Neva raced down Main Street, suddenly glad for the storm. At least she didn't have to worry about traffic. What do you smell? Tell me.
Age. Death. Antiseptic.
Sav didn't realize she was in the hospital, obviously. Look beyond that.
Sour milk.
Sour milk? What on earth did that mean? Give me more, Savannah. You're a wolf and a ranger. Use your skills, damn it.
The link was silent for a long moment. Neva raced left onto South King Street and saw the warm glow of lights through the icy whiteness. She wasn't that far away now. I remember that smell. It belonged to the wolf who attacked me.
Fear flashed though her, spreading like fire through her body, lending her feet greater speed. He's in the hospital with you?
Not in the room. Sav hesitated. But close. Can you see him?
No. Can't see anything. Bandages.
Neva felt like cursing. The severity of the wounds on her sister's face had forced many painstaking hours of microsurgery, and most of Savannah's face and neck had been bandaged.
Listen, then. What do you hear?
Footsteps. Coming closer.
She was never going to get there in time. Feel for the buzzer, Savannah. Call the nurse.
It might be the nurse.
Not if she smells the same as the wolf who attacked you. None of the nurses in the hospital smell like sour milk. Neva changed shape as she raced through the hospital's main entrance. An almost overwhelming tide of emotion hit her--not Savannah's, not hers, just the misery and pain of countless hospital patients, past and present, lingering in the air. She slammed up her shields, but the emotive swirl still seeped past, making her ache. And her parents wondered why she refused to come to the hospital much.
She continued on towards the stairs, knowing she couldn't afford to wait for the elevator. Not when the killer was in the hospital and going after Savannah. Nurses shouted after her, telling her to slow down, telling her visiting hours weren't for another two hours. She ignored them and took the stairs two at a time.
She crashed through the door to the third floor corridor and raced down the hall. There were nurses running ahead of her, and fear surged. Both hers and Savannah's. Surely the murderer couldn't have gotten to her sister. Sav was still listed as critical, and no one but immediate family was supposed to be allowed in the room. Down the far end of the hall the exit door slowly closed. Was it the killer retreating or someone else?
The nurses are here. He's not. Savannah's mind voice was stronger. He's left. Don't give chase. Like hell she wouldn't. She was not only going to go after him, but she was going to kill the bastard. Going to grab his mind and fry his brain with emotion. No! Savannah's horror stung her mind.
He has to be stopped, Neva said grimly.
He has to face the weight of the courts, not be killed. Neva snorted. Yeah, right. With good behavior he'd be out in ten or less. That's not enough punishment for what he's done.
I'm a ranger, Neva. I can't condone vigilante behavior, and I certainly can't let you do this.
I made promises to the moon--
I don't care. You can't do this. I won't let you. Right now, you can't stop me.
If you want to do something, follow his trail. But nothing else. Promise me.
Neva hesitated under the weight of her sister's fury. Promise not to kill him! Sav all but yelled. Neva winced and sighed. While she still so desperately wanted to avenge what had been done to Savannah, she also knew her sister was right.
All right. I promise. She slid to a stop outside her sister's room. There were two nurses inside, and
Savannah was waving her hand weakly at them and trying to get up. Are you all right? Neva asked.
Yes.
Then lie down and lie still.
Damn it, you can't do this--
Sister, you have no idea what I can and can't do. Believe me. Up until a few days ago, even she hadn't been aware of the extremes she'd go to in order to protect those she loved.
Savannah's sigh was a warm breeze through Neva's mind. Just make sure you don't get too close. Neva's smile was grim. She didn't have to get close to use her empathic abilities. All she had to do was find him. And she'd keep her promises--both of them. The killer would experience the pain he'd inflicted on
Savannah and the others, but she wouldn't kill him.
And part of her was extremely glad of that fact. She continued on and pushed open the exit door.
Footsteps rattled down the steps below her, and the smell of sour milk stung the air. She leaned over the railing, briefly catching sight of a lone figure with black hair wearing a white coat--the sort of coat doctors wore. Then the door below opened, and he was gone. She raced down the stairs and flung open the lobby door. No white-coated male to be seen anywhere. She sniffed the air and followed the scent toward the exit. The doors swished open, and the chill of the storm swept in. She shivered and headed out, even though there was no hope of finding a scent in this sort of weather. She did find the coat in the trash can near the entrance and saw a trail of footsteps leading away. She followed for a little while, but they were quickly obliterated by the storm. Cursing, shivering, she headed back to the hospital to talk to her sister.
Duncan leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes as the words on the computer screen began to blur.
He'd only been sitting here for a couple of hours, but he'd had little more than an hour's sleep in the last twenty four, and probably three or four in the last forty-eight. He had to be getting old. Once upon a time he could have gone four or five days on that amount of sleep.
The phone beside the computer rang. He swiveled the chair and rested his feet on the edge of the desk as he picked up the receiver.
'Duncan Sinclair ,' he said, stifling a yawn. 'Lance here. Got those search results you wanted.' Lance
Wilton was a computer geek he'd met while whiling the days away in jail. Lance was a hacker beyond compare, but he'd liked to drink just a little too much and had very few qualms about driving when drunk. He'd ended up almost killing someone and, in the end, had landed in prison for five years.
'That was quick work.'
'Hey, you saved my life by getting me this dream of a job. It's the least I can do.'
Duncan smiled. Lance's dream job was developing software for Tye's small but profitable company.
Being stuck in front of a computer screen for long hours was not a job he would have considered a dream, but he'd always been a wolf who preferred work that gave him the freedom to roam.
'Did you come up with any connection among the four victims?'
'Other than the fact they all lived in Ripple Creek and were regular attendees of the dance, no.'
'What about Levon Grant? Anything interesting on him?'
'He's squeaky clean. No police record, never even had a parking ticket. School records show he was a middle range student who didn't live up to the potential he showed. He apparently hated sports, but loved debating. Never did drugs or alcohol, but was an outspoken advocate in saving oneself for marriage.'
The word boring came to mind, but then, most of the wolves from the golden tribe tended to be. It was only the current generation who were starting to break the leash of control and at least enjoying life--and the dance. Though some, like Neva, were doing so more reluctantly than others.
'What about Nancy Grant?'
'Ah, now there's a totally different proposition.' Duncan raised an eyebrow. Holier-than-thou Nancy had a past? 'Why?'
'Nancy was born and raised on the Bitterroot Reservation over in Idaho. She was an A-grade student until she got in with the wrong crowd, and as a sixteen- year -old was part of a pack that raided the
Sinclair stronghold over there and burned it to the ground.' Though he'd been too young to remember it happening, he could recall reading about it in later years. Thirteen people had died that night, and many more were injured. 'Was she charged?'
