by Deanna Chase
She planted her hands on the recliner and pushed herself to her feet. Lincoln took a quick step back.
Her gaze was fixed at his throat. Lincoln realized that he had forgotten to remove his crucifix, but he swallowed hard and didn’t try to hide it. He was proud of his faith. If she had a problem with it, then maybe she shouldn’t have intruded in his home.
“I’m a believer,” Elise said, voice painfully soft. “You won’t need that.”
He thought that she meant the crucifix until he saw her gesture at the gun. Lincoln holstered it. “Been here long?”
“A few hours. I had time to explore Northgate, and it was very…enlightening.” The way that she said “enlightening” made Lincoln fill with dread. The corner of her lips twitched. Almost a smile, but not quite. “Your town’s interesting, deputy. I want a tour.”
“I’m going to shower and go to church, Miss Kavanagh,” he said. “I don’t have time for tours.”
“That’s okay. I only work after sundown.”
Lincoln felt like he had been cornered, although he was the one with his back to the door. “I thought you could just take care of the werewolves and leave.”
“When you’re hunting a murderer, do you arrest him without collecting evidence?”
“We don’t have murderers around here,” Lincoln said. “Not until recently.”
Elise drifted toward him, one thumb hooked in her belt loop, a half-smile on her lips. He tensed when she touched a fingertip to the crucifix around his neck. When McIntyre had insisted that Lincoln put away the necklace, he’d assumed that meant that the symbol would hurt her. Sort of like Dracula. But she definitely wasn’t burning.
Lincoln couldn’t help but let his eyes travel over her body, poured into snug jeans and a waist-length leather jacket. For a demon, her skin was covered modestly. The scoop of her shirt’s neck was high, barely flashing collarbone, and she even wore fingerless gloves. But she also didn’t leave much to the imagination. The shirt clung to the lines of her breasts and narrow waist. The jeans accentuated every curve of her thighs.
The Devil came in many forms, and this one was undeniably beautiful.
“I’ll give you one chance to be honest with me, Lincoln,” Elise said. Her voice was flat—about as unseductive as it could be. “Right here, right now. Can you be honest?”
Mouth dry, all he could manage was a nod.
“How did you hear about me and my friends?” she asked. Lincoln’s eyes were fixed on her lips as she spoke.
“You were referred to me by word-of-mouth. When the bodies started appearing, I asked people, who knew people, who knew other people. They referred me to your organization. They said you’re the expert.”
“Do you have any suspicions as to who the werewolf might be?”
“Maybe,” Lincoln said. “There’s not much evidence.”
“Does the department know I’m coming?”
“No. Your investigation hasn’t been sanctioned by the sheriff.”
“Is there really a missing girl named Lucinde Ramirez?” Elise asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“And that’s all of the information you have.” There was almost a question mark in the silence that followed—the expectation that Lincoln should give her any other information he had at right that moment.
“We’ll go to the station tonight,” Lincoln said. “I’ll give you access to all of the records that I can.”
“Okay.”
The tension in the air eased. It felt like he had passed some kind of test. He let out a long, slow breath. “I need to get to mass. Father Night is expecting me,” he said. He was already running late. God forbid that the deputy fail to attend church on the same day that his leather-clad “friend” was spotted snooping around his house. The whole town would think he was a Satanist by Monday morning.
“Father Night,” Elise echoed. For the first time, she actually smiled.
“Do you know him?”
“Yes. What’s he doing here? He used to be in Oregon.”
“I don’t know.” Lincoln shrugged. “He’s been here since I returned from college. He’s an excellent priest.”
“So you’re pretty devout?”
He straightened his back, squared his shoulders. He didn’t like the judgment in her tone. “In times like these, we need God more than ever.”
She touched his crucifix again. The metal chilled at her touch. “Word of advice? Prayers might comfort you, Deputy Marshall, but don’t count on anyone to be listening on the other end.” She scowled. “Not anymore.”
And with that comforting statement, Elise Kavanagh was gone again.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lincoln was lying about something, but his plans for the day were not among those lies. Elise lingered in the shadows of his house, utterly invisible, and watched him prepare for church. She was polite enough to stay out of the bathroom while he showered.
It wasn’t her fault that he walked into his living room with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, baring the bricks of his abdominal muscles. Water trickled down his pecs and vanished under the fluffy white terrycloth. He had narrow hips, broad shoulders, and a thick neck that was almost broader than his impossibly square jaw.
If she’d had eyes, they would have been fixed to the brush of blond hair trailing below his navel. But Elise, everywhere and nowhere, didn’t have to worry about being caught staring.
Elise wasn’t a succubus. She knew that much. Her sex drive was entirely human, and she didn’t waste away if she went long without a good fuck. Fortunate thing, too. Despite rooming with Anthony, her undeniably handsome ex-boyfriend, she hadn’t had sex in months. Most men feared Elise too much to want to spend a night in her bed.
But she didn’t need to be a succubus to feel the draw of a hot, wet deputy wearing nothing but his cross necklace and a frown, especially since Lincoln didn’t seem afraid of her. Every time he looked at her, he buzzed with desire. It didn’t really matter that he might be a dirty cop. At least Elise would know that he was trouble before they hooked up.
Maybe it was time to end her dry streak.
But not while she was on a case. Not with a rogue werewolf slaughtering people—a rogue werewolf with a kopis friend—and a nine year old girl missing. Until the dust settled, it was a distraction she couldn’t afford.
Yet when Lincoln walked into the living room again, this time without a towel, Elise was tempted to let herself be distracted.
She slipped out the front door before she could change her mind.
As soon as she hit sunlight, she couldn’t hang onto her incorporeal form. She either needed to let herself vanish completely for the day—the far more comfortable option—or walk like the average mortal, with two legs and two arms. Elise chose the latter.
Her physical body slammed into being again, and she staggered, clutching her stomach. Her skin wanted to crawl off of her muscles, her bones ached, and her brain throbbed dangerously, as if threatening to extrude through her eye sockets. Eyes streaming, gasping for breath, she ripped open the door on Lincoln’s cruiser and climbed inside.
With the doors shut, the tinted windows blocked enough sunlight that the heart-pounding panic subsided.
She had only been in direct sunlight for a few minutes, yet sweat had soaked through her shirt. It was tinted pink.
Elise pulled out the box of cigarettes and jammed one in her mouth. She didn’t need to light it to enjoy the soothing effect it had on her nerves. “Shit,” she muttered.
How long had it been since she had enjoyed a day in the sunshine? Perfect memory or not, she couldn’t seem to remember now. The autumn leaves were too bright for her to focus on, like shards of glass raking her retinas. She closed her eyes, wiped the sweat off her forehead, and gripped the box of cigarettes like a worry doll.
She managed to compose herself before Lincoln emerged in his Sunday best: polo shirt, ironed slacks, and boat shoes. Elise somehow doubted that he owned a boat.
; He got into the driver’s seat.
“Hi,” she said.
Lincoln almost jumped out of his skin. “I thought you had left.”
“I felt like going to church,” Elise said.
Dubious as he seemed to be about that response, Lincoln put the car in gear and pulled out. “You said you only work in the evenings, too. I assumed that meant…”
“That I’m a vampire?”
“Well, yeah,” he said.
It was better if nobody knew the limitations of Elise’s demon form. She shrugged. “I’m not a vampire.” End of explanation.
“Buckle your seatbelt,” he said, casting a sideways glance at her. Elise lifted her eyebrows. He halted the car before leaving the dirt for the main road. “You heard me. Buckle your seatbelt.”
“I can’t die in a car accident.”
“It’s the law,” Lincoln said with the conviction of a man used to having people obey him.
Cute. Very cute. Elise jammed the box of cigarettes into her pocket again, then buckled. “Happy?”
“Not really.” He pulled onto the road. “You can’t show up at my house and break into my car. You’ll have my neighbors talking.”
“Gossip is probably the only entertainment around here. I’m the most interesting thing to happen to Northgate in months, short of murder. Consider it a favor.”
“What if your presence gets back to the sheriff?”
“I don’t care.”
The highway turned, letting the sun spill over the driver’s seat. Lincoln pulled sunglasses off his visor and slipped them on. Aviators. Nice. “You should care. You could get arrested for interference.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. She couldn’t help it. He was so earnest. “I’m not easy to arrest.” She casually leaned against the door, squeezing her knees together so that none of her touched the sun beam. “Fill me in on the investigation. Tell me about your suspects.”
“No names yet. The rest of the department still thinks it’s a string of animal killings, even though we caught someone on security footage.”
“Security footage?”
“Two of the bodies were found in empty fields on the south end of town—not the same field, mind you, but across the road from one another. The convenience store caught footage of one body being inspected by a civilian.” Lincoln’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Inspected, but not dumped. Near as we can tell, the tapes of the actual times the murders occurred were wiped.”
“Magnetic or magic?” Elise asked. At his incredulous look, she said, “Never mind.” Lincoln wouldn’t know the difference between spells, charms, and enchantments, much less mundane interference versus magical.
Of course, she wouldn’t have expected the sheriff’s office to be warded, either.
“Which coven do you have here?” she asked.
“Coven?”
“It’s a group of witches, often twelve or thirteen of them. They organize on pagan holidays to cast spells together.”
“There are no witches in Northgate,” Lincoln said. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. She had hit a nerve.
Northgate appeared slowly, peeking out from between the patchy trees. She glimpsed decades-old antique shops nestled beside brand new convenience stores. All of the houses on the main road had been converted into offices—real estate agents, accountants, lawyers. The sidewalks were filled with people traveling on foot.
“The guy filmed inspecting the body,” Elise said, tucking her hands under her arms so that the sunlight didn’t catch them. “Was he black?”
“Yes,” Lincoln said. “Approximately six feet, three inches, two hundred pounds.”
It didn’t seem likely that there would be many men that fit that description in such a small town. It had to be Scarface, the werewolf she had seen at the sheriff’s department the night before.
“Why would he visit the body again after dumping it?”
“Serial killers behave in strange ways, Miss Kavanagh.”
“Elise,” she corrected.
His jaw tightened. “Maybe he was relishing his handiwork.”
She highly doubted it, but she wasn’t going to argue the point with Lincoln. A rogue werewolf’s psychology wouldn’t be like a serial killer’s. If one werewolf had killed six people, then it had less to do with trophies and more to do with uncontrollable hunger.
The mind of the wolf and the mind of the man were totally disconnected. If the wolf had been killing, the man might only realize long after the deed was done. Maybe the wolf had dragged the carcass into town, and the man came back to find out why he had woken up drenched in blood.
“How much of the bodies remained intact?” she asked.
“Not much. I have photos.”
“I want to see the cadavers,” Elise said. “The coroner’s report won’t be enough. He won’t have been looking for the right things.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange.”
Their slow tour through Northgate finally escaped the forest. The center of town was decorated with a huge statue: a man with his eyes uplifted, a hand extended toward the sky, and feet spread in an unmistakably aggressive stance. His lowered hand was clutching a cross.
It was the kind of statue an emperor might commission for himself. It didn’t match the rest of the town square, which was decorated with wrought iron fences, old boardwalks, and tidy flowerbeds. Children played in the fallen leaves around the feet of the statue, unimpressed by his grandeur.
Lincoln noticed where Elise was looking. Discomfort buzzed over his mind, leaving a sour aftertaste in her mouth. “Don’t ask.”
“Don’t ask what?”
“The statue. Don’t ask,” he said.
She hadn’t planned on it, but she was curious now that he brought it up. Elise leaned close to the window as they circled around it, squinting at the sign on the base.
Bain Marshall.
When she turned to Lincoln, she found confirmation of their relation etched in the annoyance on his face.
Elise didn’t ask.
He turned off the road into a parking lot. Pedestrians streamed off the road toward a sign that said St. Philomene’s Cathedral, although the trees concealed the building itself.
“Park in the shade over there,” Elise said.
The fact that she was avoiding direct sunlight hadn’t escaped Lincoln’s notice. He parked deep in the shade, then leaned around the back of his car to grab a hooded sweater. “The cathedral’s set back on a trail,” he said. “Lots of sun between here and there. And the leather won’t go over well in church.”
She gave a short nod, swapping out her jacket. The logo on the breast must have belonged to Lincoln’s alma mater. She jerked the hood over her head.
Even with the shelter of the sweater, stepping out of the car made Elise begin to sweat immediately. She gripped the door of the car, knuckles tight, and took deep breaths. Lincoln rounded the car to join her.
“You can stay here,” he said.
Elise tugged the aviators off of Lincoln’s face. “I’ll be fine,” she said, putting on his sunglasses.
“Help yourself,” he said with a grunt. He looked annoyed, but arousal made his heart speed. There were fireworks in his mind, exploding over his brain with a wash of adrenaline. He liked seeing her wearing his clothing.
She lifted an eyebrow at him, but he turned away and started walking.
As promised, they had to walk a short distance to reach the church. They had a lot of company from the other parishioners in town. They soon passed a sign listing the priests in attendance: Father Night, and Father Armstrong.
St. Philomene’s Cathedral sounded much grander than it looked. The recent whitewashing did nothing to conceal its age. Old shutters were stacked on the lawn, waiting to be replaced by new ones in a pickup parked by the front doors. A new cross was being installed on its steeple, although the crane was currently motionless; nobody was working on Sunday.
“And on the seventh day, He res
ted,” Elise muttered, back pressed to the wall beside the front door, enjoying the few inches of shade it gave her. She wiped pink-tinted sweat off of her cheek.
A witch’s wards could keep Elise out of the police station, but there was nothing about holy ground in particular that repelled her. Her jobs with Anthony and McIntyre often required visits to churches, graveyards, and consecrated drive-thru wedding chapels. St. Philomene’s had nothing to keep her out.
But she didn’t immediately enter, even when Lincoln sidled through the doors. Elise watched the faces of the passing parishioners. More importantly, she watched their minds. All of them reacted to her presence—some with mild confusion, and others with outright disapproval at her eyebrow piercing, her unnaturally dark hair. Elise didn’t need to read minds to understand the combination of signals and facial expressions. They were wondering if she was mixed race, a punk, maybe a slut.
Between the bemusement and hostility, she sensed no recognition. If any of them had received the email with her picture, they didn’t connect the dots.
One woman didn’t react to Elise at all. Her head hung as she shuffled into the church, mind drenched with grief, clutching her purse to her chest. One of the victims’ loving family members, most likely.
Elise waited for another opening in the line of parishioners entering the church, then followed.
Despite the crowd, St. Philomene’s was filled with reverent silence. The pews were already completely occupied, leaving only standing room at the back. Lincoln was talking to someone near the wall, and Elise moved forward, tipping her head back to gaze at the rafters. The sun through the stained glass windows tinted the wood red, gold, green. Her skin ached from it.
Elise dipped her fingers in the font of holy water. It was cold enough to send a chill shocking up her bones, but it didn’t burn. It was blessed by man, not God.
She shut her eyes, remembering the cold waters of Heaven’s river. It had scalded. Stripped the flesh from her bones. Consumed her.
When her eyes opened, she realized that Lincoln was staring from across the room.
Elise dotted her forehead, her heart, her shoulders, and then flicked her fingers dry. Crossing herself was meaningless, but it gave her great satisfaction to watch Lincoln’s reaction. He was stunned.