She had a point. None of them were exactly reluctant when it came to enjoying the pleasures of the moon dance, though it was unusual for all four of them to have mated with the same dancer. Their tastes in women were very different.
"So you're not exactly sorry that the Sinclairs are in trouble at the moment?"
"Oh, I'm sorry all right — sorry the murderer is taking out innocent dancers rather than you lying pack of bastards."
He smiled grimly. Must be his night for being called a bastard. They walked through the remainder of the trees in silence, and the lights of Ripple Creek eventually came into sight. The town was quiet, which didn't surprise him, given the somewhat puritanical hold the golden tribe had on the place. Those who truly wanted to celebrate the glory of the moon did so in private or at the mansion.
Betise lived in a small, somewhat rundown house on the outskirts of town. He walked her to the front gate then stopped.
She swung around. "You're not coming in?"
The heat was back in her eyes, the smell of her arousal thick and heavy on the air. Yet two minutes ago, she'd been wishing him dead.
"I have no desire for you," he repeated.
She caught his arm and stepped close, wantonly pressing her body against his. "A wolf with experience can give you far more pleasure than an uptight bit of fluff like Neva."
Anger surged through him. Neva was more wolf than this bitch would ever be. He grabbed her shoulders and none too gently pushed her backwards. "Go inside and lock your door. And if I hear you've mentioned Neva's presence at the mansion, I'll ensure you never again attend another moon dance." And for a wolf so hooked on the pleasures of the moon, that was a threat worse than death itself.
Her pale eyes glittered silver in the night, and for an instant, it seemed sanity had fled their depths and all that was left was hate.
"Bastard," she muttered.
"So I keep getting told."
She spun and walked away, but halfway up the path, she hesitated and looked over her shoulder.
"There's something you should know. Three weeks ago, Levon Grant pulled me aside in the diner and began asking questions about who was dancing with whom up at the mansion."
Shock rippled through him. Neva's father had been asking about the mansion? Why? While it was obvious Levon Grant had no liking for the dance, he'd never been one of those who spoke out against it, either. Duncan had been under the impression that while Levon might hate what the dance represented, he also understood that the mansion provided a secure outlet for the moon-spun urges and kept Ripple Creek safe for human and werewolf alike.
But maybe he'd been wrong all along. Maybe Levon had just been waiting for the right opportunity to take matters into his own hands.
But if that were the case, why was Neva at the mansion? Would a wolf so against the mansion's moon dance force his daughter to join them?
Given what he'd seen of the man, he doubted it. And yet, the niggle was there. He couldn't say for certain, and that was worrying. Maybe he was being played more than he realized.
"You'd better watch what you do over the next couple of days, wolf." Betise's cold words seemed to echo his thoughts. "It might just turn out that you're dancing with the murderer's not-so-sweet accomplice."
Chapter Seven
Duncan rapped his knuckles against the wooden door leading into his father's suite, then entered without being asked. Zeke wasn't in the main room, but he could hear soft voices in the bedroom. He strode over to the bar and poured himself a large bourbon. A habit he'd have to watch, he realized, even as the liquid burned down his throat. The last thing he wanted was a return to the bad old days.
He leaned against the bar and listened to the murmurs of conversation in the other room. While he couldn't hear many words, one thing was obvious. His father's source was female, not male.
A cold breeze whistled around his ankles, indicating the French doors had been opened. Two seconds later his father entered the room, wearing little more than a black silk robe.
"No wonder you didn't want me appearing before five," Duncan noted dryly. "You knew you'd be busy paying off the messenger."
Zeke smiled and didn't refute the accusation. He poured himself a drink, then slapped a folder on the bar. "There's the report. There don't seem to be any variances from the other attacks."
"Did they find any more coat hair?"
"Other than that one you saw, no. But one hair is all they need to place a suspect at the scene."
"If they had a suspect."
"True." Zeke paused and took a drink. "My source did drop one interesting revelation that's not in the reports."