The heat of his palm seeped through her skin, the hot width of it penetrating her fingers, branding a path up the length of her arm.

Their gazes held. She stared into his silver eyes, stark against thick black lashes. His eyes were cold, sheen-less bits of granite, the color of that strange moon tonight. She couldn’t find one glimmer of human vulnerability in them. And they were too direct, too bold, hiding something behind them. Coupled with that deceptively smooth voice, he could be lethal around women.

His head turned into the light and she noticed a faded scar that spread small talons over his right jaw.

His nearness made her feel vulnerable somehow. She wasn’t one to lose her cool over a guy’s touch. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at him as she found her voice. “You must be Agent Winter.”

CONNIE HALL

Award-winning author Connie Hall is a full-time writer. Her writing credits include six historical novels and two novellas written under the pen name Constance Hall. She’s written two Silhouette Bombshell novels and is thrilled to now be writing for Nocturne.

An avid hiker, conservationist, bird watcher, painter of watercolors and oil portraits, she dreams of one day trying her hand at skydiving.

She lives in Richmond, Virginia, with her husband, two sons and Keeper, a lovable Lab-mix who rules the house with her big brown eyes. For more information, visit her website or email her at conniehall_author@comcast.net.

The Guardian
Connie Hall

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Imagine a world where supernatural beings exist, where good and evil forces clash. Far stretch, you might say. But ask Fala Rainwater what she thinks. She’ll tell you evil thrives among us in many forms because she’s a shape-shifter and a detective and she battles it every day.

And not just any shape-shifter. She is in line to become the Guardian, keeper of white magic, defender of goodness, destroyer of evil. But is she thrilled by her fate? No. She thinks it’s ruined her life.

That is, until she meets Stephen Winter, a dark warlock who is out to destroy her. He works for a highly covert government agency and knows how to keep a secret.

Bye for now and happy reading!

Connie Hall

Special thanks to

Camelot McAren and Sandra Greenman. I don’t deserve such good friends. Always to Norm and the boys. And to all American Indians, past and present. May your Trail of Tears fade, but never be forgotten.

Foreword

This Patomani Indian legend has changed little over the centuries. It goes as follows:

Long ago, the Creator formed Mother Earth. He sent the Maiden Bear to rule over all Earth’s creatures. Steam and brimstone spewed from the newly formed bowels of the Mother, and from that fiery brine emerged all evil, along with a race of sorcerers. Tumseneha was the father of them all. These sorcerers fed upon the misery, gluttony and lust of mankind, using humans as fodder for power.

The Maiden Bear saw that she could not control Tumseneha’s hunger for war, blood and souls, so she prayed to the Creator for help. He blessed the Maiden Bear and made her a god. She in turn fashioned the underworld to trap Tumseneha and all his kind.

As eons passed, the Maiden Bear grew weary of seeing man’s destruction of Earth, her tears forming the great rivers and oceans. She knew she must depart this sphere or drown it in her sorrow. But she could not leave her post unprotected. So she gifted her powerful magic to the first Guardian and gave the courageous female brave dominion over Earth’s evil. This perpetual honor is passed down through the first Guardian’s bloodline. After the Maiden Bear knew that the world was safe, she returned to her celestial throne to prepare a special place for each Guardian when her work here is done. She resides there with the spirit guides where she can be seen in the sky to this very day, watching over Mother Earth and each Guardian.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Prologue

Patomani Indian Reservation, 1927

Tumseneha struggled within the human vessel, but couldn’t break free. Staked leather bands trapped the human’s wrists and ankles to the ground. The physical pain wasn’t his to feel, though he perceived it through the young man’s physical awareness; the stinging heat of the fire in the nostrils and lungs, bowed spine bent over the mound, tearing of skin beneath the leather bindings. No, what he felt was on a higher realm, the spiritual ancient power encompassing him. It battled with his own strength, bound it, and compressed his essence into a burning cinder within the human body.

“No, please,” the young man screamed over the roar of the fire.

That had been the human’s plea, not his. He would never ask for mercy.

The human gazed beyond the circle of flames, and he saw through the eyes of the young man. Ancient ones stood behind the flames, circling the human. An orb of glowing energy emanated from them. He sensed the origin of its power: the cursed witch. He couldn’t see her face for the brilliant white swords of light jutting from her body, but he knew what she looked like. He knew all her kind intimately, for they were the bane of his existence.

He could feel her white magic warring with his own black darkness. Shaman spirits from throughout the ages inhabited her body. She had the ability to call them forth at will. She was the Tsimshian, the Guardian, the only person on earth who owned the power to destroy him.

She stepped forward and clutched a heart-shaped wooden charm. She opened the box, pulled out an effigy of a bear and raised it above her head. Her power shot up to the magic talisman and through it, burning like thousands of suns.

“From night you are born and from light you shall be bound. I call forth all the magic of my ancestors. We banish you, Tumseneha, and send you back to the underworld where you belong. You will never again walk the earth and feed off darkness.”

She unsheathed a dagger, stepped through the ring of fire and sliced an area over the human’s heart. The human’s spine arched from the pain.

“Let the blood flow, and let it cleanse the earth and this innocent.”

“No, no, no.” Tumseneha felt the energy crushing him.

She continued to carve the bear symbol over the human’s heart. Blood glistened on the tip of the knife and oozed down the human’s chest. With each drop of blood spilt Tumseneha felt his power draining, being sucked into a current beyond his control.

At the moment she completed the symbol, darkness caught him and pulled him into the vortex. “I’ll have my revenge,” he vowed as the darkness melted over him like molten lava.

Chapter 1

The Present

Katrina Sanecki picked up her pace on the jogging trail. She could hear someone behind her. The person had followed her for a quarter of a mile. Odd, she couldn’t hear footfalls, but the heavy breathing was unmistakable. Close. Too close. Somehow, all around her, the hot feel of it prickled her bare neck. And she could feel eyes watching her. Goose bumps slid down her arms and legs.

She shot a quick glance behind her. The full moon loomed over her and… Her breath caught as she saw phantom yellow eyes hovering beyond the thick oaks and hedges. A lot of them. She realized it was the hazy lights of the Washington Zoo, looming in the night. The zoo bordered the south end of Rock Creek Park. She let out a shuddering sigh of relief.

Her imagination was running wild tonight. She shouldn’t have come here after dark, but she’d had to work late and finish some reports, then get ready for her hot date. Lately, her guy had turned into an animal in the bedroom, and she liked walking on his wild side. She smiled at the thought of what the night would bring, then her smile died as the rising frantic cry of the animals drifted toward her.

Birds screeched. Monkeys screamed. Lions roared… The breathing. Still there. She hadn’t imagined it. Oh, God! Where was this pervert hiding? She couldn’t see him but, like the zoo animals, sensed him.

She swallowed the lump of fear choking her and sped up. Her legs churned as fast as they could go. Her heart hammered her chest.

The breathing closed in on her…

A rumble split the air, a beast’s attacking howl.

The growl tore through her like claws. She screamed as something hit her from behind and knocked her to the ground. This isn’t happening. Dear God. She’d never been this afraid in her life. She couldn’t struggle, it pinned her to the ground.

No. No. No. She tried to scream, but fear closed off her throat. Then it was too late. Darkness took away the pain.

Fala Rainwater gulped back rising panic and felt the night, alive, teeming, lapping up the campfire flames on the sacred mound. The fire thinned the frigid, damp air, lacing it with cinders and the odor of burning birch. Birch, the wood of choice for switches. Well, wasn’t this a beating? Nah, it was much worse than any spanking she’d ever experienced. She gasped for air and wished she was anywhere but here.

Her pulse thudded in her ears as she looked beyond the fire at the circle of Patomani elders surrounding her. The sacred council of twelve women seemed entranced as they watched the ancient wedding ritual unfolding before them.

Even though it was the dead of winter, beads of perspiration soaked Fala’s forehead. A braid corralled the straight black hair, which hung down to her waist. Beads woven into several strands around her face stuck to her temples and cheeks. The weight of the ceremonial wedding robe draping her shoulders felt like cement rather than doeskin. The feather fringe and tassels rippled down around her soft kid boots. She felt one feather’s sharp point poking into the back of her knee. Legend had it that the feathers were from a Thunderbird god who plucked one every day for a year and left them by a burning fire for the Patomani women to make the wedding robe. Right now, she wished someone had shot the Thunderbird and roasted it, feathers and all.

Beside her, Akando Chasing Deer, her soon-to-be fiancé, didn’t look at all nervous. Firelight glinted along Akando’s black-beaded braids, which hung down his back. It wasn’t that he was unattractive. A New York ad agency would pay a fortune for the high cheekbones, stubborn square chin, long-lashed dark eyes and muscled male body. The wedding robe he wore, identical to hers, covered his powerfully built body and hid its perfection. A finer male specimen didn’t exist, she had to admit. All the Patomani women on the reservation lusted after him—except herself, of course. The irony was not lost on her. She’d be married to this man in minutes. Bound to a man she didn’t love. Didn’t even care for. She saw the self-satisfied, devouring look in his eyes, and she wished she could melt into the fire and disappear into another dimension.

Fala listened to an elder playing the ceremonial flute. The haunting music rose up toward a massive glowing moon that peered down at her. Hands down, the largest moon she’d ever seen in her life. It soared over the tops of the oaks and encased the mound in an oppressive blue brilliance that eclipsed everything, watched everything, gripped everything in its path. Its closeness felt as if it would crush her at any moment.

Meikoda, her grandmother, stepped out of the elder circle, holding the blessing mat. Firelight danced along her ancient face and radiated a gorgeous burnt sienna, the same color as Fala’s skin. They also shared a dimple that hollowed the middle of their square, proud chins. Where Fala’s brows were jet-black, gray shadowed her grandmother’s deep-set eyes.

Meikoda held the mat above her head and glanced toward the full moon. She chanted a spell as she lowered the mat to the ground before the fire. Slowly her gnarled hand unrolled the ancient braided material.

Fala’s eyes met her grandmother’s. The heavy wrinkles weighing down the elder’s eyelids lifted, and the light behind the striking eyes enthralled Fala. They drew her into the unnatural shade of blue, neon, only brighter, wider. They were the strange blue of a dawning sky, alight with the radiance of Mother Sun. They were the eyes of ancient wisdom, portals to eternal magic.

Fala shared the same eye color as her grandmother, and the force of Meikoda’s gaze warred with her own. Fala blinked and quickly lost this battle and her concentration.

Meikoda’s energy struck Fala, and she rocked back on her knees from the impact and sucked in her breath. Okay, she got the warning: Don’t move. Don’t give into your fear and run from the sacred mound before the ceremony is complete. She really didn’t want to be another disappointment to her grandmother, and it took all of her willpower to stay kneeling.

Meikoda flicked the mat’s edge and gently picked up an ancient bowl carved in the form of two bears, their noses touching. White mist spiraled up from the hot potion and flowed over Meikoda’s gnarled hands as she raised the bowl heavenward. She closed her eyes and spoke an ancient incantation. “May blessings from the seven stars bind you for all eternity and the light of our Great Bear Maiden seal the union. Drink from the sacred bowl and be one.”

Fala knew that Meikoda chanted to the Warrior Bear Maiden, known to humans only as the constellation Ursa Major. Since the Dawning, the Great Bear Maiden had always been the totem of her tribe and the gateway to the source of their white magic and that of the Tsimshian’s power.

After a moment of reverent silence, Meikoda handed the bowl to Fala first.

Fala’s hand trembled as she drank from the bear on the left. The bitter liquid burned her throat, then she handed the vessel to Akando. Their fingers touched and he allowed the moment to linger until her eyes met his, eyes that glistened with greed and hunger. He grinned at her, then without taking his gaze from her, raised the bowl to his lips and drank.

Heat from the fire tugged at her, and she shook all over. Her vision blurred. Her head fell back and she collapsed on the ground. All she could see was that damn moon. The magnetic pull of it flayed her skin from bone, going deeper and deeper into her. The atoms of her body strained against the sensation of being torn apart. A strange lifting sensation engulfed her, then her spirit departed her physical body. It churned over her in a brilliant orb.

Akando fell next to her. His spirit roared out of him, bursting into an orange glow not as bright as her own. Fala heard the watching crowd gasp in wonder.

Their spirits, attracted by the energy of one another, drew closer. Before they melded, Fala’s spirit paused and hovered there.

Rainbow-colored rings surrounded the orbs as they undulated, swelled, surged, receded and waved in an age-old mating dance. Fala’s unwilling spirit avoided Akando’s thrusts to reach her.

“Fala, let your reluctance go,” Meikoda ordered.

I’m trying. Fala squeezed her eyes closed and concentrated on reining in her will.

After what seemed like years, but had to have been minutes, Meikoda said, “Enough.” She swept her hands through the air in a quickness that defied her age. A burst of brilliant white light burst from her palms and struck both spirits.

Fala felt her essence rush back into her own body in an electrifying whoosh. It felt as if someone had stepped off her chest and she could breathe freely again. She let the life-giving feeling wash over her, while she caught a whiff of the ionized scent that permeated the air from Meikoda’s magic, a smell much like the cleansed smell after a lightning strike. She grew aware of the flutist who stopped playing. Dead silence blanketed the cold air.

Akando, already on his feet, stood before her. He bent and grabbed her hand and jerked her up before she could protest. When they stood nose to nose, he said, “You’re delaying this on purpose.” The terse words revealed the blow to his ego.

“We’ll try again.”

He grabbed her arms, his face defiant. “I’ll not be made a fool of a second time.”

Fala felt his finger bite into her flesh as she pulled away, a warning flaring in her eyes. Now she knew why she had never liked Akando. His male beauty had spoiled him and he didn’t take rejection well. In fact, he was all too arrogant for her tastes.

“Enough.” Meikoda held up a hand. A bolt of lightning shot out from her fingers, hissing and spitting like a welder’s torch.

Fala and Akando backed away, giving Meikoda a wide berth, a lesson Fala had learned within the first hour of having been dumped at Meikoda’s doorstep as a child. This was the angriest Fala had ever seen her grandmother.

“No more anger on this holy ground.” Meikoda leveled a scathing look at Akando. “We will perform the ceremony again when Fala is ready.”

Akando opened his mouth to protest, but when he looked at Meikoda he looked into the face of the high priestess, the Tsimshian, the Guardian of white magic, the most powerful shape-shifter on earth. He clamped his mouth closed. After a withering glance in Fala’s direction, he stormed away, his form melting into the darkness.

“All of you leave now.” Meikoda motioned to the council, and the women followed in Akando’s wake.

Now that they were alone, Meikoda’s annoyance melted within the folds of her wrinkled face. “Tell me now, Granddaughter. Will you ever be able to finish the ceremony?”

“I can’t force it,” Fala whispered back, wishing she could summon more than dislike for Akando. “I need some time.”

“You only have a week before the winter solstice and the Warrior Bear Maiden reaches her zenith.” Worry pulled at Meikoda’s brow as she pointed skyward.

Fala gazed up at the sky to glimpse the Warrior Bear Maiden. But that damn moon blocked the constellation. On a clear night, the seven brightest stars that sliced through the Maiden’s belly could be easily seen. Her people called this cluster of stars the Utsi Yonia, or Bear Mother’s Womb. It is the Big Dipper. Those seven stars were magical, and on the exact moment of the winter solstice, when Fala had lived four annual cycles of seven, or her twenty-eighth birthday, the Bear Maiden’s womb would open and the seven stars would form a conduit between heaven and earth, thus sanctifying her and transferring Meikoda’s power to Fala. This cyclic blessing would begin all over again when Fala married Akando and bore a female child. The thought of bearing a child and heaping such an enormous responsibility on her made Fala groan inside. It was an honor being the Tsimshian, but at the same time it was a curse.

As if Meikoda read Fala’s mind, she frowned, deepening the wrinkles in her brow. “And you know what will happen if you receive your powers and are not joined to Akando within twenty-four hours.”

“I know, I know.” Fala squeezed her eyes closed to shut out the world around her. It didn’t work. The oppressive heat of the fire and the cold air on the holy mound suddenly collided around her and pressed against her. She felt trapped by it as she said, “He’ll die.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It’s just that…he was never my choice.”

“Choice. Choice has nothing to do with it, and you know this.” She punctuated her next words with an angry poke at the air. “You were both born at the same instant. You know this binds your spirits and preordains your marriage to him. If you do not marry him, another Tsimshian will not be born. Would you reap those consequences upon the earth?”

Fala hated to think what would happen without a Tsimshian on Earth. The balance between good and evil would tip and the underworld would gain control. Innocent humans would suffer the most. “I know my duty,” Fala said with a touch of flint in her voice. “And I’ll do it, unlike my mother.”

At the mention of Fala’s mother, Meikoda seemed to age before Fala’s eyes. “Your mother always did what pleased her and thought of no one else.” She paused and appeared to be reliving something painful, then she spoke more to herself. “We’ll speak no more of her.”

Fala gulped hard as she stared at the woman whose blood ran in her veins, who had raised her, whom she loved and respected, and whose strength had supported everyone around her. She was the most formidable woman Fala had ever known, but Meikoda’s strength hadn’t been able to manage her only daughter. After Fala’s father had died twenty-three years ago, her mother had dumped Fala and her two younger sisters on Meikoda’s doorstep and left the tribe to never return. Fala knew Meikoda was not only experiencing the pain Fala had just given her by not finishing the ceremony, but also the failure of having lost a daughter.

“I’m sorry,” Fala said, her voice cracking as she untied the wedding robe and handed it to Meikoda. She wanted to say, Can’t you see I’m not like my mother? I’ve lived my whole life proving I’m nothing like her. I’d never turn my back on responsibility, or hurt those I loved, or leave three daughters in your care. Instead she remained silent.

Meikoda’s eyes narrowed on Fala as if she were trying to search inside her, heal that part of Fala that belonged to her mother and wasn’t perfect. “If only humbling yourself could take care of this.” Meikoda sighed loudly. “But it will not keep you safe. You’ll be tested.”

Fala stiffened beneath the gaze. “How?”

“Darkness is drawn to the light of the Tsimshian powers.”

“I know that.”

“But, you do not know what Tumseneha—” Meikoda pronounced the name slowly, Tum-se-ne-ha, adding a certain element of well-deserved contempt to each syllable “—is capable of.”

Fala flinched at the name and felt a chill come over her. Everything in nature and magic had an opposite. White magic versus black magic. Male spirit versus female spirit. Yin versus yang. The Tsimshian’s dark counterpart was Tumseneha, the enemy of every Guardian who had come before her, and now he would be her enemy. “What do you mean?”

Meikoda said, “He will go to any lengths to take your powers and turn them to his own evil plans. Your life is in danger when you are away from the tribe and the elders.”

Fala’s face contorted as she thought of Tumseneha. How many times had she listened to her grandmother’s narratives about the legends of his evil, how he lured Tsimshians to their deaths, how the darkness loved him, how he bent it to his will? He was the object of her nightmares through her childhood and beyond. They had occurred with more frequency now that she was about to inherit her powers. She knew that each nightmare was a mental battle between them in some paranormal dimension, and she had been able to wake up before he hurt her. But the possibility that he could be roaming the earth again caused a wave of terror to shudder through her.

“I thought you banished him long ago,” she said.

“Yes, but he is strong. White magic can last but so long against the powers of darkness, and my powers have diminished over the years. I’m certain he knows that I weaken every day. He could already have escaped his bonds and be plotting to kill you and steal your powers.”

“Wouldn’t we know if he came back?”

Meikoda shook her head. “Not until he strikes. I’ve been praying about it, but have had no visions.”

“That means we’re safe, right?” Fala asked, her voice hopeful.

“It means I am an old vessel and cannot remain the Tsimshian for much longer. The Maiden Bear’s magic needs a new vessel.” She looked hard at Fala.

Fala knew the Tsimshian was a yoke the eldest female in her family had carried since the Dawning. The weight of it covered Meikoda’s face now like a snowdrift. She had shouldered her own responsibilities as well as her daughter’s for two generations, but not without cost. Age had weakened her and she looked tired, more than ready to relinquish the powers to Fala.

“I promise you, I’ll marry Akando and take my place.”

Meikoda lifted her head in a dismissive gesture as if the outcome was still in the balance. “I pray so, Granddaughter.” She reached up and cupped Fala’s chin.

Fala felt the leathered fingertips against her soft cheeks, the current of power flowing from them. She placed a hand over the warm, gnarled flesh and looked into her grandmother’s sad face. She felt a deep pang as she said, “I’ll be careful.”

Meikoda nodded to Fala and withdrew her hand. She reached inside her robe and pulled a leather thong holding a silver amulet from around her neck. “Take this. If Tumseneha is near, it will warn you.”

“What is it?”

“A guarded secret among Tsimshians, a gift from our ancestors and spirit guides. It will help keep you safe, but you must never speak of it or its power.”

Fala tried to place the ancient amulet back in Meikoda’s hand. “But you should keep it.”

Meikoda pulled back. “I am not his target. You need it more than I.”

Fala ran her thumb over the smooth edges of the Warrior Bear Maiden’s image. The mighty bear’s mouth gaped open, teeth bared, showing her spirit and power, an unstoppable force in nature like no other.

“Put it on and don’t take it off.” Meikoda pointed at Fala’s neck.

Fala slipped the amulet down inside her shirt. She could still feel the warmth from her grandmother’s body radiating from the metal. It suddenly felt like a hundred-pound rock weighing down her shoulders.

“Go, now. I pray you return to me.” Her words held a wealth of past disappointments and sorrows. She gave Fala her back.

Fala ran toward the path that would take her down the sacred mound, chest aching, feeling as if her heart might burst. The sad thing was that with each stride toward freedom, she felt lighter, freer. She couldn’t wait to get back to the normal life she’d established, even if it was for only a few days. She was a homicide detective and a good one. She’d much rather analyze a murder scene than take her grandmother’s place as the Guardian. Truth was she wasn’t ready to give up everything she’d worked so hard to accomplish. Life rarely allowed for wants and wishes, and she knew that soon she’d be bound to Akando and take up the yoke of the Tsimshian. The thing that hurt the most was that her grandmother had sensed the same weakness in Fala’s mother as she had sensed in Fala. I’ll prove her wrong once and for all, and she’ll finally believe I’m nothing like my mother.

Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt when the theme song from Phantom of the Opera startled her. She pulled her cell phone from her jean pocket and narrowed her eyes at the caller ID: Unknown Caller.

She decided not to answer as she hurried down the path. It rang again and kept ringing. Then a strange text message appeared in the cell phone window: Answer phone. Highly classified.

Was this the station trying to reach her? She said, “Hello.”

“Miss Rainwater?” A deep timbre floated her name, the kind of strong, velvety-edged cadence a radio announcer would kill to have.

Somewhere in that honeyed voice, she picked up on a Maine accent, his r’s at the end of her name turning into a ha sound: Rainwatah. “Who the devil is this?” she asked.

“Special Agent Stephen Winter.”

“Why are the feds calling me?”

“Actually, I’ve called your partner, too.”

“Wait a minute! Joe’s on leave. His wife just gave birth.”

“And now he’s back at work.”

A smart-ass and a nice voice. Bad mix. “What’s the case?”

“There’s been an—” he paused a beat “—unusual murder at Rock Creek Park. I need your expertise on the case. I’ve already cleared it with your captain, your chief and the mayor.”

Special Agent Winter not only worked fast, but he had clout in the District, too.

“You’re needed there ASAP.” It hadn’t been a polite command, but his baritone had wrapped the words in silken syllables and offered them up like sensual presents. “How soon can you make it to Rock Creek Park?”

“Two hours.”

“Where are you?”

What agency employed this nosey, bossy special agent? And why was he requesting her on this case? She looked forward to getting those answers. She ignored his question and asked, “Where’s the body?”

“Near the jogging trail next to the zoo. Know it?”

“Yeah.”

“Take the service entrance.”

“Okay, be there soon.”

Fala closed the phone, glad she had thrown in the last word. Now maybe she could clear her mind. It felt as if she had somehow been invaded by the hypnotic richness of Special Agent Winter’s voice. There was something strange about it, forbidden, beguiling, almost tangible. She looked forward to meeting this guy. In fact, she could think of nothing better than to be working. It might take her mind off of her impending marriage. Her grandmother’s disappointed face flashed in her mind, and she knew that had been wishful thinking.

Stephen Winter waved a hand over the cell phone on his desk and it hissed off in the emptiness of his office, not a typical government-issue space. Crystals covered the walls of the pyramid-shaped room, and clear, processed ectoplasm bubbled within the space between the crystals, lending the room an appearance that it was alive and moving. The pyramid acted like a cosmic generator and gathered power from the earth’s core, and a beam of pure energy glowed down from the pyramid’s apex. At the moment the beam was a soft blue, the full moon affecting its power source tonight. When the pyramid was fully charged, as it was now, an alkaloid smell seeped from the ectoplasm. Usually the air vents took care of the odor, but not tonight.

Stephen sniffed and wrinkled his nose. He leaned back in his desk chair, snapped his fingers and Billie Holiday’s sexy voice came from the computer speakers on his desk. He and Billie had a long-standing love affair.

He closed his eyes, meditated on Fala Rainwater and focused all his kinetic energy on her. He felt the narrow parameters of his powers, controlled by the blood-binding cloaking spell he was under. It allowed him one clear portal, a direct connection to Fala Rainwater’s mind. His ability to read other humans’ thoughts had all but faded, a consequence that couldn’t be rectified until the cloaking spell was broken. But he couldn’t break it until he was done with Fala Rainwater. An unavoidable catch-22.

The crystals in the office magnified his bond to Fala a hundredfold, and a mental image of her channeled directly into his mind. This was reality unfolding and he was right in the middle of it. Not a bad place to be at the moment.

His chest thrummed at the sight of her, total traffic-stopping gorgeous. Tight jeans curved along her long, thin legs. A royal-blue sweater fell down and hugged her thighs. The way it clung to her shapely breasts, she could definitely turn male heads. And that straight black hair, bound by a braid as thick as his wrist. It hung down to her waist. Several dark strands had been left to drape her face, the glass beads in them shimmering ivory, silver and blue in the moonlight. Her skin radiated a gorgeous burnt sienna. She should have been cited as a menace to mankind.

He felt the blood rush to his groin, heard the seashell roar of his pulse in his ears. He bounced his leg nervously. Up and down. Up and down. He rubbed the stubble on his chin until his skin felt raw, trying to control this purely carnal response. He might as well try not to breathe.

He couldn’t stop his growing erection, nor could he manage the images of her burned into his psyche: her sexy body in the shower, every inch of her soapy skin wet and glistening; the hue of her long hair as it turned coal black beneath the water. Her high-peaked nipples hardening into little nubs when she was cold and stepped out of the shower. The ritualistic way she secured the towel around her, carefully stuffing it into the hollow of her cleavage. How she cocked her wrist downward when she brushed her teeth and the goofy faces she made at the mirror. The slow agony of watching her dress every morning, and the bittersweet torture of watching her undress at night. Day and night, the torment never let up.

He knew how she took tiny bites and chewed her food. The torturous way she let chocolate linger in her mouth, sucking on it until it dissolved. He’d watched the exact way she slept, curled into a fetal ball. Since he’d come under the binding spell, her life was an open book for him, and he’d paid the ultimate price for reading it. Just this morning he’d dreamed about her, and he awakened aroused and wet, and had to take a cold shower. He hated that his weak human side couldn’t control this desire for her. Somehow he had to get a handle on it. Feelings of any kind were dangerous when tracking a target.

A frown tugged at his lips as he forced his attention back on Fala in present time. Fala, whose lithe coltish strides hurried down the heavily wooded path. He watched her long, slender legs in action, her stiff spine and bearing that of a proud warrior queen. He listened to her breath moving over her lips, heard the soft tread of her booted feet on frozen leaves. She was leaving Patomani sacred ground, alone, and…unmarried. Better and better.

Now for her thoughts. The moment he entered her mind, he slammed into what felt like a brick wall. What had happened on the sacred mound? His kinetic power hadn’t been able to penetrate the holy ground of Whitemags—underworld slang for practitioners of white magic. He’d had to wait until the ceremony concluded. Had the old shifter, Meikoda, cast a protection spell for her granddaughter? He could still see Fala but couldn’t read her thoughts. He cursed his luck.

Up until tonight, before the old Guardian had interfered, Fala had been a perfect subject for autosuggestion. He’d used her own disinclination for her chosen mate and added a few mental prods. It had been easy to give her suggestions that she couldn’t marry the guy, and she’d diligently responded to them with very little mental resistance. It had pleased him that she wasn’t in love with this Akando character. It would make his task easier.

He had to give her credit. Her instincts when it came to choosing a mate were better than that of the bringers of her white magic. At least she knew Akando was all wrong for her. Her life force gave off a white, flaming aura. Akando’s essence hardly made a blip on the male radar. She’d incinerate him and blow away the dust. Was there any man on Earth up to the task of marrying the next Guardian? For a moment he envisioned holding her hand. She wore a ceremonial wedding robe, the same one she’d worn to the hallowed mound, and Stephen was also wearing one—not in this life.

His fingers clenched into fists, and he felt his hands tremble as he forced the vision out of his head. The soothing sound of Billie’s voice washed over him before another unbidden memory surfaced. When he had dipped into Fala Rainwater’s psyche, he’d felt the love she held for her grandmother, sisters and her people. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Fala Rainwater didn’t just love on the surface. Her passion went soul deep, consumed her very essence, burned in her core. It had staggered him and sadly reminded him of his own brothers. He hadn’t wanted to ever connect with her on such an emotional level. Too late, the damage was done.

He forced the memory into the darker shadows of his mind. What was love anyway but a burden to be carried through eternity?

Nothing mattered to him at this moment but getting close to Fala Rainwater. Now the dynamics had changed. If he couldn’t read and control her thoughts, it would make his plan harder. Yet not impossible. He welcomed thwarting the old Guardian’s attempt to save her granddaughter. The old Whitemag was on her way out anyway. She weakened by the hour.

He’d discover the source of the magic that was blocking Fala’s mind from his control, then he’d destroy Fala Rainwater.

Chapter 2

When Fala reached the entrance to Rock Creek Park, she checked her watch. Close to three in the morning. Exactly two hours from the reservation in Manquin, Virginia, to downtown D.C. She’d taken Route 17 to Route 1, a shortcut that avoided Interstate I-95.

She stopped long enough to flash her gold shield at the uniformed officer blocking the entrance.

He waved her through.

She turned onto the service road that would take her deep into the park. Moonlight reflected in the car mirrors and hit her eyes. That oppressive moon had followed her all the way into downtown D.C., riding her rear window like a gray, shifting phantom, blocking out the stars and the sky, almost blinding in its intensity. There was a menacing, almost tactile feeling to it, as if she couldn’t escape it anywhere she went. Usually she loved to gaze at the moon. Tonight was different. The pull was so strong, she felt it tugging at her insides.

She squinted at the narrow service road ahead of her. The park lights cast a sickly, yellowish glow over the pavement, spraying dim yellow diamonds over the black tarmac. Thick trees lined the road and the path that ran beside it. Their heavy boughs touched the eerie gray shadows cast by the moon. Up ahead, she spotted the lights and a long line of police cars and vans.

Nothing like an active crime scene to jumpstart her adrenaline. She grimaced as she pulled in behind a cruiser and got out, coffee in hand. The metallic scent of blood made her fingers tighten on the cardboard tray. The dry, frigid night amplified the smell, fouling the atmosphere, the odor sticking in her nose like glue. Sometimes having heightened senses wasn’t all that fun.

The dead of winter usually brought a drop in outdoor homicides. Frosty air somehow cooled the cravings of the deranged. But from working homicide for two years, Fala knew that violence increased during full moons. A killer had waited in this park and stalked a victim. She glanced up at the moon, spreading across the sky like a huge dirigible, the intensity and coldness of its silver glow almost annihilating in all its alluring beauty. Had this moon drawn the killer outside, heedless of the weather?

A tiny shiver hummed through her as she strode down the jogging trail, frozen leaves and mulch crunching beneath her soft kid boots. Several dog handlers combed the woods around the trail, but the Labs refused to cooperate. They cowered and pulled at the leads as if they wanted to get away. Far away. The handlers tried to scold the animals into control but with no success. What was wrong with them?

She stepped over the yellow tape that sagged around the scene. Joe was bent over, looking at something on the ground, running a hand through his thick, short-cropped dark hair. Wrinkled jeans rippled his thickset legs, and the shirttail of a flannel shirt poked out beneath an Army-issue parka. She’d never seen Joe without a suit, his “uniform,” as he called it. He looked as if he’d just thrown on any old thing he could find and driven there, another sleep-deprived casualty of a colicky infant. That was another reason Fala feared marrying Akando. She wasn’t ready for motherhood yet.

Dr. Harris Bergman, one of the medical examiners for the District, didn’t look much better than Joe. He bent over beside him, touching something on the ground. Dr. B was a frustrated M.E. Panic attacks in the O.R. during medical school had forced a change in plans and everyone knew it. He wore the failure in a permanent scowl on his face. The comb-over did nothing to discourage the negative first impression he presented, but Fala had always been attracted to underdogs, and she liked Dr. B. He wore a down vest over his white lab coat. It bulged in the middle from too many stops at Dot’s French pastry shop adjacent to his office. He habitually pushed up the thick glasses on his nose while he explained something to Joe.

As Fala stepped near them, she caught the scent that was driving the dogs nuts. The odor of human blood couldn’t mask it; a rare predatory smell, the feral-beast trace of copper, sour urine, and ancient mystic woods. A paranormal smell.

The evil essence crawled along her senses like thousands of spiders. Supernatural beings left a lingering aura much like humans left a detectible scent. The stronger the being, the more powerful the aura, and this creature’s energy hummed inside her like an electric current. It raised the hairs on the back of her hand and forearm. Her fight-or-flight response took over. Her heart raced and her blood vessels constricted. She almost dropped the coffee cups in her hand.

She righted them and swallowed hard, squared her shoulders, and forced her feet into motion. She had to keep this to herself for now.

Joe saw her, motioned her over. “About time,” he said, helping himself to a cup. “Thanks. You read my mind.”

“Didn’t have to. It’s written all over your drooping eyes. So what have I missed?” she asked with her usual at-the-scene drollness. She’d learned a long time ago that a little levity was necessary when working with death day in and day out.

“Strangest scene I’ve ever worked.” Joe gulped his coffee.

“Now we know why Special Agent Winter wanted us on board. Our asses will be on the line if the case isn’t solved.”

Joe spoke over his cup. “Sì, this case has ‘scapegoat’ written all over it.”

“So where is Mr. Ice Storm anyway?” She glanced around, disappointed at seeing only the dogs and their handlers. On the long drive in she’d had a lot of time to think and she had concluded that Winter was probably middle-aged, fat and balding. Voices could be just as deceiving as appearances.

Joe stopped drinking long enough to say, “Searching the woods somewhere.”

Bergman saw the dark brew and raised one bushy brow to a hopeful slant over his glasses. “Is one for me?”

Fala nodded. “Of course, Dr. B.”

He took the coffee and held it for a moment, warming his gloved hands, sniffing the aroma. A coffee savorer like herself. Unlike Joe, who’d lap up anything—including the tar served at the station.

“So, what makes this strange?” Fala asked, guessing from her earlier vibe that she already knew part of the answer. She looked around for somewhere to set the last cup of coffee….

“Mind if I have that?” asked a familiar deep voice.

Taken off guard, she wheeled, almost spilling the coffee. She watched as a figure emerged from the surrounding darkness. Her breath caught as Winter slowly stepped into the light, legs first. A black trench coat concealed his body, and there was a lot to conceal, well over six feet of it.

Wide shoulders came into view. Then the rawboned face.

Collar-length, jet-black hair was brushed straight back, revealing a widow’s peak that accentuated his sharp cheekbones. Tight lips rested above a pointed chin covered in dark stubble. The aquiline nose gave him a hawklike look. On the fat, balding, old-guy meter, he registered a flat zero.

Their gazes held. She stared into his silver eyes, stark against thick black lashes. His eyes were cold, sheenless bits of granite, the color of that strange moon tonight. She couldn’t find one glimmer of human vulnerability in them. And they were too direct, too bold, hiding something behind them. Coupled with that deceptively smooth voice, he could be lethal around women.

Fala managed to nod in answer to his question.

“Thanks. I owe you.” He strode up to her, his long legs moving with oiled grace, almost as if he were floating toward her. He paused and towered over her, his wide shoulders blocking her view of the woods—actually obstructing her whole field of vision. He reached for the coffee.

Fala realized her fingers were digging into the cardboard holder. Before she could react, he steadied the holder, covering her hand. The heat of his palm seeped through her skin, the hot width of it penetrating her fingers, branding a path up the length of her arm. She wanted to jerk her hand back, but he held it tight as he reached for the cup.

His head turned into the light and she noticed a faded scar that spread small talons over his right jaw. It added to the aloofness that oozed from him.

He took the cup and finally released her hand. “Thanks.” His voice held too much warmth as he made direct eye contact.

Fala stepped back from him, putting a good three feet of personal space between them. His nearness made her feel vulnerable somehow. She wasn’t one to lose her cool over a guy’s touch. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at him as she found her voice. “You must be Agent Winter.”

“That’s right. You can call me Stephen, or Ice Storm.” He didn’t smile as he extended a long-fingered hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Detective.”

She eyed the proffered hand. She wasn’t falling for that one again. She nodded uncomfortably, catching a hint of a ruthless sneer on Winter’s lips. Had he sensed the reaction she’d had to his touch? Clearly, he was messing with her.

“Let’s skip the niceties. Why are we on this case?” she asked, meeting his gaze now that she stood a safe distance away.

“Because Senator Osgood Kent is involved, and my superiors thought you’d help solve it quicker.”

“Before the press gets wind of it, you mean.”

Joe interrupted. “What’s the senator got to do with this?”

Bergman picked up an evidence bag near his case and handed it to Joe as if answering the question. “We found this in a pocket of the jogging shorts.”

Joe looked at the contents, then handed the evidence bag to her. She examined the small card-carrying case. Then she looked at Katrina Sanecki’s license, Senate ID card, and a twenty-dollar bill. No denying the girl’s beauty. Blonde, blue-eyed, dimpled smile, perfect teeth, tiny nose and flawless skin. But it didn’t explain anything. “Who is she?”

Winter sipped the coffee, made a face as if it were too bitter for him, then said, “The senator’s aide.”

“So we’re assuming the vic is Sanecki?” Joe asked.

Winter nodded.

Fala asked, “How did the feds learn of the case so soon?”

Winter angled a brow at her. “My department follows cases where the possibility of the public interest could be considerable.”

“A nice way of saying it involves a U.S. senator, a vicious murder and a wealthy victim,” Fala said.

“All of that, yes, and to keep certain aspects discreet.” He waited to speak again until Fala’s eyes and attention fell squarely under his control. “You know how it is with secrets in this town.”

Fala betrayed nothing, although her pulse quickened and her mind raced to figure out his game. Was he alluding to the fact she was a shape-shifter, or merely referring to the typical D.C. trash where truth was a dirty word?

When she didn’t speak, he added, “Who knows what else will turn up? Everyone working this case will come under intense scrutiny.”

The way he looked at her when he uttered the final three words gave her a start. What was he implying? Did he know about her powers? “So what are you, FBI, CIA?” she asked.

Winter merely nodded in a controlled and poised way, a smug expression guarding a myriad of secrets.

She picked up on his adversarial vibe. It was clear he enjoyed keeping others off balance and in the dark. Nothing felt right about this guy, now that she studied him. Usually she could see spiritual auras glowing around a person. Not with Winter. Stone-cold blank. Nothing close to the normal violet or indigo. Was he the undead? No, vamps and zombies gave off a sickly, reddish-black hue. Something was blocking his aura. But what? And why had he called them into this case? Later, she promised herself she’d find out.

She let it drop for the moment and turned to Bergman, who was nursing his coffee. “So, Dr. B, what are we looking at?”

Bergman finished his coffee and stuck the cup in a brown satchel near his leg. He shoved up the black spectacles perched on the end of his nose, then bent and picked up a shredded sports bra. “If you enjoy M. Night Shyamalan, this is all the entertainment you’ll ever want.” He held the blood-covered top by the straps. Five jagged tears scored the center of the back.

At the sight of the destroyed material, Fala felt a sick sensation in the pit of her stomach. She could imagine what the body looked like.

Winter asked, “Have any theories on how the murder was committed?”

“An animal, surely,” Bergman said.

“With big claws or teeth,” Fala added.

“A zoo animal?” Winter asked.

Joe polished off his coffee and said, “We got a guy checking to see if they have an escapee.”

Fala pointed at the three-foot patch of blood that had soaked the ground. “All the vic’s blood?”

Bergman shoved his slipping glasses back up on his nose with the inside of his forearm. “I’ve taken a sample to test against the stains on this bra. I’ll test it against a hair sample Mr. Winter retrieved from Miss Sanecki’s apartment, too.”

Winter eyed Bergman over the top of his coffee cup. “I’d be glad to run it through my own lab.”

“It’s on top of my list.” Bergman shot Winter an indignant glance for trying to step into his forensic domain.

“I’m sure Senator Kent will look favorably upon any priority you can give this case.” Winter worked a smile but it never quite touched his face. “Just give me a call when you get the results.”

Fala didn’t like the superior expression Winter wore. She glanced over at the bagged shredded panties and shorts, or what was left of them. Beside them, she noted a pair of tennis shoes, torn and shredded as if something chewed on them then spit them out. Other than the bloodstain, that was all the evidence they had.

“How much blood is that?” Fala asked.

“Best guess, about three pints,” Bergman said. “If it’s our vic’s, then it’s safe to assume she’s dead.” He dropped the tattered bra in an evidence bag.

She glanced toward the frantic dogs. They balked, shivered, and suffered fear fits as the uniforms and crime-scene techs combed the grids they had marked off. “Nothing found in the woods yet?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Bergman said.

“There’s got to be parts of the body around here…somewhere.” Joe glanced at the dogs and shrugged. “And what’s up with the damn dogs? They’ve gone loco. We’re going to have to bring in some more teams.”

Yeah, canines that couldn’t smell death and fear and something that frightened them to the point of madness. Fala looked down at the blood and another chill crawled down her neck. Then she felt Winter’s gaze on her. When she looked at him, he quickly glanced at Joe. He knew something he wasn’t saying.

Winter said, “The body could have been taken from the scene.”

Bergman gulped and said, “Or consumed.”

“One hungry creature,” she said.

Joe asked, “What kind of animal would eat a whole body?”

Bergman sneered, his usual expression while he thought. “Don’t know of any animal that eats flesh and bone in one sitting. Even lions and bears leave carcasses.”

Fala felt the predator’s aura pricking her senses, and it caused another tremor to go through her. “What about tracks?”

Bergman shook his head. “None found. That’s one of the weird things, too. There should be tracks, especially with this much blood.”

Fala knew only some supernatural beings left tracks in the physical world. She had a feeling the only track this killer had left was the energy crawling down her skin as she said, “We’ll need surveillance tapes of the park entries and exits. I want men questioning every regular night jogger.”

Joe added, “And we need background on the vic—”

“I have all the information on Ms. Sanecki’s friends and contacts in the area,” interrupted Winter. “Her family lives in Cincinnati and I have an agent on the way. I also have her BlackBerry, her itinerary for the past two days and a log of phone calls from her apartment. And I’ve requested her cell phone records.”

Fala looked askance at him. “Couldn’t get her shoe size yet?”

“Judging from what I saw, I’d say size eight.” He pointed to the jogging shoes.

Fala cursed herself for the easy set-up. Without turning toward the shoes, she said, “Asics Gel 500s, actually. She must have been a pronator.”

Joe’s cell phone rang to the tune of Brahms’s Lullaby. “Sì.” His expression darkened, his nose twitching. He slapped the phone closed and said, “All animals are accounted for at the zoo.” Before he could put his phone away it rang again. He answered, his expression quickly growing in concern. “What? Mannie, that you? Speak up!”

Fala could tell by the panic in his eyes that something was horribly wrong. Mannie, Joe’s cousin, had just joined the force. Unlucky guy had drawn the graveyard shift.

In the bright halogen lights set up around the scene, Joe’s face turned pale. He slapped the phone shut, his eyes haunted. “What’s wrong?”

“Something’s going down at the station. I could barely hear Mannie.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked for a priest.”

Fala turned to Winter. She hesitated but had no choice. “Can you handle the scene alone for a while?”

“Of course.” He looked offended she’d asked such a question.

“Let’s go.” She ran behind Joe toward his car, feeling Winter’s gaze piercing her back.

“I hope everything’s okay,” Winter called to them.

A silken undertone of sincerity stirred beneath Winter’s words and caused her to turn and look at him. But his eyes said something entirely different. On the surface they glistened like pearls in a crystal glass, but deeper the transparency turned opaque, indistinct, obscuring what? A hidden agenda? Yes, she’d learn what it was.

Before she jumped in the car with Joe, the moon caught her attention. It wore the same furtive leer as Winter. Ancient Patomani legend spoke of a demon cousin to the moon, Sissong. Sometimes Sissong would come out to dance, entrance his victims, then steal their spirit and eat them. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear Sissong was hiding behind that moon. What was Winter hiding behind?

Joe had already started the engine and she hopped in the car, wondering what else could happen tonight.

Stephen listened to the dogs’ baying, whining and barking at being forced to stay near the crime scene. “Control those dogs or get them the hell out of here.” He didn’t take his eyes off of Fala Rainwater as she rode away.

“Yes, sir.” The officer snapped an order to one of the canine team members.

Stephen narrowed his eyes on the outline of Fala Rainwater’s head fading from view as the cruiser sped around a bend in the road and disappeared entirely from sight. He didn’t know what he had expected at his first up-close-and-personal meeting with Fala Rainwater, but it wasn’t the physical shock he’d experienced at touching her. He’d grown instantly aware of her power. It had been almost painful as she had prodded his spirit, trying to break through the magic shield cloaking him. She was so powerful he’d felt her energy crackling all over him, and he’d found himself fantasizing about his tongue and the dimple that hollowed the middle of her square-jawed chin. And those raven brows that shadowed periwinkle eyes. The blue glowed with an inner flame, and he had found himself being drawn to that flame like a moth to its death. For a moment he had thought the dark magic wouldn’t be strong enough and she might discover just what he was. He couldn’t let that happen yet, or his plans would be in ruin.

Yes, his destiny and her destiny were linked now, and there was no turning back. He walked toward the medical examiner, who was still working the scene and heard the polystyrene coffee cup crunch eerily beneath his shoe. It sounded like tiny screams in the heavy, damp stillness of the night.

Chapter 3

Fala ran up the front steps of the Twenty-first Precinct. The brick Greco-Roman building had housed the Twenty-first for over a century. It still stood like a bastion of strength in the middle of a block of restaurants and small businesses. Light poured out through the windows of the precinct doors, cutting a jagged edge across the dark steps. Joe had dropped her off and driven around back to cover the rear.

Colt drawn, she crept up to the doors and glanced inside at the main hallway and front desk. No one in sight. Definitely odd. The small police station fortified the heart of the District, and it hummed with activity round the clock—especially on full-moon nights.

Fala eased open one of the doors and slipped through. Dead silence engulfed her. It blanketed the normally buzzing front desk. A cup of coffee sat on the counter, steam spiraling up from it like a ghost in the air. Computer screens hummed on the desks behind the front reception area.

Someone got an email; “You’ve got mail” pinged in the silence.

Somewhere a radio squawked for a dispatcher. She noticed the benches in Processing sat empty; no criminals handcuffed, waiting to be booked. No lawyers or bail bondsmen. No hookers. It was like being thrown onto the set of 28 Days Later.

She walked past the desk and sniffed the air. Her keen senses detected the metallic scent of human blood. Then the supernatural vibrations struck her with such force it felt like she’d walked into a hive of hornets, a very large one. The same eerie, negative energy as at the park.

She bent and touched the floor. The trail of energy was fresh, the underworld darkness in it palpable. Evil vibrated through it. Her hand began to tremble, her fingers on fire from the dark magic. She jerked her arm back and stood, gripping her .45. Adrenaline raced through her. Her own heartbeat pounded in her ears. And she heard her grandmother’s warning: Be on your guard. Had she brought this evil to the station? A sick, guilt-ridden feeling swirled in her gut. Was anyone left alive here?

Her stomach clenched hard at the thought, then she felt the amulet vibrating against her skin.

Tumseneha was here.

Had he come for her? All the horrible images of him from her numerous nightmares flashed in her mind: a shifting, faceless shadow that fed off fear, a beast with four heads and fanged teeth; the one she dreaded the most was the normal male faces. He had sneaked up on her in those dreams, stepped out of crowds to grab her by the neck or plunge a knife in her back. He was, after all, a shape-shifter, and unlike her he could change his physical appearance into anything his heart desired. Her white magic was limited only to the bear totem. What form had he assumed at the park when he’d killed the girl? Was it the same one at the station now? She recalled the missing girl’s body and shuddered.

A crash sounded in Processing. Screams followed. At least people were alive.

A growl rumbled through the station, so menacing and so guttural it vibrated along her nerves. She had heard the howl of many beasts, natural and supernatural, but never one that sent dread through every nerve in her body like this one.

She crept down the hall, her temples throbbing, a knot in her throat.

As she drew closer to Processing, she saw the five-hundred-pound solid metal door, ripped clean from its hinges, the edge of it sticking out through the jamb. It was one of those “proof” doors, bulletproof, atomic-bomb proof, 9/11-afterthought proof. Too bad it wasn’t evil-sorcerer proof.

She paused at the glass windows that ran along the wall separating Processing from the hallway. Her keen senses detected the sporadic thumping of human hearts inside, their fear jack hammering the air.

Another crash and more shrieks as she peeked inside.

Utter chaos. Desk and filing cabinets overturned. Civilians, cops and what looked like everyone in the building had hit the floor, some pretending death, some not pretending. Mannie was among them, pinned beneath an overturned desk, his cell phone still in hand. She zeroed in on his heartbeat. Still alive, but barely. Tumseneha had attacked him with ruthless accuracy.

At the front of the room she spotted Detective Brower cornered by a lycanthrope. A werewolf, a ravehai in Patomani lingo. And right now this thing conjured from the underworld’s darkest reaches looked like the embodiment of pure brute force and viciousness. Sinewy strength bulged from its muscles. Gray, matted hair covered its body. Five-inch claws curled along its gnarled half-human, half-wolf hands. She could see the life-force aura the beast emitted, a nexus of pulsing, deep burgundy and black demon light.

Hollywood had perpetrated a lot of contemporary myths regarding werewolves. The one that angered Fala the most was that werewolves didn’t know they were killing while in wolf form. Heck, yeah, they knew what they were doing. They reveled in carnage.

The whole biting thing and silver-bullet hoax were just as laughable. Werewolves didn’t just walk the earth, biting and propagating its kind. They had to be conjured from the underworld like any parasitic demon that inhabited human bodies. A sorcerer powerful enough to call forth a werewolf spirit was also powerful enough to control it and protect it. Killing the host human never destroyed it, and an innocent life was always lost in the process. But the werewolf spirit could always slip into another human until the cycle was broken, either by destroying its master or by an incantation that could command it to leave the human vessel and return to the underworld, to await another resurrection. Fala had lost count of the number of werewolf spirits she’d dispatched to hell. So much for getting the facts straight.

The difference here was Tumseneha had not only conjured this lycanthropic spirit but also inhabited the human form it infected. Two puppets for the price of one body. Not bad change. He couldn’t have chosen a more fearsome creature to attack the station, she’d give him that.

Brower was a giant of a man, all of six-five, but the werewolf dwarfed him. Blood and spittle dripped from its huge mouth and long fangs as it backed Brower deeper into the corner.

Fala had never seen Brower afraid before, and what she saw now was way beyond fear. Tears streamed down his square face, but he seemed unaware of them. He wore a crazed look of disbelief as he stared into the lycanthrope’s red, glowing eyes. Brower had wet his pants. He trembled all over, stumbling backward. The first sighting of a werewolf tended to make people a little nuts.

Fala went to tap the barrel of her .45 against the glass and draw the werewolf’s attention away from Brower, but no need. The creature sensed her and turned.

Their gazes locked.

Cruel eyes narrowed slightly in recognition, as if he were sensing a target. The medallion throbbed and burned between her breasts like a divining rod, almost branding her chest. She could feel the world of opposites colliding within her, Tumseneha’s red underworld power writhing behind the werewolf face, coiling to extinguish her white-blue magic flames. His power was so strong it made her head throb, and her skin felt as if it were being peeled from her body.

You are mine. I have marked you, Tsimshian. You and all your kind will die by my hand. Tumseneha’s voice pounded in her head, the same voice from her nightmares.

We shall see, won’t we? Her heart banged her ribs, years of fearing this confrontation converging on her like a downpour.

I have already won…

Not while I’m still alive, she answered with more bravado than she felt. And like the coward you are, you’ve chosen to prey on weak mortals. Let’s see how well you do against an equal.

I’ll destroy—

Fala grabbed the amulet and meditated on an image of the Maiden Bear, clouding her mind to his words. White magic flashed from her core and burst from her body, jettisoning his thought transference out of her consciousness. She felt the aftershocks of his cloying essence leave her. Her mind grew suddenly clear, as if someone had wiped a slate clean. The amulet pulsed in her hand, energy still throbbing from the ancient metal, its heat comforting her skin. She hadn’t been prepared for the power of the amulet and how it enhanced her own. But damn, it sure felt good.

She waited until he sprang through the doorway. His werewolf-form moved toward her with stalking, effortless grace, muscles pumping beneath a pelt of fur, eyes never leaving her.

She ran for the front doors. She had to lure him outside, away from these people so she could fight him.

“Duck, Fala.” Joe’s voice came from behind her.

“No, Joe!”

Gunfire opened up.

She wheeled as Tumseneha leaped on Joe, his bullets doing nothing but angering the beast inside him.

Tumseneha bit and clawed and threw Joe against the wall like a rag doll. Joe didn’t have a chance. Fala saw the creature’s maw open in preparation to lunge at Joe’s throat for the coup de grâce.

“Hey, coward, remember me?” she screamed.

The scream caught his attention. He dropped Joe’s limp body to the floor, then prowled toward Fala.

She emptied her clip into his chest.

The bullets only stopped him for a beat, then he recovered and took his time, licking Joe’s blood from his mouth, slowly, gloatingly, as if he were pleased that he had her right where he wanted her.

“That’s right, outside. Just you and me.” Emotion cracked in Fala’s voice as she struggled to keep her mind on staying alive and not on Joe’s fate. She backed toward the front doors, her eyes never leaving Tumseneha’s werewolf face.

Suddenly the SWAT team burst through the front doors, knocking her out of the way.

She cursed and hit the ground, covering her head.

“What the hell is that?” one of the team members yelled.

“Damned if I know.”

Their M-16s sprayed bullets at the lycanthrope. It sounded like the practice range at the academy, the reports deafening her.

Fala lifted her head enough to peer over her arm. Tumseneha staggered from the overwhelming rounds of lead hitting him, but Fala knew this was only a temporary obstacle.

His scarlet, burning eyes found her; a final farewell that made her skin crawl, then he turned and bolted for the fire escape. “Get it!”

The SWAT team sped past her.

“Don’t get too close,” she yelled after them, and hoped they listened.

She leaped to her feet and glanced at the stairwell door, then at Joe. Help Joe? Or go after Tumseneha? The SWAT team at least had him on the run. She felt certain they had enough firepower between them to stay safe, so she ran to Joe’s side.

Blood covered him. He’d been bitten in the shoulder, neck, side and thigh. She could hear his heart, weak, thready, barely discernible to her hypersensitive ears. Any moment she’d lose him.

“No, Joe. Stay with me.” She grabbed his arms, glanced up the hall and made sure no one saw her, then she pulled him into the fire escape.

He couldn’t die. He was family. The closest thing she’d ever have to a brother. Tumseneha couldn’t steal Joe’s life. She wouldn’t let it happen. She knew there were consequences for interfering with fate, but she wasn’t going to let Joe die at the hands of her enemy.

She rolled Joe on his side, then laid down next to him, spooning her body tight to his. His small-boned physique was a head shorter than hers, and she easily covered the length of him. His wife’s perfume still clung to his shirt from where Camilla had kissed him goodbye; it mingled with the scent of the new baby and the sweet metallic odor of his own blood.

“You’re gonna raise Josephine. Hear me? You’re gonna be okay,” she spoke in Patomani.

She chanted softly in his ear, invoking the power of the bear. She felt it rising from within her, building inside her. A spiritual current coursed through her veins, and it took all of her self-control to harness it. Her whole body burned as energy flowed into her arms and legs, into her center. She rolled Joe on his back and kissed him, opening her mouth and exhaling a ball of writhing power into his lungs.

His spine buckled as if he’d just been electrocuted. Their bodies melded into one and she went inside him, her spirit pushing at the male boundaries of his body, searing its way through him. She could feel the healing energy fusing together the torn, bitten flesh, regenerating new skin and muscle, starting his heart again.

Her power reached its zenith and she inhaled the healing energy back into her own body.

For a moment she couldn’t move. Once the life force left her body, she was vulnerable until it fully returned. After a moment, she looked down at Joe. Blood had burned away from the healed wounds. His color brightened and he breathed normally again.

“You’re fine now.” She chanted an ancient spell in his ear that would take away his memory of what had happened, but parts of his subconscious would still leak it into his dreams. Some things her magic couldn’t totally cleanse; the human mind was one of them.

She held him until his body relaxed, then she rolled him on his side.

He lay there, calm, still, looking as if he were napping. The torn places in his shirt couldn’t be helped. She could repair living flesh, but forget synthetic material.

Fala felt her body still humming from the healing exchange. Energy sizzled along her skin, raised the hairs at the back of her neck. Current crackled in her hair, and her braid clung to her sweater. The transfer had popped off the buttons on her leather jacket, and she scrambled to pick them up. Sirens sounded in the distance—a lot of them.

The door flew open and Brower almost tripped over her and Joe. The big guy looked as if he’d been running from an earthquake and the earth had opened up directly in front of him. He stood there, trembling, staring down at Fala, then Joe. The cloud of fear melted from his eyes and he realized Joe was lying in the stairwell.

“Sorry, I, uh— What happened to him?” Brower pointed a beefy finger at Joe.

Fala stood up. “He had a run-in with a wild dog.”

Brower’s forehead wrinkled on his bulldog face. “That was no freakin’ wild dog, Fala. Good God, if you could see what it did…” His words trailed off as if he were remembering the attack. He glanced down at the dark urine spot on his pants. He grew self-conscious and turned sideways out of Fala’s direct view.

“I saw.” Fala heard the sirens surround the building. “The cavalry has arrived. You’ve got to get yourself together.”

“I’m trying.” He gripped his fists to make them stop shaking.

“The captain is going to be down our throats for letting an animal overtake the station.”

“What could we do?” Brower shrugged his tree-trunk-size shoulders. “It took us by surprise. Bullets didn’t stop it.”

“Save that one for Internal Affairs and the tabloids.”

Brower shook his square head like a lost bull. “You’re right. No one will ever believe that story. But that thing, that god-awful thing.” His face twisted. “It tore people apart. I just let that thing back me into a corner. If you hadn’t lured it away from me…” His voice broke with self-recrimination.

Fala couldn’t help but feel pity for him. A full frontal with a demon wolf would give anyone nightmares for years. She knew from experience. She’d faced her first one at twelve and had bite marks on her right thigh to prove it. “You were traumatized,” she said. “No one saw what happened in there but you and me. Let’s stick to the story of a rabid animal.”

“I don’t know.” He rubbed his wide forehead with indecision.

She could tell him the truth that the werewolf was an evil sorcerer who was trying to kill her before she became the Guardian. Nope, that would blow his mind. And she couldn’t trust anyone with the truth about being a shape-shifter. Heck, it would be easier just to erase his memory of Tumseneha’s attack. It wouldn’t be the first human memory she’d erased.

She reached over and touched his beefy shoulder. Power flowed down her arm and into him. She watched as the look in his eyes turned blank and she spoke in a low hypnotizing tone, “Listen to me, Brower. It was a pack of pit bulls that attacked the station. Strays roam the city all the time. Now what was it?”

“Pit bulls,” he answered in a vacant, parroted tone.

Fala dropped her arm and knew she’d have to wipe away the memories of the SWAT team guys and anyone else still alive. Mortals tended to think along concrete references, a small little world of their own making. If they only knew what powers awaited their discovery in the metaphysical world, it would knock them on their asses. Better they remain in the dark. Brower would still have nightmares about it, like Joe. Nothing she could do about that. But at least they could wake up and realize they were only bad dreams. And Freud thought the libido controlled humans’ dreams. A lot he knew.

Joe moaned, finally stirring.

Fala heard frantic voices coming from behind the door. She envisioned the faces of the rescue squad workers and a battalion of cops as they found Processing.

“Look, take care of Joe.” She turned and ran down the stairs.

“Where are you going? Don’t leave me here alone.” He sounded like a child who’d just had his nightlight turned off.

Fala almost smiled. “I’ll be back.”

She ran down the stairs, wondering at her last statement. If Tumseneha was lying in wait for her, she might not come back. But she couldn’t risk anyone else getting hurt because of her. What had happened to the SWAT team? She couldn’t hear the gunfire outside.

Her cell phone rang. She continued down the stairs and pulled it from her pocket. Urgent flashed on the caller ID. Must be Winter. Great. The last person she wanted to talk to. More than likely he called to grill her on what had happened at the station. Why did she sense he knew more about her than he had let on? And why had her insides somersaulted around him? Men didn’t do that to her—none had made her body tingle like he had. Definitely someone to keep at arm’s length. She caught sight of a text message that flashed, Answer your phone. Urgent.

She slapped the phone closed and slid it into her pocket as she reached the exit door.

She stepped outside and grew aware of the stark emptiness of the alley, the tight air breathing down her neck. The sky was changing, black melting into purple, hints of morning sun burning away the night. The row buildings on all sides blocked her view of the moon, yet she felt the pull of it still there, grasping at its last few moments of power, losing the eternal war with the sun.

She glanced past the Dumpsters, toward a security light still humming at the back of Burney’s. Many of her coworkers’ birthday parties had been thrown at the bar. Fala had lost count of the rounds of beer she and Joe had bought each other there. Its dim swatch of light hardly pierced the alley’s darkness, but it afforded enough glow to scan the immediate shadows as she advanced slowly down the alley.

The trail Tumseneha had left stirred every nerve and flashed neon warnings to be careful. Was it a former trail, or a more recent one? Was Tumseneha lurking, waiting? She didn’t dare believe he’d given up so easily. She slowed her stride, eyes darting at every shadow.

Suddenly a hand snaked out from beside a Dumpster and clamped over her mouth, another around her waist. Before she could react, her back hit a solid chest. The flash of familiar silver eyes burned in her retinas.

Chapter 4

Stephen heard her muffled protest die behind his palm. The sensation of her struggling against him, overpowering her, bending her to his will, sent a knee-numbing rush through him for one second. Then it changed into something agonizingly awesome as her white magic collided with his own, warred with his essence. He hadn’t known full physical contact with the Guardian would be this intense. Was it the spell he was under that caused this reaction? The direct psychic connection? Or the magic protecting her? He had never experienced anything like this with a female, a feeling of spiraling out of control and bursting at any moment.

He wanted to push her away, but the delicious smell of spent magic still crackled along her skin and held him. Her thick braid brushed his cheek. He felt her gun and holster poking his side, and something much worse: her shapely ass twisting against his growing erection.

“Shhh, be still and I’ll let you go,” he said, knowing he couldn’t let her go even if he wanted to.

Her stiff back bent slightly and she quieted in his arms. He felt her surrender to the same sensations he was experiencing. She bent her neck toward his lips as she said, “You’ve got two seconds to let me go, Ice Storm, or you’re gonna need a new set of family jewels.”

He pressed his mouth close to her earlobe and fought the urge to taste the soft flesh near his lips. He felt her body shaking in his arms as he said, “You’ll thank me very soon.”

“Not on your—” A thump at the end of the alley cut off her sentence and commanded their attention.

The lycanthrope had leaped down from Burney’s roof, crimson eyes ablaze, fangs bared.

“Stay behind me.” Stephen stepped in front of her.

“Get out of my way.” She grabbed his shoulders and yanked.

When it came to physical strength she didn’t have a prayer.

He easily shoved her behind him, then grabbed the Dumpster and hurled it at the werewolf.

Two tons of metal and trash collided with the creature.

The lycanthrope and the Dumpster hit the opposite building with a loud crash.

Stephen reached for the Dumpster again, pulled it back and rammed it into the stunned creature.

The werewolf slammed against the bricks again.

An eerie male groan came from the creature’s throat, then it shook its head as if to clear it.

Werewolf and Stephen locked gazes. And it held too long. A cocky smile showed the werewolf’s yellowed fangs, then the creature threw back his head and howled, a spine-chilling cry that sounded more like Tumseneha’s devilish laugh. His form suddenly vaporized into a black mist of what looked like bees, only to disappear on the wings of the wind.

“Some exit.” Stephen arched a brow at the sky.

“Why weren’t you afraid of that creature?” She turned to face him, arms akimbo, liquid blue eyes blazing.

“Why weren’t you?”

“I asked you first.”

“Let’s just say I’ve dealt with things like that creature before.” He shrewdly stayed away from the word werewolf or lycanthrope. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the Dumpster muck off his hands.

“Who do you really work for?” she asked, watching him tuck the handkerchief back in the pocket of his long coat.

“I told you, I represent Senator Kent’s welfare.”

“You’re not a normal fed.” She glared into his cold eyes. “So who the hell are you?”

“If you let me buy you breakfast, I’ll tell you.”

Taken aback by the sudden offer, she eyed him. “I got kind of a mess to clean up at the moment.” She gestured toward a news van that sped past the alley entrance and squealed as it stopped in front of the station.

“My office can help you take care of that if you—”

“No, thanks,” she blurted. “Just keep your people out of my way.”

He cocked a brow at the vehement pout on her lips, one damn sexy sulk. It made him want to control those lips. “Suit yourself.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll call you in an hour. Pick up this time.”

She frowned at him. “Don’t give me orders, Winter. I’m not your subordinate.”

“Very well, Rainwater, please answer your phone.”

“I’ll think about it.”

She hurried toward the exit door, and he watched the sexy sway of her hips. He had to stop this fascination with her, and now. When she opened the door, he vanished before it closed.

Two hours later, Fala watched a waiter fluttering behind the counter, shifting between two middle-aged men sitting at the bar, pouring coffee, handing over the morning special of two eggs, ham, bacon and three pancakes. He looked barely old enough to shave and not particularly delighted with his job at the moment.

She and Winter were the only other customers in Happy Jack’s, and for that she was thankful. She could ask questions without prying ears. She hadn’t needed to convince Joe to go home and rest after his ordeal; he had seemed disoriented and confused after she’d wiped his memory. He said he was going back on leave. She agreed that would be a good idea, especially when the nightmares began. She’d dropped him at home, then had driven straight to the restaurant.

Across from her, Winter had his nose buried in the menu. His black hair gleamed blue in the harsh fluorescent lights. His dark eyes were hidden by long, thick lashes. Heavy dark stubble covered his chin and face, and she could almost imagine how it would feel against her skin. Yikes, he’s too handsome for his own good.

He’s not. Look at something else.

She shifted uneasily in the booth and could smell Winter’s spicy cologne, the starch on his white shirt. She listened for his heartbeat, but it was blocked by something. All she could hear was her own heart hammering in her ears. Every nerve in her body seemed tuned into his proximity. Why was she having this reaction to him? Her physical senses were off the charts. He awakened places in her that she believed were protected by her powers.

She thought of Akando. Why the heck didn’t he make her feel light-headed and a little faint? If only she’d felt half as much attraction to her fiancé as she felt for the man sitting across from her. The sinking sensation that always plagued her when she thought of her duties as Guardian pulled at her heart. Or was that just desire for a man she couldn’t have? Nothing like experiencing perverse lust.

To make matters worse, she hadn’t been able to forget the way their bodies had touched in the alley. It was as if she had fallen from a cliff and the particles in her body would reach the ground before she did. She could still feel the hard curve of his chest pressed against her back, the solid wall of unexpected male warmth, his growing erection. And what was up with that earlobe nuzzle? It had sent her mind reeling and she had stood there like an idiot, throwing empty threats at him. She hadn’t liked being at his mercy, or anywhere near him for that matter. Luckily, Tumseneha had chosen that moment to attack. She never thought she would be glad to face the devil again.

But another devil of sorts faced her at the moment, and he still studied the menu. She recalled that little eye dance between Winter and Tumseneha in the alley. Had they met before? And why had Tumseneha left as if he were afraid of Winter? It definitely raised more questions about Winter’s real identity. She was glad she hadn’t had to use her powers in front of him. She didn’t trust him one bit.

She didn’t trust anyone outside of her tribe, not at this critical time in her life. Too many uncertainties surrounded Special Agent Stephen Winter. But she would discover the truth soon enough—if he ever decided what he wanted to eat.

She tapped her foot on the floor and forced her gaze to the steaming coffeepot behind the counter. Other than a curt greeting, Winter hadn’t said anything for a full ten minutes. She wasn’t going to break the silence, but she was reacting to the jittery bounce of his right knee, the leg going up and down like a jackhammer. She felt the vibration of it hitting the center table leg. That leg had remained in perpetual motion since they sat down. What did he have to be uneasy about?

That nervous energy was catchy, too. She drummed her fingers faster on the table. And there was no escaping the heat emanating from his left knee, almost touching her own. The warmth of it seeped through her jeans, causing her skin to tingle.

He shifted, and the side of his right foot brushed one of her boots. She jerked her foot back and felt the button on his trench coat pressing intimately into her thigh. He’d laid his coat over her leather jacket on her side of the booth. One probing button down. With an irritated shove, she pushed both coats toward the wall. Jeez, was she losing her mind or was the booth shrinking? He was such a big guy. His nearness dwarfed everything, touched her everywhere. She’d rather be sitting on the floor than across from him in this shrinking booth.

She straightened and forced her long legs back against the plastic seat. Thankfully, he didn’t shift his legs. She listened to the sound of a fork scraping a plate as the minutes stretched between them.

It made her more anxious, and she finally asked, “Are you going to be here all morning reading the menu?”

He glanced up at her. “I know what I want.” His gaze slipped down to her neck, breasts, then shot up again. “Do you?”

He’d just checked her out. Fala met his gaze, even though her breathing grew shallow and her stomach felt like a fish flopped around inside it. A major complication she didn’t want or need. She assumed a mask of indifference.

His guarded eyes probed her as if she were a package he was about to open.

Not if she could help it.

“I knew what I wanted the moment I sat down.” She stared back at him.

“You’re very decisive.” His lips moved in the direction of a smile. Or was that irritation?

When she saw the tension leave his mouth, she was certain it was annoyance. He probably didn’t know how to smile.

“Waiter.” He raised a long-fingered hand and motioned to their server.

Fala didn’t know if he meant that as a compliment or an insult. His smooth tones gave nothing away.

He ordered eggs, bacon and coffee. She opted for a wheat waffle with strawberries and cream, and coffee. When the waiter walked back behind the counter and slapped the ticket on a hook at the cook’s station, Fala leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You got me here, so let’s talk.”

“All right, what would you like…” His eyes shifted to the waiter as he set a carafe of coffee and two cups on the table. After the waiter left, Winter finished with, “…to ask me?”

“First of all, why did you bring me into this case?” Fala reached for the coffee and filled both cups.

“I didn’t. I was following orders.”

Duh. Why was he toying with her? “Who are your superiors?” she asked, tightening her tone.

“I’ve never actually met them.” His dark brows arched slightly. “I receive my orders through email.”

“What agency do you work for?” Fala tasted the coffee, grimaced, and reached for the cream and sugar.

He stretched a hand toward the sugar at the same time. Their hands touched. Stung by his touch, she jerked back.

His lips hardened for a second as if he’d felt something, too. He recovered quickly and grabbed a sugar packet. “A branch of the State Department.”

“What branch?”

His brows knitted. “You ask a lot of questions. My turn.” Before she could protest, he asked, “Why weren’t you afraid of the lycanthrope?”

Fala chose her words carefully. “You’ll find, Winter, that I’m not afraid of much. In my line of work, I’ve seen a lot.”

“So you encounter werewolves on a daily basis?”

Yeah, and they take the form of tall, nosy and too-damn-handsome special agents. “Some,” she said.

“But they don’t scare you.” He leaned in toward her.

“No.” She realized she had gravitated halfway across the table toward him, their noses almost touching. She backed off and noticed him looking at her chest. Yet it wasn’t her breasts that had drawn his interest, but the impression the sacred charm made beneath her sweater.

She casually covered the spot with her palm and nonchalantly pushed an empty sugar wrapper around on the table. Her reaction registered in a long blink of his eyes, but his expression remained arctic.

His gaze shifted to the hand that covered the metal for a blink, then shot back up to her eyes. “But I scare you.”

Was she afraid of him? Damn straight, but he’d never know that. “I’m not frightened of anyone. My turn,” she said, shifting the conversation as adroitly as he had. “What division of the SD do you work for?”

“BOSP.”

“Never heard of it. What does that stand for?”

He lowered his voice and stared directly into her eyes as if he knew everything about her, even her bra size and how many pairs of thong underwear she possessed. “Bureau of Supernatural Phenomena,” he said.

“What? Supernatural Phenomena? If that’s a joke, it’s not funny.”

“I never joke about my work.” He looked lethally serious.

The government had a secret branch that dealt with supernatural occurrences? Never in a million years would she have believed that Uncle Sam knew about the supernatural realm. But what about Area 51? And they funded studies on ESP. Why not have an agency that investigated supernatural incidents? What floored her was they’d actually kept it a secret. So the X-files do exist.

“How many branches of the bureau are there?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I run the one in Washington.”

He knew; he just wasn’t saying. It occurred to her that he probably knew she was a shape-shifter, too. She swallowed past a growing lump in her throat. Suddenly the coffee in her empty stomach tasted sour.

She kept her voice level. “So why was BOSP interested in the park murder?”

“I’m certain you know why.” There was that shrewd look again like he knew her inside and out.

She nervously gripped the handle of her coffee cup, but didn’t drink it because she couldn’t exactly swallow at the moment. She decided to deflect his last statement and asked, “So did you find something we missed at the murder scene?”

“Not really.”

He was making her work for every bit of information. The waiter arrived with their food and plopped it unceremoniously on the table.

Fala picked up her fork, dipped it into the mound of whipped cream on her waffle, and licked it. When she noticed his eyes sharpening on her lips, she regretted what she’d done. She pretended to concentrate on cutting her waffle.

Silence stretched for a while, then he said, “Now that you’ve been to the murder scene, what are your feelings about the murder?” He wolfed down a strip of bacon in two bites.

She decided honesty would be the best tack on this point. “I think our visitor at the station murdered the woman. Now I just need to find out where he’s hiding. You have any leads?”

“Not a clue. I’ve never seen a werewolf dissolve into thin air as that one did. He’s not like any lycanthrope I’ve come across. How about you?”

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