Moon Sworn

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?”