aside! I’m a doctor.” Though from the overwhelming amount of blood he smelled, he rather thought his services would not be needed.
The crowd parted, and Ian took in the scene. Bile surged up his throat. Blood was everywhere, coating the walls of the town house, pooling upon the ground, and running along the cracks between the cobbles. A man—what was left of him—lay in a tangled heap pushed up against the wall, his face an unrecognizable hash of claw marks, his torso eviscerated. Just beyond, a woman had suffered the same fate, though her face was unmarred. She’d died first. He’d bet his best walking stick on it. Already the stench of decay crept over her. The body was stiff and white in the moon’s glow.
Ian crouched low and inhaled. Scents assaulted him. He let them come and sorted through the miasma. Beneath the rot, terror, and blood was the rangy scent of wolf, a city wolf—for it missed the essential freshness of country air—yet a wolf tinged with something off, bittersweet. Sickness. What sort, he couldn’t tell.
“He’s past help,” said the man beside him. Ian held up a staying hand and inhaled deeper.
Beyond the filth came a fainter scent—rose, jasmine, rosemary, and sunshine. Those notes held him for one tense moment, pulling the muscles in his solar plexus tight and filling them with odd warmth. It was a fresh, ephemeral scent that made the beast inside him stir, sit up, and take note.
A small groan broke the spell. Someone shouted in alarm. The dead man moved, rolling a bit, and the crowd jumped back as if one. Ian’s pulse kicked before he noticed the soft drape of blue silk between the man’s twisted legs.
“Bloody hell.” He wrenched the body aside. It pitched over with a thud to reveal the crumpled form of a woman covered in blood.
“Step back,” he said sharply as one wayward man tromped forward.
“Lud! Is she alive?”
Ian ignored the query. His hands were gentle as he touched the woman’s wrist to check her pulse. Slow, steady, and strong. It was from her that the scent of flowers arose. Her fine brow pinched, her features lost under a macabre mask of crimson blood. Ian cursed beneath his breath and drew her near as his hands moved over her form in search of injuries. Despite the blood, she was untouched. The man’s blood, not hers. She’d seen it all, however. Of that, he was sure. She’d been the one to scream. Then the man.
He glanced about the alley. This couple had seen the first victim. They shouted, and then they were attacked. Ian brought his attention back to the woman.
She was a handful, lush curves, small waist. He gathered her up in his arms, ignoring the protests of those around. Her head lolled against his shoulder, releasing another faint puff of sweet scent. A curling lock of hair, red with blood, fell over his chest as he hefted her higher and stood.
“She needs medical attention.” He moved to go when a gentleman stepped in his way.
“Here now.” The gentleman’s waxed mustache twitched. “You don’t look like any doctor I’ve ever seen.”
The crowd of men stirred, apparently taking in Ian’s odd attire for the first time.
Ian tightened his grip on the female, and she gave a little moan of distress. The sound went straight to his core. Women were to be protected and cherished. Always. He stared down the gathering crowd. “Nor a marquis, I gather. However, I am both.” He took a step, shouldering aside the man with ease. “I am Northrup. And it would do you well to get out of my way.”
Another murmur rippled among the men. But they eased away; not many wanted to risk tangling with Lord Ian Ranulf, Marquis of Northrup. Those who weren’t as convinced, he pushed past. He’d fight them all if he had to. This woman wasn’t getting out of his sight. Not until he’d questioned her. And he certainly wasn’t letting her tell the whole of London that she’d just survived an attack by a werewolf.
THE DISH
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desk of Sherrill Bodine
Dear Reader,
One of my favorite things about writing is taking real people and mixing and matching their body parts and personalities to create characters who are captivating and entirely unique. And of course, I always set my books in my beloved Chicago, sharing with all of you the behind-the-scenes worlds and places I adore most.
But in ALL I WANT IS YOU, I