One

BROWN RESIDENCE, BUCKHORN, ARIZONA

Sera stared at her fingernails, picking at the chipped red paint and wondering how in the hell to interview a murder victim’s sister. “How do I get myself into these things?” She flicked the cherry apple flecks at the dashboard and leaned her skull back against the headrest. Remembering exactly how she ended up in this suburban neighborhood, procrastinating in the morning sun shifted her thoughts to seven days earlier. And a conversation she couldn’t forget.

“Don’t you think people deserve the truth?” That line had gotten her into this mess in the first place. One week ago, she’d won a huge bet with her favorite poker buddy, who also happened to be the county medical examiner. When he couldn’t cover his bet, he gave her a prize of equal value—the unlisted office number of Special Agent Talon Rede, team leader for the Paranormal Crimes

Division in the district. She’d been after an inside connection to the PCD for months. He knew the weakness and played his hand well. Information proved the ultimate jackpot, far more than any dollar amount. The journalistic philosophy accounted for her not big enough to be called a studio apartment and the meager double digits in her savings. The phone number almost made up for her severe lack of closet space. Her fingers couldn’t whip over the touchscreen fast enough.

“Agent Rede, you can’t possibly believe releasing these ridiculous tidbits of information is fair to the public.” The accusation had flown a few seconds past the initial greeting of, “Hello. I’m Sera Benenati. A reporter. Don’t hang up.” The collar of her button down blouse irritated her neck. When he’d stayed on the line, she dug in. “The more the people know about these crimes, the safer they’ll be.”

His silence dragged on, and then, he growled. “Well now, this should be interesting.”

She’d been instantly intrigued. His strong velvety voice did something to her insides. Donning her most professional tone like armor, she said, “What’s interesting is the way the PCD dodges every reporter’s questions about the Rodriguez case.”

“Sweetheart, you can ask me anything you like.” His pause spoke louder than his words. “But, if I think for a second my answer will put more people, the public, the same citizens this office protects in danger, you’re damn right the only phrase you’ll hear is ‘no comment’.”

“Wow.” She hadn’t meant to let it slip, but his honesty and boldness impressed the hell out of her. “You always this straight forward?”

“What you see is what you get.”

“But, I only hear you, Agent Rede.” She could almost envision his grin over the line, picturing it in her mind and imagining the man behind the voice.

“For now, Ms. Benenati. But, I doubt you give up easily.” Another heavy pause. “Am I wrong?”

“Not on your life.”

They’d traded barbs for almost an hour after, each striking and dodging in turn. She never did get more from him on the case, but it ended up her poker pal had the scoop. Another game, three days later, and she had the details she needed. Only now, she couldn’t get the special agent out of her head.

“Stupid. You never even met the guy!” Yet, it didn’t seem to matter. Her cheeks heated whenever she thought about their one phone call—a conversation she replayed over in her head far too many times. It’d been forever since a man had captured her attention so much. Hell, had any man ever fascinated her like Agent Rede? But, when the conversation had ended, he didn’t ask for her number and she hadn’t called him back. Better to keep the fantasy than be disappointed with reality.

Sera sighed and flipped down the visor to check her makeup. The foundation she’d spent way too much on flaked in the heat and the simple lipstick she’d chosen to look “professional” clashed with her hair. Worse, the nail polish she’d been picking at as she killed time in the car made her fingers look like bloody stumps.

“Perfect.”

Resigned, she flicked off the dried red polish and hopped down from her Jeep 4x4. With the victim’s file clutched to her chest, she hurried to the house. Her heels clicked over the endless cement driveway. She’d read the medical examiner’s report—the latest aforementioned poker prize— six times. Details of the crime remained hidden away from the press, but with this, she’d been able to uncover the crucial facts. She flipped through her notes for the seventh time as she walked.

Victims, Juan and Margaret Rodriquez, aged 32 and 29 respectively and registered as humans, were found dead in their home. Bite marks and bruises on the victims’ arms and legs show signs of a struggle, but no foreign DNA fibers could be identified. Reports of similar blood and tissue loss from attacks by unregistered SUBs are on file, but no suspect type can be recorded without further analysis. See appendix on supernatural or undead beings for possibilities.

Her hands started to sweat. “This is what you wanted, remember?” She tucked the file under her arm and wiped her palms on the hem of her pencil skirt. “A chance to prove yourself, to be a real reporter. No more gossip mags or d-bag bosses.”

The little voice in the back of her mind started screaming, the bastard echoing her fears. You should be nervous, pet. After all “Man gives Birth to Two-Headed Alien” and “Tractor Comes to Life Killing Farmer” don’t exactly put you up for a Pulitzer. Rubbing her temple, she mouthed a silent, “Shut up.” Over the last eight years, she’d fought to tune out the annoying monster, the secret she’d had to keep from everyone. It was part of— okay, maybe more than part of—the reason she hadn’t contacted the special agent again. How could she have a relationship with anyone when she had this thing in her head?