Sadie Hart

by Cry Sanctuary

  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.

  A laugh bubbled out of him at the thought, and he turned his car into an abandoned driveway about a quarter mile from Holly’s house. He’d passed it the last time he’d come, and it beat the field he normally used. He waited for a few minutes, fingers tapping the wheel, but when no Hounds came swarming out of the woods, he relaxed. So they weren’t watching this place, at least.

  Dean slid out and paused, half tempted to tell Bosley to wait, before he remembered the pretty little collie the Hound kept up at her house. He’d take the dog after he killed her master. After all, every dog needed a home. She was a well behaved, pretty little thing. Loyal, too. He’d watched her snarling the night he’d howled for her master, so determined to keep her territory and people safe.

  “Come on, boy. Might as well go meet your new girlfriend.” The golden clambered out over the seat and bounded around him in happy circles, tail wagging so hard it slapped one side of his stomach and the other. “Quiet down,” Dean chided, and instantly the dog mellowed.

  It didn’t take them long to hike the short distance between his car and Holly’s house, even with him checking for Hounds every few feet. Nothing. Stupid of her. It made this all too easy for him. Dean strode across her back yard, a grin plastered all over his face. In two strides he was up the stairs and on the back deck, Bosley sniffing the wood as he followed.

  A dog barked inside, followed by a woman’s ordered, “Star, quiet.”

  Dean cocked his head and waited. Two sets of footsteps moved in the house, one canine and one slower, light. Human. Female. A shadow moved beyond the curtain, slippered feet pat-patting towards the door, and he stepped aside, moving out of sight as he signaled for Bosley to heel. The golden jerked to attention and trotted silently over to snap his body around, perfectly aligned with Dean’s left leg.

  Just proved obedience school really did pay off. He had to swallow back a chuckle there. The collie inside barked again, nails clicking over tile, and Dean shook his head. The dog needed her nails clipped. Nails shouldn’t click. They should move silently, nothing more than the pads of their feet touching the ground. He pressed his hand against Bosley’s head in a silent order to stay. The dog stilled at his side.

  “Want out? Is that what it is?” The lock clicked and the door slid open. A gray haired woman stepped out onto the deck, a second behind the dog, but Dean was already moving.

  He shoved the woman back inside, slamming the glass door behind him so that the collie could do nothing more than scrape at glass while she barked her fool head off. The woman thrashed, but Dean shoved her back against the wall, easily catching both of her hands in his. She trembled, and he saw the delicious spike of fear in her eyes. Like a drug, he craved more, wanted to hear her whimper, get that first “Please don’t kill me” out of the way. His hand clamped down tighter over her wrists, hard enough that pain flickered in her eyes. Blue, with a gray tinge to them.

  With his other hand he dug out the pocket knife from his jeans and flicked it open. The woman stiffened at
the sight. “You’re him, aren’t you?” Her voice shook, and he heard her swallow. Oh, how he loved that kind of fear. White hot, it could burn a woman up until she couldn’t speak at all. But not yet. “You’re the Hunter.”

  He grinned at the moniker. “Didn’t have to hunt you.”

  Raising the blade towards her face, he watched her flinch, her gaze never leaving the knife as she tried to move her head away. He touched steel to her skin. “Even if I let you go, you couldn’t run far.”

  “Why don’t we try it?”

  The spunk in that question made him laugh. That was rich. An old woman thinking she could do what girls in their prime had tried. Dean shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  Pulling her away from the wall, he kicked out one of the chairs by the table and shoved her into it. With the blade against her neck, he ordered her to put her hands behind her back. A good hunter was always prepared, and he pulled the strip of fishing line out of his pocket, wound it around her hands until it was so snug it bit into her flesh, leaving a line of red.

  “That should hold you long enough for me to find some actual rope.” And deal with the dog.

  The collie was still scrabbling frantically at the glass, nails leaving claw marks. Bosley had flopped down on the porch behind her, golden eyebrows lifted almost mockingly as she tried to dig her way in. Dean glanced around the kitchen, spotted the coat racked nailed to the wall on the other side of the sliding glass door. Several leashes dangled from it, along with one of those new-fangled harnesses.

  With a shake of his head he snatched a pair of leashes off the hook, unclipping one from the harness. Using one to strap the older woman to the chair, tying her wrists and arms snugly into place, he used the blade to snap the wire cleanly away from her skin. “Don’t want you cutting open your wrists and dying before our Hound gets home.”

  He touched the knife to her cheek again, just under her left eye. “You must be her grandmother. Am I right?”