Grave Attraction (2 page)

Samuel always found out.

M
arlena Walther wrapped the blanket tighter around her body, not from embarrassment over her state of undress, but because she didn't want anyone noticing how quickly her injuries were healing.

Shifters recovered a lot faster than humans, but they didn't go around advertising the fact. Already, the bruise on her hip had faded, and the gouge in her right arm had knitted together. It would take longer for the burns around her neck to heal, but that was to be expected after prolonged contact with silver.

The flash of police lights illuminated the night sky, while a news crew hovered just beyond the perimeter of the yellow caution tape. A scattering of neighbors watched from their front yards, curious to see what the fuss was all about. Soon they'd know, and then they'd wonder how something so atrocious could happen right under their noses.

Marlena glanced over her shoulder toward the house and fought back the urge to shudder. The kid's body was still inside, probably being processed by the crime scene technicians who'd gone in a few minutes before. Soon, his family would learn the terrible news, and the cycle of grief would begin.

“Here you go.” Officer Quintana handed her a cup of coffee. He was an older man with a kind face, but it seemed a little haggard, like he'd seen too much. Like tonight. The poor man had been the first cop on the scene and got an eyeful after he broke down the door. “It's a good thing you got a hold of that phone.”

Yeah, it was. Who knew how long it would have been before the asshole carved her up just like the kid. She hadn't actually seen what happened to the guy, but she'd heard every one of his screams. Even now, the sound echoed in her ears and promised to haunt her dreams.

But no matter how hard she tried, she still couldn't remember how the phone had come into her possession. It wasn't like her captor to leave things lying around. On the contrary, he'd been extremely meticulous, with a strict set of rules whenever he interacted with her. The shock on his face when he'd found her talking with the emergency operator had given her a sick sense of satisfaction. And lucky for her, the asshole had decided to cut and run instead of ending her life on the spot.

A dull ache throbbed at the base of her skull as she tried again to retrace her steps. There was a noticeable gap between the time the kid was murdered and the time the killer and his accomplice returned. Maybe after a decent night's rest, her memory wouldn't be so hazy.

“Have you found him yet?” she asked the cop.

Officer Quintana shook his head, compassion crinkling the corners of his eyes. “No, but we will. There's an all-points bulletin out for him and his vehicle, and once we talk to the press, they'll have a field day with this guy.”

It made her feel a little better knowing that every channel in Orlando would plaster his face all over the news. And with the serial killer angle, they wouldn't let go of the story any time soon. Not that she lacked faith in the police, but there was only so much they could do with their limited resources.

To their credit, they'd been quick to identify her assailant. A search of county records had yielded the name of the property owner, and from there they'd pulled his driver's license photo. Jeremiah H. Brentwood. Age forty-six. The picture on the license didn't look very much like him, but she'd recognize those dead eyes anywhere. Unfortunately, his partner had stayed out of her sight; she knew his scent, but she couldn't describe his appearance.

“Is there anything else you can tell us about Brentwood or his accomplice?” Quintana asked. “The more we know, the faster we can catch them.”

She'd already told the police everything she remembered. She'd been near the end of her early morning run when she felt a sharp stab in her back. More than likely it had come from a tranquilizer dart, because the next thing she recalled was waking up in that godforsaken cage. With the absence of sunlight in the house, she still wasn't sure how long she'd been held captive. Three days? Four? At the time, it seemed like an eternity.

The fuzzy image of another man flashed in her mind, quickly followed by a piercing pain in her skull. Whoa, where the hell did that come from? She blinked and shook her head. The image flashed through her mind again, and this time she saw him a little more clearly. He had a masculine face, with short dark hair and sharp brown eyes. Clean shaven. Lean yet muscular. And even though she'd viewed him through the bars of her cage, she'd instinctively trusted him not to harm her.

“I keep thinking there might have been someone else,” she said as she rubbed her aching temples. “I don't know why my memory's so hazy.”

“You've been under a tremendous amount of stress. It does strange things to people.” Officer Quintana signaled to one of the officers talking with the medical examiner, this one dressed in plain clothes. The guy broke off his conversation and crossed the small patch of grass covering the front yard. “Marlena Walther, I'd like you to meet Detective Ryan Lehman. He's the officer assigned to your case.”

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Walther. You're a very brave woman.” He was a good-looking man, in a rugged sort of way, and when he smiled, it warmed his entire face. At six foot two, with a muscular build, he was the kind of guy who commanded attention. But beneath the power was a sense of calm that immediately settled her nerves.

“I'm not brave. I just did what I needed to survive.” Another flash of the guy. Another stab in her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth in an attempt to ward off the pain.

“Are you all right?” Concern narrowed the detective's blue eyes.

“I'm fine, it's just—” She shook her head, and a wave of nausea twisted her stomach. If she kept it up, they'd probably assume she was suffering from post-traumatic stress. Then again, they might be right. It wasn't every day a woman got abducted by homicidal maniacs. “I remember there being another person in the house, but I think he was trying to help me.”

The cops gave each other a guarded look, like they didn't want to upset the crazy lady.

“Could you describe him to me?” Lehman asked, a hint of New York seeping into his words.

The more she attempted to remember what the guy looked like, the sharper the pain in her head. Aggravated, she let out a huff. “The more I try, the more my head hurts.”

Detective Lehman crouched down beside her, a pair of lines etched between his sandy brows. Even though he was close, he made a point not to touch her. “You've just been through a terrible experience. Maybe it'll come to you in the morning, after you've had a good night's sleep. We can always update your statement if you remember more details at a later date.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Good.” He smiled, showing off straight white teeth and a hint of a dimple. “Officer Quintana can drive you home whenever you're ready. I'll call tomorrow so we can arrange a time to go over your statement.”

“Thanks, but I don't need a ride. I already—”

The sound of a woman's raised voice grabbed her attention. Scanning the perimeter, she caught sight of a familiar face, and she smiled for the first time in days. The older woman was trying to get past the barricade, but two uniformed officers blocked her path.

“Cassie!” She waved her arm to catch the woman's attention.

“You know her?” Detective Lehman asked.

“Yep. She's family.” Not by blood, but that didn't matter. “Is there any way you could let her come over?”

“Sure. No problem.” The detective motioned to the cops manning the barricade, who in turn raised the crime scene tape and allowed Cassie to duck underneath. Dressed in black shorts and a flower-print shirt, the older woman rushed over and nearly crushed Marlena with a hug.

“Oh, thank God, I've been so worried!” Cassie said, her face wet with tears. She pulled back a little, looking Marlena over. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you? I swear, if—”

“I'm fine, Cassie. Just a few cuts and bruises. I'll be good as new by morning.” Probably sooner. Cassie understood that as well as she did. They'd known each other for the better part of seventy years. Back then people assumed Cassie was her daughter. Now it was the other way around.

Ready to leave, Marlena set the coffee cup aside and stood. She wanted a long, hot shower and a fresh change of clothes before sharing her experience with Cassie. “Is there anything else, Detective?”

Lehman's lips pressed together as if he wanted to object but couldn't think of a good enough reason to detain her. At last, he shook his head. “No, we're good for now. Are you sure you don't want to get checked out at the hospital? No offense, but you look a little pale.”

“Thanks, but there's nothing wrong with me that a good night's sleep can't cure.” Well, except for the nightmares. They'd tormented her during her time in captivity, and she suspected the poor kid's anguished screams would haunt her dreams for nights to come.

Tonight she'd rest. Tomorrow she'd hunt. After being alive for over four hundred years, she wasn't about to let a couple psychopaths turn her into a shrinking violet. Once she found them, she'd make them pay, and then she'd make damn sure they never hurt anyone again.

 

It was almost midnight by the time Adam dropped Martin off at his apartment. After tonight's reap, all he wanted was a long shower, a cold beer, and a hot woman. In that order. If he hurried, he could still make it downtown before the bars closed at two a.m.

First things first. He needed to swing by the house for a fresh change of clothes and a shower to scrape off the stench of death. And while he was at it, he'd let the dog out. Buford had been alone for more than six hours, and the mutt had a destructive streak a mile wide. The last time the dog was on his own for this long, he'd eaten the toilet paper right off the roll and mangled the remote control.

Thankfully, traffic on Colonial Drive was light, and about ten minutes later, Adam hooked a left onto the long, narrow driveway leading to his house along the outskirts of east Orlando. Up until a year ago, Dmitri lived here, but now the former reaper shared a home with his bride in the Florida panhandle. When Dmitri had offered to lease him the property, Adam accepted without a second thought. How could he refuse, when the rent was so cheap? Besides, the area was quiet and close to the expressway, and the dog loved running around in the fenced-in backyard.

Adam pulled the truck into the carport and shut off the engine. Inside the house, Buford howled and scratched at the door leading into the kitchen.

“Hold your horses, I'm coming!” Adam jammed the key into the doorknob and entered the code on the keypad that allowed the lock to fully disengage. When he first moved in, he'd considered Dmitri's security system excessive, but now that he'd grown accustomed to it, he appreciated knowing his shit was safe.

Pushing the door open, he was greeted by ninety-five pounds of fur and slobber. During one of his first assignments as a reaper, he'd found the massive pit bull mix chained to a tree. Most people assumed the big lug was mean, but in reality he just wanted to be everyone's buddy.

“Hey, boy,” Adam said as he pushed Buford's nose away from his crotch. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't break the dog from the disgusting habit. It didn't seem to bother the guys all that much, but it was awkward whenever he brought a woman home.

Something crunched under his foot when he stepped into the kitchen. He paused. Shit, that couldn't be good. Bracing for the worst, he switched on the light and groaned at the sight of the overturned trash can. A trail of garbage stretched across the room and led into the main living area.

“Dammit, Buford.”

At least the dog had the grace to look guilty. The stub of tail stilled as his ears pinned back and his big brown eyes stared everywhere but at his handiwork.

Adam sighed. To be fair, it was his own damn fault for not emptying the garbage can before leaving the house. Especially after eating fried chicken for dinner. So much for going to the bar. With a sigh, he carefully stepped over the mess and crossed to the sliding glass door adjacent to the dining room.

“Go on, go do your business.” When he opened the door, the dog took off like a shot, disappearing into the darkness of the big backyard and leaving Adam to clean up the mess.

On the bright side, the can was only half-f with whatever junk he couldn't recycle. Plastic wrappers, coffee grounds, potato peels, stuff like that. The remains of the fried chicken were nowhere to be found—scratch that, the mutt had puked them up by the couch.

He'd nearly finished scrubbing the stain from the carpet when Buford began barking his head off outside.

“Knock it off!” Adam yelled out the open sliding glass door. Buford grew quiet for all of two seconds before starting up again, the pit bull's deep, gravelly woof drowning out the sound of frogs and cicadas.

Cursing under his breath, Adam switched on the light for the back porch and stalked outside. The last time Buford went this nuts, he'd cornered a raccoon out by the garbage cans. And while the big goofball had only wanted to play, the raccoon didn't appreciate the attention and clawed the crap out of the dog's face. Adam didn't want to spend another evening—and six hundred bucks—at the emergency vet clinic getting Buford stitched up.

The mutt's bark got sharper, more insistent, and Adam picked up the pace. The light from the porch didn't reach this far, leaving the back half of the property cloaked in shadows. Adam clicked on the penlight attached to his key chain, sweeping the narrow beam in the general direction of Buford's barks. Two reflective eyes stared back at him, belonging to an opossum. The frightened animal froze in its tracks for a second or two before scrambling up one of the orange trees.