His head felt as though it’d been split in two—and as if that wasn’t enough, he was tormented by the terrifying discovery he’d made last night: the fact that Michaela Doucet was his life mate.
Beyond the windows of the truck, the autumn forest passed by in a golden splash of color as Brody took the next exit off the highway, that dark knowledge wiring its way through his brain again and again, set on a continual replay loop.
My mate. My mate. My mate.
He supposed it explained the unprecedented lack of control he experienced when around her, as well as the violent surge of emotion, as though he’d plugged his senses, his heart, into a nuclear reactor. The cool, calm nothingness that had encased him for so many years had been cracked the first time he’d met her, then slowly shattered, leaving him a little more raw, a little more exposed, each time they came into contact. He’d recognized it, on a subconscious level, and yet, he’d done everything he could to avoid what he knew was the truth. But knowing he’d been on the verge of sinking his fangs into her throat last night—well, he could hardly pretend ignorance any longer. That had never happened to him before. Never. Not once, in his entire thirty-four years.
He’d been furious at the time, but only because it’d scared him when he’d realized how close he was to making that bite. As his mate, the bite would have created a blood bond between them—one that could never be undone. And she’d have hated him for it, which was why he’d tried like hell to rip himself away from her—only to have her go into that strange, dreamlike trance on him. When she came back to awareness and admitted what had happened, his fear had bled into stark, raging terror that she’d now be able to read him, as well.
The possibility had made Brody’s blood run cold, because it meant she’d have known. Known how badly he wanted her, and not just for sex—though there was no doubt that he wanted her under him. He’d been months without a woman, the visceral need of his body and beast like a raw, aching wound within his soul. It was a craving that only Michaela could satisfy, a pain that only she could ease.
There was no denying that it made him feel threatened, trapped, the thought that her powers might change, that his feelings and hungers could be revealed to her. That was the most terrifying part of all, the possibility of her discovery that she was his mate, destined by nature to be his and no other’s—not that he planned to do anything about it. Hell, just because nature sometimes screwed up was no reason to run his heart through a sieve like his old man had done. He’d seen firsthand that, despite its awesome power, nature could only add so much to the equation. Without love to strengthen the bond between mates, the risks for potential heartbreak were devastating.
And what about Michaela? She was an amazing woman—and she deserved someone who could cherish her, love her. Someone she could cherish and love in return. She didn’t merit a lover who was more monster than man—one who she’d wake up beside one morning and wonder what in the blazes she’d been thinking.
Not one for self-torture, Brody figured he’d save himself the heartache and pain and pass on the whole having-his-heart-ripped-out part of the scenario. The smart thing to do would be to simply stay away from her, but how could he? Her life was in danger, and his wolf was too possessive to allow another Runner near her. He was just going to have to suck it up and find some way to harden himself against her intoxicating allure.
Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that, jackass. ’Cause it’s worked so well for you so far.
Shaking off the irritating thought, Brody made a series of turns onto roads marked with Private Property signs, before following a narrow dirt road that wound its way up the side of the mountain, bordering the Silvercrest pack land. He spotted Cian’s Land Rover parked on the shoulder, pulled to a slow stop behind it, then turned off the engine and looked at Michaela. “I wouldn’t bring you here if there was another choice, but the case is mine and Hennessey’s and I need to see it. You never know what a second set of eyes might pick up, and we can’t risk missing anything at this point.”
Her throat moved in a convulsive shiver, betraying her nerves, but her voice was steady as she said, “It’s okay. Really. I understand.”
Climbing out of the truck, he walked around to open her door for her. “Come on. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can get you up to the Alley.”
Though there was no sign of his partner or the crime scene from where they stood, Brody could scent Cian, as well as the victim, the stale odor of blood thickening as the wind surged toward them. “This way,” he grunted, wishing he could just leave Michaela in the Ford. But it was too dangerous. The bastard they were after made his kills while in his dayshifted werewolf form, leaving no traceable odor, only a sharp acidic scent that was impossible to track. They didn’t even know how close he had to be before they could pick up that vinegar-like odor, which meant Michaela stayed within an arm’s reach of him the entire time they were in the open.
They only had to travel a hundred yards into the woods to find Cian and the body. His partner leaned back against a nearby tree, his right leg bent, boot braced against the trunk, while he stared over the gruesome scene with a cold, gray gaze. Brody had seen that chilling look in his partner’s eyes too many times to count, knowing precisely what it meant.
The Irishman was furious.
Exhaling a slow stream of smoke, Cian flicked the ashes from the smoldering tip of his cigarette and gave them a somber nod as they stepped into the small clearing. The body lay in the center of the open, moss-covered space, naked, her face turned away from them, blond hair matted with blood, her arms and legs sprawled as if she’d been staked to the ground. But death was the only restraint holding her in place. From the look of her wounds, it’d been as violent as the others, a great gaping hole in the center of her chest, the heart missing from within, literally eaten out of her.
“There’s no purse or identification anywhere around here,” Cian rasped, the wind blowing the stygian strands of his hair across his face as he took another slow pull on his cigarette.
“Hell, I can’t even find her clothes. But I doubt she’s more than twenty. Twenty-one at the most. And as you can smell, there’s not so much as a whiff of Lycan musk on the body. Nothing but blood and death and that damn acidic odor burning the hell out of my nose.”
“How’d you find her?” Brody kept his voice soft, an eerie silence hanging over the scene that demanded deference.
Cian took a long drag, then slowly released an ethereal stream of smoke. “Silvercrest scouts were patrolling the pack land borders and came across the kill. They called it in not even an hour ago.”
Bending his knees, Brody knelt beside the body. Digging into the rich soil beside the vic’s head, he lifted a handful to his nose and sniffed, but was unable to pick up anything other than the sharp odor Cian had mentioned. “I was hoping something would stick out, catch our attention. Something that might set it apart from the other crime scenes. But it’s all the same.”
“What about trace evidence?” Michaela asked, standing just to his left, by the victim’s pale hip.
Studying the body, Brody explained, “We investigated the use of trace years ago, hoping to use it like the crime scene department, but our genetic material decomposes too quickly. That’s part of what’s enabled us to remain a secret for so long. Plus, there’s no discernible difference between Lycan DNA and human DNA. And even if we did leave blood behind that was instantly analyzed, it would look human in composition.”
“That’s why the lack of a traceable scent has made it impossible to name the killer,” Cian added. “Without the scent, which is the only evidence a rogue leaves behind that doesn’t fade, we’re unable to identify him. In the past, it’s only been a problem when a rogue’s scent was washed away by rain before we found the body, but by making the kill while in his dayshifted form, this particular killer is like a ghost to us, a phantom. There’s nothing left behind for us to follow, nothing to hunt.”
“But if the auth
orities found a body like this, wouldn’t they be able to tell that this kind of attack wasn’t human, even without any trace evidence?” she asked. “Just from the wounds themselves?”
“That’s always been the greatest threat to our secret—a body like this being found. Normally, a rogue Lycan hunts on the fringes of society,” Brody went on to explain, “because the game is easier, and the kill made near the safety of his or her pack land. But this one, he’s growing careless. The girl he killed in Covington, the one dealing drugs, could have been found by anyone. It was pure luck that Sophia Dawson showed up first and had the presence of mind to call us. If the cops had arrived on the scene, there would have been serious consequences. Not even Monroe would have been able to help us cover it up.”
“Monroe? He’s the FBI agent, right?” she asked, looking down at him as she wrapped her arms around herself, while the wind caught her hair, lifting it from her shoulders. “The one whose sister married a Lycan from the pack?”
“Yeah,” he replied, fighting the urge to go to her and take her into his arms. Instead, Brody focused his mind on the scene. There was one thing left to check that might point them in the direction of the killer—something he’d put off, concerned about how Michaela might react. Shaking the dirt off his hand, he reached out, brushed the tangled, matted strands of the vic’s hair back from her face, grasped her small, pointed chin and tilted her face toward them. A low breath jerked from his lungs; at the same time Michaela let out a shaky gasp of relief.
“Mon dieu,” she whispered, dark eyes glistening with tears as she stared into the girl’s sightless blue gaze. “I thought…I was afraid that it might be Kimmie, the blonde from the shop. The one who was with Dustin.”
“Yeah,” he sighed, straightening his legs as he rose to his full height. “Me, too.”
“It’s still terrible…it’s just that, I didn’t want it to be someone I had met. I would have felt awful that I hadn’t tried to warn her away from him.”
Brody gave a slow nod of understanding.
“Sheffield had a blue-eyed blonde with him?” Cian asked, taking a long drag on his cigarette, his midnight brows pulled together in a deep scowl. “Do you think he could be the one?”
With his mouth set in a grim line, Brody shook his head. “Hell if I know. But the thought has crossed my mind more than once since yesterday.”
“Well,” Cian sighed, sounding as tired as Brody felt, “when I talked to Mason, he said Reyes and Pallaton were already on their way up to the Alley. Thinks it would be a good idea if we all met up at his place and talked things out for a while. Sounds like Dustin should be a topic of discussion.”
“And I want to know what kind of reaction Mason got from Dylan about Dustin’s confession.”
Flicking his cigarette into the damp moss, Cian scowled with frustration. “Don’t get your hopes up, man. You know the League won’t move until their hand is forced.”
He muttered a short curse under his breath, hating that his partner was right, while at his side, Michaela trembled, staring down at the body. “He hated hurting her,” she suddenly said in a voice so eerily quiet, it was almost lost in the howling wind, “once it was over.”
Narrowing his eyes, Brody watched as a shiver traveled the length of her body, her lips rolling inward as a tear tracked down the left side of her face. “What do you mean?”
Without looking at him, she shook her head, her brow furrowed with lines of concentration. “It’s just a feeling. I sense…conflict.”
“The killer’s conflict?” Cian asked, pushing off from the tree to move closer.
She nodded, the shivering in her lips now, her skin so pale, she looked like a ghost, while her long curls blew wildly around the paleness of her face. “Have you ever felt anything like this before?” his partner asked, gray eyes fixed on her face.
* * *
“No,” Michaela murmured, feeling so cold, as if her bones had been coated with ice, a sickening sensation of dread wrapping around her, keeping company with her heartbreak for the pretty young woman lying dead at her feet. “I’ve never felt anything like this, but then, this is the first time I’ve come into contact with a violent death, so I…I don’t have any basis for comparison. Maybe it’s a result of the situation.”
She had another theory, as well—one that she kept to herself. Just a gut feeling, really, but she couldn’t help but wonder if her psychic abilities were being affected by the redheaded Runner playing havoc with her hormones and her heart. Cutting a wondering look at him from beneath her lashes, she found Brody watching her with a fierce expression, brows drawn, mouth hard, his color high. Was his presence boosting her abilities, like a jolt of lightning surging through a power source?
If it was, she wasn’t going to tell him. Not after what had happened last night. The last thing she needed was to give him any more of a reason to be on guard around her.
“What else can you pick up?” Cian asked her, his sharp, speculative gaze moving between her and Brody.
“That’s it,” she admitted, lifting her face to stare up at the graying sky. “I wish there was more, but it’s as if there’s a cloud hanging over this place, heavy and thick and evil. He…he stood here and stared at her in horror, after it was over. Almost as if he couldn’t believe he’d done it.”
“Can you pick up on him now?” Brody asked, moving closer to her side.
She shook her head no, and he looked at Cian, saying, “I don’t like having her out in the open like this,” when she could tell what he really meant was that she was spooking the hell out of him and he wanted her as far from the body as possible. “We’ll see you back up at Mason’s. How long until cleanup gets here?”
* * *
“Not long,” his partner replied. “Another fifteen at the most. I’ll let them deal with the body.”
Brody watched as Michaela told Cian goodbye, before they began heading back through the woods, taking the same path as before. They moved in silence, absorbed in their thoughts—until they were about halfway to the truck. With a low gasp, she came to an abrupt stop, grabbing hold of his arm with her right hand.
“What is it?” he asked, voice low, eyes narrowed on her pale face.
Shivering, she looked over her shoulder, staring back into the dense woods behind them.
“Doucet,” he quietly growled; at the same time, he was sniffing the air, searching for any signs of danger, but the acidic odor from the crime scene had temporarily diminished his sense of smell. “Answer me.”
“Brody, I know it sounds crazy,” she whispered, her eyes wide with fear, “but I think someone’s watching us.”
“Cian?”
“No…no, it isn’t him. I can still feel him back with the body. This is…oh God,” she gasped, looking up at him, “you don’t think it could be Ross, do you? I can’t read him. Maybe he followed us.”
“Even with that sharp odor still in my nose, I’d be able to smell a human if he was close by,” Brody assured her, taking her hand and pulling her along with him, anxious to get to the truck. His natural instinct was to turn and fight whatever the hell was out there, but he couldn’t put her at risk that way. “I promise you that Holland isn’t anywhere around here, Doucet.”
“You’re right,” she told him, nearly jogging to keep up with his hurried pace. “I’m just nervous, I guess.”
Taking out his cell, he called Cian, warning him to be on his guard, all the while keeping Michaela moving as quickly as possible. “Anything else?” he asked her as they broke out of the trees, near the truck. “Can you pick up anything?”
“No, there’s just this strange static in my head, and it feels…I don’t know, like someone’s eyes are following me, pressing in on me.” Her own eyes were huge within her face, shadowed by fear. “You know the feeling?”
“Yeah, I know it,” he rasped. What worried him was what to do about it.
Hurrying her into the truck, Brody climbed behind the wheel, gunned the gas, and got the hel
l out of Dodge.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, they arrived back at the Alley, just as the first drops of rain from a coming storm began to fall. Serving as a place for the Runners to live separate from the pack, while still on Silvercrest land, Bloodrunner Alley housed ten cabins, only six of which were currently in use. Although set within a rural, majestic setting, surrounded by the natural beauty of the forest, the Alley boasted all the modern amenities, from plumbing to electricity to satellite TV, while its isolated location afforded the Runners the privacy they preferred.
Heading straight to the Dillingers, Brody took a quick look around as he stepped into the kitchen and asked, “Where are Reyes and Pallaton?”
“On their way back from Wesley. They had a lead come in on a possible hideout for Drake’s rogues.”
“They get anything?”
“Naw. It turned out to be another dead end,” Mason told him, reaching into the fridge to pull out cold sodas for him and Michaela, who had moved to sit beside Torrance at the table. A platter of ham and cheese sandwiches sat in the center of the pine table, along with potato chips and pasta salad—the growling of his stomach reminding Brody that he was starving. They sat down to a late lunch, purposely keeping the conversation light by silent agreement, since Michaela was still far too pale, only picking at her food. They were just clearing the last of the plates when a screeching metallic noise sounded from the front of the cabin.
Brody whistled softly under his breath, at the same time Mason growled, “What was that?”
Together, the group headed into the living room, all eyes zeroed in on the front door as Wyatt Pallaton shoved it open, his rain-soaked partner following close on his heels. They were drenched with water, leaving a wet puddle forming in a haphazard circle at their feet, and Torrance and Michaela quickly hurried from the room to get towels.
“Let me guess,” Brody drawled, arching one brow as he crossed his arms and propped his shoulder against the wall.
“Wyatt forgot to pack the soft top for the Jeep again?”
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