A beer appeared in front of her face, already opened, and Ollie accepted it with a grunt of appreciation, taking a swallow while Brandt snagged a chair and slid it over next to hers. They sat there a moment, enjoying the liquid burn down their throats, the morning chatter of the birds, and the sight of an empty meadow in front of them.
The woods sat further out, beyond the heather and patches of shrubbery, and she could now understand why, with nothing more than a sliver of moon, she’d been unable to see far enough into the brush to spot where Claire Rawson lay dying.
Brandt gave a soft sigh, his beer resting against his knee, apparently casual. But she was acutely aware of the tension that lingered in him.
“Are you okay?” The words came out rough, harder than normal, and she recognized the worry in his voice.
He didn’t look at her, just stared out at the field and the yellow crime scene tape. But she knew what he was asking. Was she okay since the Hunter had caught her, since her escape, since people had died because of the game he was choosing to play with her now? Ollie nodded, scrabbling for the strength to say so, and he snorted.
“Don’t lie to me. If anyone knows when you’re about to lie, it’s me. You have to take a breath before you can answer. Gather courage; concentrate on making your voice level.” The muscle in his jaw flexed, and his hand clenched on his beer as if he might lift it to take a sip, but he didn’t. “It’s okay to say no.”
“Then, no. I’m not.” I’ll never be okay again. Those girls, they’re my fault. But she didn’t say that last part. She clamped her lips shut and looked away.
Brandt nodded. “I got that. Last bit, too.”
And she knew that even though she hadn’t said it, he knew exactly what she was thinking. Years working as a Hound, a lifetime of being her brother, he knew. Brandt looked at her, seeing more than anyone else ever would have. Her shoulders slumped under the weight of his gaze. He also didn’t say it wasn’t her fault, and, although she’d been refusing to accept it when others said them, the lack of those words, that comfort, made her heart squeeze in her chest.
“You said it’s personal now. Why?”
She explained the crime scenes, the note. How the Hunter had toyed with her. Brandt closed his eyes at the last, a growl easing slowly out of him, a dangerous rumbling undercurrent of sound.
She shrugged. “So, when he comes back? I think he’ll want to make sure I know. Leave me another gift.”
“Like that goddamn note? Yeah. I got it.” Brandt lifted his beer to drink and froze. “If I hadn’t shown up, you wouldn’t have called anyone to watch with you, would you?”
“No.” She whispered it, the admission probably too faint for him to hear.
“Damn. Ollie.” He squeezed his eyes shut and gulped, his throat making a sharp, hard sound as he swallowed. “I ought to see about having Lennox remove you from this case. You’re getting careless.”
“But you won’t.”
“No. We all have to have these cases. The ones that haunt us. The ones that define us.”
“The Caesar Torres case was yours.”
Brandt shook his head. “No. That was Lennox’s. Mine is a story for another day.” With a tilt of his chin towards the field, he looked at her. “So, you know him? Everything.”
Ollie found herself rolling her eyes, like she was nothing more than a thirteen year old girl not really believing her brother would skateboard off the roof. He had. Right onto a homemade ramp, and then he’d slid to safety. She’d followed suit, slid off the board, and broken her arm. A smile touched her lips. Back then, he could have talked the devil out of a soul.
Now, he was proving that he could talk her right into comforting herself. Ollie forced herself not to smile. She’d wanted him to tell her everything was going to be okay, that it wasn’t her fault, but Brandt wouldn’t do that.
Instead, he was going to make her figure it out for herself. It was so annoyingly him. “Obviously not. Or I’d have caught him. That’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it? That this isn’t my fault, because I don’t know him? I do, Brandt. I’ve studied him, I know what makes him tick, I know—”
“Okay, then. I never said you didn’t.”
Ollie grimaced.
“I believe you, Ol. I do. I think you know this son of a bitch better than anyone else, probably better than he knows himself.”
“But, because there is always a ‘but’ with you.”
“But obviously, you don’t know everything. So what don’t you know?”
“The where and the who. We know the when, his MO, the fact that he needs a hunt rather than someone passively waiting to die. He wants shifters.” Brandt held up a hand and she stopped.
“I’ve got another question for you.”
Ollie laughed. “Then ask, Mr. Almighty Genius.”
Her brother grinned at that. “By all means, call me Great One. Mr. Almighty Genius is a bit of a mouthful.”
He winked at her, playful. Daring. Ollie felt some of the tension in her ease, and she glanced back out at the field. Not a bush had moved out there. Was she wrong after all?
“You say it’s personal now, and it sure as hell sounds like it to me. So tell me this: Is he angry that you got away or that you beat him?”
“Is there a difference?”
Brandt shrugged. “Maybe?”
He rose, stepping around his chair and behind hers, then rested his hands on her shoulders, squeezing slightly. His empty beer bottle pressed against her arm. She could hear Star snoring from the dog bed in the kitchen, the dog’s happy thwacks of her tail against the tile as she chased imaginary squirrels in her dreams. They were Star’s versions of the bad guys. She hoped, at least in Star’s dreams, the dog came out on top.
“It could be a huge difference to him,” Brandt said softly. “Prey gets away. An equal can beat you. Which one are you?”
She didn’t know. So far, he hadn’t come after her like the other girls. He was still killing like normal. Did that mean she’d bested him? Or was he just waiting to hunt her? Waiting for what? Or was her brother just splitting hairs to make her head spin? Ollie lifted an eyebrow and glanced back at him, only to have Brandt squeeze her shoulders one more time.
“You know him better than anyone, but it’s what you don’t know that will help you catch him. So don’t blame yourself yet.”
Ollie stared out at the empty field as her brother laid a kiss against the top of her head.
“You don’t even know what game he’s playing now. You mixed things up that night when you stumbled across him. You don’t know how he’s changing yet. The blueprint’s different, and knowing him and not knowing him might be the same thing now.”
And he was right.
She didn’t know.
But that only made it worse. Before, she’d had a chance. When she’d faced him, she’d known how to win. Now what did she have? Nothing.
“So, what, we start over?”
She glanced up at him and Brandt shook his head, a soft sight slipping from him as he stepped away. “No. Just know that you’re not fighting the same monster anymore.”
Her brother left her sitting there and disappeared into the kitchen, bustling around like he owned it. Ollie looked at the still empty field. He might not come back. And then what? How else would he change?
Her heart hammered in her chest. I know you, she’d told him.
And clearly, staring back out at her like wolf eyes on a full moon night, the empty field in front of her seemed to be saying one thing for certain... Not anymore.
***
Dean whistled along with the radio as he drove the old, beat-up Chevy truck down to the lake. Bosley stuffed his head out the window, jowls flapping in the wind, tail thumping the passenger seat with delight. Dean knew Holly Lawrence would be standing in the middle of her yard, waiting. A laugh burst inside him. Hunting him. Try, bitch.
Oh, it was a good day for a different kind of hunt. A damn good one. And after their little trip to
the morgue, with her cuddling the Sanctuary Falls alpha, well, he just couldn’t help but make her sweat it out. Especially since she’d already been swaying on her feet with exhaustion. And him? Why he’d slept like a baby.
“How about it, boy? Let’s catch us some birds.” He slammed the truck into park and slid out, the golden retriever bounding out on his heels. The dog pranced in place, eyes locked on his master’s face as Dean loaded his rifle and headed down towards the lakefront. The gold reeds along the beach brushed along the dog’s underbelly, rusty long fur blending with the pale, yellow beach grass.
It didn’t take them long to nab a few ducks. The mallards were easy picking and Bosley was a pro at swimming out to fetch the bodies. The golden shook, splattering lake water up his jeans and flannel shirt, and Dean tossed back his head in a laugh. The overcast sky darkened, thick and heavy rainclouds coming in. A good time to call it a day, then.
“Good boy,” he said, giving the dog a hearty thump on the side. “Good dog.”
He reached down to pick up the dead birds, their wet, limp bodies flapping as he held them out in front of him. A predatory smile touched his lips, dark as he stared at the lifeless creatures in his hand. The light that had once sparkled in their eyes had been snuffed out like a candle. The tip of his tongue touched his lips, almost tasting their death.
“We got ourselves a good dinner here,” he murmured, but he was already thinking of something better to do with one duck. “We’ve got ourselves a mighty fine gift here, too.”
He glanced at Bosley. The dog was staring out at the water, clearly wishing for another round despite the hard rise and fall of his chest. The dog loved to hunt. Just like him. Anticipation curled in his gut. He could wait awhile yet, but to see the fear that one little duck could bring. Well now, that was just too good to pass up. He’d be careful though, make sure she didn’t see this one coming. Be a shame to let the Hound think she really had a leg up on him.
He patted his thigh and headed for the truck, tossing the dead birds in the bin in the truck bed. Dean didn’t bother to towel the dog off. Bos could air dry with his head hanging out the window. Besides, with the ratty old truck he didn’t give a flying bird’s ass if it stunk like wet dog. It already did. Instead he opened the door and patted the seat.
“Wanna go for a ride?”
The golden’s ears pricked forward and the dog joyfully leapt inside, dashing for his spot on the passenger’s side. Tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth, Bosley stuck his head out the window, obviously eager to have the wind flapping his ears and whipping through his fur. Dean chuckled softly as he slid in next to the dog. Looked like both of them were going to enjoy this little jaunt.
Dean turned the engine over and backed the truck down the winding dirt path, turning around and heading back for the road, all the while his mind on the gift in the back of his truck. It’d be a nice little reminder. A lesson for the good little dog to learn.
Soon she’d be wishing she hadn’t bluffed, that she really did know him.
Soon. But it’d be too late for her.
Chapter Seven
“Caine?” Trey called from the front door, leaning halfway inside. “Got something you should see.”
“Can it wait till after I speak to the Rawsons?” Then he turned and caught a good look at Trey’s face. The man was pale, stress lines crinkling the area around his eyes. Damn. What was it now? Couldn’t he have a half hour to compose himself before he had to go tell someone, Hey, I’m sorry but you lost your daughter today. I failed.
“What is it?” He shoved on his boots and followed Trey out the door, troubled by the tension strung through his second in command. The locked shoulders, the stiff jaw. The wolf inside Caine picked up on it all. “Trey,” he said softly and the other wolf winced, waving him towards the driveway.
Shit. Caine headed down the gravel drive. He’d made it half way when the scent of fresh blood caught his attention. Not human, though. Avian. With a frown, Caine stalked towards the scent. His nostrils flared, inhaling the scent of fresh pine trees around him. Some wolf had gone hunting today.
His stomach twisted at that. He’d banned solo hunts for now, at least until the Hunter was found. The fact that someone had disobeyed him, could have ended up just like Claire Rawson, had panic and fury roaring through him. “The pack was under orders to follow the buddy system.”
The words came out a rough growl, and Trey turned, confusion flashing across his face a moment before he realized his alpha was still scenting the wind. Trey shook his head.
“Caine,” Trey started, just as the scent fully sank in. Male, musky, no one he recognized. Caine turned to meet his second’s eye. “It’s not one of ours.”
He recognized the wolf now. The Hunter. Heart pounding, Caine turned back to the scent, dragging it down in gulps. The scent of dog hit him then. Not Holly Lawrence, though. It wasn’t even a dog-shifter. Just a run of the mill, everyday canine. So the Hunter had waltzed up here with his dog, and no one had seen him?
At his front door, less than two hundred feet from his house, and he hadn’t even known.
A snarl ripped out of him, and suddenly he was striding past Trey, long legs eating up the ground as he headed down the drive, his speed barely short of a run. He could feel the wolf under his skin, pacing. The pack. The fucking bastard had waltzed right up within range of the pack and no one had had a freaking clue. Caine whipped his head around, pinning his second with a glare, a growl still riding low in his voice. “I want scouts, patrols. You got me?”
Trey jerked his head in a nod. “Already have Mark and Cisc out. They’re doing loops. We’ll trade up every hour. But it’s a lot of land to cover.”
And not all of Sanctuary Falls lived on pack land. He wondered if the Hunter knew that. Like an infection spreading in his gut, he felt the queasy rise of bile, vomit a bitter taste at the back of his tongue. Then again, the killer seemed to know everything.
The dead bird lay at the edge of his drive, a stake through the animal piercing it to a tree. A blood-spattered note was above it, impaled on a small twig. The wind could have easily whipped it away. A frown edged over Caine’s face as he reached for it, catching the flutter of paper in his hands, but leaving it in place. He straightened it out and froze.
Give our Hound a gift. Tell her I said hi.
Caine went very still, the pale piece of paper light against the dark bark of the tree. He let his gaze fall to the dead duck; the mallard’s head hung limp against its breast. Shot. The feathers were still rank with pond water, and he knew the bird would still be wet, that the kill was very recent. “I didn’t hear a gun shot.”
Trey shook his head. “He drove here. Scent ends ten feet up, disappeared into a car. Has a dog.”
Caine heard the skepticism in his second’s voice. Dog. Hound? And after that case in Colorado, where a Hound had gone rogue and tried to make it look like the lion-shifters had all gone insane, he could see where Trey was going with that train of thought. But no. At least not the Hound he was working with.
“It’s a normal dog, smell again.”
Trey’s shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “Could be.”
Caine shook his head. He’d let his second believe what he wanted. Caine smelled a wolf-shifter and an ordinary dog. Caine stared at the dead duck, its beak still open. There was blood in its feathers from the shot. Trey shuffled his feet beside him, just a slight movement, but Caine turned. The other man watched him a second longer, bushy eyebrows drawn down over his eyes. Cautious. “Our Hound?”
He didn’t say the rest of the question. Like why Caine had come back smelling like her earlier. He glanced back at the paper. Did the Hunter know, then? Had he been there too? Another growl built low in his gut and Caine tamped it down. Getting pissed over that wouldn’t help a damn thing. But he didn’t like being stalked.
Instead of answering Trey, he ripped the paper off the tree, yanked the stake out of the duck and caught the bird before it fell. “Look
s like I have a message to deliver.”
“You want me to talk to the Rawsons?”
“No. This won’t take long.” Caine took a deep breath and looked back at his partner, friend. But for as much as Trey could handle the pack when he was away, some things just weren’t anyone’s job but Caine’s. “It should be me.”
The Rawsons deserved to hear it from him.
Caine headed back towards his car, the duck hanging limp in one hand, paper fluttering in the other. He tossed the bird on the floor in the back, dug his keys out of his pocket, and drove away, leaving Trey to stand watch again. Suddenly, the pack seemed too big, too spread out to protect effectively. It was something he’d have to fix when he got back.
Once on the road, he dug his phone out of his back pocket and dialed the number she’d scrawled on her card that first day. Breath held, he waited until she picked up. “Hello?”
“Holly?”
“Caine?”
“I need to show you something. I’m already on my way. Just give me your address.” She seemed to hesitate a moment, silence stretching between them. He thought back to the morgue, her firm refusal of a kiss. “It’s from the Hunter. A gift as he called it.”
“Shit.” She relayed him her address. Another twenty minutes out.
“I’ll be there soon.” He hung up before she could ask him anything else, pressed down harder on the gas pedal and sped down the old country roads that would take him from Sanctuary Falls to the small, rural address she’d given him. The trees occasionally gave way to corn fields and open stretches of meadows, the occasional horse paddock and barns, a rocky outcrop in the distance, but when the road turned to dirt and sloped uphill, he knew he’d found it.
The place was private. Secluded.
And the place Claire Rawson had died.
A mailbox sat at the end of a winding driveway, and Caine turned the car down it, heading for the small, one-story house at the end. A wire fence separated the yard from the road. Beyond it, though, looking out into the field, he could see the yellow Enforcement tape. His hands flexed over the wheel.
Sadie Hart Page 6
