Witch Wolf (12 page)

A crime scene at four o'clock in the morning-there's more than one reason cops despise bad guys.

I plucked the directions off the bathroom cabinet, shoving them deep into the pocket of my jeans.

I grabbed the shoulder holster, shrugging into it on my way out.

I stopped in the living room, eyes flicking to the sleeping werewolf on my couch. Sighing, I went into the kitchen and tore a piece of paper off the magnetic notepad on the fridge.

I hastily scribbled:

Rosalin,

Had to go out. Be back soon. . .

Don't touch anything.

There, that worked. I carefully slid the piece of paper onto the coffee table, listening to the languid sound of her breath. I grabbed my jacket off the chair. My keys jingled and I quickly muffled them with my palm, slipping out of the apartment as quietly as I could.

I knew my apartment like the back of my hand. If Rosalin touched anything, I'd know. The fact that I'm a werewolf and could trace her scent if I tried hard enough also came in handy.

*

I took I-40 to I-44 like I was going out to the Nelsons' home. The drive turned out to take a little over forty minutes. I followed the directions Witkins had given me. The paved road turned into gravel that made an obnoxious grinding noise beneath the Tiburon's tires. Over the crest of the hill, nestled behind an old wooden fence surrounding a trailer home, the lights from two police interceptors cast a blurry blue and red haze out over the land. I guided the car through the open gate, parking next to one of the squad cars. The cops had left their headlights on and I watched as they helped one another string the black and yellow tape from the right side of a double-wide trailer to the wooded area on the southeastern part of the land.

I spotted Arthur and Deputy Sheriff Witkins standing in front of the trailer. Arthur saw me approaching and started heading toward me. Goddess bless his little heart, he was holding a cup of coffee.

"Here," he said, eyes sparkling. "I'd like to have kids someday, you know."

I took the cup of coffee, taking a sip. I nudged my head in the direction of the trailer. "Who lives here?"

He pulled a little notebook out of his pocket. "The trailer belongs to a man named Carver White.

Twenty-five years old. Works in a clothing store. Single. He lives alone and has lived here for five years. He heard someone scream around three o'clock. Ran out and found the body. Said he ran back in and called us. No sign of the murderer," he said, closing the notebook and stuffing it back in his shirt pocket.

"Wonderful," I grumbled, taking another sip and making my way toward the guys with the crime scene tape. Arthur followed as I lifted the tape and ducked.

Beyond the tape the land sloped down toward a small creek. There were trees lining the area, and enough cops standing around that all I had to do was play connect the cops to find the body.

Arthur pointed to a large cypress as we approached.

"There," he said.

The body was propped up against the base of the tree. A breeze stirred and the smell of blood and feces hit my nostrils. I coughed, lifting my shirt and covering my nose with it, not that the material would help much.

I breathed in and out of my mouth, holding my coffee close.

"I need gloves," I said, stopping in front of the body and looking down. Her hair was long and brown, falling down over her breasts and matted with blood. Her lavender-colored blouse was so thick with blood that it had turned the color of dark plum. The woman was posed against the tree, like a trophy. I knelt, turning my head enough to see the blood that originated at her throat, spilling out over the front of her body.

"Here," Arthur said, kneeling with me.

I handed him my coffee and put the gloves on. I reached out, touching the woman's jaw. Her face was pale and wide-eyed with death. I used two fingers under her chin to guide her head upward.

It moved easily, which meant that rigor mortis hadn't begun to set in.

"Oh God," I whispered, looking at what had once been the woman's throat.

It was an empty cavity that still seeped blood at the edges. Ivory bone glistened sickly at the back.

I let her head fall back down, taking another deep breath through my mouth. The wolf didn't rise.

I felt in her a certain amount of disinterest, cold neutrality. I traced the edges of the wound with two fingers. The edges were jagged and I stifled a shudder as a wave of nausea hit me. The beast's ears perked inside me, like she was curious. I slammed my shields in her face, not willing to risk tempting her. She could remain neutral or she could get hungry. Only one of those could be an option right now.

Not tonight
, I thought.

I scuttled around the body: brown boots, bloody jeans, charm bracelet on her right wrist, empty hazel eyes.

"Any ID?" I asked.

I heard Arthur take out his notes. "Veronica Monroe," he said.

"Late twenties?" I asked.

"Twenty-eight," he said.

"Have you contacted the family?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Kass, is it another werewolf attack?"

I gestured for him to come closer and brought her jaw slowly up to show him the victim's throat.

Arthur paled, but forced himself to look. "Here," I said, the tip of my finger tracing the jagged wound. "You see these? At the edges of the wound?"

"All I see is blood," Arthur said, sounding disgusted.

"Look closer," I said, and touched the tip of my gloved finger to one curving piece of torn flesh and then another. "Here and here," I said, "these are where the upper incisors clamped down."

The medical examiner could precisely calculate how many teeth marks there were. Obviously, I couldn't. Werewolves have more teeth than humans. Humans generally have thirty-two teeth, while wolves and werewolves have forty-two. Definitely one aspect of shifting that hurts like a bitch. Figuratively speaking, of course.

Arthur swallowed, loudly. "You're saying this is another werewolf?"

"'Fraid so," I said and then motioned for him to follow me as I moved farther to the right, pointing toward the base of the tree. There were five very deep, very distinct claw marks etched into the bark.

"Shit," he said loudly, getting to his feet. I watched as a bit of my coffee sloshed out of the cup.

"Arthur, you're wasting my coffee."
Not to mention contaminating the scene
, I thought.

"You want to hold it?" he asked.

I held up my bloody fingers and wiggled them. "Can't."

He paled again.

I sighed, casting my gaze toward the creek. I took an unthinking breath through my nose and coughed as that horrible smell hit me again. Anyone that has smelled death will tell you, you never forget it. It clings to your hair, your skin, your clothing. The blood itself didn't smell all that bad, but the feces, that made my stomach turn. I got to my feet, carefully stripping the gloves off, avoiding smearing the blood with years of practice.

"Where's the trash?"

"It's up on the porch."

I walked past Witkins and climbed the wooden steps to throw my gloves away. They were using a brown paper sack as a trash bag.

"Well?" Witkins grumbled. "What does your little witch think, Kingfisher?"

Arthur stood at my side and handed my cup of coffee back to me. I took a sip, grateful that the smell helped mask all of the other smells in the air.

"Ask her," he said.

"You still think it's a werewolf?" the deputy asked.

"I don't think it is, Witkins. I know it is." I intentionally left off his title.

"Hmph," he grunted and walked away.

I gave Arthur one of those what-the-fuck looks.

He shrugged. "It's your job to hold our hands and walk us through the preternatural stuff."

I stared at the deputy's back and said, "It doesn't really look like he wants to go for a walk, not through this. What the hell is his problem?"

Arthur's eyes sparkled. "He thinks you're evil."

"You're joking?" I asked.

"Maybe. If he does, he might be right about y-"

He oofed as I drove my elbow into his rib cage. I did it lightly, just enough to make him shut up.

"What was that for?"

"You don't want to call me evil, Kingfisher."

His mouth split into a wide grin.

"Why not?" he asked.

I narrowed my eyes and glared at him. The glare elicited a rumble of masculine laughter.

"You know," he said, "I'm glad you're short. If you were taller that look might actually work on me."

I rolled my eyes and took another drink of coffee. "I need to question Mr. White," I said, ignoring his amusement.

He gestured toward the door. "He's in there with two of our men."

"Your men," I corrected him as I opened the screen door and stepped inside.

Two men in dark blue uniforms stood in the middle of the living room. A young man with white-blond hair was seated on the couch. He lifted his head when he heard the door open. When his eyes met mine, I saw that they were blue with striking gold around his pupils. His expression was unflinching as he watched me.

"Carver White," Arthur said, "this is Preternatural Private Investigator Lyall."

"I told you what I know," Carver said in a deep voice. It was a voice that didn't match the youthfulness of his appearance. Then again, neither did mine.

"Mr. White," I said, smiling as professionally as I could. Given the fact that they'd woken me at four in the morning, it probably wasn't as professional as I hoped. "I have a few questions to ask you."

Carver stood from the couch, moving until there were only a few feet between us. He looked down at me. "I told you," he said, voice deepening, "I've already told the cops everything I know."

The smell of pine and moist earth hit me like a brick to the face. I stepped back, but it was too late.

Carver's blue eyes widened as an unseen breeze of energy tickled the hairs on my arms.

My heart gave a fierce thump that echoed through every pulse point in my body.

Arthur moved forward and his hand hovered above the gun at his hip. "Stay on the couch, Mr.

White," he warned.

Carver sat back down, but his gaze hadn't left my face. "Fine," he said, eyes flicking to Arthur.

"If I have to talk again. . . I talk to her."

"Duh, boy," one of the cops, an older man with white hair circling a shiny bald spot on his scalp said. "That's kind of what the nice detective here is trying to get you to do."

Carver leaned back and smiled. "Alone," he said.

I let out the breath I'd been holding. Arthur asked the question with his eyes and I nodded.

He and his men went to wait on the porch. They didn't look happy about having to stand out in the cold.

I placed one of the chairs from the kitchen opposite to Carver, and sat down.

"So," I tilted my head to the side, "out for a midnight snack?"

His eyes narrowed. "I didn't kill that woman."

"Under the circumstances, I find that terribly difficult to believe."

"I didn't do it!" his voice took on the edge of a growl. "I don't even know her!"

I met his blue gaze. The sunny gold around his pupils expanded, fluctuating. He dug his hand into the arm of the couch hard enough that the wood creaked.

I leaned forward and hissed, "I don't believe you."

A deep bass growl trickled from between his lips. "I. . . did. . . not. . . kill. . . her."

His chest was rising and falling too fast. He was angry, and that's not a good thing when you're a lycanthrope trying to stay in control. I wondered how bad Carver's temper was. Should I push him? Should I wait for him to lose control and shift all over the place? Then let the cops cuff him and stuff him? The problem was, if I did that, I knew without a doubt he'd out me.

He had to be the killer. It was his land. He was a werewolf. Gods, he was sloppy, but it made perfect fucking sense. He'd lost control.

I stood from my chair, pacing. "What happened, Carver?" My gaze flicked to him. I heard the wood pop again. "What did you do? Did you invite her back to your place? Bring her home for a nightcap and decide to munch on her?" My eyebrows went up.

Carver growled and said, "No."

I went to stand over him, leaning my face close. "What was it, Carver? The smell of her sweat?"

I whispered. "Or the knowledge of hot blood pumping through her veins like sticky syrup? What made you lose control?"

Carver screamed. His hands hit my shoulders as he rushed me, shoving me across the room. My back hit the wall and the trailer shook with the impact.

"I didn't fucking kill her," he growled in my face.

"Liar," I hissed, waiting for him to hit me, waiting for his temper to finally erupt.

Carver backed up, curling his hands into fists. His entire body shook. The energy of his beast made the air seem thicker.

I felt the wolf stir in answer to that power and a warning growl started low in my throat.

The front door clattered open, cutting off my growl.

Arthur yelled, "Hands on your fucking head, now!"

Carver glared at him, and then slowly, ever so slowly, put his hands on his head.

He turned that light blue and gold gaze to me and I watched as his breathing steadied.

"What happened, Kass?"

"I pissed Mr. White off," I said, getting up from the floor. Carver hadn't put all of his strength into rushing me. If he had, I knew for a fact I'd be sitting ass first in the grass outside of the trailer, with a little hole left behind in the wall, like in one of those children's cartoons.

Carver stared at me as if he thought he could burn a hole through me.

"Go back out, Arthur," I said. "I think Mr. White will keep his temper under control now, won't you?"

Carver said one word. "Yes."

"Are you sure, Kass?"

"I'm sure. If I need your help, trust me, Arthur, I'll scream."

"Don't scream," Arthur said, "just shoot the bastard."

I smiled darkly and turned that smile to Carver. "There is that," I said.

The trouble was, Carver had already caught me off guard once. He'd been so fast I hadn't had time to go for my gun. There was no way I going to match him in strength around the cops. I wouldn't risk exposure.