Murder On The Waterway: The Case Of The Kanaima Demon

Chapter Twenty Eight

Rusty grey ought to be at least three inches long, like the others; anything that sat through flesh, bone, and smashed into stone had to be fairly long., Let alone bear an adult woman's weight. The first, in her left hand, a few centimetres left of the forefinger, spurts of blood have dried over the metal. The next is the dead centre of the right-hand palm, crunched through bone. Left foot, the top ridge near the ankle joint. Right foot, through the bony ligaments just below the toes.

Each little piggy had curled and stiffened over the hours. Both thumbs crossed a finger, tensing. Riding out the pain, unable to move during each incision. Paralyzed, but perhaps not fully, or had worn off. Emily Fulton suffered. Her pinned chest skin, the hallmark of a science experiment, exposes breast tissue and a crater where the heart used to be.

I fixated on the glistening pink and red flesh with a disgusting longing to taste; the lure was getting worse with these things. Consuming my thoughts, I had to focus on the task at hand. There's no telling what eyes are on me; I last needed to change forms and be seen. I shook my head before noticing the savagery inflicted on Emily's abdominal area. The sick bastards had completely torn it open. The inside of her skin should've been painted with blood; this was spotless except for a message. A taunt, maybe even a warning that had me thinking, was there any stopping the slaughter?

'Corde volui quod non-poterat,'

'The heart wanted what it couldn't have.'

Latin tattooed inside. The slices were jagged, with one, maybe two, claws used to slice through her flesh. The Kanaima likes to take time with the hunt, but this seemed personal. My brain lingered on the comment 'cheat' a couple of murders ago. Could it be Jack Sexton's wife? Money and revenge. I've yet to feel that myself, but I'd imagine it to be like going through butter.

The fine details stood out as if I were up close; my vision was further enhanced by blue and white marbling over Emily's anaemic skin. Bruising to the inner and outer edge of her slender thighs and bony forearms. I was tracing a pattern of scratches, three or maybe four inches long. Human nail lines were my thoughts. I was aided by a curious indent, the surface of a ring—circular with a pattern around the edge. Grooves remind me of a coin, particularly the two obsidians I carry.

My brain marched back and forth, thinking, ring and coin. How do they come together? My gaze moves down her arms to her pencil-like fingers. Emily had short, purple-painted nails, which were frayed and jagged from clawing at a solid surface. My haze flashed across the edge. At first, it was dirt until I realised the different colours, blue and green—paint flakes. Emily had been on a blue and green surface for at least a part of her ordeal. A boat? It's funny how the details keep coming back to boats.

The 'berth 72', a key to it. Written on a piece and now flaked paint matching the colours I saw on a canal boat at the beginning of the case. There are probably thousands with the same, but I prefer to avoid the coincidences. I continued searching the body with the ring mark and the crap under Emily's nails occupying my mind. Almost sloppy.

The previous murders weren't so crazed, leaving clues for us to work on, which brings me back to this person and revenge by Jack's wife. Clears out of her home after an alleged separation from her husband because of an affair with Emily. Now, nobody knows where she is. She would have the perfect situation.

While examining the body, I was still picking up on the stink of death; the demons were looming nearby. They had to be watching and waiting for us to say or give them a clue. My feet perch at the edge, springing on the tips to reach the scroll. A sudden whoosh of wind had me wobbling; the tips of my fingers were centimetres away. It had got darker quickly, and under the bridge was full of gloom; shadows were thrown from lamps erected at either end. Nobody was watching.