Blood Kissed

  After several minutes, warmth caressed my skin. When I opened my eyes, I discovered a wisp hovering a meter or so away from my face. It was orb shaped, and the glow of its being caressed the nearby tree trunks with a cool blue light. Wisps weren’t ghosts despite their nickname; they were spirits, and very fragile by nature. Wind could tear them away, rain could wash them out, and they couldn’t stand the touch of sunshine. Sometimes they were helpful, and other times they weren’t. The myths of them leading travelers astray were very much based on truth. This one was older, if its size and glow were anything to go by, and that generally meant it’d be more inclined to help.

  I bowed slightly. “Thank you for answering my call.”

  The wisp spun in response, its light briefly pulsing. Wisps undoubtedly had their own language, but it was one most witches didn’t understand.

  “I’m here to find a teenager—a girl who is in deep trouble. Could you light my path through the trees?”

  The wisp seemed to consider me for a moment, then its light flickered. When it didn’t disappear, I took it as acceptance.

  “Thank you,” I said, and bowed again. Though I really hadn’t had a lot of experience dealing with spirits—that was more Belle’s forte—and had no idea if they actually cared about politeness, I’d always worked on the theory that it cost me nothing.

  The wisp moved closer and settled about half a meter above my head. Its cool blue light fanned across the darkness, lightly touching the tree trunks around us and providing just enough light for me to make my way through the thick scrub. I shoved my feet back into my shoes, then grabbed my socks and ran.

  The pulse of life in the locket was dying.

  I crashed my way through the scrub, the noise echoing across the night. Branches whipped across my face and tore at my clothes, but I ignored it and kept on going. Time—and the teenager—was slipping away.

  Deeper and deeper into the trees I ran, until the thick canopy above me blocked the stars and even the distant sounds rising from Castle Rock faded. The only noise to be heard—aside from the racket I was making—was the occasional hoot of an owl, and even that halted as I drew close to it.

  The locket’s pulse stilled, and the warmth and connection began to fade. I cursed and ran on. There was still a chance I could save the teenager, still a chance I could bring her back to life if she hadn’t bled out. The soul didn’t leave the body straight away, and while it was still present, there was always hope.

  The smell of smoke began to taint the crisp, eucalyptus-scented air. The memory of the campfire rose and I ran on, my speed close to reckless in scrub this thick. A branch snagged my jacket and ripped my sleeve; I pulled free, leaped over a log, and ran on. The ground began to rise and, up ahead, the trees seemed to be thinning. Hope flared, and I pushed on.

  When I reached the top of the hill, I paused despite the urgency riding me. The clearing was small and half filled with leaf and tree litter. The teenager lay in the middle; there was no life in her, just as there was no life in the locket. Her spirit had fled.

  “Goddammit, no!” The words were wrenched from me. I’d been so close—so damn close. But once again, close enough simply wasn’t good enough. A thick sense of uselessness washed over me and, for a second, all I wanted to do was drop to the ground and let the tears flow. Not just for this teenager, but also for the sister I’d failed to save so many years ago.

  But tears had never helped anyone. Not then, and certainly not now.

  So I shoved my emotions back in their box and studied the clearing. The embers still glowing in the fire pit provided little in the way of light, but it was enough to see Karen’s clothes were missing. Maybe the man she’d been with—the man she’d called Tomme—had taken them. Maybe he’d wanted a memento of his sick crime.

  The wisp shot forward unasked, its light trailing behind it like a comet as it ran along the length of the teenager’s body, not only highlighting her nakedness but the dark dampness matting her blonde hair. The memory of Tomme biting her neck rose. Had it been a fetish, or something worse?

  Something like a vampire, perhaps?

  Even thinking the word had me shuddering. Vampires existed, everyone knew that, but they certainly weren’t the accepted part of society that werewolves had become. Vampires were not only loners, they were also hunters, in a way that werewolves had never been. The simple fact was, vamps needed human blood to survive and went mad if they didn’t get it. All the rot Hollywood and fiction had everyone believing about them being able to survive on animal blood was just that—fiction. They could certainly drink it—and often did—but it wouldn’t sustain them long-term.

  Of course, few vampires risked killing their human prey these days, but that didn’t alter the fact they were an unwelcome addition to most towns and cities. So unwelcome, in fact, that few announced their presence and they generally hunted well away from home ground.

  Was that what had happened here?

  Until I saw the wound, I wouldn’t know for sure. I shoved the now dead locket into my pocket and continued on. The wisp’s brightness had muted, until the only thing it highlighted was Karen’s face. The cool light gave the teenager’s skin a frosty, bluish tinge, and yet her lips seemed to glow a rich, ruby red, which was decidedly odd.

  I stopped and stared down at her for several seconds. Despite the flush of heat still in her lips, her face was drawn and her expression one of terror. Whoever said a vampire’s bite was orgasmic either had rocks in their head or had clearly never been bitten.

  I squatted down beside her and reached to sweep her bloodied hair away from her neck. But as I did, the wisp’s light went out.

  Then, from behind me, a deep voice growled, “Don’t you dare touch her, witch.”

  Chapter Two

  I froze, momentarily unsure if it was the killer or someone totally different behind me.

  “Now get up, and step away from her,” he continued.

  The voice was deeper than that of the man who’d killed the teenager, and filled with a whole world of anger. It might not be the killer, but it was someone who was very ready to kill.

  I frowned at the strange insight and carefully obeyed, not even daring to look over my shoulder to see who was speaking. It wasn’t someone I’d met in town over the past few months, that was for sure.

  “I didn’t kill her,” I said. “I’ve only just arrived.”

  “When I said step away, I meant completely.” His words remained clipped, vibrating with an odd sort of violence.

  I retreated a dozen more steps. A man stepped into view; he was tall and rangy, with darkish blond hair that was streaked with silver in the moonlight. He was wearing baggy track pants, a sweat-stained T-shirt, and a shoulder holster. The gun that should have been in that holster was aimed directly at my face.

  And that meant he was both a werewolf and a ranger. They were the only ones allowed to carry weapons within the reservation.

  “Do you often take your gun for a run in the forest?” I asked, and almost instantly regretted it.

  His gaze met mine, and all I saw was death. My death, if I wasn’t very careful. Not because he believed I was responsible for Karen’s murder, but because his hatred for witches ran so deep—was so intense—that his body practically hummed with it.

  And the fact I was gaining such an insight about this man without even touching him scared me a whole lot more than the gun still pointed at my face.

  “Take that backpack off then place your hands behind you and turn around.”

  “Please, just look at her neck and you’ll see—”

  “Do as I goddamn say, witch, or I will make you.”

  “I’m not a witch, Ranger.” Not one with any sort of power, anyway. I took off my pack, placed my hands behind my back, and then turned around as ordered. “And the man who killed the teenager is getting away while you hassle me.”

  “The trouble with that statement,” he snapped, “is the fact there’re only two scents evident in this cle
aring—yours and Karen’s.”

  “That’s not possible. He was here. I saw—” I cut the rest of the sentence off. I suspected reminding him I had any sort of ability—magical or not—wasn’t a great idea right now.

  The ranger wrapped what felt like a cable tie around my wrists. Obviously, the gun wasn’t the only thing he took out for a run.

  “Now, stay there and don’t move,” he growled.

  “Or what?” Fear might still be riding high, but frustration was starting to overwhelm it. “You’ll let your hatred override whatever speck of common sense you have and shoot me? Because that would be a really stupid move when I’m the only link you have to Karen’s killer.”

  “We’ll let the coroner be the judge of that.”

  I swung around to face him. His eyes, I noted, were a deep blue rather than the usual amber of a werewolf. “Then damn well get the coroner out here!”

  “She’s already on her way.” He retreated several steps and picked up the backpack. “Is there anything dangerous in here?

  “For you, yes—there’s an unsheathed silver knife.”

  “And why would you have that? You have to be aware it’s against the law for any citizen to carry such a weapon within a reservation.”

  “Yes, but silver is a ward against evil as much as a defense against werewolves, and I wasn’t sure what I’d find up here.”

  He opened the bag and peered inside. The knife had been tied to the back of the pack and posed no immediate threat to him unless he was stupid enough to touch it. But the fear of silver was so ingrained in werewolves that few would. Some reservations had even gone as far as banning anything made of silver—even something as innocuous as a neck chain.

  “What are in the vials?” he asked

  I shrugged. “Nothing dangerous.”

  His blue eyes sparked dangerously. “Just answer the question.”

  “They’re potions. Protection potions.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t a witch?”

  “I’m not—”

  “No, because everyday citizens regularly carry potions and silver knives around in their backpacks.” His voice was a little more regulated. He was obviously regaining some control over his emotions.

  Or rather, his memories.

  And I really wished I could stop getting these insights. I didn’t need to understand the man. I just needed to get out of this clearing and stop— I thrust the rest of that thought away. I didn’t need to be thinking along those lines, either.

  He put the pack down. “Don’t move, and don’t try to spell me.”

  I snorted. “If you knew me better, Ranger, you’d know just how ridiculous that statement is.”

  “Trust me, I have no desire to know you or any other witch better. Just do as you’re told and remain still.”

  He took out his phone then walked across to the teenager and began taking photos. I watched, frustration growing. Why wouldn’t he believe me? And why couldn’t he smell anyone else in the clearing but Karen and myself? Tomme had been here, with the teenager, introducing her to the glory of sex before taking her on to the emptiness of death.

  “If you move her hair, you’ll see the wound on her neck.”

  “I can’t touch the body until the coroner gets here.”

  “Why? Did you forget to pick up gloves when you packed the gun and the ties?”

  His gaze rose, and just for an instant, amusement gleamed. But the hatred quickly smothered it again.

  “I can smell the blood,” he said. “But there’s not enough of it on either the ground or in her hair to be the cause of death.”

  “That’s because the man she was with drained her—”

  “There are no vampires on this reservation,” he cut in.

  “I didn’t say he was a vampire, but are you really sure of that?”

  “Yes.”

  He glanced around as a woman stepped into the clearing. She was tall and rangy, with blonde hair and a sharp but pretty face. His sister, instinct whispered.

  “It’s about fucking time, Ciara.”

  “It’s my night off, remember. You’re damn lucky I got here as quickly as I did.” Her gaze scanned me, judged me. Whatever conclusion she came to wasn’t showing in her expression. “This our killer?”

  “She was leaning over the body when I got here.”

  “I didn’t kill her.” I was beginning to feel like a CD stuck on replay.

  “There’s no other scents in the clearing,” Ciara said. Whether to me or to her brother, I had no idea. She swung the pack from her shoulder and unzipped it. “Tala’s on her way.”

  “Good. She can take over control of the crime scene while I escort our witch to the station for questioning.”

  “I’m not a witch,” I said. “And I do have a name.”

  “Most of us do.” He wasn’t even looking at me when he said that. His attention was on his sister. “Be careful out here. And give me the autopsy results as soon as possible.”

  “I will, but just don’t expect miracles when it comes to DNA.” She hesitated. “You’re going to have to call the IIT.”

  “Just as long as we have something to go on before they get here, I’ll be happy.”

  “But I’m betting they won’t be if you start interfering with their investigations again,” she replied. “Not after last time.”

  “That last time is the reason we will continue investigating,” he snapped. Then he thrust a hand through his short hair. “Sorry.”

  Ciara shrugged. “I understand, Aiden, but we need to step lightly on this one.”

  “I know.”

  His gaze came to mine, and a chill ran through me. He might have been warned to step lightly, but I had a feeling that didn’t exactly apply when it came to me.

  “Move,” he said. “Back to town.”

  “Here,” Ciara said, and handed him a flashlight. “I wouldn’t want her falling over and breaking something. That might just raise IIT’s ire.”

  His expression suggested he really didn’t care what the IIT might think, but he nevertheless flicked on the flashlight and motioned me on ahead of him.

  I went without comment, but I couldn’t help wondering what had happened in this wolf’s past. If the darkness that almost consumed his aura was anything to go by, it had been something bad. Something that had plunged this normally vital and creative man—if the golden orange of his remaining aura was anything to go by—into deep and unending sorrow.

  That something had obviously involved a witch. All his words and actions practically screamed that point. Given what Marjorie had said about the elders banning witches, it wasn’t such a huge jump to figure his sorrow and that banning were connected.

  Karen’s murder had obviously dredged up those bad memories, and I just had to hope he’d treat me reasonably—professionally—and not mix past hurt with the current investigation.

  The ranger station was located near the corner of Hargraves and Templeton Streets. It was a beautiful two-story stone building that had obviously been built during the gold rush days, as it possessed that old colonial look that many of the buildings from that era had.

  The ranger unlocked the front door, switched on the lights, and then guided me past the reception and through a secure door into the main office area. Though his grip on my arm was light, the heat of it radiated through my body and had the threads of unquenched—and unwanted—desire flicking through my veins. Which wasn’t good when he was a werewolf and well able pick up the scent of arousal. I frowned and tried to concentrate on my surroundings rather than the man walking by my side.

  There were half a dozen desks in the rather large room, but only three seemed to be in use. There was also a huge whiteboard along one wall and, beside it, a roster, which currently held only four names—which was surprising given the size of the reservation.

  He didn’t stop there, however, but marched me through another door into a long corridor. Six rooms ran off this, several of which were obviously cel
ls. Thankfully, he didn’t take me into one of those, but dumped my backpack on the counter of what looked like a storeroom, then guided me into a nearby room. It was large and square, and had little more than a table, four chairs, and a rather pristine-looking media hub on the wall.

  I was rather unceremoniously thrust into one of the seats.

  “Don’t move,” he all but growled.

  I did as bid. There was no point in saying anything, because while he might want answers, the ones I could give him weren’t the ones he wanted to hear.

  He walked across to the media unit, his strides long and loose-limbed. Though he was, like most wolves, rangy rather than muscular in build, his shoulders were nicely wide and his arms had just the right amount of muscle. My gaze slipped down his back to his butt. If he looked this good in baggy sweats, he’d look more than fine in a pair of jeans.

  Hello, Belle said. This all sounds rather interesting.

  Not when I’m tied up and about to be interrogated, it’s not.

  From the thoughts I’ve heard, it sounds as if being tied up by that man might well be worth it.

  You’re supposed to be concerned about my welfare, not having inappropriate thoughts about our ranger.

  I’m not the one checking out his butt, Belle said. And that alone tells me you’re doing just fine right now.

  Belle, rack off.

  Her laughter spun through my thoughts and tugged a smile from my lips.

  The ranger finished his fiddling and swung around to face me again. His blue eyes were icy, and his expression like stone.

  He did his obligatory spiel about my rights, told me everything was being recorded, and then added, “State your name and address for the record, please.”

  “Elizabeth Grace, currently living at fifty-eight Mostyn Street.”

  Disbelief flickered across his strong features. “You’re living here? In town?”

  “I believe that’s what I said, Ranger.” I paused, but couldn’t help adding, “And isn’t it mandatory when interrogating a suspect that you also state your name and rank?”

  Annoyance momentarily overran the stoniness in his expression. “Aiden O’Connor, head ranger Faelan Reservation, currently interviewing Ms. Grace about the death of Karen Banks.”