“No,” she replied. “If I hear the police drive up, I’ll keep that little gem to myself to spite you all.”
Jed snorted, and I realized that Caroline was being sarcastic.
“If we’re going to go,” she said, impatience peppering her tone, “let’s go.”
Behind me, the sound of snapping bones and guttural, inhuman cries told me Chase and Lake had begun to Shift. A second later, a wave of power hit me, tantalizing and torture, all at once.
I wanted my pack. I wanted to run. I wanted to stay here with Chase and Lake, I wanted to Shift—
But I couldn’t. Couldn’t Shift. Couldn’t stay here. Instead, I fought the call of the wild and took a step toward civilization.
The house.
We closed the distance between the woods and the front porch with quiet efficiency. Caroline circled the entire house, keen eyes looking for weaknesses and points of entry. She came to a stop beside us, unnaturally still and utterly sure of herself, and addressed her next words to Jed.
“Killer came through here.”
I wasn’t sure how she could be so certain, or so calm, but it was hard not to take Caroline’s words at face value. When it came to games played between predator and prey, I had no doubt that she was as much of an expert as any Were.
All business, Jed took something out of his pocket and managed to jimmy open the front door.
“If you want to touch anything,” he told me, glancing back over his shoulder, “you’re going to need to put on gloves.”
I hadn’t brought any. In the course of my time as alpha, I hadn’t had nearly as much practice breaking and entering as I had with breaking and reinstating psychic bonds. Clearly, I had not come prepared.
“Here.” Caroline made no move to invade my personal space, but as Jed flipped on a hallway light, she held out a single white glove.
My eyes were drawn immediately to the skin she’d bared. Thick, sinewy scars—some white, some sickeningly pink, even after all these years—marred her flesh from the elbow down. Looking at it hurt and reminded me that Shay was the one who had given Caroline those scars—one more reason that we couldn’t afford to let him be the one who found Maddy.
I took the proffered glove. Cold and detached, Caroline strode past me into the house. I followed, and in the dim light Jed had turned on, I could see dark blotches on the tan stone floor.
Drops of blood.
Someone had made an attempt at cleaning up since the crime scene photos were taken, but the aftereffects of slaughter were still visible, tangible proof that what had happened here couldn’t be exorcised with cleaner and bleach.
Drawn like a moth to the flame, I followed the trail of blood and watched as the dark spots got bigger and thicker the farther into the labyrinthine hallway we got.
“It started with a puncture wound.” Caroline walked the path of blood, as light on her feet as a dancer, her head tilted slightly to one side. “A small one. A warning.”
Caroline met Jed’s eyes, but not mine. “Killer gave his target time to run.”
The hallway dead-ended into a large, open living room. The stone fireplace on the far end was discolored, and Caroline stopped in front of it.
“Second and third puncture wounds. Then a long, deep cut.” She gestured to the dark spots on the floor. Her words could have just as easily been describing a knife attack, but somehow, I doubted a rabid werewolf would have bothered with a blade.
No, our killer would have Shifted—in full or in part—and gouged the victim. Once. Twice. Three times.
“The target scrambled backward,” Caroline said—and I realized for the first time exactly how different our mental vocabulary was. My victim was her target.
“Target was already bleeding. Here”—she touched her still-gloved hand to the ghostly remains of what had once been a pool of red on the ground—“he slipped and hit his head.”
Caroline dragged her fingertips over the discolored area on the fireplace. Her face darkened. “And then it happened all at once.”
I took those words to mean that her discomfiting expertise started and ended with the aspects of this kill that seemed almost human. What had happened after the victim had fallen on the fireplace wasn’t human at all.
“The attacker Shifted,” I said, carefully avoiding all use of the pronoun she—or anything else that might bring Maddy’s face to my mind. “After a minute, maybe two, the smell of blood would have been too much for the wolf.”
Based on the way the corpse had been positioned in the photos I’d seen, our Rabid must have dragged the victim—or possibly the body by that point—across the room. I followed the path, overcome with images that felt like memories, as my mind took what I knew and filled in the horrifying gaps.
Memorize the way it feels, I told myself. Keep it under lock and key.
In wolf form, a rabid werewolf would have been unable to keep from going for the throat, and that was probably responsible for most of the splatter on the baseboards and the walls.
I could smell it. I could hear the sound it made, that awful, ungodly sound of shredding flesh, interspersed with raindrops on a windshield.
“There should be footprints,” Caroline said. Still caught up in a trance of my own making, I slipped on my borrowed glove and ran my right hand over the surface of the wall.
“With this much blood, the target shouldn’t have been the only one slipping. If the killer didn’t clean up afterward—
and if this is what it looks like a week later, I doubt they did—then he or she should have left footprints. Paw prints. Whatever.”
I thought back to the crime scene photos. There’d been evidence that someone had dipped human hands into the blood and smeared it along the walls, but Caroline was right—there’d only been one set of footprints.
The victim’s.
There hadn’t been any paw prints at all. How was that possible?
One of these days, I thought, I’m going to excise that word from my vocabulary.
Werewolves and psychics weren’t exactly the height of possibility, either.
Beside me, Caroline snapped to attention, pulling her body back into the shadows, her eyes narrowed and her pupils wide. The sound of creaking wood on the front porch alerted me to the reason for her behavior. I reached out to keep her from flying into action.
“It’s Chase,” I told her. “Not the police.”