Page 11 of White Wolf
“Ritualistic killings? Yeah.” It had been the most disturbing crime scene she’d ever laid eyes on.
“They drained that guy’s blood,” he reminded.
And they had. Into big silver punch bowls. All over the floor. Ribbons and globs and still-sticky smears of blood. She still remembered stepping into the warehouse, the stench of sweat, and candle wax, and death, and human shit. They’d tied the vic down and cut his throat; he’d voided his bladder and bowels when he died, all over the worn table they’d used as an altar.
“They did,” Trina said, squeezing her eyes shut a moment. “But the blood was stillthere. Where was Chad’s? Where did it go?”
When she looked at Lanny, he tilted his head, face scrunched up, thinking. “They drained him somewhere else, and dumped his body there.”
“Where? Harvey said he’d been dead at least two hours when she first examined him at the scene. Christa found him at least an hour before that. He wasn’t away from the club long enough for it to be a secondary scene. Whoever killed him did it in that alley.”
“Then where’s the blood?”
“That’s what’s bothering me!” She threw her hands up and let them flop back to the desk. “Ugh. I’m too tired for this. Let’s put a pin in it ‘til morning.”
Lanny nodded, looking relieved. “Wanna grab a drink?”
“Lanny, you’re already having a drink,” she said with a pointed look at his mug.
He reached for it and took a sip, shook his head. “Whatever. I’ll go by myself.”
“You need to get somerest.”
“I know what I need,” he muttered.
Once again, Trina held her tongue. They’d never been the kind of partners who argued, and she couldn’t start now, not when she was this bone tired.
She paused on her way out, though, leaned down and hugged him around the neck with one arm. “Please take care of yourself,” she whispered.
“Hmm,” he hummed, staring into his spiked coffee. “You too.”
3
A LUMP IN THE THROAT
Snow again. The crippling cold. And the blood. Always the blood.
She lay on her back, and the wet cold of the snow bled through her clothes, bit through her skin and found purchase in her bones. Too cold to shiver, too cold to hurt, too cold to scream. Above her the sky wheeled white and endless, sifting fat flakes, clawed by the hard black talons of leafless tree limbs.
She didn’t want to die, but she thought she might.
A face appeared above hers, well-made, blue-eyed, pale hair blowing in the ceaseless wind. He didn’t snarl at her this time. No, he crouched beside her, the careful touch of his hand achingly warm against her face. His fingers trembled. His breath left his mouth in a shaky rush, pluming like smoke.
“Nikita,” he said, and she woke up.
Someone was pounding on her apartment door. Sloppy, forceful raps, like whoever it was wanted to knock their way straight through the door.
Trina sat up with a start, covers falling down around her waist, night breeze warming her dream-chilled skin. She feltcold. She glanced down at her hands and half-expected to find her fingers frostbitten and black.
A familiar voice called her name, muffled by the door. “Trina, let me in.” Lanny.
“Shit,” she said, though her rapid pulse immediately settled. In those first disorienting minutes, she’d thought her blue-eyed stranger might be standing out in the hall, trying to growl and claw his way into her home.
She shivered at the thought and swung out of bed.
Her apartment had been a loft at one point, but someone had walled off the corner beside the bathroom so they could claim it was a one bedroom. Her living/kitchen area was tiny, and she’d made it tinier with overstuffed secondhand furniture, rugs, and bookshelves, a few potted plants. It was cozy and eclectic, and it felt like home.
She resented the hell out of these nightmares that made said home feel like an emotional minefield.
