The lab inside the old Brunner estate was dark, save for the blue glow of equipment. The various tools and instruments on display looked more like props for a black and white Frankenstein movie than actual science equipment. And in the middle of it all my wife, Salem, stood over a microscope, her long black braids falling over an elegant black Victorian inspired dress while she made notations in a laptop on results.
"Tissue seems to continue functioning post mortem. Fascinating." The creaking in the lab doorway grabbed her attention as I entered the room, she turned to me. "You're awake early. Sleep cycle disrupted, again?"
"Just checking why my wife is up so early in the morning." I looked her up and down as I spoke. I never could tell if she'd gotten enough sleep or not, or even if she needed sleep anymore now that her research had made her not quite human.
Her pale fingers paused on her laptop. "I've selected a new target. The timing correlates precisely with their disappearances."
"Making another immortality potion is going to require another specimen, isn't it?" I asked, knowing the answer. It always involved violence, hard to extract someone's spinal fluid peacefully, or at least we had yet to debate anyone into letting her drink their spinal fluid.
A flicker of something—perhaps amusement—crossed her otherwise impassive face. "The correlation between your deductive reasoning and my neural timeline. Statistically significant." She straightened her posture. "I've prepared the mansion. Will you be assisting, or merely observing?"
I folded my arms as I answered. She knew I didn't like talking about this before we'd had coffee and breakfast, it was hardly the kind of thing people liked to start their day discussing. "When you say 'extraction,' I take it we're not bringing Thorne in alive, correct?"
Salem's steel-grey eyes remained fixed on me, unblinking. Her face betrayed nothing as she carefully adjusted one of her black lace sleeves.
"No. Sample harvesting occurs on location. Capturing him is more difficult, introduces unwanted variables." She moved to a steel cabinet, unlocking it with a small key kept in her pocket. "We'll need to act with haste. Freshness is critical. Cellular degradation begins immediately after death. Compromises the results."
She removed a small leather case and placed it on the laboratory table, opening it to reveal a set of surgical tools arranged meticulously.
"Thorne was mentioned extensively in David Eicher's journals, this indicates he is also a member of the same cult." A hint of disgust entered her otherwise flat tone. "Seven females since March. All college-aged. All STEM majors. We kill Thorne, extract data from his home, one step closer from preventing further kidnappings."
I stepped next to her before hoisting myself up to sit in my usual perch by her workspace, she used to get antsy about me sitting here but eventually she started leaving it empty to accommodate me. "And you're certain Thorne is connected to the disappearances? Not just some guy David played pool with before we had both sides of his head formally divorced?"
She touched the crimson vial at her neck briefly, a gesture almost like a nervous habit but performed with deliberate care. "Certainty level is low." She admitted, "but harvest is necessary. My cycle is reaching a degradation point." Her eyes met mine. "Your hesitation. Understandable but unnecessary. Enough evidence on Thorne to at least establish a threat."
"I'm hesitant to kill unnecessarily," I shrugged. "But I trust your research. If he deserves it then he deserves it. When have I ever let you down? You know you can count on me, that's why..." I gestured to the matching black ruby-encrusted skull rings on our fingers, "we work so well together."
Her gaze flickered to the matching rings, and for a brief moment, something almost like warmth appeared in her otherwise cold eyes. She did love me, even if she seemed physically unable to show it… or feelings in general. My frigid little ice queen, my weird semi-vampire wife.
"Unnecessary killing. Inefficient. Wasteful." She nodded once, sharply. "I select targets with purpose. Environmental impact reports. Criminal records. Social media footprints. Thorne's social media presence alone is enough."
"Oh so you stalked his Facebook, huh?" I leaned in, "was it like cook or another boomer page where they keep reposting chain bait?"
"His Twitter. Suggested he heavily fetishizes Asian women." She returned to organizing her tools, each placed exactly parallel to the next. "Marissa Chen. Third-year biology. Previous research partner. Disappeared Tuesday evening." Her voice remained clinical, but there was an undercurrent of something harder. "Campus rumors place Thorne in vicinity of her last whereabouts, repeated pattern across all 7 missing students. Search history is damning."
"How long have you been looking into this guy exactly?"
"Since David's harvest." Two weeks ago, she meant two weeks ago. She paused, looking directly at me. "Your participation in previous operations. Consistently valuable. Statistically anomalous reliability." Her pale fingers brushed against mine briefly, the gesture quick but deliberate.
"Already previously scoped out our target. Lives alone. No pets. Minimal security systems." She closed the case with a soft click. No time for me to think it over, she already knew I'd agree. "We depart at midnight. The lab is prepped." The faintest trace of anticipation entered her voice. "Bring the electric saw. The cordless one."
"Of course, it's out in the shed." I paused and grabbed her arm, "Just promise you'll be careful this time. I know you won't die, but dragging you back beaten and bloody isn't fun."
She didn't flinch at the touch, but her eyes dropped to where my hand gripped her arm. For a brief moment, her perpetually rigid posture softened. She placed her own cold hand over mine before lowering her face and nuzzling into my touch. For just a moment, her mouth twitched into a smile.
"Your concern. Noted." Her voice remained flat, though there was the slightest shift in her tone. "The Eclipse Procedure is... unpleasant. For both parties."
She retrieved a small leather journal from her desk and made a precise notation. "Last encounter, David was armed, put up a fight." She shook her head. "Tonight will be different. Richard Thorne. Minimal risk assessment."
"You know you could take me with you, not fight these battles alone."
"No." she looked at me directly, her steel-grey eyes almost twitching as her hands clenched. "You're not adept at stealth. Increases chance of confrontation." She hesitated, then added, her voice softening just slightly, "Your continued existence. Essential to operation parameters."
"So be it then… but you can't keep me out of harm's way forever, not in our… situation."
She moved away clinically, returning to her workstation where vials of crimson liquid were arranged in perfect symmetry. She glanced back at me. "Your participation continues to be... valuable to me." Her fingers briefly touched the skull ring. "On multiple operational levels."
I didn't know why I chose a girl that talked like a robot and hid her emotions to marry, but I knew she didn't pull away to be frigid or distant, such notions might not even occur as possibilities to her. She pulled away because she knew I was right, she couldn't keep me out of the line of fire forever.
*******
The university laboratory buzzed with afternoon activity. Unlike Salem's private lab with its Victorian gloom, everything here was sterile white, brightly lit, and crowded with undergraduates rushing to complete assignments before weekend freedom called. Salem sat alone at her workstation in the back corner, her posture mathematically precise in a pressed white blouse and long black skirt. The platform boots that added four inches to her petite frame clicked against the floor tiles whenever she moved, each step measured and deliberate. Her dramatic black goth makeup and severe braids made her stand out like a raven among sparrows.
It was pretty routine for her. The professor came and told her latest work was exceptional, scolded her lightly for bending protocols, and made references to her struggles with peer group projects. Not exactly the most interesting subject matter, and with how common an occurrence it was it was basically the average Tuesday.
Across the lab, a group of students whispered and glanced in Salem's direction. One of them, a blonde in a sorority sweatshirt, rolled her eyes. "God, she's such a freak. Who dresses like that to chem lab? And have you noticed she never eats lunch with anyone except that burned-out musician husband of hers?"
Her friend nudged her. "Shh! She'll hear you. I swear she has, like, supernatural hearing or something."
"Whatever. She's probably too busy planning her next sacrificial ritual to the dark gods." They snickered.
Salem gave no indication she'd heard them, but her pale fingers tightened slightly around her pen, the knuckles whitening to match the laboratory walls.
The double doors swung open as Demonia Saville entered. Though also dressed in goth attire, Demonia was Salem's stylistic opposite, or as opposite as black shirts and skirts allowed–vibrant purple hair falling messily to her shoulders, colorful tattoos snaking up her arms, and a lab coat personalized with band patches and pins. While Salem was cold precision, Demonia was controlled chaos. She headed directly to Salem's table, her multiple rings catching the fluorescent light.
"Valerie, I was hoping to talk to you about the marine microplastics project." Demonia's voice carried an enthusiasm Salem never did. "Your insights on cellular breakdown in extreme environments would be really helpful. I've got some anomalies in my samples that don't match any known degradation patterns."
"Call me Salem, please." Salem turned her attention to Demonia, a flicker of something almost like appreciation crossing her face momentarily. "Your preliminary data is promising. Anomalies often indicate discovery potential. We can discuss after the lab."
"Great! Oh, and there's this interdisciplinary study group meeting tonight with Professor Harmon from Ancient Religions." Demonia leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "They're exploring historical coastal settlements and environmental impacts. There's supposed to be some wild stuff about biological transformations in ancient texts. Thought it might interest you."
Salem's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Professor Harmon. Ancient religions department." She made a subtle note in her small black journal. "Unavailable tonight. Prior commitments."
"That's too bad." Demonia looked genuinely disappointed. "He specifically mentioned wanting to meet you, actually. Said he'd heard about your 'unique perspective' on historical biological research. Called your work 'evolutionary' or something."
"Did he?" Salem's voice carried an edge that wasn't there before. "Interesting terminology choice. Perhaps another time."
As she exited the lab at the end of class, her phone vibrated. A text message from me: "Coffee before your next class? I'm outside."
For a moment, something almost like a smile threatened the corners of her mouth, her features softening by a fraction of a degree. She typed a response: Acceptable. Black. No sugar. Bringing cellular data for review.
Salem walked down the hallway, her posture rigid, her eyes forward, her pace measured. Other students naturally parted before her, some avoided eye contact, others stared with undisguised curiosity at the strange, pale girl who never socialized yet maintained a perfect GPA. Only the slight quickening of her step betrayed any anticipation at seeing me waiting outside.
I waited outside sipping an Oreo-flavored latte, she didn't need to text me her order, I'd remembered it since our first date. Wasn't exactly hard to—black coffee, no sugar, like her soul according to campus rumors. The rumors didn't bother me. I knew better. With me stood president of the gaming club, Rei Montaigne, a rich girl with lilac hair and contacts, trying to convince me to sign up for a gaming tournament for Super Smash Bros, a game I was utterly terrible at.
"The idea is all the proceeds will go to funding the volleyball club next season." Rei chirped, trying to turn my no into a yes. "Come on Nuka, it's gaming for a purpose."
"I'm not paying $5 to get publicly humiliated by someone running Princess Peach." I had a lot of memories playing Smash competitively and all of them involved me considering the easiest way to hang myself and escape public embarrassment afterwards.
Rei had never been good at taking rejection, "Princess Peach isn't even a competitive choice."
I gestured to imply that proved my point, "which is why it's embarrassing."
She rolled her eyes, straightened her arms and clasped her hands together pushing her chest up with the movement trying to let her tits do the convincing, this was what some in her gaming club might call a Charisma Check, "but the door fee goes to the volleyball club, not a prize winner, it's a charitable game."
Charisma check: Failed. I wasn't sure what she was expecting, I had a ring on my finger and she was very much not my type.
"Aren't you on the volleyball team? Isn't that like a conflict of interest?"
Before she could chirp back her next reply the science building's glass doors swung open, and there she was—Salem moving with that peculiar precision of hers, like someone who'd calculated the exact amount of energy needed for each step.
She spotted me immediately, and though her expression barely changed, I noticed the subtle shift in her posture. The almost imperceptible acceleration in her pace. Signs invisible to anyone who hadn't spent years learning to read her microexpressions. Rei made a tactical withdrawal, I got the feeling she was one of those that felt uncomfortable around Salem, she shot me one last offer as she left. "C'mon it's just for an hour or two next Saturday."
"My coffee. Is it prepared correctly?" Salem took the cup I offered, not bothering to acknowledge Rei, our fingers brushing momentarily. She didn't pull away from the contact.
"Black as the void, just how you like it," I smiled. "How was lab today?"
"Productive. Students are inefficient. Professor is concerned about my 'social integration.'" She took a precise sip of her coffee. "Irrelevant distraction."
She took my hand as soon as we began walking across campus, the October afternoon casting long shadows across the quad. Her body, her face, her posture—none of it betrayed any doubt or concern, but her grip was firm like a lifeline. To anyone else, she would appear emotionless, but I'd learned to read the microscopic signs: she was nervous.
"I discovered something." Her voice dropped slightly. "Marine biology student. Demonia Saville. Invited to Harmon's research group."
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"The ancient religions professor? What's he doing with marine biology students?" I stopped as I thought. "That's the same research group Marissa joined before she went missing."
Salem's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Precisely my observation. Harmon's publications: extensive focus on coastal rituals. Oceanic deities. Biological transformation through ritual immersion." She paused, taking another sip. "Coincidental timing with the cult's recent activities. Statistically improbable."
"Doesn't necessarily give us concrete proof. Unless multiple of the missing students attended those seminars then we're working off a hunch." I commented aloud. "Besides if Harmon was kidnapping women he'd be stupid to make a pattern of making his victims his seminar attendees, no way cops would miss that."
"Unspoken implication: law enforcement involved." She replied off-handedly.
"Seems like a leap, doesn't it?" I shot back, I'd be lying if I said the idea of the cops assisting was an appealing prospect.
"7 missing students. No additional officers on campus. No faculty or student body taken in for questioning. Statistically probable."
A group of sorority girls passed by, whispering and giggling when they spotted Salem. One of them made a dramatic vampire hissing sound. Salem didn't react, didn't even seem to notice, though I knew she had.
"They're just jealous you maintain a 4.0 while they're struggling to pass," I said, perhaps louder than necessary, glancing back to check if they heard me and seeing one of them flipped me off. More people that could talk shit but couldn't take it.
"Their opinions are irrelevant. Statistically insignificant." Salem adjusted her white lace sleeve. "Tonight's operation takes priority. Richard Thorne should have necessary data."
We passed the humanities building, and Salem suddenly stopped her attention fixed on a notice board. A missing person flyer with Marissa Chen's face stared back at us. "Missing since Tuesday," the poster read. "Last seen leaving Professor Harmon's evening seminar."
Salem's eyes remained fixed on the poster, her expression unchanged, but her grip on the coffee cup tightened until the lid popped off with a soft crack.
"Salem," I said quietly, "your coffee."
She glanced down at the black liquid now spilling over her pale fingers as if surprised to find it there. "Wasteful," she murmured, but there was a tension in her voice that wasn't there before. For anyone else, this would be a minor inconvenience. For Salem, with her pathological precision, it was a catastrophic breach of control.
"We should move up our timeline," she said, her voice clinical but with that undercurrent of something harder. "Richard Thorne. Tonight. Ten PM, not midnight. Sooner we hit the quicker we get the data. Additional preparation will be necessary."
"Are we killing him and searching his place or are we going to try and 'question' him first?" I asked, avoiding looking at her now. She knew I didn't do well with torture.
"Harvest first, then terminate. Research suggests torture produces unreliable data." She extended her hand and pulled my chin to meet her gaze, her cold fingers precise in their placement. "And I won't make you observe the harvesting. Psychological distress impairs your functionality."
As we continued walking, Salem subtly slipped her cold hand into mine again, her grip deadly tight as if something might rip me away. To anyone watching, we might have looked like any college couple enjoying an autumn afternoon. They wouldn't notice the silent calculation behind those steel-grey eyes, or know that her slender fingers, now entwined with mine, would later wield surgical tools with the same practiced precision.
"I got the saw ready," I said quietly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
For just a moment, so brief I might have imagined it, she squeezed back.
*****
After ten PM.
Salem had been inside Thorne's modernist townhouse for exactly twenty-three minutes. The agreed check-in time was 10:30, so I waited in the car parked two blocks down, engine off, headlights dark. Rain pattered against the windshield, distorting the streetlights into watery halos. Tension was building, and about every 30 seconds I had to stop myself from turning some tunes on, rain had me in a Morbid Angel mood.
I checked my watch again. 10:26. Four more minutes before Salem's scheduled text.
Salem didn't make mistakes. Her plans accounted for variables down to three decimal places. But I couldn't stop my fingers from drumming against the steering wheel. Perhaps when I told myself she didn't make mistakes, I was lying to calm my own nerves. After all, we wouldn't need the Eclipse Procedure if she were truly infallible.
Inside Richard Thorne's residence, Salem worked methodically.
She had located Thorne in his study as expected, seated at his computer. The tranquilizer dart—her own formula, derived from tetrodotoxin but modified for rapid onset—struck him in the neck before he registered her presence. He sank in his chair like a dying animal.
"Richard Thorne." Salem approached the paralyzed man, who could only track her with his eyes. "You smell like formaldehyde. Convenient for the morgue."
She lowered her bag and unzipped it, arranging her tools on his mahogany desk with perfect symmetry—scalpels, forceps, specimen containers, portable centrifuge. Each item sanitized and aligned at precisely 90-degree angles to the desk edge.
"Your nervous system: currently experiencing inhibited sodium channel function," she informed him clinically like a doctor giving him his piss test results. "You can feel everything. Cannot move. Cannot speak. Must be disorienting to process, shame you won't be able to tell me about the experience." She checked his pulse with two fingers, counting exactly fifteen seconds before calculating. "The paralysis is temporary. Unfortunately for you, death is permanent."
She began by establishing intravenous access to the external jugular vein, inserting an 18-gauge cannula with practiced efficiency. "Specimen extraction: most efficient while the circulatory system functions." She connected the collection apparatus, watching as crimson liquid filled the first vial. "Your contribution to science: involuntary but valuable."
Salem worked systematically, harvesting precisely what she needed for her elixir—thymus tissue, bone marrow aspirate from the sternum, cerebrospinal fluid via lumbar puncture. Each specimen labeled in her precise handwriting, stored according to her meticulous protocol. If a single step was imperfect, the serum wouldn't work, and her brain would begin aging rapidly back to her real chronological age, and at her actual age that could be pretty bad.
"Missing students," Salem's voice remained flat as she positioned a surgical blade at the base of Thorne's throat. "Location data required."
Thorne's eyes widened, tears streamed sideways across his temples, his body now lined with blood and incisions. One would wonder how he was still alive at all. Salem certainly did, pausing for a brief moment. "Fascinating... still conscious. Breathing."
"Unfortunate. Your inability to respond. Your endurance is remarkable. You could have saved me time if you'd talk." Her mouth twitched imperceptibly, the closest thing to humor in her repertoire. "I'll locate the information myself." She made another incision, separating layers of dermis, subcutaneous tissue, and platysma muscle in methodical order.
10:40 PM. Ten minutes past check-in. I dialed Salem's number for the third time. Straight to voicemail.
Something was wrong. I should have started moving ten minutes ago. Shit why wasn't I already over there?
I grabbed the 9mm from the glove compartment and stepped out into the rain. The silencer added uncomfortable weight to the barrel as I moved quietly toward Thorne's residence.
The procedure progressed efficiently. Salem had extracted the necessary biological materials, each specimen properly preserved. Thorne's body exhibited the expected physiological shutdown responses—pupillary dilation, decreased peripheral perfusion, agonal respiration patterns.
"Extraction complete," Salem noted, removing her surgical gloves. "Death imminent. But overdue."
She turned her attention to Thorne's laptop, still open on the desk, screen illuminating the gore-splattered room with blue light. The blood pooling across the hardwood floor didn't concern her—she stepped through it without hesitation, leaving perfect footprints in her wake.
The laptop required a password. Salem checked her watch.
"Schei?e.”
It was 10:43. Thirteen minutes past scheduled check-in time. She should text confirmation of mission completion, but data extraction took priority. And the data she needed was pertinent as she glanced around, Thorne should be dead, she needed to find the source of his persistence, anything out of the ordinary, because a supernatural explanation was the only explanation and if that was the truth then she had made a mistake not texting me promptly.
As she panned the room looking for sigils, runes, anything that suggested some kind of supernatural involvement she didn't notice when Thorne's eyes began to move more freely than the paralytic should allow. Did not see his right index finger twitching, tracing a strange pattern against the floor where his hand had fallen.
Salem was scanning Thorne's bookshelves for anything that sounded like a magic manual when she heard him whisper—a biological impossibility given his current pharmacological state. Worst fears confirmed, but it would have been impossible for anyone to predict how sideways this had gone.
"Ilyaa... nethni... veni..." A voice droned behind her.
“Wie–” She turned, analytical mind already cataloging the unexpected development, when an invisible force slammed her against the wall. The impact fractured her right radius and displaced her shoulder—injuries her brain cataloged automatically even as she struggled against the unseen restraint.
"You fucking... bitch..." Thorne whispered, rising unsteadily from his chair. Blood poured from his surgical wounds, but he moved as if merely inconvenienced. His eyes had changed—sclera black, iris glowing faintly purple. "Do you know... how long we've... been watching you?"
Salem attempted to reach her secondary weapon—a ceramic blade strapped to her thigh—but her limbs remained immobilized against the wall.
"Your husband... next," Thorne whispered, blood dripping from between his teeth as he grinned. "The One That Screams... needs immortals like you... potent vessels."
He reached toward her, fingers elongating unnaturally, nails extending into black talons, dragging down slowly from her collar ripping her hoodie open and leaving a thin bloody trail as he started revealing her to himself. "But first... I think I'll... ensure you're biologically capable."
I approached the house from the rear, using the garden trees as cover. Light spilled from the study window, and through the gap in the curtains, I could see Salem pinned against the wall, a bloodied Thorne slowly dragged a clawed finger down her, his cock covered in blood from his injuries but also unmistakably erect. He was lining up with... oh fuck no, not my wife.
This shouldn't be possible. Salem didn't make mistakes. Yet she had and I had one chance to save her.
I didn't bother with the door. The window shattered under the impact of a decorative garden statue, and I was through the opening before the glass stopped falling, shards bit into my palm.
"Get away from her!" I leveled the gun at Thorne, who turned with inhuman speed. I should have started shooting immediately, but I never had the same lethal instinct as my wife.
"Ah... the husband..." Thorne's voice was wrong—layered with harmonics no human throat should produce. "Come to save... your precious monster?"
Salem's eyes found mine, her face as expressionless as ever, but I saw the minute tightening of her jaw—her equivalent of screaming for help.
"You're bleeding out," I said, noticing how the puddle of blood around Thorne's feet had expanded to impossible proportions. "Whatever magic trick you're pulling, you've got minutes at best."
I made that up, I had no way of knowing that.
Thorne laughed, a wet, gurgling sound. "Time is... subjective... when you serve... the Screams."
No time for this shit, my wife was still pressed against a wall, revealed to the entire room. I fired twice. The silenced shots made dull thumping sounds as the rounds hit Thorne in the chest. He staggered but didn't fall. A third shot in that fucking cock of his and blowing it straight off leaving him a bloody stump to work with, last time he tried touching a woman without asking.
"Conventional weapons... conventional thinking..." Blood bubbled from his lips, but he was advancing toward me.
"Salem," I called out, backing up. "What's happening? How do I stop him?"
Her face went blank. For all her brilliance, the supernatural remained her blind spot—a deadly weakness in our line of work.
But I also could see them—strange markings glowing faintly purple beneath the cuffs of Thorne's blood-soaked shirt, they stood out and that was about as good an indicator they were important as anything else. Video game logic right weak spots always were clearly marked.
I fired again, this time aiming for his right wrist. The bullet tore through flesh and bone, severing his hand completely.
Thorne screamed—a sound that oscillated between human agony and something like radio interference, before his eyes actually bulged out of his head like insectile antennas and his tongue revealed a smaller mouth with its own set of teeth shot out like a goddamn alien. The invisible force pinning Salem released, and she dropped to the floor in a controlled crouch despite her broken arm.
"Left wrist," she directed, already moving toward her scattered tools. "Sever completely."
Her voice was flat—a surgeon in the operating room rather than a woman in mortal danger. That was Salem's way. No panic, no uncertainty, just precise analysis and execution.
Thorne lunged at me with impossible speed, his remaining hand transformed into something with too many joints and claws like obsidian shards. I fired, missed, dodged sideways as those claws tore through my jacket. My movements were messy, reactive, human—the opposite of Salem's calculated finesse.
Salem appeared behind him, surgical saw in hand. Clearly strained trying to swing it one handed but where there was a will there was a way. The electric whine of the blade cutting through Thorne's inhuman screams as she drove it through his remaining wrist with an ungodly squelching noise. Despite her broken arm, she moved almost undeterred, I saved her, she was gonna return the favor if it killed her—each action calculated for maximum effect with minimum energy expenditure.
The severed hand hit the floor, still twitching, still glowing with those strange symbols. Salem stomped on it with her boot heel, twisting until the glow faded.
Thorne collapsed, his body suddenly obeying the laws of physics and massive blood loss. He twitched once, twice, then went still.
The room fell silent except for the rain against the windows and our breathing—hers measured and even, mine ragged and quick.
"Salem," I approached her carefully, noting the unnatural angle of her right arm. It didn't take a genius to know it shouldn't look like that. "You're hurt."
"Comminuted fracture. Right radius. Anterior shoulder dislocation." Her voice remained flat as she surveyed the carnage around us with clinical detachment. "Miscalculation. Failed to account for supernatural variables." She looked at me, something almost like confusion crossing her features. "You arrived precisely when needed. Statistical improbability."
"I was worried," I said simply. "You missed check-in. Chalk it up as the power of love and let's go."
Salem nodded once, then turned to Thorne's laptop. "Evidence collection: priority. Unknown magical capabilities: significant variable." She attempted to type one-handed before looking back at me. "Assistance required."
I stepped carefully through the blood-soaked study, trying not to look too closely at what was left of Richard Thorne. The clinical precision of Salem's initial work—her perfectly aligned surgical tools and methodical specimen collection—had been obliterated by the chaotic violence that followed. Organs that should remain inside a human body were distinctly outside, pretty sure his liver was smeared under my shoes. The medical instruments that Salem had undoubtedly arranged in perfect order lay scattered and blood-slicked across the hardwood.
She didn't seem to notice or care about any of this. Her focus was entirely on the laptop.
"Password protected. Extraction necessary." Salem's right arm hung uselessly at her side, but she showed no sign of pain. "We require technical expertise."
I carefully closed the laptop and disconnected its power cord. "We need to go. Now. And get that arm looked at."
"The arm: functional limitation only. The Eclipse Procedure will repair it." She looked around the room one last time. "Disappointing outcome. Incomplete data acquisition."
As we left through the back door, Salem paused to collect biological samples from Thorne's severed hands. Even with one functional arm, she managed to package them with meticulous care.
"Magic," she said, the word sounding foreign in her clinical vocabulary. "Unexplainable by current scientific understanding. Yet empirically observable."
"This is the third time we've been caught blindsided by a man waving his hands around and chanting." I paused as I led her to the car. "You need to factor that into future hunts. One of these days I'm not gonna be able to improvise."
"The nature of magic is unclassified, each previous encounter manifested differently, hard to prepare for." She paused, glancing at her broken arm. "Your improvisation skills: critical asset. Previously undervalued in my calculations."
In the car, rain drummed on the roof, laptop secured in the back seat, Salem finally looked at me. Her expression hadn't changed, but she reached across with her good hand and placed it precisely over mine on the gearshift.
"Your intervention: timely. Essential." She paused, searching for words outside her usual vocabulary. "Thank you."
I squeezed her cold fingers gently. "Let's get you home. Cops are likely on their way, guns are loud after all."
I leaned back in my seat when the urge hit me and I shifted to the right, putting my hand on the back of her head and pulling her in for a warm kiss, and in a moment she melted, her good hand reaching out to hold me in place. She kissed me as if it was the last chance we'd ever get, which given the work we'd cut out for ourselves it very well could be.
"Thorne referenced 'the One That Screams,'" she said when we parted, her lips still millimeters from mine. "Requires research. Potential connection to missing students."
"One mystery at a time," I told her, starting the car. "Let's fix your arm first. Then we figure out who—or what—he was working for."