by hand in the middle of the night.
I felt my mood darken just thinking of school, and of not being there. Of not completing my master’s degree, or even using my brand new BA in the foreseeable future. But I’d bargained with my father for the next two years and three months of my life, to be spent serving the Pride and training for a future I wasn’t even sure I wanted.
“Definitely a broken neck.”
“Hmm?” I murmured, staring hard at the line of trees twenty feet to the east. If I focused on them, on the way the moon cast ever-shifting shadows of the branches as they swayed in the early-morning breeze, I wouldn’t have to look at the corpse. And I really didn’t want to look at the corpse.
We’d found him just where the informant had said we would, in an empty field about half an hour south of Little Rock, near a tiny rural town called White Hall, which boasted some six thousand residents. From what little I could see of it in the dark, White Hall seemed like a decent place to grow up. A place that did not deserve a middle-of-the-night visit from us.
Marc turned his flashlight to my face, and I winced, squeezing my eyes shut against the sudden glare. “Pay attention, Faythe,” he snapped, his earlier playfulness gone. He was all business now, kneeling next to the dead man who lay facedown in the grass. “I said it’s definitely a broken neck. Come feel this.”
“No thanks.” I shoved his flashlight aside and blinked impatiently, waiting for the floating circles of light to fade from my vision. “I can see it fine from here.”
“Yes, but you can’t feel it.”
I glanced down to see Marc’s fist around a handful of the corpse’s hair, using it to rotate the poor man’s head, which obviously provided no resistance. “The bones kind of…crunch, when you turn his neck. That means his vertebrae are fractured.”
“Fascinating. Really.” I swallowed thickly, and Marc continued to twist the man’s neck, his ear aimed at the ground. Maybe he could actually hear the bones grinding together. Ewwwww. “Could you stop that, please? Leave the poor man alone.”
“Sorry.” He dropped the head, and it hit the grass with a nauseatingly solid thunk. “It’s weird, though. Not a bite or fresh claw mark anywhere.”
“How do you know? You’ve only seen his neck.” With a resigned sigh, I stared down at the body, scenes from the latest CSI rerun flashing through my mind. “Shouldn’t we turn him over, or check for wounds beneath his clothes, or something like that? What if he was killed somewhere else, then moved here to keep us from finding the real crime scene?”
“Crime scene?” Marc laughed, and I gritted my teeth, uneasy with the fact that he was so comfortable around corpses. “You watch too much TV,” he said, refocusing the light on the werecat’s neck.
Only it wasn’t just any werecat. It was a stray—a human initiated into our secret existence by violence rather than by birth. At least he had been a stray. Now he was dead, and his social standing no longer mattered.
Lucky bastard.
“It’s research.” I dragged my gaze from the corpse to Marc’s face. His gold-flecked brown eyes glittered in the moonlight.
“Whatever.” Marc shrugged, and the flashlight’s beam swung off into the grass. “My point is that he wasn’t bitten or clawed. I don’t smell blood.”
Pushing damp strands of hair from my face, I sniffed the air, flushing in annoyance when I realized he was right; if there had been any blood present, fresh or old, we would have smelled it. And if there was no blood, there had been no fight. No werecat—even one in human form—would fail to draw blood with a bite or scratch.
How was I sure the murderer was a werecat? Simple. No human had the strength to break a man’s neck one-handed, and judging from the bruises on the back of the dead guy’s neck, that was exactly what had happened to him. Sure, in theory it could have been a bruin, or one of the other shape-shifter species, but the chances of that were almost nil. What few other breeds existed weren’t interested in us, and the feeling was mutual.
“Oh,” I said, glancing again at the trees as I conceded his point. What else could I say? Marc was the expert on dead bodies, and in spite of having…um…made one a few months earlier, I knew almost nothing about murder victims. And I liked it that way.
Marc sighed. “Fine. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll check for other wounds.” With an Oscar-worthy grunt of effort, he tugged up on the dead guy’s T-shirt, exposing a tangle of old scars reaching toward his spine from both sides of his chest.
I frowned at the long-healed marks. “You’re right. I admit it. There’s no reason to undress him.”
Marc shot me a cocky smile and lowered the poor man’s shirt.
Biting my lip in frustration, I glanced at my watch, pressing the button on the side to illuminate the face with a soft green glow. Almost one in the morning. Great. I should have been curled up next to Marc in bed, exhausted but satisfied. Instead, I was digging unmarked graves by moonlight, exhausted but creeped-the-fuck-out.
We’d dropped off the unconscious Dan Painter in a thick stand of trees just east of the Mississippi River and north of Arkansas City, still bound and now gagged, to teach him a lesson. Then we’d backtracked two hours northwest, on a predominantly two-lane highway. Or rather, Marc had backtracked. I’d recited the prologue to Canterbury Tales in my head. In Middle English. Backward. Marc had his special skills, and I had mine. Of course, his came in far handier than mine in our line of work. Bad guys were hardly ever intimidated by a stirring recitation from Hamlet.
Gritting my teeth, I clung to the last of my dwindling supply of willpower and gave up all hope of seeing my bed before dawn. If I was going to be awake all night, I might as well get something done.
“Okay, a broken neck, but no other obvious wounds,” I said, tugging on the hem of my snug white T-shirt.
Of course, if I’d known I would be handling a corpse, I would have worn something…darker. Or disposable. As it was, I considered myself fortunate to be wearing jeans and a T. If not for the bag I’d packed for our weekend getaway, I’d be digging in expensive black slacks and a red silk blouse.
“So, we’re probably looking for another stray,” I continued, brushing imaginary grave dirt from my shirt. “Maybe one with a grudge, or a history of violent behavior?” I could feel the fine layer of grit all over me, like a ghostly dusting of death, somehow itching and burning beneath my skin.
Or maybe I was overreacting.
Marc shrugged, oblivious to my discomfort as his face smoothed into an unreadable expression. “That describes nearly every stray I’ve ever met. But it doesn’t matter, ’cause we’re not looking for anyone. We’re here to dispose of the body, not investigate the murder.”
I nodded and glanced away. I’d known better. The Territorial Council, nominally led by my father, would never tie up its resources investigating the murder of a single stray. They would almost certainly view the dead cat as one less flea in their collective fur.
“It doesn’t matter what he was doing here, or who killed him,” Marc whispered, kneeling next to the body. “No one gives a damn.”
He
