The Guardian. Connie Hall
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.