Erin woke up to the chilly, Oregon morning in her own cold sweat.
Drops rolled down her forehead, clinging to her skin as if it were a last ditch effort to keep themselves present in her mind. She could see the viscera branded on the back of her eyelids, forcing her stomach to clench and wane. There was the struggle to get to the bathroom before retching over the toilet bowl, the smell of iron still engulfing her senses.
That poor, damned were. She saw the people in hoodies with those abyssal knives ripping her skin as she shrieked for help, but all the words that came from her slit throat were gurgles and whines. Every stroke of their blades was nearly art, and when they punctured her artery it sprayed blood like it was paint.
Erin sat back on the cold tile and flushed the toilet, her breathing shaky as well as it was labored. She left Atlanta behind for Portland, but the dreams were following her. Oracle dreams. Dreams of death and decay, and at any moment now her phone would ring in the middle of the night and say what she was thinking.
On cue, her phone was buzzing. Erin lifted herself up to limp to her bed in her cramped studio, squinting at the neon text of her superior.
“Hello?” Her throat stung from bile. “It’s—Damn, it’s 3am. What is it?”
“I think you know why I’m calling.” She could hear other cops in the background. Murmurs, distinctions to stay away from a crime scene. The lone siren in the night.
“Is it a woman?” She tried to close her eyes and focus on the face, past the rain of the dream, the blood, the gurgling cry for help. “Late thirties, a were—”
“You already know. No point in trying to get out of this one, Loxias.”
She resisted groaning into the phone. She hung up the phone after confirming the location of the killing, getting into the shower and dressing up before speeding to the scene of the crime.
It had been more gruesome in her dream as the blood was not misting the air as the morning dew was doing. Police tape quartered off the alley, paralleled by two cars sitting on either side to prevent anyone from entering as a deterrent. Erin could see a few forensic investigators out with their flashlights and hazmat suits, taking inventory of what little evidence was present at the scene.
She caught the eye of her superior putting out his cigarette into the wet street, and she met him with a grim look on his face.
“Angela MacArthur.” He blew out the remnants of his wasted smoke into the crisp morning. “Were. Registered with the city. But there’s no murder weapon—no knife, no bullet casings. Nothing that would show that it’s… this.”
Erin could see the circle of blood surrounding Angela’s body. She bit her tongue with her molars, sucking in her teeth as she crossed her arms. “Because they were summoned daggers.”
“You sure?”
“You already told me I knew who died, so—what—do you think I’m making this up now?” She hated the way her tone came off as defensive, but it was with good reason. “There were three of them. Wearing hoods—street clothing. Wielding abyssal knives. Do you think I make this shit up for fun?”
“Fine—fine. Go on then.” He waved his hand in dismissal to her, trying to put it out of his own mind. “You’re the damn oracle, not me.”
“It’s the AOS. Not me.” She was half tempted to sneer at him, but he was already in a piss-poor mood. “I’m going to see what I can dig up about Miss MacArthur.”
“Don’t do something stupid.”
“I’ll see it coming.” Erin turned to catch a cab to one place she knew she would find answers for a town’s supernatural: a clinic.
***
Erin gave a nod to the secretary as she shut the door behind her, hands shoved into her jacket as she looked at the meticulously clean office of the warden of the outreach center — Dr. Glaukopis.
There was not a speck of dust on the bookshelves nor the keyboard of her desktop. Her eyes flicked to the clean walls with several diplomas — Doctorates, Masters — all lined up like little trophies. Other than the frames, Erin couldn’t deduce more of her personality other than being extremely focused on cleanliness and education. Nothing stuck out to her decoration wise to give her an in on who to expect.
Erin circled the desk, looking over the crisp and tiny writing on a legal pad. She squinted at the strange lettering, a free hand rubbing her forehead.
Greek. The Hellenic language was leaping off the page at her. It was possible this doctor was just a non-sup with an interest in supernatural aspects, even a sorcerer. Casting in an older language rendered stronger spells than those cast in English. Erin’s lips twisted into a frown. It wouldn’t be the first time she was exposed to such things.
She forced herself to look away from the writing and analyze the rest of the desk despite the urge to translate whatever had been written, an instinctual calling back to her cursed nature. She looked over the pens: sorted down to the exact shade of ink. Trailing them past the computer with a sleek monitor, she finally settled her sights to a crisp, black frame on the corner of the desk, along with a single downy feather encased in glass.
Her brows shot up in surprise, Changelings were rare anywhere you went, and having a photo of one in their given face was like that of finding an authentic chimera fang. It was a family portrait of some kind; in the Changeling’s arms was a swaddled bundle, and a strange, human-like bird perched on her shoulder.
Harpy.
Erin’s blood ran cold. A harpy fledgling was never too far from her mother.
“I see Samantha let you in.”
She snapped her head up, and she felt a twinge of pain at how quickly she moved. Orange, predatory eyes looked down at her. Erin backed up slowly, removing one of her hands to extend it to the other woman. Instead of shoes, all she could think about were taloned feet flexed against the carpet. Sharp, known to peel the skin from any man that wandered too deep into their territory.
“Detective Loxias. You must be Doctor Ourania Glaukopis.”
The woman did not return her hand.
“I don’t know if you’re new, but I don’t speak to the police.” Her eyes bore into Erin’s, immaculate nails smoothing down her blazer. “I have patient confidentiality to uphold. You don’t have a warrant.”
Erin dropped her hand. “I don’t work on the force. And I don’t need a warrant.”
“Then why has a detective wandered into my office? Why haven’t you had a seat yet and remained patient?” Dr. Glaukopis swept past her, sitting in her desk chair. Erin couldn’t help but notice the fact that she hadn’t blinked yet.
“I wanted insight on a couple things.” Erin shifted her weight, crossing her arms over her chest. She dropped her own notepad onto the chair facing the desk. Body language. “I’ve reopened a cold case regarding the death of Sir Adam Creswell. Something I’m sure you’ve heard of.”
“You’re that oracle that’s been hired on, aren’t you?”
Erin stiffened. That haunting word, the one that followed her from New Haven all the way to Portland. The one that carried a burden of dreams and pain and the contempt of someone who was delusional, filled with outrageous fortune, and a sense of self righteousness. Something that Erin would give anything to prove wrong, and instead offer them the crippling migraines and seizures every time one of her visions came about. But as people talk, it must have gotten around fast.
“If that’s what you want to call me, sure.” She took her notebook into her lap and crossed her legs as she sat down into the squashy chair. “Like I said, I’m not looking for any of your clients. Just some insight, Doctor.”
Dr. Glaukopis finally blinked. “I’m not sure what I can tell you that you don’t already know. Sorcerers don’t come to my center often – it’s usually reserved for Were and Vampire support. The occasional other Supernaturals as well.” She shook the mouse and the computer flicked on. “Fey, Chimeras… those with AOS.”
“I’m not here to talk about my own problems—” Erin waved her hand, but put the information away for the meantime. “You do offer support to Sorcerers though, right? You know how they work?”
“Of course.” The doctor’s tone hadn’t dropped its annoyance. “When they’re burnt out from their patron or magical source, they come here looking for a prescription and they’re promptly turned away. Most go to the apothecaries in town to get supplements. I offer zero recourse here. This is an outreach center, not a drugstore.”
“So, would it be easier to get an answer out of one of those?”
“Unlikely.” Dr. Glaukopis’s desktop screen reflected in her eyes as she perused what Erin could see to be as a file directory, but the words were too small for her to even glean what they said. “They value their clients’ privacy – something I imagine you know all too well.”
Erin suppressed a sigh, not sure how to even begin the trail again. She wasn’t going to comb through every apothecary in town. How many new-age ones had popped up over the course of a month? How many were run by actual sups who knew the legitimacy of spellcasting? And how many would try to upsell her on teas for her headaches, claiming bad karma or some other reason.
“That case’s been closed for years. Why open it back up?”
Her shoulders sagged as she rested her elbows on her knees. “Looked through the clues. Had a prophecy about it. Then some Were winds up dead and it’s done the same damn way as a man who died over twenty years ago.” Leaning forward, her hair falling from the messy bun as she closed her eyes. The sight had haunted her dreams as of late. “Same summon. Same ritual ring. Same fuckin’ sorcerer.”
“… I see.”
The two of them waited in silence for a long time before the printer next to Erin sprung to life, chugging along until it spat out a piece of paper. “That’s a list of the next open sessions I’m having at the center. I’m not saying you’ll learn anything you don’t know, but I haven’t had a sorcerer in a session for years.”
It was a gesture that was unexpected but appreciated nonetheless. “Thanks, Doctor.”
Dr. Glaukopis raised her hand, a graveness about her. “I know the Were that died. Angela. She was troubled, and knowing that her murderer is out there and is still killing… I implore you to be resourceful.”
“I will.” Erin reached for her own pen and tore off a sheet of the notebook, scribbling down her number and offering it out to her. “If you hear anything, if you see anything – this is my personal cell. I’ll keep you updated if I learn anything too, alright?”
The doctor leaned back in her chair, crossing one feathered leg over the other. “I’ll keep in touch, Detective.”
