Whiskey Witches, F.J. Blooding [ap literature book list .TXT] 📗

Camera flash.

Woman. Caucasian. Mid to late twenties. Lacerations to her face and arms.

Camera flash.

Evening gown. Missing left shoe.

Camera flash.

The brand of a small, four-tiered candelabra about the size of a quarter magickally seared into her bare shoulder.

Shit.

Detective Paige Whiskey rose from a crouch at the victim’s right shoulder and scanned the area, tugging at her jacket. Red and blue lights beat against the downtown concrete and glass buildings. People stood on the other side of the police tape along the street, eager to see the catastrophic entertainment despite the deepening chill of spring.

Paige only had to ask herself one question: was this paranormal?

The answer was…maybe. It didn’t give off immediate “supernatural” vibes, but something was off.

The smell of rotting garlic and skunk spray. Sulfur.

Demons.

Crap. First case since she made it back from Louisiana and she caught a demon case? What were the chances?

A small, four-tiered candelabra mark on the victim’s shoulder caught her eye. She took a closer look and realized the skin was puckered slightly around the edges. A demon brand.

If this was a demon, she couldn’t hunt the thing, not with the door to Hell Sven had cast into her bones. Any demon within fifty feet of her would be drawn to possess her.

Great. She now knew about the paranormal and still couldn’t do anything about it.

Steve Barnsworth “Barn”, the coroner, stepped out of his van.

She was running out of time. It was time to dust off a few skills she’d used in Texas before she’d had her abilities locked away by the people she’d trusted most in the world.

Right. She switched over to her witch vision to see if there was anything there.

Like a red, glowing handprint on the side of a dumpster?

Yeah. Exactly like that. She walked to it, placing her fingertips on top the handprint. In Texas, she’d been able to use handprints like this that demons left behind to see what had been captured moments before the handprint had been left. She just hoped she still knew how to use this ability.

Energy sizzled through and around her, teasing at the ragged edges of the demon door inside her soul.

Damn that door. But it remained closed.

An image of the demon in its human host slammed in front of her mind’s eye.

Male. Ginger. Nice suit. Red tie. Oddly familiar.

The woman struggled. Her nails grew longer, developing almost into claws. She brought her knee to connect with his groin.

The demon didn’t even flinch.

The woman’s eyes flashed a blazing blue.

A bicyclist raced by.

The demon’s lips moved.

Then, the woman stopped, her eyes normal, her nails shorter than before. Her eyes lost their blaze as she stared up at him, her body slack. She just stopped fighting. She stood there, staring up into the thing’s face as it grabbed her head and broke her neck.

He then laid her down on the ground with care. The demon brought the woman’s fingertips to his lips and released them, glancing down the alley, his gaze colliding with Paige’s.

He pulled out what looked like a business card and slipped it under the victim’s right arm. His lips mouthed, “For you,” as though he knew she’d see it.

This demon had known she’d use his handprint to look at the memory? It had to know her. Was this Sven?

Paige broke contact and blinked several times to readjust her vision to her physical surroundings. She needed to get that business card the demon had left for her before Barn found it.

“Whiskey.”

Paige rubbed her eye with her knuckle, blinking off her witch vision, and turned back to the scene and the flashing lights.

Fingers gripped her shoulder, low level electricity shooting through her. “Paige, you all right?” Detective Tony Guerrerro, her partner for the past five years, almost looked like a hawk in this light, angular chin and nose, dark eyes focused intently on her despite the obvious distractions.

Act normal. She just had to act normal. “Hey, Tony.”

He leaned down, a bland expression on his sharp face. “You all right?”

Paige rose to her feet. “I’m fine.” She really wasn’t.

“You don’t look it.”

She flicked her eyebrows at him and walked back to the victim, intent on retrieving whatever note Sven had left for her. “Do we have identification?”

“Elizabeth Harwood,” he said. “Age thirty-two.” He shrugged, releasing a breath through his pursed lips. “Don’t have much more than that.”

“We know how she died,” Paige said, her tone grim as she knelt beside the victim’s right shoulder again. The demon mark annoyed her. Sven hadn’t left one before, so why would he start now? And why this one? Wouldn’t his be seven tails? “Broken neck.”

“Always happy to witness keen observation.” Barn didn’t look up from his examination. “Good to see you back, Whiskey.”

“Good to see you, too.” Paige studied the victim’s nails without touching. Had she really seen what she thought she did? Had her nails really had turned into claws? Was she a demon as well? What demon did she know of that grew claws? None.

So, paranormal creature? Werewolf, maybe?

That couldn’t be, though. They were a myth. This wasn’t some book. Witches, demons, and angels were real. The rest?

Tony knelt beside Barn. “Broken neck? How do you come up with this crap, Whiskey? Visions?”

She ignored him and leaned down as if examining the victim’s arm.

“Without your hands,” Barn reminded.

When she’d first come to Denver, Barn wouldn’t let her anywhere near the body until he was done. Procedure. That’s how things were supposed to be. However, she’d befriended him somewhat. She knew his favorite sandwich, his favorite soccer team, and his favorite ice cream. She also followed protocol on everything else, so he trusted her.

Which was good. There were times when she needed that. Like now.

With Tony and Barn focused elsewhere, she slipped her fingertips under the victim’s bare arm and discretely pulled out the card, flipping it into her palm. “Hey, Barn. What do you make of this mark?”

He shrugged. “I’ll have to get her to my lab. Run some tests. Fake tattoo, maybe?”

Paige bit her