When the caller at the other end of the line finally hung up, Grayson pulled the phone away from his ear slowly. He stared at the receiver, befuddled, before placing it gingerly back into the cradle. It wasn't the first strange call he had received that week. Weird reports of missing women, that leave their clothes behind in hotel rooms with their one night stands. It was hard to take the words of hungover, serial daters seriously, but the claims were piling up and would soon be difficult to ignore.
His most pressing question asked why the calls were being directed to him? It was neither supernatural nor homicidal. Missing persons was not his gig.
"Everything all right, Crawford?"
The pleasant voice of Lace Harding cut through his daze, and he looked away from the phone to see her curved form grinning down at him. This was the only time she would be able to do so, given her short stature and she seemed determined to take advantage of it. Clearing his throat, Grayson adjusted his glasses before pushing fingers through his unruly, dark hair. "It's fine," he manages, short and gravelly, not at all what the Sargent deserved as he piled loose sheets of paper together. He should have apologized, but he didn't.
"You ready to go then?" Strawberry blonde brows disappeared behind bangs of the same shade as she watched him shove the papers into a file, and stand, shifting the odds and easily towering over her.
"Yeah. Let's go."
It wasn't difficult to find a crime scene in the city. He didn't know what it was about violence that grabbed at the attention of Valesport citizens, but they always seemed to flock around it. Unnaturally drawn, by some unheard calling until a throng of them crowded around a law-enforced perimeter as close as they could. It was almost comical. Jokes were always being thrown around the bullpen on the morbid topic. The tips for finding a crime scene in Valesport were as follows:
1. Listen for sirens.
2. Look for a mob that would be more appropriate for a street parade.
The fact that it was barely even noon made matters worse. A potentially paranormal crime in the middle of the day was unheard of. The officer Grayson had spoken to however sounded pretty positive that whatever had killed the victim could not have been natural or human.
The siren of Grayson's unmarked car, sounded off as they neared the rabble, a shrill demand that they disperse, or at the very least get out of his way. Parking as close as he could, Detective Crawford and Sargent Harding, pushed their way unapologetically through the crowd, until they reached the edging of yellow tape. The pair flashed their badges to the beat cop manning the front line, and he lifted the barrier to let them through.
Grayson heard Lace's low whistle before he saw the body. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he stopped scanning the immediate area to take a look for himself. Had he been as whimsical as Harding, he might have whistled himself.
The body had been crushed. Or perhaps squeezed was the more appropriate wording. It was still a whole person, for all intents and purposes. Male, late forties wearing a full three-piece suit, but parts of him seemed compressed. It was like when a bandage is wrapped around a wound too tight, and the area around it swells up. When you pull the bandages away the skin beneath is sickly pale and shriveled.
Grayson and Lace moved towards the body as Dr. Rivers moved towards them. Since being promoted to Detective, Grayson rarely got to be first on the scene, but having Holland Rivers substitute for him wasn't all bad. The paranormal law enforcement team was small; Grayson knew everyone in the ranks, but only Holland was considered his friend.
"This man wasn't killed here," Grayson states when Holland was within earshot. Dr. Rivers shook his head, sending short coal strands to and fro.
"Nope, it was definitely dumped. There's nothing left on the scene that wasn't here before. The man even has all his belongings." Holland pulled an evidence bag from beneath his arm and lifted it to eye level. It clearly showed an expensive watch, a wallet that still looked full, and a cell phone. Grayson looked down at the body, and then back up to the other man. He did his best to reflect a meaningful expression, but Holland only shrugged in response. "Harding, walk the perimeter for me, again. See if you can find any prints, or tire tracks."
Her affirmation could be heard as she walked off; Grayson moved closer to the doctor. "Your... wife wouldn't know anything about this would she?" He kept his voice low, regulating his posture to appear casual.
Holland's drug- and meta-human trafficking wife, Lakshima, owned the local casino and was not a person who enjoyed being trifled with. She let the fact be known with displays such as these, but usually with an air of grace not present currently. Holland had the audacity to look offended, as if the accusation was really so far-fetched. "This man was constricted to death. That's... Lamia business. Nagah business. Lakshima doesn't run with wereserpents."
"Okay, fine," Grayson admitted defeat with a half-hearted shrug of his shoulders. Shoving his hands into his pockets he moved away from his colleague as Sargent Harding approached once more. "Do me a favor and find out who does run with wereserpents. Get the body off the street and inform me as soon as the medical examiner is done with it."
Harding and Crawford left the scene and pushed their way back out of the crowd to reach his vehicle. This was a mess already and they didn't even have enough of the details. Changing Breeds of any form were generally Bad News, and it was usually best to let them settle any disputes they would have on their own. His hands were tied however, if they were going to be leaving crushed bodies in the middle of main street. Caught up in his own thoughts and repeated running fingers through his hair, he almost didn't notice when Lace caught the sleeve of his shirt and vocalized "yo, what's that?" She lifted her hand to point at a, currently, indecipherable black lump in the shade of his patrol car. Upon closer, albeit tentative, inspection the pair discovered the it was a dog.
A poodle to be precise. All black with curling, pitch black fur - taking refuge in the shade of his cruiser. Grayson couldn't tell if it was a puppy, or perhaps just small. One of those popular inbred things that people liked to carry around in purses. It did not at all seem disturbed by their presence.
"It's a dog," he informed Lace, now stating the obvious. Her expression in return was dry, almost mocking. He chuckled, glancing around the immediate area, but no one looked as if they had lost something. Or like they were looking for something. The canine continued to sleep as he turned back to Lace. "What do I do with it?"
"Does it have a collar?"
He looked down, then back up, shaking his head.
"Why not just take it home-"
He grimaced before she could even finish.
"-and see if anyone is missing it. Or to a vet to see if it's chipped."
"Why can't you do it?"
"Are you kidding? Sabre and Ranger would eat that thing in one bite. Besides, I am working a double"
Lace was also the K9 trainer for the force, and thinking on the two giant German Shepherds in question, they would undoubtedly terrorize such a small dog. He groaned, still making a face as he bent down to retrieve the animal. It sprang to life in his hands, wriggling in surprise and turning it's body this way and that to get a look at it's assailant. "Damn. Calm the fuck down," he complains, quietly, turning the creature around to face him. It - or rather, she - stopped wiggling and hung like dead weight from where his hands were nudged under her front legs. She almost appeared as she was smiling.
"Aw, look at that. It likes you," Harding teased from the opposite side of the car.
"Oh, shove it. It rides with you."
Sargent Harding was left at the precinct and Grayson made his way home. He drove out of the city and into the suburbs; tiny, black poodle in tow. She sat calmly in the passenger seat, almost regally, with a sense of belonging that was highly misplaced as far as Grayson was concerned.
His house was dark and quiet, as it always was, when he pulled into the driveway. Killing the engine, he scooped up the poodle, abandoning his coat and briefcase.
Inside, he set the dog back down as soon as he crossed the threshold. "I don't know what to do with you," he explains as if he expected her to understand. "I'll just figure it out in the morning I guess." That was more for his benefit than hers.
He started to walk off and she followed.
She continued to follow as he made his way into the kitchen for a beer. She would stray from her diligent following to explore here and there, but she would always fall back in line.
He shut her out of the bathroom so he could shower, and she huffed outside the door. He reemerged a while later, rubbing at the coarse hard across jaw with an idle hand, wrapped in a towel. He found her curled into a ball on the floor by his bed when he went looking.
She obviously belonged to someone, someone missing her pretty terribly since she looked to be trained pretty well.
Scooping the dog up, he dropped himself into the bed and set the pup on his chest. Tucking one arm behind his head, he pet the dog lazily with the other. It was still daylight out for now, but Grayson worked a fucked up schedule and it wasn't long before he succumbed to a nap.
His most pressing question asked why the calls were being directed to him? It was neither supernatural nor homicidal. Missing persons was not his gig.
"Everything all right, Crawford?"
The pleasant voice of Lace Harding cut through his daze, and he looked away from the phone to see her curved form grinning down at him. This was the only time she would be able to do so, given her short stature and she seemed determined to take advantage of it. Clearing his throat, Grayson adjusted his glasses before pushing fingers through his unruly, dark hair. "It's fine," he manages, short and gravelly, not at all what the Sargent deserved as he piled loose sheets of paper together. He should have apologized, but he didn't.
"You ready to go then?" Strawberry blonde brows disappeared behind bangs of the same shade as she watched him shove the papers into a file, and stand, shifting the odds and easily towering over her.
"Yeah. Let's go."
It wasn't difficult to find a crime scene in the city. He didn't know what it was about violence that grabbed at the attention of Valesport citizens, but they always seemed to flock around it. Unnaturally drawn, by some unheard calling until a throng of them crowded around a law-enforced perimeter as close as they could. It was almost comical. Jokes were always being thrown around the bullpen on the morbid topic. The tips for finding a crime scene in Valesport were as follows:
1. Listen for sirens.
2. Look for a mob that would be more appropriate for a street parade.
The fact that it was barely even noon made matters worse. A potentially paranormal crime in the middle of the day was unheard of. The officer Grayson had spoken to however sounded pretty positive that whatever had killed the victim could not have been natural or human.
The siren of Grayson's unmarked car, sounded off as they neared the rabble, a shrill demand that they disperse, or at the very least get out of his way. Parking as close as he could, Detective Crawford and Sargent Harding, pushed their way unapologetically through the crowd, until they reached the edging of yellow tape. The pair flashed their badges to the beat cop manning the front line, and he lifted the barrier to let them through.
Grayson heard Lace's low whistle before he saw the body. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he stopped scanning the immediate area to take a look for himself. Had he been as whimsical as Harding, he might have whistled himself.
The body had been crushed. Or perhaps squeezed was the more appropriate wording. It was still a whole person, for all intents and purposes. Male, late forties wearing a full three-piece suit, but parts of him seemed compressed. It was like when a bandage is wrapped around a wound too tight, and the area around it swells up. When you pull the bandages away the skin beneath is sickly pale and shriveled.
Grayson and Lace moved towards the body as Dr. Rivers moved towards them. Since being promoted to Detective, Grayson rarely got to be first on the scene, but having Holland Rivers substitute for him wasn't all bad. The paranormal law enforcement team was small; Grayson knew everyone in the ranks, but only Holland was considered his friend.
"This man wasn't killed here," Grayson states when Holland was within earshot. Dr. Rivers shook his head, sending short coal strands to and fro.
"Nope, it was definitely dumped. There's nothing left on the scene that wasn't here before. The man even has all his belongings." Holland pulled an evidence bag from beneath his arm and lifted it to eye level. It clearly showed an expensive watch, a wallet that still looked full, and a cell phone. Grayson looked down at the body, and then back up to the other man. He did his best to reflect a meaningful expression, but Holland only shrugged in response. "Harding, walk the perimeter for me, again. See if you can find any prints, or tire tracks."
Her affirmation could be heard as she walked off; Grayson moved closer to the doctor. "Your... wife wouldn't know anything about this would she?" He kept his voice low, regulating his posture to appear casual.
Holland's drug- and meta-human trafficking wife, Lakshima, owned the local casino and was not a person who enjoyed being trifled with. She let the fact be known with displays such as these, but usually with an air of grace not present currently. Holland had the audacity to look offended, as if the accusation was really so far-fetched. "This man was constricted to death. That's... Lamia business. Nagah business. Lakshima doesn't run with wereserpents."
"Okay, fine," Grayson admitted defeat with a half-hearted shrug of his shoulders. Shoving his hands into his pockets he moved away from his colleague as Sargent Harding approached once more. "Do me a favor and find out who does run with wereserpents. Get the body off the street and inform me as soon as the medical examiner is done with it."
Harding and Crawford left the scene and pushed their way back out of the crowd to reach his vehicle. This was a mess already and they didn't even have enough of the details. Changing Breeds of any form were generally Bad News, and it was usually best to let them settle any disputes they would have on their own. His hands were tied however, if they were going to be leaving crushed bodies in the middle of main street. Caught up in his own thoughts and repeated running fingers through his hair, he almost didn't notice when Lace caught the sleeve of his shirt and vocalized "yo, what's that?" She lifted her hand to point at a, currently, indecipherable black lump in the shade of his patrol car. Upon closer, albeit tentative, inspection the pair discovered the it was a dog.
A poodle to be precise. All black with curling, pitch black fur - taking refuge in the shade of his cruiser. Grayson couldn't tell if it was a puppy, or perhaps just small. One of those popular inbred things that people liked to carry around in purses. It did not at all seem disturbed by their presence.
"It's a dog," he informed Lace, now stating the obvious. Her expression in return was dry, almost mocking. He chuckled, glancing around the immediate area, but no one looked as if they had lost something. Or like they were looking for something. The canine continued to sleep as he turned back to Lace. "What do I do with it?"
"Does it have a collar?"
He looked down, then back up, shaking his head.
"Why not just take it home-"
He grimaced before she could even finish.
"-and see if anyone is missing it. Or to a vet to see if it's chipped."
"Why can't you do it?"
"Are you kidding? Sabre and Ranger would eat that thing in one bite. Besides, I am working a double"
Lace was also the K9 trainer for the force, and thinking on the two giant German Shepherds in question, they would undoubtedly terrorize such a small dog. He groaned, still making a face as he bent down to retrieve the animal. It sprang to life in his hands, wriggling in surprise and turning it's body this way and that to get a look at it's assailant. "Damn. Calm the fuck down," he complains, quietly, turning the creature around to face him. It - or rather, she - stopped wiggling and hung like dead weight from where his hands were nudged under her front legs. She almost appeared as she was smiling.
"Aw, look at that. It likes you," Harding teased from the opposite side of the car.
"Oh, shove it. It rides with you."
Sargent Harding was left at the precinct and Grayson made his way home. He drove out of the city and into the suburbs; tiny, black poodle in tow. She sat calmly in the passenger seat, almost regally, with a sense of belonging that was highly misplaced as far as Grayson was concerned.
His house was dark and quiet, as it always was, when he pulled into the driveway. Killing the engine, he scooped up the poodle, abandoning his coat and briefcase.
Inside, he set the dog back down as soon as he crossed the threshold. "I don't know what to do with you," he explains as if he expected her to understand. "I'll just figure it out in the morning I guess." That was more for his benefit than hers.
He started to walk off and she followed.
She continued to follow as he made his way into the kitchen for a beer. She would stray from her diligent following to explore here and there, but she would always fall back in line.
He shut her out of the bathroom so he could shower, and she huffed outside the door. He reemerged a while later, rubbing at the coarse hard across jaw with an idle hand, wrapped in a towel. He found her curled into a ball on the floor by his bed when he went looking.
She obviously belonged to someone, someone missing her pretty terribly since she looked to be trained pretty well.
Scooping the dog up, he dropped himself into the bed and set the pup on his chest. Tucking one arm behind his head, he pet the dog lazily with the other. It was still daylight out for now, but Grayson worked a fucked up schedule and it wasn't long before he succumbed to a nap.
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
The following 2 users Like megs's post: SolitareLee, Tindome
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