by Keri Arthur
Neva hesitated. “Just a half cup, to warm my insides
before I venture out again. I have to head up to the hospital
to see Savannah.”
“She’s awake?” Betise moved behind the small screens.
“Yes. And itching to get back to the investigation.”
“Good for her.” There was the sound of liquid being
poured, then Betise asked, “She remember what
happened?”
“Right now I don’t think she even wants to think about
the attack. She just wants to get better and find the killer.”
Neva hesitated. “Do you mind if I ask a personal question?”
Betise came back out carrying two white mugs. Though
her expression was still friendly, the wariness evident in
the air became strong enough to almost taste. “Sure.”
Neva accepted the full mug with a nod of thanks. “If
you and Duncan are soul mates, why are you still apart?”
Betise didn’t answer for several seconds, then grimaced
and looked away. “Because I was the only one convinced
that we were.”
Neva blinked. Of all the answers she’d expected, that
wasn’t one of them. How could you not know your own
soul mate? It was a state that transcended the heart,
transcended the mind, became a linking of spirit. It was
something you just knew and couldn’t escape. Or so her
father had always claimed. Never having met her soul
mate, Neva couldn’t say for certainty what it was like. “He
didn’t believe you were?”
She shook her head. “Duncan’s not one to be pinned
down, even by a soul mate. So he claimed he felt nothing.”
“You knew he’d lie?”
Betise’s smile was touched with sadness. “Yes. When
a bonding is that deep, you can’t help knowing everything
the other is feeling. It’s instinct.”
Neva frowned. Something didn’t gel. While she’d sensed
no lie in Betise’s statement, she hadn’t sensed a lie in
Duncan’s, either, when he’d claimed Betise and he had
shared only the one dance and nothing else. So which of
them was stretching the truth? And why?
She sipped the coffee and shuddered at its strong,
almost bitter taste. It had obviously been sitting in the
pot for a while. “Is that why he left?”
Betise hesitated. “Partly, I guess.”
“There was another reason?”
“He had a reputation with the ladies. It got him into
trouble more than once.”
If his behavior then was far wilder than it was now,
Neva could understand why. He wasn’t exactly the caring,
sharing type. “So why haven’t you tried to pursue him
now that he’s back?”
Betise snorted softly. “You heard him deny our
relationship. What point is there?”
Plenty, if they were soul mates. For one, it meant Betise
could never settle down with another. But maybe that
didn’t worry her—not as long as she had the moon dance.
She sipped her coffee and decided she’d better get to
the point. “I’m going to report your attack to my sister.”
“Don’t. We’re not really sure it’s linked, and I don’t
want the rangers fussing over me.”
Neva raised her eyebrows. “But if it is linked, you might
hold some clue that could catch this fiend.”
“It’s doubtful. I didn’t really see much, and to be
honest, the rangers annoy me more than your father.”
Neva smiled. “Then tell me, and I’ll pass it on to my
sister. That way, if there is nothing interesting, you don’t
have the hassle of talking to the rangers.”
Betise hesitated, then nodded. “Ask away.”
“What did he smell like?”
“Why would that matter? It’s not admissible in a court
of law.”
“Well, no, but it could lead the rangers to our killer.”
“I was under the impression they didn’t find any scents
at the murder scene.”
“According to the papers, no. But they did find one at
the hospital.”
Betise raised an eyebrow. “Hospital?”
Neva couldn’t see any point in holding back the
information, especially since the head nurse was dating
the current editor of the Gazette. It was a pretty sure bet
it would be the lead story tomorrow morning. “We think
the killer may have tried to get to Savannah.”
“So you were there.”
“Yeah. I sensed Savannah was waking and came
down.”
A smile touched the older wolf’s pale lips. “I wondered
why Duncan had let you out of his bed. Normally, he’d
keep his mates occupied day and night.”
Heat touched Neva’s cheeks. “Yeah, well, he actually
didn’t know I slipped away.”
Betise considered her for a moment, then said, “My
attacker smelled like old sweats.”
Not a smell anyone was likely to forget in a hurry, and
not the scent she’d chased in the hospital. It was a strong
smell that would not dissipate easily, and while the wind
had been strong last night, it had been almost nonexistent
in at least two of the other attacks. Surely the rangers
would have picked up such an unusual aroma. “What did
he look like?”
Betise shrugged. “As I said, big. Silver. I was too busy
defending myself to take much notice.”
“No identifying marks? Scars?”
“None that I saw.”
“Eye color?”
“Yellow.”
Which was the standard eye color of a true wolf, not
any of the packs that lived in Ripple Creek. Were they
dealing with an outsider? Perhaps a wolf that had drifted
in from one of the other reservations?
“Was his coat silver or gray?”
“It wasn’t an old wolf. He was young. Virile.”
“So he tried to...you know?”
Betise looked away, her face suddenly pale. “Thank
the moon you and Duncan were so close. You scared him
off.”
They’d scared him off but couldn’t smell him. Not even
on Betise. Odd. Unless she was lying. Or unless, for some
strange reason, she knew her attacker and was protecting
him.
Which is exactly what Duncan had thought, even if
he hadn’t come right out and said it.
She put her half-finished coffee to one side and stood.
“You’re right. I don’t think it’s the same person.”
Betise glanced at her quickly. “Why?”
“Because the rangers aren’t sure the murdered women
are being raped.”
“Really? They implied in the papers that they were.”
“And you can believe everything you see in print,” Neva
said dryly. She picked up her coats and mask and quickly
put them on. “I’ll still report your attack to Savannah,
though I really think you should report it yourself.”
Betise’s smile was wry. “Given where I was and what I
was doing, the rangers aren’t going to take it all that
seriously.”
“Any attack is serious. The man who attacked you
might just try his luck with someon
e else.” And right now
they certainly didn’t need another lunatic running around.
“I very much doubt it.”
It was a statement that basically confirmed the theory
that Betise knew her attacker. “Thanks for the coffee and
the info.”
“You sure you don’t want that hair of yours styled?”
Neva just smiled and opened the door. The wind hit
her, almost blowing her back inside. Shivering, she closed
the door but remained under the cover of the entrance for
a moment, reaching out with her thoughts. There was
little response from Savannah—her sister was asleep. No
use going to the hospital just yet then.
She glanced up the street. On a normal day, the diner
was within easy walking distance. In the midst of a storm,
it might as well be in the next county. Or was that
cowardice speaking? As much as she knew she had to
speak to her parents, she wasn’t sure she was ready to do
it just yet. But then, would she ever be? She certainly
hadn’t confronted them before now, and maybe, if Duncan
hadn’t have forced the issue, she never would have. Moving
into her own home had been her only attempt to break
the leash, and even then, her parents still had too much
control over her life. As Ari had often commented.
But the attack on Savannah, and being with Duncan
these last few days, had forced her to see there was more
to life—more to her—than blindly following the path her
parents had set.
And while she had no intention of becoming a frequent
visitor at the mansion once this dance was over, she was
tempted to explore her wilder side. Not so much sexually,
not even emotionally. She just wanted to step beyond the
boundaries of her life so far and explore possibilities.
Discover what else there might be out there for her. True,
she was happy enough working at the diner, but it was a
job that would always be there. There was a world beyond
Ripple Creek to explore. Savannah had taken off years
ago on a quest to find herself. Maybe it was way past time
she did, too.
Only trouble was, that deep down crazy part of her
wanted to explore it with Duncan at her side.
She shoved her hands into her pockets and ventured
out into the storm. The strength of the wind had, if
anything, increased in the last half hour. It was as if nature
itself was intent on pushing her back towards the diner
rather than home.
She let it blow her along the empty street. The cold
began to seep into her bones, despite the multiple layers
of clothes, and her limbs felt leaden. What she needed
was a good eight hours of solid sleep. Whether she’d get it
before the full moon finally rose was another question.
Main Street swung right, and the buildings
momentarily cut the full force of the wind. She tripped,
caught herself before she could fall, then glanced behind
her to see what had snagged her foot. There was nothing
to see—not even the cracks in the pavement. She shook
her head and continued on. Above the howl of the wind
came the sound of an engine. She glanced over her
shoulder, glimpsing an old blue truck moving slowly along
the street. At least she wasn’t the only fool out. Though
she was the only fool walking.
She tripped again and cursed softly, smacking her
hand against a shop window as she tried to steady herself.
Her goddamn feet seemed intent on tripping over each
other, no matter how hard she tried to lift them. This wasn’t
good, and it meant she was more tired than she’d thought.
She studied the snowbound street ahead—or what she
could see of it. Her house was closer than the diner. Maybe
she’d better head home and take a nap. The way she felt,
she’d fall asleep long before she got to the diner, and in
this storm that would be deadly.
The wind hit her again as she came out of the
protection of the buildings to cross the road. She staggered
sideways like a drunkard, battling to keep upright against
the force of the storm and the sudden weakness in her
limbs. Fear slithered through her. It was almost as if the
utter cold of the day was leeching all her energy.
She sighed in relief as the next row of shops gave her
a brief respite from the wind, but she knew worse was to
come. Her street was the next one, and to get home, she’d
have to walk against the force of the storm.
She stopped at the last shop, leaning a hand against
the glass to support herself as she took several deep
breaths. Her eyes drooped closed, and she forced them
open again, blinking rapidly. The slither of fear became
stronger. She could so easily fall asleep right here and
now. All she had to do was close her eyes.
She had to get home. Fast.
The wind slapped against her the minute she stepped
out into it, forcing her back several steps. She gritted her
teeth, leaned forward and walked on, but it felt as if she
were walking through glue. Icy cold glue, at that. Every
single step was an energy-draining effort. Her breath tore
at her throat, and the iciness of the air seemed to shred
her lungs.
She counted the houses as she passed each one,
needing to keep her mind off the effort to walk. Off the
need to simply lie down and sleep. Eight houses to
go....seven...a street corner loomed into view. Once she’d
crossed it, she was almost there. The thought seemed to
rush fresh energy into her limbs, and she stepped out
onto the road.
Above the howl of the storm came the roar of an engine.
Too late, she became aware of the sullen gleam of
headlights rushing down on her.
She yelped and tried to leap away, but the truck clipped
her hip and sent her sprawling. She smacked against the
ground, saw stars, and for several seconds couldn’t seem
to breathe.
Then oblivion rushed in, accompanied by the harsh
sound of laughter.
Ten
Duncan rapped his knuckles against the old wooden
door. There was movement inside, so he knew someone
was home. After a few moments, he heard the scuff of
heels against wooden flooring approaching the door.
“Yes?”
The voice was harsh, elderly. Not Betise, then. “Duncan
Sinclair,” he said. “I’d like to speak to Betise, if possible.”
The door opened. Cool air rushed past him,
accompanied by an unpleasant smell that was both the
woman and the house. He resisted the urge to step back
into the fresh air of the storm, and studied the woman in
front of him. She wasn’t as elderly as he’d thought,
probably in her mid-fifties, and was a tall, angular stick
of a woman with harsh yellow hair and grey-green eyes.
She looked him up and down, and an almost disdainful
smile touched her thin lips. “You’d be a Sinclair, then?”
“Yes. Duncan Sinclair, as I said.” He
paused. “And
you are?”
“Iyona. Betise’s mother. What do you want with her?”
“I just need to ask her a question.”
Iyona snorted. “Yeah right. The day the Sinclairs just
want to talk is the day the moon will stop rising.” She
sniffed and stepped aside. “I guess you’d better come in,
then. I just got a call from her. She’s shutting down her
shop and coming home. Shouldn’t be too long.”
Good, because he certainly didn’t want to be stuck
long in this unripe smelling house. He stepped inside, the
sharp rap of his boot heels against the old floorboards
echoing in the empty hallway.
Iyona slammed the door shut then shuffled past.
“You’d better wait in the living room. I’m cooking
sweetbreads, and the smell can get overwhelming if you’re
not used to it.”
That was an understatement if ever he’d heard one.
He walked into the room the old woman had indicated
and looked around. Like the hall, there was very little in
the way of furniture. A couple of sofas, a TV, a stack of
newspapers and magazines piled high on an old pine coffee
table. The floor was carpeted, the pattern long since faded
to grime. An analogy that could very well be applied to
those living in the house.
He tossed the papers scattered on the sofa to one side
and sat down. The room, like the hallway, was cold. He
couldn’t hear the breeze of forced air heating, and there
wasn’t a fire lit in the old hearth. Maybe Iyona didn’t feel
the cold.
He tapped his fingers against the sofa arm for several
minutes, then glanced toward the kitchen. There was no
sound of movement. No soft intake of breath. “Have you
been in Ripple Creek long?” he asked, wondering if she
was still there or had gone somewhere else.
Water flushed and a moment later, Iyona appeared,
shuffling toward the sink to wash her hands. “Came back
about a month ago.”
“Where were you before then?” Not that he was really
interested. He was just trying to make conversation to get
his mind off the awful smell.
“Here and there.” Iyona shrugged. “Shame about the
murders happening up your way.”
“The rangers will catch whoever is behind them.” If he
didn’t get the bastard first.
She glanced at him, amusement glinting in her silvery
