Page 37 of Autopsy of a Fairytale

Bel glanced back at Cerberus, who was out cold, and smiled. At least one of them got a decent sleep every night. She twisted further in her seat to pet him, but the moment her palm touched his warm body, his muscles flinched, and he jerked awake.

“Sorry, baby beast,” she soothed, but her dog wasn’t looking at her. His alarmed eyes were staring out the windshield, studying something closely as his gaze tracked its movements. Bel twisted slowly, half expecting a bloody knife to be poised outside her window, but there was no such dramatic villain. Instead, it was a pretty young woman slipping into Eamon’s house. The same blonde from The Espresso Shot’s surveillance. The one who legally didn’t exist.

* * *

Alcina Magus.Or whoever she was. Were they in on this together? It made no sense why a millionaire would try to carve a detective up with his teeth, but Bel knew Eamon Stone had been her attacker. Had he followed her here to finish the job? Was this mysterious blonde his girlfriend? His partner? Had they decided to add more blood to their resume before finishing what they started in New York?

Bel watched as the woman slipped into the mansion. The house remained dark for long moments, and then a dim light flipped on upstairs. Shadows passed behind the curtains, and Bel longed to know what their owners were saying. Were they plotting their next work of macabre art? Had she assumed wrong, and they were merely secret lovers meeting for a torrid affair between the sheets?

The shadows jerked, the image almost violent, and Bel’s hand instinctively reached for the door handle. Had her nightmares been just that? Horrible dreams without truth, and Eamon was innocent? Was this woman here to kill him?

The dark images moved again, and a faint crash sounded as the lights flickered out. She launched herself from the car, locking Cerberus safely inside as she watched the dingy windows, hoping that she had not witnessed another homicide. For long moments, nothing happened, and then a light blinked to life in a dilapidated part of the mansion. By the looks of it, that section of the house was not safe to wander, and the shadows passing the grimy windowpanes were decidedly female. Where was Eamon? Bel stepped forward on undecided legs, pleading with whoever might be listening that he was still alive, that her assumptions about the man had not led to his murder before her eyes.

Bel crept closer to the mansion, undoing the buckle securing her sidearm. She told herself she would just check the perimeter to ensure Eamon wasn’t inside, bleeding out from a missing heart. On silent feet, she sneaked around the house, but none of the windows offered her any view of him. After circling back to the front door, Bel considered returning to her car and leaving this insane plan in the dust when a light upstairs flickered and voices drifted to her ears. They were angry, hostile, and decidedly male. Eamon was still alive. She should leave before they found her, but then his deep, sultry voice exploded in what sounded like pain.

Instinct kicked in, and Bel tested the front door. Finding it unlocked, she pulled her weapon from its holster and slipped inside, thankful that the floorboards didn’t creak under her weight. She paused in the foyer, noting Lumen’s chandelier hanging above her head, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. She understood why people paid what they did for his work. It was single-handedly the most elaborate piece of furniture she had ever experienced… besides the chandelier Lumen himself had been encased in.

She shoved the murder scenes from her mind when the angry voices drifted down the grand staircase. She couldn’t understand their words, but the tone was clear. The argument raging upstairs was on the verge of escalating into deadly territory, and Bel found her feet carrying her toward the ruined section before her brain could rationalize with her. The further up the stairs and down the hallways she ventured, the worse the structure became until she was creeping through a wooden skeleton of decay. What on earth were they doing in this part of the house? It wasn’t safe, and Bel wondered if Sheriff Griffin had this area of the mansion searched when he served the warrant. She would have wanted to search these crumbling rooms, but if this wing was condemned, perhaps they left it untouched. Was that why Eamon allowed these halls to remain peeling and cracked? To hide his supplies, his trophies? Was that why the police hadn’t uncovered evidence?

Bel’s toes tested a floorboard, and it creaked below her hesitant weight. She froze, half expecting them to barrel out and find her guilty and alone, but their conversation continued. Eamon’s raw sexuality argued with an unfamiliar feminine tone.

She still couldn’t decipher their words. Their voices were nothing but melodies and harshness, and against her better judgment, Bel continued. This went against all of her training. Creeping around in the middle of the night without a warrant or backup was single-handedly the most reckless thing she had ever done, but she couldn’t stop herself. The dream, the teeth, the demon-black eyes. They drove her to this, and she was powerless to resist.

“I will find a way.” Eamon’s voice sent a jolt of fear and excitement through her body as his clear words traced her skin like foreplay.

“We both know you won’t,” the woman answered him, her tone both nondescript and ice-cold.

“Do not—” Eamon grunted in pain.

“I’m tired of this same argument,” the woman drawled. “It’s exhausting, and it changes nothing. I can only lead you to water, my stubborn horse. Drink before there are consequences.”

“You forget who you’re dealing with.”

“No, I know exactly who you are. It is why it must be done, why it must be you.”

“Go to—” he grunted again, his words cutting off, and Bel surged closer. Their argument made no sense, but the way Eamon kept grunting concerned her. She should turn around and call for reinforcements. She should have never set foot inside this crumbling monstrosity.

“I’m over this. Do it. You have no choice,” the woman said, and Bel heard footsteps moving toward her. She froze. She needed to get out of there. To hide, but it was so dark, and the floors were littered with dozens of ways to break her neck.

She slipped backward, thankful the floorboards didn’t give her away. The arguing receded, and when she finally reached a less dilapidated hall, she sighed in relief. She could move easier without the rot hindering her, and when she escaped the mansion, she would lock herself in the car, wait for her heart to stop racing, and then decide what—

“You shouldn’t be here, Detective.” Bel froze as Eamon’s powerful voice echoed through the house, booming off the walls and slicing into her nerves. “You can’t hide from me, Detective. I can smell you.”

Bel launched into a run,no longer caring that her boots slapped heavily against the rotting floorboards.

“You can’t run from me, Detective.” Eamon’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere all at once, surrounding her on every side.

Bel looked around the once grand hallways, suddenly disoriented. Panic danced heavily in her chest, and her breathing went erratic.

“Don’t try to hide from me.” The seductively low menace echoed through the rooms, and her eyes wildly searched for an escape. She couldn’t tell where his voice was coming from, and with a rising tide of terror, she realized he was right. It was impossible to hide from a man who was everywhere.

“Detective?” His deep tone was a siren’s song, pulling her down into the depths, but she refused to answer. Bel burst into a run, not caring which direction she fled as long as it was away from him. When did this mansion grow so many walls? So many crumbling hallways?

“I told you, you couldn’t run from me.” Eamon’s voice was in her ear, his soft breath scraping her skin as a powerful hand snaked out of the darkness and caught her stomach. His other palm cut off Bel’s cry of alarm, his callouses grating over her lips as he slammed her spine into his chest. Before she comprehended what he was doing, he pried her gun viciously from her grip and tucked it into the back of his pants. Bel realized just how tall, just how immensely strong he was as he welded her to his body, his massive hand slowly pushing over her belly in an erotic restraint before yanking her further against him. She felt every hard line of his abs, his chest, his thighs, and his fingers gripped her shirt as if it were his bedsheets.

“There’s nowhere you can hide that I won’t find you, my little Detective,” he spoke against her ear, his lips brushing her skin as if he was declaring his undying love and not death threats. “I will always find you.” His breathing grew erratic, his voice pitching lower than his already impossibly low gravel. “I can taste your scent on the air. Do you know how sweet you smell, my little Detective? Do you know how much it drives me crazy? How much it makes me want you?” With each word, his mouth dragged lower, lower, lower, until it pressed a soft kiss against her scar.

Bel screamed into his palm, bucking against his hold, but he was too strong, his embrace tightening seductively around her. His hand at her stomach moved lower, his knuckles brushing the tops of her jeans, and then his teeth were on her throat. Not hard enough to cause pain, and if this were any other scenario, the act might make her moan with pleasure, but the way his slightly sharp canines fit exactly over her scars had her mind screaming red and hot and vicious.

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