Once I saw this, I made the connection. But there is a scholarly glut of conflicting interpretations when it comes to Nietzsche’s doctrine.

Halen snaps a picture of the carved symbol, then pins me with an accusatory gaze.

“The engravings have been seared into the bark, branded,” I say. “I’m sure the lab geeks can discern what was used.”

“That’s not important right now,” she says, tone accusatory. “You’ve known about this since before the diner, and you didn’t say anything. You’ve known the whole time we’ve been talking—”

“I didn’t know anything confidently.” Making the association to Nietzsche means nothing. Nietzsche lambasted the master philosophers of antiquity, and he’s often associated with Socrates for this reason. There are several of Nietzsche’s works that parallel to the ancient gods and philosophies.

It’s like trying to pick a needle out of a haystack, only the picker sees a stack of needles instead of hay. Philosophy is interpretation. I need to see the needle and the hay through the suspect’s eyes.

Releasing a heavy breath, she returns her attention to the symbols. “Then what do you now know confidently?”

I lower myself next to her. “A serial killer covers his tracks. He hides his kills. Performs forensic countermeasures. All because he doesn’t want to be caught, because he has a compulsion he needs to continue to feed.”

She turns wary eyes on me, and I can hear her speculative thoughts, questioning if I’m speaking from personal experience.

“Your perpetrator has no worries of being caught in the long run,” I continue. “You realized this. Matter of fact, he wants the world to know. He is bringing people a gift. He is coming. If he doesn’t believe he’s already arrived…” Then I consider the lemon he used. “No, he still has more to achieve. That’s why he backtracked to mask his practice site.”

“Kallum,” she interrupts, “what the hell are you talking about?”

I glance around, trying to locate the third symbol. There has to be a third—there are always three.

“The stag,” I say, pushing aside willow sprays as my search becomes frantic. “It was hunted and torn apart during a ritual by a man who practices very specific alchemy.” My voice falters as I uncover the third engraving.

“The symbol for Dionysus.”

A dark thrill sets my blood aflame as I run my fingertips over the Greek symbol for the god of madness and frenzy.

I found the needle.

And the haystack just went up in flames.

“Socrates. The herd. Dionysus.” I tick off the symbols on my fingers as I turn toward Halen. “The order of his ascension.”

She’s lowered her camera, no longer concerned with cataloging the scene. Her eyes are wide and flashing like a scared and wounded animal caught in a trap.

My blood is fury and blisters my veins as it rushes every artery. She has no comprehension of what we’ve uncovered, of what this entails.

“Pleasure. Madness. Frenzy.” I climb to my feet and brace my hand on the tree for support.

Halen mutters a curse and latches onto my wrist, forcing my palm to scrape down the bark as she scolds me about evidence. But I’m tunneling too far down, my mind delving to the depths, to where Dionysus dwells in the underworld.

Only Halen’s fragile, distressed voice pulls me from the brink. “Kallum, please…”

I drive my hand into my hair as I draw close to her, tearing down superficial boundaries to be near her, to feel her energy and feed off her pain. Her sweet scent of honeysuckle, the searing echo of clove that clings to her fear and scorches my throat. She could drug me with one touch.

Sheltered under the weeping limbs of a swamp tree, where Nietzsche himself would feel at peace, I find Halen’s beautiful and alarmed gaze, and I breathe in her maddening scent.

I push in so close, her back hits the tree, and I can’t stop. I clasp her face, ravenous for a taste of her.

My peripheral catches movement as she reaches out to grab hold of a stick.

I smile down at her. “We already talked about the weapons you possess, sweetness. I won’t be stopped with a twig.”

Her strained swallow presses against my palm, and she releases the branch. But something else—something dark and frightened and aware—sparks in her gaze, and I wonder what mental images are flicking through her mind.

She licks her lips, drawing my deviating thoughts to her alluring mouth. “I want you to release me.”

“Is that what you want?”

Nodding against my hands, she forces out, “Yes.”

With severe difficulty, I break away. I set her free, but only for this moment. She took hold of me from the very first instance and has cruelly kept me bound with no intention of releasing me.

Every step I take away from her, the turmoil attacking my mind lessens, until I finally inhale a breath not laced with her scent to cleanse my lungs.

“The divine madness,” I say to her, pointing toward the symbol.

“What does that mean?”

“The power to become deified through wisdom.” I widen my arms. “To become a fucking god.”

Real fear crests in her pale eyes. And I know that fear is directed toward me, not her suspect—but she has no idea how close she is to the abyss.

“Your suspect is the Übermensch .”

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9

Deities of Frenzy

Halen

S leep deprivation can cause disorientation, impaired judgement, and memory loss. But suffer this ailment long enough, and it’s the strain on the heart which inflicts the most damage.

I’d like to blame my disjointed presentation to the FBI task force today on my lack of quality sleep—but I’ve worked off of less; I know what my body and mind can tolerate. I know my breaking point.

And the need for sleep has nothing to do with the palpitations attacking my heart as I watch Kallum stalk toward me on the sidewalk.

Dressed in an all-black suit, his leanly cut form slices the night like a razor. He’s the devil of every ailment come to inflict damage to my heart.

This is the first time I’ve seen him since his manic episode at the scene last night. And I’m unsure if it was that episode or what came before that has me so unnerved.

As he and Dr. Verlice approach the entrance to Pal’s Tavern, I touch my chest and clasp the solitaire diamond, distractedly returning my attention to the revised profile on my tablet.

I’ve been reworking it since Aubrey relayed our director’s dissatisfaction with my report. Agent Alister’s initial briefing with my unit expressed as much with my performance.

I’ve had to deliver more bizarre and far-reaching profiles to authorities before, but trying to deliver a ritual ground crime scene where the unnamed suspect tears apart animals with his hands and teeth and consumes the flesh has its own unique challenges.

Then there’s the added layer of difficulty when explaining the associations to secret societies and mad philosophers to outline a suspect who aims to ascend into a super human.

Besides the obvious credibility issue, the profile gets no one any closer to locating the missing victims.

When Agent Alister pulled me aside and reprimanded me about withholding the evidence of the engravings and lack of communication, all I could do was nod and chew back retorts.

Alister’s admonishment was fair and even warranted. Using Kallum’s eccentric methods as an excuse wasn’t an option. I was the one who requested his participation on the case. He’s my responsibility. He’s my problem to contain.

And as his blue-and-green smoldering gaze drags over me deliberately, stoking embers long ago doused, I know it’s not just the urgency of the unusual case affecting me and my ability.

Something is wrong with me.

Dr. Verlice glances at the wooden sign above the worn door of the local townie bar. “This doesn’t seem like an ideal method of investigation,” he says.