“No.” He cupped her face and brought her mouth to his for a deep, possessive kiss he ended too quickly. “I won’t lose the one female who has managed what no other has been able to do.”
He didn’t tell her what that was or give her a chance to respond, not that she knew what she would say. After another brush of lips, he slipped out of the car. The slow amble he took toward the boat wouldn’t draw any unusual attention. He looked as if he belonged here. The clothes, the sunglasses he’d slid over his nonhuman eyes, and the mannerisms he’d obviously picked out of her mind helped him blend in. Sure, he was taller and more muscular than most men. Still, nobody would peg him as a demigod and a rider of the Wild Hunt.
She threw the SUV into drive and headed back to the scene of the murder she’d inadvertently caused.
Don’t think about it now. Later, wallow in guilt later. She took a deep breath of wood-scented air, the last remnants of Calan’s presence, and parked behind a police cruiser.
Ian turned his back on Trevor and strode toward her, his hands fisted tightly and a murderous glare on his face. Her heart skipped a beat.
He opened the passenger door and climbed in. “She’s fucking gone.”
Bile rushed up. She swallowed it down. “Raul killed Cynthia?”
Ian dropped his head against the seat and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. Cynthia. She’s gone.”
“As in, disappeared?”
He nodded.
The knowledge didn’t ease the rolling of her gut. Gone didn’t mean safe. Actually, it might mean an outcome a hell of a lot worse than death. She blew out a rough breath. “Tell me what happened.”
“With the exception of her younger sister, Allie, all of Cynthia’s girlfriends who slept over, along with the rest of her family, were killed.” He glanced at her, and the pain reflected in his eyes stabbed her in the heart. “Cynthia’s bed was empty, and the back door was hanging wide open.”
“Oh God.” She covered her mouth with a trembling hand. “Raul?”
“It didn’t look like one of his murders. No missing pinkies or tongues.”
She peered through the window at the house where Ian had spent his holidays over the last few years. The idea forming in her head sickened her.
“A sluagh kill?” Not that they matched any one cookie-cutter slaying, but they all ended with a major artery being cut so the creature could drink of its victim’s blood.
“Some struggled, but all had a single slash over their throats. No other visible wounds other than the bruising that I saw. The cops kicked me out before I could examine the rest of the house.”
She met her brother’s deadened eyes, the pain replaced by acceptance, and asked the only thing left. “You think it was Cynthia?”
He shrugged, but the resignation slackening his expression told the truth. “Her bloody handprint was on the table along with my ring.”
He reached down and tugged up the leg of his pants. The holder strapped to his calf held the dagger Harley had made for him, the one that could kill redcaps and sluaghs. He yanked it free, then caressed the black blade in a slow swipe, cutting his forefinger on the sharp edge. The scent of blood filled the car. “If it was, I’m going to find Raul and cut out his goddamn heart.”
Chapter Eighteen
Calan stared at the evidence before him and cursed a string of swear words he’d picked out of Harley’s mind. A perfect circle formed out of large, dome-shaped mushrooms sat in the middle of the storage building’s dirt floor. Unlike most he’d seen, the mushrooms making up the ring were healthy and plump, not red-topped and diseased. They appeared to be several years old and defied all the rules.
“A fucking fairy ring.” Hidden out of sight from my hounds.
Leading up to the edge of it, the impressions of small feet showed the path the sluagh had taken to return to its home, the realm that still existed in the Underworld even if there weren’t any fairies left to occupy it.
He pivoted on his heel and surveyed the rest of the building. Along one wall, a large map hung with an assortment of colored pushpins decorating it. Next to it, hundreds of frozen images were neatly arranged. Some had crumpled corners and wrinkles; others had been printed on special paper and in different hues. They showed various landscapes and seasons. The clothing style changed, but one thing remained the same in them.
They were all of Harley—naked, fully clothed, sleeping under the golden rays of the sun, fucking other men. All of his mate.
Every last one.
The growl started deep in his chest. He focused on one picture—Harley on her knees, sucking some human’s dick with a look of pure rapture on her face, much like the one she’d worn last night when she’d been in a similar position with him. Calan let a nail grow into a sharp talon. He sliced the male’s image, then desecrated each of the others. It didn’t appease his rage. He wanted their blood for daring to touch what belonged to him.
Harley had been his from the moment he’d left his mark on her. She should’ve felt the connection to him, even if she didn’t understand it. She should’ve longed for him, needed him, fucking sought him out.
But she hadn’t.
She’d stayed away for nine unbelievably long years. In that time, she’d given her body to the males depicted on the wall before him. How had she been able to touch them, let alone find release at their hands?
Harley doesn’t need to return my devotion. She could still walk away exactly as he’d suggested in the traditional binding vow he’d given. It was the ultimate sacrifice a mate could make—eternal commitment without a guarantee
