Authors: Juliette Cross
Kris gave him a nod, let the door slide shut, and practically fainted in her chair.
“His name suits him.” She lowered her voice, breathless. “He’s got the look of the wolf about him. No doubt.”
There weren’t many of the male Icewing clan in the Gladium Province. I’d met a few Icewings before, but they were all women. Like the females, Wulfgang had silky, flaxen hair, worn long with braids at the temples. He watched everything with wicked-sharp, sea-green eyes.
Kris bit into her muffin and licked some chocolate from one finger. “He’s pretty to look at.”
“Don’t let his pretty face fool you.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” She grinned like a fiend. “Now. Tell me what the hell happened last night.”
I rolled my shoulder by instinct, feeling the stitches pull tight, but there was no stiffness or soreness.
“That dumbass with Layla and his buddies came barreling into the tunnel, then Kol and the rest jumped into the melee. And our guy got away.”
“Hmph. Did you get any good licks in there?” She took a huge bite of her muffin.
“I wish I had,” I admitted sulkily.
“Well, don’t hang your head about it. I mean, damn! I felt like a little fairy in that place, and I’m not exactly tiny.”
True. Kris wasn’t quite as tall as me, though still above average for a human female. And she was what men deemed
voluptuous
, curving a little more than was necessary, but in all the right places.
“I know what you mean,” I agreed, remembering how it felt to be hemmed in on all sides by giant Morgon men. The only time I’d felt truly uncomfortable, however, was when I was in the arms of the enemy. “Our target, Borgus, is actually an aristo from the Cloven Province. His real name is Barron Coalglass.”
“I don’t want to talk about him,” said Kris with a flippant toss of her honey-brown hair. “What I want to know is where you slept last night.” She didn’t even try to hide her grin behind her coffee cup as she took a sip.
“Kol’s.” I avoided her eyes, draining my coffee, but her naughty laugh fractured any chance I had of playing nonchalant.
“And tell me. What’s it like sleeping with a Morgon?”
“Kris! I didn’t sleep with him.”
“Riiight.”
“Okay. I slept
next
to him, but nothing happened.”
A giggle. “Right.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously. I can read you like a book. You’re hot for this guy. I’ll make a bet. If you did
nothing
with him last night, then I promise to swear off men permanently.” She criss-crossed her heart with one finger and raised her hand in a mocking oath.
“Please. As if you could swear off men.”
“As if you did nothing with that huge, hunk of Morgon man while you slept in his bed. Is he huge everywhere?”
“
Stop it
.”
“You stop it. I know you, Moira. I know the type of man that gets you all worked up.”
“What do you mean? He’s nothing like Mikal.”
“Exactly.” She rolled her eyes. “Mikal wasn’t your type. You dated that poor guy for ages because he was safe. Because he didn’t make you really feel anything, and there was no risk of losing your heart.”
I blew out a frustrated breath and twisted my hair into a tight, messy bun, annoyed with this whole conversation. “What are you saying? That I’m heartless? That I don’t have emotions?”
“Damn, you’re stubborn. No. What I’m saying is that you’re afraid. You’re afraid to be with someone who might make you feel too much because then you’d open the door to the possibility of heartbreak.” Lighthearted banter turned serious in a millisecond. Her brows pushed together, sorrow in her eyes as she squeezed my hand on the desk. “Because you don’t want to end up like your father.”
I flinched and popped out of my seat, then moved to the window and watched the light snowfall layering the walkway outside. Downy flakes drifted to the ground at a soft slant. So serene right on the other side of the pane.
“Sorry.” Her voice was soft. Sympathetic. “But it’s true.”
My father had been deeply in love once. But not with my mother. He had loved and wanted to marry a Morgon woman, Sarasong. From a proud, aristocratic family, she had caved to the pressure of her parents’ will and agreed to an arranged marriage to ally her clan with the most powerful Morgon family in the Gladium Province. She married Adicus Nightwing, and would later bear him two sons—Lucius and Lorian. Even so, she never shared the heartbonding of soulfire with Adicus. It was as if she could never give him her heart fully since it still belonged to someone else. My father. A man who would become so embittered over the years toward Morgons, especially toward the Nightwing clan. It was a sad, twist of irony when Fate led my sister to Lucius. Or perhaps not. Perhaps Fate was mending old wounds by tying the two together. Jessen and my father hadn’t spoken to each other until after Demetrius married and mated to Shakara. But even so, bitterness and regret had kept them apart. Father had only seen Julian a handful of times since his birth. Another regret that hung heavy on my heart.
A young brunette strolled arm-in-arm with her boyfriend along the pavement. As they crossed under an overhanging branch, she unclasped her arm and tapped the branch, knocking the collected snow onto his head. Giggling, she ran. He chased her. She squealed with delight when he caught her in his arms.
I sighed, then glanced at Maxine Mendale’s smiling photo, having pinned it alongside the others on my bulletin board. Maxine—beautiful, full of life and adventure. Her life ended way too soon. Here I was, always so sure of myself, so sure of my life’s purpose, pushing toward an ambitious career with such determination. But Kris was right. There was one area of my life where I’d cut out all passion. Was I using my feminist ideals to build a shield around my heart, barring any man from entering that sacred place?
You belong to me.
I shivered. His lips on my skin. His hands on my body. My blood quickening with every touch. And still, I’d pushed him away. Hell, that was
why
I’d pushed him away. The thought of letting down my shield for him drove a spike of fear right through me. He had informed me emphatically that Morgons didn’t date. So what was I? His wannabe fuck-buddy or his soulmate? If the first, I wasn’t so sure I could resist anymore, knowing he would be a rough yet satisfying lover. If the second—
Someone jerked open my office door. Macon stood there, face flushed and eyes wide. “There’s been another one,” he panted.
“What?”
“Turn on comm screen TV on your desktop. Now.” He hurried to my desk to do it himself.
“What channel?” squealed Kris.
“Any channel. It’s on every damn one.”
The first channel that popped up showed the still photo of a smiling, dark-haired student from Gladium University. I knew that smiling face so well. I’d seen it last night. Layla.
“No,” I murmured.
“She was in my Psychology class,” Kris said in a daze.
The reporter droned on. “The body of another co-ed from Gladium University found in Drakos. This may be the fourth victim of the Devlin Butchers….”
“They’re not showing anything, Macon. Was she found in Devlin Wood? Damn it! This news station is useless.”
“I’m not.” Macon whipped out his comm device from his back pocket.
“You’ve already got photos?”
“Video footage. My boss, Torrance, received it at home from the Morgon Guard and sent it directly to me to upload to the inter-office database, wanting all officers on this now. There’s something new here. A possible clue to the killers.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kris, hovering over the other side of Macon.
He quickly pressed keys on his touch-screen pad.
“Well, one,” I interjected, “they didn’t keep her in captivity for any length of time. We saw Layla last night.” My words stuck in my throat, dread settling in my stomach like a heavy stone. Poor Layla.
“This wasn’t a ritual killing,” agreed Macon.
I peered over his shoulder. “Then how do they know it’s the Devlin Butchers at all?”
Macon pierced me with a solemn stare and pressed play on the video that he had pulled up on his comm screen.
A wide shot of Layla on the blood-spattered snow, stripped naked, limbs askew, one arm bent backward. Broken.
“Oh, my God,” whispered Kris.
Horror and death glazed her sightless eyes. Her body was unmarked with the slashes we’d found on the other victims. Clearly, this was something done only to the victims kept in captivity. Layla was killed fast with fierce brutality.
Slit open from neck to naval. Similar to the others, but not exact. There was too much blood that had drained from her open cavity, pooling into the snow, lining her crumpled body in deep purple. Splatters of crimson streaked across her body and painted sharp lines of red in the snow, denoting savage thrusts of the knife during the killing. The camera panned to the base of a monument near her head.
“What’s that?” asked Kris.
“Torrance said it’s some memorial monument to Larkos Nightwing. Somewhere in Devlin Wood.”
The camera flashed over the harsh depiction of a towering Morgon in stone before zooming in on Layla’s upper body to a mutilation on her left breast, a carving in the skin over her heart.
“They believe this is some sort of clue, a message, which might lead to their identities. Layla was killed in a hurry, like the killer was rushed or angry, but this still has all the signs of being from our Butchers.”
“Was she raped?” asked Kris.
“Unknown. Forensics hasn’t had time yet to go over the body.”
The camera zoomed in closer to the carving on the girl’s fair skin. The fact that I was trying to decipher an image engraved in human flesh made my stomach roil, especially knowing I had talked to her last night.
Kris peered closer. “Looks like Morgon wings.”
“That’s what the officers are saying at the precinct. Along with the spear that crosses in front, it may be some kind of old Morgon warrior symbol or something. They’re digging up records, but as far as I know, the Morgon Guard doesn’t know anything more than we do.”
“Hmm.” I froze Macon’s screen and zoomed in on the image. It lost some clarity, but I was able to determine something. “They’re not Morgon wings. See this softened curve here? Morgon wings are sharp.”
“Perhaps the killer slipped with the knife.”
“Gross,” muttered Kris.
“On both sides, Macon?” I arched a brow at him. “No. Looks more like angel wings. These soft lines here look almost like feathers.”
“Maybe angel wings and a spear. Perhaps they consider themselves some kind of angelic warriors. A cult doing a service for heaven or something, I don’t know.”
None of that felt right. There was one thing I understood clearly, and it was the Butchers did
not
consider themselves angels. Gods, perhaps.
“This looks familiar,” added Kris, tilting the comm toward her.
I gasped, jerking the device from her and turning it ninety degrees. My pulse pounded with a dawning realization.
“Holy shit.” Macon gripped my arm to still the image in my shaking hands. All three of us looked straight over my desk to the emblem of
The Herald
’s logo—spread angel wings with a decorative pen crossing the center.
“Not a spear,” I whispered. “A pen.”
“Moira,” hissed Kris. “He
knows
. Barron Coalglass knows you’re a reporter. This was a message for you.”
I stared in shock at the comm screen. The message was all too clear. Yes. He knew Moira Cade was also Marina Creed, exposé reporter and editor for the college newspaper, obviously working with the Morgon Guard to entrap the Devlin Butchers. There was no doubt Barron was the leader of this murderous band now. Ice flooded my veins, remembering how he had gripped me in his arms, how he had whispered in my ear.
“Moira, get back!”
Macon shoved me behind him as an enormous shadow darkened the entirety of my opaque-glass door.
My fear immediately transformed to relief. I knew the owner of that shape. “It’s okay,” I said, stepping around Macon as the door swung wide.
Kol swallowed the entire entrance, expression fixed in grave lines and sharp angles. He focused on no one but me, eyes blazing silver. Holding out his hand, his voice was full of the dragon—rough and fierce. “Come with me. Now.”
His hand encircled my forearm and whisked me out the door, barely giving me time to grab my coat and scarf.
In rapid fire, he ordered Wulfgang to follow Kris home and remain stationed there until further notice. Before I could utter a word, he had me out of the building and down the steps.
I shrugged out of his grip to button my coat before wrapping the scarf and tucking the tails under the lapels. “You could’ve at least said hello before yanking me out of the room. That’s what normal people do, you know?”
“I have no time for polite etiquette.”
“Is Kris really in danger?”
“Not likely, but we’re taking no chances.”
His hands slipped around my waist. Even through a thick layer of wool, I could feel the heat and weight of them. He pulled my body into an embrace.
“Kol. What are you doing?”
“Hang on tight, Kittycat.” Steel arms banded me close as he bent his knees.
“Wait! No harness?”
“No time.”
We rocketed into the mid-day sky. In the sheer panic of going from pavement to clouds in less than six seconds, I’d pressed my face into the curve of his neck and shoulder, cursing profusely under my breath. Blustery wind beat at my back, the sky an endless gray sheet. I burrowed closer. His pulse throbbed against my cheek. The panic eased into something else altogether. I turned my head so that my forehead rested in the crook, the edge of my lips grazing the sensitive skin at the base of his neck. He shivered, gripping me tighter against him.
What was happening to me? All he needed to do these days was put his body close to mine, and I lost all reason, cozying up like a cat in heat. A kitty cat.
Damn him.
In no time at all, we landed on the top terrace that led into Lucius and my sister’s home. Kol set me on my feet but didn’t release me, keeping my body molded to his. Unable to resist his heady scent, I trailed my lips along a collarbone edging out of his T-shirt. He hissed in a breath, his hands squeezing my hips in a possessive hold. I stood on my tiptoes and pressed a single, soft open-mouthed kiss right beneath his ear. A silent invitation. Something was definitely wrong with me. Playing with fire had never been my thing. I was more the watch-where-you-step kind of girl. But apparently my cautious side had taken a leave of absence, preferring instead to swish past danger and wave a red flag.