Serf veered the car back into traffic after hanging up Servanah’s phone. He’d taken it leaving her apartment. She wouldn’t be needing it.
“My men are dead.” Serf’s voice was barely recognizable; rage garbled it.
“I know. I heard.”
Serf snorted. He’d forgotten how powerful Lucien’s hearing was. “Apparently, the priest killed them.”
“No matter. We know where the Winged-One is.”
Lucien was right. They didn’t need the priest or the girl. Still, Serf had to wonder. What kind of priest was this? He’d have to look into him and investigate this further. He felt his anger rise again. Larson and Sands would be difficult to replace. For that reason alone, he’d dig up whatever he could on Father Purgeon and make him pay for what he’d done.
Serf had one more call to make. He pulled out the phone and punched in the number to his precinct.
“Cityside Police Department, Officer Bailey here, how can I…”
“This is Detective Daniel Serf, homicide. Badge 77391. Connect me to dispatch.”
Several seconds later, “Dispatch.”
Serf identified himself again. “Put out an APB for a Father Randolph Purgeon. He’s wanted for the kidnapping, rape and murder of eleven children, the murders of sixteen adults, and two police officers, Larson and Sands.”
The sun was sinking, tinting the clouds crimson, and everything beneath them looked dipped in blood. Day’s weighted eye hovered on the horizon, blood shot and drained, while its rival lurked behind the diminishing brilliance, determined to conquer the sky with its black sheet. As far back as he could remember, Serf always thought that the stars punching through the fabric of the night served as God’s peepholes. He’d always thought of God as nothing more than a voyeur. And a sick one at that.
Serf felt weak and tired. Nothing made him feel better than his master’s blood. Nothing rejuvenated him as it did. He wanted to be done with this mission. He wanted to be done with Lucien. He pushed these thoughts aside and refocused on the road.
Lucien was restless and eager. Serf felt and heard Lucien’s breath, hot along the back of his neck, ragged and rasping in the enclosed space, not from exhaustion, but with excitement. The windows were open to facilitate Lucien’s senses. He raised his snout, sniffed the air, his weight pressed into the back of Serf’s seat, every breath shuddering it.
Suddenly, Lucien froze, breathed in the air, “His scent is thick. We must hurry,” he said between inhalations. He stared through the windshield, up at the darkening sky.
Serf sped up, raced against the night. Bailien should be up by now, he thought. One benefit of being a Winged-One, even one without wings, was awakening before the Mortal Born, anywhere from half an hour to an hour. Serf had to keep Bailien posted. Apparently, he had one more call to make, though this one did not require using a phone.