Midnight Sins

  Could be hard, hot lust. A lust that would burn out with the pounding mating of their bodies.

  But maybe it would be more than lust. That elusive something more she’d searched for so long.

  Cara rose just a bit on her tiptoes. Wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and urged his face closer to her. Their lips met, mouths open. Need burning. She kissed him with all the raging passion in her, and he met her, kissing back, full force.

  When the elevator lurched, she didn’t pay it any attention. She ignored the soft ding of a bell and enjoyed the slow thrust of his tongue and the skilled play of his fingers on her nipple.

  There was a soft swish, and Todd hurriedly stepped back from her, pulling his hand and mouth away with a muffled curse.

  Cara realized then that they’d made it to the basement. The elevator had started moving on its own. Damn it.

  Todd glanced out of the elevator. His back was ramrod straight. “No one’s here.”

  She didn’t particularly care.

  But when he stepped from the elevator, her eyes narrowed and she followed him. “Todd—”

  His eyes burned down at her. “I’m always a cop.”

  The intensity in his voice made her stomach knot.

  “The cop and the man, they aren’t separate for me. I do my job, twenty-four-seven. I live this job—and I want to trust you, but—”

  But. She felt the word hit her like a slap. “I thought we were past this. You said you didn’t think I was a killer.”

  “I want to trust you.” The words seemed to be ripped from him. “But you didn’t tell me the truth about yourself until just hours ago—and even then, you didn’t tell me everything. I had to get the details from Gyth.”

  Because she’d been afraid he’d turn away from her. “You don’t understand.” She had to swallow to ease the dryness in her throat. “You don’t know what it’s like—”

  “You’re damned right I don’t—and you haven’t told me.” A door opened near the end of the hallway, and from the corner of her eye, Cara saw Gyth exit what she figured was a stairwell. The words snapped out fast as Todd demanded, “Tell me this, baby, are the demon and the woman really separate for you?”

  No.

  Her expression must have answered for her because he nodded. “I didn’t think so.” Todd wasn’t touching her now. Not at all. “We are who we are, Cara. No changing it.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to change.” She’d never longed to be human.

  Not really.

  “Take me as I am, and that’s the way I’ll take you.”

  The grated words had her blinking in surprise. Was he saying—

  He kissed her, hard. “And stay the hell out of anyone else’s dreams, baby.”

  Before she could respond, Gyth was there. Glaring at her and Todd, with his nostrils flaring. A moment later, another door opened, one that brought her the scent of death and decay, mixed with bleach and the harsh stench of chemicals.

  A tall, thin woman with coffee cream skin—a woman so beautiful Cara doubted she was human—stepped into the hallway. She frowned when she saw them.

  “Smith, just the woman we wanted to see,” Todd called out.

  The woman wore light green scrubs. Behind her, Cara heard the sound of jazz music drifting from the open door. “I’m takin’ a break, Brooks.”

  He sighed. “We need to look at the bodies.”

  A stare that was as dark as night locked on Cara. “Who is she?”

  Todd raised a brow. “She’s the expert you need.”

  “What?”

  “Remember, Smith? You said you were out of your ‘element’—well, trust me, for Cara—this is definitely her area of expertise.”

  Smith’s gaze darted to Gyth. “One of yours, huh?”

  “She sure as hell isn’t!” Todd snapped, just as Cara asked blankly, “One of his what?”

  Gyth marched to the doctor’s side. Whispered to her. Cara caught the familiar “succubus” and the equally familiar “dangerous.”

  “No need for whispers,” Todd said, grabbing her hand and pulling Cara toward the door. “Okay. I know what’s going on, I’ve been a blind idiot, but I get it now. I get it.”

  Smith’s stare was solemn. “You’re not an idiot. You’re just human, and I’m beginning to think that we’re pretty damn rare.”

  Oh, but the doctor was very much mistaken. “Actually,” Cara murmured, “at the last count,” unofficial though it had been, “humans outnumber supernaturals two hundred and fifty-four thousand to one.” Give or take a bit.

  Smith didn’t look particularly pleased or impressed by this bit of news. But after a moment, she turned around and marched back into the slightly chilled room.

  Back to where the bodies waited.

  Cara pulled in a deep gulp of air, tasted death, and knew this wasn’t about to be pretty.

  Cara’s skin still seemed too pale when she crossed the threshold of the Crypt.

  The impulse to comfort her, to wrap his hands around her delicate shoulders and pull her close, was strong. As strong as the impulse to kiss her had been in the elevator.

  His shoulder brushed against hers, a subtle gesture to let her know that he was there.

  She wasn’t facing this alone.

  Smith kept glancing at Cara. Then at Colin. Then Cara. The woman looked nervous and . . . angry.

  Colin had told him the full truth about Smith’s abduction earlier. He knew that one of the Other had kidnapped her and tortured her. Before that horrible experience, Smith had no idea that any creatures like shifters or demons really existed.

  It had been a brutal introduction for her. One that she had apparently not recovered from yet.

  Of course, he couldn’t really blame the woman. If he’d been held captive by a sadistic psychopath who also happened to be a damn powerful supernatural being, well, he would have freaked, too.

  Not that Smith had freaked, per se. The lady was far too controlled for that. But she’d changed. No denying it. Shut down. Blocked herself off.

  She wouldn’t be able to live that way.

  No one could. Not and stay sane. He knew. He’d tried once—after his mother’s shooting. He hadn’t wanted to feel again after that. The pain had been too much for him.

  Over the years, Todd had learned a hard truth, though. If you weren’t feeling, you weren’t living, and life was too damn short to sit on the sidelines.

  Smith used to know that.

  The screech of a wheel caught his attention. His head turned, and Todd watched as Smith pushed a sheet-covered body toward them.

  “Just finished some more work on him. Was about to transfer him out . . .”

  Then they’d arrived just in time.

  Smith’s gloved fingers pulled back the sheet. Todd heard Cara’s sharply indrawn breath. When he glanced at her face, he saw a faint quiver shake her lower lip.

  Maybe demons weren’t so different from humans, after all.

  She’d deceived him, yeah, no fucking denying that, but his Cara wasn’t a killer.

  And he didn’t need his “psychic edge” to tell him that.

  “Lower the sheet more.” Her voice was soft but steady. Smith pulled down the sheet, exposing the surgical marks on Michael House’s chest and the dark handprint.

  Cara’s fingers lifted over him. Hovered above that perfect impression. Her hand was smaller than the print, by at least a few inches.

  Cara’s fine-boned fingers were nowhere near close to being a match. He hadn’t thought they would be, though. He hadn’t brought her down there to match hands—he’d brought her there to show her the print—and to find out what the hell it was.

  “Cover him.” A tight order as her hand fisted. Smith jerked the sheet back up. Cara’s breath came faster now. Her gaze lifted, shot to his. “You were right, Todd. Damn it, you were right.”

  He noticed that Smith and Colin craned just a bit closer. “You’ve seen that mark before.”

  “I’ve seen
a mark like that before.”

  “How was the impression made?” Smith immediately wanted to know. “The bruising isn’t like—”

  “It’s not bruising.” She cleared her throat. “And it was made with a simple touch.”

  “I don’t understand.” Smith frowned at her.

  Me, either, Todd thought.

  Gyth said nothing, but his attention was completely focused on Cara.

  “We like to feel the beat of the heart when we take power from someone.”

  He remembered the soft press of her hand against his chest.

  “In ancient Egypt,” her voice was strangely calm, almost dispassionate as her gaze stayed on the sheet-covered body, “they believed that the true essence of a man was kept in his heart. His spirit. His soul. All in the heart. Not the brain.”

  “That’s why they used a stick to yank out the brains,” Smith sniffed. “Didn’t really care about preserving that part.”

  Todd wondered where the history lesson was going.

  “When the brain stops functioning, a person’s body is still alive.” Cara’s gaze dropped to House’s covered chest. “As long as that wonderful heart keeps beating, the person is alive.”

  She wet her lips, continued, “To my kind, the heart is life. We want to feel that precious beat. To share the pleasure, the thrill. Sometimes that release of pleasure is so intense,” her voice dropped, “so powerful that the urge to keep taking is too strong.” Cara swallowed. “If you drain a human while you’re feeling the wild beat of a heart, when the human dies, the stain of the touch will remain.”

  “Then you’ve seen this before?” He repeated. She seemed absolutely certain, but Todd had to know.

  “Something like this. Yeah, once.” Shadows cloaked her eyes. “But I’ve heard stories. Before the killings stopped—”

  Yeah, well, if she was telling him the truth, the succubus killings hadn’t exactly stopped.

  “—brands like this were found all over France. England. Humans didn’t understand what they were seeing back then.” A quick glance at a silent Smith. “Now the doctors know it’s not just a bruise.”

  It was a brand. A fucking calling card left by a killer who’d wanted to mark his victims.

  “The hand, it’s average size,” Smith said, “could be a woman with long fingers or maybe a man with sm—”

  “No.” Cara’s denial was absolute. Said at once. She shot a frowning stare at the body. “You all need to understand something—Michael—he was straight. There’s no way an incubus could have been with Michael.”

  She’d know.

  “An incubus can only seduce those who would find him attractive. Same thing for a succubus. It’s a basic, primitive response.” A firm shake of her head. “Michael would never have gone with an incubus. The killer, hell, the killer’s a succubus.”

  She swiped a tear from her eye and whispered, “You deserved better than this.” She spoke to Michael, her voice the intimate one of a friend.

  Or lover.

  “I’m sorry, Michael.” She sounded completely sincere. Her hands balled into fists.

  Damn, but Todd wanted to comfort her.

  To protect and to fuck. Two drives that should have been at odds, but with her, they seemed perfectly in tune.

  Todd huffed out a hard breath and wondered just what he was going to do about his sex demon.

  Smith cleared her throat, looked a bit less hostile as she asked, “Uh, does she need to see the other body?”

  Todd gave a grim nod. “Show her.” No sense putting it off now. Besides, he’d been the one to come up with the idea of bringing Cara to the Crypt.

  He just hadn’t realized that seeing her pain would hurt him so much. “Hurry, Smith.” He wanted Cara away from that place.

  Smith turned toward the vault. Pulled back the gleaming handle and grasped the covered slab. The slab rolled toward them with a rush of icy air.

  Cara inched forward. Gasped when Smith revealed the body and she caught sight of the deep wounds on his chest.

  “Why would a demon do that?” Gyth asked her, coming to stand on Cara’s right side. “If you guys can kill with a touch, why mutilate the man?”

  “To make him suffer,” Smith said, watching Cara carefully. Like a rat watching a snake that had slithered too close.

  Or a very nervous human watching a dangerous demon.

  “No need for that.” Cara turned her stare directly onto the ME. “We can cause as much pain as we want, without butchering a human.”

  Nice to know.

  She rubbed her arms, as if chilled. “It . . . this doesn’t make sense. A succubus wouldn’t do this. I told you, it’s a waste—of energy and power.” Her gaze met his. “This isn’t—our way. This is rage. Hate. There’s no reason to kill this way—not when a succubus could use a simple touch.”

  Yeah, pretty much his thoughts.

  Two different murders. A nice clean death, versus a slaughter.

  Because there were two killers?

  One a sex demon who could kill with the soft stroke of a hand touch and one—one who enjoyed the red splash of blood and the screams of a victim’s pain?

  Ah, shit.

  Two killers—a possibility he couldn’t ignore.

  Chapter 11

  Smith’s hands were shaking when the detectives finally left with their little guest.

  Guest.

  A demon.

  Oh, God, but they were everywhere—and, from the sound of things, another one was out there, a crazy psycho like the one who had attacked her. Only this time, instead of ripping out throats, the killer was seducing and murdering.

  She braced her elbows on her desk and lowered her head into her palms. The faint strains of jazz swirled around her. The music had once relaxed her.

  But the music had been playing when that asshole took her. He’d come into the Crypt, smiled at her, and then lunged.

  She’d seen teeth. Too sharp. Claws.

  Then she’d seen darkness.

  Only to awake to a nightmare.

  Her shoulders hunched. Every person she met. Every. Single. Person. She wondered about them. Human? Demon? Shifter? Vampire? Something far worse?

  The bodies that came in, she studied then with sharper eyes—and remembered the times bodies had been “transferred” out of her care due to a so-called overload in her department.

  Had those transferred bodies been supernaturals? Were they moved so that she wouldn’t notice differences in genetics?

  She suspected they had been.

  The door to the Crypt squeaked open.

  Smith gasped, spun around, and found Danny McNeal standing in the doorway.

  She shot to her feet and demanded, “What do you want, Captain?” Their personal relationship had ended. His choice. He’d ended the best damn thing she’d ever had over six months ago. No explanations. Just a cold, hard cut.

  They probably shouldn’t have ever gotten involved in the first place. They worked together. He was the captain with the bright future that everyone was always talking about.

  She was the ME who carved up the dead.

  But she’d wanted him.

  He’d wanted her.

  And late one night, when she’d gone to his office to give him a report, they’d finally given in to that need.

  The passion between them had burned hard for three months.

  Then he’d shut her out.

  The bastard.

  The worse part—he’d ripped out her heart.

  Not that she’d ever let him know that.

  Her chin lifted when he stepped inside the Crypt. “Do you need a case file?”

  His gaze swept the room. Returned to her. Turbulent gray. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Unless it’s about one of those bodies,” she pointed in the direction of the vaults, “we don’t have anything to say.” Maybe not the most adult response, but she didn’t really give a shit.

  She’d been through hell the last few months, and she w
asn’t in the mood to hear him ramble about crap. Besides, she had a feeling she knew what he was going to say. After the attack, he’d started looking at her kind of... funny.

  With eyes too intent. Always watching.

  After the way he’d kicked her aside, the jerk was probably feeling guilty. Good. He should. He—

  “You need to know something about me.” McNeal stalked toward her, and yeah, stalked was the best description.

  Smith tried to study him dispassionately. Really, her friends had asked her what she’d seen in the guy. He was white, for one thing, and her girls had never been into the white men. And he was older. Nine years.

  And bald.

  But on him, being bald, being older, even being white—it worked.

  There was a hardness to him, a strength, in his face, along that stiff jaw, in those eyes. And then there was the aura of power that had always drawn her to him . . .

  Jerk bastard.

  “What do I need to know?” She snapped. “That you’re an asshole? I know that already. That you’re sorry I got taken by that freak? Yeah, I know that, too.”

  “It’s not that . . .” McNeal looked damn uncomfortable. “You need to know—”

  Now her heart was racing too fast. “What? You’re seeing someone else? Great.” No, it wasn’t, and the pain clawing through her chest told her that. “Look, I don’t have time for this. I’ve got to finish working on the Monroe case and with all these damn monsters around I—”

  “I’m one of them, Nathalia.”

  Her blood iced. “One of wh-what?” But she knew. God, but she knew.

  “I’m not completely human.”

  Her knees threatened to buckle. “I really don’t need this now, Dan.”

  He took a step toward her.

  The back of her legs rammed into the desk when she instinctively moved back.

  “Jesus, babe, relax, you know I’d never hurt you.”

  But you did. “What are you?” Not a demon, or a shifter, please not—

  A muscle flexed along his jaw. “I’m known as a charmer.”

  “What? What the hell is that?” A nightmare. That was it. She was having one really wild-ass nightmare—

  “My kind—”

  His kind?

  “—we’re highly psychic and have the ability to communicate with certain animals.”