Unchained

Chapter Two

“All available units, we have a ten-one-oh-three, possible ten-one-oh-three-M at Ritchie’s Liquors in the Seventh District.”

Sighing wearily, Officer Michael Cons radioed in. “This is unit seven-fifty. Please be advised I’m near that location.”

He waited for the endless crackle to clear. “Ten-four unit seven-fifty,” said the muffled voice. “Caller states he heard someone behind his business screaming prayers. He went outside but didn’t find anything. He’d like an officer to check out the area.”

Michael’s eyebrows rose. Great—just perfect. This night couldn’t get any better. “Ten-four.”

As soon as he put the microphone down his cell rang. He slid it out of the sun visor, not even checking to see who was calling. “What?”

“Sounds like you got yourself a crazy or a drunk, rookie.”

He flipped on the lights and turned the cruiser around. “My kind of luck, Cole. I’ve already had three drunk-and-disorderly calls, two domestics, and a woman claiming her cat had tapped her phones.”

Laughter sounded. “What?”

“I’m not fucking kidding you.” He glanced at the street signs. “The lady wanted the Pentagon Police since it was an issue of national security.”

“Man, tough night.”

“Yeah, it’s been one of those nights.”

Michael wasn’t joking, either. His partner, Rodriquez, called off the shift, claiming swine flu or mad cow disease—whatever. The damn calls had been coming in nonstop, and the nutcases were out in force. This was one of those nights when he seriously wished he’d stayed at his desk job, one that had been far away from the crazy public.

He squinted at the bright neon lights of Ritchie’s Liquors as he parked the cruiser. “I’ve gotta go check this shit out.”

“Sure man,” responded Cole. “Have fun with your praying drunk.”

“Screw you.” Michael shoved the cell back into the visor and unclipped the duty flashlight as he radioed in. “Ten-ninety-seven.”

Michael didn’t bother going into the liquor store. He skirted around the dilapidated building, entering the mouth of the narrow alley. Immediately the smell of rotting food and urine filled his nostrils. There went his appetite.

He moved the light over the numerous black garbage bags. “Hello? This is Officer Cons. Anybody here?”

The only sounds were the thugs from across the street and the passing cars behind him. Wishing he could somehow not breathe in the rank smell, he ventured deeper into the darkness and peered into one of the Dumpsters.

His hand dropped to his gun as his sensitive ears picked up a noise to his left. “This is the police. Show yourself now!”

Under the yellow glare of the light, the boxes wobbled before scattering across the dirty gravel. Several rats scurried out from the mess. He grimaced. Damn, he hated rats.

Slowly a bright orange shirt appeared, then dirtied blue jeans. Michael stepped back as the form staggered to its feet. The gray-tinted curls and the slack, wrinkled face of an old man came into view. His eyes held that glazed-over appearance drunks favored.

Michael relaxed. “Sir, this is the police. Are you doing okay?”

The old man glanced down at his shirt and let out a choked laugh. He ran his hands over the Washington Nats emblem. Part of Michael pitied the old man for various reasons.

“Sir”—he tried again—“how much have you had to drink tonight?”

After examining his own clothing, the old guy finally looked up at him. “Drink?” he asked, his voice gravelly with age.

Michael nodded as he placed the flashlight under his arm and took a step forward. “Sir, do you have any family I could call? Someone who could come get you?”

The old man eyed him strangely and then smiled. Flashing a row of yellowish teeth, he launched at him.

Unprepared for the sudden attack, Michael stumbled backward. Before he could recover, the old man was on him. Using shocking strength, the elderly male wrapped one bony hand around his throat and tossed him several feet.

Michael slammed into the brick wall and slid down. A brief surge of panic shot through him as he recalled the hours of training meant to prepare him for all the random shit one came into contact with on the street, but this…this was different. He struggled to his feet just as the old man backhanded him against the wall, cracking his head in the process. Dazed, he tasted blood on his lip.

The man bent down, a greasy lock of gray hair falling across his face. He picked Michael back up by the throat, dangling him several feet off the ground. “Officers of the peace are always my favorite to kill or turn.”

Gasping for air, Michael pried on the old man’s bony fingers. The pint-size grandfather held him, all six feet and then some, suspended in air. No amount of training at the academy could have prepared him for this. To be honest, he’d never been this scared shitless before. Not even when, at the age of six, he found his mother dead from self-inflicted slits to her wrists.

The man brought Michael’s head close to his and laughed. His heart slammed painfully against his ribs as the man brought his head close and laughed, the raw sewage and sulfur stench of his breath engulfed him. Week-old vomit or rotten meat smelled better than this.

Then he saw his eyes. A black, frothy liquid seeped from the corners and spread over the whites of his eyes, covering the dull blue irises. Terror turned Michael’s flesh cold. He knew he was going to die. Here, in a rat-infested alley in Anacostia, murdered by a deranged nursing-home patient. He reached for his gun, but it was too late. Just as he took what he knew would be his last breath, he heard something land softly behind the old man. Without warning, the grip on his throat was released.

Michael crumpled to the dirty alley, clutching his bruised throat. Even in his shocked state, he registered the silver dagger that pierced through the man’s chest, right through the heart. A wound like that should have been a bloody mess, but there was no blood. Not even a trickle.

The dagger retracted quickly, and the man slumped to the ground in a lifeless heap. Only a whisper of air reminded him he was not alone. Climbing to his feet, he leveled his gun at his would-be rescuer.

A young woman stood in front of him. She was a tiny thing, with snapping, angry green eyes and a head full of auburn waves that fell past her breasts.

“I just saved your ass, and you’re going to shoot me?”

For a moment he did nothing, and then he sputtered, “What the hell just happened?”

The woman glanced down at the body and then slowly back at him. “What does it look like?”

Michael shook his head as he reached for his handcuffs. “All right, you’re under arrest. Drop your weapon now, and put your hands up!”

The feisty little redhead snickered, holding up her hands. “What weapon?”

His gaze darted over her hands. They were empty. The only thing he noticed was two wide silver cuffs adorning both wrists. “Where’s the knife?” he demanded through clenched teeth. “The knife you used to kill the man!”

She dropped her hands to her hips. “You mean the man who was choking the life out of you?”

“Show me the weapon now.” He reached for his shoulder radio, needing to call this in. A would-be murderer and a murderer. There was going to be a crap-ton of paperwork to do tonight.

She simply scowled at him. “You know, I really don’t have time for this.”

His gun lowered a fraction of an inch. “What?”

That was all she needed. She moved lightning quick. Before he could squeeze off a round, she knocked the gun out of his hand with her forearm and punched him right in the jaw.

His head snapped back, but not before he caught the startled look on her face, and as he slipped into oblivion he heard her shout, “Crap!”

…

Lily stared down at the young officer, astonished and more than a little disturbed. Nervously wiping her hand across the front of her white tank, she stepped back. The minute her hand had connected with his flesh, she had known.

Damn it all to Hell. And she’d bet her rosy left butt cheek from the way he froze in front of the deadhead, he had no clue what he was. Cursing again, she pulled out her beat-up cell from her back pocket and dialed Luke.

He answered on the second ring. “What up?”

“We’ve got an epic problem in Anacostia. I need you and Remy now. You better call Nathaniel, too. This is going to involve the police.”

“Aw man, Lily. What the hell did you do now?”

Lily rolled her eyes, clicking the phone shut without answering. She nudged the cop with the tip of her boot. Yep, he was out cold and not coming around anytime soon. Squatting, she studied his lax face.

“Crap. Crap. Crap,” she hissed.

It wasn’t like she’d known when she punched him. She wouldn’t have if she did. On second thought, she probably would’ve still clocked him. But she may have softened the blow a little if she’d realized he was one of her kind.

A Nephilim.