Page 11 of Enticing Monsters

“Someone’s been busy,” I murmur, venturing closer.

I’m not surprised to see that everything on the board has to do with the recent attacks—both from the old murderer and the new one.

It appears to be a timeline. The first few photos depict the girls who were murdered for some sort of unknown ritual. At first, I wonder where Xander got these from, but then I realize he probably stole or borrowed them from Devyn. Newspaper articles are clipped beside them.

“Huh. I had no idea the fae had newspapers,” I muse, scanning the articles.

Most of them are what I already know—young girls around my age were murdered in a strange, ritualistic way. Nothing new or eye-opening here.

The next photo shows the killer face-down in my bedroom. Dead. The writing on the wall, painted in blood, has never looked more ominous, even as tiny as it is in the six-by-six-inch photo.

From there, Xander has pinned photographs of the bodies we found in Tristan’s backyard. All of them were killed by a virus. The same virus that ravaged and destroyed Faerie? Scientists aren’t certain.

There are even pictures ofmeon the board—from when I first arrived and my hair was white-blonde, to only a few days ago, now that my tresses have turned pink. Photocopied pages from old books are taped directly underneath me, detailing everything there is to know about skinwalkers.

There isn’t a lot, despite V breaking into the royal library.

“You’re trying to figure out how everything is connected,” I say.

It’s not a question.

Because therehasto be a connection. I refuse to believe all of these attacks were just random coincidences.

Were the two killers partners who got into an argument? Is there a reason why the murders changed from ritualistic to mass? Is it about quality or quantity? I hate to use those terms in regard to murders, but…it’s a valid question.

What are we missing?

If we can just find one more piece to complete the puzzle…

“I am.” Xander calmly crosses his arms over his chest and props one hip against the armchair. He must’ve stood at some point, but I have no idea when. “But this isn’t what I wanted to speak to you about either.”

With great reluctance, I pull my gaze away from the board and focus on my mate.

“Is this about my stalker? The murderer? My powers? The virus? The?—”

Xander waves off my incessant questioning and finally says, “It’s about Tristan.”

“Oh.”

Just hearing his name is enough to have my stomach weave itself into a tight knot.

Just over a week ago, Tristan and Kian were in a car accident. Soon after, Tristan was kidnapped by none other than Ms. Summers—Kian’s old succubus mentor and the stinkiest piece of trash that ever walked this earth. During Tristan’s stay with Ms. Summers, he was tortured, both physically and mentally, the bitch’s powers leading him to believe that he loved the pain.

When he was finally released from the hospital, he…changed. Really, I can’t think of any other word to describe it.

Not only has he set up camp in Xander’s apartment and refused to leave, but he’s also labeled himself the unofficial caretaker of the group. He won’t shower, but he’ll spend hours ironing all of Xander’s suits. He won’t eat, but he’ll cook our makeshift family a three-course dinner. He won’t sleep, but he’ll clean the entire fucking apartment in the middle of the night, despite the fact it’s already spotless.

I don’t know what he’s trying to prove—if this is just a coping mechanism for him or if it’s an intricate need of his species to take care of his pack after what transpired—but it’s not healthy. It’s almost as if he needs to prove to us that he’s okay, that he’s fine, that he’s not broken.

But he’s not okay.

Not at all.

It breaks my fucking heart to see him like that. I want to murder Ms. Summers all over again, but this time make it last longer.

“I’ll talk to him,” I assure Xander, swallowing convulsively around the lump that has formed in my throat.

Xander forks his fingers through his dark hair. I notice dark circles beneath both of his eyes and shadows gracing his jawline. Has he been sleeping?

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