God of the Dead (Seasons of Blood #1): A dark paranormal crime thriller novel by Elias Anderson Page B
Authors: Elias Anderson
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still damp, and with what? Water? Blood? He didn’t know and he didn’t care enough to look down at himself to see. The cold seemed to revive him a little, bringing him out of his stupor, and it was only then that he started to wonder why there had been a cop already at his building, deciding it would be the first—well, maybe not the first —question he would ask, but one of them.
* * * * *
John stood in the apartment of Karen Rosenthal, the woman that had attacked AJ in his home, the woman that Officer Fenster had shot.
There had been blood on the kid, and in his apartment, on the floor, a long trail of light spatter leading from his place up the hall to Karen’s apartment.
John had followed that trail, the hallway now completely taped off, the floor of the building evacuated for the night, the lower men on the police totem pole had been given the unsavory duty of going to door to door, every apartment on the floor, and asking people to pack up their stuff for a night and hit the bricks.
More blood had led from Karen’s front door to her bathroom, where John now stood.
The tub was full of blood. The tub was an old one and it must not have held water well, because most of the bath Karen had drawn to sit in while she slit her wrists open had drained. Some of the blood was still wet and red, but most of it, especially along the sides of the tub, had dried to a black crust.
John sat on the closed lid of the toilet and scratched his head, trying to put it together.
Okay, he thought. She draws the bath, gets in, cuts her wrists, bleeds a lot , then climbs out, walks down the hall, wet, naked, and covered in blood, and attacks AJ, who says they’d never passed anything but a friendly word now and again?
He wanted to think that the kid was still keyed up from the other attack, that maybe the neighbor had come over, panicked when she felt the life really start to rush out of her, and had been looking for help…but the circle of bruises on the kid’s throat and the way he croaked when he talked didn’t jibe with that…nor the way she had come after Fenster.
This was nothing, though, all these things were just noise when he thought of her body, laying in the hall, face down on the old, grey carpet that was worn through to the padding in most places. Her back, ass, calves, the backs of her thighs and arms, they had looked dark. Bruised.
Not possible , Lubbock told himself. There had to be an explanation other than what he was thinking, because what he was thinking was fucking crazy.
He once more pushed thoughts of Todd Bowden and Jin Makoto out of his head. He sighed deeply and carefully picked his way out of the bathroom, making sure he didn’t step in any of the blood splattered on the floor.
* * * * *
Vito was pissed. He’d called everyone who worked for him, excluding AJ, and the earliest anyone would come in was midnight. That left him with couple hours to kill before they showed. He sat behind the counter, thinking of all the things he could be doing instead of being here. Like kicking the shit out of that junky Billy. The little prick hadn’t even bothered to call.
The bell above the door dinged and Vito looked up. In walked a man dressed in black: trench coat, pants, and boots. His white hair was pulled back in a long ponytail that ended between his shoulders. Vito stared at himself in the mirrored shades, wondering if the man was half-blind. There was a nasty scar running from his forehead to just above his upper lip. It looked like it went right through the middle of his eye.
“Can I, uh, help you?” Vito asked, not really caring if he could or not. In his experience the customer was never right and was usually an asshole.
The guy shook his head slightly and grunted a negative. He looked around the store then quite noticeably sniffed the air. He looked around some more. He knelt and picked up a piece of dirt off the floor and sniffed it. Then he crumbled it between his fingers and
* * * * *
John stood in the apartment of Karen Rosenthal, the woman that had attacked AJ in his home, the woman that Officer Fenster had shot.
There had been blood on the kid, and in his apartment, on the floor, a long trail of light spatter leading from his place up the hall to Karen’s apartment.
John had followed that trail, the hallway now completely taped off, the floor of the building evacuated for the night, the lower men on the police totem pole had been given the unsavory duty of going to door to door, every apartment on the floor, and asking people to pack up their stuff for a night and hit the bricks.
More blood had led from Karen’s front door to her bathroom, where John now stood.
The tub was full of blood. The tub was an old one and it must not have held water well, because most of the bath Karen had drawn to sit in while she slit her wrists open had drained. Some of the blood was still wet and red, but most of it, especially along the sides of the tub, had dried to a black crust.
John sat on the closed lid of the toilet and scratched his head, trying to put it together.
Okay, he thought. She draws the bath, gets in, cuts her wrists, bleeds a lot , then climbs out, walks down the hall, wet, naked, and covered in blood, and attacks AJ, who says they’d never passed anything but a friendly word now and again?
He wanted to think that the kid was still keyed up from the other attack, that maybe the neighbor had come over, panicked when she felt the life really start to rush out of her, and had been looking for help…but the circle of bruises on the kid’s throat and the way he croaked when he talked didn’t jibe with that…nor the way she had come after Fenster.
This was nothing, though, all these things were just noise when he thought of her body, laying in the hall, face down on the old, grey carpet that was worn through to the padding in most places. Her back, ass, calves, the backs of her thighs and arms, they had looked dark. Bruised.
Not possible , Lubbock told himself. There had to be an explanation other than what he was thinking, because what he was thinking was fucking crazy.
He once more pushed thoughts of Todd Bowden and Jin Makoto out of his head. He sighed deeply and carefully picked his way out of the bathroom, making sure he didn’t step in any of the blood splattered on the floor.
* * * * *
Vito was pissed. He’d called everyone who worked for him, excluding AJ, and the earliest anyone would come in was midnight. That left him with couple hours to kill before they showed. He sat behind the counter, thinking of all the things he could be doing instead of being here. Like kicking the shit out of that junky Billy. The little prick hadn’t even bothered to call.
The bell above the door dinged and Vito looked up. In walked a man dressed in black: trench coat, pants, and boots. His white hair was pulled back in a long ponytail that ended between his shoulders. Vito stared at himself in the mirrored shades, wondering if the man was half-blind. There was a nasty scar running from his forehead to just above his upper lip. It looked like it went right through the middle of his eye.
“Can I, uh, help you?” Vito asked, not really caring if he could or not. In his experience the customer was never right and was usually an asshole.
The guy shook his head slightly and grunted a negative. He looked around the store then quite noticeably sniffed the air. He looked around some more. He knelt and picked up a piece of dirt off the floor and sniffed it. Then he crumbled it between his fingers and
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