My cell phone rang from its place on the nightstand. I rolled over, blinking at the bright little window on the phone's face. I flipped it open. "Dylan," I grumbled sleepily, and rolled my eyes toward the clock. "It's almost four o'clock in the morning. What the fuck?"

 "Guess again, Cabello." Instead of Dylan's voice, someone else's gruff voice grumbled in my ear. I sat up in bed. "Deputy Sheriff Witkins," I said, wondering why the hell he was calling me from Shawn's phone. The only explanation I could think of was not a good one. "What happened?" 

"There's been another murder," he said, then asked me if I remembered how to get to the Whitesides. "For the most part," I said, leaning over and finding a pen and legal pad in the top drawer of the nightstand. I put the pen in my mouth, taking the cap off, speaking around it. "Give me the address."

 "Go about two and a half miles past the Whitesides'," he said, "When you pass Cole Road, you're going to make a left onto Southeast Twenty-sixth Street. My men have got their lights on."

I kicked back the covers, tearing off the sheet of paper with the directions on it. "Deputy," I asked, "may I speak with Dylan?" 

"Yeah, but make it fast," he said. "The scene is getting cold." I bit back the retort that the scene was always cold by the time they called me in. "Hey, Mila," Dylan said. "If there's not a steaming cup of coffee in your hands by the time I get there, O'brian, I'm going to kick you in the balls." I closed the phone, hanging up before Dylan could reply. 

My feet hit the floor as I stumbled around the room grabbing what I needed: shirt, jeans, bra, socks, shoes, and my shoulder holster. I went into the bathroom, relying on my night vision as I slipped the nightgown off, allowing it to fall to the floor. 

I shimmied into the jeans, pulled the bra straps up on my shoulders, and slid the shirt on over my head. A crime scene at four o'clock in the morning—there's more than one reason cops despise bad guys. I plucked the directions off the bathroom cabinet, shoving them deep into the pocket of my jeans. I grabbed the shoulder holster, shrugging into it on my way out. I stopped in the living room, eyes flicking to the sleeping werewolf on my couch.

 Sighing, I went into the kitchen and tore a piece of paper off the magnetic notepad on the fridge.

 I hastily scribbled:

 Dinah, Had to go out. Be back soon... Don't touch anything.

 There, that worked. I carefully slid the piece of paper onto the coffee table, listening to the languid sound of her breath. I grabbed my jacket off the chair. My keys jingled and I quickly muffled them with my palm, slipping out of the apartment as quietly as I could. I knew my apartment like the back of my hand. If Dinah touched anything, I'd know. The fact that I'm a werewolf and could trace her scent if I tried hard enough also came in handy.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I took I-40 to I-44 like I was going out to the Whitesides' home. The drive turned out to take a little over forty minutes. I followed the directions Witkins had given me. The paved road turned into gravel that made an obnoxious grinding noise beneath the Tiburon's tires.

 Over the crest of the hill, nestled behind an old wooden fence surrounding a trailer home, the lights from two police interceptors cast a blurry blue and red haze out over the land. I guided the car through the open gate, parking next to one of the squad cars. The cops had left their headlights on and I watched as they helped one another string the black and yellow tape from the right side of a double-wide trailer to the wooded area on the southeastern part of the land. 

I spotted Dylan and Deputy Sheriff Witkins standing in front of the trailer. Dylan saw me approaching and started heading toward me. 

Goddess bless his little heart, he was holding a cup of coffee. "Here," he said, eyes sparkling. "I'd like to have kids someday, you know." I took the cup of coffee, taking a sip.

 I nudged my head in the direction of the trailer. "Who lives here?" He pulled a little notebook out of his pocket. "The trailer belongs to a man named Evan Peters. Twenty-five years old. Works in a clothing store. Single. He lives alone and has lived here for five years. He heard someone scream around three o'clock. Ran out and found the body. Said he ran back in and called us.

 No sign of the murderer," he said, closing the notebook and stuffing it back in his shirt pocket. "Wonderful," I grumbled, taking another sip and making my way toward the guys with the crime scene tape. Dylan followed as I lifted the tape and ducked. Beyond the tape the land sloped down toward a small creek. There were trees lining the area, and enough cops standing around that all I had to do was play connect the cops to find the body.

 Dylan pointed to a large cypress as we approached. "There," he said. The body was propped up against the base of the tree. A breeze stirred and the smell of blood and feces hit my nostrils. I coughed, lifting my shirt and covering my nose with it, not that the material would help much. I breathed in and out of my mouth, holding my coffee close. 

"I need gloves," I said, stopping in front of the body and looking down. Her hair was long and brown, falling down over her breasts and matted with blood. Her lavender-colored blouse was so thick with blood that it had turned the color of dark plum. The woman was posed against the tree, like a trophy. I knelt, turning my head enough to see the blood that originated at her throat, spilling out over the front of her body. 

"Here," Arthur said, kneeling with me.

I handed him my coffee and put the gloves on. I reached out, touching the woman's jaw. Her face was pale and wide-eyed with death. I used two fingers under her chin to guide her head upward. It moved easily, which meant that rigor mortis hadn't begun to set in. "Oh God," I whispered, looking at what had once been the woman's throat. It was an empty cavity that still seeped blood at the edges. Ivory bone glistened sickly at the back. I let her head fall back down, taking another deep breath through my mouth. The wolf didn't rise. I felt in her a certain amount of disinterest, cold neutrality.

 I traced the edges of the wound with two fingers. The edges were jagged and I stifled a shudder as a wave of nausea hit me. The beast's ears perked inside me, like she was curious. I slammed my shields in her face, not willing to risk tempting her. She could remain neutral or she could get hungry. Only one of those could be an option right now. Not tonight, I thought.

 I scuttled around the body: brown boots, bloody jeans, charm bracelet on her right wrist, empty hazel eyes. "Any ID?" I asked. I heard Dylan take out his notes. "Veronica Monroe," he said. 

"Late twenties?" I asked. "Twenty-eight," he said. "Have you contacted the family?"

 "Yes."

 "Good."

 "Mila, is it another werewolf attack?" I gestured for him to come closer and brought her jaw slowly up to show him the victim's throat. Dylan paled, but forced himself to look. "Here," I said, the tip of my finger tracing the jagged wound. "You see these? At the edges of the wound?"

 "All I see is blood," Dylan said, sounding disgusted. "Look closer," I said, and touched the tip of my gloved finger to one curving piece of torn flesh and then another. "Here and here," I said, "these are where the upper incisors clamped down." The medical examiner could precisely calculate how many teeth marks there were. Obviously, I couldn't. Werewolves have more teeth than humans.

 Humans generally have thirty-two teeth, while wolves and werewolves have forty-two. Definitely one aspect of shifting that hurts like a bitch. Figuratively speaking, of course. Dylan swallowed, loudly. "You're saying this is another werewolf?"

"'Fraid so," I said and then motioned for him to follow me as I moved farther to the right, pointing toward the base of the tree. There were five very deep, very distinct claw marks etched into the bark. "Shit," he said loudly, getting to his feet. I watched as a bit of my coffee sloshed out of the cup. "Dylan, you're wasting my coffee." Not to mention contaminating the scene, I thought. "You want to hold it?" he asked. I held up my bloody fingers and wiggled them. "Can't." He paled again. I sighed, casting my gaze toward the creek. I took an unthinking breath through my nose and coughed as that horrible smell hit me again.

 Anyone that has smelled death will tell you, you never forget it. It clings to your hair, your skin, your clothing. The blood itself didn't smell all that bad, but the feces, that made my stomach turn. I got to my feet, carefully stripping the gloves off, avoiding smearing the blood with years of practice. "Where's the trash?" 

"It's up on the porch." I walked past Witkins and climbed the wooden steps to throw my gloves away.  

They were using a brown paper sack as a trash bag. "Well?" Witkins grumbled. "What does your little witch think, O'brian?" Dylan stood at my side and handed my cup of coffee back to me. I took a sip, grateful that the smell helped mask all of the other smells in the air. "Ask her," he said. "You still think it's a werewolf?" the deputy asked. "I don't think it is, Witkins. I know it is." I intentionally left off his title. "Hmph," he grunted and walked away. 

I gave Dylan one of those what-the-fuck looks. He shrugged. "It's your job to hold our hands and walk us through the preternatural stuff." I stared at the deputy's back and said, "It doesn't really look like he wants to go for a walk, not through this. What the hell is his problem?" Dylan's eyes sparkled. "He thinks you're evil."

 "You're joking?" I asked. "Maybe. If he does, he might be right about y—" He oofed as I drove my elbow into his rib cage. I did it lightly, just enough to make him shut up. "What was that for?"

"You don't want to call me evil, O'brian." His mouth split into a wide grin. "Why not?" he asked. I narrowed my eyes and glared at him. The glare elicited a rumble of masculine laughter. "You know," he said, "I'm glad you're short. If you were taller that look might actually work on me." I rolled my eyes and took another drink of coffee. "I need to question Mr. Peters," I said, ignoring his amusement. He gestured toward the door. "He's in there with two of our men."

 "Your men," I corrected him as I opened the screen door and stepped inside.