The rain in the city didn’t wash things clean; it just moved the grime around.
Detective Alucard sat at his desk in the 12th Precinct, the fluorescent lights overhead humming at a frequency that made his teeth ache. To anyone else, it was a dull buzz. To him, it sounded like a chainsaw. He ignored it, focusing instead on the thick, crimson liquid swirling inside his "World's Best Detective" mug.
It was lukewarm tomato juice, spiked with enough salt to mimic the mineral tang of life. It was a lie, but it was a lie that kept him from leaping across the room and tearing out the jugular of the sergeant who was currently yelling into a telephone.
"Alucard!"
He didn't look up. "The file on the dockworker's murder is in your top drawer, Captain. His wife didn't do it. It was the brother-in-law. There’s traces of industrial-grade zinc on his left shoe; he works at the smelting plant. Check his locker."
Captain Miller paused, his mouth hanging open. "I haven't even asked you yet."
"You were walking with the heavy gait of a man who had an unsolved file burning a hole in his hand," Alucard said, finally taking a slow, measured sip of his juice. His pale eyes remained fixed on a smudge of ink on his desk. "And you smell like cheap cigars and failure. It’s a distracting combination."
"Whatever. Put the juice down. You’ve got a new partner."
Alucard’s hand froze. "I don't work with partners. They’re loud, they breathe too much, and they ask questions I don't want to answer."
"Too bad. The Mayor is breathing down my neck about 'teamwork' and 'accountability.' This is Detective Anne Jones. She transferred from Narcotics. She’s top of her class, and more importantly, she’s the only one who didn't sign a petition to have you moved to the basement."
A woman stepped out from behind the Captain. She was dressed in a sharp charcoal blazer, her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She looked at Alucard with eyes that weren't intimidated—they were curious.
Alucard stood up. He was tall, his movements fluid and unsettlingly silent. He took a long, deep breath, filtering the air through his senses.
"Narcotics," Alucard murmured, his voice like velvet over gravel. "But you’ve spent the last three days in a library. You have the scent of old paper and dust on your sleeves. You’re left-handed, but you’re training yourself to shoot with your right. You had a bagel with cream cheese for breakfast—no, lox. And you’re wondering if I’m as crazy as the rumors say."
Anne Jones blinked, her hand hovering near her badge. "I was actually wondering why you’re drinking tomato juice at 10:00 PM in a room that’s already dark."
Alucard’s lips twitched—a ghost of a smile. "Vitamin C is essential for the nocturnal."
"Right," Anne said, not buying it for a second. "Well, 'Vitamin C,' pack your kit. We’ve got a body at the Lauriston Gardens penthouse. And the patrolmen are losing their minds because there isn't a single wound on the victim."
The Crime Scene
The penthouse was a sprawling monument to modern greed—all glass walls and white marble. Now, it was draped in yellow police tape.
As they stepped under the tape, Alucard stopped. The air hit him like a physical blow. Most people smelled the copper of blood; he smelled the vintage.
"Don't touch anything," Alucard commanded.
"I’m a detective, Alucard, not a tourist," Anne snapped, pulling on her latex gloves.
The victim was sprawled in the center of the living room. He was a middle-aged man in an expensive suit, his face contorted in a mask of absolute terror. There was no blood on his clothes. No bullet holes. No knife wounds.
But on the pristine white wall behind him, written in jagged, dripping crimson letters, was a single word:
RACHE
"Rache," Anne whispered, leaning in. "Maybe he started to write 'Rachel' before he died?"
"It’s German for 'Revenge'," Alucard said. He walked toward the wall, his nostrils flaring. To Anne, it was just a word. To Alucard, the scent of the ink was screaming.
It wasn't the victim's blood. The victim was O-Positive; he could hear the faint, stagnant thrum of it still settled in the man's legs. The blood on the wall was... old. Cold. It had been preserved in a centrifuge. It smelled like Sanguine Medical—his cousin’s company.
"What are you doing?" Anne asked, her voice dropping to a suspicious whisper.
Alucard had leaned his face inches from the letters. For a split second, his pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black. He saw the microscopic splatter patterns. The killer hadn't used a brush; they had used their fingers.
"The killer is six feet tall," Alucard said, his voice rhythmic, falling into the Holmesian trance. "He wears heavy square-toed boots. He’s a smoker—clove cigarettes. He didn't kill this man out of passion; he killed him as a message. This man wasn't murdered with a weapon. He was scared to death."
"Scared to death? That's not a cause of death, that's a movie trope," Anne argued.
"When you see something that defies everything you believe about reality," Alucard turned to her, his pale skin looking translucent under the penthouse lights, "your heart can simply... stop."
Before Anne could respond, the elevator chimed.
A woman in a red silk suit that matched the blood on the wall stepped out. Her hair was a waterfall of dark curls, and she held a designer bag like it was a weapon. She was flanked by two men in suits who looked more like bodyguards than assistants.
"Oh, Alucard," Carmela sighed, clicking her tongue as she surveyed the room. "You always did have a flair for the dramatic. But honestly, darling, this 'detective' hobby is getting messy. You’re getting blood on your shoes."
Anne stepped forward, hand on her holster. "Who are you? This is a restricted crime scene."
Carmela ignored her, looking Anne up and down with a predatory hunger that made the hair on the back of Anne’s neck stand up. "So this is the new partner? She’s charming. A bit... salty for my taste, but I see why you like her."
"Carmela, leave," Alucard hissed, his voice dropping an octave.
"I’m just here as a concerned citizen," Carmela smirked, leaning toward Anne. "Carmela Dracula-Vane. CEO of Sanguine Medical. The victim was a board member. I assume my cousin told you we’re family? Or does he still pretend he was found in a cabbage patch?"
Anne looked between the billionaire CEO and the pale, brooding detective. "Cousin?"
"Distatant," Alucard said quickly.
Carmela laughed, a sound like breaking glass. She leaned in close to Alucard’s ear, whispering so softly only his supernatural hearing could catch it. "The blood on the wall is from our private stock, little brother. Someone is stealing from me to make a point to you. Fix it, or I’ll have to clean the streets myself. And you know how much I hate being tidy."
She blew a kiss toward Anne and vanished back into the elevator.
"Your cousin is the CEO of a multi-billion dollar medical firm, and you're working for sixty grand a year in a precinct that smells like wet dogs?" Anne asked, turning to Alucard.
"I prefer the company of the dead," Alucard replied, turning back to the body. "They're more honest."
He looked at the word RACHE again. He knew the scent now. It wasn't just revenge. It was a trail. A trail that led directly into the heart of the world he was trying to forget.
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and then Add to home screen.