Under the Skin (Ritual Crime Unit) by E. E. Richardson

Leo’s phone revealed a suspicious lack of internet presence for any local company by that name. But she’d seen the logo on the van, which was at least proof that some kind of front existed.
    The van was gone from outside the unit when they left; most likely it had belonged to the shapeshifter, and Maitland had taken it as a cover.
    “Find that van, and we’ll find the place we’re looking for,” she said to Leo. “The shapeshifter said it was close, and I doubt he cared enough to bother lying. We’ll just have to scout around until we see it.” She eyed the lurid markings of the Armed Response Vehicle that Leo had arrived in and sighed, mourning her confiscated car keys. “On foot,” she added wearily. Best not to go flying full police colours until they knew just what they would be facing.
    Leo went over to exchange a few words with the officer in the driver’s seat of the ARV. Without something immediate to focus on, Pierce felt weariness slump over her like a heavy coat. The day had been far too long, especially coming on the heels of a late night raid.
    And it wasn’t over yet. As Leo returned from the car, Pierce straightened up, trying to will herself back to alertness. Right now she would have welcomed the North Yorkshire Police’s awful coffee—she’d have welcomed dishwater, if it had added caffeine.
    “Baker’s going to wait here with the car until we call for him,” Leo said, though he didn’t look all that happy about it. He shook his head. “If Henderson was here, he wouldn’t be letting me do this. Nobody in Firearms should be running around playing cowboy without authorisation—and don’t tell me I’ve got yours; it’s not worth the paper it’s printed on right now.”
    But Pierce wasn’t the only one who’d lost a colleague to this skinbinder and his allies. “If Henderson was here, you wouldn’t need to,” she said, holding his gaze. “These people are killers, and they will kill again. And I don’t trust that Maitland cares nearly enough about stopping them from doing it, just as long as he gets what he wants.”
    He grunted. “That’s why I’m coming with you. But I’m not going in shooting without a damn good reason, and if this goes bad, I’m calling for backup.”
    “Agreed,” she said without hesitation.
    They started away from the cars and out onto the main street. Pierce stretched her arms, still sore from where she’d been pinned in place around the pillar. She’d kept the cuffs as a replacement for her own: not silver, but still strong enough to restrain a normal human being. Maitland would be a favourite.
    “You eaten?” Leo asked her as they walked.
    “In one of my past lives, maybe.” Her stomach growled.
    “Figured. I stole Baker’s midnight snacks for you.” He offered her a chocolate bar from one of the pockets of his vest.
    “Marry me,” she said, diving in before she’d even fully opened up the wrapper.
    “I think my wife would object,” he said, without cracking a smile.
    “Well, that’s just picky.”
    The brief boost to her mood from welcome sugar and good humour gave her the energy to keep on walking. The road was deserted, the widely spaced streetlights casting diffuse pools of light that were just enough to give shape to the darkness. A slice of moon showed through the heavy clouds cloaking the sky.
    Just past full moon; still a powerful time of the month for lunar rituals. The skinbinder’s backers wouldn’t want him to miss out on a night’s work, and she wasn’t sure that Maitland would make too much effort to stop it either. He’d kept a hands-off approach back at the farm, apparently content to watch and learn. Who knew how many murders he might have turned a blind eye to before Pierce had thrown a spanner in the works?
    If she had her way, she would throw some more before the night was over.
    The businesses they passed were all in darkness, and she had to squint to make out the names on the signs; her penlight was