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  Ian had his own score to settle with her. Elizabeth had tricked Ian’s brother, Raven, into killing Ian’s beloved Emily, a woman Ian had loved at the turn of the century. Yep, Ian is that old.

  I don’t think Ian has yet forgiven Raven, but they maintained a tenuous relationship. What can I say? Families can be seriously messed up sometimes.

  So I’d been used by both of the men in my life. Yay me.

  What made me love Ian and not Joaquin? Ian accepted me as I am. He had no plans to change me. And let's face it; the heart wants what the heart wants.

  Right now, more than just my heart wanted Ian. I’d grown used to having him in bed with me. Just being near him calmed the inner turmoil that I lived with each day. It’s not easy being a federal agent for SINS. People—Supernatural ones, but people just the same—died at my hand. It was necessary for the safety of both humans and Supernaturals, but sometimes it’s still a difficult pill to swallow. Dress it up any way you want to; I am still a killer.

  Ian and I were not only living together, we were engaged. A little tingle of thrill rippled through my body and a ridiculous smiled tugged at the edges of my lips. I let my gaze drop to the ring that now encircled my left ring finger as I pulled the blankets tight around me and let my mind wander out to Ian. We had an inner connection that let us mind speak to each other. It was one of the benefits of our bond.

  “Ian?” I whispered through my mind.

  “My love? Are you well?” Just the feel of his voice inside me had my lips curving in a tiny smile.

  “I am lonely.” Something I never would have been able to admit a year ago.

  “I am getting on the plane now. Once I land I need to go over a few things at the casino. I can do that another time, though. I will be there as quickly as I can.”

  Ian had been out of town for a week now. He was opening a new casino in Cleveland and had needed to be there to finalize the plans.

  I missed him.

  He was also renovating Dark Nights of the Desert casino. I’m told he does that every couple of years or so. It’s one of the things that makes Ian’s casino one of the most popular outside of Vegas.

  “No, Ian. I’m fine. Go to work.”

  “As you wish. Rest, my love.” I could feel his smile. It warmed me just to have the knowledge that he truly loved me.

  “Hurry home.” I broke the connection and concentrated on the sound of the fan. When even that failed to soothe my restless mind, I prayed. I fell asleep with my rosary clutched in my fingers.

  * * * *

  An intense chill slithered through my body. It felt as if someone had raked an icicle down my spine, sending shivers coursing through every vein. I reached behind me, searching for the blanket without quite giving up on the lure of sleep. What my fingers found was much more solid than the softness of my comforter.

  “I am sorry to awaken you, my love.” His voice slid over me like silk. “You were moaning in your sleep.” His cold finger continued its path down my back.

  I turned and let my sleepy eyes drink him in, savoring each inch like a fine wine.

  Ian Nightwalker’s midnight-black hair hung in waves over his pale chest. His eyes were twin sapphires sparkling in the soft glow of the candles he must have lit before he woke me. His mouth curved ever so slightly in a sexy, crooked smile that he knew I found irresistible. The lower half of his body was draped by the sheet, but I knew his skin would be bare, his body hard and eager, waiting for me.

  “Afraid I was having a good time without you?” I smiled wickedly as I rolled onto his chest.

  “I was hoping that I was the cause of those soft, mewling sounds.” His lips brushed my temple. I tensed, and then quickly tried to recover, hoping Ian didn’t notice.

  Wrong again.

  He cupped my cheek in his hand and turned my face to his. “Normally I would not wish it to be someone else you dreamed of.” His eyes searched mine. “Yet that would be preferable to the anguish I see in your eyes now.”

  I turned my head away. I didn’t want to talk about the nightmare that infiltrated my sleep. I didn’t want to hear Tabitha Walden’s voice again or see the ruins of her face, or the revenge she’d taken on her grandfather haunting my dreams.

  “Arthur Walden is dead. The news said he committed suicide at his granddaughter’s grave. I suspect that is false.” He stroked my back.

  “She killed him.” I couldn’t stop the tears from spilling down my cheeks. “I couldn’t control her.”

  “So you blame yourself for his death.” He sighed.

  I shook my head. “No, not really.”

  He tilted my face to his. “Not really, huh?” The anguish and helplessness that I saw in his eyes reminded me why I loved him so much.

  “I should have been able to control her. I should have never been in that position at all.” I sobbed. “Sam didn’t check the coroner’s report; she didn’t overdose. She was shot in the head.” My voice rose with my anger, which was probably Ian’s intention. He knew I could handle anger. It’s my fallback emotion. Life had taught me how to deal with anger very well. Sorrow, not so much. “The bastard deserved to die.”

  “And there was nothing you could do to stop it,” Ian stated matter-of-factly, raising his eyebrows to emphasize his point.

  “No. There was nothing I could do,” I conceded, swiping the back of my hand over my tears.

  “So what truly bothers you is the lack of control you have over your necromancy.”

  I shot him a look. He was right and we both knew it. Hell, he didn’t even phrase it as a question. The fact that it actually made me feel better to say it out loud didn’t change that I still couldn’t control the necromancy; not fully anyway.

  “We will continue to work on it.” Ian pulled me closer to him and started to knead the still achy muscles in my neck and shoulders. “Please do not allow this to become another scar on your soul.”

  I turned away, my body instantly missing his touch, yet I was unwilling and unable to give him that assurance.

  I come with a lot of scars.

  I still bore the scars of my last relationship and almost-marriage to Joaquin Wildhorse. At the time, he was police chief of the Native American reservation. The tribal elders didn’t approve of our relationship, and Joaquin didn’t approve of my abilities or my use of them within the paranormal world. In the end, he’d called me an unholy witch. It had left a scar on my heart.

  I was abandoned by my mother as a child and lived alone on the streets until I was caught in the crossfire of a rival gang war.

  That, as strange as it sounds, turned out to be a good thing because it brought Captain Charles Wilson and his wife, Alli, into my life. Wilson and Alli adopted me and gave me the first real home I’d ever known. They embraced the gifts that I didn’t understand. I have the ability to feel the emotions of other people around me along with my gift of being able to talk to the souls of the recently dead. Alli and Wilson encouraged me to pursue a degree in paranormal psychology and investigations. I made it all the way up to detective in the police department before I resigned, but just couldn’t make peace with the fact that the criminals seemed to have more rights than their victims. Now I’m a federal agent for SINS. I still haven’t made peace with criminal rights, but I have a hell of a lot more leniency dealing with Supernaturals than with humans. They kill. They die. Simple.

  I knew Ian was waiting for my response. And he knew he wasn’t going to get one. I was still afraid to allow myself to relax. My heart seemed to be encased in the sorrow of my life. I loved Ian, he loved me, and he made me happy. Yet joy had always evaded me and I guess, deep down inside me, I didn’t believe I was really entitled to it.

  Ian slid his hands down my side, skirting my breast on their way to skimming lazy circles around my belly button. My body shivered in response. “I will content myself with this,” he lifted my chin to look into my eyes, “for now. I am a patient man, I have had a century to perfect my patience, and someday you will find peace w
ith yourself, my love.”

  I captured his lips with mine before he could speak again. It was a sneaky way to change the subject, but hey, it worked.

  Shifting, I trailed my mouth down his neck, teasing his chest and then sliding lower, where I confirmed that Ian was, indeed, naked, hard, and eager for me. Ian lowered his lips to mine and our tongues tangled together. Short, slow licks quickly smoldered into white-hot desire as we made love to each other’s bodies with our lips and tongues.

  He pushed me away from him and I released him with a reluctant groan until he flipped me on my back and wrapped my legs around his shoulders. With his eyes fixed on mine, he slid his tongue out and gave me one long, torturing lick. I gasped, and he flashed me that crooked smile of his and did it again.

  “I love to watch your eyes glaze over in ecstasy while I devour you, my love,” he crooned before tasting me once again.

  I fisted my hands into the silky strands of his hair and lost all sense of sanity as he tormented my body with long, slow swirls of his skillful tongue. When I thought I could take no more, he slipped his tongue inside me and suckled on my center until I could only see white bursts of pleasure through my closed eyelids. My head thrashed from side to side. His pace relaxed and the slower he slid in and out of me, the more intense the pleasure became that shuddered through me until my body burst with rapture and insanity all at once. I screamed his name with my release, but Ian kept his mouth in place, drinking down my pleasure—as if it were the blood he existed upon.

  Only when my body stopped convulsing did Ian lift his head with a satisfied smile that melted my heart. Ian was no selfish lover. My pleasure was his, as his was mine.

  I took advantage of the moment and my enhanced strength to push Ian onto his back and straddle him. With the same steady tease that he used on me, I hovered above him, allowing just the tip of him to enter me before pulling back again.

  He tried to lift his hips off the mattress.

  “Uh-uh. My turn.” I shook my head in mock admonishment, and then smiled as I pushed onto him once again.

  He grasped my ass and impaled me farther. “I am still stronger than you, my love.” He grinned as he began a steady rhythm into my body, taking control that I was only too happy to give up.

  Chapter 3

  “This better be good,” I mumbled sleepily into the phone.

  “Is this Federal Agent Leah Wolfe?” the voice snapped back.

  “This is,” I replied, now fully awake.

  “I’m FBI agent Jeremy Stark, and I have something down here that you might want to take a look at.”

  I held my cell phone to my ear as I started pulling on clothes. The FBI wasn’t keen on sharing anything with SINS. We were essentially the redheaded stepchildren of the law enforcement community. We existed, but that didn’t give them any reason to want to play nice with us. “Where?”`

  “There’s a jet waiting for you at Stellar Regional.”

  Ian popped an eye open. His vampire hearing allowed him to listen to every word of my conversation as clearly as if he was on the line.

  “Where am I going?” I asked.

  “I’ll have a squad car meet you at the Peach Springs airstrip in two hours,” he said with a monotone voice that reminded me of a movie scene where the main character assured someone “that the FBI does not have a sense of humor that we’re aware of, ma’am.”

  “Can you brief me?” I asked as I pulled on a boot.

  “A woman walked into the local diner and randomly shot the patrons. Fortunately, it was near closing and not the dinner hour. She left three dead.”

  “With all due respect, why does this involve SINS?” I pulled my shirt over my head and one arm, then switched my phone to the other ear while I got my other arm in.

  “She was Wiccan.” When I didn’t reply he added, “Witch. She was a witch.”

  “I know what a witch is, Agent Stark.” And while it wasn’t a paranormal breed that I was very fond of—the first one I’d ever met tried to kill me—they also weren’t the mythical creatures that wore pointy hats and rode around on brooms and I told him as much.

  “Regardless,” Stark continued, “this is more your domain than mine.”

  * * * *

  Peach Springs is a tiny village of maybe six hundred residents. It’s the kind of place where everyone knows everybody else and the last murder took place nearly fifty years ago. Tall pine trees and rocky terrain surrounded the town, and at this time of year, it was cold as hell.

  The one main road boasted a motel, bar, several small shops, and the diner. There wasn’t a fast-food joint or chain restaurant in sight and I had a feeling that folks would be cooking their own meals for quite a while after tonight. Crime scene tape surrounded the diner, set up by a neighboring city’s police department. Kingman was the closest big town to Peach Springs and Peach Springs was not equipped to handle a double homicide. The local police chief and both of his squad cars were there as well. One deputy cried openly as he leaned up against the door, his back to the diner. Like I said, everybody knew everyone else and I’m sure he lost a friend or even a family member to tonight’s shooting. I flashed him my badge, but I doubt he even noticed.

  “Agent Wolfe.” A tall middle-aged man with cropped brown hair called. “Thanks for coming.” He stood and extended his hand. I shook it. “I’m Agent Stark. How was your flight?”

  “Short,” I replied. “You got yourself a hell of a mess here.” At his feet lay an older woman in a pool of blood that had already blackened. She wore a print dress, flesh-colored hose, and therapeutic black shoes. She looked like she could have been on her way to church. A small caliber handgun lay at her side and most of her head was missing.

  “Gertrude Rothchild.” Stark spoke in the same monotone voice that I’d heard on the phone. “Folks around here called her Gerty. I don’t think they’ll remember her too fondly now.” He stroked the light beard on his chin thoughtfully.

  “She’s the shooter?” She looked more likely to be passing cookies than bullets.

  Stark nodded.

  I looked around the diner. At a booth in the back lay a middle-aged couple. Both were slouched in their seats and both had fatal chest wounds, their own blood splayed across the remnants of their meal.

  I don’t think I’ll ever eat pot roast again.

  The third victim lay on the floor, her nametag covered in blood; she still clutched the handle of what looked like a coffeepot.

  “Witnesses?” I asked.

  “One. They’ve got her in the back room.”

  “Is she calm enough to talk?”

  Again he nodded then walked toward the back room. I followed.

  An older woman with mascara smudged over her cheeks, highlighting her eyes, red-rimmed from crying, sat in a chair shaking as another woman attempted to console her.

  “Lana. Give us a minute,” Stark said in his even tone. She nodded and left through the back exit.

  “Bonnie. This is Agent Wolfe. I need you to tell her what you told me.”

  “I already told you everything that I know!” she wailed.

  I touched Stark on the arm. “Agent, if you could give us a minute?”

  He left and I knelt next to Bonnie.

  “I was working the grill. Tommy, our regular cook, he’s gone camping and I took over for him.” Bonnie sobbed without looking at me. “Anyway, I was cleaning up so we could close up when Gerty walked in. I ducked out of the serving window. Gerty, she can talk your ear off, and I just wanted to clean up and get home. Next thing I know I hear a scream and some loud pops.” She lifted her eyes to me. “I thought maybe Sheila dropped the coffeepot again. I peeked around the corner and saw—oh God, there was so much blood.” She put the towel she was holding up to her face and cried into it.

  I handed her a glass of water that sat nearby. “Take your time, Bonnie.”

  She took a long drink of water then continued. “Gerty looked right at me, and her eyes, they didn’t look right.” She shook
her head. “It was her body, but those eyes … they didn’t belong to her.”

  “What do you mean?” I pushed.

  “They weren’t the right color. Gerty’s eyes were dark brown. She always peered over her reading glasses at you when she talked … and the eyes I saw tonight weren’t hers; they were red, as red as the blood.” She sniffed then blew her nose into the towel. “Anyway, she looked right at me with those freaky eyes and then put the gun right up to her head.”

  I handed her the water again and gave her a few moments to pull herself back together.

  “She was a witch. I think the devil made her do it.”

  “Agent Stark mentioned that she was Wiccan. That doesn’t mean she worshipped the devil.”

  “It doesn’t mean she didn’t either.” She broke out into racking cries once again that brought Lana back into the room. I thanked them both, then went out to talk to Stark.

  He stood near the door, talking to the deputy who seemed so upset when I first walked in. I caught his attention and he turned and walked to me. “What do you think?”

  “I think she’s very upset. She thinks the devil made her do it.”

  “And the eyes?”

  “Yeah, she told me about the eyes, but honestly, Stark, she’d just seen a woman she knows shoot three other people. I’m not sure this is a Supernatural incident.”

  “Could it have been a demon possession?” His voice held just a bit of skepticism in it.

  “I doubt it.”

  “There was a small injection site in the crook of her elbow. It was red and slightly swollen.” He nodded thoughtfully.

  “Did she use any intravenous medications?”

  “That was my first thought too. She had no reason medical reason to self-inject and hadn’t been to the clinic in years. And before you ask, there is no history of illegal drug use either.”

  “How fast can we get the toxicology report?”

  “I’ll put a rush on it.”

  I left Peach Springs with a promise from Stark that he’d send me everything he got within twenty-four hours and flew back home to brief Sam Anderson.