I stared down at the lifeless body of a boy whose face was all too familiar.

Jacob's eyes were open, wide and unseeing.

"Shit, Dylan." The words fell softly. I didn't know what else to say. It didn't seem real.

Jacob Whitesides hadn't even begun to live. Hell, he was only sixteen. The last time I saw him, I was working on another case.

The Whitesides lived on a few acres close to a crime scene that had reeked of werewolf. Jacob had followed me out to my car asking about the preternatural community, curiosity burning in his eyes. Now, fixed on the blue-black sky above, they were completely void.

"I told you it wasn't pretty," Dylan said.

Indeed, he had. I put a hand over my mouth, taking in a deep breath and forcing myself to stand strong.

"He was only sixteen." I breathed the words. "Still a kid. Who would do this to a kid?"

I knew better than to ask such a question. It was like a knife to my stomach.

The paleness of death had lightened Jacob's summer tan, and his lips were half-parted as if life had slipped out between them. I saw no visible wounds, no sign of blood or struggle. One of the cops had placed a towel over his hips, covering his nudity.

He had been stripped of his clothes, as if even in death, the killer had wanted to leave him vulnerable and shamed.

Dylan offered me a pair of latex gloves. "I'm sorry, Mila. I know you spoke with him."

I took the gloves and put them on. I wouldn't find the killer by mourning Jacob's death. I couldn't stop what had happened, but I could stop what might happen.

Most cops look at a body and try to see only it. But you can't, not always. Sometimes, there isn't anything you can tell yourself to chase away the knowledge that the corpse at your feet was someone's loved one.

I could put a face to the people that would miss him. Worse, I could put a face to Jacob when he was alive. I shut the door on sadness and pity. The body at my feet was an empty shell, a piece of evidence. It may seem cold, but at times that line of thinking is the only thing to hold on to, the only thing that keeps you from sinking into the morass of violence.

You have to be able to detach yourself in police work. If you don't, you'll drown. I owed it to Jacob Whitesides not to.

As I shut my eyes and inhaled sharply, the smell of death hit my nostrils and the beast stirred, quirking an ear in my direction. For a moment, she seemed curious. But with no blood-tinged life to call her, she let her wolfish neutrality slide into place. I wrapped it around me like a shield and knelt in the dead grass, pushing aside any memory of Jacob Whitesides alive.

Using my thumb and index finger I tried to move the jaw, but had to settle for looking around it. Rigor mortis was setting in, so the body had to have been sitting for at least three hours.

Maximum stiffness would occur some time after twelve hours.

I didn't see any bite marks. Dylan had said on the phone that the victim had been drained dry, as if he suspected it had been done by a vampire. The skin was pasty, like wet chalk. It was easy to see why Dylan jumped to the vampire conclusion..

But if so, there had to be an exit wound. I checked for puncture marks in the arteries at the wrists. Still nothing. I sniffed, trailing my fingers across the collapsed veins at the elbow.

"Who found the body?" I asked.

"The father."

Mr. Whitesides was tall and tan, like an older version of Jacob. Mrs. Whitesides, I remembered more. She'd gone ape-shit, calling me the devil's whore and threatening to Bible-thump me out of her house. Fortunately, Dylan had taken over from there. She'd probably gone ballistic and they'd locked her in a loony bin. Hey, one could hope.

"You're right. The body has been exsanguinated," I said.

Even with a vampire attack, there should have been some blood, some hint of it. I sniffed again, thankful the corpse hadn't been sitting long enough to become pungent.

There was an exit wound somewhere. If I couldn't see it, well, I had other senses to rely on.

It was faint, like a miniscule piece of raw hamburger surrounded by the smell of dirt, death, and grass. I focused on it, knowing if I followed it I could find the source. Pushing the towel aside carefully, I made sure certain parts of the body remained covered and gazed near the groin area.

I ran the tips of my fingers over the wound. "The femoral vein was cut."

"Why not the artery?" Dylan asked. "If it was cut he'd have been dead in what? Fifteen to thirty minutes? If they were trying to kill him that would've been the way to do it."

"If they were trying to kill him quickly. Arteries bleed a hell of a lot more and a hell of a lot faster. We'd see more blood too. The medical examiner will be able to tell for certain if it was the vein, but I'd bet my ass it was."

Dylan knelt beside me, already wearing a pair of gloves, and craned his neck to see.

I put two fingertips to the slit. The cut was clean, indicating a steady hand and either a very sharp razor or a really sharp knife. The cut itself was only about two and a half inches long but went deep, deep enough to penetrate. I could've felt around the wound easier without the gloves, but I was screwed on that one.

You don't fuck up evidence by leaving fingerprints all over it before a medical examiner takes a look. I kept probing the wound and found a small interruption in the slit.

"I don't think it was just cut."

I tried to stitch the wound together in my mind, like making two pieces of a puzzle whole. I felt the edge of puncture marks.

"You need to make sure someone measures the cut and examines the edges of the wound carefully. From what I could feel through the gloves," I stood and crossed my arms over my chest, "the cut was created to distract from the original wound."

Dylan took his gloves off. "What do you think?"

"Definitely a vampire. It would explain the exsanguination."

"Damn it."

He had obviously been hoping it wasn't a vampire killing. Since he'd called me out, he already was sure that something preternatural was involved. Sometimes, it's human nature to hope the truth is a lie.

Pulling out a small notepad from his front pocket, he began to scribble notes. "I'll ask the medical examiner to take a closer look and see if she can find any fang marks hidden in our cut." Judging from the look that crossed his face, he intended to say something I didn't like.

"How's your girlfriend doing?"

"She's fine..."

"Would Vampira do—"

"No."

"How do you know for sure?"

"I cannot believe you're asking if the woman I'm dating did this."

"The woman you're dating happens to be one of them."

"So, you're pointing your finger at anything with a pair of fangs?" I was exasperated. I wouldn't sit back and let him make Lauren a suspect just because she was convenient. Sure, we'd been dating for almost a month, but I cared about her, and accusing her of murder crossed a major line with me.

Besides, Lauren would have more sense than to leave a body where the cops would find it.

As owner of The Two Points, Miami City's only vampire club, she wouldn't risk the bad publicity.

"No. You're right." He nervously straightened his blue tie. The suit was gray and neatly ironed. I seriously doubted he'd done it. He'd probably just taken it to the cleaners. Dylan's not a spic-and-span type of guy.

"You don't have to ask me something like that. I can tell you she didn't do it. If you even think of questioning her," I lowered my voice, "I'll be pissed."

"You're right," he said again. "I'm probably just pointing fingers because I have no idea where to begin finding the sucker that did this."

The corner of my mouth twitched. "Very poor choice of words. That's why you call me. I'm the one that shovels the preternatural shit, remember?"

Dylan gave me an idiotic grin. A younger-looking cop carrying a small grocery-store sack stepped up to us and held the bag open.

I dropped the gloves in it. "Thanks."

Dylan tossed his in. "Fine. Will you let me know if you find anything? Last time you didn't even tell us you figured out who the killer was."

"I didn't exactly figure it out under ideal circumstances. I didn't tell you I suspected Even Peter's because, if he had been a werewolf, he could've kicked your ass."

Dylan didn't know the whole truth and I sure as hell didn't plan to tell him.

Evan is a werewolf, but he hadn't kidnapped me. That had been Austin Mahone, half brother of the alpha female of the local werewolf pack and one sick puppy. He had murdered an innocent woman on Evan's land and left her for the police to find. His plan had nearly worked. It might've, if he hadn't botched it by kidnapping me.

"The last I checked you were human too," Dylan said. "Unless Vampira has taken you to the dark side. You do look kind of pale."

"Show me one person at a crime scene that doesn't look pale."

Dylan pointed toward the yellow tape around the scene. "That guy."

A cop in a dark blue uniform stood by the tape. His swarthy skin was practically camouflaged by night. The cop looked over at us and I gave him a quick smile before turning back to Dylan. "African-American doesn't count, smart-ass."

He laughed.

"I'm going home now," I said. "Call me when you get the ME's report, and stop making bad jokes at crime scenes."

"Will do, but I can't help telling a bad joke every now and then."

"You make a habit of it." I headed for my car parked near the edge of the woods. "I'm sure they have medication for that."

"If they put me on medication you'd miss me."

"Oh, really? I think you're flattering yourself, O'Brien."

"No. You'd miss me about as much as I'd miss you if they put you on Prozac and made you nice."

I rolled my eyes, laughing. "Good night, Dylan."

Ayeeeee so thanks to the two ppl who sent me a place were I could find this book, funny enough ya'll both sent the same place.
But yeah this is the second book to Witch Wolf (my personal favorite one) and the cover is still a work in progress but here's a chapter for ya