Savage Lust

by Desiree Holt

  Brad frowned. “Now what? I thought you’d finished the autopsy on the body?”

  “I did. Sort of. But I wasn’t happy with a lot of the lab tests that came back.”

  The chief ground his teeth. “What could possibly be in the lab tests that would affect this case? The guy was ripped apart by some wild animal.”

  “Yeah, well, okay.” Moran paused. “But there’s something really odd here.”

  “Odd?” Brad reached in his drawer for another antacid tablet. “Just what I need. Odd. In what way?”

  “There are strands of something in his DNA that I can’t quite identify. I mean, I can identify them—or rather, Justine did—but I can’t figure out how they got there.”

  “Enough lead-in. Spit it out already.”

  “Chief, you aren’t going to believe this. The dead guy had DNA from a wolf.”

  Brad DeWitt sat straight up in his chair. “Are you fucking kidding me? A wolf? That has to be wrong. Run the damn tests again.”

  “We’ve run them four times already,” the medical examiner protested. “I don’t know what to say but I think I’m a little out of my element here. We might need to call in someone else but I don’t know who.”

  Brad picked up the message slip on his desk. “There’s someone pulling a lot of strings to get involved in this. If he’s so well informed, maybe he has an answer for you. Meanwhile, lock down every bit of this information. Tell Justine not to say a word.”

  “Believe me, she won’t. She’s as freaked as I am.”

  “Okay. I’ll get back to you.”

  With a bad feeling circling in his stomach, Brad punched a button for an outside line and very reluctantly dialed the number he had for Craig Stafford.

  * * * * *

  Garth Myers hadn’t been completely up front with his commanding officer. Like many other Texas residents, he’d heard about the legendary Chupacabra, but he hadn’t dismissed it completely out of hand. Not the way his boss did. Garth’s maternal grandmother was Comanche and believed in a lot of the legends and spiritual tales. When Reed Fortune’s body was found, she was the first one Garth called.

  “El Chupacabra,” she told him in an ominous voice. “But killing people now? Something is very, very bad.”

  He didn’t need his kaku to tell him that. The minute he’d taken a look at the body of Reed Fortune, ice had crept over his spine and a chill had encompassed his body. People whispered about the “goatsucker”, the vampire beast that sucked blood from its victims. Who destroyed the bodies.

  Those who claimed to have seen it often gave conflicting descriptions but there were a few things they all agreed on. The largest living thing it ever killed was a goat and it looked like an alien offspring. The general description had it standing anywhere from three to five feet, with strong, muscular hind legs and no forelegs, only short arms that ended in huge claw-like appendages. The head resembled a coyote but larger, with a wide mouth and sharp teeth punctuated by two wicked-looking fangs. Some said the eyes were blood red. Others, that they were blacker than midnight.

  Several artists had created renderings based on the descriptions. The differences really were minimal. No matter how you looked at it, the beast was enough to terrify anyone. It certainly scared the shit out of Garth.

  When he had culled all he could from the websites he pulled up, saving key ones in a bookmarked folder on his computer, he began his search on the mysterious Craig Stafford, who apparently had the ear of presidents and kings. And governors. A pioneer in the field of electronics, he had parlayed one small manufacturing company into what was now a worldwide conglomerate. There was certainly a lot of information to be found, not unusual for a man of his wealth and position.

  Until about five years ago, that is—when he virtually disappeared from the public eye. Information on his companies was released only via PR staff. He gave no interviews, conducted no press conferences. Although he still ran the ship from his corporate headquarters, it was rare to ever catch sight of him.

  And it didn’t take long for Garth to find out why.

  Five years ago, Craig Stafford’s wife and daughter had been killed by a wild animal. It happened when they were vacationing in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, where they owned a cabin that, from its picture, Garth figured cost more than most rich people’s homes. Apparently the mother and daughter were out behind the cabin, waiting for Craig to finish a business call so they could take a walk in the woods. According to the media, he heard their screams, ran outside at once, but when he got there it was already too late.

  Garth began to dig even deeper. When he found what he was looking for, the icy feeling got even colder.

  Craig Stafford—a sharp, university-educated, globally savvy businessman—claimed his wife and child had been killed by the Chupacabra. He insisted he’d seen it, that it was just disappearing when he flew out of the cabin.

  Of course no one believed him. Some of the more outrageous and unethical publications, the tabloids that didn’t care what they printed, gave the story a lot of play, even publishing some of the sketches of the beast they’d been able to get ahold of. They wrote articles about a man so insane with grief, he insisted on blaming the death of his family on a creature from myth. They reported he’d tried to pressure law enforcement and scientific agencies into searching for the legendary creature. And to warn others about it. That the danger was very real.

  When nothing worked, he withdrew from public life. Rumor had it he was doing his own investigating. And Garth would bet his last nickel—which wouldn’t take nearly as long to reach as Stafford’s—that the man had put together his own team, his own “agency”, to hunt El Chupacabra.

  His boss had dismissed the man’s call with a great deal of irritation. Said people shouldn’t take up his time, or that of his people, with outrageous ideas when there was real police work to do. That the Rangers didn’t work with amateurs. There was something he’d said about a series of these killings. About a pack of Chupacabras… No, wait. Pack wasn’t the right word. Something else. Brad had vaguely mentioned…what?

  Garth couldn’t call it up from his memory. Frustrated, he ground his teeth, wanting to bang his head on the desk until he’d jogged his brain into place.

  Stafford had wanted to help. Offered his resources. With his gazillion dollars, he had to be better equipped than the Rangers or any other agency. Why not take advantage of that, even if in the end it only led them to some native wild animal? They had to do something.

  He knew the Rangers were a proud organization, confident they could handle anything no matter what. Was Garth the only one convinced this was shaping up to be something out of their depth?

  Maybe he could convince the chief to at least talk to the guy. If nothing else, it would get the governor off his back.

  As Garth closed his browser, a stray thought tickled his brain.

  A couple years ago, when he was still with Company F in San Antonio, before he’d been tapped to move to headquarters in Austin, he’d known a Ranger named Ric Garza. They hadn’t been particularly close but he had worked with him on a few cases and remembered having a lot of respect for the guy. As did others in Company F.

  If he recalled it correctly, Garza’s father had also been a Ranger, killed several years ago in a hostage situation that went south. Garza had quit the Rangers just before Garth moved to Austin. Something about his mother being killed. An animal attack…

  Jesus, if he could just pick up the fragments floating around in his head.

  Opening his browser again, he did a search for Ricardo Garza, San Antonio. It took clicking through a few links, but there it was. The story of his mother’s death. The two of them had been visiting friends at a ranch in the Hill Country when she was attacked by what the report referred to as an animal. There were no pictures but from the description the newspaper published, it sounded a hell of a lot like what they had with Reed Fortune.

  And then, as he stared at the computer screen, the last piece cl
icked into his brain.

  Garth had heard via the grapevine that a couple months after his mother’s death, Garza had left the Rangers to work for some rich guy’s security service.

  Garth got that tingle at the base of his spine, the one he always felt when the pieces of a puzzle were coming together. Would it be so farfetched to think Ric now worked for Stafford? If so, it wouldn’t be some amateur, fly-by-night organization.

  Yeah, he definitely had to speak to the chief. If he could talk him past his prejudices, maybe they could catch a break on this. Because this was no animal killing, at least not the kind they were used to. If they didn’t follow up on this the way they should, a lot of people could still be at risk. Because no one could predict where the beast would strike next.

  Picking up his phone, he dialed Stella.

  “The boss still in his office?” he asked.

  “Sure is,” she told him. “And acting like a bear with a thorn in its paw. Whatever Leo said to him didn’t make him happy and now he’s calling that guy the governor knows.”

  “Okay. Good. Then I definitely need to see him.”

  “Just don’t do anything to make this worse,” she warned.

  “I’m hoping I can make it better. Once I get him to listen to what I have to say,” he added. “Tell him I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Seven

  The little dog raced along the wire fence, safely separated from the cattle moving restlessly on the other side. On the far side of that particular area, the two-legged beasts it sought sat astride creatures even larger than those in the herd. Some of them pawed the ground with impatience, sending the dog into a fit of barking, as if noise alone could frighten them away.

  It was tired of running back and forth over the uneven ground, ducking into the trees and dense foliage when one of the huge creatures got too near. It wanted food but when it had tried to sneak between the wires to investigate the piles the monsters were feeding on, one of the creatures gave a sound that vibrated right into the dog’s core. It yipped and ducked back under the fence again.

  And it was tired of being in this shape. It wanted its own shape back. It didn’t like the short legs supporting its body or the fact that it was limited by what it could do. The craving was building again, deep inside its body. It needed sleep and shelter before it could seek out its next prey. One of the large two-legged ones.

  As the day wore on, the dog exhausted itself seeking to isolate one of the two-legged creatures. The urges it felt were rising and threatening to consume it. Finally, needing to rest, it sped along the fence line, startled to discover as it emerged into a meadow, the existence of a small wooden building that sat squarely in the midst of a copse of trees. A human would have said it was a line shack, a rudimentary structure erected to shelter cowboys caught in a sudden storm while riding fence line or herding cattle. That it had a fireplace, running water and not much else. That the site was chosen probably so the trees themselves could provide additional protection.

  As the dog settled back on its haunches and watched, a two-legged creature approached from the far side sitting astride one of the huge beasts the dog feared. It swung down to the ground, securing the beast to a tree and stepping into the cabin. In a few minutes it emerged again, remounted, and was off toward the surging tide of dark-russet flesh.

  Having had no luck separating one type of creature from the other in the places it had already been, the dog wondered if the task could be accomplished here. Could it scare away the one to reach the other?

  Tired from all its exertions, it loped away to its hiding place, processing the information.

  * * * * *

  Regan had made one last pitch to convince Dante to take her with him on his trip to collect her things. He’d managed to convince her that the media might still be hanging around, and sneaking two people into a house instead of one was a lot more difficult. So he’d left her in the war room with Ric, who put her to work at one of the computer stations, plowing through a list of topics he wanted to run searches on.

  When he drove down her street, he saw that the mob she’d mentioned had dissipated. But two or three vehicles were still parked suspiciously at the curb, far enough from the house that it might not look as if they were watching but close enough to get to Regan in a hurry if she showed up. If she pulled into her driveway, by the time she got the garage door open, they’d be right on her tail.

  Okay then.

  He drove around the block as she’d suggested and parked in the driveway of a house with a For Sale sign in front. Hopefully anyone watching would think he was a prospective buyer. He circled to the back of the house, glancing around casually. When his neck didn’t itch from unseen eyes, he made his way along the thick row of hedges down one side, climbed through to Regan’s backyard and got to the porch without, he hoped, anyone seeing him.

  Anger roiled through him when he saw that the shrubbery and plants close to the house were bent or broken, many completely destroyed. The fucking media, he guessed, trying to peer in her windows and catch her unawares. He was doubly glad he had taken her to the ranch—and he had every intention of keeping her there. The damn assholes ought to be glad they weren’t climbing all over her place now and that he wasn’t as quick to use his gun anymore. He wouldn’t mind shooting a few.

  It took him only seconds to open the lock with the key she gave him and then he was inside with the door closed. He’d paid very little attention to the house when he was there the day before. His mind had been filled with the latest Chupacabra killing and unsuccessfully fighting the attraction to Regan that exploded with incendiary force. Now he took his time, standing still for a moment to soak up the personality of the home. Get a feel for who and what she was behind closed doors.

  The place was not large but it was still spacious and airy, with big windows looking out on both the street and the decent-sized backyard. At least they would, if Regan didn’t have the blinds tightly shut. She loved both pastel colors and bold ones, maybe symbols of two sides of her personality. The living room sported the couch and chair he barely remembered sitting on, both in soft colors of blue and green and purple. A colorful throw was arranged on the back of the couch, its pattern in the same colors as the room. In front of the large back window sat a graceful dining room table that looked like an antique. Nothing about the room said modern or contemporary.

  He took a moment to sit in the big armchair and just absorb the aura of the place, as if he could feel Regan there. Could sense her presence. Their instant and combustible connection had really kicked him in the ass and he wanted to know as much as he could about this woman who invaded his mind and his senses.

  The air held a faint scent, pleasant but elusive. Something familiar but he couldn’t pin it down. Something like cinnamon. Whatever it was seemed so right for Regan. Looking around, he spotted fat candles of varying sizes in decorative holders, not a lot but strategically placed. He also sensed a tension that permeated the atmosphere. Did that relate to her situation as a shifter? Did she burn the candles in an effort to find some kind of peace and relaxation?

  There were framed photos of her on tables and shelves with a man he knew was her brother. More pictures of the same guy with another woman, who was usually laughing. The fiancée. Ric had found pictures of her too. The photographs had all been taken with a talent for composition, an indication of Regan’s artistic eye. But the only pictures in the room were of the three of them. He knew they’d lost their family—their pack—but did she have no friends? And what did she do with her time besides work? There was no evidence anywhere of any hobbies.

  The team members who were shape shifters hadn’t ever really discussed their personal lives, at least not in detail. Never shared the problems they must have faced or how they dealt with them. Those who were paired off had obviously been very lucky in finding a mate who accepted them for who they are. Did Regan hold herself back from relationships because of who and what she was?

  It suddenly struck
him how much courage it had taken for her to share the truth about herself, and it humbled him. Whatever he was feeling, deep inside himself, she had to be feeling the same thing to have taken that chance.

  For the first time, he was truly grateful for the makeup of their household. It had given him the opportunity to connect Regan with others like herself in a welcoming environment.

  Glancing at the walls, he saw framed sketches he hadn’t noticed yesterday. Some were in pastels, some in vivid colors, but all depicted ranching, both past and present, and the iconic cowboy. There was one in a darker wood frame of a cowboy astride a horse, slightly rumpled perhaps after a long day of riding herd, surrounded by an implied aura of fatigue but looking off into the distance with a hint of a smile. Dante was impressed with how the sketches came alive and drew him right into each scene.

  Pushing himself out of the chair, he wandered through the rest of the house—the pleasant kitchen with its gleaming appliances, the smaller bedroom that she obviously used as her office. The rest of the house sported the kind of decorative touches he would expect of an artistic person—unusual pieces of sculpture, some interesting watercolors, a sketchpad on the nightstand with pencils beside it.

  He barely remembered Regan’s bedroom from the day before. He’d been so busy getting her clothes off and plunging into her body that it could have been a mess, for all he knew. In a limited way, it was, the bed still unmade after their frantic coupling. He’d been so anxious to get her away from here, he’d hustled her out without giving her a chance to straighten up. Something for another day, he decided. There were more important things to attend to right now.

  He started to turn toward her closet when two things caught his eye—the pattern on the rumpled comforter and a framed drawing on the wall.

  The drawing was a sketch of a wolf, alert, head raised as if listening, against a background of mountains. Had her brother posed for that drawing? Had she used a photo of herself? Out of nowhere, he wondered what color wolf she would be when she changed.