Sadie Hart (17 page)

The occasional pine tree gave the forest a
distinct scent, something she could focus on. Breathe in and out
slowly. One breath, then the next. She had to get a grip. This kill
could signal so much. A faster death rate, more violent kills, his
eventual outright targeting of her, but it could also signal the
first of many mistakes. And, God, how she hoped it did.

With a jerk of her shoulders, she shook off
the panic edging in around her and roused up her Hound magick. Dan
took a step back with a soft whistle as she let it out, sensing,
probing the scene as she finally turned back to it. Sawyer let hers
out as well, and they scoured the body without touching it, sifted
through the dirt.

If her nose hadn’t already known it was the
Hunter, the magick did. Death, evil, violence, it left a dark,
intense stain on the scene. Sensing her way through it was like
running her hand through sludge, she felt sticky, gross. Ollie
sifted past her emotions and focused on the details. Lydia Marks
had tried to shift. Ollie’s magick could feel the wolf just under
the woman’s skin, and it was heaviest around her neck. She’d
probably managed to get a partial change when the pain had become
too much to bear, he’d ripped out fur, and she’d probably collapsed
back into human. A shame. As a wolf, she might have had a chance.
Or at the very least, she might have driven him to use a gun. It
would have been quicker.

“Shit,” Brandt said softly behind her, the
only warning she had that he’d arrived, and Ollie shook herself
slightly, pulling her magick back in. She’d been way too far lost
in thought if she’d let someone sneak up on her like that. Even
Brandt.

She twisted, and saw Caine standing at her
brother’s side, dark eyes riveted on the body. One of his wolves.
The failure was stamped all over his face. She’d been a mother,
Ollie remembered. That had to make this even harder to bear. Her
husband. Ollie closed her eyes. A man should never have to see his
wife like this.

When she finally opened them Caine was
watching her, and suddenly she felt exposed, raw, like he’d scraped
a scalpel over a nerve, and she jerked under the weight of the
knowledge in his eyes. The shared pain. “I’m sorry,” she whispered,
and he shook his head.

“You didn’t do this.” The muscle in his jaw
twitched, a constant flicker in his cheek, and he glanced down at
his boots, starting to lift one as if he wanted to kick something,
then remembered where he was and paused. “I thought we had more
time.”

With four days until the full moon, she’d
thought so, too. The Hunter had waited just long enough to make
them complacent, to convince them he’d follow his old pattern.
Ollie scrubbed a hand over her face and pushed herself up to her
feet. “So did I.”

“Ollie,” Sawyer called, and she turned back
to work, following the lioness deeper into the woods, away from the
scene, away from Caine and his haunted, guilt-ridden eyes. He
seemed to take as much of the blame on his shoulders as she did,
and as broad as they were, no one was strong enough to bear it for
forever. She knew that first hand.

Rousing her magick again, Ollie found the
trail Sawyer was following, and, using both scent and spell, they
backtracked the panicked strides of the woman running, the Hunter
chasing. All the while, one question tumbled around in her brain:
Why had he let her go so early? Was it merely to catch them off
guard?

The bloodhounds bayed up ahead, and Ollie
ripped out her dog-half, shifting midstride into her sleek other
body, and bolted towards the ruckus. She heard Sawyer shift, the
lioness giving an annoyed grunt as she was left in the dust, but
Ollie didn’t pause. Someone needed to get to the scene, someone who
was used to cataloguing it. Used to figuring out what was in the
Hunter’s brain.

Bushes clawed at her as she barreled through
them, low-hanging branches tangling in her wiry coat. She leapt
easily over a fallen long, her nose working overtime as she
searched with all of her senses for the Hounds still calling up
ahead. She could see them milling in the distance, moving
silhouettes among the trees, but it was the rickety building beyond
that which made her pulse leap, her heart jump into her throat.

Ollie slowed her strides as she shifted back
to human to keep herself from stumbling. “What do you have?” she
called out, even as she approached.

The shack door was half off its hinges, blood
on the wood. That made her draw up short, staring at the stain of
red. They’d found the old hunting lodges, tree stands, and shacks
the Hunter had used before. But there was never any blood. He
always let them go, gave them a head start. Even with Rosalie
Myers, he’d never hurt her badly enough to cause the amount of
blood on that door.

Heart racing, for the first time Ollie began
to let herself believe in a scenario she normally thought
impossible. Maybe Lydia Marks had escaped. She thought back to the
kill, the wild brutality of it. Overkill. Ollie moved for the
shack, the bloodhounds completely forgotten. Inside, the setup was
familiar. Chains sprawled over the floor, no doubt one which had
once hung from the splintered rafter. Ollie looked up, then dug the
heel of her palm into her chest, trying to still the wild beat of
her heart.

The wood was rotten.

The whole shack looked ready to cave at any
minute. She recognized the familiar signs of rot, of termite
damage, of just plain age. Sawyer panted from the doorway,
breathing hard, but human again as she stepped inside. Ollie just
stared at the rafter that had fallen in, jagged splinters stared
back at her.

“She got out,” Sawyer said, in almost as much
shock as Ollie.

Nodding, Ollie knelt, rousing her magick to
test the chains. Plain steel, not even a trace of silver. For once
the Hunter’s neglect had nearly bitten him in the ass. A laugh
popped out of her, surprised and twisted with horror. This was
hardly the time or place for laughs, but she couldn’t help it.

“She almost made it, too.” Ollie shook her
head and shoved to her feet, heading out the door. She tested the
air with her nose and magick.

Lydia’s scent here was stronger, more recent,
not by much, the difference so marginal that she could barely tell.
She found the rubbery tinge of tires, and the divots in the ground
told her he’d parked there, less than a hundred feet from the
little cabin.

One of the bloodhounds had shifted back to
human and was now bent over the ground a few feet away from her. He
pointed at a bit of upturned dirt. “Footprints.”

The man rose, placed one foot by the first
print, then had to really stretch to reach the second one. The
Hunter had been running. Ollie glanced at the spot where he’d
parked his car, saw the kicked up dirt from where he’d scrambled
out of the car, saw the extended stride that led towards the
cabin.

Ollie glanced up to see Brandt standing at
the far edge of the scene, his head bent in conversation with Dan.
Caine stood behind him, his gaze focused on the shack, but he
waited for permission. Permission to see what his nose had already
told him. This was where Lydia Marks had spent the last day of her
life.

Squaring her shoulders, Ollie headed for her
brother, clearing her throat softly as she approached to draw their
attention. “Looks like he held her here for about a day. Not much
longer, the scent’s not thick enough for that.”

She bit her lip and glanced at the shack, the
empty spot where the Hunter had parked his vehicle. “We should have
the ME test to see if she was drugged.”

Rosalie Myers had been, repeatedly. Until the
night she was supposed to run.

“From what I can tell, he left her for a
little while, and when he came back she was gone. There are
footprints leading from where he parked to the shack which show
that he was definitely in a hurry.”

Caine had turned to watch her, his face
unreadable in the dappled light of the forest. He’d donned his
alpha mask of calm, cold, untouchable control, and he wasn’t about
to let anyone in. Ollie turned back to her brother. “The beam in
the shack broke. My guess is she had seconds to shift and get loose
of the chains, and, when he opened the door, she lunged out and
ran.”

“So when he caught her, he was pissed.”

Ollie nodded. “And he lost control, killed
her early. My guess is, she fought back and left him with no
choice.”

“And he might not have been armed.”

“Even if he was, I think he was so enraged he
didn’t think about anything besides ripping into her.”

Brandt nodded, the uneasy glint in his eyes
twisting her stomach into a tangle of knots. “Which means he might
have made a mistake.”

“It also might mean he’ll need to take
another victim in the next few days. To stay on schedule.”

“Or he might screw the schedule and go on a
spree.” Brandt shoved a hand through his hair on a long sigh. Ollie
couldn’t blame him. There was no way this could end well, not that
she could see.

If she’d thought they had to work fast
before, it was nothing compared to what they were up against now.
There was no telling who would be next, or when.

Chapter Thirteen

Bosley
whimpered, pacing nervously in the long weeds of their back yard,
doleful brown eyes constantly flicking towards him, nervously
trying to read his mood. Dean ground his teeth. He hadn’t seen that
coming. The wood had been rotten, he’d known that, most of the
shacks and such he could find were. But it’d seemed sturdy enough,
and she’d had enough drugs in her system that she should have slept
until he’d gotten back.

He let his anxiety out in a drawn-out snarl
that tangled in the dimming light, a threat that made the growing
shadows seem darker, angry. They reached out over the ground,
stealing like reapers over souls, and Dean leaned into those
stealthy shadows and growled. She’d ruined everything. And she
hadn’t even been a hard catch!

Worn down by children, pot-bellied from too
much food, and too stupid to think about hiding. She’d just raced
out the door and run. Dean’s hands curled into fists at his sides,
nails gouging into his palms. If he’d had a gun on him, he’d have
just shot her. BAM! Right in front of the stupid shack. But he
hadn’t. He’d had to catch her and rip her open with his teeth.

A shudder curled down his spine, leaving him
quivering. Dean leaned back, pressing his face into the wind.
Ohhhhh. He hadn’t experienced the exquisite joy of taking life with
his own teeth in a long, long time. Guns were safer. Less chance of
getting killed. Using a gun also proved that he was still a master
of the animal inside him, that he could hold the beast back. But
tasting the copper wash of her blood over his tongue, feeling the
pump of her heart as he bit down.

Dean jerked to a stop, his legs suddenly weak
with the memory. Experiencing the life drain out of her had felt
better than using a whore. He’d felt powerful. Godlike. He’d
snuffed her out like a candle, easy, but he’d made sure it wasn’t
quick. Not when the little bitch had made him kill her early.

The moon wasn’t important, exactly. But he
liked it. Every kill he’d ever made, right down to his first, had
been done under a fat and heavy moon, gloating over her full
stomach in a night sky. There was an air of tradition and mythology
to it that he liked, too. The mad wolf-man. The kind of shtick
Hollywood made millions off of. Four days before the full moon,
what was that? An unremarkable day no one would remember.

She’d forever be the kill he messed up.
Botched.

Another snarl rumbled out of him and Bosley
whimpered again. Tail tucked, the golden retriever came to shove
his muzzle under one of Dean’s fists, begging forgiveness. It
wasn’t the damn dog’s fault. He caught Bosley’s muzzle in his hand
and jerked the dog’s head up. “She got away, Bos. Away.”

The dog whined and shuffled closer. He let
Bosley go with a gruff snarl and gave him a rough pat behind the
ears, thoroughly rubbing his way down the dog’s spine, before he
gave Bosley a final, firm, ‘get lost’ whack. The golden crept off,
but it didn’t stop him from glancing back, double checking Dean’s
command.

It was why Dean liked dogs. Besides the fact
that they were as close to another wolf as his other half ever got,
he liked their loyalty. Devotion. He’d tried pack life once; it
hadn’t suited him. Bosley was enough of a pack for him. An ear to
talk to, a warm body to cuddle, and a hunting companion. Outside of
the occasional whore, Bos was all he needed in life. Well, the dog
and the kills.

Resuming his mad pacing, Dean shoved his
hands into his pockets, curling them into fists to keep warm
against the rising wind. He had to fix this. He didn’t dare go back
to the crime scene, not that this little bitch was worth it anyway.
But the Hounds already knew about his penchant for returning, so
the place would be swarming with them right now.

Four nights to make it right.

He thought of the Hound that escaped. Holly
Lawrence. She’d be there, waiting. With her accusing eyes, judging,
saying she knew him. That drew him up short again, a devil’s grin
baring his teeth. Oh, but she didn’t know him. He hadn’t even known
how this hunt would go himself. How could she predict what he
hadn’t even planned? With a low, delighted laugh, Dean headed back
towards the house, whistling for Bosley to follow. He snatched the
box of gloves off the counter, snapping the latex on easily.

Scooping up the familiar pad of paper and
pen, he headed for his car, Bosley at his heels. “We have a gift we
need to leave our little Hound before we got get you some food,
boy.”

He leaned over to kiss the top of the dog’s
muzzle. A little message for Holly, kibble for the dog, and on his
way back he might even stop by and get himself another victim. And
this time he’d make sure she stayed where he put her. He’d shackle
her ass to the ground. No rafters to break, then.