“Maybe you need to swing into the other lane, and let him pass.”
“Tried that. He seems intent on tailgating me.”
Just what we needed—a truckie intent on playing chicken. “Can you report his ass?”
“Can’t see the license plate.”
“Maybe I can.” As I looked around, the truck seemed to leap forward, until all I could see were the little bugs caught in the deadly-looking, silver-plated grille. I had a bad feeling those bugs could be us if we weren’t very careful. “You might want to step on it—”
The rest of my words got lost in the screech of metal as the truck rammed into the rear of us, the force of the blow lifting the rear of the cab up for several seconds before sending it lurching forward. The force of the hit flung me about like a rag doll—at least until the seat belt kicked in and just about choked me. How the driver kept control I have no idea.
I looked out the back window again, saw nothing but bug-splattered grille, and twisted back around to brace myself against the front seat. “Floor it!” I yelled. “He’s coming at us again.”
“Don’t you think I’m fucking trying?” the driver yelled back, his face red and his eyes wide with fear.
The cab’s engine was just about screaming and, for an instant, the car leapt forward, leaving the growl of the truck momentarily behind.
But all too soon, its thick roar filled the air and I didn’t need to look around to know it was closing in fast again.
And then it hit us.
This time, the blow wasn’t square-on, because suddenly the car was spinning around and around. Then the truck hit us a third time and the cab seemed to be flying. I was upside down, and the world was tumbling.
I can’t remember the cab actually hitting anything, nor can I remember blacking out, but I must have, because suddenly I was hanging upside down, held in place only by the seat belt, the roof of the car underneath me and my hair draping into a small pool of blood. Blood that seemed to be dripping from my forehead.
I groaned, and turned around, trying to see where we were. The driver—far bigger than me—had half-crumpled onto the roof and looked to be unconscious. His body was covered by bits of glass that sparkled like diamonds in the early-morning light. There were cuts all over his face and his right arm was hanging at an odd angle. Beyond him, the front of the cab had been crushed, the top of the windshield now meeting the bottom. Steam gushed through the bits and pieces of glass that remained.
I couldn’t hear the truck, thank God. Just the groaning of wounded metal and the hissing steam. I twisted around and pressed the seat belt release. Nothing happened. I pressed it again, and the thing let go, dumping me onto the roof. Glass sliced into my hands and I cursed softly. I might be a werewolf, and I might be able to heal such wounds easily enough, but it still fucking hurt.
I kicked out the remaining glass in the side window with more force than necessary, then carefully crawled out. The grass and mud felt like heaven under my fingertips, and for a moment I just knelt there, sucking in the cool crisp air and trying to stem the shaking that was beginning to rise from deep inside.
“Hey, you all right in there?” a male voice said from the other side of the car.
“I am,” I said, “but the driver’s unconscious.”
“I’ve called the cops and the ambulance. You think I should move the driver out?”
“I don’t know if he’s got internal injuries.” Hell, I didn’t even know if
I
had internal injuries. Right now, I was feeling kind of numb. Maybe it was shock.
I called to my wolf form, felt the energy of her tingle through me as my limbs reshaped and re-formed, until what stood there was no longer human. I didn’t move, sucking in the scents around me, aware of the sharp, rusty scent of the hissing steam, and the piney scent of the man standing on the other side of the crushed cab. But there was no sense of immediate danger. No sound that indicated the truck might be coming back to finish us all off.
I shifted back to human form, the process helping the bleeding to stop and wounds begin to heal, then pushed to my feet. The tree spun briefly around me, then stopped. I blew out a breath, and carefully walked around the crumpled trunk.
The stranger—a small, round man with brown hair—looked me up and down, then said, “You’ve been bleeding.”
“Happens after a car accident.” I bent down to look at the driver. His skin tone was normal, and though his breathing was a little rapid, it didn’t seem an immediate problem. “The driver has a broken arm. If the ambulance isn’t going to be long, I suggest we just keep an eye on him, and keep him calm when he wakes.”
The stranger nodded. “Saw the truck that hit you. Got its plate number.”
“Really? Could I have it? I know some people who can get right onto tracing it.”
“Sure.” He pulled a grubby bit of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. I thanked him, then pulled out my phone and walked away.
Jack answered straightaway. “Riley, you can’t be at Richmond yet, so what the hell are you ringing me for?”
“Bad news, boss. Some asshole truck driver ran my cab off the road.”
“You’re okay?”
“I’m standing here talking to you, aren’t I?”
He snorted. “The smart mouth is working, so you’ve gotta be fine.” He hesitated, and in the background, keys clicked. “Another car will be there in ten. It’ll take you straight to the murder scene.”
“You’re all heart.”
“I’m a vampire. We don’t do tea and sympathy.”
Not when there was a crime scene to get to, anyway. “A witness caught the plate number.” I raised the bit of paper and read it out. “You want to get a trace done? Oh, and contact the cops. Tell them who I am, so I can leave when the car gets here.”
“I’ll get straight onto it.”
He was a man of his word, and I had no trouble leaving once the new cab arrived. Half an hour later, the driver was dropping me off at the Richmond Street address. The wind whipped off the nearby Yarra River and spun its chill around me. I shivered and hastily zipped up my borrowed jacket, hiding the torn and bloodied state of my shirt in the process.
I slung my purse over my shoulder and turned around. The house was one of those cute, single-fronted Victorian weatherboard homes that Richmond was famous for. Which meant, of course, it was worth a sheer fortune. This one was a little forlorn looking, what with its weatherworn and rickety white picket fence, smashed front window, and a front door that seemed to have more patches than original wood. The “
FOR SALE
” sign behind the rickety fence had a black and red “
SOLD
” banner pasted across it, and part of me wondered if the deal would still go through now that someone had been murdered inside. That kind of information tended to turn people off.
Blue-and-white police tape had been strung across the door and windows, and a burly-looking cop stood near the gate, studying me with a somewhat forbidding expression. It was about then I realized I didn’t have my ID with me, and that I didn’t have a hope of getting inside that building—or past that cop—without it.
I dug my phone out of my jeans pocket and rang Jack again. I got his caramel-haired assistant, Salliane, instead.
Joy. “Sal, it’s Riley.”
“Ah, so the rumors are true. The bitch returns early.”
And Jack wondered why I enjoyed snarking her so much. “It’s such a pleasure to hear from you, too, Sal.”
She made an unladylike snort. “What do you want, wolf girl?”
“Who’s being sent to the Brighton Street cleanup?”
“You.”
“Besides me, smart-ass.”
Even the small screen of the vid-phone couldn’t mask the amusement glinting in her brown eyes. “Cole Reece and his team.”
I couldn’t help the slight smile that touched my lips. Cole was a wolf-shifter I’d worked with briefly—on a case that had almost led me to being the sixth victim of an ancient god of evil. He was somewhat uptight when it came to the rules, and more than a little judgmental when it came to his opinions on weres, but my wolf soul sure as hell enjoyed teasing him.
“Have you got an ETA on him?”
She paused. In the background, I could hear the sound of typing. Checking the computer tracking system, no doubt. All Directorate personnel—those in the office as well as those in the field—now had small trackers inserted in their ears. Jack had no intention of losing any more staff than necessary. Not after the decimation of the guardian ranks by the madman I’d once called a mate.
“He should be almost on top of you,” she said.
I should be so lucky
. I shoved the thought aside and looked around at the sound of a car. The black vehicle that approached had Directorate plates. “He is. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, voice suddenly polite. Jack had probably just walked into the room. Sal didn’t mind throwing crap my way, but she wouldn’t do it in Jack’s presence. Trying to impress the boss and all that. Why the hell he didn’t bed her and be done with it was anyone’s guess.
I shoved the phone in my back pocket as the car pulled to a halt. A tall, craggy-faced man of indeterminate age climbed out, his gray hair glinting silver in the cool daylight. His musky, spicy scent swum around me, as refreshing as an evening breeze on a warm summer day.
Which it wasn’t, of course, but he did smell as good as that.
“Well, well, if it isn’t our only wolf guardian,” he said, his deep voice dry but warm. He looked me up and down, then added, “Did they haul you out of a dogfight or something?”
“A wrecked car, actually.” And I wasn’t the only wolf guardian, of course, but few people knew that. Most seemed to think that Rhoan was a wolf who’d undertaken the blood ceremony and become a vampire. The fact that he could walk in daylight was attributed to age. Few questioned the fact we shared the same last name, simply because that was standard in wolf packs. The same surname always carried down through the generations. “You were expecting someone else?”
“
Hoping
for someone else would be more accurate.” He reached inside the car and pulled out a bag. “Someone with less propensity to foul crime scenes.”
“Well, I’m afraid it just isn’t your day.”
“Apparently not.” He glanced briefly over his shoulder as the two other men climbed out. One was a cat-shifter, the other a bird-shifter of some kind. I’d seen both of them at a crime scene with Cole previously, but had no idea of their names. Nor did Cole seem inclined to introduce them.
“Get the gear, guys. I’ll head inside,” he added, then glanced at me. “Are you all right? You actually do look a bit of a mess.”
“Let’s just say I’d rather be home than here, but Jack’s given me no choice.”
“Jack’s like that. And I’m actually surprised you’re not in there already.”
“Just got off a plane from holidays and was shunted straight here. Hence, no ID.”
“And you’re here because Jack’s hoping you’ll find a little lost soul?”
“That, and the fact we’re short on guardians who can investigate day crimes.”
“Guardians aren’t investigators. They’re hunter-killers.”
Which was totally true—up to a point. “Let’s not get into that argument when there’s a victim waiting.”
He almost smiled. Almost. “Fair enough. Follow me, then.”
I followed. The cop allowed us through after a quick inspection of Cole’s ID and a brief explanation. Cole then handed me a set of gloves, donned a pair himself, and lightly pushed the front door open.
Surprisingly, given all the repairs it had undergone, the door didn’t creak as it moved. The long hallway beyond was shadowed, and the silence thick. Even the whispering wind made little sound as it slid past our legs and scattered the dust bunnies lying on the worn, wooden floorboards.
The air escaping from the house was rich with the scent of blood and death, but there was something else here, something that had the hairs at the back of my neck rising.
An evil so vile I had to clench my fists against the urge to run.
I licked my lips and forced myself to remain calm. If I could face the god of death, I could surely face whatever remnants of evil lay waiting in this house.
“The death still smells rather fresh,” I commented, glad my voice sounded so normal when I was shivering inside.
“The neighbors reported it less than two hours ago. The cops called us straight in.”
I nodded, and narrowed my gaze a little. There was a deeper blob of darkness down at the far end of the hall, but it didn’t look big enough to be a body. It looked vaguely like a lump of wood, only there didn’t seem to be any missing from the walls or doorframes. I switched to infrared, and the fading glow of life leapt into focus.
It wasn’t a lump of wood. It was a leg.
A leg that still wore a shoe.
This
was
going to be bad.
Cole pulled a flashlight from his bag and flicked the switch. The bright beam of light swept across walls splattered with blood and chunkier bits of God knows what. Then it caught the limb and stopped.
“Nice shoe,” he commented.
“Yeah.” It was a silver stiletto, with sparkly bits around the toes. The sort of shoe worn to parties or dances, not abandoned houses.