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heard a pop song playing.
Hell Cop: Touching Sparks 221
A juvenile gorvan demon, about the size of a hippo but much toothier, howled. A few
other demons let out their own cries from farther back along the rows of cages. Then an
earsplitting roar rocked through the chamber. Moran s heart kicked into double time. No
mistaking that sound: a scylla demon, an old-time, man-eating, fire-breathing dragon. As the
echo of the roar died, every other creature in the place went quiet. The pop music played on.
So much for shouting for help, Moran thought. If a scylla demon didn t alarm the
locals, nothing would.
He guessed that the nearest neighbors were probably miles away. The grounds of Mrs.
Sunday s estate lay twenty miles outside the city and were very private. He was probably in
one of the old dungeons, close to the fighting pit. That would explain why the smell of meat
and blood just kept coming at him.
Then, out of the corner of is eye he noticed the mass of something gold and blue. He
wasn t alone in his cage. Immediately, Moran pushed his aching body upright and turned on
the other occupant of the cage.
And it was like someone reached into his chest and just stopped his heart. He could
hardly pull in a breath.
James s slim body lay broken and blood-soaked. Tufts of his beautiful gold hair shone
through the mass of shattered skull and gore.
He was dead; Moran knew it, and yet he still went to him, knelt beside him, and
stroked the cold flesh of his shoulder as if he could offer some comfort to a corpse.
Only he wasn t just a corpse. He was James. He was the boy bounding into the bright
blue sky, flipping above a glossy black trampoline, and waving. He was the man stretching
naked beneath Moran s hands, smiling up at him with sleepy trust. And now he was& this.
It seemed terrible and almost inevitable. As if he d always known that caring for James
would doom him. Moran closed his eyes. He remembered holding Bill too, but he didn t
think it had hurt him as much as this did now.
222 Ginn Hale
Moran could feel his throat tightening, his eyes getting wet, and he didn t know that
he could stop it. But he had to because he couldn t break down, not here, like this.
A cold, rational part of him knew he needed to go through James s clothes in case there
was a pocket knife or a paper clip or anything he could use to get out of here.
The shackles made his hands clumsy, but he managed to turn the front pockets inside
out. He found a ball of lint, and a red, folded invitation. James s body felt so small -- almost
fragile as Moran shifted him.
Moran felt like a monster jamming his hands into the loose jeans, digging into the back
pockets as if he were groping James s ass. The pockets were empty. Moran pulled his hands
away, and James s body rolled onto its back. The left arm flopped out, pale and needle-
pocked under the bare lights.
Moran stared at the arm, not sure if he should believe what he saw.
People did this, he warned himself. They looked at the dead bodies of their friends and
lovers and refused to recognize them. They found ways to make the corpses into other
people and the deteriorations of death itself aided them. Dead bodies bloated, contorted, and
discolored. Birthmarks and scars seemed different on lifeless skin.
But injuries didn t just go away.
Moran checked the right arm as well, just to be sure. There was no half-healed gash,
only a thick history of old and new needle marks, far too many for James s body.
Relief washed through Moran. He gazed at the body again. Blond, thin -- too thin to be
James now that he was really looking -- and wearing James s clothes. Tony Allmon, most
likely, Moran decided. That wasn t good news, but at least it offered Moran the hope that
James was alive. Somewhere.
He prayed it was far from here.
Moran rose to his feet slowly. Twitching pain shot up his spine as he moved. He hadn t
even noticed it before; the horror of seeing James dead had superseded all other perception.
Hell Cop: Touching Sparks 223
Now the tingling tremors assured Moran that his nerves were recovering. The discomfort
became an annoyance to work through.
Moran paced the perimeter of his cage, testing the bars and bolts. Demons in the
surrounding cages watched him; some like the red anu-hounds stalked his movement while
several small, green cabrasha demons cringed. Somewhere in the darkness the scylla demon
doubtless watched as well. Even with the spell-suppression shackles fettering every ounce of
his power, Moran knew that a scylla demon could still sense his sorcerous blood. Another
deafening roar of challenge seemed to confirm Moran s suspicion.
But then he realized that it might not be his presence alone that agitated the scylla.
A man and a woman, both dressed in white, appeared at the far end of the cavernous
chamber. Moran thought he saw elevator doors close behind them. The couple strolled
between the cages of demons as if walking through a zoo. The woman laughed at the hiss of a
medis serpent and clung to her companion. The man drew a shock-volt pistol, and a
crackling yellow light arched from the barrel and into the cage. Moran smelled burning
meat, and the medis serpent went silent. The man holstered his gun.
As the couple drew closer Moran realized that he knew both people. He hadn t
immediately recognized the wealthy young widow, Mrs. Sunday, because her short red hair
was hidden under a blonde wig, which appeared to have a plastic halo affixed to it. She also
wore a pair of little silver wings, a flowing white dress, and white satin gloves.
Beside her, Police Lieutenant Sam Dashner stood in a white naval uniform, wearing
that tight, satisfied smile that Moran had always disliked. At the station it had meant bad
news would be forthcoming, and Moran knew this time wasn t any different. The fact that
Dashner hadn t bothered to wear an anonymity spell told Moran that the lieutenant didn t
expect Moran to live long enough to tell anyone about Dashner s involvement in all of this.
224 Ginn Hale
Dashner met Moran s gaze with a sneer. Mrs. Sunday looked his way as well, but her
attention moved past Moran to the body in the cage with him. Her pretty face tightened into
an expression of disdain.
You ruined my very favorite photographer, Detective Moran. Just wrecked him. Mrs.
Sunday shook her head, and her plastic halo wobbled.
Moran knew it wasn t James lying there, but that didn t mollify his anger. A man had
still been murdered, and here she stood, chastising Moran as if her carpet had been soiled.
Moran clenched his jaw and kept quiet.
He was pretty certain that the only reason he was still alive was because these two
needed something from him, and if he wanted to keep living he needed to be careful not to
give it to them.
There s no point in pretending like you didn t know him, Moran, Dashner said. The
cells are monitored. We all saw your reunion with James Sparks. Liked him, did you?
Dashner s face radiated smug satisfaction. He was a queer, you know.
At this, Mrs. Sunday laughed and rolled her eyes.
Who didn t know that, Sam? He wore a T-shirt with it printed on the front.
Her response seemed to annoy Dashner. He glared at Moran.
So, when did you and your little fuck buddy last meet? Dashner demanded.
Moran saw the desperation in Dashner s narrowed eyes, and he suddenly remembered
James saying that he had gotten clear shots of the man in charge.
I noticed him taking photos of me in the mirrors, Dashner snapped. It took a little
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