Moon Sworn (17 page)

I grabbed a pair of faded denims and a low-cut T-shirt but didn’t worry about a bra—the strap would have rubbed the half-healed wound.

Once dressed, I glanced at the time. Evin had been gone for twenty minutes. That left me an hour and forty minutes to do my investigations.

I grabbed my wallet and the apartment keys then headed out. The night was still crisp and a little on the cool side. The sigh of the waves washing up the shore mingled with the distant sound of laughter and music. All the nearby villas were silent—maybe everyone had gone into town. From the little I’d seen of this place earlier, there probably wasn’t much else to do.

Once clear of both the villa area and the nearby caravan park, I broke into a run, cupping my breasts with my hands to compensate for my lack of a bra. The rubber soles of my shoes made little sound on the dusty road, but the little puffs of dirt that rose with each step meant I’d be noticed if there was actually anyone about to notice. But even though there were one or two houses that had their lights and TVs on, no one seemed to be paying any attention to what was going on in the street.

Interestingly, the air closer to town was thick with the musk of wolf. There were a
lot
of us here, and it made me wonder if Dunedan was a werewolf community. It was certainly remote enough—although it was unusual for such a community to also be a tourist destination.

I swung into a street just before the police station and headed for the paddock from the other side. There were fewer houses here, meaning less chance of being seen.

I slowed once I hit the grass. The thick scent of blood had faded—not surprising, given twenty-four hours had passed.

Yellow-and-black police tape fluttered in the slight breeze and I wondered if the body would be transferred elsewhere for the postmortem. If Dunedan was so small that the local doctor acted as coroner in an emergency, then I doubted they’d have a proper morgue. In fact, even the cops might have to call in specialists. They surely wouldn’t have had to cope with many murder investigations in a community this size.

I ducked under the tape and stopped just inside the trees. I didn’t want to disturb the murder scene any more than necessary and, besides, I really didn’t need to go close to where the victim had died to feel his soul.

I could feel it from here.

I couldn’t actually see him, but that really didn’t matter. He was here. The thick chill said as much, as did the energy flowing from me, building in the air, giving him strength and sapping mine.

I had no idea of his name, so I simply said, “Why do you linger?”

Why was I murdered? I came here to start a new life, not have it ended
.

His words were angry and his fury filled me, roaring through my body like a wave. But his statement sent a sliver of alarm through me. I’d heard a similar complaint once before …

But where?

“What is your name?”

As I asked the question, awareness washed over me. I was no longer alone in the strand of trees—and the thick scent of warm spices mingled with sweat said it was Harris. I internally cursed my luck, and hoped like hell he let me finish questioning the dead man’s soul.

Marcus. Marcus Landsbury
.

Which wasn’t a name that seemed even remotely familiar.

“How did you end up in this field, Marcus?”

I don’t know. One moment I was walking home, the next I’m here, unable to move or talk, and some bastard is
cutting my tackle off
.

“So you saw him?”

No. He was wearing some sort of costume
.

A sense of déjà vu ran though me. I’d heard this before, even if I couldn’t remember where.

“What sort of costume?”

A red devil mask. It had horns
. He hesitated.
I swear he had cloven hooves, as well
.

Again that sense of familiarity. “Is there anything else you can tell me about him? Was he big? Small? Fat or thin?”

He was on the small side, but strong—really strong. He had to be, didn’t he, because I’m not exactly small. He
had broad shoulders and big arms, though. Moved efficiently, like it was a job, nothing more
.

Meaning it could have been a professional hit. Especially given they’d probably used some form of immobilizer to take him down so quickly. Things like that weren’t available over the counter—though easily enough gotten on the black market.

And just how would I know something like that?

I rubbed my left temple wearily. Energy continued to flow away from me, and the pain slithering through my brain was increasing. “And what did you do, Marcus, that warranted being slaughtered in such a fashion?”

I’ve done my time. It doesn’t matter
. The words were angry, ricocheting around my head as sharp as nails.

I winced, blinking back tears. “It obviously matters to someone, Marcus, or you wouldn’t have been killed in the manner you were.”

He was sucking at my energy like a man possessed, and my knees were threatening to buckle under the strain. I tried locking them, but knew I’d have to end this soon, answers or not.

It shouldn’t matter. Damn it, it was a long time ago!

Well, someone obviously hadn’t forgotten. “Tell me what you did.”

Why? What fucking good does it do now?

“I guess that depends on whether you want to stay here haunting this scrawny patch of trees, or move on.”

The energy was draining at a faster rate now, and my head was beginning to ache fiercely. My knees suddenly unlocked, and I hit the dirt.

I braced myself with one hand as Marcus said,
I raped several women
.

“Define ‘women.’” Because the brutality of his murder suggested there was more than rape involved—

especially if he’d been put away for a while. The sad fact was, courts and judges didn’t treat rape as seriously as they should.

Anger swirled, thick and sharp. The stabbing pain got worse, and suddenly I was struggling to breathe.

Okay, it was girls. Sixteen-year-olds. We held them for several days and did them over proper, like
.

We
. The word caught in my brain, but before I could question him more, my brain overloaded and all I felt was pain. Sheer, bloody, agonizing pain. I hugged myself for several seconds, rocking back and forth, then realized he was still there, still draining me.

“Go,” I whispered. “Find whatever peace you damn well can.”

He went. Not happily, not easily, but he went, and the draining stopped. “Harris,” I said to the man standing quietly behind me. “If you don’t want the crime scene contaminated any further, you might want to help me out of here. I’m about to throw up.”

Arms grabbed me, lifting me as easily as a kitten. Or a pup, as the case might be. We’d barely made it out of the trees when my gorge rose, and I struggled out of his grip and staggered away before losing the little I had in my stomach.

God, I felt
awful
. If I’d let Marcus drain me for much longer, it could have been fatal—though with the way my brain was feeling, it had come damn close anyway.

“Here,” Harris said, handing me a half-empty water bottle. “Rinse your mouth out with this.”

I accepted it gratefully, rinsing away the bitter taste then spitting it out. I repeated the action and felt a little better, though my head still ached like a bitch and my muscles were trembling.

I forced myself to stand upright and handed him back the water. He was dressed in blue sweatpants and a gray tank top that clung to his body and emphasized his lean strength, and his dark hair was damp and curling up at the ends. But his eyes were blue—a blue the color of the ocean that surrounded Dunedan—not black.

Why was I expecting black? Who did he remind me of? Suddenly that question seemed vital, and yet I just couldn’t answer it.

Why, why, why?

He shoved the small water bottle back into its pocket on the side of his pants, then said, his expression grim,

“Tell me why I shouldn’t arrest you for entering a restricted area?”

“Well, if you’d had a man stationed here like you were supposed to, it wouldn’t have been a problem, would it?”

He didn’t look amused. “People around these parts respect the law. They know—”

“As
I
know.” I rubbed my head wearily. I really didn’t feel like a lecture right now. “But people around these parts probably can’t talk to souls, either. I
can
. But it has to be done shortly after the death, otherwise they get too weak to talk.”

And if I could remember stuff like that, then why couldn’t I remember the important stuff? It was like someone had systematically gone through my mind and erased random bits of information. Some of the big stuff, some of the small, leaving total chaos behind.

Harris stared at me for several seconds, his expression unchanged. It was hard to know whether he believed me or not.

“I think you and I need to sit down and have a serious talk.”

“As long as it’s somewhere with decent coffee and something to eat. Otherwise I’m likely to pass out on you.”

He raised an eyebrow, but all he said was “I know just the place. You need a hand?”

“Yeah, I think I might.”

He wrapped an arm around my waist, half holding me up as we moved forward. It felt like daggers were merrily stabbing at my brain, and my muscles felt incredibly shaky. Did this always happen when I talked to souls?

Something within said no. This was something new—a fresh twist on an old problem.

We didn’t head toward the police station as I’d half expected, but rather toward a little white weatherboard house on the far edge of the paddock.

“My home.” Harris opened the old wrought iron gate and led me up the garden path. Not literally, I hoped. “We can talk here unofficially, then move across to the station if I feel it’s necessary.”

He opened the door one-handed—obviously, being the town cop meant never having to lock it—then helped me inside.

The hallway was long and wide, with various doorways leading off it. The walls were painted a warm off-white and decorated with brilliant photos of the sea and surrounding countryside that gave the place a bright and homey feel. The floors were timber and well worn, creaking slightly as he led me down to the end of the hall. The room beyond was a huge kitchen.

“Have a seat,” he said, motioning me toward the old oak table and chairs. “What sort of coffee do you want?”

“Hazelnut.” I said it automatically, and wished again that the important things would pop back as easily.

“I meant decaf or regular.” There was amusement in his voice. “We country folks don’t go for those fancy mixes.”

“Regular. And trust me, not many city folks are into hazelnut, either.”

I pulled out a chair and watched him make the coffee. He moved with an economy that spoke of both grace and understated power. It was nice to watch.

He pulled some bread and sandwich fillings out of the fridge and dumped them on the table, then grabbed the coffees and some knives, and brought them over.

“Help yourself,” he said, handing me my coffee before sitting down opposite.

I raised an eyebrow. “No plates?”

“The table’s clean and it saves washing up.”

I snorted softly. A man after my own heart. I grabbed the bread, slapped on some butter, then added several thick slices of beef and cheese. It was the best thing I’d tasted in ages.

“So,” he said, once I’d demolished the first sandwich and made inroads on the second. “Have long have you been able to see souls?”

I shrugged. “I can’t say, simply because I can’t remember.”

“Really?” There was disbelief in his voice again.

“Really,” I echoed, trying to control the sweep of irritation. “I can’t actually remember anything before my accident. I didn’t even know my name until Evin told me.”

His gaze rose to my head. “That sort of memory loss is extremely unusual. And I can’t see a wound that would indicate extreme trauma.”

And yet Evin had said there
was
.

“No.” I finished the second sandwich and wrapped my hands around the mug of coffee. “Bits and pieces are slowly coming back, but nothing major. It’s frustrating.”

“I bet.” He took a drink of his coffee, then said, “So this soul talked to you?”

“It did. You were there early enough to hear my end of the conversation, though.”

He nodded. “How did you know his name was Marcus?”

“He told me. Marcus Landsbury. He was apparently jailed for a long period for the rape and torture of a couple of teenage girls.” I paused. “But I guess you know all that.”

“I do,” he said. “And I suspect his crime had a lot to do with the method of his demise.”

You didn’t have to be a cop to figure
that
out. “Yeah. Only he said he didn’t do the crime alone, and if his partner is also in town, you’d better find him. He’s probably next on the list.”

“His partner hasn’t been sighted in town, nor have we had any notification that he’s coming.” Harris studied me for a moment. “What makes you think his partner is next? This might just be a random murder.”

He didn’t believe that any more than I did. I shrugged and said, “I have a feeling I’ve seen something like this before.”

“Back in the past you can’t remember?”

Again the suggestion that it was a little too convenient—not that I could really blame him for thinking that. I took another sip of coffee and didn’t bother answering.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach the blue of his eyes. “What else did he say?”

“That the man who attacked him used some form of immobilizing spray that made it impossible to scream, and that he was wearing a costume. A red devil costume complete with cloven hooves.”

“So you saw the tracks?”

“Yes. And I’ve seen them before.”

“Where? Wait, you can’t remember, right?”

I lowered my cup and stared him straight in the eye. “Either boot me out or arrest me if you don’t believe me, but don’t sit there making snide remarks. I’m trying to be helpful.”