"When will the second autopsy be in?"
"Sometime tomorrow."
She nodded. “So you want to go back to the hotel now?"
"Yes. Thank you."
She gave him a look that could have frozen boiling water and led the way out the door. The short journey to the hotel was so tense the air practically crackled.
She stopped in front of his assigned quarters in what looked like the less than luxurious end of town. He glanced at her, but she wasn't looking at him, just staring straight ahead with deliberate determination. Yet the tension riding her shoulders suggested she was aware of his every move.
Just as he was endlessly aware of hers.
He opened the door. The night air swept in, bitingly cold. Yet it did little to cool the warmth flooding his skin or the ardor burning through his body.
"One thing,” she said, before he could move.
"What?"
"You had a watcher in the forest.” She glanced at him, her cool green eyes seeming to glimmer in the truck's shadowed darkness. “That's why I went in—I thought I heard something. Unfortunately, they heard me and fled before I could grab them."
Anger surged. “Why didn't you mention this earlier?"
"What was the point? It was pitch black, and there were no tracks to be found."
"Says you,” he retorted. “You'll take me there tomorrow, clear?"
"Fine,” she said, pulling her gaze from his. But not before he'd seen the stain of anger in her cheeks.
He climbed out and had barely slammed the door closed when she took off. The truck's tires spun on the driveway, spearing the small stones littering the ground over him like mini missiles.
And he'd swear he heard the deliciously warm sound of her laughter as she sped off.
"Bitch,” he muttered. Yet he couldn't help smiling. She'd always been spirited, and wasn't that what had first attracted him to her? That, and her glorious golden hair.
He spun on his heel and headed for the room Trista and Anton were sharing. Both were sitting on the carpeted floor, but Anton was staring at the laptop while Trista was looking through the old case files Cade had brought along.
"You're right,” she said, her pale caramel eyes warmed by the fire burning in the hearth. “There's very little difference between the past murders and these."
He nodded and reached for the autopsy report Hart had faxed over. “They're identical."
"Except for the note carved into the recent victim's back and the lap marks."
"Yeah. Last time a cup was used to soak up the blood."
"Unusual for a wolf to like the taste of human blood,” Anton mused, without looking up from the screen.
"Jontee McGuire wasn't full wolf, but half. At least one of his mates was a half-breed as well.” He quickly scanned the autopsy report, but other than the note found in the left index finger, Hart had found nothing new.
Trista frowned and pushed her fingers through her short brown hair. “Wolves don't often mate with humans."
"In this case, it wasn't willing. Their mothers were drugged and raped by human males on a dare."
She grimaced. “There was a rash of such attacks about thirty years ago. Psychologists reckoned it was some sort of stupid coming of age test. You know, take the werewolf and prove you're a man.” She snorted. “Like drugging a victim is the act of a real man. I tell you, there's something to be said for keeping humans out of reservations."
"Many of the smaller reservations survive on tourist income,” Anton commented, brown eyes flat with annoyance as he looked up. “Without it, they'd be in real trouble."
"I know, but—” Trista began.