Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 24

We've parked on a narrow dirt road and descended by foot through the forest. Now we stand beneath trees, our boots forming a crescent around the lifeless form. Santos hovers like a clenched fist over the corpse and Dana has gone snow white. A teenage girl lies before us, light blonde hair strewn about her round face in a gossamer halo. Dead. The flashing lights of Santos' cruiser seep through the forest. Soon deputies will begin showing up on scene.

A sacrilege. It is a sacrilege.

Santos stares grimly at the body. He has not made eye contact with me once. "I need you to confirm death," he says.

I look at him. The girl's death is painfully obvious but humans take comfort in protocol and apparently Santos is human after all. Dana doesn't move. She stands frozen and silent by my side. I have carried the monitor down with us and carefully I place an electrode above each plump wrist and ankle then turn the monitor on. Flat line.

"She's gone," I say.

"Any idea how long?"

"Rigor hasn't set in. There's still warmth to her. I'd say no more than twenty minutes."

"Son of a bitch. That fucker was right here." He gets on the radio and calls out a search, establishing perimeters, requesting dogs, but I know he doesn't have the resources to corner this predator. I turn to Dana. In our time together, she's seemed unnaturally resilient to the trauma of our profession, an advantage I've always suspected of scant empathy, but not tonight. Tonight, she's shaken.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"She's dead," she says, sounding dazed. "I'll be in the truck."

I bend to take a closer look at the girl. She's dressed warmly in a bright red parka. A small gold cross lies against her cheek. Below it, her neck is sliced cleanly from one side of her jaw to the other. The snow is pure white, free of blood. How did Santos find her?

I edge a gloved finger beneath her collar and ease it open, leaning in for a closer look. Santos' gaze catches on me, his voice rising, telling me not to disturb the scene. Her throat is delicate. Tender. Her collar falls open letting out a warm pocket of scent and I recoil in horror, twisting, slipping in the snow, scrambling to my feet.

An Alpha! An Alpha did this. I lunge for the truck.

Santos grabs me by the arm, yanking me back. "Hey! What is it?"

"Nothing." I gasp, surprised at his strength.

He spins me to face him. "Bullshit. If you know something about this, you better tell me."

I yank my arm out of his grip. "Don't threaten me." My fear coalesces to anger. I'm sick of his hostility. Sick of brutal, violent men. "How did you find her? How is it you found both bodies?"

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Do you think I did this?"

"It seems odd you're always around when dead virgins show up."

"How do you know she's a virgin?"

"She has that look about her," I say lamely. The truth is I can smell it on her like an early spring.

"What look is that?"

"Young, country, religious."

"That don't mean shit. These country girls start fucking early."