Lovely Violent Things: A Dark Romance (Hollow’s Row 2)
Lovely Violent Things: Chapter 8

KALLUM

Scored into the hard-packed clay of the ravine wall is the symbol for the philosopher’s stone.

The accusation in Halen’s slitted gaze is adorable. “You really enjoy doing that.”

“I don’t have much else in the way of entertainment.”

“You just let me ramble on,” she shakes her head, “wasting time.”

I shrug. “You were on a roll. Here—” I extend my hand as she steps across the blanched bones to help her over to my side. “You might be right about this being his first site.”

“How’s that.” She moves closer to inspect the alchemic symbol. The philosopher’s stone is depicted as a circle within a triangle, within a larger circle.

“At the first crime scene, we thought the pupils of the dissected eyes were positioned to point to the hemlock. But they were looking past it, at his sacred site, his beginning.” I glance around the ravine. “This place holds his answers. That’s why he used lemon to conceal the path here.”

If he exposed it by removing the hemlock, he has something diabolical planned. As my gaze falls to Halen, unease crawls beneath my flesh.

“This is where he made a choice.” I rest my arm on the clay wall as I lean over her. “Sitting here in this ravine, pondering philosophical thoughts.”

She peeks up at me. “People really do that?”

“Don’t you?” I give her my smoldering smile.

Returning her attention to the symbol, she brings her camera around and captures a few pictures. “Not if I can help it.”

Beneath the banter—which I admittedly enjoy—is the sliver of truth found in her words. Pondering life for Halen would be a torturously cruel pastime. As evident in the way she tried to conceal all reminders of her grief and heartache under the verse inked on her skin, right over the scar which reminds her of her loss.

“Maybe you just need something rousing to stir your soul.”

I’m so close to her, I hear the catch of breath in her throat. See the way she purposely tries not to blink to show the effect her pondering mind has on her. I imagine her amid the dancing firelight, an ethereal goddess with a crown of bone, her body beautiful and glistening with my blood, and feel the furious tempo of her heart.

I know she’s thinking about that moment too.

If I leaned in right now, one quick dip of my head, I could taste her. With her defenses lowered, the lure to steal inside her soul and stoke the flames higher is a demanding pulse in my veins.

Something feverish flashes in her hazel gaze before she says, “The beginning and the end.” She straightens, pulling away from the symbol and me. “If this is where it started, then something happened here. A person doesn’t just suddenly decide to immortalize themselves with an ancient wisdom. There was some inciting incident, a trigger…”

“Birth of Tragedy.”

Halen turns toward me, forehead creased in thought. “What?”

Shoulder leaned against the wall, I cross my arms. “Nietzsche’s first work, Birth of Tragedy. Where he contended, adamantly, that classic Greek tragedies originated from the union of the Apollonian and Dionysian aspects. This is where he raised the argument to abandon Socratic thinking, and devote ourselves to the philosophies of Dionysus.”

“That aligns with the offender’s own place of origin,” she says, and I’m more than impressed with her deduction. “For instance, why the offender connected with Nietzsche verses another philosopher. Because, to be honest, from my long nights of research, there were other methods the offender could’ve invoked which seemed more enlightened.”

It’s fucking tragic we’re having this conversation in a ravine of rank death. Hearing little Halen delve into esoteric philosophy is making my cock hard.

“It’s the art,” I say, and rub the back of my neck. At her drawn features, I clarify, “The artist’s soul. Nietzsche’s obsession. Other, more sound theories incorporating the Hermetic Tradition, Shamanism, the Primal Man, etcetera, are more fundamental, but are less…rousing to the soul.”

A swift breeze sends strands of her hair across her face, stirring my yearning to sweep them from her eyes in demonstration of my point.

“Nietzsche builds off those very core beliefs,” I continue, “and states that, in Greek tragedy, Apollo is necessary to provide humanity relief from our suffering.” I push off the wall and close the gap between us, where I clasp her chin and lift her face, then gently brush her hair behind her ear. “While Dionysus awakens us, enraptures us, with passion and ecstasy, that alone cannot stifle our immense suffering. It’s the unity of both, the primordial unity, where we reach divine madness and are able to transcend beyond our pain.”

Her mouth parts, and I daringly sweep my thumb across her bottom lip, a wicked craving sparked by the unity we can achieve together.

“You’ve said this before.” The slightest tremor leaks into her voice.

I nod slowly. “It bears repeating, because this is what your perpetrator sees in you, sweetness. They envy you this, your beautiful, exquisite suffering.” With panged regret, I release her, letting my hand fall away. “There is no greater destruction than one of self. And therefore, no catalyst more powerful to wield in alchemic creation. Destruction isn’t an end—”

“It’s a beginning,” she supplies, and my heart vaults to match the staccato beat of hers.

A smile tips the corner of my mouth. “You pay attention. Quite the studious student.”

“No, you just like to hear yourself talk, so you talk a lot.”

“Hmm.” I bury my hands in my pockets, curbing dark urges. “There are plenty of sounds I prefer to hear that only your lovely voice can deliver.”

She grips her camera, eyes alighted on me. “The chain is still broken on our door,” she says suddenly.

I shift my stance. “That didn’t do much to keep us apart before.”

“And neither will a chair under the doorknob.” She swallows. “You keep your word, so you claim. Promise me you won’t cross that door’s threshold, Kallum.”

I draw in a deep breath, tasting the sweet tang of honeysuckle in her anxious request. Nodding once, I say, “I won’t cross that door’s threshold.”

Her gaze holds mine a beat longer before she blinks and looks away. “Thank you.”

Before she replaces an excuse to escape, I change the topic. “I did happen to notice you’re here, working the scene, instead of in a holding cell. That must mean you found a way around the system.”

Her drawn smile is knowing. “No one wants to believe a woman is capable of something so horrific,” she says. “It’s more comfortable to believe I made a mistake. Don’t have to replace a way around when the system’s bias gives you a clear path.”

“So very true.” I drag my hand over my mouth. “But Alister still thinks he’s chasing two killers.”

“As I said, I’m cautious with what I tell him until there’s verifiable proof.” A hint of wariness touches her eyes. “And I’m not yet convinced we’re not chasing two killers.”

The uncertainty threaded in her statement makes me wonder what devils her mind is chasing. I don’t underestimate her. I’ve witnessed the horrific act she’s capable of—and it’s breathtaking. Her artistry should be worshiped as much as feared.

“Either way, this symbol is physical proof of something.” With a sigh, she punches out a text on her phone, I assume to Alister. “I need a way to explain all this in the profile that the task force can actually use.”

As the sounds of the scene bleed into our sacred cocoon, I send a purposeful glance at the philosopher’s stone. It was carved rather than branded, like the other symbols on the willow tree.

“Your guy desires to be a god, in essence, a creator. As art is born from tragedy, suffering, destruction, an act of violence will give birth to creation.” I look up at the edge of the ravine, to where the hemlock grove lay bare. “Whether that’s through a mass sacrifice of his higher men, or cannibalizing that which he envies”—I lock with her eyes—“only the mind of the creator knows their design. But you’re safe to include his design will incorporate the hemlock, one way or another.”

“That’s helpful.” She removes her gloves and stuffs them in her back pocket, effectively done with the scene. “I should be looking for a mental illness. The way the offender has delusionally associated the connections, replaceing ulterior, hidden meaning in everything… Another psychologist would profile a mental illness.”

“But you disagree.”

“It’s all too closely linked,” she says, shaking her head. “The pieces fit perfectly. Sometimes when I try to think about it from a distance, it feels too immense. And then…I don’t want to think about anything.”

With a lengthy exhale, she swipes a hand across her forehead. “Tragedy is the key here. Not mental illness. Although, through the offender’s method and disassociation with humanity, there could be some onset now. But…” She glances around the ravine, at the death, the mutilation. “There’s an anger here. If this is his art, it’s a violent art. The emotion in this chasm rages.”

My skin prickles at her assertion. The unnerving sensation made more apparent by her words, what I’ve sensed since I first entered the ravine.

“Everything links,” I say, drawing closer. “Always.”

“I know, you’ve told me. Synchronicity.”

“When you’re working a scene, the pieces don’t materialize. They were always there, waiting for you to see the connection. Nothing is ever complicated until we make it so.”

“Maybe that’s true for a person with an IQ of ridiculous.”

I chuckle unexpectedly, then tilt my head as I study her, seeing the smallest spark of her personality shine through the cracks. Halen is so beautifully broken, my chest aches at the immense thought of her.

Despite the gruesome scenery of our surroundings, or maybe because of it, I’m captivated by her all the more. She could slay me or redeem me with one command, and she still has no idea how much power she wields.

“However you want to define it for the heathens on the task force, you understand his design will be transcendent. His divine masterpiece. Even this dumpsite is a work of art. The macabre atmosphere. The depiction of anguish so gruesome. The feelings of dejected helplessness it conjures. It’s a glimpse into what makes him vulnerable.”

A flash of raw vulnerability registers in her features, but she quickly conceals this as she shifts to look at the sigils on my hand. “Some magical intervention would be appreciated to replace the victims.”

Her implication doesn’t go unnoticed. She still believes I’m holding something back.

“The subconscious leads you to the answer, and when it suddenly clicks, it feels like magic.” I run the pad of my thumb over a sigil. “But really, your mind has known it the whole time. Don’t question the design, Halen. The universe never shares its secrets. Just trust the course.”

I drink in the shadow of awe behind the judgement in her expression. She is the loveliest work of art, a masterpiece herself.

“It just feels too convenient,” she says. “All the details, the associations. No case is ever connected this easily.”

“Well then, imagine how difficult it would be if you didn’t have your very own expert on the occult at your service.” I give her the full, beaming wattage of my panty-dropping smile. “In every way your filthy little mind could demand to be serviced. You should really take advantage of me.”

A laugh slips past her lips, the sweet tinkling cadence rushing my system like a potent aphrodisiac, and I swear to whatever higher entity lurks in the sky, my fucking heart damn near explodes.

If I can earn her laugh, then I can earn her trust.

Another gust of wind sneaks into the ravine to send her hair across her eyes, severing the moment, and she tucks the wayward strands behind her ear. “Damn, I really need a haircut,” she mutters.

“Don’t,” is all I say, stoking a heated ember amid her gaze as she looks up at me.

“Halen, here.” Devyn walks over from her zone to hand her a headband. “Use this.”

Halen accepts the gift. “Thanks. Mine snapped somehow.” The accusatory glance she directs at me is only marginally annoyed.

“So do we have proof all this—” Devyn waves a hand at the decomposing remains “—is connected to the same offender? Because Agent Alister is on his way over.”

Once her hair is tied back, Halen points to the symbol on the ravine wall. “We do. But all it confirms is what we already know. I’m not sure where it leads.” She holds up a finger and sets her notebook down. “Oh, and there’s this.”

After Halen locates a stick, she uses it to probe one of the deer carcasses. “Bite marks on the shoulder blade look to be human. I found a few more fresher deer in the remains with similar teeth marks.”

Her gaze meets mine, and the knowledge of what this means passes between us. A stag was found at the first crime scene that had been rend apart by a human.

Alister is texting on his phone as he approaches. “Show me the symbol.”

While Halen conveys the meaning of the philosopher’s stone to Alister, Detective Riddick replaces his way over to the group. Suddenly this ravine is way too crowded.

“Did the 3D casts from the stag bite marks at the first scene ever come back with any definitive information?” Halen asks Alister.

Staring hard at the mutilated deer Halen pointed out, he shakes his head. “No match. It was a longshot anyway. That’s a defunct science.”

“It nailed Ted Bundy,” I say.

Halen sends me a warning glare. “Could the casts be used to compare to the teeth imprints on the deer here? To confirm that it’s the same person.”

This gains Alister’s full attention, and he looks directly at her. “What are you trying to say, St. James?”

I can sense Halen’s hesitation, and I see the moment she almost backs off. Then she lifts her chin to make eye contact with Alister, the blaze coming to life.

“Someone has been hunting and rending these deer—” she glances at me briefly “—what’s the word?”

“Sparagmos,” I provide.

“Which is a sacred sacrifice, and one the offender has obviously been practicing for years, according to the ranges of decomp in his open grave.” She bites her bottom lip, then: “There are potentially a hundred deer here. Rend apart. All missing pelts and antlers. Sacred items used in Dionysian rituals.”

“Spit it the fuck out, St. James,” Alister snaps.

My hackles raise, and I go to step forward, but Devyn latches on to my arm. It’s Riddick who bows his chest as he steps in beside Halen.

“The victim at the Harbinger crime scene had antlers implanted in his head.” She pauses to allow her words to sink in. “The question has never been raised whether the missing locals are actually victims…or not. Maybe when these people went missing five years ago, they didn’t want to be found.”

The implication chokes the air from the ravine.

Mystery schools follow. Secret societies protect secrets. Little Halen has been keeping her conspiracy theories all tightlipped and hush-hush. And as she glances around anxiously, she’s still not certain of her theory, but this is what she does; challenges the norm.

Alister parts the hem of his blazer as he braces fisted hands on his hips. “These people are losing body parts all over the fucking marshland. So as far as I’m concerned, anyone either forced or willingly sacrificed to become someone’s mystical dinner is a victim. Understood?”

Halen holds his severe glare a second longer, then nods. “Understood, sir.”

“If I hear even a whisper of this in the media…” He lets his threat trail off with the next gust of wind. “I want an updated profile including this scene before the end of the day.”

He turns to leave, but then says, “According to Agent Rana, the hemlock was likely raided by the second offender, your Harbinger killer. Get with her on this. Your profile better reflect that before the press conference tomorrow.”

As he stalks off in the direction of the agents striping the scene with caution tape, Devyn knocks into Halen’s shoulder conspiratorially. “Damn. You really get under the fed’s skin.”

Halen expels an extended breath. “It’s a talent.”

“One I respect.” Devyn picks up her bag, but then halts. She drops it to a boulder. “Look, I appreciate what you’re doing, spinning theories, trying to help. That’s why I pushed to have you here.” She touches her forehead briefly in thought. “But you should know, they are victims, Halen. They didn’t just leave, or join some cult. With no word for five years. My brother didn’t just decide to one day up and go, with no call, no future contact. He was taken. Someone took him. He wouldn’t hurt me that way. We were close…are close,” she corrects. “We’re twins. As close as two people can be. So, I know this.”

In a show of comfort, Halen touches Devyn’s arm. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”

“I know. But that’s why I’m telling you now.” Devyn’s smile is tight, filled with the kind of resentful pain one tries to mask daily. “Now, I’m diving into the putridness of this scene. If I replace anything important, I’ll let you know.”

As Halen watches Devyn walk off, she hugs her arms around her waist. “Oh, my god. I had no idea.”

“You couldn’t have.” Riddick moves into place beside Halen. “Dev keeps things close to the vest. She moved back here when Colter went missing, joined the department to help search for him. Even when the investigation stalled and all but became a cold case, she stayed on.”

Halen turns inquisitive eyes on the detective. “Has a match been made from the body parts to Devyn’s brother?”

Riddick shakes his head. “I don’t think so. But she won’t stop looking until she replaces him alive.”

“Is there someone out there you’re looking for?” Halen asks.

“Me? No. I’m a lone wolf.” The charming smile he offers her torches my composure. He licks his lips in true predatory fashion. “But I could be looking elsewhere.”

Expertly dodging his advance, Halen swings her gaze to the remains of a deer and brings her camera up. “I still feel like an asshole. I should’ve been more sensitive.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” I speak up, my focus drilled on Halen. “Your theory is sound. When it comes to family, people are biased and willfully ignorant. They refuse to see the truth of just how dangerous their loved ones can be.”

Halen looks up at me through the thick fringe of her lashes, her camera held between us as if she could capture my image, and I realize I’ve said too much. Instead of masking my discomfort, I hold her insightful gaze, unflinching, letting the silence build into a crackling intensity. Then I reach out and depress her finger over the shutter button.

A sharp cry cracks against the walls of the ravine, slicing into the moment and turning all attention toward the other side of the gorge.

Riddick curses. “What is he doing here?” Without further explanation, he rushes to where a group is quickly forming.

“Oh, god. I think Detective Emmons just fell down the ravine.” Halen starts in that direction.

There’s a flurry of chaos as people crowd around to offer aid to the injured detective. Alister orders an ambulance to the nearest marsh entrance, then commands one of the local unis to wrap a ligature around his thigh. Riddick lifts Emmons’ head to brace it on his leg, placing the wide detective’s hat on his head.

Blood wells bright red from a gash above the detective’s kneecap. Emmons hollers in pain at the pressure, and I get a strong whiff of alcohol fuming off him.

“Christ, Emmons.” Riddick hands Emmons off to Devyn and snatches one of the First Aid kits from the supply setup. “Everyone, stand back. You can cancel the ambulance, Agent Alister. It’s just a flesh wound.”

I hang back near Halen as Devyn assists Riddick in handing him the necessary materials to disinfect and suture Emmons’ wound.

As the urgency of the situation diminishes and the site clears, Halen remains, her focus centered on Riddick. “You’re really good at that,” she says, watching him insert the needle and stitch with perfect precision.

When Emmons tries to bat him away, Devyn takes hold of his hand. “Luckily, he’s too drunk to feel much.”

“He feels plenty,” Halen mutters too low for anyone else to hear.

Riddick glances up at Halen. “I was a paramedic at one point. You learn to do a lot under pressure and in unfavorable conditions.”

Devyn releases a noticeable sigh. “Jake’s funeral was today,” she says, referring to Emmons’ brother. “He’s in bad shape.”

Halen caps the camera lens, then lowers her voice to speak to Devyn. “The body was released for burial?”

Devyn shakes her head. “No, but the family held a service anyway.” Her frown is tight. “They didn’t want to prolong it…any longer.”

Halen nods her understanding, then focuses once again on Riddick stitching the wound. “Why would Detective Emmons come here?”

The detective groans. “I’m right here dammit,” he says, speech slightly slurred. “And I’m not leaving.”

Devyn consoles him. “I would try to work the case,” she responds, a defensive edge to her words. “If it was my brother’s funeral.”

A dark cloud rolls across the sky to blot the meager rays of light, warning of a bad storm hovering on the horizon.

After Detective Emmons is pronounced intoxicated but in stable condition, Halen starts the climb to the top of the ravine. I trail behind her, reaching the barren grove as raindrops start to fall and lightly patter her equipment.

She checks her phone briefly before she begins packing away her tripod and gear.

I hand her the case, holding on to one end so she’s forced to look at me. “Did you know there are three species of the death’s-head hawkmoth.”

“Agent Hernandez is waiting at the entrance.” She yanks the tripod case from my hand. “I’m not getting caught in the downpour again.”

She goes to shrug the bag onto her shoulder, and I claim the strap to carry the gear for her.

As we start out of the muggy marsh, she says, “You leapt to the Harbinger because of the hemlock grove. Because Alister wants to link a connection there.”

“Yes.”

“It’s terrifying that I’m starting to understand your train of thought.” She peeks over at me with an arched eyebrow. “There was never any correlation determined amid the species, or the victims, for that matter.”

“Maybe not when you keep the case isolated,” I say, earning a glare from her. “Atropos, Lachesis, and Styx.” I recite the species as I wade through the marsh water beside her. “All from the Greek mythos. All associated with death.”

“No,” she says adamantly. “I’m not discussing the details of the Harbinger killer with you, Kallum.”

“Why? Is there something else you’d rather us do for the next twenty minutes.” I wade closer to her. “I’m always open to suggestions.”

Halen turns her gaze ahead.

Discussing the details means she’ll be forced to think about the victims, about her belief I’m the killer. About Wellington, and the memories she’s suppressing.

“I know you probably tried to include your knowledge in your profile,” I say, not trying to hide my deliberate baiting. “Where it was shot down, or ignored. No one else will understand the way I will, Halen. Pour your bleeding little profiler heart out to me.”

She shakes her head. “Atropos is one of the Fates. She was the Moirai who cut the threads of life, bringing death. Lachesis measured the threads. And Styx is the river of the dead.”

“But the genus Acherontia atropos was first derived—”

“From the Acheron river,” she says, halting to turn my way. “Which denotes the underworld. Yes, I know. Thank you, professor, but I’ve done my research. In essence, it’s not the labels of the Fates as to why the Acherontia moths are considered omens of death.”

Her heated, sultry gaze narrows on me, and I could eat her alive right now.

“Your extensive knowledge on the moth isn’t incriminating at all,” she intones with the perfect amount of sarcasm.

I curb my smile. “You put me away for six months. I had ample time to research myself.”

“What is it that you’re dying to tell me that you think I don’t know, Kallum.”

I wet my lips and take a step in her direction. “The moth is attracted to sweet things.” My gaze drags over her as I inhale a deep breath to pull her into my lungs. “It loves sweet things.”

She says nothing, but I notice the way her swallow travels along her throat.

“They can mimic a honeybee to invade hives undetected. As they imitate the scent of the bees, they blend right in, and if they’re discovered, the moth has this thick epidermis to protect it from stings.” I let the sounds of the marsh fill the silence before I say, “It’s got damn thick skin to shelter itself from pain.”

“And the moth is nocturnal. Rarely seen because it appears late at night. It chirps if irritated, and likes to lay eggs in nightshade.” She adjusts her hold on her bag handle and exhales. “What is your point with all this?”

“Just that I replace it interesting, little Halen, that you’re far more connected to the moth than me in attributes.”

Her gaze tapers further. “I never know whether you’re trying to tell me something, or derail me off a lead.”

I glance back in the direction of the ravine. “You picked up on something back there,” I say.

“You’re way too attuned to me,” she accuses. “You should be focused on the case.”

“Now who’s derailing?”

Blatantly ignoring my remark, she starts in the direction out of the marsh again. “If the offender is using the Harbinger to his advantage, then yes, I’ve considered he’s had to research the case, to learn what I know. And in doing so, the Harbinger could become a part of the Overman’s delusion, even a part of his path to ascension.”

A full smile tugs at my mouth. “I should really stop mocking psychology,” I say, peeking over at her. But it’s not psychology or profiling or anything else—it’s her. She’s the seer. “If the offender believes what you do and thinks I’m the actual killer, that makes me a bad omen for the Overman. You really should use me to your advantage.”

She expels a breath. “This whole town is a bad omen. You’re just one more evil thing.”

“That’s a bit scary then,” I say. At the divot forming in her quizzical expression, I add, “That I might be the only one here you can trust, sweetness.”

We walk in silence through the marsh, and I feel the press of Halen’s deep thoughts. Before we reach the path to lead us to where the black SUV waits, Halen turns her gaze on me. “For the record, you bear more attributes to the moth than me, Kallum.”

“Hmm. I do love sweet things.” I send her a wink.