Traversing the icy, nearly abandoned, snow-covered roads, he made his way to his home. It was in the middle of a family-type subdivision, the yards all immaculate, though under the snow it was hard to tell. He pulled into the driveway and hit the automatic door opener for the garage. Nothing happened.

“Sorry,” Adamson said, “That’ll be me and Alex causing problems.”

Of course, he’d forgotten about that. Then again, it might be him too, now. Fear stabbed through him. God, to think he could be a supernatural now . . . he pushed the thought away, though he’d already seen enough evidence staring him in the face that he knew he was just putting off the inevitable.

He glanced in the back. Alex stared at the ceiling, but Adamson was awake, her eyes watching him. He had a moment of insight, seeing the wariness there, the uncertainty, the lack of trust. In that moment, he could see that she was, in her own way, as much as a wild creature as Alex. It hurt, knowing that for a moment or two, he’d had more than her trust; he suspected he’d held her heart too. What a clusterf**k this was.

“Come on, we can get cleaned up here and then we can take my truck.”

“What about Alex?” Adamson untangled herself from the werewolf slowly.

“He can come in, but can you hide him?” O’Shea pointed out at the bright lights on either side of his dark house, a face peering out each window. The neighbourhood thought they were a freaking watch when it came to his comings and goings. There was no way they’d miss a werewolf playing in the snow.

She was already nodding, auburn hair shifting around her face, hands reaching forward. “Pass me my bag.”

He flipped the bag back to her. “Here.”

She slid out a collar studded in diamonds and buckled it onto Alex. The werewolf’s image wavered, and for a brief second all O’Shea saw was a big black dog of indiscriminate breeding. Another blink and Alex in all his werewolf glory was back.

Adamson shivered and started for the door; O’Shea got out and went around the side to meet her. It was hard to think no one would notice the two hundred pound werewolf, but again, he had to trust her. He did trust her. And that in itself was a bloody freaking miracle. Not that he had to, but that he did. Which was going to make what he had to do so much harder.

“Rylee, you need to look at this.” O’Shea’s voice was soft, his tone far more sympathetic than I’d ever heard him before. We were giving Ricky a final once over, making sure any wounds weren’t gaping and obvious before we went inside to clean ourselves up.

My mind circled around a single truth, one I couldn’t escape. The Troll would never have killed Ricky if I’d taken care of things, if I’d done what I should have in the beginning.

“What now?”

“The Troll didn’t kill him.”

My hands on the boys clothing stilled and I stared at O’Shea. “How do you know that?”

“Multiple bullet wounds. And the kid has been dead just a few hours.” He pointed at a wound on Ricky’s back. “That is far too decomposed. This kid has been dead for two weeks at least. Probably killed the night he went missing.”

Bullet wounds, dead longer, for at least two weeks. He was right; it couldn’t have been the Troll.

O’Shea stood and moved around the body, every inch of him an agent in that moment. “My best guess is the Troll grabbed the kid’s body after he’d been shot and killed; it would be simpler to keep a kid quiet that’s dead, than alive. Wouldn’t matter if he forgot to feed him, or if he had to leave for an extended period of time. Of course, there is also the fact that he, your Troll friend there, knew how you’d react if you found a dead body, rather than a live kid. Psychological warfare in a way.”

I closed my eyes, let the relief flow out of me, followed by a sharp burst of fear. I should have thanked O’Shea, should have been grateful. And I was, but I couldn’t say it. Either way, the kid was gone and I was going to have to tell his mother. Regardless, the ending was the same for her. To know that the Lighteater could so easily fake Ricky’s life, to emulate it enough that I fell into their trap; that had my nerves dancing. If I couldn’t trust my own ability to Track . . . what then? I swallowed hard, pushing my fears aside. I wished there was someone who knew more than me, someone who I could turn to, to ask. But there wasn’t. So for now, I would have to just suck it up. No different than usual.

“Let’s get him wrapped up tight. I don’t want anything left to chance.” We worked quickly, tying the body up, removing all traces of our own fingerprints and hairs with a simple spell of Milly’s.

“Abradant,” I whispered, igniting the spell. A soft pink glow flowed over the boy’s body. “That’ll keep the detectives in the dark.”

O’Shea said nothing, closing the back of the SUV, then headed into the house, the snow and dark muffling his footsteps.

I followed O’Shea into the one story rancher, typical of the new building style in the area. I kept my fingers jammed in my pockets and Alex stayed tight to my side. Even with the cold air and the wind, I could smell the Troll shit on us. Damn, it was bad stuff and already hardening on our clothes.

O’Shea went in first, lights bloomed, and we followed. Shutting the door behind us, I couldn’t help but stare. We were standing in the kitchen, black and white decor with a splash of blue here and there. Damn, either he had an interior designer or the man had some taste. Stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, and clean—everything was freaking spotless. That didn’t surprise me though; O’Shea was particular about everything he did.

I was shaking, not with cold, but the adrenaline let down, my fingers tight around Alex’s collar as I kept him close to my side.

“Nice joint,” I said, meaning it.

O’Shea slipped out of his coat and shoes, threw them into a room off the kitchen, what looked like the mudroom, then he continued to peel out of his clothes, much to my, I’ll admit, pleasure. He lifted his eyes to me.

“Strip.”

“Oh no, I’m enjoying this just fine. I don’t need to join you.” I couldn’t stop the smile from slipping across my lips. Yes indeed, I might have told myself no more touching, but I could still look. Damn! A very large part of me wanted to rescind my previous vow not to let him affect or touch me.

“You smell like Troll shit and I’m not going to take you to the kid’s mother with that stench in my truck.”

Bugger, he had a point. Letting go of Alex’s collar, I shrugged out of my coat, noting a large chunk of mung on one shoulder. Damn it that was nasty. Amazing though how quickly I got used to it. Within seconds, I was down to my bra and panties (thank the gods they were at least matching), and my clothes were handed off to O’Shea. Third time in less than two days I was down to my skin and a few scraps of material between me, O’Shea, and full nudity. Of course, the last time was much more fun. Stop it!

O’Shea strode past me, and I stepped back to keep from touching his bare skin. “Stay here, I’ll get you something to wear,” he said, walking deeper into the house.

My eyes tracked him, his body hard and muscled, and his shorts not leaving a lot to my imagination. Not that I needed imagination to visualize what was under them. I closed my eyes. Think about other things, Rylee. Think about how you are going to explain to Jewel you messed up, how to explain to O’Shea you can’t be his partner . . .

Faris.

His name reverberated through me as if someone had spoken it. My eyes flew open and I stared around me, my weapons piled on the kitchen table. I grabbed my sword, my fingers gripping the handle.

Licking my lips, I moved slowly, both from the cold and a desire for stealth. Alex was sitting beside me, eyebrows lifted high.

“What do you smell, buddy?” I asked, my voice pitched low.

Lifting his nose, he scented the air, tongue held tight between his front teeth, just the pink tip visible against his black fur.

“Bacon.”

That was not what I’d expected. “Nothing else?”

Snuffling the air, he swivelled on his haunches as O’Shea came back into the room a thick green robe slung over his arm. “What is it?”

“Smelling,” Alex said, taking in a lungful of air. “Man with gun. Boss.”

I patted him on the head and laid my sword on the table. “Okay, thanks.” For now I would chalk it up to being tired, cold and sore.

O’Shea tossed me the robe and I slipped it on, groaning as the cool air was blocked from my skin and the soft fleece enveloped me. His cologne clung to the material, the musk a heady drug to me. I could breathe it in all night and not get tired of the scent.

I opened my eyes to see O’Shea staring at me, his eyes dilated, nostrils flaring. “I’ll get Alex cleaned up,” he said, but his eyes said other things. Things my own pulse began to echo.

He disappeared into the mudroom, then came back and grabbed Alex. “Come on, let’s get that shit off your feet.”

Alex went with him, tail drooping and a grumble under his breath. I gave him a wave and a smile, grateful that O’Shea was willing to help out with Alex. I moved deeper into the house, burying my bare toes into the lush carpet of the living room. The floor was warm; it had to be in-floor heating, which was a nice perk.

The main living area was as tastefully decorated as the kitchen, the colours shifting into rich hues of mahogany and cream with one wall covered in a painted scene taking up the whole thing. I moved closer to the painting. A lone tree painted with broken and gnarled branches, it was nearly sheared through the middle, either by fire or ax, I couldn’t tell. Leaves scattered on the ground and the moon—glimpsed between scattered clouds—were the main focal points, besides the tree itself. But the longer I looked, the more I saw. Bats, an owl hidden in the branches, even shoots of new life peeking out through the fallen leaves, the distant silhouette of a wolf. A wave of nostalgia rose within me, a desire for something more than what I had with my life. For some reason the painting made me think of my lack of family, about how my life was never really my own. Not that I would have it any other way.