I pulled on the gloves, then closed the door and drew in several deep breaths. The scents he could smell so clearly weren’t evident to me.
We moved quietly from the laundry room into the kitchen. It was small but neat, but there were dishes draining on the sink and fat congealed on the top of the water. I dipped my gloved fingers into it. Stone-cold. Much like the house, really.
I followed Jackson into the next room. Again, it was as neat as a pin, and other than the light coating of dust over the wooden surfaces, there was nothing out of place. But the living room was even colder than the kitchen, and as I rubbed my arms, I realized why. The AC was not only on, but set to near freezing.
Jackson moved into the shadowed hallway beyond the living area. A cautious check of several rooms that led off it revealed neither our black widow nor anyone else, yet the tension in Jackson seemed to be growing. Whatever he smelled was obviously getting stronger. The final room turned out to be the main bedroom, and it was in here that we found Amanda Wilson. She lay on her back, one hand tucked under her neck and her long hair streaming across her pillow. If not for red splatters across the nearby pillow and the paleness of her skin, it would have been easy to believe she was asleep. She looked at peace. Happy even.
But maybe that was because she hadn’t been alone in the bed before her death. Not if the indent in the other pillows and the state of the sheets and blankets were anything to go by. Obviously, the vampire responsible for this had taken his pleasure both physically and through her blood—although judging by the blood on the pillow, he was one messy feeder.
Jackson stepped over the bundle of bedsheets dumped on the carpet near the end of the bed and carefully gripped her chin, turning her head to one side to reveal a deep and ugly bite wound. I closed my eyes briefly and took a deep breath, but it did little to calm the instinctive rush of distaste and fear. Though I was more than aware that not all vamps got off on vicious blood taking—that indeed it was usually an orgasmic experience for both parties—my encounter with the vamp who’d sucked me dry had left me more than a little wary of them. Not to mention a total unwillingness to get anywhere near them sexually.
Obviously, though, Amanda had shared no such unwillingness.
“Oh fuck,” Jackson said suddenly. “She’s alive.”
“What? How? Her lips are blue and she’s not breathing—”
“She is, but it’s so shallow it’s practically unnoticeable. Call an ambulance before we lose her.”
I dragged out my phone as he pulled the covers up and spread them over her.
But before I could dial, something solid hit the back of my head and sent me flying.
CHAPTER 10
I hit the wall face-first and pain exploded. For several seconds I saw nothing but stars dancing happily in black space; then hands grabbed me, pulled me around, and threw me again. This time, when I hit, there was a splintering sound, and I came down in a shower of wood and glass.
Dressing table, I thought fuzzily, and instinctively reached for my flames. Nothing happened. Nothing more than a slight fizz of heat that faded as quickly as it rose. I swore and groped for something, anything, to use as a weapon. There was blood in my mouth, my vision was blurry, and there was a roaring in my head.
But I still heard the heavy approach of footsteps.
My fingers found wood, but it was too small, too thin, to use as a weapon. I swept my fingers around desperately for something better and hit glass. A long, thick shard. I wrapped my fingers around it and gripped it tight. The ragged edges sliced into my skin, but I made no move, no sound, as those steps drew closer.
Feet appeared in front of my face. Big feet encased in heavy black boots. The kind that could do serious damage if they stomped down on my head. Tension slithered through me, the need to move warring with the need to be still and play helpless. Whoever this was, he was strong. Without my fires, all I had was surprise. My grip on the glass tightened. Blood began to ooze past my fingers and soak into the carpet.
He bent down, grabbed the back of my shirt, and hauled me upright. Heat rolled over me—heat and the pungent musk of man and sweat—and I realized my attacker was a werewolf rather than a vampire. Which explained the strength. It was a thought that quickly vanished as he held me at arm’s length and gave me a toothy grin.
“You should have done as the cop suggested,” he said. “Because now you have to die.”
Shock rolled through me. Sam had been the only cop to warn me away from the case, but surely even he wouldn’t resort to this sort of violence.
But he’s changed, the internal voice whispered. He’s not the man you once knew.
No, I thought, he wasn’t, but I still refused to believe he was behind this attack. I battered away the lingering uncertainty and said, through puffing lips, “I’ve done the whole death thing more than once, and I have to say, I’m not quite ready to do it again.”
With that, I plunged the shard of glass as hard as I could into his gut.
He released me instinctively and screamed—but it was a sound that held fury rather than pain. I landed in a heap at his feet, but I didn’t stay there. I twisted, swept my leg around, and knocked him off balance. He half fell, and I threw myself forward, knocking him back and sideways.
But he was a man and a werewolf, and that meant fast reflexes and greater strength. The advantage I’d gained in unbalancing him lay in seconds, not minutes, and he was up almost as fast as I was. I hastily wiped at the blood gushing from my nose, then ran at him again. I hit shoulder first, and the jagged edge of the shard sliced into me even as I drove it deeper into his gut. He flailed backward and crashed into the closet doors. With a howl that was still more fury than pain, he ripped the shard from his flesh and flung it away.
And in that instant, I knew my time was up. If I didn’t drop him now, it’d be me on the floor, not him.
I leapt at him, feet-first. He saw me coming and twisted sideways, but his gut wound had at least slowed him enough that it didn’t matter. I hit his left knee side-on, and there was a loud crack. His leg collapsed from underneath him and he went down hard to one knee.
But the bastard just wouldn’t fall.
I hit the carpet yet again, sucked in a shuddery breath, and half turned. Saw his fist arcing toward me and flung myself desperately out of the way. The punch missed, but the heavy rings on his fingers gouged my skin. It hurt. God, how it hurt. But I thrust the pain aside and scrambled away from him.
Hands grabbed my right leg and dragged me back. I half yelped, then twisted around, kicking at his face with my free leg. It missed and he laughed, the sound fierce and cold. His gaze met mine, and all I saw was death.
Flames flared across my fingertips. They contained little in the way of heat, but it was all I had left, so I flung them at him. His eyes went wide; then he released me and threw himself out of their way. Another roar escaped his lips as he came down on the knee I’d broken; then the flames hit him, and he screamed again as they shimmered up his legs.
I didn’t wait for him to realize they contained no heat. I lunged at him, slipped my hand under the cuff of his jeans, and grabbed his ankle. The minute my fingers wrapped around his flesh, the fires within responded, sucking in the heat of him, feeding on it. I drank it fast, robbing him of warmth and energy, until his skin was gray and shivers racked his body. It wasn’t enough; I wanted—needed—more, but if I took it all, I’d kill him. And as desperately appealing as that thought was, we needed answers more.