The Hunter had killed Claire Rawson here, in Holly’s back yard. That was how she’d been there. The thought left him cold. Grabbing the dead duck and note from the back seat, he headed for the door, and barely had time to knock when an old woman answered. Her white hair was in frizzled curls around her face. “Hello there.”
Wrong house.
He glanced towards the yard, a familiar pounding in his heart. Then he inhaled and the scent of Holly Lawrence—the wiry fur of her dog-half, the apple scent of her shampoo—hit him. It filled the house in front of him.
“I’m looking for Holly Lawrence.”
The woman smiled. “Cecily Lawrence, Holly’s grandmother.” She winked at him. “She’s out back. Star can take you to her.”
The woman whistled, and a large Lassie-style dog came barreling up to the door, tail wagging. She greeted him by shoving her pointed nose into his hand, and then raced down the front steps and headed around the side of the house. “Star,” the woman called out. “You’re forgetting someone.”
And, as if the damned dog spoke English, she stopped. Caine blinked. He didn’t get the scent of human from her. Just dog. Ordinary dog. The sable collie had a white blaze that ran from her nose all the way up between her ears, spilling in a waterfall down the back of her neck to fill out the white ruff that circled her neck and covered her chest. Star cocked her head, tail wagging so hard her hips joined in, and she waited.
Damn. He had wolves who could turn into people who didn’t listen even half as well.
“Well, thank you.” He bowed his head at the woman holding the door. “Caine Morgan.”
He went to hold out his hand, remembered the duck and blood stained paper, and cringed. Cecily just smiled at him and shook her head. “We can shake on it another time. Go on. They’re expecting you.”
They’re? The last thing he wanted to deal with was the whole pack. Squaring his shoulders, he headed down the steps after the dog. She waited until he was at her side before continuing around the house. Pausing every few steps to glance back at him, her slender muzzle open in a very doggie grin. Definitely Lassie-esque, he thought. In that way, too, she reminded him of her owner. Not in looks. Holly changed into an Irish wolfhound, all grizzled, wiry gray fur and long, lean body. Her dog half, if standing on her hind legs, would stand taller than most men. Nothing like the short, pudgy woman he knew.
But the collie looked like a carbon copy of the one he’d seen on TV throughout most of his childhood, though maybe a little smaller. But it was the idea. What Lassie symbolized—loyalty, courage, selflessness, and the need to protect—was who Holly was. Lassie would have been damned before she’d leave Timmy down a well. Holly was turning herself inside out to catch a killer and hating herself when she didn’t succeed.
“You’re a good girl,” he told the collie, laughing as the dog turned to swipe a wet tongue over his knuckles. “Where can I hire one of you to train my pack?”
They turned the corner together, and he saw the deck built off the back of the house, Holly’s car parked alongside a silver truck. She stood on the porch, leaning against the rail, her face turned into the wind, watching him as he came around the side of her house with her dog at his side. She lifted her beer and took a sip. Hell, he could use one of those.
Then a man appeared on the deck behind her. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he waited, head held high, gaze wary. Watchful. And damn the wind, but it was in their favor, not Caine’s. His gaze slid to Holly, but she didn’t seem scared, and for a woman who’d seen the Hunter...
He blew out a harsh breath. Her head cocked as he approached, confusion flashing over her face as he held out the dead bird. Star barked from his side and bounded for the deck, barreling up the stairs and straight for the man behind Holly, her whole body wiggling. Caine watched the other man kneel, holding out his hands, and the collie squirmed right into his arms.
“He said it was a gift?” Holly asked as he held out the duck. Caine glanced between her and the man behind her. His nose twitched again, finally close enough to catch the other man’s scent. Dog. The same musky, wiry scent that Ollie had just under her skin. Hound, then. But the whole pack wasn’t here. Just this one.
He didn’t know whether to be relieved or pissed.
Caine held out the note for her next. “He left this with it.”
The other Hound stepped closer, and Caine stiffened, eyes darting to him. He hadn’t smelled the man on her before, but today, layered over the scent of their brief hug earlier, was the smell of this new guy. It set his teeth on edge. Why the fuck hadn’t she just said she had a boyfriend?
The man’s eyes narrowed on his, but he held out a hand. “Brandt.”
Caine fought down a growl and took Brandt’s hand, grip firm. “Caine.”
Brandt let him go and turned to Holly, momentarily ignoring the collie still pushing her long, tapered nose up at his elbow, begging for more. Obviously he was a familiar face here. The dog had welcomed him, but she hadn’t even shown half the amount of enthusiasm for him. “Let me see, Ol.”
This time Caine had to look away to hide the flicker in his jaw as he swallowed the urge to snarl. He didn’t screw around with women who were already taken. He sure as hell wouldn’t have come on to her at the morgue.
Ollie shook her head. “You’re not officially on the case, Brandt.”
But the man took the paper anyway, and Caine did snarl that time.
In answer, Brandt smiled. “Give me ten. I’ll call Lennox and get myself all official.”
He leaned in to kiss Holly on the temple. “Why don’t you fetch the wolf a beer?”
“Because if I leave you two on the porch I’m afraid I’ll come back to find one of you dead.” She crossed her arms and looked between them. Brandt opened his mouth to respond, but the teasing light that had been in his eyes a second ago died when he read the note.
“Fuck. Ol.” A haggard sigh slipped from him and Brandt reached up to rub his hand down his face. Exactly like Holly did when stress overwhelmed her. Brandt read the note aloud, anger coursing through his voice, making it a rough baritone. Furious. “Tell her I said hi? Give our Hound a gift?”
“I told you, it’s personal now.”
“Personal enough,” Caine said, voice a low whisper, but just loud enough to interrupt them, “that he killed Claire here. That’s how you were there. When she died.”
A grimace tightened her face, pain filling her eyes, when Brandt laid a hand on her shoulder. He stepped between them, and Caine found himself pulled taut, stiff with the need to growl. Shift. Let the wolf have his say in this little pissing contest they had going on.
He didn’t like acting like a dick if he could help it, but he also didn’t like being cut out of the loop. Having no control. And that was exactly where he stood. Claire Rawson, his wolf, had died, and he still didn’t know the whole story. But this guy did? Fuck that.
“You’re the Sanctuary Falls alpha, right?”
“For a man who’s not on this case, you know an awful lot about it.” The question was there without him having to ask it. A quiet demand he expected people to answer. He didn’t normally have to beg for information. Brandt just smiled.
“He’s my brother,” Holly said, the censure evident in her voice as she looked between them. “And the Colorado STE alpha.”
“Intimidation tactics don’t work.” Brandt caught his gaze and held it. “You’re thirsty, right?”
Caine thought of having to go home; he still had to tell the Rawsons their daughter was dead. Had funeral arrangements to make. A pack to console. “I’d kill for a beer right about now. If you don’t mind.”
He added the last to Holly. She tilted her head in a slight nod, a bit of tension draining out of her shoulders, the exhaustion leaking through. He’d yet to go sleep, and, judging by the bags under her eyes, she hadn’t seen her pillow yet either.
“Fine. Just don’t kill each other.” Holly glared at her brother, but left them on the porch. Caine l
ifted his eyebrows in question, silently waiting. Brandt had gotten what he wanted, now Caine wanted to see what he’d do with it.
“Ol’s an adult, so I won’t snap your ass for groping her this morning. I figure she could shoot you if you went too far.” Caine didn’t argue that. The Hound was more than capable of taking care of herself. Physically. He thought back to the haunted edge to her eyes, the guilt...emotionally, maybe not so much.
He shrugged. “You send her in the house just to say that?”
“Nah. Sent her in the house to tell you that if you hurt her, I will hunt you down.” Brandt’s gaze darted back to the paper in his hand and he cringed. He waved it slightly at Caine. “But I wouldn’t mind a little help keeping her safe. This son of a bitch. He’s not playing the same game he was before he caught her.”
“She’s right about it being personal.”
Brandt made a soft grunt in the back of his throat. Agreement.
Holly appeared on the deck again, a second beer in hand, and held it out to him. “He left it in Sanctuary Falls?”
Caine nodded. “At the edge of my main turf. Staked to a tree. No one saw him come or go.”
And that sure as hell wouldn’t happen again. She frowned at it and shook her head, her gaze lifting to meet her brother’s. Caine could see it now. They had the same dark eyes, same wave to their hair. The same richly tanned skin. “It doesn’t make sense,” she mused. “He comes back to the scene of the crime the next morning, not to a place of no significance.”
“It has significance. He chose his victim from my pack,” Caine said.
She shook her head. “But not to him. That’s not how he sees it. He doesn’t play with packs. He picks his victims individually, hunts them, murders them, and then moves on.”
“But it’s personal now,” Brandt whispered, holding out the crumpled, bloody piece of notebook paper. “Claire and the other two victims since your escape? They’re not the grand finale.”
The wind rustled over the field, and the flutter of the crime scene tape caught Caine’s eye, the snap and crackle of it flapping in the wind. He stood there watching it so he didn’t have to watch her face crumple, see the insta-guilt that hit her like a freaking sledgehammer. As if one woman could save them all. She was my responsibility, too, you know. Caine bit down on the words and held them back. No.
“Give our Hound a gift,” Brandt repeated. “Our Hound.”
Caine’s attention jerked back to Brandt. The wolfhound leaned against the rail, paper still in hand, the duck discarded on the deck floor. The cool breeze touched Caine’s face, a soft reminder of death still lingering in the air. A ghost. It hung there between them as Brandt turned and looked him in the eye.
“The morgue.” Caine ground his teeth at the thought. It was the only thing that made sense. The Hunter had seen them. “It was just a hug.”
Which could have been more, but wasn’t. For the first time that day, he was thankful he hadn’t kissed her, though as Holly’s lips twisted into a frown, and he wanted to now. Brandt lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Doesn’t matter. The bastard might not have even been there, we might be reading too much into it. Ollie’s guilt is enough of a button.”
“But this isn’t how he works.”
“It’s how he’s working now. Killers change. Triggers hit their hot buttons, stressors max out their brains and—”
“I know.” Her shoulders slumped. “So—what? He’s going to use Caine to get to me? If he wants me, why doesn’t he just come and get me?”
“I don’t know. If we knew that, maybe we could catch him.” Brandt held the letter out to her. “All we can do is wait. Wait for the next clue. The next move.”
“For someone else to die.” The hollow way she said that tore at Caine’s gut. Hope had a sound, a faint breathy tint to a voice, a joy that made it lighter, happier. Despair had a sound, too. Darker, filled with melancholy and grief. A macabre haunt that burrowed itself into words until they echoed with pain. Caine reached up to catch her arm before he could stop himself.
“Don’t. Just don’t.” He shook his head. That was as far as he was going here, now. Apparently, one hug had given the killer enough information to think he could use Caine against her. He wondered when the pair of them would put together exactly what that meant. His pack. Sanctuary Falls. Unless the Hunter wanted a sniper-style kill, Caine wasn’t someone he could hurt. But he couldn’t guarantee that all of his wolves would be able to withstand torture and resist running.
If the Hunter was watching now, Caine didn’t want to give him any more excuses. Holly Lawrence, kissable and vulnerable as she seemed to be, was definitely off limits. Instead he let her go and turned to walk away.
“Caine.” It came out on a breath, barely above a whisper but it stopped him in dead in his tracks, jerked him so effectively to a stop his teeth clicked together.
“It’s not your fault,” he said over his shoulder. “But I have to go. I gave you your message. You’re not the only person I have to talk to today.”
He glanced back to the yellow tape, knew the moment her gaze followed his by the way she stiffened, a slight gasp slipping out of her. “I could—”
“No. It’s not your job.”
“As the Hound on her case, actually, it is.”
Caine shook his head. “They don’t deserve to hear it from a person they’ve never met. The Rawsons deserve to hear it from me.”
Caine met Brandt’s gaze, saw the understanding clear in the wolfhound’s gaze. About Claire. About Holly. About everything. Caine hoped he was wrong, that they’d all read too much into a bloodstained sheet of paper, but he doubted it. Which meant if he didn’t walk away right now, the Rawsons weren’t the only family he’d have to face.
And one was hard enough.
“Take care of yourself,” Caine said, and walked away. This time, she didn’t call out and he didn’t look back.
Chapter Eight
Ollie watched him go, the shadows reaching out to tug him close, his pale skin vanishing under the evening haze long before he reached the sleek black car. Evening had a way of making things darker, despite the shreds of light still lingering on the horizon. Dusk came with a haze that seemed to linger, haunting the edges of distant trees and bushes.
She closed her eyes and listened for the soft thunk of the car door, the rumble of an engine, the fade of tires over a dirt road. Her brother stepped up beside her, one hand finding her shoulder as he moved around her to get a look at her face. “Ol?”
She hadn’t missed the desolation in Caine’s eyes. Not that she could blame him. She didn’t really want to be the one to tell the Rawsons that their daughter had died. The moment he’d refused, relief had formed a cold knot in her belly, enough to make her want to be sick, but she had pressed a hand to her stomach and turned away. Back to the crime scene tape, slowly vanishing under the coming of darkness. “I should have reminded him that I was there when she died. Her parents...”
Brandt squeezed her shoulder. “It’s his place, Ol, not yours.”
She opened her mouth to protest when Brandt shook his head before she could say another word.
“Her family deserves the time alone. As the Sanctuary Falls alpha, he’s as much a family member as any of their pack. You are not.” Her shoulders slumped, and Brandt gave her a sympathetic smile. “Besides, you need sleep. I don’t even want to know how long you’ve been running.”
This time when Brandt ushered her back towards the house, Ollie let him, Star trooping in on their heels. Nana sat in her recliner, yarn spread out over her lap as she crocheted. She saw the worry in her grandmother’s eyes as Brandt escorted her down the hall to her room. Ollie didn’t have the strength left to protest, readying herself for bed in a state of sleep deprivation and emotional exhaustion.
By the time she’d curled up under the covers, Star stretched out next to her, the house had fallen silent. Night had cast the old sycamore tree outside her window into a shadowy silhouette, the tree d
arker than the sky, but it was still nothing more than a shadow. The wind rustled softly, and a branch scraped over the glass. The familiar sound tugged heavily at her eyelids. It came again, soft. A whisper much like the sandman in her ear, and Ollie let herself drift easily into sleep.
When the quiet scrape came again it roused her gently from sleep, and she blinked blearily into the complete blackness that had settled over her room. Star snored softly beside her, a quiet, rattling huff of breath, followed by the twitch of her feet shuffling against the sheets. Ollie smiled; another squirrel dream, most likely. She touched the collie softly on one shoulder and waited for sleep to take her again.
The wind rustled through the tree again, a branch scuffing down the window, only this time the soft scratch lifted the hairs down her neck and left her rigid with a fast bolt of fear. Ollie forced herself to laugh, passing her fears of as the stress of the past few days obviously catching up to her. Then it sounded again, and Star jerked at her side, a warning growl rumbling from the collie. Dark in the already black room.
She reached a hand out, burying it in Star’s silky fur in a quiet order to hush. She roused her inner-dog, the wolfhound coming lazily to the surface, almost sleepy, and Ollie waited. The branch scraped the glass again, and this time neither her wolfhound nor Star seemed at all perturbed by the sound. She blew out a breath. For all she knew, Star could have simply had a nightmare and stirred herself awake. It was crazy to start jumping at shadows now.
Ollie shook her head and slipped out of bed, her bare feet touching the cool hardwood as she padded over to her slippers and slid them on, her dog-half lending her eyesight an extra boost of night vision. Frayed nerves gnawed at her gut and left her unsteady, shaky, neither of which boded well for sleep.
“A nice warm drink, then,” she told her dog, leaning over to give Star a kiss across her long muzzle. “Need to go outside?”
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