park. Colton started that way without getting far. An icy prickle at the base of his neck made him spin around. He scanned the dark. This section of the alley seemed too quiet. No one was out. Not one dog barked.
Standing in the open, he allowed moonlight to caress his human hands and forearms as he waited for his senses to skip past the tragedy and delve into the arena of hunter and prey. Red flags waving in his mind told him the vampires had been this way not long before. More than one of them, by the intensity of the odor.
It was no wonder that the neighborhood dogs had run.
Rolling his shoulders helped him to gain control of his tension, but his nerves felt like long threads of fire. Inching sideways, closer to a fence, he cocked his head to listen for clues. All the while, his beast pummeled at him, wanting to be free, its desire to take over the hunt stirred by a cop’s ingrained need to catch some killers.
But freeing his animal side was not doable at the moment with uniforms swarming around a short distance behind. He had to fight the moon and the wulf for the time being and hope he’d win.
“No movement. No sound.”
Gazing through the shadows of the alley, Colton felt his knuckles ache from holding back his claws. The sinister stink of these particular blood-drinking intruders was especially bothersome to his beast.
Colton had never seen a vampire up close, yet his soul seemed to recognize them. The wolf particles embedded in his long-term memory knew the smell and taste and feel of an ancient enemy.
“Burned toast,” he said, picking a valid description of the sum of all those parts. “Disgusting.”
The beast gave a rattle that shook Colton to his boots. The closeness of monsters was luring his animal instincts to a riotous state that messed with his hard-won self-control.
He flinched as the ligaments in his shoulders and knees began to stretch, and exhaled some air as the skin covering his biceps began to bubble. The whooshing sound he heard was a claw bursting through his skin. Another claw appeared. Then more, until all ten fingers were lethal.
Did this minimorph mean that the wulf knew something he didn’t? He was willing to bet that it did.
A shout came from behind, untimely as hell because it came from a cop who had no doubt seen something in the alley. Colton was in uniform, but his body was half in transition and burning badly with the need to chuck the binding accoutrements tying him to a human’s sense of justice.
“Hey! You!” the uniform said from the other end of the alley; a cop who couldn’t help here or offer moral support. A human, either in or out of uniform, would in fact be easy pickings for any walking undead hanging around.
He had to remove the cop from this equation.
“Killion,” he shouted back to the officer, his voice gruff. He coughed, unlocked his throat and added, “Metro PD. I’m on it. All is clear. No sign of anything back here.”
“Okay,” the cop shouted back.
“Killion?” Davidson’s familiar shout followed the other one.
“Yeah. It’s me,” he said.
“You’re one fast son of a bitch. You actually beat me here?”
“Pays to be in shape.”
“Not if that doesn’t include pizza.”
More footfalls, then Davidson’s final remark. “We’ll go around the other way. The bastards had to come and go from somewhere.”
After agonizing seconds spent waiting for the men to disappear, Colton’s internal heat finally overwhelmed him, and his clothes ripped apart at the seams.
* * *
Rosalind watched the brown-furred werewolf hurdle the wooden fence as if it were nothing as soon as the humans at the head of the alley had gone. She covered the length of that alley in twelve huge strides. One good leap after that, and she, too, was over the fence.
She had seen the beautiful Lycan before and after his shift, but this time she had been close enough to take stock—a second rare occurrence in the highly personal world of werewolves and only, she supposed, because he had been distracted to the point of not recognizing the presence of another wulf in the area.
Her brown wulf had been incredibly handsome as a man. His face was angular. Tanned skin stretched over high cheekbones. His mouth was wide, his eyes deep-set. Dark, slightly wavy hair framed those features, long enough to cover the tops of his ears. Each strand glinted like gold in the moonlight.
The man side of the Were was tall, his physique leanly muscular, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He had spectacularly molded thighs that hinted at a Were’s hidden strengths. Rosalind guessed him to be in his late twenties, though it was hard to gauge werewolves, especially since she had met so few of them.
This one had been not only beautiful, but naked. Her first naked male of any kind. And he was definitely a perfect specimen that she imagined most women would call mouthwatering.
The skin of his bare back and buttocks had shined with a tanned tautness that suggested he saw a lot of sun without wearing clothes. No white lines traversed the flowing, golden flesh. Nor did he bear tattoos, other than the ring of scar tissue on one upper arm in the shape of a wolf’s bite that all true Lycans possessed.
Rosalind passed a clawed hand over her own similar mark, taking this as a further sign of an unmistakable bond with whoever he was.
She had held herself back so he couldn’t see her when he’d turned. She had observed how a light drift of masculine hair ran the length of his powerful chest and over his sculpted abs to become even darker as it nestled between his legs. The feature that had been momentarily displayed between those thighs made Rosalind flush.
And then there was the werewolf.
The beast that unfolded from all that glorious humanness had brown-auburn fur the same color as the man’s hair. Denser than his human form, and heavier with tension-loaded muscle, this werewolf was also damn near perfect, and too magnificent to be real.
Rosalind fielded the arrival of a full-fledged hunger for him. Battling sensations that were new, instinctual, primal, she wanted to wrap her arms around him and lick his golden-brown neck.
Her sexual appetite intensified with each ripple of his incredible Lycan muscle. But Rosalind also sensed a pain-filled anger that would prohibit him from shifting in such close proximity to others. His body visibly shook with that anger.
In spite of all the possible repercussions of empathy with a stranger, as well as a fair amount of misplaced erotic hallucinations, Rosalind followed him when he moved, as if she were his shadow.
He had ignored her in the park, not because she was a stranger, she now knew, but because he had been needed elsewhere. He hadn’t rejected her out of choice.
Picking up her speed when he started to run, she raced in his wake, keeping back apace, watchful, careful, realizing that she was going to pay for this in one way or another when she got back to Judge Landau’s place.
Then again, surely her father would understand the situation once he heard about the Lycan killings,
