Until the scream came again. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, yet it brought no immediate images to mind. He stepped back from Neva and wondered who in hell was playing it a little too rough. He hoped it wasn't René. "Stay here," he said, fastening his jeans.
"No." She slipped off the bench and pulled up her dress.
"Neva — "
"No," she repeated, her expression determined as her gaze met his. "I know the voice — I was talking to her just before we came here. I may be able to help."
He frowned. Given her reluctance to let anyone know she was here at the mansion, it was surprising that she'd risk talking to anyone. "Who?"
"Betise."
She gave him a strange look as she said the name, and he wondered why. The voice might have sounded familiar, but the name certainly wasn't. And while he had no desire to drag her into any pack business, she was right about one thing. If there was an hysterical female to deal with, she could be of some assistance. He had no doubt this was nothing more than a wolf playing the dance a little too hard, simply because it broke the well-established pattern set by the murderer. As another scream sounded, he grabbed her hand, and they raced out the door.
The night air was glacial against his lust-heated skin, and the wind had sharpened. Overhead, the moon was lost to the gathering of thick, dark clouds. There would be a storm by morning. Part of him hoped it was one of those early spring monsters Ripple Creek was renowned for. At the very least, it would keep everyone indoors and the rangers away a bit longer, giving him the chance to find and deal with the monster behind the murders.
They raced past the row of aspens and pines and across the well-manicured lawn, heading toward the pavilion where he'd first danced with Neva. He didn't hear anyone else speeding through the night, neither ahead nor behind them — undoubtedly thanks to the wind blowing the sound of the wolf's screams away from the ballrooms. Of that he was glad. Right now, they didn't need an audience, and they certainly didn't need any more rumors circulating around Ripple Creek.
The sound of soft sobbing broke through the night. He couldn't smell the presence of another male, only a female. She was a hint of musk and sourness on the icy wind — an odd, unpleasant aroma, and one that stirred memories. He'd danced with a wolf who'd smelled like that, though it was a long time ago, back in the hellion days of his youth.
The old pavilion came into sight, and he slowed. Neva wrenched her hand from his, but he caught her again before she could run ahead.
"If this is another attack by the murderer," he said, before she could speak the rebuke he could see in her expressive eyes, "then racing blindly into the situation might well destroy any clues."
Not that he really thought there'd be any to find. Even this close, he couldn't sense the presence of another wolf. Only the female, though as they walked closer, it became obvious she'd danced many times over the night. The scent of many males stung her skin, and that in itself did match previous attacks.
They found her sitting on the pavilion's floor, huddled next to a seat wrapped in shadows. She was willowy and blonde, reminding him of the wolf he'd seen his brother dancing with when he and Neva had first walked into the ballroom.
She looked up. There were tears in her eyes, and the hard planes of her face were gouged and bloody. The arms she had wrapped around her drawn up knees were littered with bite marks. Marks made by a wolf with huge jaws.
Neva made a strangled sound, then she tore herself free of his grasp and went to the older wolf, kneeling down beside her.
"By the moon's light, Betise, what happened?"
"I was supposed to meet someone here, but he was late." The older wolf's voice was little more than a broken whisper, but one that grated against his nerves. And he couldn't say why — it certainly wasn't all that unpleasant.
"Another wolf came out of the shadows ... and he ... he..."
If another male had been here, why couldn't he smell him? "Where did he go?" he asked, voice clipped.
The look Neva gave him was dark. "Does it matter right now? Why don't you give Betise some comfort — "
The older wolf placed a hand on Neva's arm, silencing her. "The last I saw of him, he was heading for the main gates."
"Stay here, both of you."
He spun and shifted shape, running swiftly for the main gate. The air was fresh and cold, the wind stronger. He might have thought it possible that the weather had blown away all aroma of the attacker, except for the fact that the tang of balsam still rode the air, as did the flowery scent of several females who'd obviously passed through the gates recently.
Betise had obviously been attacked, but by whom? And if the attacker hadn't retreated this way, where had he gone? Was Betise lying to protect him, or had she been too confused and terrified to truly notice which way her attacker had fled?
He suspected it was the former, though why he felt this, he had no idea. But he'd learned long ago to trust his instincts. Over the years, they'd gotten him out of more trouble than he could remember.
Neva glanced up as he entered the pavilion again, the rich and exotic mint of her eyes making the older wolf's seem almost silver in comparison.
"Do you have a doctor in this place?"
The scorn evident on the word place more than emphasized her thoughts about the mansion, which only confirmed his suspicion that she was here to watch him, not dance.
"Yes."