Dylan's Witch: 10 (Supernatural Bonds) (9 page)

He went to the front of the boat and hugged her against him. He shouldn’t have asked this of her, the guys in forensics would have nailed down the information. It just might have taken awhile.

“It had to be done, Conner,” she murmured. “I’m okay.”

Warm lips touched his cheek, trailing a string of kisses to his ear. She captured the lobe, sucked, sending a jolt of pleasure through him.

Teeth followed, gripping the skin of his neck for that second it took to convey,
Mine
, before she said, “I smell alligator and python. We better get back to discovery number one.”

“What about this one? Anything?”

“Whoever she is, she’s been dead anywhere from a month to four or five. I could be off, Conner. I’m basing this on bones I’ve come across that spent time in lakes and streams in places like Canada and Alaska. I’ve never hunted in this kind of terrain. I haven’t spent much time wearing fur in it either.”

Her arms tightened on him when he would have moved back to the controls and made the call. “There’s something else.”

“Something I’m not going to like,” he guessed.

“Probably not.”

“What?”

“There are traces of magic on the bones. More sensed than smelled so don’t ask me what or why, I don’t know more than I’m telling you. But considering this find is on Miguel, we probably should have expected it.”

Shit. He hoped it didn’t mean anything. He wanted to believe that once the body was identified and the family notified, this thing would be put to rest with the remains.

“I’ll call it in. Then we wait for the fun to begin.”

* * * * *

Trace’s phone rang as they pulled into a parking slot reserved for official vehicles. “Perfect timing. What do you have?”

He hit speaker so Dylan could hear Storm say, “Elaine’s son left the hospital a quadriplegic. I dug a little deeper. He was a decent student. Lettered in track and was on the wrestling team.”

Dylan shook his head.
Fuck
. Stories like that weren’t uncommon in their line of work but he hated hearing them. He hated the waste and damage, the sheer pointlessness and horror of it.

“Brady and I are on our way to the swamp. Conner and Khemirra were exploring and came across a fresh body close to some skeletal remains. Probably going to be a long day. The coroner and CSI are in route.”

“Catch you later.” Trace pocketed the phone. “Shall we?”

“The fun never stops.”

They entered the county jail after locking their weapons in the sedan’s trunk. Hale met them on the other side of security.

“She’s waiting for you,” he said, escorting them to an interrogation room. “I’ll watch on the monitor.”

Deana Young didn’t glance up when the door opened. She didn’t acknowledge them when they introduced themselves as they sat.

It was about what they’d expected when they’d discussed their strategy and decided to go with shock tactics, because right now they sure as hell didn’t have enough to gain access to Elaine Young’s financial records, not that they’d find anything there. A cash deal made a hell of a lot more sense when you were paying for murder.

“Look at me,” Trace demanded, taking the lead.

All it got them was the further hunch of thin shoulders. The further tuck of her head.

Like a freaking turtle, Dylan thought. All that prevented a full retreat was the lack of a shell.

“This isn’t going to go away, Deana,” Trace said. “No matter how much you want it to. We know the why and we’ll keep digging until we find out the who. What’s going to happen to David if Elaine ends up in here with you, charged with conspiracy to commit murder?”

Dylan steeled himself against considering the answer to that question. At the end of the day, it often seemed like the innocent suffered considerably more than the guilty.

This was his job, putting murderers in jail. And though technically this particular murderer was already in jail, he wanted everyone responsible for it.

“Think about David,” Trace said, tone like a battering ram.

There was the faintest tremble. A crack forming.

She hugged herself. Rocked forward. Backward. Forward. Backward.

Dylan leaned in, said in a softer voice, “Help us here, Deana. If you do then we can make sure your nephew gets taken care of, not just dumped in some facility and forgotten.” He’d damn well make sure of it. “You don’t want that on your conscience too, do you? He’s innocent in all this. Just like the guy you killed with your car.”

Tears dripped onto her crossed arms but she didn’t look up. It was possible she didn’t know who wanted Nicole Harper dead, but an admission would give them leverage to apply to Elaine. She’d know that of course. Along with her brother and sister, they’d all been in and out of the justice system enough times to understand the angles.

“Help us now, so we can help David,” Dylan said. “How much were you paid to kill Nicole Harper?”

No response.

The rocking continued.

Trace kept working her hard, Dylan slipping in, trying to coax a change.

Time crawled past and frustration built.

She stayed locked down, unresponsive.

Dylan’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. From the way Trace straightened, his had too.

They wrapped up. Where wrapping up meant the waste of breath encouraging Deana to come clean.

Outside the room, Hale said, “You guys might be on to something. Keep me in the loop.”

“Sure thing,” Dylan said. “You do the same.”

He pulled his phone out at the same time Trace did, the move so perfectly synchronized it looked as though they’d rehearsed it.

Hale snorted. “You guys have worked together too long. You’re starting to look like the Bobbsey Twins.”

“I’m the handsome one,” Dylan said, reading the text instructing him to call the captain. He glanced at Trace. “You want me to do the honors?”

“Go for it.”

“You know about Brady and Storm’s call-out?” Captain Ellis asked.

“Yes.”

“The fresh DB is Robert Katcher.”

“Shit. Trace and I saw him last night when we were leaving. Said he was working late so everything would be good while he was on vacation.”

“Well he took a permanent one, and not willingly. I need you and Trace to divert to his place while Storm and Brady stay on scene in the swamp. They’re lead on his murder. Coordinate with them when they get free of the swamp. I’ve got Miguel at the station since he’s riding solo right now until Conner is reinstated. He’s going over Katcher’s workspace.”

“We’re on it.”

“I’ll save you a step and text the address.” He ended the call.

“Shit,” Dylan said. “Katcher is dead.” Not that he knew him well, but there was a weirdness, a haunting feeling caused by having encountered Katcher the night before and now knowing he’d been heading out to die.

* * * * *

Seraphine took a sip of mocha. There was no safe ground when it came to opening a conversation with Electra, so she went where they might have a common one. “Chesna told me a friend of yours is trying to get you to meet men.” Of which there had been none, other than good friends, in her sister’s life since she came back from Europe pregnant. “A couple of friends of mine are trying to set me up with a homicide detective.”

The unacknowledged tension between them eased. “Have you met him?”

“Yes.”

And just like that they were a step away from quicksand. She took the step.

“He and his partner came for a consultation. They wanted me to interpret some sigils.”

Electra’s hand tightened on her coffee cup but she didn’t comment. Good sign? Bad sign?

“His partner is married to the owner of a shop I frequent. I was there this morning when they staged a drive-by of the romantic kind.” She couldn’t bring herself to confide what had happened outside the bar.

“Awkward?”

“Probably not as bad as that time Tamsin sprang the blind date on you. Remember it?”

Electra laughed, and with the sound of it Seraphine was torn between joy and pain, between what it had once been like between them and their relationship now.

“God, do I! Talk about mortifying.”

“You were so shy back then.”

“Reserved and introspective,” Electra countered. “Not anything like you. I’m still not.”

Electra stunned Seraphine by placing her hand on the one she had resting on the table. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch last night. When Alice called and told me Chesna was gone, I was terrified she’d been taken. Then when I found her at your house—”

“I’m sorry too. It was wrong of me not to call you right away. Our fighting is tearing her apart.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. I see it in her face every day.”

Hope slid in at the unexpected turn in conversation, at the honesty unheated by anger. Her heart clenched, because she didn’t want to lose even this little bit of change to their relationship. But she had no choice. “She’s coming into her gifts, Electra. She needs—”

“Stop.” Electra’s hand tightened painfully on hers while the one wrapped around her mocha trembled slightly. “Please stop, Seraphine. I know you love her. I know you’re scared for her. I am too. I’m so afraid of losing her, and you, because of the magic. Please stop. Tell her witchcraft is all pretend. Swear not to practice it.”

“How can I do that Electra? How can you ask that of me?”

She wanted to call Electra on it, to point out that even if she didn’t consciously practice magic, her sister had found a way to integrate her gift—hands that could heal—into her everyday life. Instead she asked, “How can I deny that part of who I am?”

“For Chesna. Do it for Chesna. You and I are all the family she’s got.”

Her sister’s hope was like tide over sand, trying to change and smooth and suppress. Her sister’s fear was a battering ram against her senses.

I can’t, Electra, you know I can’t.
But she desperately wanted to understand what had happened to make her sister so afraid of the magic she’d once embraced.

“What happened to you that summer in Europe?” she asked, and Electra immediately stood, withdrawing her hand and the chance of peace the contact offered.

* * * * *

Camille’s attention caught on a pair of stunning redheads in front of a café as she paused at a red light before turning. Didn’t see that too often, sisters obviously, though from their expressions, they weren’t getting along very well.

If she broke up the pair, would the survivor fill with remorse? Think of this last visit together and suffer because of it?

The colorful off-the-shelf uniform worn by the one standing would make finding her again easy. There was only a single medical clinic in this area, a tawdry storefront operation serving whores, illegals and addicts.

She passed the sisters, noticing the bracelet on the one still seated. Not a cheap piece of jewelry. It would look good on her wrist if she kept it as a trophy.

Definite possibilities here, though taking one of them would require more work, more caution. Not that she’d ever shirked from a challenge.

She traveled another block, thoughts returning to how much she hated being separated from the dagger. Funny how she hadn’t carried a knife in years and hadn’t missed the comforting presence until after she’d taken possession of Lucifer’s Blade. Maybe tonight Mistress would let her handle the athame, before the ceremony, before it was time to make the cuts.

And if not, then there was always tomorrow. Power was addictive. Helene wouldn’t stop with one summoning. And the athame would need to be blooded again first.

Camille cruised slowly, shopping for just the right whore. If the victim were hers to play with before killing, then she’d feel like a kid let loose in a toy store. But this selection was for Mistress, a task rather than a pleasure.

The prostitutes were all up for grabs. They’d feel safe going off with another woman. And for this hunt, drugs were her weapon, an offering—or forced consumption—laced with enough sedative to render her prey harmless.

On the other side of the street, a Hispanic with long, beautiful hair and nice breasts caught Camille’s attention. She refused to settle for a skanky, used-up whore.

Rather than make the next turn, she kept going, playing it safe and letting the clock run rather than immediately circling back. She couldn’t afford any errors, not when the task of dumping the body would be hers.

A couple of blocks away she spotted a burger shack and joined the line of cars crawling toward the takeout window. She turned on the radio, moved to the sensuous beat, letting the rhythm flow through her.

The cars in front of her inched forward. She waffled between
yes
and
no
to fries. Decided on
no
but denying herself only made her want them more.

Her turn came. She tacked on a large order of them at the end. Paused long enough to coat the fries in catsup before slipping into a stream of traffic heading back toward her prey.

She snagged a fry from the bag. Popping it into her mouth, she wondered what she’d find when she returned to the swamp with the sacrificed whore. Would dear Robert even be there?

A delicious shiver raced through her at imagining an alligator pulling him under and carrying him away. A giggle escaped with thoughts of him bobbing to the surface should his body part from a leg or an arm clamped between rows of jagged sharp teeth.

She relived his death, slowing it down like a movie to savor it frame by frame, sensation by sensation. The weight of the athame in her hand. The cool feel of it against her palm. The resistance-free slide and the spray of blood that followed. The glittering red of ruby eyes signaling approval, conveying a hunger that matched her own.

A tingle of fear whispered over her, that handling the blade was changing her. She dispelled it with a laugh. She’d always been a predator.

She returned to where the Hispanic woman worked a stretch of sidewalk. Up close she wasn’t the looker Camille anticipated. The smile the whore offered potential customers showed the decaying teeth that telegraphed a meth user.
Too bad
.