Page 53 of From the Shadows

Excessive bleeding.

>Causes of…

Anticoagulant.

>Toxins used as …

>Injections that could cause…

I paused before hitting enter on that last one and, after a moment, typed “for book research.” I don’t know if that made a bit of difference in the grand scheme of things, but I figured if the SBI, FBI, or CIA were looking too closely at my searches, it couldn’t hurt.

I didn’t like what I saw. Didn’t like the images those searches brought up. That was the stuff of nightmares. After tossing and turning for half the night, I finally dozed off only to wake to the feel of something sliding along my forearm. Something whisper soft but with a distinctive heft that had me jumping from my bed terrified.

Fun fact: When a person is exhausted and emotional and has overthought things that should never even be considered in the first place and has a very specific phobia… they should not fall asleep with their hair twisted into a thick flat braid.

It’s far too serpentine.

Too...

It’s awful. It’s just awful.

Because I know what the real thing feels like on my arm, and in my dream state—nightmare reality, hypnogogic phase—my braid was a scaled, slowly slithering monster coming in for the kill.

I have lived my entire life with literally almost no interactions with those things, and now they seem to be everywhere. Infiltrating not just the sacred space of my home and garden, but spilling—again, literally—into my work life as well.

But to consider that as a possibility? It’s too horrific and way too freaky a coincidence.

Medical intervention would be far more convenient. Easier for me to accept and deal with. But exploring that means asking an actual doctor, because the search engines only got me so far.

Unfortunately, the only doctor I can really pose such questions to is the last person I want to spend any time with. I just hope he’s at the estate today, because if I have to be in his presence, I want it to be with people I know and trust within shouting distance.

Safely tucked in my house, I scan the path to my garage and see nothing nefarious. A couple of big bracing breaths as I hop on my toes like a prize fighter preparing for a title fight gives me the bravado to open the door and step onto the patio. Another glance, and I run for it.

I’m sure I make for a comical sight to anyone looking as I practically dance through each step of gaining access to my van before I’m seated securely inside, locks engaged, the tiny can of pepper spray I found in a kitchen drawer held at the ready. As if releasing that inside the confines of my van is a solid plan.

But no one’s watching me. No one is parked at the curb, no matter how creepy that idea is, clocking my movements. Because Officer Dustman was reduced to goo.

Goo that stained the floor of my van. A stain that sent Eddie to la-la land. A trip that reminded him exactly what my real job entails.

I roll down the driveway following the mental trail of fuckery, spending the drive to Robicheaux estate overthinking what each stop on that trail means. And I roam through the house looking for my least favorite person to voluntarily spend time picking his brain for possibilities and predilections of...

I heave out a sigh.

Then… gasp for air when the man himself steps out of the shadows.

“Jesus, you scared me,” I say, palm to my sternum.

Instead of apologizing or doing anything socially acceptable after nearly scaring the shit out of a person, Hibou’s mouth lifts into an uncomfortable smile. It’s only there for a moment before he adjusts it to something less terrifying.

“What brings you to the estate on this lovely day?” He asks it with an air of ownership, like the estate is his. Like the possibility I could be scraping his pieces and parts off the floor isn’t a thing.

I swallow, noting that pride and nausea are currently bitter bedfellows. “I have some medical questions I want to ask you about.”

Glee pulls at his features contorting the uncomfortable smile to its much worse version. “Come to my wing. We can speak privately there.”

Yeah, that’s not going to happen.

“No. No… it’s nothing pertaining to me directly. It’s more work-related. General questions on blood and tissue and substances that might alter their state.” I walk to the kitchen, hoping he follows and hating that I just turned my back to him.