One

Inside the hotel room, the air smelled of cigarettes and death.

Oliver raised his eyes to the ceiling, his spade-tipped tail flicking back and forth between his legs. A cigarette dangled from his index and middle finger, limp. The end was lit, casting a small red light into the darkness around him. Ash and dust descended in the room like snowfall.

"What a waste," he said with the shake of his head. He tapped the cigarette against his thigh and brought the unlit end to his lips. A blood-curdling smell filled the room, nearly rivalling the scent of the stick in Oliver's hands. The smell of decay.

On the bed, a young girl was sprawled out, her hands handcuffed to the headboard and her ruby hair splayed around her body. Her clothes were practically nonexistent, shredded nearly everywhere except for over her chest and over the cavern between her legs. On her stomach, the word whore was written in thick red lettering.

What was worse for her, though, was the heavy score across her neck. Red pooled around her chin, thick and deep in color. If he pricked his ears hard enough, Oliver swore he could hear the last drops of her life-force hit the wooden floorboards around the bed.

But maybe this was an imagination. Oliver took another drag of his cigarette before crushing it under his foot. His boots sizzled with the action as flame met wood and rubber and was quickly extinguished.

Oliver lifted his nose to the air and took a heavy sniff. Blood. And, he noted as he sniffed again, sex.

Imagination or not, Oliver puffed out his collar and approached the bedside and with a final exhale, dug one hand into his right pocket and pulled out his gloves. Now, he mused as he ran his long fingers along the girl's cheek, the investigation can begin.

He gasped as pain shot up his arm. His nails elongated, stabbing straight through the latex on his hands and piercing the air. Deep red in color, they stirred the dust when Oliver raked his hand through the air.

Perfect.

Oliver started first with the silk tie around the woman's wrists. The fabric shredded in his hands, leaving red ribbons on his palms. Before him, the woman's hands fell, one to her temple. The red of her nails made her skin seem all the more grey.

So much red in this room... Oliver swiped his tongue over his lips, tasting the blood in the air and shivering with delight. So much red. So much blood. His stomach dropped as the urge to devour the woman swept through him. With shaking fingers, he reached into his trench coat pocket and pulled out his pack of Marlboros. He shook the box, hearing the cigarettes rattle inside, before flicking open the lid with his thumb nail and pulling out a stick with his teeth. After returning the box to his pocket, he lit the cigarette with the tip of his thumb and a muttered curse.

A sense of calm washed through him after the first exhale of smoke. Now he could begin his work.

A piercing shriek emanated from his pocket, interrupting his thoughts. Oliver sighed, exhaling thick grey smoke from his mouth before reaching again into his pocket. His flip-phone shook in his hands, sending shivers through him as he flipped it open and pressed the button.

"Eh, yullo?"

"We got a new one."

Oliver bit the end of his cigarette, feeling the padding shred in his teeth. With a growing sense of annoyance, he took another drag before replying. "You do realize I just got to the hooker's apartment, right?"

"Er..."

"Oh, rest your nerves, Sullivan. I'm not paying her. She's dead."

Silence. Oliver could barely suppress his amusement as he continued.

"No, I'm not into that creepy necrophilia shit. It's that case from this morning, remember?"

"Er... that's right."

"And now you're telling me I have to drop this case and go chase some other one?"

Sullivan sighed, his heavy exhale filling Oliver's ears. He took another drag as he waited.

"One moment." Papers rustled. Sullivan messed with his wrist-watch (Oliver could hear the metal click together). A pregnant pause later, Sullivan coughed and muttered to himself.

"Right. Finish up there ASAP, if you could. This one is pretty important."

"More important than a potential serial killer?"

"Well, this one is, too—"

"Whatever, Sully. What's this 'new case' of yours, anyway?"

"Remember the therapist that had her head smashed in? There's another one."

Oliver tipped the phone away and spat. "Head smashed as well?"

"Yeah... and some lacerations to match. Think this one struggled."

"And this couldn't wait... why?

"Well... There was some common attendees between him and the last therapist. The last one died a week after one girl visited, and she only saw her once."

Oliver shrugged before, upon realizing that Sullivan couldn't see the gesture, speaking again. "Alright. Who are the common denominators?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. There's quite a few of them. I'll have them all printed out for you by the time you get here."

"Excellent. Thank you. May I get back to the hooker now?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll be here waiting."

"Thanks."

Oliver snapped the phone shut with a huff, stuffing it into his pocket and looking back to the dead girl on the bed. His tongue ran over his lips once more.

At last we are alone.

He set to work first on pulling her away from the headboard, watching her hair fan out around her body and tangle. Her tattered clothes ripped and fell away, leaving her bare before him.

"You know, it's a damn shame you died," Oliver told her. He grabbed her hands and arranged them over her chest before moving to her face. Brushing stray strands away, he trailed his fingers over her eyes and drew her eyelids shut. Her eyelids were black, covered in a thick layer of shimmery eyeshadow.

"I'll be honest, though. You look tacky as hell." He chuckled to himself and wound one lock of hair around his finger. "That's the perks of being a prostitute, though, eh?"

Oliver dropped her hair before running a hand down her arm. With his free hand, he pulled a small grey box from his pocket. He brought it to his lips.

"Caucasian female. Presumably around twenty-five years old. Several lacerations on the stomach and arms. Phrase on the abdomen, another on the inside of the right thigh. Hair intact. Was found tied to the bed. Time of death..." He paused, reaching back for her hair and winding it around his finger once more. Oliver's claws, still extended, snagged on the strands. "Time of death estimated around ten hours ago. She was found like this by hotel staff. Name is Rouge. At least, that's what the room was booked under."

After several moments, Oliver stepped away and stuffed the box back in his pocket. His tail flicked back and forth, though whether in agitation or anticipation, he wasn't quite sure. With one final look to the girl, he turned on his heel and left the hotel room. Dust and ash fell like snow in his wake.

#

When Oliver looked up that evening, Sullivan was stopped at his desk with a bundle of folders in his arms. Oliver clucked his tongue, giving the older man a once-over and taking in the way his eyelids – and chin fat – sagged.

"You look like hell," Oliver said with a grunt.

Arthur Sullivan took a moment to adjust his bowtie – red, though perhaps this was Oliver's Demon Sight wearing off still – before shrugging. The folders shifted.

"Eh," he replied. "Been here for hours." His voice came out hoarse.

"How many hours?"

Again Arthur shrugged. One of his cufflinks caught on the twine around the folders. "Can't rightly remember, honestly." He set the folder down. "Anyway. There's the file on the first therapist, Sonya Copps. The second therapist was an... Erik Carter. The rest are all patients from both. These two cases may be unrelated, but it never hurts to look, eh?" He coughed into one sleeve before taking a step back. "Anything else?"

Oliver shook his head, letting his copper locks fall around his face. "Nah. Get out of here." He paused when he caught sight of the twine. The front of his skull felt hollow.

"Actually," he said after a moment. "Some coffee. I've got such a headache."

"Got it."

Arthur turned away, his hands falling to his sides, and walked away. Oliver undid the twine with a finger, his claws extending at once to cut the string. The folders shifted in place.

The first one was full of records Oliver had seen before. Sonya Copps wasn't anything special; she never had been in life. Worked a 9-5 job Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. Had owned two cats while alive. Ran on antidepressants and a fruit smoothie every morning. Jogged to work and jogged home. This was something her killer had taken advantage of, as well as how cluttered her office was. Her beloved bird statue had become the object of her demise, in the end.

Not that it had mattered to her. Sonya Copps had been an average girl with an average life, and the only thing that could've disrupted this was her unfortunate – and, Oliver noted as he went over her pictures – gory end.

Erik Carter was a different story.

As eccentric as his patients, Erik Carter had been the sort of man who never lived the same day twice. He woke up at different times. Some nights, he wouldn't sleep at all. His coffee was made by a different barista each morning. There was no sense of normalcy for Erik Carter. And yet...

Somewhere in the office, the vent kicked on. Oliver flipped through the file until he came to the pictures in the back. Erik lay face-down in the first shot, one arm over his head. Blood soaked through the back of his shirt. All around him was darkness. Even with Oliver's enhanced vision, he couldn't see any defining details of the room around Erik. And yet...

The next picture was Erik face-up. Oliver could barely tell where his eyes were past the smashed cartilage that had once been his nose. Everywhere south of the eyes, in fact, was no more than a bloody mess.

"Hey, Sully!" Oliver called, only to realize moments later that the older man wasn't nearby. He huffed and set the picture to the side.

The next photo was of Erik, a photo for his officeplace and ID. Oliver skipped past it without a second glance.

Indeed, Erik Carter was quite the outlier. Easy to relate to, Oliver imagined as he continued through the file.

You aren't normal? he asked himself. That's okay, cause neither is Erik! Call in now and find out how you two relate. And yet...

"I didn't know what you wanted, so I just brought you something with caramel in it."

Oliver looked up from the file and met Arthur's eyes. A grin graced his features for only a second before he reached for the cup. After a few moments of drinking, he wiped his face with the back of his trench coat sleeve and set the cup back down.

"Thanks," he said. He reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out a quarter, which he flicked in Arthur's direction and watched with mild amusement as Arthur reached for it and missed. It bounced off the desk behind him.

"Watch it, Ginger," growled a female voice. Oliver couldn't see her behind Arthur's hulking form.

"Sorry, Sweets," he replied, as if it would compensate. Then he looked to Arthur. "Hey, Sully... If you'd smashed someone's face in, why would you stab them afterwards?"

Arthur's eyebrows knit together. Oliver could almost see the gears in his brain turn.

"I... I don't know. Maybe they stabbed him first?"

"Maybe... Maybe." Oliver took another swig of his coffee. "But in either case, Erik's already dead. Why continue?"

"Maybe the stabs weren't deep enough."

Oliver shrugged. "It's possible. Or maybe this is the common factor between him and Sonya."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Could be. Or it could be coincidence. Sonya had her head smashed in, but the bird stayed at the crime scene. Erik had no such prized objects in his room. Hell, half the time he did his counselling sessions, there was barely anything in his room. I remember I came in once and there weren't even chairs."

Oliver's nose wrinkled. "You used to see him?"

"No, not me. My wife. She moved on to someone else a couple weeks ago because she couldn't handle his lack of structure... Good thing she did."

Oliver parted the remaining folders until he saw the name in question. Michelle Sullivan.

"Oh. Well... I'm sorry for her loss."

Arthur pressed his lips together. "I suppose so."

Oliver kept parting the folders, stopping at once when another name stuck out to him.

Lilith? What?... No. Gotta be a coincidence.

"See something that got your attention?" Arthur asked. Oliver waved a hand, their signal for the other to shut up. Oliver brought the file up to eye level.

Lilith Johnson.

"Sully," Oliver began, his voice like steel. "What the fuck is my sister doing here among these names?" His hands tightened around the crème cardstock until he thought it would cut off his fingers. Or until he punctured the files inside.

"Er..." Arthur reached for it but Oliver held firm. Oliver's fist shook.

"Sully. This is my sister. My living sister. My human sister. Why the holy fuck is her name among these?" With each word, Oliver's patience grew thinner and thinner, until he felt it would snap if he waited any more.

"She... She was seeing them, I guess. Her name came up on the roster for both of them."

Oliver leaned back in his seat, grip loosening around the file. "Really, now." His voice took on a thoughtful tone. "Any particular reason why?"

Arthur shook his head. "I didn't snoop. I just put them all together. I thought she looked familiar..."

"Familiar indeed." Oliver opened to the first page, running a hand over the picture on the front.

Lilith Johnson, aged eighteen. Family: Russle Johnson [53], Melanie Johnson [Unknown] and Oliver Johnson [Deceased].

Deceased indeed. Oliver flipped through the rest of the files. When he looked up, Arthur was still standing where he'd been moments before.

"She's seen six therapists in the past three months," he said with pursed lips. "The files either declare general depression or unknown causes. Seems she's quite uncooperative..."

"Could be a motive."

By the time Arthur had – presumably – realized his mistake, it was already too late. Oliver leapt to his feet.

"My sister is not a killer."

Arthur's hands went up. "S-sorry, Johnson."

Oliver's claws extended. He reached for Arthur's thick neck. "Damn right you are. Don't make this mistake again." Spittle flew from his lips, hitting Arthur's eyes. Arthur blinked and shrank back as much as he could, hindered as he was by the nails at his neck. Oliver could feel him swallow.

With a sigh, Oliver released him and lowered himself back into his seat. "No matter." When he looked up again, Arthur was whiter than a sheet. The terrified expression on his comrade's face almost made him laugh.

"I don't need you for the moment. Go ahead and sit down or something." After a pause, he took a couple of the files and held them out. "You know what?" he said. "Look over these. I don't have the time to do it myself."

Arthur nodded. "Got it."

"And one more thing."

Arthur stopped mid-turn and gave Oliver a backwards glance. "Oh?"

"Actually, two. One, find out if any of them are potential murder suspects... there's bound to be a couple." Oliver paused to let this sink in before folding his hands together and resting his chin on top. "Two. If you ever, ever call my sister a murderer again, I will personally make your life a living hell. That's hard enough, considering where we come from, isn't it?"

Oliver gave Arthur the sickest, most twisted smile he could manage and found satisfaction in his comrade's horrified shivers. Arthur gave a hurried nod before turning and scurrying away.

"You know, you're quite an ass," said the woman. She tucked a fly-away strand of hair behind her ear and looked over, red eyes glinting. "It's really quite unattractive."

"You think I care?" Oliver shot back. The woman shrugged, nudging her glasses up her nose and huffing again. Her desk surrounded her on three sides.

"Well you killed yourself, didn't you?"

Oliver narrowed his eyes, anger bubbling at the sight of her smirk. He bit his lip.

"You don't know anything," he said.

After a pregnant pause, the woman shrugged. "No, perhaps not." Then, with a quick laugh, "But then again, that's the only reason you're here."

"But you didn't get here that way."

"You're right. I didn't... I was killed."

Oliver lowered his gaze to his desk. The silence stretched out between them, until Oliver thought the lump in his throat would choke him. His eyes caught sight of his sister's file once more.

Oh, Lilith... what have you gotten yourself into now?