compared to most children their age. Even so, the two had their moments of tantrums, being kids and all, and would get moody enough to give an angsty teen a run for their money. During those times, Soul had gotten to see how Kilik dealt with the twins, and he felt like he had picked up a thing or two along the way.

He had helped watch over Maleko in the past, too. Though it had been a short period time and those occasions had come with their own issues. Soul could still remember the fire, waking up outside the burning warehouse. Watching over Malek had been…different.

This was different.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind, Soul offered a smile as he leaned back in his chair, presenting an appearance of casual and cool, relaxing himself so that the boy felt more at ease. Having someone stiff-backed and formal wasn’t going to help, at least he didn’t think so. He wanted the kid to relax, wanted the kid to feel at ease, and so he needed to make the environment feel as safe and relaxed as he could for that.

Not an easy feat when they were in an interrogation room.

Nonetheless, he made sure he just exuded a chill aura for the boy.

“So, Alex, you into any shows lately?” he asked the kid. He watched as Alex shrunk in on himself, holding himself tight and looking like he wanted to disappear. It was heartbreaking, but Soul made sure to keep those feelings from showing on his face.

Alex didn’t look at him, he looked everywhere but at Soul. He hadn’t even touched either the cookies or soda that Soul had brought him. He held his arms tighter, keeping his head low. “I like Adventure Time,” he admitted after a short while, hesitated again. “I also like Ben 10.”

Tilting his head, Soul let his smile grow. “I’ve watched some Adventure Time, it’s pretty cool. But Ben 10? Man, I used to watch the original run every time it got on TV. My partner got on me all the time for it, too, saying I was too old for cartoons. Then I’d catch her watching Winx Club and Justice League when she thought I wasn’t around. Talk about a hypocrite, am I right? No need to pretend you’re so much better when you like them too.”

He couldn’t see Alex’s face, but there was a tremble in his frame and Soul hoped it got something of a smile from the boy.

“Do you have a favorite alien?” Soul asked, “Mine was Ghostfreak, though XLR8 was a strong second.”

Slowly Alex was raising his head to look at Soul. “I like Rath, he’s funny with how he acts, and how he talks is fun,” he explained, looking a bit happier. “And his claws are really cool! They’re even able to withstand a Pyronite’s fire!”

Witch a chuckle, Soul rested his head on a hand and leaned forward. “That so? I don’t know much about Rath, but it’s cool that they can take on a pyro’s fire.” He glanced to the window behind Alex, and though it served as a mirror on his side, he knew that Maka and Elijah were watching from behind the glass. “You know, I used to play a few of the Ben 10 games online, too. There was this one game, I think it was called Battle Ready or something like it. I played it all the time back when I was thirteen.”

“Never heard of it, that must have been from forever ago,” Alex probably didn’t mean it like that, but boy did that make Soul feel old. “I like playing Alien Rivals online.”

Despite the knife to his heart, Soul maintained his cool and smiled just a tad wider. “That so? I’ll have to check it out sometime.” It felt like the ice between them, the fear Alex had held so tightly was dissipating.

He glanced to the glass window, and then back at the boy who had hesitantly taken a cookie and began eating it in small nibbles, almost like a hamster. Common ground had been broken between them and the child was starting to relax.

It was time to press.

Still trying to be kind, trying to be as far from intimidating as he could, Soul rested his arms on the table, offering an understanding nod of the head. “I know that it can be scary being in a police station, that you’ve gone through something horrible. But I promise you that you’re not in any trouble, and that you are safe here,” he assured the kid, using a softer tone of voice that he rarely had to whip out. “We want to find your sister, okay? But, right now you’re the only one who can help us find her. Would you be willing to help us?”

He waited, patient. Alex was a kid, and Soul wasn’t going to push him hard. He’d be patient, wait for the boy to speak, wait for the boy to be ready to speak. He’d wait.

At the mention of his sister, Alex had gone stiff, his eyes began watering. Soul had been ready, had expected the response at the mention of his sister, and had nudged a box of tissues to the boy as he broke into crying. “It’s my fault,” he sobbed. “She’s gone cause of me.”

Soul wanted to reach out for him, but the table put too much distance between them. “It’s not your fault,” he settled with saying, and he said it firmly. “You did nothing wrong, Alex. The only people to blame are the ones who took her, not you.”

He shook his head, grabbing a tissue and blowing his nose, loud and wet, as he hiccupped. “No, you don’t get it,” Alex argued, “We—we wouldn’t have been there if it hadn’t been for me. I, I should have stayed home, and then she’d still be home!”

“Kids go out, you had no way to know something was going to happen,” Soul said, a brow raising high. “Why are you so insistent that this is because of you?”

 

---

 

Elijah wasted no time letting everyone settle in. He stood at the head of the table, hands on its surface as he stared each and every one of them down.

“We have a link.”

It had been the words everyone there had been waiting so long to hear, had been searching so hard to find. They had a possible link between the missing children, a similarity—and yet it gave no relief, no satisfaction to any.

Elijah nodded to the photo pinned to the board and moved around the table, handing a file to each officer and the two DWMA guests while he spoke, a “Both the first and the most recent abductees were being abused. It’s possible that it’s just a coincidence, but we’re not going to disregard it just for that.”

It was only part of what Soul had managed to learn from the kid in the interrogation room.

The boy had gone to the candy store with his sister, Anna Bailey, age nine. They had been walking back, taking shortcuts, when a pair of men had approached them. They had told them they knew about their lives, said they wanted to take them someplace better, happier.

Anna had apparently known this was not right and tried to get the men to go away. The men tried to grab them, and the kids ran. Alex hid behind a dumpster, but they managed to get Anna, he had watched them drag her into a black sedan.

What else he had learned was what linked him and Anna to Amanda Lewis. His wrist and arm was scarred and bruised.

“Each of you are getting the files of different children,” Elijah continued on. “You’re going to dig as deep as possible, and then even deeper. If the kids were being beaten, you’re not going to get their parents to admit it.”

As Elijah brought the last files to her and Soul, Maka pushed herself up to stand, surveying the small group of cops and detectives. “We’re not just looking for signs of domestic abuse,” she added, earning a nod from the ginger detective. “Look into if they were being bullied at school, and how severely, or if there was a different figure in their life who was hurting them. Were they suffering? Why?”

“It’s possible our suspects think they’re saving these kids,” Elijah continued, standing at the head of the table, looking down at them all with a narrowed gaze. “They think they’re the heroes here and that we’re the villains. If that is the case, then the chances the kids are still alive is a lot better than it had been before—they are unlikely to want to hurt the kids.”

One officer raised his hand, Elijah nodded and the man—Officer Wilkins, Maka recalled—stood up. “That’s not necessarily the case, though, is it?” he said slowly, eyes locked unwaveringly on Elijah’s. “Angels of Death types believe they are doing good by saving their victims and ending their suffering by killing them. Look at the Robles case of ’07. He murdered children he believed were being abused and thought he was saving them.”

There was a quiet burst of murmurs as people around the table spoke. Elijah silenced them all with a wave of his hand.

“You’re right, Wilkins. We can’t be sure that this isn’t another Robles,” Elijah agreed in a solemn voice, meeting Wilkin’s gaze with a level one, his face stoic, not betraying whatever he might be thinking. “But personally I would rather hang on to hope that the kids are still alive, I won’t force any of you to do the same. We simply don’t know what they are doing after kidnapping them, and we’ve found no bodies. I merely want to hope for the less grizzly option.”

That seemed to be enough and Wilkins sat down with a nod of his head. Elijah looked around the table once more. “Any other questions? Comments?”

“What are we going to do about the younger brother?” an older, plumper woman said, she reminded Maka a little of Auntie back at the academy, and privately wondered if the two women were possibly related. “We can’t really keep him away from his mother forever.”

Maka found herself nodding at the woman’s words, she wasn’t wrong. “Because Alex is our only witness, and due to the possibility of him still being a target, he will remain in joint custody of the police and DWMA for the time being,” she explained. That should be enough to pacify any complaints, as the reasons seemed simple enough; keep the boy in their security to keep him safe and in case he remembered something.

It would also keep him away from his mother as social workers investigated her and his family for abuse charges. Which was a big factor in the choice to do so. They already had a social worker staying with him for the time being to help the child while they investigated.

Maka just hoped that it would be enough. She wanted to get the boy away from that terrible place, and she was determined to rescue his sister too.

“The kid will be fine,” Elijah cut in. “You guys all have your files. Read them. Track down everyone who knew your kids, even the ones not listed. Check in with the neighbors, classmates and so on. Look into every little detail, nothing is too small or insignificant, got it?”

There was a chorus of ‘yes, sir!’ from around the room as everyone got to work.

Papers flipped, pen against paper, quiet talking as calls were made. The officers were quick to get to work, Maka noted, already diving headfirst into their cases, devoting every bit of attention they had to reading and planning. It filled her with a sense of…pride. Pride of being a part of this team, even if she and Soul were technically the new ones. Even so, seeing the others get to work so quickly and so hard filled her with determination as she flipped open her own file to see who she had been given.

Amanda’s face stared back at her.

Maka’s smile slipped as she looked at the file, at the child, feeling something twist in her gut.

A chair scrapped against the floor beside her. “I decided it was better to keep you and Soul here rather than sending you two to separate parts of the Yorkshire area,” Elijah explained, having seemingly noticed her reaction to the file. “If something happens, I’m assuming you two want to be together. So you’ll be overseeing the Pocklington cases with me.”

“I see,” Maka breathed, nodding her head, “Thanks. For considering Soul and I’s feelings. You’re right, we wouldn’t want to be split up.”

The unit got to work rather quickly, going over their files, looking up on databases, making calls to other precincts, arranging for trips down to their chosen towns. Soul and Maka worked together compiling a list of places to check out that they knew their kids frequented, arranged meetings with teachers, made a list of peers to interview.

It wasn’t hard, but the hours slipped by, the sun quickly rising and setting, the day going by them in a blur. Several of the cops had left, gone home to pack and rest before leaving town in the morning, but a small number remained.

Maka was still focused on her file, having gone through papers upon papers of notes she had made, things to investigate on the morrow when Soul left, to hit a nearby convenience store to grab food and drinks for those who remained. She’d given him little more than a quick thank you before returning to her papers, too focused, and Soul had taken it in stride.

The local middle school, that’s where she wanted to start tomorrow. She’d go to the middle school, speak with the teachers and staff, find out who some of Amanda’s closest classmates were and then to question them. Find out from her peers where she hung out at, and then ask the people who frequented those spots.

Someone had to have seen something.

If both victims were being abused, then the kidnappers knew, they were watching. And they must have first found the victims somewhere before they began their observing and planning. You don’t just wake up one day knowing who you are kidnapping and where to find them.

This was the first lead this case has gotten in two years, Maka was going to make sure that it didn’t go to waste.

 

---

 

Soul had made rather quick work getting to the convenience store. The sandwiches, teas and other snacks bought and bagged. It had been rather generic, uninteresting.

It only became interesting when Soul was leaving and saw a familiar customer doing the same.

“Hey,” Soul greeted before he could stop himself, watching as the young man froze and slowly turn around. Green eyes bore into red, brows furrowed, and Soul was sure he was scowling under that mask of his. “You’re, ah, Haruto, right?”

The café employee waited a few moments before responding. “Yeah,” it was curt, and he turned around, leaving the store.

Maka had said she felt something off about the guy, hadn’t she? And now that Soul was seeing him up close, there was something about him that… felt odd. He just could not put his finger to it. But perhaps that was what drove Soul quickly followed after the man, even if it meant not going right back to the precinct.

To his surprise, Haruto was a fast walker, a very fast walker. When the store doors closed behind Soul, the guy was already almost at the end of the block, forcing the weapon to sprint to catch up. He swore Haruto sped up even more when he realized Soul was following. But, he did manage to reach the guy, matching his pace and walking at his side, between him and the street.

“Sheesh, you sure know how to book it,” Soul chuckled, adjusting his grip on the plastic bag in his hand. He glanced at Haruto, he had a few bags in one hand, and Soul noticed cups of ramen, bread, and all sorts of cheap foods. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to go to the grocery store for all of it? Probably cheaper.”

Haruto remained silent, but Soul felt the heat in his glare.

Walking together, Soul took the moment to look at him from a closer position. The guy did not look particularly attractive, not that he looked unattractive, either. As far as Soul could tell, he seemed pretty average looking, at least from what little of the guy’s face that Soul could see. Who knew, perhaps he had the most amazing smile ever seen on Earth, and that was why he had to hide his face. Not that Soul could picture Haruto as much for smiling.

He was a good few inches shorter than Soul—probably more around Maka’s height—his frame narrow, thin, probably fresh in his twenties. He was dressed in simple jeans and a black zip-up sweater. Just like at the café, he still had his lower face covered by a mask and this time had black latex gloves covering his hands. Soul could see familiar bags under the guys eyes, the kind that he knew personally from not only himself, but from Crona and Maka—a sign that this guy was running on barely any sleep and had been for a long time.

“So,” Soul began, earning another side-eyed glare when he broke the silence. “I’m—”

“Soul.”

The weapon paused and turned his head fully to look at Haruto, mouth hanging slightly open before he found the mind to close it. Had he said his name before? No, not at any time where Haruto would have heard it. This was their first time speaking, too. “How’d you know?”

Haruto gave a chuckle, it was hollow, sarcastic. “Ya’ advertise everywhere that yer a member of the DWMA with the Death emblem your mate an’ you carry on yer clothes,” he pointed out, giving a pointed look to the skull on the right sleeve of Souls jacket. “Once ya’ know that much, it ain’t that hard. You guys are easy to Google—there ain’t that many albinos in yer little gang.”

The way that Haruto spoke, there was an acidic contempt in the words. Either he did not like Soul, or, more likely, he really did not like the DWMA. A lot of people harbored resentment towards the academy and its member, it was something Soul had come to realize a while back, a resentment that grew more prominent after the war with the Acolytes. Or, perhaps it was that people were more open about their distrust.

“I guess that makes sense,” Soul murmured as he rubbed the back of his neck. “And you’re Haruto? That’s what I think the waitress called you. Haruto…?”

He glared at Soul, but Soul just met his gaze with his own, steady, waiting. If Haruto wanted to play the silent stoic, well, Soul could wait his silence out.

There was an anger in those green eyes, a held in a glass jar. Soul wonder how much it would take for that rage to break free, wondered if he should even risk tempting fate—he didn’t know just what this guy could do if he pressed the wrong buttons.

Eventually, Haruto heaved a sigh, shaking his head and muttering a string of curses under his breath. “Haruto Arakawa. Ya’ happy now?”

“As a clam in high water.”

Haruto rolled his eyes and came to a stop at a curb-side bus stop, tapping his foot impatiently against the sidewalk and shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, letting the bags hang heavy off his wrists. He looked at Soul again, eyes narrowed. “Precinct’s the other way. Or ya’ tryin’ to follow me all the way home?”

“You’re apparently quite the heartthrob, so it’s tempting, but I’d better not. My partners might misunderstand, think I’m cheating if I go home with you,” Soul responded with a toothy smile and small laugh.

That got a raised brow, the heat of his glare faltering as confusion flashed in Haruto’s eyes. “Partners…ya’ mean meister? Ya got more than one meister? That’s just fuckin’ weird.” Soul could just imagine the flustered and offended response Tsugumi would give if she had heard him say that.

But still, him and his big mouth. With a sheepish shrug, Soul once again adjusted his grip on the bag, feeling the plastic digging into the skin of his fingers and the weight starting to make his digits ache. Hopefully, the cheap plastic didn’t tear.

“No, no. I only have the one meister. I meant partners like, ah, relationship. Boyfriend, girlfriend, that sort of thing?” he said, hoping that it made sense, though it didn’t really look like Haruto got it yet. “I’m in a throuple.” Maybe not something most people say on first meeting, but Soul saw no shame in declaring his relationship status. It just meant people knew he was taken by two wonderful people.

“The fuck’s a throuple?”

Was… was this guy dense? He seemed like he was simply just an angry fellow, but now Soul was wondering if he was a little naïve, too. Most people knew what a throuple was, right? From media and shit. Polygamy wasn’t exactly a new notion. Or maybe people here didn’t say ‘throuple’?

“A three-way relationship?” Soul tried again, turning to face Haruto as they waited for the bus to arrive. “Polyamory? When you and two others are in a romantic relationship?”

Haruto made a face and shook his head. “Sounds complicated as fuck, an more troublesome than it’s worth. Havin’ one S-O sounds bad enough, an here ya are havin’ two? The fuck?”

Laughing, Soul shrugged once more. “Yeah, well, when you’re in love, you don’t really care about how troublesome it might be,” and he did love them. Crona and Maka he loved them both, more than there were words to describe. “What about you? You been in a relationship before? High school crushes? College romances?”

Haruto glared at him, and Soul realized that maybe he didn’t want to talk about his own personal life. Which seemed kind of unfair since Soul just told him about his love life, but, whatever. So, instead he decided to try something else. “So,” A few people walked past them as they stood there waiting. “How long have you been living here?”

There was a long pause, Haruto glaring at him and remaining silent, with Soul watching him patiently and expectantly. Finally, he grumbled, cursed some more. “Don’t know why it’s any of yer business,” He groused. “Probably around three an’ a half years.”

“Ah,” Soul nodded. “Right before the kidnappings began.”

He was sure that Haruto wanted to smack him, the rage in his eyes were growing fiercer with every second of time Soul kept taking, ever question he kept asking. “Was this unwanted followin’ all yer elaborate way to interrogate me?” he asked. “Am I a suspect or somethin’?”

“No, no,” Soul quickly assured him. “I was just speaking out loud. But, since you have been here since the kidnappings started,” Soul paused to mentally find the right wording, the one that might irritate the guy the least. “Have you ever noticed anything that seemed suspicious?”

“Besides an annoyin’ guy followin’ me from a convenience store all the way home, who won’t stop jawin’ on about shit?” Haruto snapped back, almost shoving against Soul with his shoulder. “No, I’ve seen nothin’.”

“Damn, you’re an aggressive guy. What’s got you in such a hurry, anyway? Got someone waiting for you?” It was mostly sarcastic, with this guy’s attitude, Soul couldn’t really imagine him having anyone waiting for him. But, then Haruto stiffened, and that fury seemed to increase to the point that Soul realized he had actually hit the nail. “Wait, you do, don’t you?”

“I don’t think it’s any of your fuckin’ business.”

“Ouch. Language.”

“Bite me.”

What did that Amber chick see in him? This guy was as unpleasant as they came. Soul rolled his eyes, “So, who’s waiting for you? I’m guessing that’s why you’re so angry right now.” Not that he could imagine that someone actually enjoyed Haruto’s presence enough to wait for him to come home.

He glared at Soul. “My lil’ sister, who is probably fuckin’ starvin’ right now cause yer wastin’ all my time.”

Okay, a little sister made a lot more sense than any girlfriend or boyfriend did. And Soul was wasting his time? Even if he wasn’t here, Haruto would have still been waiting for the bus, so that was just rude. But he kept that to himself, saying it out loud would have just annoyed the other man all the more.

“A little sister? I hope she’s doing okay, it’s probably scary for her with the recent kidnappings going on,” Soul said, and then he added, quieter; “Probably not the safest to be alone.”

Haruto snorted, “I’m not worried. Trust me; she’ll be fine.”

“Oh?” Soul raised a brow. “What’s got you so confident?”

The bus was pulling up now, and Haruto had turned to face Soul, looking directly at him. His eyes were cold. An icy remorselessness that felt so wrong and Soul couldn’t understand why.

“I’ll kill anyone who fuckin’ tries.”

 And with that, he climbed onto the bus and flipped Soul off.

Soul was left watching as the bus left, processing what Haruto had said. Something about the way he looked—Soul wasn’t sure the guy was kidding. “Well, that’d be a quick solution to the kidnapping problem, then,” he muttered, imagining the young man actually murdering numerous kidnappers. It didn’t seem like an implausible feat from what he’d seen of him and his temper. “But, yikes, he’s got some anger.”

Just as he was running his hands through his hair, contemplating the last ten minutes of his conversation, he felt his phone vibrating in his back pocket as a familiar ring filled the air. Pulling it out, Maka’s name greeted him on the screen. A quick swipe and he brought the phone to his ear.

“Yo.”

“Soul, you okay?” Maka asked. “You’ve been gone for a while, everything okay?”

“Ah, yeah, sorry. Ran into someone and just started talking,” Soul answered, already starting his walk back to the precinct, noticing how numb his fingers had grown. “I’ll tell you about it when I get back, think you might want to hear.”

 

---

 

Crona frowned, shifting awkwardly, the dying lights of the day setting over the trees.

Beside them, Detective Barrichello sharply breathed in, crossing his thick arms over his chest, staring down at the coroners, local cops, and their fellow Interpol agents as they scavenged the area. They stood at the top of a small dip in the earth, at the creak that flowed through it, with crowds of civilians being held back by tape and cops behind them.

Barrichello sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Joggers found him. All the teeth were pulled out, the skin of his fingers and toes removed” he said, shaking his head, his expression of frustration. “We can’t get an I.D. on who the victim even is this time. Even the face has been disfigured beyond recognition.”

“Do we… do we know if it’s the same killer?”

The detective chuckled, “If it’s not, then it’s a damn good copycat,” he said. “We’ve got confirmation on a new…episode… from our guy, that coupled with a body? We will need to examine the recording to know if the wounds match, but the guy’s heart was removed. No one outside of the investigations knew about that part, not even those listening to his podcasts knew he removed the hearts.”

Crona grimaced, reaching over to grasp their arm tightly. They had seen the body; it was impressively horrifying. Each wound had been inflicted with purpose, with thoughtful consideration, nothing like the almost instinctive violence of the Kishin eggs, it was not erratic. The wounds were delivered not unlike an artist making brushstrokes on a canvas.

Whoever this killer was, Crona was afraid. They were afraid of him, of what he could do. He was a monster, the kind of monster you feared hid in the closet or under the bed, the kind that had no face or body, but you feared all the same.

They wished that Soul were here, or that Maka was here, if they had at least one of them, then Crona knew they would feel a little braver. But, no, that would be selfish. The two had a mission of their own that they were working on, missing kids they needed to find, abductors to stop. Crona couldn’t take them away from that.

They were too focused on their own thoughts that they didn’t notice that Captain Deneuve was approaching them, pulling the yellow crime scene tape up to ducking under it.

“Crona,” she said sharply, causing the meister to flinch. “Walk with me.”

Looking helplessly at Barrichello, the man just smiled and nudged them over to the captain who was already walking away. Just suck it up and follow her! Ragnarok snapped from within their head, their blood bubbling, a warning sensation of what was to come. But it didn’t, Ragnarok remained in their veins, in their head.

Swallowing hard, Crona stumbled after Deneuve.

She said nothing for a good while, remaining silent as they passed cops, leading Crona away from the crowds and reporters looking for answers.

It wasn’t until they were well away from the earshot of others that Deneuve heaved a heavy sigh. “I’m going to have to ask you something personal, kid,” she said, turning to stare Crona down, arms crossed over her chest. She looked imposing. Terrifying. “I know your past, your previous affiliation. Don’t worry, I didn’t go snooping. It was all there in the file the academy sent me to review before accepting your aid.”

Crona shifted, trying to make themselves small, as small as possible when she mentioned their past. It was still difficult for some to look past. Their mother was a witch. She infiltrated the DWMA, tried to revive the Kishin, caused so many bad things to happen, hurt so many people. It was difficult for Crona when people brought her up, brought their past up.

Blood rushed through their body, Crona felt the familiar tearing sensation in their skin as Ragnarok emerged, resting his small body against their head. “Yeah?” he demanded, his voice defensive, “What about it?”

The captain held her hands up, “I was hoping your knowledge would come in handy,” she said. “How quickly he is able to get around, so suddenly and at short notice, going from one nation to another; it’s likely that our killer is affiliated with the witches in some way.”

“I… I was thinking that too,” Crona admitted quietly. Should they have mentioned it earlier? But, Captain Deneuve didn’t seem upset by their admittance, instead, she was just nodding her head in thought.

Bringing a hand to her chin, she rubbed at it, looking down to the ground in thought. “Did you ever come across anyone who possessed the ability to possibly teleport?” she asked. “Or anything similar?”

Crona thought, they really, really thought hard, tried racking their head over every witch and sorcerer they had met when serving Lady Medusa. But they came up with nothing. They couldn’t think of anyone who had any sort of magic that could have made this possible. In defeat, they hung their head low and gave it a solemn shake.

“No… I’m sorry.” Crona mumbled.

“Hey, it’s okay, can’t expect someone to know everyone,” Deneuve said and shrugged. “I figured I would ask, and I didn’t want to risk making a scene with too many people around.”

Lifting their head, Crona looked fretfully at the captain. “This is the second kill in Brazil, I don’t—he might already be somewhere else.”

The captain had a look of frustration cross her face. “I know,” she said, her voice sharp, but not at them. “I know… we have to keep an eye out. The police already know to contact us if they find a body matching the M.O. of our killer, and we’ve got people keeping track of the Podcasts, waiting to let us know when he has a new one go live.”

It was all they could do for now. Continue to investigate the bodies and scenes, and wait for him to act again.

 

Chapter 5

The room was full of nervous chatter in the crowd of police and reporters all jammed together in a simple briefing room. Crona felt awkward, unsafe, claustrophobic surrounded by so many people at once. Ragnarok’s presence as he rested on their head was a rare comfort in that moment. While they still felt frightened, as if they could suffocate at any moment, Ragnarok’s silence was calming.

Crona held themselves tightly as they stood on one side of the stage, watching as Captain Deneuve talked with the towns police chief. They had finished their investigation of the latest victim that morning, or as much as they could from the body alone, and in the following hours, the Interpol team and Crona had been working tirelessly to compare this victim to the past ones.

They had found all there was to find for now, and the captain had decided they had a working profile they could release to the press.

She finished her talk and had made her way to the podium at the front of the stage. Reporters and police alike fell silent as she cleared her throat and checked the microphone.

“Hello, everyone,” Deneuve greeted calmly. “As all of you are aware, I am part of Interpol, and my team and I are investigating a string of homicides that have been crossing international borders. Though we have not yet caught him, we believe we have a profile on who to look out for.”

Several of the reporters started asking questions, but they were ignored. Crona tried to make themselves smaller, and Barrichello nudged them on the shoulder in what had been an attempt at comfort.

This was important. Not only were there reporters for papers, but there were news anchors recording this live. And not just for the nation of Brazil, no, there were reporters representing various countries in the room, and a handful of translators with them. This issue wasn’t just a South American one, no, this was a killer who had the ability to be a danger to a person of any country, this was an international criminal and the whole world needed to know what to look out for, who to look out for.

The captain waited for the chatter to stop, raising her hand to signal for silence, and only when the talking ceased did she continue. “We believe him to be young, in his twenties or thirties. It’s not easy to lure in as many people as he has, as such he will be a very charismatic person, likely physically attractive, enough so that he can make those around him lower their guards,” she explained.

Barrichello took a step forward, “He’s incredibly confident. We can hear it in his voice during the podcasts. He knows what he’s doing and he isn’t afraid he’s going to get caught,” the detective said, making gestures with his hands as he spoke. “He wants recognition, that’s why he streams these podcasts while he kills, he wants the world to know what he’s doing. It’s possible the man is a narcissist.”

The detective glanced to Crona, silently urging them to speak up, but the words were caught in their throat. Ragnarok held tighter to their head as Crona took a fearful step back.

Deneuve didn’t let the silence last for long. She brought the reporters attention back to herself as she picked up where Barrichello had left off. “Our killer is highly intelligent, and likely enjoys flaunting it. Like the murders, it’s a way to receive recognition, to be noticed,” she said, looking at the various reporters. “We also must keep in mind that, along with intelligence, when you take into account how many nations we know he’s been to; our killer is most likely multilingual. However, we can assume from the podcasts that English is his primary language.”

“We believe it’s safe to presume that he’s white, but that may not necessarily be true,” Barrichello said. “We also want to keep in mind that the first five confirmed murders were in Wales; as such it is safe to assume he is possibly Welsh.”

Crona pressed themselves closer to the wall as the two leading agents on this case continued, back and forth, to list traits that the team had come to find between bits of information on the podcasts and on the victims. He was very meticulous. He treated the murders as a form of art. Each thing he did was deliberate, precise. There were so many things they had learned, but very few that could narrow down a pool of suspects into something manageable.

The reporters were devouring every word. Jotting it down, saving it on recorders, on film, hanging on everything they said.

As Deneuve was wrapping up, one reporter stood up. He held his tape towards the stage, staring them down. “How is he able to get to different nations so quickly between the murders?” the reporter asked. Crona squinted and saw ‘Dave’ written on his nametag. “Does he own his own private jet or something? It should be impossible to travel so quickly, so frequently.”

 Deneuve and Barrichello looked to each other, as if trying to decide how to answer, when Crona found themselves speaking up.

“We think they’re working with a witch.”

Their words had been quiet, but it was loud enough to get several to look at them. Crona backed away just a bit more, fearful. Dave stared at them, turning the tape to Crona. “I’m sorry? What did you just say?”

Crona wanted to stay silent, pretend nothing happened, but Ragnarok dug his knuckles in hard, “Go on, speak up you baby,” he hissed.

Swallowing, Crona took a nervous step forward. “We think that… that the killer has the aid of a witch. That he’s using magic to travel,” they told the reporters, grabbing onto their arm nervously. “We… don’t have proof, of course, it’s just a-a working theory, but it makes the most sense.”

There was a hush that fell over the room, a silence that grew into nervous whispers. A witch could be involved. Witches were dangerous. A serial killer was bad enough, but one that had the aid of a witch? That made this all the worse. That was why the DWMA had involved themselves, wasn’t it? Why else would a meister be tasked with something like a serial killer when it wasn’t even a Kishin Egg?

Then, like a bottle bursting, the room was in an uproar. Reporters were talking over one another, trying to ask question, trying to seek answers. The possibility of magical aid had not told to the public before, and now this changed everything of what they knew, change the possibilities.

In a sense, it meant that no one was safe.

Had Crona been wrong to say what they had said? Should they have kept it a secret, waited until Captain Deneuve decided to let the people know? Perhaps this would make things worse, perhaps it would cause a panic that would make the killer harder to find, give him more targets, perhaps—

Crona shivered, trying to back away from the whispers and the talk. Trying to disappear from the room. Their saving grace was that neither Barrichello nor Deneuve looked annoyed by what they had said, they looked to the chaos of reporters as if it were normal. Perhaps it was.

The older two did most of the talking after that, answering questions the reporters had. Several of them were yelling, wanting to know why it was taking so long when it had been almost four years now, perhaps even longer, since the killer first appeared.  Wanting to know more about the DWMA’s involvement. Was Crona the only agent sent to assist in this matter? Were there more? Why weren’t there more?

The longer that Crona stood there, the more that Crona knew they wanted to go somewhere else. Back home. To their apartment, to the police station. Somewhere safe.

They had begun to black out the rest, too wrapped up in their own thoughts that they ignored the world around them, and were startled when they were dragged back in to it.

“We believe,” Captain Deneuve said, having move to stand beside Crona, placing a hand on the small of their back, “that with the aid of the DWMA, we will be able to make considerable distance in putting a stop to these murders. It will take time and a lot of work, but we will catch him and make him pay for his crimes, and the DWMA will help in whatever way they can, I can promise you that.”

Most of the reporters had calmed down by then, the chatter died back down to whispers. But, one reporter slowly stood up, an aging man in his forties with greying hair. He looked to the detectives and then on Crona. “I’ve got a question,” he said in a gruff voice, his eyes not looking away from the meister. “Why should we trust the DWMA?”

There was a pause, “I’m sorry?” Crona didn’t know who said that, it could have been themself for all they knew.

“How,” the reporter repeated, his gaze locked on Crona’s still, his gaze challenging, “can we trust the DWMA?”

Crona remembered the speeches that flooded the web ten years prior, the protests that filled the streets after the war, the whispers and doubt that seemed to seed itself into all the souls. The anger—not hate, not disgust, but anger—that seemed to come from so many.

They looked to the floor, unable to meet the challenge.

 

---

 

“Hey baby let the bad times roll, oh, oh-oh-oooh!” Beatrice sung as she sat in Haruto’s lap, moving her feet in tune with the beat of the song playing on his laptop, the lyrics flowing by with each verse as the YouTube video continued, making it easy for her to sing along. “Hey, Lincoln how does your grave roll? Oh, oh, oh!”

Haruto chuckled as he carefully ran the brush through her hair in long singular strokes. She was just as bad of a singer as he was, and he loved it. “I think ya skipped a line,” he teased. Though, maybe Machiavelli was a hard word for a fourteen-year-old to sing. It sure was a hard word for him to say.

Beatrice turned her head to face him, letting several strands of hair slide from his hand, “Shush,” she scolded without any heat, letting her head turn forward again to hum along with the song instead as Haruto continued brushing her hair until it was nice and smooth.

He could only chuckle again as he continued his task, content to hear her hum and sing along with the song on his laptop.

The two of them were lounged on the floor of his apartment beside the low coffee table that served as a dinner table, a work space, and a surface for whatever needs they had. Aside from the table and a few cushions, the main space of the apartment was incredibly sparse. No furniture besides the cheap kitchen equipment, and even the bedroom had nothing save for the built-in closet and a single roll-out futon that Beatrice used. Every possession was inexpensive, the household beyond spartan in style, it was as minimalistic as Haruto could get away with.

Not that he minded, he didn’t need anything, not really. He’d be fine if he was living out of a cardboard box. But, an apartment made things easier, and he wasn’t going to make Beatrice live on the streets just because he’d be fine living on the streets.

Sure, he felt bad now and then with how little Beatrice had, but, she never complained. She was happy. Happier than she had been.

Her being happy was all that mattered.

Putting down the brush, Haruto finished by running his fingers through her hair, knowing he’d done right by how she leaned into his touch.

“So,” he said as she nestled against him, using his lap as her personal seat. “I’ve the day off from the café, so ya got me until nine tonight. Anythin’ ya wanna do?”

Beatrice hummed as she rested her head against his chest. “I just want to spend it with you, I don’t care what we do.”

He laughed, she reminded him so much of a cat. “Come on, there’s gotta be somethin’ you wanna do that we can still spend time together doin’,” Haruto said, wrapping his arms around her to hold his sister close. “Or we can just sit like this til’ I gotta head to the bar. But that just sounds like it’s gonna get borin’ after a while.”

His teasing earned a little giggle from her.

The video on YouTube finished and after a few seconds of buffering, it had switched over to the next video in the Autoplay queue. Instead of music, there was a quiet wave of chatter, and Haruto let his gaze fall to the screen to see what was playing now.

A press conference.

Not an English one, because of course it wouldn’t be an English one. Some South American dialect, that thankfully had subtitles to translate with. Haruto’s smile dropped to a frown as he recognized the people on stage from previous media coverages. Interpol agents and a DWMA meister. That was all he needed to know just what this video was covering.

It was the latest update on that serial killer they had been hunting.

Haruto wrapped his arms tighter, holding Beatrice closer to him as the agents gave a profile on the killer. As they talked about past victimology, or the lack of it, and warnings of how the average joe could better keep themselves safe. He held his breath, feeling his head start to hurt and the agitation flow through him like blood rushing through veins.

He didn’t really care about the killer and their progress on it. It’s just—it pissed him off.

When Crona started talking, Haruto felt anxiety bubble up, suffocating him as his mind thought to all the places the killer supposedly had struck. The bastard hadn’t struck the Wolds yet, hadn’t hit East Riding. But how long would that last? How long until he came here, too? There was already an investigation going on here, but if he brought that filth here, then Interpol would follow, more cops would come, more DWMA—

Haruto hated the DWMA. He hated everyone affiliated with them. Heroes of justice? Protectors of the innocent? What a load of bullshit! They were a military group that put themselves above national law. They used children to fight and kill, saw nothing wrong with it, but if someone else mimicked their ways, then that was just a crime!

They trained kids to fight, they left kids dead, orphaned kids. They ruined everything they touched.

And now there were two out here in Pocklington.

Haruto had recognized them as a DWMA meister-weapon pair the moment he saw them at the café, being waited on by that annoying waitress, Anna—or was it Amy?— It had only taken one look and he had felt raw hate fill him, so much so that he had wanted to throw up.

Then the weapon caught him last night on his way home from the convenience store, the bastard not wanting to leave him alone, insisting on walking with him, waiting with him at the bus stop, insisting on talking with him. Haruto had almost thrown up on the spot, had almost lashed out and struck him, but it had been through sheer force of will that he had held back.

It didn’t make him feel any better, though.

Haruto hoped the kidnappings got resolved soon, sure it’d be nice for the kids to go back home, but more importantly, it meant that that Maka and Soul would leave and he could walk the streets without risk of seeing them, without feeling as angry and disgusted.

He had liked Pocklington because it rarely saw anyone from the DWMA. But now between serial killers and serial kidnappers, that paradise was shattering.

There were no words that described how he felt for the DWMA, not even he could fully articulate it.

To a degree, Haruto could respect them for wanting to go after those who were evil, criminal. But it was the hypocrisy that Haruto despised, the idea that they must follow Death’s laws and nothing else that he hated.

They lived by a very black and white law. Either something was good or evil, there was no in-between. The circumstances behind the sin were invalid. Didn’t matter if someone’s sin was just being born, didn’t matter that they had committed murder because they were forced. Do something bad and it’s execution. Children weren’t safe, no, no, if there was a chance they may turn out bad, then rather than guide the souls that had gone astray, it was better to nip it in the bud.

It was bullshit.

His only comfort was that Haruto knew he wasn’t alone in that opinion. Within the last decade, more and more people had begun speaking up in regards to criticism towards the DWMA, and the enrollment numbers had apparently been on a steady decrease.

Good. They didn’t need an army of children. They had plenty of adults to do the work instead. Let the children be children and enroll at normal schools, study normal courses, make friends and live a normal life without having to learn how to fight to the death and hunt killers and monsters down. They didn’t need to be soldiers, fighting and dying for the Grim Reaper when they weren’t even old enough to drink. They needed to be kids, living free and safe.

“Brother?”

Haruto snapped out of his thoughts as Beatrice squirmed in his lap, he loosened his grip on her and she turned so that she was still on his lap and facing him. “Brother, are you okay?” she asked him.

He stared at her and sighed, leaning down so that he could touch his forehead to hers in a quiet ‘thunk’ as they hit. “Sorry, just… lost in thought, that’s all.” It was hard to hold onto that anger and disgust when he looked at her.

Beatrice puffed her cheeks out in a pout. “You think too much,” she scolded, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “Are you worried by the killer that the news keeps talking about?”

“Course not,” Haruto pulled back to scowl, “Let the bastard come here, an I’ll kick his ass all the way back to whatever pit he crawled out of. Then I’ll drag ‘im out an’ kick his ass even more!”

His sister laughed, resting her head against his chest as her body shook in laughter at his proclamation. “ I know you will, that you can,” she agreed between giggles. “But, he’s not going to actually come here, Pocklington is… Pocklington! There’s no reason for him to come down here. There’s nothing worth coming here for.”

Yeah, that’s right.

Pocklington was just as it was, a small town. Nothing to find here, nothing to do here. There was no reason that asshole would have to come down here, so they wouldn’t have to even be worried about it.

If only Haruto could believe that.

“Hey,” he said smiling more warmly now, trying to redirect their conversation to something else. “How about I run an’ grab some movies? We got plenty o’ time, how about a little movie marathon? I can get us some movies and snacks an we can just spend the day watchin’ movies. That sound good?”

Redirection worked, Beatrice’s eyes lit up at the idea. “Oh! Can we watch Disney movies?” she asked.

“Course we can. I’ll find us the best Disney movies to watch.”

Smiling, feeling the tension leave, the anger and fear leave, Haruto carefully removed her from his lap and stood up. His legs stretched and knees popped, feeling weird after sitting on the floor for so long, but they’d feel normal again after a few minutes of moving.

His wallet was located on the coffee table, as was his phone, which he put both in his jean pockets. Next came his gloves, which he slid over his hands and felt the latex snap against his wrist, feeling snug, like a second layer of skin. His mask came last, handed to him from Beatrice who retrieved it from the coffee table.

He smiled again, though it was hidden behind the mask, and ruffled Beatrice’s hair. “Be good. Lock the door behind me, okay? An make sure ya don’t answer for anyone.”

She looked at him with adoration and a nod, “If anyone comes knocking, pretend no one’s home,” she said with a salute, and with that Haruto grabbed his bag and left the apartment.

 

He was careful as he walked, kept his head down to avoid attention, didn’t linger anywhere. He didn’t walk to slow, he didn’t walk too fast, everything he did was to draw as little attention as possible, to remain unnoticed. Haruto didn’t like being noticed, didn’t want people staring at him, watching him.

Keeping his eyes on the ground, he only looked up enough to keep from walking into anyone. Haruto knew the route to the video store by heart, he could get there blindfolded. So, he kept his gaze downward, kicking a stray rock on the sidewalk.

Thankfully, there were only a few people out and about during that time of day. Seeing as it was a Tuesday afternoon, most people were at work while the kids were at school. The emptiness of the streets was a form of comfort as he walked, and if Haruto had been a different sort of fellow, he might have even been humming as he walked. No, instead he kept silent.

Passing by some shops, Haruto paused, seeing a couple of bobbies standing farther away on the pavement, talking with some older couple. He stared at them for a few moments before looking around.

Ah, right. This was where that one girl got snatched, wasn’t it? What was her name… He’d heard about it the previous day, it was all anyone wanted to talk about at the end of his shift at the café. Abby…no, not that… Anthy…? Athy—no that was from that manhwa Bea’s been reading. No, no…. An… Anna, that’s right! Anna something.

Well, Haruto frowned behind his mask as he watched the police get back in their car and drive off. Sucks to be her. With how long it’s been taking the police, Haruto had pretty much no faith that they were going to find her anytime soon.

He shook his head.

“You’ve such a pessimistic view of things.”

Haruto flinched just a bit and turned his head, a playful roll of his eyes as the woman slid into step beside him.

Haruto wasn’t particularly tall by any means, but Mara was shorter, only reaching up to his shoulder. Her silver hair reached the back of her knees, and dressed in obnoxiously intricate dresses and gowns more befitting cosplay than reality. It was a wonder people didn’t stop and stare at her anymore, but also a blessing—Haruto wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from growling and glaring at every man who did gawk at her.

He had not seen her arrive, had not seen where she came from, but that was normal with her.

“I’m not a pessimist, I’m a realist,” Haruto corrected, continuing to walk without falter. “What’s the occasion fer the visit?”

Mara moved beside him, almost gliding across the ground as she moved gracefully, he wouldn’t have been surprised if her feet hadn’t been touching the ground. She huffed and crossed her arms, “Do I need a reason to see you?” she asked him with mock offense. “Or are you just unhappy to see me here?”

“Well, it’s certainly quieter when the two of ya aren’t around,” Haruto joked with a smile behind his mask. He enjoyed her presence, though he struggled to admit it. He struggled to admit a lot of things to her.

She swatted him on the arm with a roll of her own eyes. “If you must know, darling I was worried about you, so I decided to come and check on how you’re doing,” she moved to be in front of Haruto, forcing him to stop walking as she jabbed a finger at him. “Both Ichiro and I were worried. You’re impulsive and self-destructive, and we wanted to be sure you were doing okay.”

“Come on, ya make me sound reckless. I’m not that bad.”

She did not believe him, and it showed.

He started walking again, moving around Mara as he continued his trek, listening as she continued to chide him, trying to remain aloof and uncaring though her lecture made guilt twist about inside his gut like a pile of writhing snakes. Haruto didn’t like worrying her, but he also wished she’d understand he wasn’t a little kid anymore, that he didn’t need her watching over him all the time to make sure he stayed out of trouble.

Haruto could take care of himself just fine.

The movie store was just across the street, Haruto waited at the curb, and then crossed. Normally he’d just start walking and if the drivers have a problem, then fuck them. But, he didn’t want to give Mara more reasons to lecture him, so he decided to be a good boy and wait for traffic to finish before crossing. It took too much freaking time, had his patience running thin, but it would have worn away completely if he had to keep listening to Mara complain.

He had just reached the shop, seeing the shelves through the window, was reaching for the door when his cell began ringing in his pocket. With a string of curses under his breath, Haruto stuffed his hands in his jackets, rifling through them to find his phone. If it was the café saying they needed him to come in, he would be pissed. Today was his day off, his recharge day, his day to spend with Bea before he goes to the bar for a nightshift, they had no right to—

Ah. It wasn’t the café managers.

“As I said. We were both worried about you,” Mara said, peering over his shoulder with a laugh on her tongue. “I told him I would check on you, but seems he wanted to do so himself.”

Haruto clicked the green button as he shouldered the store door open. “What do ya want?” he asked, his voice quiet.

“Ouch! So cold,” His brother said from the other end, though Haruto could hear the smile in his voice, that obnoxious, ear-to-ear shitty grin. “I went out of my way to call to see how you’re doing and you regard me so harshly.”

“Bite me.”

There was laughter. Haruto scowled as he navigated the small store, skimming past horror film titles as he made his way to Disney’s section. “Careful or I might just take you up on that offer.”

Haruto rolled his eyes, “Gross, Ichi, gross.”

All he got was a bout of laughter. “Come on! Do tell me, what has my sweet, adorable baby brother been up to?” Ichiro asked. Haruto couldn’t make out any sound of movement on the other end of the call, no background noise. Just the sound of his brother talking.

For a moment, Haruto considered lying, or just hanging up on the man. But, there would be nothing to gain from those actions, and, well… It had been a while since he talked to Ichiro, a part of him had missed his brother. “Mara an’ I are at the local video store. Bea an’ I plan to have a movie day before I gotta head out to the bar.”

“Ah! Well, I can recommend quite a few good films—”

“They aren’t getting horror films. You know little Beatrice doesn’t do well with those,” Mara chided.

There was a pause, then a string of laughter. “Come on, Mara! If she’s gonna be family, then she’s gotta get on the horror wagon.”

“How about we let them watch what they want to watch,” Mara said into the phone.

There was a click of a tongue. “A shame about the idea rejection, though, a bloody shame if you do ask me. Horror films, when done right, are positively wonderful! And it’s not just for the bloodshed, though I do fancy a good spray of blood. No, no, it’s the fear! The paranoia it provokes, the disgust! To horrify it’s viewers, to terrify! The thrill of it all—oooh I’m getting goosebumps just thinking of it!”

“That’s cause yer a fuckin’ freak.” Haruto earned a dirty look from both Mara and an older woman. he pointedly ignored them.

A chuckle. “Ah, but I suppose you are too, are you not? Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“I will hang up on ya.”

Mara swatted his shoulder. “Don’t be rude.”

“Don’t be like that,” his brother said at the same time. “Tell me, what sort movies are you looking for? Disney, I reckon?”

“Disney.”

“Ah! Then may I suggest Tangled? A classic, really.”

Haruto hummed as he found the movie. “She’s seen it a dozen times. Besides, Bea likes the older ones, the ones befer’ all that 3D modelin’ shit.”

“Ah, gotcha, gotcha. Then you can’t go wrong with Bambi!”

Mara shook her head as she browsed the films. “I don’t think Bea has seen it. It’s a good movie, but it can make you cry.”

“Yeah, but that’s what makes it a good flick, makes ya feel somethin’,” Haruto said as he skimmed the shelf and then plucked it from its spot. “Defs just stickin’ to the first one, don’t wanna make her watch the sequel in case she hates the first one.”

Nodding to what he said, Mara continued browsing, “Not a bad idea,” she said and then pointed to a movie, “How about Lady and the Tramp?”

“That’s a good movie,” Haruto grabbed it, and then his attention was caught by a movie just below where the Lady and the Tramp had been. “Ah? They got the eighties Transformers movie.”

His brother squealed, he fucking squealed from the other end of the phone. “Oh, that is a great movie, and has amazing songs. Remember all the times you watched it with me when you were little? You have got to show her it,” he urged. “You also need to show her Mary Poppins! The original one, of course.”

He shook his head, but tucked both movies under his arm as well. “I think four movies is enough. I need to save some money to grab snacks on the way home, too,” he said. They couldn’t very well watch movies without snacks, now could they?

“Four movies,” his brother said with a hum. “that’ll be roughly six hours minimum, if there are no breaks—and what time do you begin your shift tonight? Six?”

“Nine.”

Mara winced when he said that. “Should be plenty of time, but… May I suggest watching half today and the other half tomorrow?”

Haruto frowned as he made his way to the counter. “We can do that. Got a few hours between shifts tomorrow, time enough to watch a few films,” So long as nothing happened between that time, that is. “Either of you have any other wonderful advice?” he asked, his tone turning sarcastic.

“Hmm…nope!” his brother laughed. Mara, for her part, just remained silent.

“Of course ya don’t.”

The one manning the counter was a small, elderly old man, he smiled pleasantly at Haruto as he handed him the movies. “Here you go, just these for today.” Haruto said.

“Ooh? Did you reach the counter? Tell the employee that I said hello!”

“Oh, shush!” Mara frowned.

“I’m not doin’ that,” Haruto added.

The old man looked up, Haruto shook his head and pointed to the phone. A nod of understanding. The man scanned the barcodes on the movies as Haruto listened to his brother continue jawing on and on. Twenty pounds, fair enough for four movies.

He handed the guy some cash. His wallet empty of things like debit and credit cards. Perhaps it was his paranoia, or perhaps he was old-fashioned, but he didn’t like using cards or checks. He preferred having physical money in his hands when he did transactions. When he paid his bills, when he bought groceries, paid his rent—it was all with actual cash. And, so far, he’d yet to find a store that had an issue with it. Who didn’t like cash?

“Here we go, sir,” the old man said as he handed Haruto a receipt and the movies in a bag, “Enjoy! They’ll be due in three days.”

Haruto nodded, trying to look polite, grateful, “Thank you,” he said, bowing just slightly, taking the bag in his free hand, still holding the phone in his other. “Have a pleasant day,” he offered as he made his way to the door and out of the store.

 “Say, Haruto. How’d you feel if I come down for a visit?”

He stopped when he heard the question, standing still in the middle of the sidewalk. The question had been out of the blue.

“I… I mean, if ya want. But why?” Haruto asked. He’d not gotten to see Ichiro in person in a while, Bea hadn’t even gotten to meet Haruto’s brother yet. He didn’t have any issue with Ichiro coming, but why would he want to?

Still no other noise on the other end of the phone. “Well, I just missed seeing your face, and I want to meet this Beatrice you’ve got. She’s family, it’s only right I get to meet my family, don’t you think?” A nervous chuckle. “Plus, you know how Caleb’s due to come down to check on you for Rosie? I kinda already decided to hitch a ride with him.”

Ah, so it didn’t even matter whether Haruto wanted him down here or not, Ichiro was already going to be coming.

“In that case,” Haruto said with a roll of his eyes, “Ya don’t even need to be asking me, since yer gonna be down here regardless,” he glanced to Mara and sighed. “But, I’ll be happy ta see yer ugly mug. So get here safe, okay?”

He was going to regret this, he just knew it. Family reunions, nothing good could come from them. But… Haruto did care about his family. He wanted Beatrice to meet the rest of the family. She deserved that much.

But, he wasn’t looking forward to Ichiro’s….eccentricities… rubbing off on her.

Chapter 6

“She wasn’t the most extroverted student I’ve had,” Mr. Rayner said as he led Soul and Maka through the halls of the middle school. According to the files they had received, this was where Amanda had been attending prior to being abducted, and Mr. Rayner had been a teacher of hers the year she had gone missing.

He seemed a pleasant enough man, perhaps in his late forties. Tall, his salt and pepper hair combed back, a pair of dark-rimmed glasses framing his face. He dressed in a simple suit, and carried a stack of carefully organized papers under one arm as he walked. He was polite to everyone they had passed, the students seemed to respect him, and from the glimpse they got of the tail-end of his last lecture, he was not only intelligent, but very good at passing that knowledge on. An important skill Maka felt all teachers needed.

All in all, Mr. Rayner seemed like a model teacher in appearance and in behavior.

Moving aside to let a group of kids by in their blue school uniforms, Mr. Rayner shook his head. “She tended to keep to herself. Amanda was pretty quiet, missed school more than any other student, though she usually got into trouble on the days she did attend.”

“What kind of trouble?” Soul asked.

“Well, the kind of trouble you’d expect,” Mr. Rayner shrugged. “Sometimes she was disrupting the classroom,  she’d get into altercations, or she’d sleep in class.”

Maka wrote that  down on the notepad she had brought, looking to Soul and sharing a look with him before turning her attention back to Mr. Rayner. “Why did she miss class? Was she just skipping?”

The teacher shook his head. “Usually it was because she was sick, we’d get a call from her mom or dad saying she was staying home, something about a chronic illness? Though, she did have more than her fair share of days she just played truant.”

There was nothing in her medical history that would require frequent days off of school. If Maka was to wager a guess, it was because the parents had to hide her from the school during those times to avoid trouble.

More kids rushed past them, eager to get to their destination, be it home, practice, or hanging out on town with their friends. “Did she ever come to class with bruises? Bandages?” she asked, watching Mr. Rayner carefully, keeping note of his body language and frequency of his soul. “Did Amanda ever come to class hurt?”

There was a pause, “She sometimes got roughed up when things with the other kids got out of hand,” he said. “Kids being kids, impulsive and acting out.”

His words sounded honest, his face genuine—his soul was different. Maka saw it. When she asked him, she saw his soul’s wavelength start to flicker and shift, radiating a nervous energy to it—he was lying. Had he been talking to anyone else, he would have been lying convincingly, but Maka wasn’t anyone else. She could see his soul, and his soul was not something he could control like his voice or expressions.

She looked to Soul again, gave him a small nod.

“Look, teach,” Soul said, stepping forward, making sure to raise his lips a little as he spoke so that Mr. Rayner could see the sharp points to his teeth. An intimidation tactic, to show dominance. Maka felt the teachers soul flinch. “We don’t want to cause trouble, but we know that’s not true. I don’t know what you hope to accomplish by lying, but it wont do you any good.”

Mr. Rayner looked between the two, clearly reevaluation his standing with them. Maka could see the sweat trickling along his neck. “Well… yes… she did come frequently covered in bruises. Her parents, they informed us that due to a medical condition, the one she stayed home because of, she would bruise quite easily from even the lightest bumps or trips”

“And you believed it?” Soul asked, eyebrow raised.

The teacher glared at him, but his fear was evident. “Look, we didn’t have proof to say otherwise, and Amanda wouldn’t speak of any sort of abuse,” he said, desperately trying to defend himself. “We can’t go around accusing every parent we see of abuse just because their kids sported a few bruises!”

The proof would have been that she didn’t bruise that easily when bumping into desks and lockers, when tripping in gym, Maka thought angrily. “So, instead you just chose to ignore what you saw with the hope that it would go away on it’s own. You didn’t want it to be your problem to solve,” Maka surmised, feeling disgust boil inside her. “What of the other kids? Surely they noticed, told someone.”

He scowled, looked away, “They just saw her state as a reason to ostracize her. I’d often come into class to find her cleaning graffiti left by the other kids off her desk.” He said. “She was bullied frequently. The other kids didn’t like her.”

“And you did nothing,” Soul concluded, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m their teacher, not their warden. They never did anything extreme, so I left it alone knowing they’d grow bored with her and stop on their own.”

This man was disgusting.

Maka frowned. How could people like this be teachers? How could people be so callous when it came to the suffering of others? “What about friends? Her mother told us she’d hang out with her friends, sometimes spend the night at their places. Do you think you could tell us who some of them are?” she asked. “We’d like to ask them questions if possible, see if they might have seen something.”

Soul stepped forward again, nodding his head. “Better yet, we need you to give use the names of everyone you had in your class that year.”

There was a moment where Mr. Rayner looked as though he was going to be defiant, to refuse their request. But it was only for a moment before he deflated like a bag of air, leaning against the lockers in defeat of a battle he hadn’t known he was a part of. “I’ll get you the names…”

Once the two had gotten the list of students who had attended his class the year Amanda had been abducted, the two had taken the car the police department loaned them and had gone to the elementary school to do the same with Anna’s teachers.

The results had yielded better results.

Her teacher, Mrs. Diana Cooper, a young, pudgy woman with a fierce temperament and a kind heart had informed them as soon as the two seated themselves across from her desk that she had suspected the Bailey kids were being abused at home.

She had no proof, of course, or rather, nothing concrete that she could bring forth, and she couldn’t very well just make the kids strip to see the bruises on their bodies. But she knew what she had seen in them and knew something wasn’t right, and so she had been keeping an eye out for them, trying to gather as much as she could to bring to the local authorities. She hadn’t wanted to contact CPS right away out of worry that she’d only make things worse.

But, now with one missing, she feared she had waited too long.

It was clear that Ms. Cooper cared much more about her students than Mr. Rayner had, and she was entirely willing to cooperate in whatever way she could, providing a comprehensive list of students in both Anna and Alex’s classes, a list of guardians for each of those children, as well as a list of reports the headmaster had of unknown individuals lurking around the property within the last six months. That one had been a very short two-pager, but was still appreciated.

Anna had been a lively girl, always ready to help other students, playing with other kids, spending her recesses and lunch breaks with her brother. Unlike Amanda who had been ostracized and abused by her peers, Anna had been loved by the whole class.

Well, they could mark ‘similar personalities’ off the list of possible additions to the victimology.

Visiting the schools had left them both with long lists of people to talk to and only so much daylight to work with, and so Maka and Soul made the choice to split up to cover more ground. Maka would handle Amanda’s former classmates and Soul would talk to people associated with Anna.

With any luck, they’d find something.

That was how Maka found herself talking with two of the most annoying teenagers she had ever met.

Stacey and Mary were both fourteen, yet they dressed like they were nineteen and hitting the clubs. They were the last of the students that Maka had been able to track down, and boy did Maka feel her braincells dying with every word the two said.

“I still don’t get why you’re wasting your time talking with us and not hunting down the bad guys,” Mary said as she sipped her coffee, her attitude just absolutely awful, stuck-up, and snotty. Talking as if Maka could just automatically know who’s been taking these kids and have them locked up with a snap of her fingers. That kind of power would be great, but it wasn’t possible. “Like, all we did was go to school with the girl, it’s not like we knew her or anything.”

Stacey nodded her head in agreement, “Yeah. We spoke to her only when we had to, we’re not going to know what happened to her.”

Maka held her breath, wanting to sigh and smack her head against a brick wall. “I’ve talked with the rest of your classmates, and they all said that you two had a history of harassing her, on and off school property,” she said calmly, trying to keep professional. “If anything, you’ve spent more time with her than any of your other classmates.”

Mary gasped, hand over her mouth, “That is such slander!” she yelled

“Yeah! We may have teased her now and then, but it’s not like we bullied her or anything!” Stacey added.

Oh, fun. They were going to deny it. Maka wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, it was two years ago, they had been twelve, but it was hard to with how they behaved.

“Please don’t pretend it’s not true,” Maka said, feeling her intelligence lowering even more as this conversation dragged on. “You can’t expect me to believe the entire class would lie about you bullying Amanda.”

Mary scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest while taking careful care to not spill her coffee. “I don’t get why it matters anymore, anyway. Amanda’s gone, it was two years ago. Live and let live, you know?”

“Yeah!” Stacey agreed.

The need to bang her head against a wall was increasing. “Look, I don’t care if you think you weren’t bullying her or not. I just need to know if you ever noticed any strange people watching you when you were with her outside of school,” Maka said, a bit sharper than she had intended, but it had gotten her point across.

The two girls flinched, shared a look, and looked ready to bolt.

“We never saw anything,” Mary insisted, standing her ground firmly.

“Well, there was that one guy,” Stacey had said at the same time.

Mary looked to her, a look of betrayal crossing her face. “Stacey!” she hissed.

Maka wanted to smile. Finally, they were getting somewhere. “What can you tell me about this guy?” she asked, looking to Stacey.

“It was no one important!” Mary said quickly, trying to do damage control. But, she was effectively ignored by her friend.

“Well, a lot of the times when we were with Amanda, I noticed there was always this guy watching us. He really stuck out to me because he carried a camera all the time, that and that his hair was blonde, kept it in a bun,” Stacey said, bringing a finger to her chin as she thought back. “I thought he was stalking us, it was really creepy, but Mary said we should ignore him and he’ll go away—and he did just that, he went away!”

Maka nodded, already she had her notebook out and was jotting these down. “I see. And, when did you stop seeing him around town?”

The girl gave it some more thought, but it was Mary who spoke, rolling her eyes and giving an angry huff. “It was around the time Amanda went missing.”

“Your right! That is around when I stopped seeing him!”

Frowning, Maka wrote that down as well. “Do you think he might have something to do with her abduction?”

“Seems pretty hard not to be,” Mary snipped back.

Maka nodded her head again. “And, may I ask, why you never brought this to the police’s attention earlier?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Mary glared at Maka with all the fury a 14-year-old girl could possess, which is a lot. “Because I didn’t want us getting involved,” she snapped. “If we let it slip that we might have seen the kidnapper, we’re just making ourselves into targets, too! I have no intention of being kidnapped, thank you very much.”

That was a fair reason, a cowedly one, but she couldn’t blame her. Mary would have been twelve at the time, of course she wouldn’t want to get involved if she thought she was putting herself at risk.

“Okay. Okay. What else can you tell me about what he looked like?” She asked instead, veering the topic somewhere else. “Anything else that stuck out beside the camera and fair?”

Stacey raised her hand. “He always was dressed in dark colors, and in like, jeans and hoodies,” she offered. “No matter the weather, that’s what he always dressed in, and we had been seeing him for months, so it’s like, ew, gross don’t you have any other clothes?”

“It wasn’t like he was close, either,” Mary added, still bitter, still angry. “He was always a bit away, so we never got a good look at him.”

“Understandable,” with that, Maka closed her notebook and handed them a card from her pocket. “You two have been big helps. If you remember anything else that you think might be important, please don’t hesitate to call.”

Rolling her eyes, Mary took the card and slipped it into her bra. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

Maka forced herself to keep smiling as she bid the two teens goodbye and going on her way. She had to find Soul, let him know what she had found. They had a description of what one of the kidnappers looked like—this was big.

 

---

 

“They were both very large men,” the shopkeepers son, some boy only a couple years younger than Soul, had said as he leaned against his broom in a lazy slouch. “One of them had one of those, like, buzzcuts. You know, the ones you see in military movies? They were also both pretty buff,” he added offhandedly, a yawn cutting through his description.

Soul nodded, “And you’ve been seeing them both around this area for a while now?”

The teen nodded, “A few times a week. They wouldn’t go into any of the shops or buy anything. They’d just stand outside their car and smoke. People watch. Talk. They’d do that for a few hours and then leave. They’d point at kids and talk among themselves—it was kind of creepy. I saw them following a girl around the area one day, so I just started walking with her as she did her errands, walked her home too. Forced the creeps to back off.”

“That was a good thing of you to do,” Soul praised, earning an embarrassed smile from the guy. Todd,  he corrected as he glanced at the nametag. “Anything else you can tell me about them?”

Todd scratched the back of his neck, “Well, they drove an SUV, it was dark in color, so it didn’t stand out too much, and, ah, I think the plates were from out of town.”

“That’s good, that’s great. You wouldn’t happen to remember the plate number, would you?”

To that, Todd shook his head. “Sorry, dude. I can barely remember the plates on my dads car, let alone some strangers,” he apologized, and then shook his head, “Though, there was one thing. I did notice one day that one of them had a tattoo on his right arm. I don’t know what it was, but it kind of looked like one of those Asian things.”

“Would you be able to draw it out for us?”

Todd once again shook his head. “They all look the same to me. A bunch of lines mushed together, sorry.”

Soul nodded and was about to ask something else when he noticed Maka running towards him. Turning his attention back to Todd, he smiled. “Look, you’ve been a tremendous help, thank you,” he said, reaching into his pocket as he saw Todd give another sheepish smile. “If you think of anything that might help us, if you see them again, or any other suspicious individual who catches your attention, give me a call and I’ll be down here as soon as I can,” he said, giving Todd his card.

“Thanks, dude,” Todd said, looking at the card and sliding it into his pocket. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled, not gonna let them get away with this,” he said, heading back into the shop to finish up his chores.

Watching him go, Soul waited until the door shut before turning towards Maka, just in time for her to slide to a stop in front of him, out of breath and panting.

“Soul…I…. I got… something…” she said between breaths, bending over as she struggled to breath.

Soul chuckled, patted her on the back. “Let’s let you get some water and breath, fist,” he said in amusement. “I’ve got some information, too.”

And so, he had led her to a bench, left her there to buy some bottles of water, and waited until she had caught her breath and drank her water before letting them talk. Who knew how far she had run or for how long to find him, and he wanted to tell her she had been dumb and over eager to just start running to him rather than giving him a call. But, she wouldn’t have been Maka otherwise.

It was a good ten minutes before they actually started anything.

“Amanda was being stalked months prior to being abducted,” Maka said, looking at her notes. Soul raised a brow. “Two of her former bullies said they saw the same man watching on numerous occasions when they were with her, and that he had vanished along the same time Amanda had.”

Soul hummed. “I’m hoping they were able to give you something to go off of for what he looked like.”

“They did,” she confirmed. “He had blonde, always dressed in the same dark hoodie with jeans, and carried with him a camera.” She paused, looked at her paper, and shook her head, “The only thing that narrows it down is the hair and camera, and he could have easily dyed it to a different color after snatching her.”

“He could have.”

“But it’s more than what we had earlier today!”

Soul smiled, nodded his head, “It is,” he agreed. “Even if it’s been two years, we’re bound to find something out from what you were able to find.”

Laughing, Maka nodded her head, leaning back against the bench as she laid her hands across the notebook in her lap, “What about you? You said you had found something out, too.”

“Ah, yeah. One of the shopkeepers kids had noticed a pair of dudes who had been hanging around the area for a couple of months,” he said, opening up his own notebook to scour the notes he had written. “They showed up about three months ago, and about three days a week they would stand outside and just watch people for a few hours before leaving. At one time, they started following some kid, so the guy joined the girl and helped her with her errands so the two would be forced to go away.”

“That’s pretty suspicious,” Maka frowned.

“Yeah, it is. Apparently he hasn’t seen them since Anna went missing, but, we don’t know for sure if they’re still in the area or not. He’s gonna keep an eye out, and if they show up, he’ll let us know.”

“I’m hoping you got some descriptions, too.”

Soul nodded, and handed his notebook over to her, rattling off the traits that Todd had told him. Big, adult, muscular. One had a buzzcut. One had a tattoo. Around their thirties. Drove an SUV. So far, he did have more to go off of than Maka did, and he had the advantage of it being so recent the men might still be in the area. That meant they had a higher chance of catching one of them.

Between their there suspects, Soul felt like they had begun making good ground.

“Let’s get a hold of the detective,” Maka decided, stretching her arms above her head.

It was getting late, Soul noted, they had spent hours going around Pocklington to go through their lists of people, and now the sun was setting. It would be night soon, and tomorrow would be another day spent investigating. Such was the life. “Let’s hope the old man hasn’t called it a night yet.”

Maka chuckled, swatting him on the arm. “He’s not too much older than us, so if he’s old, what’s that make us?”

“Not as old.”

She laughed again, and Soul smiled.

 

---

 

The music of the bar was loud, but even the various rock and pop songs playing on the speakers couldn’t get the Disney songs out of Haruto’s head.  Between every order, verses from ‘A Spoonful of Sugar’ or the song those Siamese cats sang would play in his mind, the songs switching between being sung by Bea or by the actual vocals.

Needless to say, Bea had fun with the movies they had watched earlier, and thus Haruto would say movie day had been a success.

“She certainly had plenty of fun,” Mara said from where she was seated, voicing her agreement as if she had heard Haruto’s thoughts, or perhaps he had been around her for so long she had learned to read him.

Haruto hummed, passing a freshly made Dark & Stormy to a customer. “That was the whole point of doin’ it, if I ‘member right,” he said with a healthy amount of snark, though he didn’t have any of his usual heat to it. “She had fun an’ that’s all that matters.”

Mara smiled, placing one hand on her chin, smiling mischievously as she changed the subject, “You know? I will never not be surprised by how well you clean up. You certainly look good dressed nice.”

Face feeling hot, Haruto hid his embarrassment behind an annoyed grunt as he looked down at himself. He had changed his clothes, sure, he was dressed to match the attire of the staff; a white button up, a black vest. Of course, he wasn’t without his mask and gloves—not even a uniform would make him forgo that. He made sure his arms were always covered, his hands covered, his face covered.

“Ya got weird tastes.”

Mara smiled and laughed. “Moving on. Come on, Mr. Bartender, fix me up a daiquiri.”

Snorting, Haruto moved to instead start working on a rum & cola. He smiled behind his mask as he eyed her. “Pretty sure ya aint old ‘nuff.”

There was a small shriek of rage barely contained in a tiny body as Mara began rising from her seat in a fury. “How dare you!” she hissed. “I am older than you, boy. Don’t take me for some—for some—child!”

He couldn’t help but laugh at her reaction, it was always so easy to send her in a rage when he suggested she might be a kid and not a fully grown adult. “Then don’t act like one when ya get riled up,” he retorted, passing the drink on and moving onto another customers. “Still, ya don’t have an I.D. on ya to confirm yer age, so I can’t sell to ya. Even if I know yer an adult, bosses might not be too thrilled with that baby face of yers.”

She scowled, but said no more on the topic, instead favoring to turn in her seat and watch the people moving, dancing, and talking. She hummed, watching.

Haruto did his best to ignore her as he continued to work, though his gaze would frequently go back to her, to make sure she was still there, that she hadn’t left him yet, gotten bored of him and found something better yet. A couple of Miller Lite twist-off to the two over there, cans of Budweiser to the partiers. Some Carlsberg, a sidecar, a paloma, a few shots of vodka, a whiskey sour. He continued to move, continued to mix and take, his actions robotic, rehearsed.

It was monotonous work, really. Mindlessly making the recipes he knew by heart, making a few short-word responses

He hated it here, that went without saying.  The people were too loud, too friendly, and too obnoxious. Then, once they got a few drinks in their systems, they were unbearable. The only saving grace was that they tipped well.

And, well, Haruto wasn’t going to frown at money. Life wasn’t cheap, two lives were more expensive.

“Well! My, my, my, my!”

And with that, Haruto frowned. Well, scowled, really. He looked up from the cosmo he was making to sigh and glare at the approaching newcomers.

Mara hid a smile behind a hand, chuckling a little. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by how quick you got here.”

Collapsing into a seat beside Mara was his brother. He was a tall man, taller than Haruto, thinner, and dressed similarly, though his clothes much darker and more fitted for some upscale nightclub and not a run of the mill bar. His eyes were black as opposed to Haruto’s green, and there were hints of red in his dark hair.

What marked him different from Haruto, what truly marked him as different, was the unnatural grin that stretched from ear to ear, an expression Haruto rarely saw leave.

Beside him was an older, middle-aged man who was a few shorter than his brother, a white man with black hair and a scruffy beard forming around his face. He was stockier, dressed in a black tee and jeans, and had the years of anger and exhaustion painted on his face.

“Ichiro,” Haruto greeted curtly, though there was a hint of a smile in the corners of his lips, and then looked to his companion. “Caleb.”

The man raised a hand. “Hey.”

“And I see Mara is here, too! Able to get past the bouncers, I see?” Ichiro said with glee as Mara glared at him, “Why, we just need Rosie and Astra and it’ll be like a family reunion!”

Haruto scowled at the idea, “Let’s not.” He didn’t like the idea of them seeing him here. “What can I getcha,” he asked, ignoring Mara’s whine of indignation.

“Whiskey sour, my dear brother!”

“Beer,” Caleb said, curt and stiff.

Haruto nodded and began grabbing the drinks, handing them over within a minute.  “Wasn’t expectin’ ya to show up so soon,” he said, giving his brother a pointed glare. “Usually when ya give someone an advance warnin’, ya give em time to prepare.”

Waving his hand, Ichiro laughed, it was loud and obnoxious. “Why! Where is the fun if I let you get yourself all gussied up?” he asked, and when Haruto handed the drinks to them, he took a savoring sip of his whiskey sour. “Besides, I would think you’d enjoy having your dear big brother coming down to visit.”

“Why would I enjoy it? I hate ya.” A lie.

Caleb raised a brow at Haruto’s words, taking a gulp of his beer and letting the bottle clink loudly against the counter. “That’s pretty harsh.”

“Don’t care,” Haruto muttered, taking some dirty glasses to the tub under the counter so it could be sent back to the kitchen later for cleaning. “Just drink an’ get the fuck out, both of ya. I’m ‘ere to work, not to be jawin’ off.”

Ichiro laughed, “You should be nicer to your customers, little brother.”

“He raises a good point,” Mara added, earning a ‘See! Dear Mara here agrees!’ from the man, “You’re going to get in trouble if you swear at your customers.”

“Fuck off.”

Mara huffed, gesturing to Haruto as she stared at Ichiro with a look of pure disappointment. “Just where did he get such a mouth? I know I didn’t teach him to talk this way.”

With his ever present grin, Ichiro remained silent not answering Mara—though he did give a nod of the head to indict Caleb—as he sipped and watched, even Caleb was quiet—but Caleb didn’t talk much anyways so that wasn’t a surprise. Mara even resumed a contemplative silence. If it wasn’t for the fact that he knew the three, he would have said it was becoming downright peaceful, but he doubted the word was even a possibility when Ichiro was in their midst. It was always just a matter of time.

Twenty minutes had passed where Haruto made drinks for increasingly intoxicated men and women before that silence eventually was broken by his brother, as Haruto had expected.

He had been in the middle of making a nigroni when Ichiro chuckled and pointed at Haruto’s head. “You’ll need to fix yourself up, soon,” he said in a teasing tone, standing up and reaching over to ruffle his hair. “Your roots are showing.

Instinctively, Haruto reached to touch his scalp, stopping before touching his hair. Scowling behind his mask, Haruto finished the drink and passed it down the counter, “Fuck,” he muttered. “The dye never stays fer long. It’s startin’ to piss me off.”

Ichiro chuckled, though Mara frowned in concern. “It’s not too noticeable, but it is rather frustrating that you have to re-dye it frequently.”

“Perhaps we should just dunk his head into a tub of paint.”

Haruto grumbled, glaring at his brother and at Mara both before moving to fix up more drinks. More people were coming into the bar now, so he needed to keep his attention focused.

“Hey, kid,” he scowled, glanced at Caleb. “If you’re done being a damn weirdo, get me another beer.”

Haruto did that, grabbing the bottle and sliding it over to him with a glare, “There ya fuckin’ go,” he said, earning a nod of approval from his customer, both for the beer and for the language. Caleb better fucking approve, he’s the one who taught Haruto half his swears.

He left it at that. Caleb drinking in silence, nursing his beer like a baby at their mothers teat, while Mara and Ichiro chatted, catching up on old times. It had been months since either had seen the other properly, they had much to say, no doubt about it, and Haruto thought it better like this. That meant the other three were off in their own worlds and would leave him the fuck alone so he could attend to his other customers.

And he did just that. Serving drinks, taking orders, collecting payment. The usual bartending crap that he got minimum pay for.

He would have once again said it was becoming peaceful, but that was just going to bring bad luck—and bring bad luck it did.

“There you are!”

Haruto stiffened when he heard Maka approaching the counter. Thankfully, her attention was on someone else and not him, she didn’t even seem to notice him as she and her partner walked past. He looked past them and—sure enough that damn detective was sitting at the far end of the counter. Oh fucking Hell.

They talked, voices hushed. Haruto could hear them if he tried, but he didn’t bother. As on edge as he suddenly felt himself to be, he didn’t want to get involved, not in any way or form. He tried to not be noticed, tried to ignore and be ignored as he wiped the glasses and made his way to the other side of the counter where his own group was seated.

“Ah, so they’re here,” Mara hummed, and Ichiro was watching with a smile, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

Haruto looked to Caleb. “DWMA,” he said, and then scowled at Ichiro. “What? You couldn’t warn me they were showing up?”

“Ah, but surprises are so much more fun, don’t you think?”

Caleb downed the rest of his drink. “In that case, fuck this, I’m getting out of here,” he said, standing up from his seat. An understandable response, Haruto would run if he could, too. But, he couldn’t. “You shoulda told me there were fucking meisters and weapons here.”

Ichiro shrugged, “It must have slipped my mind,” and made no move to get up, though both he, and even Mara, would be in similar danger if they were found. They just did not fear the academy as Caleb did.

Frowning, Haruto shook his head, “Would have if I knew ya were comin’.”

Face softening just a bit, Caleb reached over to lightly hit Haruto’s shoulder with a fist. “You be careful, kid. Even though I’m hightailing it out of here, if things go south I can be right back in here at first notice if you need me.”

That got something of a smile from Haruto, though it went unseen. “Yeah, yeah. Get yer ass out of here, ya drunk.”

He watched as Caleb lumbered through the crowds, heading out the front doors of the club. He watched his silhouette in the windows as he moved and vanished. Caleb was gone, out of the club, safer now that he was away from the two DWMA lackeys. The same couldn’t be said for Haruto, though.

Turning around to see if others needed more drinks, he saw the woman staring at him with such intensity that he knew she was looking at his soul.

His scowl returned.

“Hey, boss,” he said, throwing his towel off to one of the bins under the counter, already walking away, “I’m taking my break.” He didn’t wait for a response.

Chapter 7

“Better grab some popcorn.” Elijah said humorlessly, settling down in a seat in the conference room in the police precinct.

 There were only a few other individuals present, specifically the officers assigned to the kidnapping case that hadn’t let town yet to investigate the nearby towns Among them were Maka and Soul. After the two had found him drinking at the bar, and had explained what they had found, he had gotten the department mobilized. He made the necessary calls to acquire the proper warrants to seize not just street cameras, but the security cameras of all the shops on that block. Unfortunately, the process wasn’t a necessarily speedy one—a couple of days had passed since Soul and Maka had made their discoveries.

But, sure enough, they were able to get footage from four different cameras in the area that depicted the two suspects that Soul had found out about.

“Only four days, right?” Maka asked as she picked up one tape that had been labeled ‘Tea shop’ on the side.  They had been able to get tapes that went from the day Anna was kidnapped to as far as four days prior on some of them. It was a lot to watch, and yet, it didn’t feel like it would be enough.

Grunting, Elijah nodded, “Several of the shops erase the tape every two days, but we got some that have a few days saved up,” he answered, nodding to one of the officers who was at the tv screen up front. “Better hope your boys are on it,” he said, glancing to Soul.

“Yeah,” the weapon agreed. “We just need to get their faces, that’ll make it easier to get a search going for them.”

Maka shook her head as the lights began dimming so that they could see the video better. “We need to make sure they really have been there for more than just one occasion, otherwise if we do get them, they can claim being there was a coincidence.”

“She’s right,” Elijah nodded. “Seeing who they are is one thing, we need more than a suspicion that they’re one of our culprits if we’re going to nail anything on them.”

With that, the video began playing.

It was a single-angle security placed at the top of one of the street lights, giving a good view of a few of the shop entrances, the street, and people passing by. Elijah grabbed the remote and began fast forwarding through the tape at double speed. No one said a word, all eyes in the room were focused on the screen, looking for any details that seemed amiss, looking for anything suspicious. They all had a general idea of what the two men looked like, and they tried to see if they could find them.

Nothing.

People walked, cars drove by, a few parked as people popped in and out of shops, leaving quickly enough to not arouse suspicion. The tape continued to move, going quickly by.

“That’s Alex,” Soul spoke up suddenly.

Elijah paused the tape and they looked to the bottom right corner. Sure enough, they could see Alex on the screen walking. “Well, well… Let’s see where this goes,” the detective muttered and began playing the video slower. They saw the boy continue walking along the sidewalk, getting a glimpse of a taller girl beside him and holding his hand.

“Must be his sister,” one of the cops said.

“This one is two days prior to the abduction,” Elijah said, watching as the siblings continued walking, seemingly talking.  “I can take a guess that the two went this way often enough.”

As the video continued, a black SUV pulled to a stop along the curb. No one got out, it just lingered there and remained. Even as it stayed parked there, no one who walked by seemed to even give it a second glance, as if it’s presence there was absolutely natural. It wasn’t until a few minutes after the two siblings had left the cameras view that the SUV started moving again—in the direction the kids had gone in.

“That must be it,” Soul said. “Todd said they drove an SUV.”

“They were keeping an eye on the kids, seeing what route they’re taking,” Maka muttered in thought. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they had intended to snatch the kids too, but didn’t have the opportunity to. But, we can see that they followed the kids.”

Elijah was shaking his head as he rewind the film so it could focus on the vehicle. “There’s no proof that they followed the kids in it, I hate to say,” he muttered and looked around room, gesturing to the screen, “I need someone to try and get a license plate on the vehicle. If we can track the plate down, we can likely track the owners—and let’s hope that it wasn’t stolen.”

Soon enough, they were moving back onto the tapes, finding what they could. And, within a couple of hours, had reached the day of the abduction.

“There they are!”

The film that showed the entrance of a quilt shop stopped. They could see the street before the door from the angle of the camera, and from the angel, they could see the candy shop. From the camera, they could see a closer image of the two men as the SUV came to a stop along the curb. Slowly, the film began again, this time at a normal speed.

The doors opened and the two men walked out. They could see them more clearly now. Both were well over six feet in height, and as Soul had been told, one had a buzz cut. The other had much longer hair, tied back in a pony tail. They looked similar enough, probably related, maybe brothers, or cousins.

They were talking to each other, ignoring those around them, moving over to lean against the side of their vehicle as they stared at the candy store.

Only a few minutes later, the two kids came on screen once again, walking down the sidewalk across the street, going into the candy store.

“Okay, let’s see where this goes,” Maka muttered as she leaned forward, closer to the screen, staring unblinking as the clock ticked.

Alex and Anna left the store, a small bag between them full of assorted sweets. They were laughing and smiling, full of so much life.

Just as before, as the two kids left the cameras view, the two men got back into their SUV. A few moments had passed before they pulled out, turned, and began following the children.

---

Haruto yawned as he walked. It was late, really late. Closing the bar had taken more time than usual tonight, in no small part due to the party boys trashing the place as they left. He scowled at the memory, feeling an impulse in the back of his mind to go find them and—

No, no, he didn’t do that sort of stuff. That wasn't Haruto. Haruto didnt do violence unless needed. He had a sharp tongue and kept it at that.

He didn’t want to go find the drunk assholes, he didn’t want to grab them by the collars and teach them a lesson about common decency and respect when in a public establishment, he didn’t want to bash beer bottles over their heads and give them busted lips and black eyes. That was Ichiro. That was him, his tendencies influencing Haruto's own thoughts, nothing more. It was just because of everything that's been going on, he's been thinking more of what he would do in a situation. 

It was part of why he was reluctant to let Ichiro and Mara both be here. As much as he may have missed talking to them, they always brought issues when they were both present. It was always a bad omen, always meant he would come, too. Haruto didn't want that. Didn't want the bastard here, didnt want the bastard anywhere near Beatrice. 

No, no, no. That wasn't going to happen, not this time. He wasn't going to come here because there was nothing of worth to find in Pocklington. He'd left Haruto alone for months now, there was no reason to come and make things worse again. Haruto didn't need him to come here, either. He didn't need any saving, he didn't need any help. Things were going fine. Would go better as soon as the meister weapon duo left, but he could wait them out. He didnt need the snake to come. 

He was fine on his own. He didn't need anyone's help. He didnt want anyones help.

Breathing in deeply, Haruto felt a chill down his spine and glanced around. The streets were empty. No one wanted to be out this late, the bars and pubs were closed, no store was open, and families wanted to stay close to the children with the recent abduction. Not a soul in sight, and Haruto was sure that if he had the ability to perceive souls, he wouldn’t sense any either. His fingers twitched and tingled, itching to grab something, anything.

He adjusted his mask, frowned. Perhaps he should move to a gaiter? Mara had mentioned it being better suited for his condition, as had Ichiro. Less chance of it going askew and revealing the flesh he wanted so desperately to hide. He wouldn’t have to keep shifting it, adjusting it. Would Bea like it?.

He breathed deeply.

It was quiet.

He didn’t get the quiet too often. It was always broken by the people around him, by Ichiro butting in, by Mara appearing.

It was nice that it was quiet.

Pausing mid-step, Haruto glanced around just to be sure that neither Mara nor Ichiro had appeared. He could never be too sure, he could very well have just jinxed himself and lost his moment of silence. Thankfully, they were nowhere to be seen, no sight nor sound of either.

But, even if it wasn’t from them, his silence had been broken. Broken by the sound of drunken laughter further along his path.

Haruto scowled as he saw the pair of men loitering by the mouth of an alley, bottles of alcohol in hands. Obnoxious drunks, they were some of the worst types he dealt with at the bar, and he didn’t want to deal with them on the streets, either.

---

“That’s not right, either,” Maka muttered, hunched over a number of papers. On each paper was a different kanji, each one sharing a similar line or two, but ultimately different, with different meanings. “That one just means ‘dog’, that can’t be right.”

Soul frowned, sliding a new cup of coffee over to her, and then glanced to Elijah. “You sure there isn’t a better look at the tattoo on any of the other films?”

“No,” Elijah answered quickly, studying the different printed photos they had taken of the videos; ones of the SUV, of the men themselves, of the children. While Maka was trying to figure out what the tattoo they have was, he was trying to piece together license plates and other identifying features. “Would have given it to you if I had—fuck, this one is a different plate, too,” he grimaced, writing down the new set of numbers and letters. “Bastards sure have a lot of plates. Bet not a single one is listed under either of them. How’s your side coming along?”

Maka groaned, putting the pen down and pressing her head into the palms of her hands. “With just a partial look at the tattoos, there’s no way for me to figure out which kanji it is,” she complained. “I’ve tried combining the two to see if they’re the same on, but even then the words don’t make sense, I’ve done them separate—but at that point there’s too many possibilities to narrow down. I’m starting to think the tattoo being a gang symbol might not be right.”

Chuckling a little, Soul slid down into the chair beside Maka, looking through the papers. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone went and got some random kanji tattooed on them just because they thought it was cool. Just look at Hero.”

That got a small chuckle out of her, and the detective raised a brow, so Soul turned to him, still grinning just a bit. “A fellow meister from the DWMA. He likes to think he’s cool, so one day in our final year as students he went and got a tattoo, showed it off to the others saying it meant ‘Undying’, and how it represented who he was. Tsubaki—another friend of ours, had to explain to him that what he tattooed on his arm was ‘toilet’.”

Elijah grimaced and then shook his head. “I feel bad for him.”

“Don’t.”

Nodding to that, Elijah moved to get up from his chair, gathering his list of license plates, “I’m going to take this to our analysist, see if she can get a run on any of these plates. I want to find out who each plate is registered under and have a chat,” he said, and examined the meister-weapon pair. “Are you two going to stay here or are you going to call it a night?”

“I’m staying,” Maka said immediately, staring at the blurry photos of their two suspects. “I want to at least narrow down the possibilities before calling it quits for tonight.”

“Got it. Don’t stay up too late, I need you both back here in the morning with fresh eyes.” With that, the detective was out the door, his footsteps receding down the hall.

Soul frowned and picked up a photo, and then one of the kanji’s that Maka had written. ‘Cloud’ it said under it. He picked up another. ‘Joy’. Another; ‘Sorrow’. ‘Leaf’. ‘Spring’. ‘Moon’. ‘Dog’. ‘Paper’. ‘Stream’. ‘Flame’.  So many combinations, so many words, and yet not a single step closer. “You might go through every kanji you know before we get something,” he said out loud.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Maka said, gripping her pencil tight, so much so that Soul worried it might break. “I know I should give up, but I just—it’s a gut feeling, Soul. These tattoos mean something. They have to.”

“They could just mean nothing. Could be another Hero.”

She ducked her head, groaning as she spoke, “I hope it’s not. If it is, and if the plates come up with nothing, then we’re no closer to finding, and they get that much farther away.”

Frowning, Soul looked back to the papers. This was important to Maka, he understood that, he understood why. She was the smarter one out of the two of them when it came to book stuff and technical stuff like this, that’s why he had left this work to her, there was little Soul could have done to help, he didn’t know as much kanji as her. But, he wanted to help.

Looking at the photos of the two men, he stared at the tattoos, brows scrunched up. There had to be something, there just had to be.

They were only partial looks at the tattoos in all the photos they had. Corners of the kanji’s, incomplete characters obscured by clothes or by angle of the camera. But even then, there had to be something he could use, something that would help them.

Soul paused, furrowing his brows harder. “Hey, Maka,” he said, pushing the two photos two her. “Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way. What if the tattoos aren’t supposed to match?”

---

“Hey, kid, come ‘ere!”

Haruto ignored them, continued to walk past them. His head was kept down, his glare trained to the ground. Pretend they don’t exist. Pretend he doesn’t hear them. Pretend they aren’t there. Just keep walking. Just keep walking.

Just keep—

“I said come ‘ere!” one yelled, grabbing him by the shoulder and roughly pulling him back. Haruto had stumbled, his feet tripping against the pavement as he was thrown into the chest of the other man.

Both were much, much bigger than him, he realized quickly. Physically stronger as well, no doubt about that. Even so, Haruto didn’t shrivel up and cower—he glowered at the one who had grabbed him, the man with the buzzed haircut.

“Leave me alone,” he muttered, pushing himself away from the other man, brushing his shoulders off and making sure his bag was secured and still connected to him. He stared at the two unblinking, taking in their appearances, ever detail. He wanted to remember their faces, wanted to remember—ah?

They both had tattoos, vastly different yet essentially identical. Buzzcut had kanji inked on his bulging bicep, but the other? Similar it may seem to those who did not know the difference, it wasn’t kanji, wasn’t even Japanese. Chinese. Different cultures, different strokes, and yet—identical. Identical meanings, identical—

A rush of rage, of disgust—of hatred coursed through him. It was a bloodlust, so strong it made his head dizzy, made his mouth dry and his fingers start twitching, itching to grab the two, to dig his nails into tender flesh and tear, tear, tear and rip and—

Breathing in sharply, Haruto turned, moving to walk away. He needed to get away from them, now, had to get away, get home, back where it was safe, not be left alone with them, couldn’t be left alone with them.

One of them grabbed him by the arm and dragged Haruto back into their lonely corner on the street, gripping him tight enough to leave bruises on his skin.

“Come on, kid, we just wanna talk,” one of them laughed. “No need to walk off like a bloody prick.”

Haruto felt his scowl deepen, his heart was racing, the bloodlust not fading, only growing. “Fuck off.”

The buzz cut guy frowned, looked to his buddy, and then nodded back to Haruto. “This kids being pretty fucking rude. Don’t you think his attitude is just a little uncalled for?”

“Oh, it is.”

“I think we gotta teach you some manners.  Can’t have someone like you going around town thinking you can do as you please, now can we?” The man said, grabbing hold of Haruto.

Oh? They wanted to fight? That was great, just, fucking, great. Haruto tore his hand free, his glare growing harsher, his mood turning fouler. “Get lost, asshole,” he snapped, not in any mood to deal with guys like them. “I want nothin’ to do with you fuckers, just let me leave before I—”

Haruto was punched.

Right in the jaw. It was strong, sudden, he heard the crack and felt his neck pop as his head sharply turned in response. His cheek throbbed and it was nothing short a miracle none of his teeth had fallen out. Though, that hadn’t stopped him from stumbling, his mind dazed from the sudden strike.

When was the last time he had actually been hit?

Before Haruto could even recover from the first strike, he had been hit again—right in the kidneys. With a sharp gasp, Haruto doubled over, falling to his knees as pain coursed through him, his arms wrapped around his middle.

“Come on, Don,” one of them said, he couldn’t even tell who it was anymore. He was only able to really focus in on the large hands that had taken hold of him, dragging him into the cover of the alley—away from prying eyes of passing people.

What happened next was a flurry of punches. The two men took turns: One pinned him to the wall while the other continued to punch him. In the face, in the stomach, the chest,  the head, wherever he could reach, and then when his arms got tired, his knuckles sore, he would swap with the other and rest his own hands.

Haruto had spat up a glob of blood and possibly a tooth, could feel it smearing against his mouth and cheeks as his mask prevented it from going anywhere, soaking some up, but keeping the rest as a disgusting wet gloop against his face. He had nearly choked on the second one that came up.

His head was ringing, his vision was blurring. His body hurt, and he had figured out how punching bags felt when used.

There was no way to tell just how much time had passed during the beating. Long enough that he had a bruise on every inch of skin, perhaps not long enough for anyone to notice, or for anyone who would care to pass.

With each punch, Haruto gasped, he grunted, he let out wheezes of breaths, but he did not scream or cry, and he did not beg for them to stop. Perhaps that only served to anger them more, or perhaps they were so drunk that they didn’t even care. But Haruto cared. Even if he was being beaten, he still had his pride. That was not a thing he would surrender to them.

His mind was going numb, his vision beginning to darken, to fade.  His very conscious was fading away in the worst way possible by the time they had stopped hitting him, allowing him to slump over and begin sliding against the cold and damp brick wall.

Only vaguely was he aware of the sound of them talking as one nudged him with a shoe, vaguely aware of metal coming to life. Before he slipped away completely, he saw the gleam of moonlight reflecting on a knife.

“Well, well, well,” he had heard a cheery, chipper tone sing, so light and smooth and low. Taunting. Superior. Far away and close simultaneously, ringing in his head. "What an amazing show! I see you two are having a jolly good time, do you by chance have room for one more? I'd hate to miss out on such a good bit of fun."

 

Chapter 8

Notes:

TW: Body Mutilation.

It had happened rather suddenly.

Maka and Soul had still been at the precinct, going over the photos, bouncing ideas and theories off once another, exploring every avenue they could find to try and identify the two suspects in the kidnapping case. Specifically, the two had been in the middle of a heated debate over what the tattoos might mean, having realized that they were going at it wrong when assuming the tattoos were matching. Maka had thought the tattoos were simple kanji, but that had only been a part of it, she hadn’t considered that it might be more complicated than a generic matching gang markings.

They had been making progress. The table had been littered in papers, ideas put down in ink so not to be forgotten, possibilities to explore. Maka had felt that they were close to making a breakthrough—

And then Elijah had come into the room, looking furious, looking stressed, as if something bad had happened that needed their immediate attention. Perhaps another kidnapping, that had been Maka’s first thought when she saw the look in his eyes.

It hadn’t been another abduction. But, at the same time, something bad had happened.

A murder.

Maka found herself riding with Elijah to the mortuary, neither knowing what quite to expect yet, only to prepare themselves for the worse. Soul, on the other hand, was staying at the precinct to sit with the witness, see what information he could get.

It was a solemn ride. Dead and death were not things Maka was unfamiliar with—she was a meister, she followed the laws set by Death himself. And yet, that did not make the task of seeing the dead any easier. There was a difference, she liked to think, about dead humans, dead witches, and dead Kishin Eggs.

Seeing people dead made her angry, it made her want to seek justice for them, to find their killers and bring them down. Someone took their lives and they needed to be avenged, their killer couldn’t be allowed to walk free.

But when she and Elijah entered the morgue and saw the bodies, Maka found herself angry for a different reason.

“This puts a wrench in our plans,” Elijah said, crossing his arms as he stared at the victims faces. “When I planned on catching them I didn’t mean for it to be like this.”

Maka bit the nail of her thumb, feeling angrier the longer she looked at the corpses. “Please, please tell me they left something on them that’ll help us find the kids.” She could feel the headache forming, a throbbing ache in her temple. “Unless the dead start talking, this is the last thing we wanted.” Even with them dead, she couldn’t even send their souls to Lord Death in hopes he might be able to pry some information from them; she couldn’t sense their souls at all. Most likely, they had been devoured or naturally passed on to the next life.

Not that that did anything to help her mood.

With a frown on his face, Elijah looked over the file the coroner had given him, just skimming through the first page. “Doesn’t seem like it. If anything, this is going to take us back a few steps,” He said, his voice tense, but otherwise coming across unaffected. Was it from experience, that he was used to these kinds of hiccups? “The time of death is placed at around half-past two in the morning.”

“That was barely an hour ago.”

“Exactly. Which is good, bodies are still fresh, they’ll have the most evidence to accumulate once the coroners are done—they haven’t had the chance to do a full examination yet. What’s more, it means the killer is likely still in the area,” Elijah said, flipping to another page. “There’s a chance this was an inside job.”

An inside job?

Maka stared at their pale faces, taking in the bruises littering their cheeks, the broken noses, the dried blood, the dirt, at the obvious signs of a fight, a struggle. “It would make sense,” She conceded. “Someone else in the group could have caught on that these two were compromised, that we were onto them, searching for them, and to avoid the entire ring getting caught, killed them so as to stop us.”

“An effective way to get rid of a problem,” Elijah nodded his head, still not smiling, still keeping that firm frown on his face. “By the initial exam, it looks like they did everything they could to make it hard to identify the men, or to link them back to the main group.”

Maka tilted her head, looking from him to the bodies, “How so?” she asked. “Burned I.D.’s? missing fingerprints?”

“Mutilation.”

Whipping her head up to stare at Elijah, she had to pause to find her words. “I’m sorry, they did what?”

It wasn’t Elijah who answered, instead it was the coroner who came shuffling over to them, moving some tools about, not stopping her prep work even as she talked. “Numerous stab wounds were present on both bodies. Victim A had seventy, Victim B had fifty-six. Many wounds show signs of being inflicted post-death. Several toes and fingers were cut off, teeth pulled, remaining fingers were burned,” she listed, a tone of disgust in her voice. “The tattoos were cut off, too. You can look under the sheets to check, but I’d recommend against it. The rest of the bodies aren’t as pretty as the faces.”

Maka reached for the sheet despite the warning, her hand trembling. She had seen bodies before, it was commonplace in her line of work, but this one felt different. What she saw were victims killed by Kishin Eggs, and in those cases the Kishin Egg was so far gone all it wanted was the soul. The murders tended to become simple, not brutalized.

“It goes beyond overkill,” Maka said after a silence. “Beyond just killing someone to remove the weak link. This is rage.”

With a dry laugh, the coroner walked over to the bodies, snapping on a pair of surgical gloves. “If you think that’s bad, then I hope you haven’t eaten anything yet,” she said, reaching for the sheet of the closest one. “It goes beyond just that.”

She peeled back the sheet, allowing them to get a full view of the body.

As had been said, there were numerous stab wounds all over the body, no definitive sign of any aim, as if the attacker just kept jamming a knife into whatever piece of flesh they could get. A furious flurry of blows. Fingers were missing, a chunk of flesh torn from the arm, bruises and scrapes, blood all over. But, just as the coroner said, there was more to it.

“What the Hell?” Elijah asked, fumbling over his words, standing stiff, “What the Hell? Were they trying to cut the men open?”

Running a finger along the foot long gash on the chest, the coroner just shook her head. “Not just ‘trying’. Whoever did this succeeded. Cut through skin and muscles, shattered the sternums on both, as well as several ribs broken and moved,” she said, grimacing as she spoke. “Their hearts were removed.”

Maka spluttered, “I’m sorry, the what was removed?”

“The hearts. Not cleanly, either. The initial look has it that they might as well have been grabbed and yanked from the body, not cleanly cut.”

She stared at the bodies, wide-eyed. “Whoever killed them---that’s not a simple process,” she breathed. “You have to break past bones, cut through muscles. It takes time to do.”

“Meaning whoever did this must have felt confident enough about not being caught while out in the open, or just didn’t care if someone saw,” Elijah said, looking to Maka. “While this doesn’t disprove the idea of it being someone within the same ring, it does raise more questions than it answers. It just—Shit! Their hearts, and only the hearts were taken?” he asked.

“The only organ removed was the heart,” the coroner confirmed.

For the first time since they started, Elijah looked panicked, as if someone had pulled the rug from under him and sent him tumbling into an abyss. Was there some greater meaning behind a missing heart? “Were the hearts found? Or any of the parts cut off?”

“I’ll have the investigators on scene search the area, I haven’t heard from them yet on what they’ve found over there, and it’s unlikely they’ll disregard chunks of flesh,” Elijah was already fishing out his phone, “but I want them prepared for anything over there.”

Not only was her headache pounding, but now, after seeing and hearing what happened, Maka felt queasy. Her stomach churned; she felt the need to vomit. She tried not to visualize what the scene must have looked like upon first arrival.  

She felt sick, but also angry.

These two had been their only leads on finding the missing kids—and now they were dead! They may as well go back to square one after this if nothing useful can be found from the witness or bodies.

“Here’s hoping Soul have better luck with the witness,” she muttered, tearing her eyes away from the bodies. “I… I’m going to get some air.”

But Elijah was already making his way to the door. “You can get some air in the car, we’re not done,” he said, an urgency in his voice, a tenseness. “We need to go, now. Doc: call me when you finish the full exam the moment it’s done, got it?”

---

Heather Cawfield was a beautiful woman in her thirties. She worked as an accountant for a local business, was on good terms with most of the community, and generally known as a fairly upright person. She did her taxes, she obeyed traffic laws, and was a very charitable soul. She wasn’t the kind to go out and party or drink late into the night, maybe have a glass or two early, but never enough to become intoxicated.

It was fairly safe to say that Ms. Cawfield wasn’t the type of woman to get in trouble.

And yet, there she was, in the police station, shaking and pale as a ghost from the trouble she found.

“Hello, Ms. Cawfield,” Soul greeted politely as he pulled out a chair and took a seat across from her at the table. “I’m Soul from the DWMA, I’m helping the police with the recent cases, I just want to ask you a few questions if that’s okay.”

“About the murder, right?” she asked, her voice weak

Heather shrunk back, hugging herself tightly, still trembling terribly. “I was just trying to get home, sir. I had missed the last bus, so I was walking home. It was late—I was tired and I just wanted to sleep, and then—” she cut herself off with a whimper that broke into a dry sob.

She was a normal person, Soul thought. It was no wonder she would react so badly when seeing the crime scene, it had to have been beyond traumatizing for her. He reached out across the table to place his hand on her shoulder. “You did nothing wrong, miss,” he assured her in his softest voice. “I promise you we’ll get through this quick and I will have an officer take you home. Is that okay?”

Heather nodded her head.

“Good, okay.” Soul settled back into his seat, looked at the first page of the rather small file he had been given. “What can you tell me about what you saw tonight?”

There was another pause as Heather whimpered, and Soul waited patiently, not wanting to push her, not wanting to rush her. He understood that this was difficult for her, he had to be patient—he was going to be patient.

“I didn’t see them at first—I just saw the blood, a lot of blood. I… I was curious…what could have caused this? So, I went in to look and then I…” she cut herself off once again, hitching her breath in a dry sob. “I stepped on it.”

“What did you step on?”

She shivered, tears were in the corners of her eyes, “A finger,” she answered. “Someone had cut his finger off and thrown it aside.”

Even Soul blanched a little at that, but he quickly jotted what she said down as a note. No doubt Maka and Elijah already knew about severed fingers from visiting the bodies, but it didn’t hurt. “Do you think this was right after the murders?”

“It had to be, if not, just shortly after, they were, they were—” her breath hitched and she began shaking even more.

She was going into a panic attack, if she did, then Soul wasn’t going to be able to question her, to glean any information out of her. He had to change this topic before things went bad.

Rising from his seat, Soul reached out to her, “It’s okay, it’s okay. You don’t need to talk about what you saw in the alley; we can do that later. Let’s talk about something else, okay?” he asked, waiting for her to calm back down. It took a few moments, but she did. “You said you saw the killer, right? What can you tell me about them? Anything at all will help us to catch him.”

“Right… right… okay. I can do this,” Heather whispered, shivering. Soul had half a mind to offer her his jacket, but didn’t, knowing that she wasn’t shivering because she was cold.

“He…he was young, thin…a little shorter than you,” she said after a prolonged silence. “I saw him coming out of the alley, he was—he was swaying, looked like he was trying to do a one-man waltz, but kept stumbling and swaying—kind of like if he was drunk,” Heather recalled, fingers tapping nervously on the tables surface.

Soul wrote that down, “Do you think he was drunk?”

“Maybe? No? I don’t know,” she said quickly, fearfully.

“That’s okay, that’s okay,” he held up a hand in a sign of peace, trying to assure her. “What else did you notice about him? Anything that stood out?”

She looked down, “He was covered in blood. Like—a lot of blood. His clothes were a mess, he was limping. I thought someone mugged him, so I was going to try and talk to him, see if he was okay, you know? See if he needed me to call anyone to pick him up.”

“And that’s when you noticed the alley?”

Heather nodded her head once more. “There was so much blood, so much—”

“You don’t need to talk about what was in there,” Soul reminded her.

Earning another nod, Heather swallowed, taking a drink from her paper water cup. “I… I screamed. I was terrified and I screamed and he—he noticed me. He looked right at me,” she hiccupped, letting out a dry sob. “He saw me, he could have come after me—he can still come after me.”

“No one is going to come after you, we’ll have an officer on standby at your residence if that will make you feel safer,” Soul interrupted, trying hard to remain patient and understanding. “He noticed you, but he didn’t do anything to you, so what is it that he did?”

There it was again, that frustratingly annoying long silence. He hadn’t considered himself the type to hate silence before, but now, with how many times his witness had gone silent in this interview, well, he’d found himself wishing that she were the type who responded to trauma by being extra chatty.

After an agonizing pause Heather spoke once more. “He ran.”

“He ran,” Soul repeated, arching a brow.

She nodded, “There was a wild look in his eyes when he saw me, like a feral animal that got cornered, he looked like he was going to charge at me—the knife was still in his hand—but then he turned and took off, he dropped the knife and took off running down the street.”

Well, that was something. This guy was capable of taking down two men who were both bigger and likely physically stronger, but Heather, who would have been physically much weaker than the other two, he fled from. She saw his face, could identify him, and yet instead of silencing her, covering up his tracks, he fled.

It just raised more questions about the whole thing.

“His face,” Soul found himself asking. “What do you remember about it? Would you be able to describe him to a sketch artist?”

“No, that… that wouldn’t be possible.”

Oh? Soul leaned back at her response, keeping his face as neutral as he could over this whole ordeal. “Not possible? Did you not get a clear enough look at his face? It doesn’t need to be perfect, just enough for us to narrow down a suspect pool.”

“It’s not that,” Heather shook her head, her fingers once again tapping anxiously against the table. “I could see his face, but at the same time I couldn’t—there was, he was wearing a mask, it covered up everything below his eyes.”

A…mask?

Soul felt the gnawing sensation of worry, that feeling that something was going terribly wrong. “What kind of mask was it?” he asked, not that he felt he needed to. But, no, he had to make sure.

“It was black… not one of the paper ones, a washable one.”

“And his hair, was it kind of on the longer side? Say…reached around here?” Soul raised his hands and gestured to just above his shoulders, “A bit on the messy side?

By now, Heather didn’t seem as nervous, she looked confused, “Yeah… that’s right, actually. It was dark, and with the lighting I couldn’t tell if it was black or just a dark brown, but it was around that length.”

“And you said he was shorter than me, was he thinner?”

“He did look rather thin,” she shook her head and stared Soul in the eyes, “Do you know who this is?”

By this point, Soul was already rising from the table. “I think I got a pretty good idea of just who you saw at the alley. Thank you for your time, Ms. Cawfield. I’ll have an officer take you home, and they can stay with you until morning if that makes you feel safe,” he held out a hand to shake hers. “We’re going to catch him, I promise you.”

Once they shook hands, Soul was out of the room. He hailed down the nearest officer and told them what to do, sending them in the room with Heather, and then kept walking. He tried to call Maka, but there wasn’t any answer; either her phone was dead or she was busy. He didn’t even have Elijah’s number, so there wasn’t any point there.

Not that it mattered, Soul was confident he could handle what’s next on his own.

This whole thing was leaving a sour taste in the weapon’s mouth. Confident or not about his own abilities, he found himself just not wanting to believe the guy had it in him to kill those two. Granted, Soul knew he didn’t know much about the kid, but the idea that he’d go and murder people, it just felt wrong.

Something was off about this, and he wanted to figure that out. But, there were more pressing issues at hand. If he wasn’t the culprit, he was a viable witness, and Soul wanted to have him in the station as soon as physically possible.

“You,” Soul said when he entered a room full of computers and techies, pointing to an older woman at a computer. “I need you to find me everything there is on a Haruto Arakawa. I want his number, his address, and where he lived before coming here, places of employment. Every possible thing.”

The woman looked startled by Souls sudden order, but it didn’t take much more than a sharp look for her to face her screen and start typing away. “Just to be sure,” she said carefully. “Arakawa, is one word?”

“Yes, one word. And I don’t care if I’m in the middle of a bathroom break—as soon as you find anything, I need to know,” Soul turned to another techie. “I need you to get ahold of the men at the crime scene right now, I need to talk to them.”

---

“Where are we?” Maka asked as Elijah brought the car to stop in front of a small townhouse. “And what are we doing here?”

Since leaving the coroners office, Elijah hadn’t said a word, but Maka hadn’t needed to be able to see his soul to feel the anxiety that rolled off of him. It went beyond just the two murders, she could tell that much, but he hadn’t given her anything else to go by.

“My house,” Elijah said simply, turning the car off and getting out. “I’ve files here that we’re going to need. God if I ever expected to need the bloody things for a Pocklington case,” he added that last bit under his breath in a hiss.

Maka followed, curious and confused as he unlocked the door and held it open for her.

The house itself was spacious, not in the sense that it was large, but by there not being too much clutter or large furniture taking up space. The entryway had a simple coatrack along the wall, and a little wire basket to place shoes in so as to not track dirt into the house.

“Don’t bother taking them off,” Elijah said when he saw her looking at it, already heading further into the house, flipping on light switches as he went.

Past the entryway, the kitchen, dining room, and living room merged together in an ‘L’ shape. There were few decorations, a few family photos, a couple of potted plants—fake potted plants at that. He led her up the stairs to the second floor, not saying much.

All in all, the house seemed nice. It was clean, it was organized. It was clear that Elijah did spend a good amount of time keeping his house in a nice state even with his busy work schedule, it was something Maka could admired and respect. She couldn’t stand messy work areas, how was someone to find what they needed when there was no order to anything.

Though, she couldn’t quite keep that opinion standing when Elijah led her into his personal office space.

There were boxes upon boxes full of what appeared to be files. So many so that it was cramped, almost claustrophobic. Even on his desk, there were numerous open cases left there from when he was home last. There was no discernable order or reason to where everything was placed. Oh, it was just too easy to imagine Kid’s mental breakdown if he were to enter this room.

“It’s in here somewhere,” Elijah muttered as he began looking at the different boxes, at the case names and numbers written on them with a black sharpie. “Where is it… where is it… Ah, here we go.”

With that, as if he were a master Jenga player, Elijah pulled a box from a tower and managed not to have the boxes atop to fall over. They, instead, landed on the bottom box with a heavy thud, swaying dangerously over, before settling in. Maka hadn’t even realized she had been holding her breath when she saw it.

“This is what we needed,” Elijah said as he held the old looking box up.

Maka peered at it, the ink on the box that labeled it had become illegible after the years, just smears of ink over the cardboard. “What is it? And what has it to do with our current case?” she asked.

Bringing the box over to his desk, and shoving the other files aside, Elijah opened the lid and started taking the pages out. “It’s a case file I’ve been working on since my days in London,” he answered. “My last actual case before I got transferred here five years ago. Probably the reason I got transferred. Technically, I’m not on that case anymore, it was ‘officially’ closed by the London police.”

“You’re going to have to slow down there, because there’s a lot of information you’re omitting there,” Maka said, raising a hand up to stop him. “You used to live in London, this case caused you to get transferred, and somehow this is all connected to our current case?”

“Right, right,” he didn’t seem apologetic at all. “I grew up in London, that’s where I served my first few years on the force at. About five years ago we had a string of murder cases. It was my first big case, and it was a brutal one. People on the streets likened it to a modern day Jack the Ripper.”

Maka grimaced at the name, remembering a Kishin Egg she and Soul had hunted back when they were younger that went by the same moniker.

“Not that it was too far off. The Ripper would cut throats and then brutally disembowel and mutilate his victims, our suspect showed the same degree of brutality to his victims as well,” Elijah began handing Maka files. Newspaper clippings of the cases, articles and interviews, copies of the original file that Elijah most certainly did not legally obtain. “There was no connection between victims, no discernable victimology, it was as if he was just picking his victims at random.”

Maka felt a wave of nausea hit her as she saw a photo of one of the victims. An older man who had been mutilated to the point he was almost unrecognizable. Face burned, gashes all over, missing fingers, numerous stab wounds. “You said the case was closed, doesn’t that mean you found the culprit?”

To that, Elijah scowled, his grip on the current papers tightening. “We had a suspect. A known druggie. He had a history of violence—was dealing with untreated schizophrenia and the delusions and hallucinations would cause him to lash out. The chief had us go after him, and when he went into another episode, they shot him down,” Elijah explained, his voice tense, angry. “Our only suspect was dead and the murders stopped, so people just believed that the guy really was the killer.”

“I take it you didn’t believe that was the case?”

Elijah shook his head, “No. I’d known the guy, got in a few scuffs with him before. He was a big guy, pretty strong, too. The knife wounds on all the victims? They were somewhat shallow, showed signs that the killer either wasn’t using his full strength, or he wasn’t physically strong enough to push the knife all the way in through the muscles and past the bones. Plus, the wounds were far more…organized. Our suspect lacked the ability to be organized in any way, there was a method behind the mutilations, and our guy wouldn’t have been able to be as meticulous about it.”

“That’s a pretty important detail,” Maka said, finding another photo of a discarded knife. “Were there any fingerprints linking your suspect to the murders?”

“There weren’t any fingerprints besides the victims anywhere,” Elijah answered. “Likely wore gloves. The fact of the matter was that the guy was an easy target and the higher ups wanted to pin the blame on someone and call it quits, wanted to move on to something else.”

Maka looked from the file to him, “You didn’t.”

To that, Elijah grimaced again, looking away, “I had too many doubts to just let it slide, so I kept an eye on it. I never had anything concrete, I couldn’t find any new information. But I kept analyzing what evidence I had, looking for that one thing to change everything.”

“You still haven’t told me what this has to do with our current case,” Maka pointed out, putting the clippings down to pick up a general summary of the case. Five dead. Different genders, age-range, ethnicity, orientation, religions, and economic status. He was right, it seemed the murders were pretty random when it came to targets.

For a moment, Elijah said nothing, just fingered through the different files still in the box, brows furrowed, searching for something in particular. Maka waited in patient silence as she continued to read through the papers she was given.

Then, a stack of photos were given to her. “It’s because of this,” Elijah said, his face serious, dangerous. Maka took the photos, and as she began flipping through them, her face growing pale, the detective continued to talk. “In every victim, the heart was removed, and was the only thing on the victim never found.”

The photos were grizzly. Men and women laying on autopsy beds, their chests carved open and the chest cavity void of that crucial organ.

“It’s messier than the two we have,” Maka pointed out, her voice quiet, her words slow. “Bloodier.”

“The guy has had five years to practice,” Elijah reminded. “Half a decade to hone the craft, little wonder if he’s gotten better at cutting people open.”

Putting the photos down, Maka turned to face the detective, her expression hard, her resolve strengthened, “If your theories are right and the same guy is responsible for both these murders, then it’s pretty clear we have a serial killer on our hands,” she warned. “And if their deaths was done by the ring, that this group possibly has a serial killer working with them.”

Elijah sighed, ran a hand through his hair, pulling his ponytail out and letting the strands go free. “It’s not a pretty picture,” He confessed. “But, better to expect the worse out of this. For now? How about you give me a hand on these files. A fresh pair of eyes looking at them might be what we need to find a link.”

---

Almost an hour had passed and they weren’t making much ground on any of the avenues Soul sent them on.

“What do you mean you’ve got nothing?” he asked, his temper flaring as he stared at the analyst. “You’ve got to have something. A licenses, an I.D., something!”

The woman shook her head, “I’ve searched all over, there’s no one under that name showing up anywhere,” she explained, typing away, still searching. “Either he’s not in the systems, which while possible, is very unlikely, or he gave you a fake name when you met.”

Soul wanted to tug his hair out. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. But, he hadn’t expected there to not be a single thing about Haruto in any databases. It was possible that Haruto had a different legal surname than what he used with Soul. It wasn’t too uncommon to use one parent’s surname for legal documents, and another’s for everything else. That could be the case here. He should have taken that into account.

“Is there anything we can do to find where he is?” He asked, though it felt like a demand. He was running out of patience; they were running out of time.

Someone else approached him, “I called his places of work,” he said, “I was able to get in contact with the employers, and after explaining that it was an emergency that needed immediate compliance, I was able to get some information.”

Soul tapped his foot impatiently, “And?” he asked.

The guy, though older and taller, shrunk back. “There is no record of a ‘Haruto Arakawa’ in their employment. However, the café has a ‘Haruto Suda’ and the bar has a ‘Haruko Furukawa’.”

More fake names. Similar enough that if someone from one establishment called him by one name in front of coworkers of the other, he could brush the name off as a nickname, or some other lie to evade suspicion.

“Are we certain these are the same people?” Soul asked. It was most likely that they were, but there was always the slim chance—he wanted to be absolutely certain before going on the hunt.

The man nodded, “Yes. The names are different, but the addresses are the same,” he said, taking the paper he had and holding it out to Soul. “I looked up the apartment, it’s rented out to a ‘Sota Kimura’.”

Another fake name.

“He’s using a different name for everything. He knows what he’s doing, probably been at this for a while.” Had ‘Haruto Arakawa’ just been a name he made up on the spot when they met? Was it his real name? Soul had so many questions he wanted to ask. But he needed to find him first to ask them.

“If Maka or Detective Cain get back before I do, tell them I’m heading to his apartment, I’m taking one of the cops with me, too,” Soul said quickly, reading the address and making his way out of the room. “I’m going to grab him and bring him back to the station.”

“Sir?” the woman he had been talking with originally called out. “I don’t—I don’t think that’s safe!”

He gave her his grin, full of sharp teeth and cockiness. “We’ll be fine. Don’t forget you’re dealing with a DWMA weapon,” he reminded them and with that he was out the door.

It didn’t take long after that to find an officer to go with him to the apartment.

All Soul had to do was grab the first one he saw that wasn’t doing anything important, not stop walking as he did so, and quickly explain the plan while dragging said officer along. He didn't have the time to stop and go through a screening process for a temporary partner. He needed someone to go with him to watch his back, and he took the first person he found. Lucky for him, she was eager to go along, both ready and willing to help catch a possible murderer, and soon enough, they were on the road heading to his apartment.

“It’s not that far from the town center,” Soul said as they pulled to a stop in front of the building. It wasn’t anything fancy, rather it was one of the lower-priced apartments. Four floors, and a good amount of rooms on each floor. “Close enough to work to walk if needed, far enough that a bus wouldn’t be strange, either.”

“It’s a good location,” the officer, Watson he had learned on the drive, agreed. “Discrete, too. Not too many people around here are going to care if you come home bleeding, they’ll just assume you got in a fight and lost”

Getting out of the car, Soul watched her put the keys in her pocket before making her way to the apartments entrance. They had taken her personal car so as to not immediately draw attention to themselves with a police cruiser, and Soul wondered if he should have had her change into civilian clothes, too. No, no, that would have taken time, and they didn’t have much to spare.

Soul was quick as he went through the doors and marched up the stairs. “He has a sister, younger, so be careful. We don’t want to involve her, and we don’t want her put in danger,” he added as they climbed the steps.

“Let’s hope he doesn’t use her as a hostage,” the officer said.

Shaking his head, Soul said nothing. From what brief encounter he had with Haruto, he found it hard to believe the guy would use his sister like that, but he didn’t say it. “Just focus on apprehending Haruto, don’t shoot him. We want him alive, there’s still not concrete proof he killed anyone.”

“No concrete proof?” Watson repeated with a laugh, “We’ve a witness who saw him leaving the scene with the weapon, I’d say that’s concrete enough.”

Again, Soul had nothing to say to that.

They reached the door and immediately Soul saw the bloody handprint on the doorknob. It was as much a sign as any that they were at the right place. After looking around to make sure the coast was clear, listening the door and hearing nothing but silence, Soul nodded to her.

Watson knelt down, pulling a set of lockpicks from her bag and got to work while Soul stood guard. They didn’t know what to expect, he didn’t know what to expect.

Personally, he wanted Maka here, it didn’t feel right to do this without her at his side, it felt wrong. They were a team, they were partners, they were a unit. They worked together, fought together, they were stronger together than when they were apart, that was just a fact of life. Soul could fight, he had no doubts about that, but Maka was the strong one, she was the one who could kick ass better than anyone here. Maka was the one who made him dangerous.

But he couldn’t just sit and wait for her to answer, for her to arrive. He couldn’t just sit back and let time tick on and do nothing.

Time wasted waiting was time others could use to cover up their tracks.

“There, we’re in,” Watson whispered, breaking him from his thoughts. “We’re good to go, are you ready?”

The door was unlocked. Soul nodded to Watson, who was gathering her tools and standing back up. Slowly, he pushed the door open, tense, ready for anything.

What he saw in the darkness of the entryway was blood. More blood. Handprints on the walls, globs on the floor, a mask and hoodie both covered in blood. As if he stumbled in and began discarding the blood soaked clothes right there.

Soul nodded to Watson. “Watch the door. We don’t know if he’s home, I need you out here in case he comes back,” he whispered. He had faith that he could handle himself if he found Haruto and it came to a fight, he was a weapon. But, he couldn’t afford to have Haruto sneak out while they were both investigating the apartment, he needed to make sure the entrance was watched.

“Give a yell and I’ll be right over,” she promised, stepping out of the apartment.

Soul gave her a smile, “I’m counting on you.” And with that, he dived in.

The apartment was quiet, too quiet for how late at night it was. It was suspicious. With how much had happened, shouldn’t there be more noise? Perhaps they were asleep?

Or had Haruto already fled? He could have taken his sister and dipped town as soon as he cleaned up, he might not even be here anymore. It would make sense, though. If Soul were under suspicion for murder, he wouldn’t stay in town to get caught.

Following the trail of blood, Soul kept his eyes peeled. Just because he didn’t hear anything didn’t mean no one was home. If only he could sense souls like Maka, that’d make it easier.

Even so, he was quiet as he walked, ears perked for any noise, any sound at all.

So far, the apartment was weirdly empty. Had it always been this way? He couldn’t have had enough time to pack everything and leave, and yet there was nothing. All there was that he could see was the very bare minimum, even less than that, to be considered a home.

And then, he was out of the narrow entryway and into the apartments living area.

“Oh… holy shit,” Soul whispered. Even in the dark apartment, he could see the photos.

Dozens upon dozens of photos were tapped to the walls of the apartments living room, so many so that barely any of the actual wall could be seen under them. There were even some taped to the ceiling. It was all the room had, save for a couple of seating cushions and a coffee table.

He drew closer to the wall to get a better look, his eyes strained in the dark. Taking the risk, Soul withdrew his phone from his pocket and turned on the flashlight. Instantly, he could see the faces in the photos. The same face in every single photo.

Amanda Lewis.

“Shit… shit, shit, shit,” Soul hissed.

Each and every photo was of Amanda. Candid shots, ones she clearly never even knew were being taken. He recognized the places. Photos of her in front of the school, photos of her sitting by the window during classes. Photos of her at the local arcade, entering shops, walking the streets. There were photos of her at the canal riverbed, at the bridge. There were even photos of her in front of her own house.

Soul continued looking, feeling disgusted. He hadn’t even considered Haruto to be involved in Amanda’s kidnapping, had no reason to be, but it was painfully clear that he had been stalking her, for a good long while as the changing seasons in the photos showed.

And then, the photos began to change. While the bulk of them were of Amanda as she was twelve, perhaps even eleven, he started to notice changes in others. The setting became the same, over and over again being inside rather than outside.

They were taken within the apartment. She was looking at the camera in them, she was aware of the photographer, of Haruto, smiling—genuine? He couldn’t tell. It could be forced. She was getting older, the photos becoming less frequent. The older ones, she was covered in bruises and bandages, clear signs of injury, and yet the photos taken within the apartment, there were fewer and fewer injuries until there were none left at all.

At least, Soul thought, he could assume she wasn’t being harmed. But that didn’t make this okay, no, it didn’t make this okay at all!

“This is messed up,” Soul whispered, taking a step back, still starting at the walls. “This is so, so messed up,” and then there was the one, the one photo that wasn’t just Amanda.

It was taken right where Soul was standing, the photo-covered wall right behind them. Haruto sat on the floor, his hair a brownish-sort of blonde, looking a little younger, a little softer. He still had the bags under his eyes, still wore a mask. There, seated in his lap was Amanda. She was twelve, still pretty battered, but she was smiling, there was a little twinkle in her eyes. She was the one taking the photo. He couldn’t see the camera, but he saw her hold her hand out in that way when you took a selfie.

This could be proof. The apartment isn’t under Haruto’s name, but this photo was proof that he was involved.

“My lil’ sister,” Haruto snapped, glaring at Soul with a burning hate. “Who is probably fuckin’ starvin’ right now cause yer wastin’ all my time.”

He had a little sister. Haruto never did tell Soul how old she was, but he had a little sister.

“How long have you been living here?”

Again with that hateful glare. “Don’t know why it’s any of yer business,” he growled out. “Probably around three an’ a half years.”

Right before the kidnappings had begun. Just standing there, Soul was piecing together their conversation, taking every little thing Haruto had said, making the connections that he hadn’t realized.

There had been that remorselessness when they departed, that cold look in his eyes, but full of resolve, an absolute certainty as though it were a law set by the Gods.

“I’ll kill anyone who fuckin’ tries.”

Soul felt his breath hitch in his throat. The signs had been there, but he hadn’t had a reason to pursue them. The guy came off as odd, something about him felt wrong, but there had never been a valid reason to truly pursue any suspicion.

The photos, his statement that day, the witness—it was undeniable that Haruto was involved.

“I need to call Maka. I need to get the others in here,” Soul said, swiping his thumb across the screen of his phone. “Shit, shit, we need to—”

He had been too distracted to hear the gentle creak of a door opening, too focused on the photos, on his conversation with Haruto. Too focused on what was in front of him that he didn’t realize what was behind until it was too late.

It was the faint reflection on his phones screen.

Soul turned around, too slow. The only thing he could see was a pair of green eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness, and then his world went black.

Chapter 9

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Haruto hissed, leaning against the wall.

Everything had happened so fast. They had hid when they saw Soul from the window, and when he entered the apartment— now he was on the floor, the white of his hair turning red from the blood. The bat discarded on the ground beside him. There were ropes around his wrists and ankles, a fat lot of good it would do when the weapon eventually wakes up.

The officer had come in soon after, kicking the door open and yelling, having likely heard the commotion. Haruto had stood helpless as Ichiro lunged at her, dislocating her wrist with a sharp twist that forced her to drop the taser, smashing her head against the wall hard enough there was a smear of blood left behind. Hard enough that it had knocked her out as well.  She too got tied up.

It had been a blur, Haruto felt like he had been fading in and out of conscious during the whole experience, as though he was there, but not, like he was watching a movie but could not stop it. he could not even say how much time all of that took, how fast Ichiro incapicated the two, if it was fast at all.

Haruto brought a hand to his mouth and bit down hard on his thumb in a desperate attempt to bring some calm. It didn’t work.

“Fuck!”

They had knocked out a DWMA agent, they had attacked a fucking cop! This was bad. This was so fucking bad! Haruto was gasping as he bit harder into his hand, tasting the coppery tang of his own blood on his tongue.

Mara was upon Ichiro, fury in her eyes as she jammed a finger into his chest. “Are you out of your mind? You’re supposed to be smart! But even a boulder would be smarter than you right now!” she screamed, and though she was small in stature, in that moment she seemed to tower over him. “Do you even realize that you may have made everything worse?”

Ichiro wasn’t smiling, he wasn’t laughing. His expression was cold as he looked to her and then looked to Soul. “Does it matter? Regardless of what I did, that thing and the officer would have taken Haruto away,” he answered, wiping blood off his hands with a rag. “He already saw the photos, he’s no fool, he would have realized who our dear sister is. Add that in with what happened to those thugs? My dear, like it or not, I’m protecting him by getting rid of these threats.”

Dragging his hand from his mouth and running it through his hair, Haruto turned on his brother. “Those thugs—those douchebags—I-I didn’t. That wasn’t me,” he said, his words breaking in his panic. “I didn’t fuckin’ kill em! I sure as hell didn’t ask for that psycho to just up an’ murder them for me, either!”

“We know you didn’t, but do you think the police care if you claim innocent?” Ichiro asked. “Do you think the DWMA cares? They’ll decide you’re guilty and lock you up—if they don’t kill you and take your soul instead. And don’t even think you can argue your way in court; there was a witness! Or did you forget about the screaming woman as I dragged you out of the alley?”

“Fuck!” Haruto whirled around, still pacing. Ichiro was right. There was a witness, she saw him, not the psycho who did the deed. That’s all that mattered.

He felt like he couldn’t breathe, his body felt hot, sweaty, he was freaking out. This wasn’t something he planned for. He just wanted  to live life unnoticed, and now he was going to be a blimp on every fucking radar out there! This was so fucked up.

Bare feet padded across the floor and soon Beatrice was at his side, tugging him on the arm. “What are we going to do now?” she asked him

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Haruto quickly dropped to his knees, taking hold of her by the shoulders, partly to try and comfort her, partly to calm himself. “I don’t know, Bea. I…I’m still tryin’ to figure that out. But, I know we can’t stay here,” he was trying so hard to keep his voice level, he only half-succeeded. “We can’t stay here. So… so grab a bag, pack everything that ya think’s important. We gotta… we’re gonna to leave, that much I know for sure.”

She hesitated, not wanting to let him go. Then, slowly, Beatrice nodded. “Okay…” and she let go.

He watched her leave his side, heading to grab some trash bags to bag what things they could take with them, to pack what would be necessary.

Who knew how much time they’d have to do that, though? Ichiro had hit Soul pretty hard with the bat, but he wasn’t dead. He might wake up in an hour, might wake up in a minute, there was no way to tell. Plus, he had a partner who could sense souls. Did she know that he was coming to them, was she keeping an eye on their souls to see where they went?

There were too many variables and it scared him. It terrified him.

“Caleb! Why, we could give Caleb a call!” Ichiro said suddenly, smiling so happily it was easy to forget he just attempted to kill someone. “He can easily get us out of this city—out of this country, even! He can send us straight to Rosie’s, they’ll never be able to find us then! We’d be gone before anyone even knew it.”

Haruto scowled, “Are you fuckin’ mad? That’s a surefire way to get the chick comin at us, and you know Caleb won’t do shit when there’s a meister in town!” he snapped. “Bein’ suspected fer murder’s one thing, but they find out we’re chillin’ with sorcerers, we’ll be at the guillotine in no time!”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Ichiro walked closer to him, not even caring that he stepped on Soul in the process. “What do you propose then? We’ve not many options when it comes to travel.”

Mara frowned, gliding across the floor until she was bumping her shoulder against Haruto. “He has a point. There won’t be any busses this late at night, and we’d have to go to another town to use the trains,” she pointed out. “We certainly can’t just walk the distance, they’d catch us for sure. Our options are limited.”

Haruto growled, shoving past her as he started tearing down photos off the wall. “I know!” he yelled, not caring if he disturbed the neighbors. “We’re fucked, we’re screwed! I get it!” he hiccuped, smacking his head against the wall, against the photos. It was overwhelming. His anxiety, the fear, the terror, he felt like he was drowning, like he couldn’t breathe, his lungs shutting down. His fingers twitched and trembled, his head throbbing. He felt like he was going to be sick.

He hadn’t felt this emotionally overwhelmed in a long time, not since he had been a little boy.

Haruto hated this feeling.

It felt like every choice he made was just going to screw them over somehow. Caleb? As soon as he removed his soul protect, Maka would be here with the entire police unit like a vulture to carrion. Didn’t matter if they weren’t there anymore, they’d have all the more reason to hunt them, and that’d guarantee more DWMA brats would be on the lookout for him.

If they walked, well, there was only so far they could go on foot. Haruto could walk the entire distance from Pocklington to London if he needed without complaint, he’d done longer distances with less than the bare minimum of supplies. But Beatrice? He couldn’t subject her to that, not even for as dire a situation as theirs was.

And where even would they go? He was no doubt a murder suspect, and now they had proof of child abduction. Rosie’s would be the safest, but would he even be able to make it there before getting caught?

“We could steal a car.”

Haruto stopped and turned, staring at Ichiro as though his brother grew a second head. “The fuck are ya getting at?” he asked, slowly, unsure if he had heard the man right.

Ichiro nodded to the cop they still had tied up. “These two got her in a car. We can steal the car, get some distance between us and this town before they even know what’s going on,” he said. “We can ditch the car once we’re far enough away to steal another, then hop on a train. So long as we keep moving, they’ll lose our scent.”

“They don’t know you, they don’t know who you’re associates are, where you’re from, where you’ve been,” Mara added thoughtfully. “They won’t know where you might go. That gives you an advantage.”

Haruto grabbed his head. “Now we’re addin’ theft to the list? Are ya out of your mind?”

“Well, compared to what we’ll be charged for if they find us? Theft isn’t so bad.”

Breathing in deeply, Haruto stared at the two. Then, without a word he marched to the cop and knelt in front of her. Someone might have felt bad, or embarrassed to be rummaging around a woman’s clothes, sticking their hands in her pockets and such, but right now Haruto really didn’t give a shit about what was okay or not.

He found her car keys in the back pocket. Then, after brief consideration, took her can of mace and taser.

“Now we’re talking,” Ichiro grinned as he saw Haruto stuff the mace in his pocket.

He ignored his brother, instead fishing for a fresh mask to put over his face. “Bea,” he called out. “We’re leaving, now.”

Chapter 10

Maka’s phone had died a while back without her noticing, and when she had, a considerable amount of time had already passed. She had left it to the side to charge, borrowing one of Elijah’s chargers as the two of them focused on working through the files.

They had made quite a bit of progress in what time had passed.

“So, Arnold Pierce was the first confirmed victim,” Maka said, pointing to the photo of the middle-aged man on the board. “He’s a white male, single, and upper class. Worked for the fashion industry. He was last seen at a gala, correct?”

Elijah grunted, “Witnesses saw him having a pretty fierce argument with a woman there, she threw her wine on him and left. Pierce left shortly after to change clothes but didn’t come back. He was found dead five hours later in an alley,” he finished and tapped a finger against the second photo. “Three days later was Susan Fairchild, no connection to Arnold Pierce.” She had  been in her late twenties, married, middle-class. Unlike Arnold who was white, she was black. She owned a herbal remedy shop and only took all-natural medicine and ointments. If it had a chemical in it, she refused to use it. They found her dead in her own store the next morning.

“Had the same torture markings, M.E.’s found traces of heroin in her system, but with no prior drug history it was suspected to have been used to subdue her.”

Pursing her lips, Maka looked the image. “And no relation to the third victim, Todd Davies,” Forties, worked for a roofing company for the last twenty years, a long list of fines and charges for sexual harassment against women. She paused, grimacing at the thought, “He was found a week later in a condemned building on the other side of the city. Unlikely he would have crossed paths with either Pierce of Fairchild. Different social circles, worked and lived in areas too far apart from one another.”

Elijah flipped through some papers, sitting on the table. “Last victim was James Williams.” Eighteen, worked as a lifeguard while attending college. No history of having run-ins with the law. Only similarity he has with the others is that both he and Fairchild were vegetarians. “He was found in the park the same night he was killed.”

Groaning, Maka leaned back, rubbing the heels of her palms against her eyes. Four victims, no tangible connection. They may as well have been a part of different worlds with how different they were from one another. A temperamental fashion designer, a herbalist, a groper, and a young lifeguard. There would have been nothing that connected them. And yet, all four were tortured and killed, being found days after disappearing.

There had to be some connection.

Could it be attraction? Did these people each hold a quality that the killer admired? The files didn’t say there was any sign of sexual assault on the victims, but Maka did recall reading about how stabbing was often seen as a substitution for penetration, as disgusting a thought as that was, and they were certainly stabbed a lot.

Hate, maybe? Maybe they all reminded the killer of someone who they despised. But that was unlikely, too, the victims were too different. Perhaps it wasn’t even so much as reminding the killer of someone, it could have been a small interaction that set them off.

“Do we know who it was that Pierce had been arguing with the night he died?” Maka asked, looking for the file.

Elijah frowned, reaching over and plucked a piece of paper up, his eyes roving through the words before handing it to her. “Only got the last name. Ms. Bisset.”

“French?” Maka asked, reading through the paper.

“Yeah. She’s not in the fashion industry, but apparently she was friends with the host, thus was invited to attend,” Elijah answered, leaning back to look up at his ceiling. “Came with her nephew. Interviewed them both, Ms. Bisset couldn’t remember what the argument was about, the nephew was a pretty quiet kid. Though, that was mainly because the kid didn’t speak much English. Incredibly unlikely either of them could have done in Pierce; the kid was skinny enough a breeze would knock him over, no way he could overpower a full-grown man, and the aunt became sick seeing the tamer images.”

And it was just as unlikely they were going to find someone who had interacted with the others recently who could have been the killer as well.

“You don’t think whoever did this is going to save us all the trouble and just turn themselves in, do you?”

Elijah chuckled, “It’s never that simple.”

No, it never was. But; a gal could hope.

Flipping through the pages once more, Maka turned to the board they had fixed up and the information taped to it. Something wasn’t adding up. She frowned. “This all happened five years ago, right?” Maka asked, waving to the initial four victims. Then she gestured to the two thugs from that night. “The M.O. is way too similar to be a coincidence, so chances are it is the same killer, yeah?”

“Either that, or a copycat. But there’s details about the thugs that weren’t released in the initial murders, so it’s unlikely that a copycat is behind this. But, not impossible.”

She nodded her head, still frowning. “That’s what doesn’t make sense to me,” she muttered. “There’s a whole five year gap between the initial murders and the most recent. It’s not unheard of for a serial killer to just go dormant for a while and then return, but then look at the way they were killed, the earlier ones are clearly sloppy.”

Pausing, Maka looked to Elijah and to the board, the wheels in her head spinning, she saw the pieces, but something was missing. The difference between the first kills and todays was night and day, he had to have gotten practice somewhere, which meant there had to have been victims they didn’t know of yet, right? “Where was this guy for the past five years?”

Elijah took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, picking one out with his teeth as he fished through his other pocket for a lighter. “There wasn’t anything on the news after the first kills that stuck out. Of course there were murders, but haven’t heard anything about hearts being plucked out again until tonight. At least not here in the U.K. Don’t know about other places, not big on international news.”

Not here in England…not here…

Maka jolted back, eyes wide. “Oh!” she hissed, throwing the pen and papers she had collected onto the counter as she whirled around. Where was her phone? Where was her phone?

“What? You realize something?” Elijah asked, brows raised slightly as he lit his cigarette.

She rushed past him, finding her phone by the back table, still connected to the charger. “I have an idea. But, I need to confirm it,” she said quickly, letting it all out in one breath.

Maka didn’t look back at him, but she heard Elijah walking across the floor, shuffling papers, reading files. She was too focused on her phone. She had a few unanswered texts from Soul, and she told herself she would answer them when she was finished. Her thumb swiped across the screen, finding the contacts button. Scrolling down and down until she found the name.

-CRONA-

A few seconds passed before she could hear the phone begin ringing, pressing it against her ear as she marched in place, chewing anxiously on a thumbnail. “Pick up… pick up…” she whispered. What time even was it over there? Would Crona even be awake, or would they still be asleep?

She bit hard on the nail, felt a jolt of pain run up the finger, brief and light, but sharp enough to make her let go.

A few more seconds passed. Maka was prepared to hit redial if it went to voicemail.

Another ring.

A click.

“Hello?” Crona asked, voice soft, tired, not the ‘just woke up’ tired, but the kind of exhaustion from not sleeping, from working to the bone.

She had to bite down the instincts to ask if Crona was okay, if they had been getting sleep, food, if they were taking care of themselves out there, the ever present concern for them raising its head. But, she didn’t. This wasn’t the time. “Crona, I have an important question about your case, I need you to be honest.”

There was a pause, she could hear them shuffle. “Um, you know that a lot of stuff is still classified right now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to answer,” they warned hesitantly, clearly torn between doing what their team over there was ordered to do, or doing what Maka asked. She could understand perfectly, and in most cases she’d urge them to keep quiet about things the team didn’t want others to hear yet.

But this was not most cases. This was an emergency.

“I think there’s a chance your killer came here.”

Silence.

It lasted not moments but a full half a minute. Half a minute of silence until it was broken with muttering and distant chatter. Another thirty seconds passed until it was audible talking she could hear again.

“I’m going to put you on speaker,” Crona said.

“Go ahead.” They were most likely with other members of their team, and if there was a chance that Maka was dealing with the same killer they were hunting, it would only make sense that Crona wanted the others to hear what she had to say. After a moment of consideration, she switched her phone to speaker as well.

There was more shuffling and talking, which became more audible after a moment. She could hear Crona mumble something, unable to make out what it was, and then—

“This is Meister Maka, correct?” A woman asked, her voice heavy with a French accent. Maka gave an affirmation. “This is Captain Deneuve with Interpol, I’m heading the case on the Podcast Killer. Crona says that you may have crossed paths?”

Maka glanced to Elijah who had stayed a calm sort of quiet, “It’s a possibility, a gut-feeling, really.” She had little more than her gut to make her think this was even a possible.

 Another pause, but this time it was shorter. “What happened?” Captain Deneuve asked. “Don’t leave any details out.”

And so, she told her. The murders, the location. She told her of the extent of the torture, the estimated number of stab wounds for each, the raw level of overkill. She told her of their theory; that this killer had been responsible for the murders in London a few years ago, the similarities in M.O. She even told her about the hearts, how they had been carved from their chests.

While she talked, the others listened. She heard hums, whispers, hushed chatter as they discussed amongst themselves while Maka spoke.

When she finished, Deneuve was humming. “There were no podcasts from him since the last murder,” she said after a beat. “That is a significant part of the Podcast Killers M.O. He loves the attention, has to have an audience.”

Maka frowned, she had raised a point. The podcasts were important to his murders, it was how he got his namesake.

“But,” Crona cut in, hastily, “The hearts were missing. That’s not something we’ve told the public, and it’s never mentioned in the podcasts, either.”

“The kid’s right,” someone else spoke up, his voice raspy, older. “That’s a pretty important detail, makes it difficult to rule out the Podcast bastard.”  

There was another pause, “Detective Cain, is he still with you?” Deneuve asked.

At the mention of his name, Elijah blew out a puff of smoke and stepped closer to Maka and her phone, “Yeah, I’m here.”

“I want you to collect all the evidence you’ve gathered on this thus far and bring it to your station,” she said in a tone that made it clear that it was an order, not a choice. “We’ll be there in the morning. I want to be able to have my team look it over for ourselves before we say for sure if this is the same killer or not.”

Another inhale of his cigarette followed by an exhale of smoke. “Yeah, yeah, no problem,” he said. “Never worked with Interpol before, don’t think anyone in this town has. Anything special you all will need?”

“Just space to work and access to any information you have on this killer and suspects,” Deneuve answered.

“Got it,” his own phone was ringing and so Elijah had taken it from his pocket to check the caller ID while talking. “Space to work and all the files we got. I’ll make sure it’s ready for you when you get here. Hello?”

With that, he walked a few steps away, phone to his ear as he talked and listened, making it clear he was done with his conversation with Maka and Interpol.

She stayed on the line for a few minutes more, discussing what facts she did know with Deneuve and Crona, making sure they were all on the same page, that she could have all they need ready. Her kidnapping case was already complicated enough and adding a serial killer just made it worse.

However, when Maka finally hung up, the look that Elijah gave her was all she needed to know that things had only gotten worse.

“What happened?”

“Soul found a possible suspect,” the detective said, grabbing his keys, “And we’re going. Now.”

She was quick on his heels, “That’s great! Did he take them down to the station?” she asked, but soon narrowed her eyes, a feeling of dread seeping in through her. “This isn’t good news, is it?” she asked.

Elijah wasn’t looking at her, his eyes trained ahead as he continued his brisk pace. “There is an immense amount of evidence tying him to the kidnappings, but the suspect has escaped. He was able to get the better of Soul and Officer Watson, the two of them are en route to the hospital now.”  

Her stomach dropped.

---

Caleb was many things. Some good, many of them bad.

He had a history as a travelling magician, was fluent in a good number of languages. As good as he was with his tricks and trades, though, Caleb much preferred spending his time with a beer in his hand, getting drunk, or playing cards at a poker table. Maybe both at the same time.

He didn’t like people, funny considering his career. People were annoying, bothersome. Always needing something, wanting something, taking something. It was much easier to deal with people when he was drunk.

It went without saying that Caleb was a bit of a grump. Ill-tempered. He could put on a smile and play nice when on a stage in front of people, but off the stage he made no attempts to pretend to be some nice gentleman. He hated people, and he made sure those around him knew he didn’t like them.

But, Caleb did have his friends. A few. Three and a half, to be precise. And though he was not the most pleasant guy to be around, he took care of his own. Even if his own were annoying and frustrating, he would take care of them. They were family, even if the word disgusted him.

So, when he got a call well past midnight, his head throbbing from a powerful hangover, and learned that his one-and-half friends needed a favor. Well, Caleb grumbled, he swore at them, he got pissed at them.

And he got dressed and went directly to London to meet up.

That had been hours ago. Five hours, to be precise. Of course, Caleb arrived first, four hours before the two had, in fact. They pulled up in a pickup truck with plates distinctively not from Pocklington. Caleb could take a guess of what the boy had been doing that made the drive that much longer. Harder to catch someone when the ones chasing didn’t know what vehicle to look for, and when the owners would not yet notice missing cars.

It was clever.

And the boy proved even more clever.

Caleb was leaning against a rented car drinking his coffee, his head still pounding. Beside him was the kid. Honestly, he didn’t know much about the girl, some brat that the boy picked up off the street. Why? Caleb didn’t know and he didn’t care. The kid was behaving, that’s all that mattered. She wasn’t making a scene, not a fuss, not even crying or screaming.

If anything, she was handling this like a pro. The boy was a nervous wreck, but she was completely calm, diverting all her attention onto the phone the boy had given her.

“Bonjour, comment ça va?” Beatrice whispered to the phone.

“Good day, how are you?” Caleb translated without thinking, instantly regretting in. That was basically opening the door for conversation.

The girl looked up at him, at least he assumed she was, her eyes were hidden behind the sunglasses. “Comment ça va, Caleb?”

“Oui, ça va bien,” he lied. His throbbing head was a huge wrench in the ‘having a good day’ plan.

Beatrice smiled and returned to the Duolingo lesson on the phone. From what he understood, the boy had downloaded the app and tossed her the phone, letting her spend the drive from Pocklington to London switching between sleeping and studying. Not a bad idea, at least in Caleb’s opinion, let the girl learn some French so that when they crossed the border she wouldn’t be completely lost language wise. She seemed a quick learner, even if it were just a few phrases and words. It was a bit annoying, however, to have her muttering beside him.

Of course, there was no doubt that the boy would do whatever he could to make sure she was comfortable, but there was a difference between being able to do something yourself and having to rely on others, especially with things that would have been as simple as talking.

He had already taken precautions to make it harder to recognize Beatrice. Of course, two years had with him had been enough for Beatrice to grow to look different from Amanda. But, clearly the boy had no intention of taking chances.

Other than the sunglasses hiding her eyes, the boy had cut her hair somewhere on the trip between Pocklington to London. From the glimpses Caleb had of the kid before today, her hair used to be much longer. Now it was cut short, jaw-length. She wore a black cap and a dark green parka coat, both masking enough traits that made it easy to mistake her for a boy at first glance.

Knowing the boy, it was intentional.

He returned to his coffee, wishing he had some vodka to spike it with, wishing his headache would go away, standing watch as they waited for the boy to arrive.

Laughter and whispers came from the people walking about. His gaze wandered two a pair of men walking the street, talking loudly.

“It’s been years, you should just give up and move on,” said the taller man. He, like his companion, appeared to be in his mid-twenties. His skin was a little darker in complexion and he wore an obnoxious red visor that made Caleb think of Cyclops. His hair was tied up in a bun and he was dressed appropriately for the chilly morning.

His friend was an inch or two shorter, whiter, and dressed like a nerd. A tie, a black sweater-vest over a white button-up shirt, with matching slacks. His hair style was just bizarre; all bald save for the sides which were styled like horns. Must have taken a lot of hair gel to keep them up and stiff like that, Caleb mused.

“Why would I just give up on her?” baldy asked, waving his hands about as he talked. “I love her, I’m not going to just stop loving her.”

The other man shrugged, “Ox,” he said, cold and sharp. “If Kim doesn’t see you as more than ‘just a friend’ by now, she’s not going to. She’s not interested, and you need to move on with your life.”

The other, ‘Ox’, said something that Caleb didn’t catch, paused, and then spoke again. “Maybe I’m just not trying hard enough.”

“Trust me, you’re trying plenty hard enough.”

They kept walking, kept talking, but  Caleb tuned out the rest of the conversation as he just stared at them. Did he recognize them? Yes, he did. Royal Thunder and the Lightning Spear; Ox and Harvar. His scowl deepened.

Those two weren’t the only ones. Caleb had caught sight of three other meister-weapon teams just while they loitered about, waiting for the boy to get his ass over to them. “Of all the fucking days,” Caleb growled under his breath. Of all the days for things to go to shit, and of all the cities to choose to run to. It had to be now and here, just his fucking luck.

Beatrice looked up at him, but promptly returned to her French lessons as Caleb angrily guzzled the remainder of his coffee, feeling it scald his tongue and burn his throat and wishing it were a bottle of vodka instead.

It had completely slipped his mind that the DWMA had been doing some kind of conference today, and so a lot of teams had shown up. Caleb didn’t know the details, he didn’t want to know the details. Hell, he didn’t even want to be in this God-forsaken city in the first place, but the boy panicked and chose to run to London, and now the boy was no doubt panicking more because of how many meisters and weapons were out.

He groaned, threw his empty cup into a rubbish bin that was left by the side, and groaned some more.

Thankfully, none of the teams roaming the streets noticed them, and thankfully neither he nor Beatrice had to wait much longer. Eventually the boy was spotted, walking down the pavement with two backpacks both stuffed full slung over his shoulder.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said through the black neck gaiter he wore, the fabric hiding both his neck and lower face, a replacement from the basic face masks. Probably thought it less conspicuous—Caleb wasn’t so sure that’d be the case.

Like Beatrice, the boy had gotten his own shaggy hair cut. Now, instead of hanging past his jaws, it was clipped short, falling just over his ears. He had, though, refrained from redying it, his head remaining black in color with the lighter roots showing through the top. Perhaps the boy thought that letting his natural color come back would help make him distinct enough from any wanted posters.

He was not really a ‘boy’ despite Caleb’s choice of naming. He was an adult, barely one, but still an adult. But, he was also far younger than Caleb, and the man had known him since he was an actual child. ‘Boy’ just ended up sticking, it was easier to remember than all the names he went through.

Beatrice was smiling, stuffing the phone into her jacket’s pocket—Caleb was fairly certain that was actually the boys coat—to run towards him, clinging tightly to his arm, her smile as bright as a thousand suns, “Brother!” she greeted gleefully.

Caleb didn’t mimic her joy and instead he  scowled, “Bout time you showed,” he groused. “Got everything you need?”

The boy nodded, not even trying to remove himself from Beatrice’s grasp, his usually cold gaze softening at her. So he was capable of feelings besides broody and angry, surprising. “All the essentials,” he confirmed.

“Good,” Caleb nodded and glanced about once more. He spotted a couple of young students from the DWMA, probably no more than thirteen, careless and gossiping. He lowered his voice. “If you’d chosen any other fucking city I’d be able to get you to Rosie’s with a snap of my fingers and we wouldn’t have to go through all this bullshit. But I’m not putting myself in danger of exposure because you had to flee to a city that’s been infested.”

The boy just nodded his head, “I completely understand, wouldn’t ask ya to put yerself in danger like that,” he said. “Besides, it wouldn’t just be yourself you’d be puttin’ at risk. If anyone caught wind that Bea an’ I ‘ave been workin’ with your kind, well, ya know how trigger-happy they are. It may be easier, but I don’t want her interactin’ with yer magic, don’t want those bastards havin’ reasons to hunt her.”

Trigger-happy, heh, that was a way to put it.

Still, Caleb frowned. He didn’t like this, but there weren’t a lot of options right now. He had to be careful and keep a low profile, not just for himself. “Still, here,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a credit card. Carefully, he pressed it into the boys hand. “Should be enough money to help the two of you in Paris. Not that you need it, doubtless Rosie’s gonna wanna pay for everything. I already got your tickets in there, and the others know to expect you. Passports in there, too.”

He paused, regarding the two carefully. “Just keep your heads down and it should be smooth sailing. You’ll only be in there for a few hours and then you’re safe.”

Beatrice smiled again, looking at him kindly. It was a bit jarring, if he were to be honest, humans didn’t usually look at his kind like they were friends. But she was with the boy and anything the boy was involved with was jarring. But even so, she was a special kind of jarring—the girl had no reason to be so grateful and happy with a stranger, especially not a sorcerer. The boy sure knew how to pick them.

“Thank you for helping us,” she said with a polite little bow, the gratitude in her voice genuine. “I didn’t think we had anyone on our side, so I’m happy to know brother has friends who’re looking out for him.”

Caleb looked away, scratching the back of his head, “Don’t go getting the wrong idea, pipsqueak. The kid and I ain’t friends,” he corrected, but knew it was a lie.

The boy didn’t press it, he carefully placed the credit card in his wallet and then slipped that into his jacket’s pocket. “Are you coming with?” he asked, curiously, but with a degree of detachment that meant that he really couldn’t care either way.

“Nah,” Caleb answered, biting back a wince as his headache flared up with a painful throb right in his temple. “I’m going to stick around here. Crash at a hotel. Might keep an eye on the mess you’ve left in Pocklington. But, if you need me, just throw a text and I can be down there in a few minutes.”

A firm nod, “All right. Thank you for doin’ all this on short notice.”

Ugh, more gratitude. It really didn’t suit the boy.

“Just get going. Your train leaves in an hour, you’re going to want time to get there and find your seats,” he said, eagerly shooing them away. “And just watch your backs, don’t do anything stupid. You’re already in trouble here, don’t need the French after your ass, too.”

The boy scowled, “Trust me, keepin’ under the radar is what I want,” he said, and paused, his eyes fixed for a brief moment behind Caleb. His scowl deepened, “We’re not makin’ another mess,” he hissed.

“Sure, sure,” Caleb waved it off. “We’ll see. Now get your asses moving, if you miss your train, I ain’t carting you two off to Paris.”

With another smile and bow of her head, Beatrice looked to him, “Thank you again, Caleb,” she said, still clinging tightly to the boys arm, but also discreetly tugging him back. “We’ll be off now. Come on, brother! Let’s go! I don’t want to miss the train, I’ve never been through the Chunnel before!”

“It’s not that fuckin great, trust me,” the boy muttered, but his tone and expression softer now, allowing himself to be pulled by the small girl.

What a sight. Caleb had known the boy since he was an actual boy, and for all those years he had been like Caleb; angry, grumpy, disinterested in people, unwilling to soften. If Caleb had been Japanese, or if the boy had been German, he might have even thought they were kin with how alike they were in temperament. But here this girl was, making him soft, making him sweet.

It was a bit sickening to watch.

Caleb was curious to see how it would end for the boy.

---

At the station, Beatrice had clung tightly to his arm and then his hand, and he held just as tightly, neither willing to let go and risk separation in the crowded train station.

The crowds doubled as a reason to feel on edge. Neither of them liked crowds, liked groups of people all around them. It felt like hundreds of eyes were on the, watching and judging, waiting for the moment to drag him to the ground and take Beatrice away, back to her family.

Keep their heads down, don’t draw any suspicion.

They went through the standard procedure of validating their tickets and their right to travel. Beatrice was only fourteen, not legally required to have a passport or identification card, and so all she had to do was cling closely to her brother.

But for him, it was harder. He kept his face as straight as possible and handed the woman at the counter their tickets and then his passport. He had flipped through the pages while they waited, and there were already visa stamps on other pages to suggest previous travels in Germany and Italy, probably to emphasize his nonexistent pass. It was fake, clearly, but more than authentic-looking enough to get by.

“Haru Auclair?” she read, looking at him and then the photo on the card. She asked a few questions and he answered them with prewritten answers. A few minutes passed before he and Beatrice were able to leave and board the train.

They reached their seats, sitting next to one another, Beatrice by the window, and he by the aisle, a shield of flesh and blood so that no one could touch her or snatch her or take her away.

People continued to climb in, finding their seats, chatting loudly. He stared ahead, wrangling the facts and lies together in his head like a weaver frustrated at the loom.

Haru Auclair. That was his name, for now.

Haru Auclair. He had just turned twenty-three a month ago.

Haru Auclair. He had never met Haruto Arakawa.

Haru Auclair. He and his sister, Beatrice Auclair were going to be in Paris for a few weeks.

Haru Auclair. He hadn’t been in Pocklington before.

Haru Auclair. He was a freelance photographer, and had some a commission for photos of Paris.

Haru Auclair. He was the sole guardian of Beatrice, their parents passed away three years ago in a car wreck.

Haru Auclair. There were murders and kidnappings just a few hours away? He hadn’t been aware.

Haru Auclair. He’s never been involved with the DWMA once in his life.

Haru Auclair. He was—

“Hello!”

He snapped out of his thoughts, twisting his head to look at the group of three who had just taken a seat across the aisle.

The one who had spoken was the shorter of the three, blonde hair and a wide smile. She waved her hand at the two. “Going cross-country too? We’re going to France, are you going, too?” she said, trying to strike up a conversation, but was doing so with far too much enthusiasm and energy than he had the strength of will to endure.

The other woman was taller, darker blonde, a matching outfit. “Patty,” she scolded, frowning disapproving at the other as she pulled a magazine from her bag.

And here he thought this day couldn’t get any worse. He would have asked if he had angered some God to bring about such foul luck, but there wasn’t any point to that when a God was currently sitting beside him

Offering a polite smile, the golden-eyed one kept his gaze on the pair. “Sorry for the disturbance,” he apologized, and then held out a hand. “It looks like we'll be riding together for a couple of hours. I'm Kid, and you are?”

This had to have been karma, a foul batch of karma. It couldn’t be a coincidence, it couldn’t just be some fluke, a bit of chance. Of all the bastards that school provides, it couldn’t be simple randomness that had this one sitting across the aisle from him.

He didn’t smile, the tight frown showed in his eyes even with his mouth hidden, but he took the offered hand, giving it a shake, “Haru Auclair,” he introduced.

Fuck.

Chapter 11

Haru wanted little more at that moment than to curl up and to be swallowed up by the void. To cease existing and disappear from life and reality. Instead, he settled for sinking deeper into his seat.

Never had a train ride felt this terribly long.

“It was pretty boring in the end. But the snacks were really good!” Patty continued, chattering on with that child-like excitement. She had not stopped talking since her group had boarded the train, intent on talking to Haru like he was some old friend. “But the stuff that happened before and after the conference were pretty fun!”

She kept going on and on about that fucking DWMA public conference going on in London, and Haru wound up learning far more about how it went, what it was about, and why it was so fucking important than he ever wanted.

Which, granted, wasn’t a hard point to reach seeing as he wanted to know absolutely nothing about what the DWMA was doing, or anything that had to do with that school.

But Christ! This woman could talk!

She talked and talked about some guy named Oxen or something and the crush he’s had on some girl since he was like twelve, and how he has yet to give up, constantly making various attempts to win her heart and sweep her off her feet, just determined to not give in despite how nothing he was doing was working and the girl was probably gay anyways because “have you seen how she is with her weapon”? They have to be dating, there’s no way they aren’t!

She talked about how the new students lacked the same flare and energy that her year had, and how this year had half as many new students as her first year had. How this conference went over how to react when a civilian was crossing paths with a witch or Kishin Egg. Which boiled down to running away and finding a phone to contact the DWMA. Which itself did absolutely nothing to solve the immediate problem of a powerful non-human being trying to and possibly actually succeeding in killing people. But it was the DWMA, Haru couldn’t expect them to actually save the day before people got hurt.

She talked about herself and her sister, about their fucking meister and how weird he could be but that “He’s still a swell guy!”. She talked about how they were obviously the most awesome meister-weapon team because they worked directly with the big bone daddy himself and were the weapons of Death Jr., son of the aforementioned big bone daddy. That Death was essentially their adopted dad and that they were also a family as well as a team (Gag!).

The woman talked about how Kid had his own speech he got to make at the conference about how brave the British meisters and weapons have been and continue to be, and how proud the world is of them for doing their part in keeping the world safe.

“You’re going to Paris, too, right? Are you staying there, or just stopping cause you gotta get somewhere else?” she had asked, somehow, miraculously, beyond all matter of reason, logic, and physical possibility, not out of breath even a little after how much she had been talking.

And Haru, being the magnet of absolute horrendously, terribly, disgustingly shitty luck had answered without really thinking, just wanting the conversation to end and for her to shut up. “Stayin’ fer a lil’ while.”

He shouldn’t have said that. Should not have said that.

The woman fucking squealed so loud that other passengers turned to look at them, that the older blonde looked over her magazine and the mini reaper frowned in a way that showed he’d long since accepted this life of headache, and Haru sank deeper into his seat, wondering how much farther until the cushions just swallowed him.

He should not have said anything, should not have responded at all.

Because then the woman just went off about how fun it was that they were both spending time in Paris, that maybe the five of them could do sight-seeing together, and oh, hey, does Haru know French? Ah, right, his name’s Auclair or something, he’s probably from France, right? Yeah, of course he’s from France! She knew a little French, but she wanted to see how they’d react if she just spoke Italian. Cause she knows Italian. Maybe she could make them think she’s Italian and not American. 

They’d never really gotten to visit Paris for fun, it’s always for a mission, but this was the first time they were going to get to stay there for vacay time, and she was going to use it to the full advantage. Oh, they should all go to Disneyworld together! Or was it Disneyland? Disneyland, Paris? Ah, who cared! They’ve also got a big fancy art museum, Kid might like that, but it might also drive him absolutely mad. It'd be funny to see him trying to straighten everything until it’s at the perfect angle, and that’d take days. They might spend their entire vacation in the museum if he did that!

The worst part of it all? Not even an hour had passed. There was still over an hour left of this fucking trip.

It went on and on, her chattering and talking, not even caring that Haru wasn’t responding, just talking about whatever came to mind.

Eventually—the universe finally taking a look at Haru and thinking it’s screwed him over enough that it was time for a small, tiny, microscopic mercy— she somehow fell asleep mid-sentence. Which was for the best, because it had reached the point that had Patty not stopped talking, Haru was going to get locked up for a murder he actually did commit.

Good God she was annoying!

As if sensing his misery and fury with some bullshit Shinigami powers, Death the Kid had turned to him and offered Haru a sympathetic, understanding smile. “Sorry about her,” he said, nodding to where the blonde was snoring. “Patty can be a bit overwhelming at times, and she had a bit more coffee today than she should have.”

Haru snorted, at least he could take comfort that he wasn’t the one stuck living with her.

It was a blessing the gaiter covered his mouth; he would have been baring his teeth with how angry he felt. But his mood lightened and his expression softened as he looked to Bea.

Somehow she had been able to fall asleep too, not that he blamed her, she had been up all night, the poor girl must have been exhausted. She looked so peaceful sleeping, leaning against the side of the train, using Haru’s jacket as a pillow. How could he keep feeling angry when looking at her like that?

“She’s your sister, right?”

His mood spiked a bit, negatively, and he turned his attention back to the other side. This time it was the older sister, Liz, or something. She had looked over her magazine to the two, brow raised but a knowing look in her eyes. “I know that look, you clearly care about her a lot,” she explained.

A pause, long and thoughtful as Haru turned to look away from the two, his eyes falling back on her sleeping form. “She’s my family,” he said, reaching over to brush some stray strands of hair from Beatrice’s face. “She’s my everythin’.”

He didn’t know what he would do, what he was supposed to do, if he lost her. It had only been two years, and already she had thawed out some of the shards in his heart and wormed her way in, taking hold of his heart and soul. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have accused her of being a witch, of having used witchcraft to bring him under her spell.

“I get what you mean,” Liz had agreed, and Haru saw her look to Patty. “She might be hard to handle, but I’d do anything for my sister, to keep her happy and healthy.”

Ah…

What was this feeling rumbling deep inside of him? Camaraderie? Yes, that must have been it. A sense of camaraderie with a fellow older sibling, to meet someone who understood his love for Beatrice, his willingness to do what it took to keep her safe and happy.

Perhaps this group wasn’t quite as bad as Haru had initially feared. Sure, the baby reaper was a threat, and the younger blonde was more annoying than Ichiro could be, but… maybe they weren’t so bad. If Haru was careful, maybe they could spend time together, just a little. Perhaps he could arrange for them to just casually cross paths at Paris’ Disneyland park, not actually hanging out, but just crossing paths so why not stop and chat, maybe have lunch together, once everything’s calmed down and they’ve gotten settled in. 

Or maybe at the Louvre. Patty had mentioned that in her rambles and, well, Haru wanted to show Beatrice the Louvre. And the Eiffel Tower. Maybe take a little boat on the Seine. There were so many sights in Paris that she would love, and he wanted to show her all of them.

But that brought up other questions, too.

Haru would need to figure out some kind of income source once they got to Paris, he’d have to find a job, the kind where no one would really pay him any mind, the kind where he’d just blend in. There was little doubt that Rosie would offer them shelter, but he was not going to depend on her for finances. He could take care of Beatrice and himself without handouts.

They’d just need a room for a short period, until Haru got enough money to afford the two of them their own apartment. Housing was a bit on the expensive side in Paris, a lot more so than his apartment in Pocklington had been.

He could fall back on being a bartender, Haru felt he did a pretty good job of it in Pocklington. It wasn’t stressful, but not the worse. Maybe go back to being a cook, no people interactions, less people would see him while working, and he wouldn’t be as stressed.

Hell, he’d work as a character actor at Disneyland if it paid. He could put on a smile, play nice and be friendly if needed, he was a fairly good liar, after all. Plus, they paid well if he remembered the articles right. Well, as well as they could for people without any degrees.

Or, he had better not. Attraction characters were a bit too public. He didn’t need his face on the internet, and they’d make him take his mask off. So, no, he could scratch that off the list. The two of them needed to lay low, especially if mini-death was going to be in the city.

But, once he and his weapons were gone?

Haru smiled beneath his mask as he looked to Beatrice, running his fingers through her hair, his chest feeling warm.

Once Kid and the sisters were gone, they’d be safer. They were out of Pocklington, no one was going to know them, recognize them. They’d have to lay low, but that doesn’t mean imprisonment.

Beatrice wouldn’t be recognizable, no one in Paris was going to look at her and think that she shares the same face as some girl who went missing in a small English town two years ago. No one in there was going to care about the news of some nowhere town in another nation. Beatrice would be able to go outside and play, she wouldn’t need to stay holed up all day and go outside in disguises. She could even step outside without him at her side—okay, maybe not that. Cities were dangerous, he wasn’t going to risk her being out on her own without him there to keep her safe.

But she’d be free. She’d have more freedom no longer having the pressure of someone maybe noticing and recognizing her. No longer worried that the police would bang on the door demanding that she come with them and be sent back to her parents.

Don’t be too careful. Police are looking for you, his mind warned.

An officer and a weapon attacked; his crime discovered. People dead. The police were looking for them. Being in another country would help, but the DWMA was not hindered by borders like the cops of Pocklington were. Maka was probably going to want to hunt them down after what they did to Soul, being in Paris would only help for a short while.

They’d need to move again. They couldn’t risk getting too comfortable, dropping their guard too much.

But this was a respite. Paris would be a moment of peace and safety. Then, they’d plan their next move, where to go to next, where to hide next.

This was their life. It had been Haru’s life for so long and now it was Beatrice’s. He felt guilty about that, that she’d never have a normal, stationary life, that she was going to be on the move, always looking over her shoulder. But she was safer now than she had been before, and she’d see more of the world than she ever would have before.

This was for the best.

“Has she considered enrolling at the academy?”

Haru’s blood froze, those daydream thoughts gone like clouds on the wind.

He turned back to Kid, his expression turning cold, hard, staring at those yellow eyes as the hate and rage boiled under his flesh. “Excuse me?” Of course, of fucking course he would know! He’s a Shinigami, he can see souls! He can probably tell each type apart with a single glance. The man must have known the moment he saw them the moment he set his eyes on her, that she was, that she—

If he noticed the animosity, Kid did not show it.

He merely shrugged, looking back to Beatrice, and then turning his gaze back to Haru. His posture polite enough, nonconfrontational, annoyingly, infuriatingly calm. “She’s a weapon, is she not?” he asked, as if he hadn’t already known. His tone curious, as if wondering if Haru hadn’t known—of course Haru would know! “She could benefit quite a bit from joining the DWMA.”

What went unsaid was, of course, that the DWMA would benefit having another child to send off to hunt killers and monsters. To die for a God that was too afraid to step foot outside it’s castle.

He almost snarled. “An’ give up ‘er life for a fight that ain’t even hers?” Haru challenged, moving so that his entire body blocked Kid’s view of Beatrice. “Sorry, but we ain’t fans of yer schtick, try solicitin’ some other weak-willed sap.”

“That’s not what—” Kid had begun, raising his hands in an offering of peace. He looked surprised, as if he were unused to someone being so vocal in rejecting such an enticing offer of a fancy suicide. “I only meant that—”

“That yer so in need of new students that ya gotta ask rando’s on a train.” With an angry huff, Haru twisted to look away from them, only keeping an eye on their reflection in the mirror. “Ask someone else, we ain’t interested.”

He didn’t respond to that, thankfully. It would have seemed that the young God had realized that there was no point pestering Haru and had gone quiet.

Quiet.

That’s how the rest of the train ride went.

Quiet.

Haru couldn’t let go of his anger as he sank into his seat, not looking back to the reaper and twins as the last hour of the trip went by. Instead he tried to keep himself in control as he wove his fingers through Beatrice’s hair. It was shorter. In the two years he had known her, her hair had grown to be quite long and healthy. It was a shame that he had to cut it, but it was for the best.

It was still soft to the touch, nothing like the dry, wiry texture it had when they first met. Her face full and soft.

His anger began trickling away.

By the time the train had pulled into Gare du Nord, his anger had faded away, almost completely. It still lingered, it would always linger, but he felt relaxed.

He had roused Beatrice and led her out, carrying their bags himself while allowing her to hold onto his sleeve to stay with him. Haru made sure to veer away from Kid and his group, not wanting them to try asking Beatrice directly. Not that it was needed, as soon as they were off the train, he had lost sight of the three in the crowds.

“Hang on tight, Bea,” Haru said, loud enough to be heard over the chatter of the crowded station. “Les’ jus’ get ta exit. An’ then we’ll go lookin’ fer Rosie, kay?”

Beatrice answered by drawing closer to him, hanging on tighter. “It’s as crowded as St. Pancras,” she mumbled.

“That’s cause London an’ Paris are both busy cities. Nothing like Pocklington.”

He hope this wouldn’t be too much for her. They had only stayed briefly in London, long enough to get a change in looks and get on a train. But they’d be here in Paris for a short while. It’d be a contrast to something as small as Pocklington.

But that’d be for the better. So many people, no one is going to really stop and notice them, remember their faces. They’re just a couple more bodies in the crowds.

He gently wrapped an arm around Beatrice, careful not to bang her with a bag, and held her close as they made their way through the train station, shouldering past people to make way, the air livid with French words and conversations. Haru understood it, though it had been a couple of years since he had actively spoken it, he still understood. ‘Welcome back!’ ‘Have a safe trip!’ ‘Of course the train’s delayed. It’s always delayed!’ ‘I could have sworn I put my charger in there, where’d it go?’

His throat clenched, but he kept them walking.

He held Beatrice closer, tighter, his heart a drum in his chest, a thunder in his ears.

The sun was bright, blinding, the air thick, suffocating. His fingers itched to dig into something, to grind his nails into something. To—to—to—

“Ah, there you two are!”

Hearing Rosie’s bell like voice fill the air, the air grew lighter, and Haru felt the weight on his shoulders ease away as the familiarity embraced him.

---

Souls ears were ringing.

For a moment, his thoughts spun in disoriented circles, trying to replay what had happened, but spinning and glitching like a scratched CD struggling in a player. Repeating the same bits over and over, skipping over parts. A song made of dissonance. He struggled to recall where he was, where he should be, tried to recall everything.

Then he noticed Maka, and his mind found it’s anchor.

She was watching him from one of the armchairs, a book open in her lap, green eyes wide with concern, the want to run and hug him and the knowledge that she shouldn’t battling it out on her face. There was a tremble to her lips, the bags under her eyes darker than they had been when she had gone to help the detective.

Maka took a breath, “Good…” she glanced to the clock on the wall, briefly, and then back to him. “Afternoon. Good afternoon, how are you feeling?”

“Like I can sympathize with all the eggs we’ve eaten now. I know how they’ve felt whenever broken open for consumption,” he said with a cracked smile and a twinge of shame. Shame for ending up hurt and in the hospital. For letting his guard down and letting someone get the drop on him. “I’m feeling fine. More or less. A bit of a headache. Got a stubborn ringing in my ears.”

The rest of him felt surprisingly intact. He expected some stab wounds, maybe some organs to have been cut out and currently circling the black market. But he felt like everything was still there.

He hadn’t realized that he had spaced out until the added weight to the hospital bed brought his attention back to his meister as Maka watched him, still concerned, still afraid.  Sorry, he wanted to say, but refrained.

“You catch the guy, at least?” Soul asked instead, chuckling a little as he pushed himself up to sit. “I’d like to share a few words with the bastard, let him know I don’t really appreciate being knocked out like that. Seriously wasn’t cool.”

With a sigh, Maka shook her head, “No. Haruto was long gone by the time we arrived,” She admitted, folding her hands on her lap. “You’ve been out for twelve hours. Grace—Watson, she’s not woken up yet. You got off pretty easy in comparison.”

Shit. He thought. How much time had passed between Haruto fleeing and them arriving? Again, Soul found himself berating himself, scolding himself for having let his guard down, for having let Haruto get the jump on him and flee. Even worse, someone got hurt because of it. Maka wasn’t going into the details of what Watson’s condition was, but, it wasn’t hard to get it was bad by how she had reacted.

With a groan and a sigh, Soul fell back against the pillows. “Any other bad news?”

Maka smiled, strained and forced, “Well, a lot’s happened. Elijah and I made some discoveries. I don’t know if it’s necessarily good news, but it’s progress,” she offered, tightening her hold on her own hands. “And, well… before we get into that—what were you doing there?”

Ah, she wouldn’t have known, Soul realized slowly. He hadn’t been quite that forthcoming when he took Watson and made orders to the cops, had he even explained to the other officers why he had them rushing to find info on the guy? His head was too fuzzy to remember. He had called Maka, had sent her a couple of texts, but he didn’t quite explain what was going on, had he?

“The witness identified Haruto at the scene of the murders,” Soul said, not bothering to raise himself up again. “He was quite bloodied and had the knife. We did some digging while you and Elijah were doing your thing, found that ‘Haruto Arakawa’ was a fake name, that he’s been using a fake name for both jobs and his apartment. I thought that if he were the killer, we didn’t have much time to waste, he could up and run off—he knew there was a witness who could identify him, there was no way he could stay in Pocklington.”

Maka leaned closer to him, running her fingers through his hair, grazing the bandage wrapped snuggly around his head. “So you went to chase down a killer, just yourself an a cop?” The way she asked was accusatory, but then she deflated and sighed. “I can’t blame you, you tried calling me.”

He grunted, leaning into her touch, eyes falling closed. He could fall back asleep right here and now, drawn to slumber by her gentle ministrations. But, he stayed awake, with some effort. “Found something else out when I went into his apartment.”

She hadn’t said anything to suggest that she knew the full story, had she not seen the apartment? Not heard about the photos?

Maka scratched him right at the base of his head and Soul felt a rumble in his throat. “What’d you find?”

“Photos.”

“Oh? Oh! Oh, wow, just—wow. I didn’t, Haruto hadn’t seemed like the sort to be into those kinds of things.”

Soul leaned away from her touch as he snorted, he didn’t even need to look at her to see the blush. “Not those kinds of photos,” he corrected. “Photos of Amanda. All safe for work, don’t worry,” he added before Maka could speak. The humor was there, but then he let it die down as the severity of the situation sank back in.

He turned to look at her, red eyes staring into green. “Maka, there were a lot of photos. The wall was covered entirely in them. A lot of them were from when she was twelve, before she got kidnapped. But—A lot were current. Like they could have been taken last week kind of recent.”

There was a pause of silence, Maka had gone rigid as she looked to him, and Soul waited for what he said to dawn on her. “There were no photos recovered when the officers searched the apartment,” she said, slowly. Soul had been worried that’d be the case, it’d make sense for Haruto to hide the evidence of his involvement in the kidnappings. Still, Maka’s brows furrowed together, her lips pulled back into a tight frown.

“Haruto kidnapped Amanda.”

He dipped his head, nodding in agreement. “Can’t see any other way he’d have so many photos of her. She looked happy, but—looking happy for a photo is one thing, it doesn’t mean much. What we do know is that he has Amanda,” Soul said, reaching out to take hold of her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “Right now he’s our only living known link to these kidnappings. We need to find him.”

Maka groaned, leaning, and pressing her face into his shoulder, twisting her hand to hold his in return. “Soul, I love you, but you don’t know how much more that complicates things right now.”

“Eh?”

Maka looked like she wanted to say more, but refrained as a quiet, nervous knock came from the door. Both weapon and meister turned to the doorway, the gentleness gathering on Maka’s face not going unnoticed by Soul. He was curious, though, to see who could be coming to visit him. Elijah surely wouldn’t have gotten such a warm expression from her unless something happened while the two were checking out corpses together.

He ran his hand through his hair, trying to make it look maybe not so much of a sloppy, lame mess for whoever was coming in, still curious. But his curiosity was answered quickly enough.

Soul dropped his hand back to his lap, staring at the doorway, surprised and just a bit happy, though mostly just surprised. “You’re awake,” Crona was standing awkwardly in the doorway with, oddly enough, a bouquet of flowers, though some looked missing, like a certain weapon took to plucking from the bundle just to be a nuisance. “I can go, if you were in the middle of something.”

“No,” Soul said, smiling and offering the other side of his bed for them. “Come on, stay. You’re not interrupting anything too important, and your company would be a breath of fresh air compared to hers.” He jabbed his chin in Maka’s direction, his grin growing at her insulted injection.

Crona looked relieved, stepping into the room, and still holding onto the flowers with long, trembling fingers, like they weren’t quite sure what to do with them now that the bouquet was in the room. “I brought—I thought I would bring you something. Carnations are okay, right? Ragnarok wanted to eat the flowers, he, ah, got a few, sorry.” They were rambling, edging closer to the bed, to Soul and Maka.

“I was trying to save him the embarrassment of having to accept such a lame gift!” Ragnarok sprouted from Crona’s back, leaning lazily against their frame as they made an attempt to swipe the bouquet again, only for Maka to reach out and swat his tiny fist out of the way. The weapon stuck his tongue out at her as she took the flowers from Crona, placing them in an empty vase beside the bed and let his unnatural eyes fall back on Soul. “You look fine. What, you got so soft that you’re hospitalized by just a single hit?”

Soul rolled his eyes, despite Ragnarok’s word, there was no animosity to it. “Sorry, not all of us are made of black blood,” he retorted, before patting the side of the bed once more, waiting until Crona had taken a seat. Ah, both S. O’s with him again, he’d missed that. Would have been better if it hadn’t taken a hospital trip for the early reunion. But beggars can’t be choosers. “What are you two doing here? You didn’t fly all the way down here just for me, did you?”

There it was again. That tension. The same one Maka had before they had been interrupted, the kind that told Soul that he was horribly out of the loop of something big.

“You don’t know yet?” Crona asked.

Maka sighed, burying her hands in her face. “I was about to tell him,” she said, and then quickly, apologetically, held a handout to Crona before they could say anything. “No, no, you didn’t interrupt. It’s actually better that you’re here for it.”

“R-Really?”

“Yeah!” She confirmed, reaching over Soul to hold Crona’s hand. “You know more of the bigger picture than I do. You’ve got more you could tell him than me. Save him from the whole debriefing he’s going to need from the Captain.”

Soul normally wouldn’t mind it. Maka was better at boosting Crona’s morale when they got into the self-blame territory than Soul was. But maybe right now wasn’t the best time when their conversation was only leaving him with more questions. “Okay, can someone explain to me what’s going on? I’d like to not be out of the loop.”

A squeak of surprise and a muttered apology, the two separated. Soul rolled his eyes and nestled into his pillows, trying to find a comfortable way to sit before turning to Maka. “You said the whole thing with Haruto is complicating things,” he said, and then turned to Crona, “And the way you’re acting, I don’t think you came down just to check up on me. So, one of you want to tell me what’s going on?”

Only a pause, and then they told him. Maka explained the connection the murder had with a case Elijah worked a few years back, Crona explained the similarities the murder had with the killer his team’s been chasing after. They told him of the missing hearts, the torture, of the profiles Interpol made, and the victims from the London case. Of the differences they had, but how the similarities were too much to just overlook.

They told him everything they had known.

And when they were done, Soul’s head was spinning more than it had when he awoke.

He stared at them, and took in a deep, even breath, and stared at them some more. His mind was still processing, the loading bad still inching along like an old internet browser. Then, he raised his head to stare ta the ceiling, at the fan lazily spinning above.

“You weren’t kidding when you said this complicates things,” Soul confessed.

The Podcast Killer. Possibly the culprit behind the London murders some five or so years back. Notorious international serial killer who neither Interpol nor the DWMA had caught yet. A sadistic, violent killer. Who may very well be Haruto Arakawa. While Haruto himself may even be involved in the kidnappings going on in the region for the past few years.

Child kidnapper, international serial killer.

Were the cases truly by the same man? Or had they simply crossed paths and become intwined? It was hard to accept that they had been around a serial killer, that they had crossed paths with him multiple times and never once actually, genuinely suspected him of anything.

But that was the point of the mask, was it not? Whoever the guy was, ‘Haruto Arakawa’ was never meant to arouse suspicion.

But, if that was the case—why hadn’t he killed Soul? Why hadn’t he killed Watson? He had the opportunity, and he was already identified as a killer by a witness, there was nothing for him to lose, just kill the two and flee, take on a new name and a new face, and he could easily slip into hiding once more.

Souls head began hurting once more. This was too much to think about so soon after waking up, too much to process. Too many theories, possibilities, too many what-if’s racing through his head.

“Soul, get some rest,” Maka said, gentling pushing him back to lay down as she and Crona got off the bed. She must have noticed his tiredness, though it was probably a side effect of whatever painkillers the docs had him on. Was he on painkillers? “Just, get some sleep, we’ll come back to this once you’re up and ready again.”

Crona pulled the blanket up to his shoulders, offering a small smile, worried and concerned, but a smile. “We’re going to find him, okay? We’re not letting him get away, not—not after what he’s done. So you need to rest, so that you can join Maka in the field.”

He groaned, but his eyes were already feeling heavy. “Got it,” he muttered.

Their voices began to drift away, though they were still in the room with him. His head ached; his ears had an incessant ringing to them. His mind flashed to that moment in the apartment, to those vivid green eyes he saw before passing out, the pain as the bat struck his skull, the wild look in those eyes.

Who was Haruto?

Chapter 12

Notes:

A heads up: Chapters 3-7 have been reworked with scenes redone.

The morgue was cold, which was to be expected, a warm morgue might pose some problems with the corpses that need to be examined. And there were, in fact, corpses in need of being examined. Two, to be precise.

Crona rubbed their arms, feeling the chill send needle pricks across their skin.

Captain Deneuve had a hard look on her face as she looked over the bodies of the two thugs. The latest victims of the Podcast Killer, or so they were to believe. It was still unconfirmed, as there had been no podcast relating to their murders, and aside from the missing hearts, it didn’t seem to be the same M.O. But, the missing heart was too strong of an aspect to just ignore.

It was just the two of them, Barrichello had left them a little earlier to get the statements and files from the police who had been on scene for the murders.

To be honest, they would be lying if they said they weren’t a little nervous, and it wasn’t because of the cadavers. Sure, the captain could be kind, but she was also incredibly intimidating. Crona often found themselves feeling like an ant under a magnifying glass when around her, like all their courage just dried up like a creek under the hot summer sun.

It was stressful, left them wishing more than a few times that Lord Death had chosen someone else for this mission, or that they had Maka or Soul with them when left alone with the captain.

But, no.

Crona was assigned this mission, and they needed to stand their ground and not wilt in her presence. She was a good person, and Crona had no reason to be afraid of her. They were allies, they wanted the same thing, she was good.

Still, it’d be nice if Barrichello could come back, so Crona wasn’t alone in a room with her and two dead, cold bodies. Barichello made the air feel lighter, made things feel easier.

Swallowing their tongue, Crona focused their attention on the bigger man, eyes roaming the body, the wounds and the torn flesh where a tattoo had once been. They felt a sense of familiarity seeing the brutality of the wounds. They could see the emotion-driven frenzy that had been behind each stab, from how deep it was, to how uneven some of the cuts had become.

“It’s different,” they said, not having meant to.

The captain let her steel-like gaze fall on them, and Crona held their breath to refrain from wilting. Was her expression a silent scolding ‘Of course it’s different, I have eyes, I can see it myself’ or was she silently urging Crona to speak their mind.

They chose to go for the second and bite the bullet in case they were wrong. “The wounds,” They emphasized. “In the previous victims, each cut was, it was… meticulous. Perfect. There was complete control in each stroke, from the force used to depth and length cut. Each wound served a purpose and was precise. He takes his time to savor the experience, and leaves such clean wounds that you can narrow down the weapon used with near perfect accuracy.”

Crona looked to the bodies once again and winced. “But this…?” they began and faltered, looking away from the corpses quickly. “It doesn’t match.”

The wounds were deep, the flesh around each puncture bruised, as if the person used all their strength to inflict them, driving the knife all the way in to the hilt—which said a lot about the killers stamina and strength to be able to stab two people over a hundred and twenty times combined and still have the energy to flee the scene. Some of the wounds were jagged at the end, as it stabbed and then dragged downward or upward as it was pulled out, as if the knife was shaking during the entire process.

Their own hands began to shake, fingers twitching, an old yet familiar feeling settling in at the bottom of their stomach as they recalled how it felt to hold Ragnarok in their hands, how it felt to cut humans down and tear them apart. The adrenaline that would course through their bodies when they did so, the way that their shaking hands would make Ragnarok shake, made worse when he began vibrating upon resonance. Rarely did they have the stability and calm of mind and soul to perform clean and seamless strikes.

The more that Crona looked at this, the more it felt wrong. Take away the missing hearts and these corpses looked less and less like they were left behind by the Podcast Killer, and the more it looked like something they would have left behind after a kill.

The wounds left behind felt unhinged.

All the other wounds; the burned and missing fingers, the teeth torn out of the skull, chunks of flesh ripped out—it fit with the modus operandi of the Podcast Killer. Except for one important difference. These were done postmortem.

After the two were already dead.

No, that didn’t fit him at all. The only injuries that the Podcast Killer inflicted after death was when he cut open the chests to take out the heart. He made sure that every injury he inflicted was done when his victim was alive and awake. He wanted them to feel every ounce of pain and torture, it was an important part of his ritual when he killed. There was nothing to savor if he inflicted gruesome torture to an already dead body, nothing to enjoy.

It could be that because the kill was done in the open he didn’t have the time and privacy to go about the kills as he normally did. But if that was the case, he wouldn’t have gone so far to desecrate the bodies after death, if it was just to kill them and be done he wouldn’t have taken the hearts.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing about this made sense.

“If we consider the previous victims up to now as a representation of his ego, then these two might be an insight to the kind of rage he has bottled within him,” the Captain mused, hand over her mouth as she thought. “Angry about what, though?”

“That’s if this even is by the same guy,” Crona countered, not meeting her eyes, staring at the corpses again. “I… I’m not fully convinced that we’re not looking at two killers, that this isn’t a potential copycat.”

She gave a sip of her coffee, somehow able to still stomach food and liquids even seeing such gruesome bodies. It was impressive, to say the least. “A copycat isn’t impossible, but how would they know about the heart?” she challenged. “We’ve kept that information under lock and key, and the only ones who would have had access are those who’ve had direct contact with the bodies and files.”

That narrowed it down to police and medical examiners. Still a large number to choose from considering how widespread this case has been.

Ragnarok came out with a wet splurch of blood, splatters hitting Cronas shoulders and back briefly before taking a solid form, stretching and groaning before collapsing all his weight against Crona. “Either this fucker has friends he’s bragging about, someone leaked information, or we got someone on the inside trying to play copycat.”

Deneuve didn’t argue, looking unbothered by the vulgarity and unasked entrance as she continued looking at the bodies. “As it stands now, we have two different possibilities before us. Right?”

Two possibilities? Crona frowned as they thought of it.

The first possibility was that it was a copycat killer. If that was the case, then they had to dig deeper, find out how the copycat knew about the hearts, why frame the Podcast Killer, and why go after these two in particular. That meant that they had two killers to worry about, to catch, one of whom wasn’t as much of an attention seeker as the other.

The second? It was indeed the Podcast Killer who did the two kidnappers in, though that led into more questions. Why deviate so far from the norm and yet try so hard to pretend it was the same as the other kills? What was it that these two had done that triggers such a brutal, violently angry response? And if so, why tear out the hearts and resort to postmortem tortures when, had he not, no one would have made a connection to him and the murders?

Ragnarok swore and leaned over Crona to peer down at the corpses, and through their bond Crona could feel how utterly unimpressed Ragnarok was by what he saw. They had done worse as kids, rang in their head. They could still do worse. Through their bond, Crona could see images flashing through their mind of the trail of bodies they had left in their wake as kids, and could not tell if these were their own thoughts or Ragnaroks.

“What about that Haruto brat?” Ragnarok asked, still staring at the bodies. “He’s linked to the kidnappings, he’s been fingered as the killer by a witness. Maybe he’s the Podcast Killer and it was an internal dispute of a kidnapping ring.”

The Captain regarded the weapon with equal disinterest and took another long sip of coffee. “That is quite possible, and it certainly doesn’t help his case that he fled,” she agreed, but there was something in her voice that told Crona she wasn’t entirely sold on the prospect. “However, file we got on Haruto, the profile on him; it doesn’t match any of our theories on the Podcast Killer.”

Wants recognition—Haruto Arakawa did everything he could to not be noticed. From fake names to minimal interactions. He didn’t want recognition. According to everyone who seemed to know anything about him, the man did everything he could to make people not notice he even existed. That was something that PK wouldn’t be able to stand.

Charismatic—From what Crona had been told, Haruto had something of a foul attitude, Soul had even said while interrogated by the Interpol team that he lacked cool and charm. From appearance to attitude, he didn’t have what it took to naturally put someone at ease. He lacked the sophistication that the Podcast Killer possessed.

He was also younger than they had theorized. While all the fake I.D.’s had different ages ranging from late teens to early twenties, it was all younger than what they had suspected the killer to be. They anticipated him to be older, late twenties to possibly the thirties. Haruto was far too young, especially if the suspected timeline for how long the Podcast Killer had been active was right. That would have meant that Haruto had to have been a kid when he started.

Not that it wasn’t possible. Crona had been a kid when they started.

But it wasn’t normal, either.

Then there was the witch. They had no proof a witch was involved, but it had been their working theory on how the Podcast Killer had been able to travel around the world so quickly. Haruto worked fulltime with two jobs, he had a very small window of time to get to another country, kidnap someone, record their murder, upload it, and then be back before anyone noticed he was gone. Of course, his isolated nature helped, as fewer people outside of work would even notice if he was gone, but to do so would be difficult.

If there was a witch cooperating with him, one whose magic allowed for instant travel, then they didn’t even need to live near Haruto, they could live on an entirely different continent. One call or message and they’d be able to take him from Point A to Point B. They wouldn’t be a face the people would remember. According to his employers, he’s had perfect attendance since he started his jobs, never late, never called in, would take extra shifts so long as they didn’t interfere with his other jobs schedule. If he was the Podcast Killer, then just when would he have had the time to be a killer?

“We’ve got his coworkers and employers listening to some of the audio logs from the podcasts. Every one of them says that it’s not Haruto talking. The voice doesn’t match,” Deneuve said, which was news to Crona. “If they are the same person, then they are damn good at disguising their voice. Which isn’t impossible, but it can take years to train your vocal chords to change the sound of your voice like that.”

She sighed, crushed her empty cup and tossed it into a trash can by the wall. “But, if they are all one and the same, then it means the hearts are, in fact, a compulsory factor in the murders. They represent something to him, to the point he has to remove them. We just don’t know why yet.”

“Could be religious, or ritualistic,” Ragnarok offered, reaching down and tapping his fist against Crona’s chest. Though it was less of a tap and more of a whack. “Weren’t there some cultures that saw eating your enemy’s heart as a sign of punishment or something against the enemy?”

“The hearts are also seen as the, uh, the core of a person, a physical manifestation of the soul,” Crona added. Well, a physical manifestation of the soul until the soul itself manifested itself physically. In which case it would have been more fitting to just eat the actual soul. Which wasn’t compulsory—many victims still had their souls clinging to the dead bodies. “It could be that he’s taken that view of the heart and warped it into a new sort of twisted religious act.”

Captain Deneuve hummed, tracing her finger over the stitched flesh where the heart had been removed. “That’s a good possibility,” she nodded. “But right now we have too many possibilities. We need to narrow our line of thinking. Right now we have to focus on finding out if our prime suspect and our killer are indeed one and the same.”

Leaning more against Crona, Ragnaroks eyes rotated in the bloody sockets. “You got some kind of plan?”

“Of course. We provoke him.”

Ragnarok made a gurgling sort of noise as he batted his fists against Crona, “How’s that going to do shit at helping prove if he is Haruto or not?” he asked. “Plus, we sure we want to be provoking this guy?”

Swatting his fists away, Crona frowned and tried to push the weapon down.  They had understood what Deneuve had intended, even if their weapon had not. “Ragnarok,” the complained, and when they had finally gotten the arms to stop swinging and smacking them; “He’s a narcissist, remember? If we place the blame on Haruto, give credit to Haruto for all these murders and it turns out to not be him; PK is not going to like it, and he’ll likely do something immediately to disprove our theory.”

“Exactly,” the captain confirmed. “We hold another press conference and announce that we believe Haruto Arakawa to be the Podcast Killer. If Haruto is innocent—of the murders—then our killer is not going to let the spotlight, the attention, go off of him and onto someone else. He needs the attention to stay on him, he won’t let someone else take the fame and credit from him. Our killer will let us know if we’ve got the wrong guy because of his arrogance.”

More wet bubbling as Ragnarok slumped against Crona’s head. “You’re putting a lot of faith that his pride’s going to outweigh common sense,” he said, almost warningly. “There’s a lot of holes in your plan, from if he’ll even take the bait to if his response will be honest.”

Captain Deneuve did not waver as she looked at the weapon, but her expression spoke volumes. Ragnarok didn’t need to say it, they were all aware that their plan was flimsy. But, even after all this time they had very little to work with, a plan like this was the best they had, and if it worked out, could serve as the starting point they needed to make true headway on putting a rest to this case and catching this killer.

“It’s a gamble,” she agreed. “So let’s just hope he takes the bait.”

 

---

 

Paris was a large city, almost overwhelming. At least in London, Beatrice hadn’t been there long enough and had been too tired from the long night to have really felt amazed by the size. But Paris had the combo of being large, heavily populated, and foreign, which had managed to make it so Beatrice’s breath got stolen away with each street.

After leaving the station—Guard Nord was what her brother had called it, right?—she had quickly been introduced to Roselle and Astra Courtois. Of course Beatrice knew of them, her brother had mentioned their names a small number of times whenever she was able to get him to talk about his past. Roselle—Rosie as she apparently preferred to go by—was something of her brothers guardian when he was a kid. She took him in when he was young along with some other kids. One of which had been her apprentice, Astra, who was the only one officially adopted.

They were a coven, Rosie being the coven leader. Though an abnormal one, considering not all the members fit the, well, requirements of being in a ‘witch’s coven’. They felt more like a family.

Beatrice knew very little about a coven, about witches and sorcerers, and for her first time meeting any, they didn’t match what she had been told. People had said that they were horrible and cruel, destructive and violent with no regard for the lives of humans. But that wasn’t the case here, not with these ones. Sure, Caleb had been foulmouthed and grumpy, but he was kind in his own way, and Rosie was the epitome of nice.

She was young—though for all Bea knew, she could be centuries old—and pretty, and nice. Nicer than Beatrice was used to outside of her brother. She was warm and kind and…everything that Beatrice thought a mother should be. Everything that her own mother was not. It had been enough to almost send Beatrice into tears, but she had held them in, had bottled it all up deep inside of her.

When they had gotten into the car, Rosie had asked them how their trip to France had been, had asked if either of them were tired or hungry, or if there was anything they needed. Had asked Beatrice if there was anything she needed that she may not have been comfortable asking her brother for, and offered to get them both whatever they needed that they didn’t have the time to get before fleeing the country. She had been considerate of the language barrier, too, being careful to speak in English for Beatrice, even though her brother could speak fluent French and could have easily just translated for her to save Rosie the effort.

Rosie  had taken the time out of her day for them. She cared, even if she didn’t know Beatrice, she cared.

Beatrice wasn’t used to it. The only person who cared about her had been her brother, and the idea that someone other than him might find her worth the attention was a foreign concept to her. It made Beatrice feel shy.

Even Astra, who was just a human woman, had been kind. She had made a big and obvious effort to make sure Beatrice felt at ease with them, aware of the conflict between humans and witches. Perhaps that was why she had come with Rosie to pick them up, as if having another human with them would make Beatrice feel safer going along with a witch. Not that Beatrice felt afraid for her safety, not when she had her brother with her, and if he trusted them, she would too.

But Astra was nice. She was talkative and casual. Had teased her brother and asked Bea if he had caused her any problems or was mean. Had broken the ice with a few crappy jokes that got Bea smiling.

Her brother hadn’t said much, not that he was that much of a talker in the first place. He answered when spoken too, but his responses were short, a few words or maybe a couple short sentences. He didn’t elaborate on what happened to drive them out of their home, didn’t go into any details. But no one seemed to mind, and Beatrice had to remind herself that the women were likely used to this behavior.

He had pulled his gaiter down once in the privacy of the car, and had offered Beatrice something of a smile, leaning against her and allowing her to hang onto his arm the entire drive to Rosie’s home. To his childhood home, Beatrice realized with a mix of anticipation and nerves.

It hadn’t been a long drive and they had arrived sooner than she had expected.

The house wasn’t terribly big, two floors plus an attic and basement. Both the front and back yards were lush with flowers and a small vegetable garden. The air inside was scented with herbs and spices. The rooms warm and inviting. It felt like a home. So much more than her old home had been, but, not nearly as much as the barren and small apartment she had shared with her brother had felt. This was someone else’s home, not hers.

There were photos and paintings on the walls, color in the rooms. Beatrice had caught sight of a photo of her brother as a child and she immediately wanted a copy for her own possession, just so she could keep such an adorable picture close to her heart always.

It was Astra who led them to the attic, though her brother grumbled that he knew the way to his old room and didn’t need a guide. Still, Astra had assured them that his room had been left untouched, and had left them be once there.

“This was your room?” Beatrice asked doing a spin to take in the entire room.

It was small, what with being in the attic, with a twin bed one wall, a low, slanted ceiling bedazzled with glow in the dark stars above it. The bed was made with a dark blue blanket with star constellations. There was a bookshelf full of picture books, just high enough that it was easily accessible for a child, but not too high. In one corner was a toy chest, and when she peaked in, she saw an array of stuffed animals and action figures. She took out a stuffed white tiger and hugged it.

Scratching the back of his head, her brother shrugged, “Yeah…” he didn’t seem thrilled, but he didn’t seem upset. “Wasn’t lying when she said they left it as is. They coulda at least gotten rid of the toys. God damn, I’m not a kid anymore.”

Beatrice just smiled and giggled, still holding the plushie. “I think it’s cute. It’s nice.”

He huffed, but didn’t’ argue. Instead he just sat down and began rummaging through all his old things, and Beatrice came to sit next to him, leaning against his side to look at all the things he took out. He kept muttering things in French that Beatrice couldn’t understand, reading writings in French that she couldn’t read. She would ask him about this item or that, and her brother would answer, explaining in his own way what it was.

“A fuckin’ stupid Superman toy. Dunno why I ever kept it, it’s trash.” A cherished childhood toy

“Bullshit book about a princess an a knight. Cliché as hell an’ just as predictable.” A book he read so many times he had memorized the lines.

“S’a dumb stuffed bear, Mara got me it cause she was worried I’d get too ‘lonely’ when she an’ Ichiro couldn’t be around.” A teddy bear he slept with nightly.

It was nice seeing these things, it was nice trying to imagine what his childhood was like. Or, it should have been nice. All it did, as Beatrice watched him take inventory of each item, was realize just how little she actually knew of her brother. She hadn’t known he was involved with witches and sorcerers until just last night, hadn’t known he was a part of a coven.

Sure, she had heard him talk about Mara and Ichiro before, but hadn’t really known anything about them. Knew nothing of his life with them.

A part of her had assumed these past two years that he had come from a life similar to her own. He came from a broken home of beatings and neglect, but it was obvious that it wasn’t the case. Was she being selfish thinking and hoping that he had gone through the same kind of life she had?

Was she bad to have hoped that he had suffered like she had?

He hummed, paying no heed to her confliction as he pulled a framed photograph from the desk, holding it in his gloved hands, his brows knitting together in thought. Beatrice pressed closer to him to see the photo he held.

A photo of three. On the right was a small woman with immensely long silver hair and a bedazzled gown, her eyes closed and a sunlight. On the left was a tall young man, deep red hair combed back, brown eyes and a lazy grin, dressed in a suit like he just came home from a cushy office job. Between them was a small boy, younger than Beatrice had been when she met her brother, scruffy red hair and green eyes. Dressed in an oversized coat, the collar high enough to cover his entire lower face, his hands hidden in the pockets. She could see the Eifel Tower in the background, the night illuminated by street lights.

“Mara,” her brother said, tapping the right side, the face of the woman in the photo. He moved and tapped the man. “Ichiro.”

That meant the boy between them was him.

Beatrice tried to hide the stormy feelings inside of her as she smiled, “You looked really cute as a kid,” she said, staring at the brother in the photo, the way that his eyes shined in a way that she had never seen them before. He seemed happier than she was used to seeing him. Childhood bliss. The innocence before reality struck.

Her brother offered no response to her comment, not beyond a hum, as he put the photo back on the shelf, and in doing so had to pull himself away from Beatrice, taking away the warmth he provided. Soon enough, he nestled back down on the floor and Bea closed the distance between them to snuggle him.

“Are we going to be safe here?” she asked as he put an arm around her, letting her half crawl into his lap, where she had always felt the safest. “No ones going to follow us all the way here, will they?”

“Course not,” he answered without hesitation, holding her tighter. “No one’s gonna come after us. Not ‘ere. So ya can rest yer nerves, yer gonna be fine.” He began petting her head, running his fingers through her hair and Beatrice felt herself melting into his touch. “No one’s gonna take ya away.”

She closed her eyes, buried her face into his chest, and thought of the reality of their situation.

Her brother was wanted for murder, whether he was actually guilty or not, Beatrice didn’t know. Two people were dead and he was the prime suspect. Officers had broken into their apartment and wound up hospitalized. That was another mark against the two. Add in that he was wanted for kidnapping, a crime of which Beatrice was proof of his guilt for, and that was the final nail in their coffin. He was a wanted man, and Beatrice was the ‘victim’. People were after them. The DWMA was after him. That alone was the worst outcome she could imagine.

Then, there was the growing realization that came with her brother. Beatrice knew nothing about him. Even through the two years they had been together, she knew little about just who her brother was. His family, his past, even his name. She knew nothing. The unknown was…scary. Her brother was a stranger. He knew witches, he was an enemy of the DWMA. He was dangerous, in his own way. A criminal, no matter how she looked at it.

But, he saved her. He took her into his home, fed and clothed her, loved her when no one else in the world cared for her.

That was enough for her, Beatrice decided. That he loved her, that was enough. So, because he loved her, Beatrice could pretend to believe his lie, pretend to believe him when he said they were safe.

 

---

 

Haru waited until he was sure that Beatrice had fallen asleep atop him before carrying her to his old bed and tucking her in. He lingered for a few moments, watching her sleep, staring at that peaceful expression on her face before he left the bedroom, letting the door shut quietly behind him.

The house was familiar, he still knew his way around, and very little had changed in the years since he had last been there. So he didnt hesitate as he walked down the stairs to the main floor, tugging his neck gaiter back over his face and making sure his gloves were secure and his shoes perfectly tight. He could smell food from the kitchen but didn't pause to try and figure out what kind of food it was. He only paused at the door when Astra popped out of the kitchen to watch him, wearing a pink cooking apron and crossing her arms over her chest.

"And where do you think you're going, mister?" She asked.

Haru glanced back at her, raised a brow. "Out."

"No, you're not. It's best if you stay inside and lay low for a while, until all the heat's blown over."

It was a logical plan. Best to wait until the news picked up on something more interesting than what happened in Pocklington, until people forgot what his face looked like. But sometimes there were more important things to do. "Can't," he said, taking hold of the doorknob. "Meeting some people, an I don't care how pissy yer gonna be about it, I'm going."

Astra wasn't impressed as she took a few short steps towards him. "Who are you meeting?" the way she said it, it was as if she thought herself a guardian, as if Haru was a kid she would watch over again when the others weren't around, as if she had authority over what he did again. She hadn't had authority over him in a long time, and Haru wasn't going to just bend a knee and do what she said just because she was older, just because she thought she was in charge.

He glowered at her, pulling his mask down enough to sneer, relishing in the way she flinched back at what she saw. "Ichi and Mara. Ya happy?" The two had planned to arrive after Haru and Bea to avoid any suspicion, and they had texted him earlier to declare their arrival, having already arranged for where to meet, so that the three could figure out what to do next, where to go next. This involved the two of them just as much as it involved him. Surely Astra could back off knowing he was just meeting them.

He didn't miss the pitying look that took over in her eyes. "Look, Haru..." she began, holding a hand out to him, only to drop it and sigh in defeat. "Be safe. Okay?"

Haru tugged his mask back up and shrugged, not making any promises.

Chapter 13

Notes:

A certain someone is back and no one is happy with it.

Haru flicked on the lights.

The apartment was different since he had last been in. There was different furniture arranged in different ways since his last stay. A flat screen on a wall with a glass coffee table between it and a black couch. A mahogany dining table with four matching chairs. New paintings and photos on the walls, a potted plant by the window. It had only been a few years, but so much had changed.

“I’m home,” he whispered, his heart aching.

Slim arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind as a soft chest pressed against his back. “Welcome home,” Mara whispered into his ear.

Ichiro wasn’t as quiet or as tender as he roughly put a hand on Haru’s head and rubbed, ruffling his hair as he shouldered past the two. “Welcome back, pipsqueak,” he grinned, already undoing his tie and unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt as he collapsed onto the couch. “I don’t know about you, but I feel so much better now that I’m home again.”

Mara continued to hug Haru as she tutted at the older man. “Don’t get too relaxed, Ichiro. We’re not in the clear just yet,” she warned, and Haru could hear more than see the frown on her face as she hugged him tighter. “There’s a reaper in the city.”

A reaper.

Haru glowered as he pulled his gaiter off. He hadn’t forgotten, and he didn’t need the reminder. Having to sit by him and his weapons on the train had been bad enough. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t have to see that ugly face again.

He shut the door and turned on a light, making his way to the couch to join his brother, the movement having forced mara to let go of him, tugging his gloves off and tossing them onto the coffee table, letting his gaiter join it.

Mara took to sit beside him, Haru sandwiched between the two like how they did when he was a kid.

“How about I order pizza,” Ichiro offered, wrapping an arm around Haru to hold him against his side in something of a brotherly hug, taking the remote with his other hand and turning the television on. “Anchovies and mushrooms. That sounds good to you?”

“Take yer abomination elsewhere. I ain’t eating pizza with anchovies on it.”

“You’re the only one who would eat a pizza like that, Ichiro.”

The man laughed but didn’t argue, but he also made no move to get up and actually order a pizza. Instead he flicked through the channels, looking for something to watch, or at least to play so that there was something to do and distract themselves with.

While he did that, Mara moved to snatch Haru from him.

“It’s been a pretty stressful stretch, hasn’t it? But we all got here safe and sound,” Mara was as soothing as ever, hand on his arm and other running through his hair as she pulled him against her. “Are you okay being back here? Is Beatrice okay with living here for however long you plan to stay? She’s in a country she doesn’t speak the language of, I’m sure she must feel overwhelmed.”

“She probably is,” Haru sighed, leaning into her touch, feeling a wave of raw guilt wash over him for bringing Bea all the way here. He should have chosen an English-speaking nation, but he had panicked and Paris had seemed the safest choice, if nothing else but from the familiarity. “We’re fine. I’m fine. I’ve… I’ve been through worse, we both ‘ave. An’ I’ll do what I can ta help Bea adjust to bein’ out here.”

Hopefully, if they could get even a drop of luck, they wouldn’t have to live here for too long. A few weeks and then they can head up somewhere new, somewhere better. He much preferred small towns over sprawling cities anyway. They felt safer, fewer people meant fewer threats.

Ichiro shrugged as he turned the television on. “Why not take her down to Disneyland? It’ll be a fun place to let her unwind and forget what’s going on,” he suggested. “She’s still just a kid and kids love Disneyland.”

He hummed. It was something he had considered, but he was wary of doing so. The reaper and the weapons with him—or rather just that really chatty one that still made his head hurt—had talked about going there, too. He wasn’t entirely thrilled to go to the amusement park and risk running in to them again. He’d lucked that they didn’t recognize him on the train, having probably outrun the information spread. He didn’t want to press his luck in another confrontation.

But on the other hand, he wanted to take her there. Beatrice never got to go someplace fun like that before, she deserved to at least go to an amusement park once, and they were in the same city as one of the best.

He recalled all the times Ichiro and Mara took him there as a kid, all the time’s he’d take to the Tarzan attraction and climb the rope to the very peak, when he’d go on the rides with them and sit atop a Ferris Wheel eating cotton candy and watching a sun set—Ichiro was always great and expertly timing just when to get on it to be at the peak during the sun set. Haru remembered complaining when he couldn’t go on roller coasters with his brother because of his height, and Mara instead taking him to some other attraction that he would enjoy just as much.

It was always a fun experience and those trips had left him with good memories. Haru didn’t have many ‘good memories’, so what few he had were precious. It was an experience he wanted to share with his sister, give her those moments of magic that Mara and Ichiro gave him.

Who knew if they’d get another chance to?

Any day now police could be knocking on their door, taking Beatrice back to those demons in Pocklington and him to some prison. They’d no doubt never see each other again if that happened. He wanted to give her some fun memories to look back on if that ever happened.

Wanted her a chance to do things normal kids would do.

A finger poked his cheek. Ichiro leaned in close to him, poking again to drag Haru out of his thoughts.

“You’re making that sullen face again,” he said, another poke. “Come on, Akira, stop getting so lost in your own head.”

Haru’s response was immediate, brain focused on just that single word as his eyes snapped open and he smacked Ichiro’s hand away. “Don’t.” he growled, his heart beating loud in his chest as he let out an exhale of air in a low hiss between clenched teeth. “Never call me that. My name is Haru. Haru.”

Ichiro didn’t seem to mind the sudden wave of hostility as he smiled, lowering his hand to his lap and sharing a look with Mara. “Sorry, kiddo. Must be because we’re all together and home again. Falling back into old habits.” he said, sounding as far from sorry as possible. “But you need to understand, doesn’t matter what you change your name to, or how many times you change your identity; you’re always going to be my little Akira to me. A slip of the tongue is bound to happen from time to time.”

“Akira is dead.”

Haru glared at Ichiro as he said that, his fingers trembling and body shaking. “Akira. Is. Dead. So don’t ya ever fuckin’ call me by that name again.” He didn’t need the memories that came washing over him with the mention of the stupid name, didn’t need to be reliving through all those horrible moments. Whoever Akira was, that wasn’t him. Not anymore. That kid was dead.

Thin arms wrapped around his waist and Haru was pulled back against Mara, always an odd position considering how much shorter she was compared to him, but he nestled against her anyway, finding comfort in her hold.

“Let’s do something else,” her voice was gentle in his ears as her thin fingers tangled into his unruly hair. “Ichiro can go order that pizza for us, a normal pizza, and the two of us can watch videos on your phone. Does that sound like fun?”

Haru grumbled, sinking deeper into her hold. “That’s…fine,” he muttered after a pause. He didn’t have anything better to do with his time and gave Ichiro one last hard look. “No anchovies, mushrooms, or olives.”

His brother just laughed, pulling a phone from his pocket. “When did you become such a picky eater?”

There was no response and he walked off to another room to make his order as Haru and Mara cuddled on the couch, his own phone pulled from his pocket as he booted up the YouTube app.

They killed some time watching superhero physics explained, animal videos, and show scenes out of context. He even decided to dabble into Prager U videos just to feel the itch run across his flesh as his irritation at the stupidity grew. During that one, Haru couldn’t help but just thank whatever omniscient force that cursed him with life and sentience that he could keep his social interactions to the bare minimum. He didn’t know what he was going to do if he had to deal with people like that multiple times a day.

He sent a few texts to Astra, confirming that Bea was still fast asleep in his old room and watched a clip of a Zero Escape let’s play.

Eventually Ichiro returned with a box of pizza, Haru could smell it before he even came into the living room. The air filled with the smell of pepperoni, onion, and peppers, and his mouth salivated, though he did his best to keep a straight face and focus on the makeup tutorial they had landed on.

When his brother put the pizza box on the coffee table, Haru put his phone in his jacket and both he and Ichiro grabbed a slice, ignoring Mara’s indignation over them eating pizza on the couch without bothering with a plate. Well, Ichiro ignored her, Haru at least used one of the paper plates the pizza came with to rest his slice on as he ate. Which, well, was different problem.

Eating was hard.

That went without saying. He chewed and kept his head tilted to the left, doing his best to eat without making a mess, his neck quickly gaining an ache from the awkward angle he had to keep just to eat.

Honestly, Haru preferred soups and broths over solid foods, things that didn’t need to be chewed to be eaten. Those were easier to consume. Even if pizza was a tasty food, even if he liked onions and peppers. He had to wipe his face clean of saliva and drool between each bite, clean of the sauce and meat that didn’t go down his throat.

Mara and Ichiro said nothing. They didn’t judge him or question it. It made it easier for him to bring himself to eat in front of them.

When they had finished and thrown the trash out, Ichiro had stretched out across the couch and yawned. “We still need to figure out what to do next,” he said, looking at Haru as he said it. “We can’t have you going back to England any time soon. That’s for sure.”

“Maybe I’m sick o’ livin’ in England,” Haru shrugged. “Can move down ta Australia.”

Mara moved closer to him, wiping some wetness from Haru’s chin, “Let’s see what the news says. Maybe they haven’t said anything about you, yet,” she suggested and then laughed a little. “Plus, I don’t think either you or Beatrice would enjoy living in Australia.”

He hummed, neither agreeing nor denying her claim.

It was Ichiro who pulled Haru’s phone back up, nestling into his other side as he opened some app and began typing and scrolling the web, looking for any bit of news that might be covering what happened in Pocklington, any sort of update they might have on what’s going on over there and how it might affect them where they were now.

Eventually he found some news site, and that was when the metaphorical shit hit the fan.

Ichiro had found another of those Interpol press conferences, and at first Haru didn’t understand why Interpol was getting involved. This was two dead guys and a kidnapping. Did they already figure out he fled the country? How did they? Haru’s first thought was that the Reaper did recognize him and had alerted them—but if that was the case, the guy would have just come after Haru himself. That couldn’t be it.

It became clear quickly, though.

They weren’t marking Haru as ‘just a kidnapper’. This was bigger than that.

He stared at the photo of him that was frozen in the ongoing video. Taken before he’d gotten his hair cut after fleeing—a photo from the café. That one waitress who kept being a creep must have sent them one of the photos she snapped of him when she thought he wasn’t looking. Haruto Arakawa was printed in bold letters under his photo as the one lady who Haru understood to be the leader of the investigation team talked.

“We don’t quite know how he catches his victims or travels, we still suspect the involvement of a witch.”

“Though different from the usual method, there is too many similarities to pass off as a simple copycat.”

“We’ve an eyewitness who saw him fleeing the scene after the recent murders.”

“A grievous mistake that will let us catch him.”

“We will bring justice to all the families he has hurt.”

What was going on quickly became apparent as they continued to talk about him, about the murders, and his heart stopped, his breath catching in his throat.

Interpol was involved not because of kidnappings, not because they were pointing fingers at him for kidnapping Beatrice or attacking a DWMA agent and cop.

They were painting him as Suspect #1 for a goddamn serial killer.

 

Haru continued to stare at the livestream, the words replaying in his mind. He was a suspect for murder. For. Murder. Kidnapping he’d understand, because that was actually true, he was by definition a kidnapper, a child abductor. Assault and assaulting an officer? Sure, because why not get the blame for Ichiro knocking the two out. Double murder? That one didn’t compute. He didn’t kill anyone. He hadn’t killed anyone. He hadn’t killed those men.

They attacked him, they beat him, but Haru hadn’t killed him. That part hadn’t been him.

But of course he would be the suspect! They had a witness, after all, one who saw him covered in blood and being carried out by Ichiro.

They didn’t have any one else to point their fingers at, they were probably desperate to find someone to pin all this on. Of course it would be him they’d nail it to, he was the easy target right now!

Fuck. Fuck!

Haru was shaking, gripping his phone tighter and tighter as that bitch continued go on and on about the case, about how Haru was the one who killed the two in Pocklington. How he somehow managed to kill all those other people all over the globe for the last several years, never mind factoring in his age and how hard it would be for a kid to overpower grown adults on his own.

She just talked and talked, kept painting a picture of him with the Podcast Killer framed around him. Her words were confident and her argument convincing and Haru wanted to tear the hairs from his skull, his stomach churning, the need to puke growing stronger and stronger.

“Well, well, well! Now this is quite the mess, isn’t it?”

His panic was halted by a new and stronger feeling, one of absolute terror in the purest, rawest form.

A cold shiver ran down Haru’s spine as the room grew colder, the claws of fear taking hold of his heart and squeezing tight. Even Ichiro and Mara froze at the words, looking not at Haru but behind him, their faces twisted into something of anger and fear.

Rhythmic steps drew closer, audible taps of shoes on the hard floor with each step. Haru felt hot hands on his shoulders and a warm breath tickling his ear.

“Such a shame, isn’t it?” A breathy laugh whispered. “All these years and they still can’t get any of the facts right. Still don’t know anything about me. It’s just pitiful, don’t you think?”

Ichiro lunged forward, bounding over the couch as he did. “Get off him!” he snarled in fury as Mara took hold of Haru’s arm and tugged him back into her, holding him on her lap and against her chest, shielding him as if he were a child once more.

Laughter. Sickeningly jovial and carefree filled the apartment as Samael easily stepped back and evaded Ichiro’s swinging punch. His eyes were half-lidded in amusement as he danced around every following punch Ichiro threw, spinning and skipping about until the other man was exhausted.

“Now, now. Please, we aren’t barbarians,” Samael tutted, fixing his own tie and pushing some wayward strands of hair back behind his ear. “We’re respectable adults, there’s no need to resort to such crude violence.”

Mara scowled and held Haru closer. “You’re one to talk.”

The bastard only hummed as he weaved past Ichiro, coming to the couch once more and ignoring the snide remarks Mara made. He reached down to pick up the phone watching the stream. His smile remained, though it tightened significantly as he watched the press conference with a critical gaze.

Then he sighed in disappointment and dropped the phone back onto the couch. It bounced a few times before sinking between the cushions. Sighing again, he ran a hand through his own black hair and shook his head. “This is quite the predicament, now isn’t it? See, this is what happens when you kill with anger instead of love and passion.”

Haru pried himself off of Mara just enough to lean forward, her hands still held on to him, trying to pull him back against her and to hold him. “The fuck are ya doing here?” he demanded, growling out the words as he dug his nails into his thigh. “How did ya even find me?” That was also important to know.

The bastards smile was condescending as he walked around the couch to stand directly over Haru, bending over and putting a hand to his head, petting him like a goddamn dog. “I have my ways, puppy.”

Ichiro snatched him by the wrist and tore his hand away from Haru. He didn’t say anything, but the heated stare he gave Samael spoke volumes.

That smile fell into a scowl as Samael stared back at Ichiro and ripped his hand free, glowering at the man. “I would have liked to have chatted with you in privacy, without your entourage,” his red eyes fell back on Haru, “I suppose you can’t tell them to leave us be for a few minutes?”

“We’re not leaving Haru alone with you,” Mara warned, still holding Haru by the arm, ready to pull him back and away from the man.

Samael blinked and then let out a laugh, bringing a hand to his mouth as he stared at them, eyes wide with glee. “Haru? Haru? Puppy, are you running out of names to pluck from the hat?” he asked and laughed some more. “Haru. Haruto. Haruko. Not your best work recently, now is it? Especially not if you want to lay low.”

Ears reddening, Haru growled. He didn’t need to justify his choice in names, didn’t need to explain to him that it was for Bea’s convenience, so she wouldn’t have to relearn new names again and again. “Why the fuck are ya here?” he asked instead, repeating his earlier question.

Samael smiled, “Oh, hush puppy,” he ruffled Haru’s hair as he spoke, pulling his hand back just as quick to avoid Ichiro’s retaliation. “There’s no need to get snippy. Especially not when I’m here to help.”

“Help?” Ichiro crossed his arms over his chest. “How do you plan to help?”

Mara had her lips curled back in an ugly expression. “You’re the cause of all of this and now you say you want to help?”

As if they weren’t even there, Samael ignored their words to take a seat on the coffee table, now closer to eye level with Haru. “You’ve got yourself in some hot water, and I can’t have that, now can I?” he asked, leaning close to Haru, his smile growing in a playful manner. “I always take care of my pets, and you’re no exception.”

A pet.

Puppy indeed. That’s all Haru was, wasn’t he? A. Fucking. Pet.

His blood was boiling in anger as he snarled and shoved Samael away with hard shove to the chest. “I don’t need or want yer help,” he spat, the glob of spit landing on Samael’s expensive shoe. His body was shaking with rage as he stared at the dementated asshole, the freak of nature. “So you can take yer ‘help’ an’ shove it up yer ass an’ fuck off.”

Samael didn’t stop smiling despite it all, if anything it just grew, twisting wider and wider as he closed his eyes for a brief moment, and Haru realized the grave mistake he had made in that instant.

Faster than any one could catch, Samael had shot his hand forward to grab Haru by the face. Fingers digging in deep, his nails cutting like sharpened knives, digging in deeper and deeper, not caring for the slickness building up at the tips as Haru tasted his own blood on his tongue. The pain was horrible as Samael yanked him forward by the jaws, dragging him closer until their foreheads pressed together.

“I don’t think you understand,” Samael’s voice was the calm that came before a storm, his grip tightening. “You’re an international Most Wanted right now. That’s not just a meaningless title.”

His ruby eyes darkened dangerously. “More importantly. Most. Importantly. What you seem to forget so often? If you get in trouble, I get in trouble. We. Don’t. Want. That,” Samael laughed, sounding so joyous and innocent, as if he wasn’t capable of butchering Haru like a pig right there. “Let’s not forget that you are not completely without blame in this mess. I had told you to act as a witness who discovered the body so that you might be able to get away without suspicion. Instead you played the role of a suspect fleeing the scene like a guilty man. It’s no wonder they thought you to be the culprit.”

Still holding onto Haru’s face, Samael reached down to take Haru’s hand into his free one, rubbing his thumb over the rough, charred flesh that the gloves always hid. “You’ve been such a misbehaving dog as of late, it breaks my heart, you know?” he cooed in disappointment. “I do hope you haven’t forgotten what happens to cur who misbehave. Or do I need to remind you?”

He was shaking. Haru trembled like a leaf caught in the wind, barely hanging on to the tree, trying so hard to stay grounded and not get swept aside. But it was hard, it was hard. He couldn’t breathe, his mind full of pain, real and remembered, from the grip Samael had on his face, to echoes of the ‘reminders’ Samael had already etched into his body.

He was scared.

Of course Haru was scared. He was scared shitless by Samael, anyone who knew what the bastard was capable of would be. Didn’t matter how much bravado Haru tried to show, Samael saw through every bit of courage and confidence and tore it apart, always leaving him as a terrified kid.

He couldn’t even look away, Samael had his face held tight, forcing him to stare into bloody red eyes.

“Are you going to keep being stubborn, or will you start behaving?” Samael asked, lips curling around each word like a cat playing with a mouse. “Are you going to be a good boy?”

Haru sucked in a breath, it was the only way to hold back the terrified, ugly sob that wanted to escape his chest. “…Yeah…” he whispered and swallowed hard when Samael didn’t let go. “I’ll… I’ll behave.”

The hands holding him let go and instead moved up to rub at the top of his head affectionately. “Good puppy, I knew you weren’t a lost cause yet,” Samael praised. “You’ve just been stressed lately, I know, I know. Those DWMA agents have been bringing up some rotten memories by hanging around, and it’s just getting to you. So you don’t need to worry that pretty little head, your attitude is forgiven.”

Haru forced himself to not jerk away from the touch, instead occupying himself with rubbing his sore face, feeling the blood smearing onto his hand from where Samael held him. It ached.

“What’s…” Haru began, faltering, and swallowing hard once more to find his voice. “What’s this plan of yers.”

Samael chuckled as he picked the phone back up, pausing the livestream as it was focused in on the interpol team that had been playing this little game of chase he had started for the past few years. “Well, of course I first need to remind them of who they are dealing with. I think I’m going to give them a private show, one just for them.” The way his smile shifted, the malice that pressurized the air around him, Haru couldn’t help but pity those Interpol agents, feel sorry for what they were going to suffer at Samael’s hands.

It was clear that Samael had more planned, his smile stayed, he folded his hands together with the elbows on his knees. Sharp teeth peaked out from his parted lips as he breathed in deeply through his nose.

“I’ve been playing around, too. Looking into those two thuggish gorillas. It’s easy when you have their tattoos to help you look around. The design narrows down groups by meaning, and the chunks of flesh truly serve as intimidation.” Haru didn’t need the mental reminder Samael’s words brought back, he just had to close his eyes and he could see the man skinning the men who had attacked him, peeling away flesh and muscle from the body just to have the tattoos.

“Ya find anythin’ interestin’ from it?” Haru asked, swallowing back the bile the memory brought forth.

Samael chuckled, leaning forward. “Those two men have pointed me in the direction of a rather entertaining group,” he said simply. “Once I’ve finished playing around with Interpol, I plan to say hello to my new friends-to-be.”

Ah.

Haru recognized the expression Samael made now. This was a predator stalking his prey. Whatever those ‘friends-to-be’ were, whoever they were, it didn’t matter. It never mattered when Samael was involved because it always ended the same.

Pools of blood and a lot of dead bodies.

 

---

 

Hours later, well after the press conference finished, back in Pocklington, England deep into the night, or rather morning at that point, one would find Marion Deneuve at the alley where the two murderers were conducted. She was alone, under one arm copies of photos taken of the crime scene when responders first arrived, showing the body placement and the scene as it was before it had been touched and moved.

The alley was narrow and dark, a person could walk inside and easily be hidden from the rest of the street. Anything could happen in the alley and no one would see a thing. If this were a larger city, an alley like this would be an easy spot to grab and mug someone in.

But rather than a mugging, what happened was a murder.

Deneuve approached a wall and ran her fingers along the rough surface. Flashlight in her other hand, she shined it on the wall and stared at the splatter of dry blood. She had seen enough crime scenes that she knew that the formation of splatter was from a spray of blood. The killer would have had to have struck an artery, and by the formation, the man would have been close to the wall, if not pressed against it when stabbed.

She turned her gaze a bit further along the wall and stared at the scratches along it. Fresh. Possibly from the knife that killed them Wide swings that missed their target, almost like a madman rather than the sophisticated killer they were used to.

Shining the flashlight down, Deneuve followed the blood splatter until she reached the pool of dried blood on the ground and the white outline of the bodies. After the heart had stopped beating the bleeding would have slowed down considerable as the heart was no longer pumping blood through the veins. But with as many stab wounds as was inflicted on two large grown men, it had still left a considerable amount of blood on the ground.

There were a few footprints in the blood, but they soon disappeared as well. Perhaps the killer had changed shoes, or had used some means to clean the blood off his shoes as he continued. Maybe he didn’t even touch the ground as he walked, they lived in a world of magic and so Deneuve couldn’t rule out the impossible.

Moving the flashlight along the ground, Deneuve searched. What she was searching for, she wasn’t even sure herself. Something that the police may have missed. Something that could have been overlooked.

She reached closer to the wall once more and the quirked her brows together, kneeling down.

Small and easily missed, but there it was. Stuck in a glob of dried blood and something else, tinged red was a missed. She pulled out a tissue from her pocket and picked it up, bringing it closer to her face to examine.

A tooth.

Knocked from the mouth it looked. Longer than the average human tooth, pointed at the end. It was shaped more like that of an animals, but it wasn’t the right size to be from any that she knew of. Had it come from one of the victims? Or was it from the killer? It looked too fresh to have been there for long, so it was very likely to have been from one of them.

The lab would be able to give her better answers than her own guesses.

Wrapping the tooth up, she carefully slipped it into her jacket’s pocket to keep safe.

Deneuve straightened back up when she heard footsteps approaching and turned around, flashlight in hand still and other reaching for the gun holstered at her hip as she scanned the alley entrance.

A man was staggering towards her. He was older, stocky in build, his chin growing a scruffy beard just as dark as his messy hair. His steps were uneven and she at first assumed he was a drunk. But no…not drunk, or maybe the stagger not completely because of alcohol. Deneuve lowered her light as he got closer, seeing a fresh black eye on his face and a busted nose. He looked more like he was fresh out of a street brawl.

“Ma’am,” his voice was deep and rough with a slight slur to it, he moved quicker, almost tripping over his own feet. There was a wild look in his dark eyes as he got closer, wiping a glob of blood from his face onto the dirty and torn sleeve of his shirt. “My son, ‘ave you seen my son?” His voice was accented. German, Deneuve recognized.

Her body had a new tension rushing through it. She had almost forgotten in the chaos of the Podcast Killer that the murders weren’t the only problem Pocklington had been suffering, the town, and rather the area around it as well, have been victim to a string of kidnappings.

“Slow down, sir,” she reached to offer the man a hand to help steady him. “What happened?”

He took her hand in his own larger one and took a breath, grimacing with a look of pain on his face. “My son! My son’s fucking gone,” he said, swearing and shaking, “He’s, he’s wee high and looks like me, but he’s got his mama’s eyes. Nice and blue. He was wearing a Mickey shirt and a jeans. Have you seen him?”

Deneuve wasn’t a parent, but she understood the panic this man must have been feeling and did her best to try and calm him down. “I haven’t. When did you see him last? Where did you see him last?” She was trying to take control of the situation, get some answers so she could know how to help him best.

The German man pointed outside the alley. “We’re parked just a few blocks down at that pump station. We’re trying to get home, and I stopped to fuel up the car. While I was outside a pair of men came up and jumped me. I got knocked out,” he ran his free hand across his face, smearing blood into his hair and beard. “I could only have been out cold for five goddamn minute and when I woke up my boy was gone, snatched right out of the fucking car!”

This really was a kidnapping. If this happened only five minutes ago then they didn’t have much time. Especially not if these were the same kidnappers behind all the others.

Deneuve pulled her phone from her pocket, “They couldn’t have gotten too far, then. I’ll contact the police and have them set up a blockade,” she said, speaking quickly herself now as she turned the flashlight off. “We will get you your son back, sir.”

The man shifted, and Deneuve saw his expression change, the panic leaving, replaced by apprehension as he heaved a sigh. “Don’t bother. The fucking brat’s found his way back to me already.”

“What?”

Her phone was torn from her grip and tossed aside, and just as quickly was she herself grabbed from behind.

“So sorry for deception, my dear. I do hate lying, but sometimes a little farce is just necessary to make things go by quicker and smother,” a voice whispered in her ear, and Deneuve felt herself go cold. She knew that voice, had listened to it hundreds of times during the case, recordings, sure, but it was still that same voice.

A needle was driven into her neck and a few seconds later she felt her legs go numb, her mind quickly following.

The man behind her didn’t loosen his grip, holding her up against his own warmer body to keep her from falling to the hard ground.

“Now then, Caleb! Won’t you be a pal and take us out of here?” The command was uttered with that ever chipper tone, friendly and cheerful and frightingly contrasting.

Her vision was darkening, Deneuve lifted her head weakly as the man who had approached her—Caleb, she had heard be said, grunted, nodding his head with a sour look on his face. He held a hand out to the air and spoke. The words were German and incomprehensible to her sluggish mind.

Fingers curling as if wrapped around something, Caleb drew his arm back and, as if just peeling off a strip of wallpaper, tore through the air, creating a dark, pulsating rift in the space. The last of Deneuve’s consciousness slipped away as she was lifted completely up into her assailants arms, feeling him bounce and prance as he carried her through the rift, a humming a jaunty tune.

This was a kidnapping, Deneuve had been right about that, she just misunderstood who the victim was. 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Ashen