Free Supernatural--Cold Fire by John Passarella Page A

hands.
    “What—?”
    His gaze tracked toward her partially obscured face, trying to focus despite his revulsion. In that moment, she switched from inhuman stillness to surging forward, inhumanly fast, reaching for his face—his eyes!—with those disturbingly long fingers. Fire ripped through his face, and then lower, the intense pain scorching him until he welcomed—

EIGHT

    After a ten-hour overnight drive from Lebanon, Kansas, the Winchesters rented a room at a local motel, switched into their Fed suits and made their way to the Public Safety Center in Braden Heights, Indiana. Of recent construction, the sprawling complex had a modern aesthetic with a curved driveway leading to the landscaped, tree-lined front entrance with access to rooms designed to accommodate town and school board meetings. An exterior directory pointed them to the rear of the building for police-related matters. The rear parking lot was smaller than the front and side lots and the occupied spaces held police cruisers, a K-9 SUV, and a police van. Dean parked the Impala in a corner spot, nearest the side parking lot, possibly to look less conspicuous among all the law enforcement vehicles.
    The receptionist, behind her bulletproof glass barrier, buzzed them through into the police office area. If they were to maintain their FBI covers and receive cooperation from local authorities, the first order of business called for checking in with local law enforcement. They made it past a mere half-dozen low-walled cubicles, and only a couple of those occupied by uniformed police officers working at computers, when Assistant Chief of Police Francisco Cordero intercepted them. Since Sam had suggested the hunt to help take Dean’s mind off the ongoing futility of searching for a cure to the Mark, he let Dean take the lead.
    “Agents Banks and Rutherford, FBI,” Dean said with the aplomb of a seasoned con man, flashing the fake FBI laminate and exchanging a quick handshake. Sam already had his ID out, and displayed it simultaneously with a curt nod.
    “Assistant Chief Francisco Cordero,” the man said, introducing himself with a quick, amiable smile as he moved from shaking Dean’s hand to Sam’s. Medium height, approaching fifty while maintaining a trim, muscular build, Cordero sported a thin black mustache trimmed with a laser’s precision. “But you can call me Frank. What brings you to Braden Heights, gentlemen?”
    “We’re looking into the Holcomb murder,” Dean said, “and hope you can answer a few questions before we visit the scene.”
    “Ah, that’s a bizarre one,” Cordero said, nodding. “And gruesome, besides. But we’re not ready to call it a murder just yet. Preliminary opinion of our medical examiner is animal attack.”
    “Animal attack?” Dean said, arching an eyebrow.
    “There’s the matter of the murder weapon,” Cordero said.
    “What about it?” Sam asked, recalling no mention of a recovered murder weapon in the report he’d read online.
    “Technically, there isn’t one,” Cordero said. “Whatever killed Mr. Holcomb did so with claws and teeth.”
    “Teeth?” Dean asked. “He was bitten?”
    Cordero frowned and waved them back toward his office, as if reluctant to speak about the case in the open, even though the only potential eavesdroppers were fellow officers. On their way, the Assistant Chief was interrupted by a uniformed woman in her mid-thirties, blond hair pulled back in a bun, with the two bars of a captain’s rank pinned to her shirt collar.
    She gave Sam and Dean a quick appraising glance before turning her attention to Cordero. “The Green file you requested, sir,” she said, handing him a manila folder.
    He thanked her, introduced her as Captain Jaime Sands and informed her that they were investigating the Holcomb case. Cordero lowered his voice. “Captain Sands and I basically run the place while Chief Townshend attends conferences with other chiefs. Homeland terrorism or emergency crisis