Beyond Nocturne Ch. 05

He again brought to mind the mystery of his wounds healing, the shock on both their faces, and her completely naked breasts against his skin. He remembered the images that he had experienced in the alcohol and morphine induced state Lydia had put him in.

He had seen things in her, both frightening and beautiful. He hadn't been able to make them out, all of it as blurred and distorted as his sight had been this morning. He had sensed she was hiding something, hiding a lot actually. But he had also felt her loneliness, and her need to help him. He didn't understand why she had saved him, or why she had taken care of him after the incident in the alley.

She was a complete mystery.

"A beautiful mystery," he said to himself, very clearly remembering the erection she had given him as she nuzzled his neck, her impossibly perfect breasts warm and soft against him. He had thought she might bite him, and the conversation with Sue in the forensics lab drifted back to him.

"A vampire?" he had asked jokingly.

"Maybe someone who wishes they were..." she had said.

The doors opened, heralded by a small musical tone. He walked through the records room, it's vast space filled with cabinets, storage and bookcases. It was a maze, and he could easily see himself getting lost. He pictured himself dying down here, and Hollins finding him, shaking his head, muttering, "He just couldn't follow orders."

Michael knew his career was probably over, and in all likelihood, he would be brought up on charges over Rossetti's death. He knew his only chance of getting through this with minimal damage would be to follow Hollins every last word.

And by the last word, Michael equated it to bending over, dropping his pants and asking, "Please sir, can I have a little more?" like a good, little bitch.

And yet here he was, disobeying orders again. He had no choice really, and Michael had realized that as he polished his other sidearm earlier that day, the one he kept hidden behind his couch "just in case."

His brother had been killed and the body was missing. People had been killed in the process of stealing his body, and now his partner had been killed in the line of duty by a monster out of a horror movie. Somehow, his brother was connected to Larry Crispin, a serial killer of notorious fame around the country murdered via another killer more intelligent and quick than any he had ever read about.

In the middle of all this, a prostitute had gone missing, presumably Crispin's most recent and final target, and no one knew if she was dead or alive. It was a puzzle with pieces that just didn't fit together, a mystery so locked up with dead ends that Michael doubted he could ever crack it. He knew there had to be something he had missed, a key to the unlocking the mystery.

And Lydia was the key. He knew that she could make the pieces the fit.

He stopped at the end of the first row of ancient looking books twenty yards away from the elevator doors. The room had an ancient smell of paper and paint, old leather and dust. The room had a character all it's own, and he was sure it had its share of secrets to hide. In fact, if a person didn't want to be noticed, wanted to slip away from the view of the world, Michael thought this place was as good as any to get lost. The shadows and low lights gave it a unique presence, a quality that was both fascinating and foreboding at the same time. It was a sanctuary for all things old and mysterious, and he wondered why he hadn't noticed that on his first trip here.

"Michael," Lydia said, her voice filled with surprise.

He turned and saw her behind him, carrying an armful of file folders. "You have a talent for sneaking up on me," he smiled.

"And you have a talent for surprising me, detective," she nodded curtly and walked past him, the heels of her shoes clicking and echoing through the basement.

"I need answers, Lydia," he followed, hurrying to catch up.

"I don't have any for you."

"Bullshit," he said, trying to keep pace with her, "Something happened last night."

"Besides the large creature in the alley?" she regarded him sarcastically.

"Yes," he put his hand on her shoulder, and she stopped as though frozen. He realized from the look in her eye that "frozen" wasn't as accurate a description as poised, ready to strike.

She looked at him defensively and he knew she had just fought the instinct to drop him for touching her. He could feel her anger like heat pouring off a burning pile of brush. When he was a boy, he helped his father cut brush on their land and burn it in the spring. The heat that came off those brush piles could have singed every hair on his face off in a second if he got too close. Lydia burned with her own fire, and while Michael knew he needed to step back, he sensed that she wasn't angry towards him.

He needed to get closer.

"Your hand, detective?"

He withdrew his hand slowly and smiled disarmingly, "You have a lot of anger."

"Who doesn't?"

"Look, I'm not here in a official capacity," Michael began.

"You never are," Lydia said dryly as she continued walking towards the rear of the basement. Michael wondered where the affection was he had felt from her last night, and whether he had dreamed it or not.

"My partner is dead," he told her as they came to a reception desk. Lydia put the files down the desktop and looked at him. Michael could feel the affection beginning to surface again, if faintly so.

He said, "The same the fucker that attacked us probably killed him, Lydia. My boss just revoked my badge and suspended me from duty because he was on my watch when it happened, and I couldn't tell him who had saved me from that thing. He thinks I might have had something to do with it in a criminal sense."

Lydia looked at him. "Why didn't you say anything about me being there?"

"Eventually, they'll see what I've seen and put two and two together. And then I won't have any leads at all on what happened to my brother. I need to talk to you first."

"Why me, detective? Why am I so damn important to your investigation?"

"Because identical boot prints were found at both crime scenes, because when I showed you that umbrella you flinched, because you seem to know a whole hell of a lot more than you're telling me. Maybe you didn't kill anybody, but you know something."

"A lot of people wear boots."

"What size do you wear?"

She crossed her arms. "A size ten."

Michael shook his head. "You're lying."

She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, uncertain of how to respond. Could some of her telepathy have rubbed off him that night? Could he have been something of telepath even before then or just very intuitive? It didn't matter, because the truth of it was he was right, she was lying.

"Size nine, detective," she admitted. "But a lot of women wear a size nine."

He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and opened it. There were two footprints on it, one partial from the tip of the toe to the beginning of the heel. The treads of the footwear were like large, Neanderthal fingerprints she knew would match the bottom of her boots perfectly. Lydia smiled to herself with a sense of humility. She had been so confident in her precautions, so wrapped up in not leaving anything behind over the years that she had taken the little things for granted.

And now, instead of fingerprints, she had left footprints for people to find. In her confusion over Steve, she had left her umbrella, which the detective had tracked back here to her place of employment on a hunch. All little things to be sure, but they were important little things.

They were the little details, and she knew better than anyone that the devil was always in the little details.

"Detective," she said, shaking her head, "I'm a secretary, a records keeper for the museum."

"And you fought that thing last night. I watched you, and you've got moves and speed Jet Li never dreamed of. You somehow healed my wounds and..."

"And what?" she asked, remembering the intimate moment between them, the need and affection that joined them together. She tried to shove the memories back, push them all far away from her so she could think. They were like a song that she just couldn't get out of her head, repeating on her over and over.

"You," he said, still unable to get the image of her bare breasts out of his head, "You did something to me. I need to know what is going on, Lydia. Please, you're my only hope of finding who did this to my brother. You were there."

Lydia could feel his kindness again, his honesty touching her deep with in her heart. She tried to close it off, but she couldn't deny it. They had been strangers forty-eight hours ago, and now, they were joined together through the shared experience of healing. Michael only knew it on very basic level, but he was smart, and it wouldn't take long for him to figure it all out.

Lydia sat down, and offered a chair to him.

"Sit, please Michael," she gestured.

"Where did you go last night?" he asked.

"I had to leave you," she said quietly, "You passed out after your wounds healed, and I had some business to attend to before the sun came up."

"You don't like the sun?"

"I have a," she searched for the right words, "A condition, that makes my skin very sensitive to sunlight. I'd die within a few minutes of direct exposure. UV radiation is like poison to me."

"So you stay down here all day?"

"I live here, detective," she said, "A special arrangement from the powers-that-be."

Michael looked around doubtfully. "Kind of a creepy place to set up housekeeping, isn't it?"

"My needs are simple," she said.

Michael nodded.

"What do you know about Larry Crispin?" he asked, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes penetrating her, searching for the truth. "What do you know about my brother?"

Lydia breathed deep. "I stumbled onto Larry by accident. I was out for my evening walk when I came across him. When I realized he wasn't just going to fuck the girl he had with him, I intervened and let myself in."

"Through the front door?"

"No."

"Through the window?"

She paused for a moment. "Yes, Michael. Through the window."

"It's a fifth story window with no fire escape."

"I know," she smiled softly.

Michael shook his head, leaving that mystery alone for the moment. He asked, "Did you kill him?"

Lydia looked at him. "Yes, I killed Larry."

"How?"

"I choked the life right out of him."

Michael sat silently for a moment, taken back by her brutal honesty. It was strange, hearing her talk like this, hearing her so casually and calmly talk about killing someone. "What about the girl? Maricel LaVoy?"

"She was alive and well when I released her. I sent her on her way," she lied.

"She's still missing, you know?"

"I can't vouch for her whereabouts."

"You found Larry's memento box and left it out for us to find?"

"Yes, I did."

"How did you know where to find it?"

Lydia smiled. "I have something of a psychic twinkle, detective. I think you know that..."

Michael nodded. "I do."

"He was a bad man, Michael. A very bad man."

"I know," he grimaced as he rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on, "How did you get through that window?"

"Is it important?"

"Unless someone shot you out of a cannon, then yes it is very important."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"After what I saw last night, I'm willing to keep an open mind."

Lydia searched his heart, and found he was telling the truth. There was no turning back if she told him, and she knew she was about to complicate her life a hundred fold. But her attraction and need for him, her trust in him as a kindred spirit had eased her mind a little. In a strange way, she felt a little safer with him.

Her mind was uninterrupted by the darkness of the thirst for the moment, and she could think very clearly. It was clear that both she and the detective had run out of options in this situation, and she had to play her hand. She sat back in her chair, looked at him and said quite frankly, "Then let me get you a drink. This may take some time."

***

Maricel had managed to slip out of the museum through an air duct, running from the basement to ground level. Once dusk fell around six that night, she knew it was safe to be outside. She had borrowed one of Lydia's coats and worked her way through the narrow ductwork system, her enhanced instincts and sense of direction guiding her. She had not wanted Lydia to see her like this, to see her in the throes of her thirst. She had lost control with Lydia before, and managed to seduce her. She could feel Lydia regretted it, and she had no desire to hurt her friend again.

She could still feel her in the back of her mind, talking to someone. They had been talking for a while, and Maricel knew Lydia was both afraid and attracted to the man, the detective that had been following her. Maricel also felt the yearning within the detective for Lydia, and something else. It was dark, painful and ugly. She couldn't quite find the words to describe it. Yet, Maricel felt confidant Lydia would be safe with him no matter what.

She felt the uncomfortable grip of jealousy squeeze her.

The small, rectangular air vent on the side of the building popped out and clanked to the ground. Maricel lowered herself out, feet first and dropped ten feet to the alley, landing as graceful as any cat. It was in this alley that the night before, detective Rossetti had been brutally attacked by whatever the thing was that had went after Lydia and her friend. Maricel looked around the shadows of the alley for a moment.

"Steve was here," she said out loud, feeling the echoes of Rossetti's last moments of life still reverberating through the walls of the alley. His screams were still carried on the wind, fading slowly but losing none of their meaning. It was thick with his essence, like a rolling fog, and she licked her lips as she picked up traces of his blood on the ground. She knew instinctively that any blood she did find wouldn't be of any good, so she began walking. She blended into the thin stream of people walking to and from as she let herself be guided by her new set of instincts.

"Who is Steve?" she wondered out loud, and remembered the creature in the alley. She remembered the searing pain she had felt when it attacked, and the depth of its hatred and love for Lydia.

She seemed to walk forever, lost in her thoughts until she came to a familiar apartment complex. The sprinklers were on despite the fact that it was clouding up again for a storm, the droplets of water catching the warm glare of the sodium lights in the parking lot. She hurried through the corridors of the complex until she came to the door marked number seventy-seven. She knocked, and heard a voice from behind the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Maricel."

"Holy shit," the voice said excitedly as the locks disengaged quickly. The door swung open, and Tiffany looked at her in utter amazement. Relief washed over as she cried, "Maricel, get your ass in here! They said you were missing!"

Maricel smiled at her. "No, I'm okay. Just had to lay low for awhile."

"The cops have been asking everyone about you," Tiffany said, her overly large hoop earrings clattering as she led her friend inside and closed the door, "Did that fuck hurt you? I knew I shouldn't have let you go alone."

"He tried, but a friend helped me out," she said as she removed the heavy coat and sat down. The living room was illuminated with bloody red light from the kitschy lamps Tiffany had put red party bulbs into. "Killed him, in fact."

"So it's true," she said in total amazement, her Brooklyn accent so thick it had no place being anywhere near the west coast, "That guy was the Front Page Predator?"

"In the flesh."

"Fuck, you are lucky."

Maricel only shrugged. Luck didn't seem to be a part of the equation.

Tiffany looked down the hallway and into her bedroom, shouting, "Missy, Maricel's back!"

A door opened and Missy came running into the room, her face smiling and beaming with joy.

"Mary," she squealed, hugging Maricel tight against her. She could feel Missy's breasts against her body, and knew that she was naked under her nightshirt. Maricel returned the embrace in full, feeling the thirst welling up slowly. Missy's black hair was short and slicked back, a typical haircut for today's lesbian. But her face was almost angelic, not hard and angry. She was a petite lesbian, a delicate example of a forbidden love, a love that was dedicated to Tiffany with an almost blind loyalty.

"Are you okay, girl? I have been worried sick about you," Tiffany sat beside her, put her arms around her and hugged her close. Maricel let herself be comfortable in the embrace, her head resting on Tiffany's large, surgically perfected tits. Maricel looked at them, covered only by a low cut tube-top. She could see Tiffany's nipples were hard, protruding out like beacons. Maricel felt her own tingle and rise as she rubbed her cheek against the exposed half of Tiffany's cleavage. She put her arms around her.

Missy sat on the other side of Maricel, putting a hand on her back and rubbing up and down, "Did Tiff tell you the cops have been cracking down on everyone looking for you?"

"Yeah," she said.

"The one who questioned me was a hottie. Wolverton was his name. Missy and I would have fucked him so hard, "Tiffany said, and then winked at Missy, "If we were into men..."

Missy made a kissing face at Tiffany.

"Where have you been?" Missy asked.

"I've been recovering," she said softly, letting her hands slide down to Tiffany's legs. She felt the course fibers of the gray sweat pants with her fingers, and she found that even the simple things felt different to her, somehow more real. Beneath the fabric she knew were toned and muscular legs, a dancers legs.

Tiffany worked on the side of her "escort" job as a stripper, and a damn good one at that. Her breasts and rock hard body had made an impression at every club she worked at, making her a sizable little fortune off the overly horny men of the world. She had seen Tiffany dance, and the woman was amazing. Had it not been for certain twists in her life, and maybe some of the few unfortunate choices she had made, she might have been a professional dancer in any venue she wanted.

"Did he rape you, baby?" Tiffany asked quietly, her long, curly reddish-purple hair hanging in her face. Maricel sensed that even now, Tiffany wanted her. She never changed, her mind always on sex, always on the lookout for a source of gratification. She could see Tiffany undressing her in her mind already, and Maricel found she didn't care all that much.

In fact, she was beginning to enjoy it as the thirst maintained it's iron, relentless grip on her. She stretched out to Missy's mind and found she was in the same place.

She thought it was funny, that for as much as these two women claimed to love each other, deep down they were just as unhappy as they had been before their declaration of homosexuality. They lusted after both men and women, anyone to fill the emptiness in their lives. Maricel realized it was true that misery loved company, and if these two were anything, they were a prime example of that adage. It wasn't that they didn't care for each other, because they did. But Maricel knew that lust didn't equate to love, and lust would eventually fail where love would have succeeded.

Tonight, however, that was irrelevant. Their special relationship, their mutual attraction to her was what she needed, what she craved as she felt her pussy become hot and slick.

"No," Maricel said, gliding her hand up Tiffany's arm and resting it on her shoulder, "He only made me realize some things about myself."

Tiffany looked at her hand, resting on her shoulder, her green eyes filled with curiosity. "Like what?"