Hunter's Trail (A Scarlett Bernard Novel)

by Melissa F. Olson

  “Will’s right, that’s enough,” Beatrice declared. “Dashiell, please stop. Detective, please put away your weapon.” Jesse looked down and realized he was holding his gun. He looked at Beatrice, focusing on the center of her forehead like it had a target on it. “We are not going to hurt you,” she said calmly. “We asked you here because we need your help.”

  She looked at her husband, giving him one of those pointed, nudging expressions Jesse had seen on his own mother’s face. That look, more than anything else, helped Jesse quell his panic.

  Dashiell took the hint. “My wife is right, of course,” he said, the weight gone from his voice. He sounded like an ordinary, tired man. “We do need your help.” The vampire gestured to the chair again. “Please, sit.”

  Reluctantly, Jesse reholstered the gun and squared his shoulders, trying to concentrate on avoiding eye contact. It was harder than he’d imagined. “Somebody just tell me what’s going on,” Jesse said. “Where is Scarlett? Is she okay?”

  “She’s injured, but fine,” Beatrice assured him, and Jesse nodded his thanks at her.

  He was about to ask another question, but Will leaned forward. “Detective Cruz. Remember last fall when Scarlett was in the hospital?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did she tell you why she had to stay for a few days?”

  Jesse’s brow furrowed. “She said she hit her head during the fight with Ariadne, after I left.” He looked at the female vampire. “She was trying to help Beatrice.”

  “And she did help me,” Beatrice confirmed. “She saved me. But she didn’t hit her head. She did something that her kind shouldn’t be able to do.”

  She glanced at her husband, who nodded. “She turned Ariadne into a human,” Dashiell said gravely. All three of them looked at Jesse, waiting for a reaction. Jesse’s eyes moved from face to face, not getting it. “Permanently,” Dashiell added emphatically.

  Understanding struck Jesse. “That’s . . . how is that even possible?”

  “It’s not supposed to be.” Beatrice noted. “But Scarlett is the strongest null any of us have ever encountered. None of us knew . . . well. As it turns out, she’s strong enough to turn one of us into a human again.”

  “But it sort of shorted out her brain,” Will added. “I didn’t hear about it until much later”—there was the briefest annoyed glance at Dashiell—“but apparently it works on werewolves too, because nine days ago she changed Eli back into a human.”

  Whoa. Jesse sank back into his chair, trying to process. Scarlett could undo magic, for good? And Eli was human again? What would that even mean? “Why didn’t she tell me?” Jesse said out loud.

  He had mostly been talking to himself, but Dashiell answered anyway. “I ordered her not to tell anyone,” he said firmly. “I was afraid that the wolves and the vampires, in particular, would come after her if they found out. The vampires would either fear her or want her dead. The wolves would all want to become human again—”

  “Or want her dead,” Will broke in. “There are zealots among the werewolves who believe that we should all be . . . grateful. For what we are.” The alpha’s voice was weary. “They would consider Scarlett a threat.”

  “We were also dealing with the Olivia situation,” Dashiell continued, “and I wanted time to consider what this development could mean.”

  And how I could use it, Jesse finished for him. Dashiell was a textbook opportunist, and that kind of ability would be a dangerous addition to his toolbox.

  No wonder Scarlett had been so strange during the last few months. Jesse felt a childish sense of betrayal. She could have told him.

  And then the rest of the conversation caught up to him. “Wait. You’re saying her brain shorted out again?”

  Will held out a hand to placate him. “No, not that. Her abilities are intact this time, for some reason. But Eli was our beta, and the wolves can feel his absence in the pack. It’s causing problems.”

  “Can’t you just . . . pick a new beta?” Jesse asked sensibly.

  The werewolf sighed. “It’s not quite that simple, I’m afraid. For one thing, we weren’t sure that the change was permanent.”

  Jesse looked from one to the other. Beatrice and Dashiell were still and calm, with a well-mannered detachment that Jesse had noticed the only other times he’d been near vampires without Scarlett. He supposed that when you can live forever, everyday crises don’t exactly push you over the edge. In contrast, though, Will looked agitated and restless, one of his legs jiggling up and down at a frenzied pace. “That’s why you pressed me,” Jesse said at last. “You were hoping it would just go away.”

  “Yes,” said Will with no inflection. “But rumors are spreading in the pack, and we aren’t as united as we need to be. And now there’s another problem.”

  Jesse gaped at him. “Another problem? She’s hurt, the wolves are panicking, everyone is finding out that she’s a cure—”

  “We don’t like that word,” Beatrice broke in.

  Anger had pushed away Jesse’s fear. “Lady, I don’t give a shit what word you like. What’s the other problem?”

  Without speaking, Dashiell picked up a manila folder from the top of a stack of files and papers on the side table. He passed it to Jesse, who flipped it open to find a gruesome eight-by-ten photograph of mangled limbs and torn skin. The woman’s face was untouched, but shaded the grayish hue of death, her blue eyes open and filmed over. Jesse flipped past this photo and found another shot of the same woman from a different angle. And another. They were all the same body, and they all had the same date stamp: December 29. Yesterday’s date.

  They looked almost like crime scene photos, but there were no markers to indicate it was a police-controlled scene. Jesse flipped back to study the top photo. The body was set against a textured green background, like a rug of some kind. He looked up. “Where were these taken?”

  Will and Dashiell exchanged another look before Will spoke. “At my house,” he said soberly. “Someone left her on my doorstep.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?” Jesse said automatically.

  “Because,” Will said heavily, “this woman was killed by a werewolf.”

  Jesse stared at him for a second, then instinctually looked away. The werewolves couldn’t press minds like vampires could, Jesse knew, but Scarlett had once told him that the werewolves communicate with canine body language even in human form. Jesse didn’t know much about wolves, but he’d been a uniformed police officer for long enough to know you didn’t stare big dogs in the eye unless you wanted a fight.

  “How do you know?” Jesse asked.

  “I could smell him,” Will murmured. He was looking away, almost ashamed. “Even in human form.”

  “Right,” Jesse said distractedly. “Right.” He looked at each of them in turn. “So why am I here?” he asked. “You pressed my mind; you must have wanted to keep this hidden from me. Why tell me now?”

  Will answered. “Because whoever did this”—he nodded down to the pictures—“wasn’t one of mine. I know their scents. And look at the last photo.”

  Jesse automatically obeyed the alpha, flipping to the last picture in the little stack. It was a close-up of the woman’s back. There were marks on it too, and at first he figured it was just another bite wound. As he looked closer, however, he realized that he was looking at a relatively clear patch of skin with only three shallow tears in it. The wounds didn’t match the rest of the carnage. They were in a cluster: a little diagonal line, a long vertical one that ran parallel to the woman’s arm bone, a short perpendicular line beneath it.

  Jesse looked up. “It’s a number,” he said quietly. “Number one.”

  Chapter 8

  “Obviously we can’t be sure,” Dashiell broke in, “but it seems likely that whoever did this will try again.”

  Jesse closed the folder and pushed it toward Will. “Call the police,” he said firmly. “Call right now.”

  “You know we can’t do that,”
Beatrice said genially, as though he’d suggested they all go skinny-dipping.

  Jesse turned to her. “Yes, you can. If this woman was human, he’s going to go after humans again.” Beatrice glanced at her husband, whose face remained unreadable. Jesse continued, “People are at risk here. This is a hell of a lot bigger than me looking the other way while someone from the Old World kills someone else from the Old World.” Bitterness had crept into his voice, and Jesse fought to keep it off his face.

  “We don’t want you to look the other way,” Beatrice soothed. “Just the opposite. We want you to find him.”

  Jesse stared at her, then at Will and Dashiell. Both men—Jesse had to think of them as men, otherwise he’d start to shut down from fear—just gazed at Jesse, waiting for him to put the pieces together.

  “Absolutely not!” Jesse exploded. “I’m not getting suckered into doing a half-assed investigation again just so you can keep your fucking secrets. Scarlett almost died last time! I almost died last time!”

  Dashiell raised his eyebrows at Will, a gesture that very smoothly said, Told you so. But Jesse wasn’t finished. He took a deep breath, calming his temper, and said tightly, “You need the actual police department, with its resources and experience and tools. Let them deal with this.”

  Silence. Dashiell, Will, and Beatrice were all looking steadily at Jesse, like parents waiting for a tantrum to blow over. After a second he got it. “You already had Scarlett destroy the body,” he said, deflating. He looked at the folder, still in his own hand. “This is all that’s left, isn’t it?”

  “Scarlett wanted us to take those for you,” Will said helpfully. “She insisted.”

  Jesse rubbed his eyes tiredly. “You’ve known me, what, four months?” he said at last. “What would happen if I wasn’t here? What did you do with this kind of thing before you met me?”

  Will looked at Dashiell, who shrugged. For the first time his elegant facade faltered, and he looked uneasy. “This has never happened before,” he said. “Other than La Brea Park, Los Angeles has never had a situation like this, which has afforded us certain . . . comfort levels.” He frowned. “It does seem like there has been an escalation of violence in the last year, but I’m not convinced that it isn’t simple coincidence.

  “To answer your question, though, we do not bring humans into the Old World. Will would have done what he could to stop the rogue himself, and we would have cleaned up the aftermath as it happened.”

  Jesse stared. “You’d let him keep killing, and just cover it up.”

  “Of course not,” Beatrice contended. “Will would hunt him. But Will has other responsibilities now, with the pack unstable, and here you are, a trained murder investigator. It seems a shame not to use you.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. “I am not one of your pets,” Jesse said between his teeth. He locked eyes with Dashiell, forgetting his earlier fear. “You and I have had this conversation already. You know what I think needs to be done.”

  Beatrice and Will were looking at Dashiell now too, and the cardinal vampire nodded. “Detective Cruz feels that a special department should be created within the LAPD,” he said to them, his eyes still on Jesse, “one devoted to Old World crime.”

  “Is that even possible?” Will asked, plain curiosity in his voice.

  “Possible? Yes, in theory. I could contact the right people, press a few minds,” Dashiell replied in his clipped voice. “But the problem is one of longevity and logistics. A new squadron would require personnel, a budget, annual reviews. It would garner attention. I can press minds to create something, but that kind of long-term maintenance would be too complex and unwieldy to be practical.” The volume of his voice never altered, but he was beginning to exert influence as he added, “More importantly, though, we do not tell humans about the Old World.”

  This time Jesse felt the press in time to break eye contact. “Then I’m out,” he said stubbornly. He rose and started for the door, shoulders tensed as if expecting a bullet.

  Beatrice’s quiet voice floated toward him like a breeze. “She still works for us, Detective.”

  Jesse stopped but didn’t turn. He’d forgotten about Scarlett’s role in all this, but Beatrice was right: Scarlett would be involved in cleaning up the crime scenes.

  “She was attacked last night,” Beatrice continued, “by the wolves—”

  “Beatrice,” Will began to reproach her, but stopped when she held up a hand.

  “He cares for her,” she insisted. “I do too, in my way. He needs to know.”

  Jesse sighed and looked back. They were manipulating him with Scarlett again. He had to find a way out of that, but in the meantime, he couldn’t help but take the bait. “What do I need to know?”

  “She’s the only one who can do this job right now,” Beatrice said calmly, walking toward him. “The only one who can clean up after this creature if it kills again. It can move in the day, which we cannot, and it can create another . . . scene, which the wolves can’t stomach.” Being around a lot of blood and meat could force the werewolves into a change, which was a very dangerous prospect in the middle of Los Angeles. “Scarlett is the only one. And she needs a cane to walk.”

  Jesse caught the emphasis Beatrice put on this last sentence, but it had its effect. His stomach clenched with worry. “Help her,” Beatrice pleaded. “Help her keep this hidden, and she can help you find the one who’s doing it. Please.”

  Jesse looked at Dashiell, who was motionless, expressionless. “There is no one else,” the vampire confirmed.

  “What if I don’t?” Jesse challenged. “What if I call my supervisor and report the murder? Or what if I take Scarlett and run?”

  The vampires were already very still, but suddenly it seemed like the room around them was frozen. Jesse expected Beatrice to speak next, to jump in with her placating tone, but it was Dashiell who said, in a cool, unaffected voice, “That would never happen. She would never go with you.”

  Jesse’s brow furrowed. The vampire was too confident about what Scarlett would decide. “You have leverage, don’t you? What do you have on her?”

  He didn’t realize he was meeting Dashiell’s eyes until the vampire sent a little shiver of pull in Jesse’s direction, just enough to remind him who had the power here. “More than enough,” Dashiell informed him.

  “Then my answer is no,” Jesse said firmly.

  There was a long, loaded silence. Then Dashiell stood up and strode over to the glass doors, staring out at the darkened patio with his hands clasped behind his back. Jesse could see his reflection in the glass, but the vampire’s expression was unreadable. “I could force you, you know,” Dashiell mused. He didn’t turn around. Jesse said nothing, and after a moment the vampire went on, his voice toneless and detached. “It is what I have done in the past, with other humans. But my wife has persuaded me to try something different in this situation. She believes you are different.”

  Jesse glanced at Beatrice with surprise. As far as he’d known, Beatrice hadn’t given him another thought since the last time he’d been in front of her. But now the female vampire gave him a small, reassuring smile and a little nod.

  “So I am going to make you an offer,” Dashiell said, turning to face Jesse, “and I suggest you take it, because you won’t get a better one from me.”

  His tone clearly implied that Jesse could, however, get a worse offer. “What is it?” Jesse demanded.

  “I will arrange for you to have a few days off of work, no questions asked. Make up whatever excuse you like for your coworkers. During that time you will help Scarlett find the perpetrator, with my support and authority behind you. You will report nothing you see or do to any other member of the LAPD. Nothing,” he added again, pushing power into the word so Jesse flinched. “Beatrice?” he said, turning to look at his wife.

  She rifled through the stack of papers on the table and pulled out a single sheet, which she leaned over and handed to Jesse. He glanced at it and looked at Dashi
ell. “These are LAPD transfer papers,” he said incredulously. “And they’re already signed.” Jesse had known that Dashiell had contacts in the LAPD, and he’d seen the vampire wield power over the police force before. But this wasn’t a brief, unofficial word, this was . . . paperwork.

  Dashiell nodded. “If you can solve this case, and show me that you can protect our way of life despite your misgivings,” he stated, “at the end of the week I will arrange for you to be transferred to Homicide Special.”

  Jesse’s mouth gaped. Homicide Special was the LAPD’s elite investigative squad, with jurisdiction over the whole city. Homicide Special detectives had fewer cases and were able to spend more time cultivating each investigation. There were only a couple dozen detectives in the unit, and every time a spot opened up there were at least a hundred applicants.

  “There’s more,” Dashiell continued. “If another case should come up involving the Old World, I will have it assigned to Homicide Special. You can work on it from there, in a relatively official capacity. Depending on circumstances, you might not be able to arrest a perpetrator—”

  “It’s not what you proposed, we know,” Beatrice broke in softly. “But it’s a good start, Detective.”

  Will, who had been silent throughout, nodded his agreement, though a troubled expression still stained his features.

  Jesse looked away then, trying to pretend for a moment that he was alone. Homicide Special . . . That was the dream for any detective who didn’t want to end up spending every day behind a desk. He had hoped to apply himself in maybe a decade. And Dashiell was offering a shortcut.

  But his instinct was to refuse. It wouldn’t be fair to the other detectives, for one thing. There would also be gossip and attention over his swift rise, and Jesse hated both of those things. Not to mention the whole thing reeked of corruption. There was a line, he told himself, and they’d already gotten him to edge over it more than once. Now they were trying to force him over the line again.

  And the worst part was that he sort of wanted to go willingly. That was what was really bothering him, Jesse realized. He felt guilty because he wanted to say yes.