Cole And The Demon

Chapter 3

Cole sat stiffly in the captain's office, his jaw tight, emotions barely held in check as he delivered his statement.

"I know what I saw, Captain," he said through clenched teeth, holding firm under the weight of disbelief and suspicion.

Captain Finnegan slammed a thick file onto his desk, his voice booming through the room. "You expect me to believe this?" We've got the body of a key suspect in a major trafficking ring upstairs, and he looks like he's been dead for fifty damn years! And the only explanation you can offer is that a naked woman was in the room, and then she jumped out the damn window? That's your story?"

"Yes, sir," Cole replied firmly, keeping his gaze forward. He left out the parts about the wings. And the horns. And the tail. And those eyes—those burning red eyes. He knew how insane it would sound. His report already bordered on implausible.

Finnegan sank into his leather chair, rubbing his temple. His voice dropped in volume, but the weight of it remained. "You're one of our best detectives, Cole." But I have to be honest—I'm starting to wonder if you're losing your grip."

Cole tensed. He'd seen this conversation coming.

"This isn't about Maria," he said quickly. "I've gone through all the mandatory therapy, passed every psych eval. I'm stable. I've been cleared for duty.

The captain nodded. "I know." And I know losing your wife nearly broke you. But I need to make sure you're not chasing ghosts out there, Harvey.

"I'm not."

"Good. Still, I'm putting you on mandatory leave. Take a few days. With pay. Step back, breathe, then come back with a clear head.

"With all due respect, sir-"

"That's an order, Detective."

Cole stood to his full height. "Understood."

"Before you head out, check in with Vince in the morgue," Finnegan added. "I need something—anything—to tell the press before they spin this into some kind of chemical weapons conspiracy."

Dismissed, Cole left the office, letting the door close behind him. He let out a long, steady breath. All things considered, it could've gone much worse. At least he still had his badge.

On his way to the morgue, Cole passed Detective Frank Wallace—the man assigned to his late wife's case. Frank, as usual, was wasting time. He was leaning back in his chair, tossing balled-up paper at a distant trash can. Sometimes he made the shot. Most times he didn't.

Of all the people to be handed Maria's case, it had to be Frank. Cole had always suspected Frank was dirty, too well-connected to touch. But without hard evidence, accusing him would go nowhere—and make Cole look unstable.

The basement felt colder than usual as Cole made his way into the morgue. He slipped on a lab coat and entered the examination room where Vince, the wiry pathologist with glasses too large for his face, stood hunched over a body under fluorescent lights.

"Tell me you've got something for me, Vince," Cole said, stepping closer.

Vince turned to him slowly, eyes wide with unease. "Seventeen years in this job, and I've never seen anything like this," he said, motioning Cole over. "Take a look."

Cole approached and stared down at the body—if it could still be called that. Travis Dunham's corpse was desiccated, shrunken and twisted like something excavated from an ancient tomb. Skin drawn tightly over bone, lips curled back, eyes hollow and sunken. A mummified shell.

And yet, folded neatly on a side table were the same clothes Travis had been wearing the night before. Untorn. Unstained. As if they'd never touched blood or skin.

Cole felt a chill crawl up his spine. He couldn't deny it any longer.

Whatever he'd encountered last night wasn't human.

"Take a look at this," Vince said, motioning toward the body.

The pathologist lifted a scalpel and delicately punctured the shriveled skin of Travis Dunham's forearm. Instead of liquid, a fine red dust spilled out like powdered rust.

Cole leaned in, eyebrows furrowed. "What the hell is that?"

"That, my friend," Vince said, peering through his glasses, "is blood—or what's left of it". Completely dehydrated."

Cole stared at the stream of crimson powder, unnerved. "What could possibly do something like that?"

Vince gave a sarcastic grin. "Now that's the million-dollar question, isn't it?" You'd need an extreme heat source, maybe over hundreds of degrees, or cryogenic conditions to freeze-dry someone like this. But here's the kicker—there's no external damage. No burns, no frostbite. The skin's intact."

Cole rubbed the back of his neck, unsettled.

"You said there was a naked woman in the room when you kicked in the door, right?"

"That's right."

"Was she...hot?" Vince smirked.

Cole shot him a withering look. "Didn't exactly stop to rate her. I was a little preoccupied with the demonic wings and glowing red eyes.

Vince chuckled. "Fair enough." But there's something else.

He pulled the sheet further down the corpse to reveal the lower half. It was hard to miss—Travis still had an erection. A grotesque contrast against the withered corpse.

Cole frowned. "Why... is that still intact?" The rest of him looks like he's been buried for decades."

Vince shrugged. "Only a few things can cause that in death. It's called priapism. Usually happens in sudden or violent deaths involving extreme arousal. If your mystery lady did this during sex..."

He gave Cole a sly grin. "Let's just say it was probably the most intense experience of his life—and death."

Cole didn't laugh.

The vision flashed in his mind again: the woman on top of Travis. The wings. The red eyes. The overwhelming energy. He hadn't imagined it.

"Keep digging, Vince. Let me know if anything else comes up. The captain put me on leave for a few days.

Vince's expression softened. "Cole... I've known you since college. After everything that happened with Maria... I'd say you're handling this better than most would.

Cole offered a tired smile. "Thanks."

---

By the time Cole returned to his apartment, the sun had set, casting the city in a blanket of amber and steel. The place was as quiet as ever. Too quiet. He shrugged off his trench coat and hung it on the hook by the kitchen door.

The kitchen light flickered dimly above the sink, casting long shadows against the tiled walls. He opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of beer, and popped the cap. Maybe, just maybe, he could get one peaceful night of rest.

He took a sip.

That's when he felt it—a sudden drop in temperature. A chill slithered down his spine like ice water under his skin.

Strange, he thought. The heater had been working fine all day. He made a mental note to call the landlord tomorrow. But something about this cold felt unnatural.

As he turned to check the thermostat, a familiar scent caught his attention.

Sweet. Floral. Almost intoxicating.

Lavender.

Cherry blossom.

Cotton candy.

He froze.

That scent—he recognized it. It was the same lingering fragrance in Travis Dunham's private lounge. The scent the woman left behind.

But she shouldn't be here.

Not in his apartment.

His pulse spiked.

He slowly scanned the room, heart pounding in his chest. Shadows stretched like fingers along the walls. The beer bottle in his hand trembled slightly as a sudden thought crossed his mind.

He wasn't alone.