Last Wolf Standing (24 page)

“When you see Torrance, tell her I’ll be back later,” he called out over his shoulder. Then Mason grabbed up his keys and headed out into the quiet darkness of the night.

Chapter 10

T he mountain air was brisk, his breath forming a white mist as Mason moved in a slow circle, studying the scene with a hunter’s trained eye—while his human half raged against the injustice of the crime. Like something torn from the pages of a horror novel, complete with the blood and gore and thick, suffocating scent of blood and meat, it was a grizzly scene. And yet, strangely ordered. He’d seen death and destruction so many times, but this was different. Ritualistic, without the normal frenzy of a killing rage. He knew what happened when those of his kind let their beast’s hunger for the hunt get the better of them, allowing that dark wall of rage to overcome their morality, their understanding of right and wrong. That wasn’t what he and the others were looking at here.

No, this had been planned. Followed through. Executed. This had been about something other than meat lust. Something darker, even more frightening, and it scared the daylights out of him.

From Brody and Cian’s grim expressions, they weren’t faring much better.

Bending his knees, Mason grabbed up a handful of dirt, lifting the humid soil to his nose. He sniffed, and an acrid scent burned his nasal passages, making his eyes water. “Is this the same scent you found with the other bodies?”

Rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand, Brody waved the other toward the ground. “Not quite, but then we’re dealing with a whole group here. There are footprints all over the place. All Lycan. I’d guess she’s been dead for a few hours, which means she was killed sometime this afternoon.”

“And that means they were dayshifters.”

“Yeah, but only one killer.” Cian leaned his long, rangy form back against the rough trunk of a pine, his gray eyes glowing eerily bright in the deepening shadows of the evening. “This wasn’t an eating frenzy. This was cold-blooded butchery.”

Brody nodded, blowing out a deep breath. “So the others were here for the show?”

“That would be my guess,” Cian drawled, uncrossing his arms to reach for his pack of cigarettes. A few moments later he had one lit, its smoldering tip burning with a flickering orange smear of color, like an unblinking eye watching them from the fiery depths of hell. “The question is, was Simmons part of the crowd, or the main event?”

“My gut says it was Simmons.” Unbending his knees, Mason pushed back the sides of his jacket, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Have you found any kind of identification? Her purse? Wallet?”

“Nothing,” Brody grunted. “I searched the area while we were waiting for you, but I couldn’t even find her clothes.”

Cian’s glittering gaze slipped over the brutalized remains of the woman, the usual sarcastic curve of his mouth replaced by something that looked suspiciously like compassion. “I bet she was a pretty little thing,” he said softly, before pulling in another long drag of smoke.

Mason reached for his own pack of cigarettes as Brody said, “I’ll get in contact with Monroe…see if he’s got any new missing persons. I’m betting she was on the streets. Her arms are covered with track marks.”

Monroe was the brother of one of the human women married into the Silvercrest Lycans, and he was also a federal agent with the FBI. Since his sister had opened his eyes to the wilder side of the Eastern Mountains, he’d proven to be a surprisingly helpful resource for the Bloodrunners, exchanging information when he came across a case that he believed would be of interest to them. The victims were all too often those who lived on the fringes of the law, where the rogues could hunt the easiest. Drug users and prostitutes. Easy pickings for a Lycan when he was on the hunt for fresh meat. In return, they kept Monroe apprised of their current hunts, alerting him when a rogue was on the loose. So far the relationship had proven to be highly beneficial.

“I’m going back,” Mason muttered, when his cell began buzzing. He unclipped it, reading the word private printed across the LED screen. Frowning, he pressed his thumb down to take the call. “Dillinger.”

“She was a beautiful girl. You should have seen her when she was still breathing. Breathtaking, really.” The caller laughed a cruel, sadistic sound of humor. “Until her breath got taken away.”

“This place still stinks of you, Simmons,” Mason drawled. “You might consider taking a bath sometime.”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Simmons scolded. “I know this must be hard for you, but you can’t save them all, Dillinger.”

“Why run away, you cowardly piece of shit?” he taunted, hoping to push the bastard’s buttons. “Too afraid to face me on your own?”

“And she was so sweet.” Simmons sighed, ignoring the question. “Like honey on my tongue. Made me think of your own honey girl.”

Mason’s silence gave away more than any scathing retort or casual dismissal could ever have done, and Simmons’s low, maniacal laughter filled his ear. “Ah, so she is more to you than just a fun piece of ass. I was hoping that was the case. It’s going to make killing her that much more satisfying.”

“You’ll have to get through me first, Simmons. And I promise that if I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

“Your confidence is going to be your downfall, Dillinger. You can’t control fate, and you certainly can’t control me. For all you know, she’s already mine. Maybe I’m not even the one responsible for that redheaded little whore at your feet. I could be at your cabin, watching your woman through the windows. She’s a tiny thing, but I bet she can act like an animal. There’s something…wild about her. You know what I mean?”

The icy fear in his gut shifted, morphing into something too ugly and sharp and destructive for words. Disconnecting the call, Mason shoved his phone in his pocket, then carefully focused on lighting his own smoke, determinedly ignoring the telling shake in his fingers as he cupped his palm around the cigarette’s tip, protecting the fragile flame from the wind. The sharp scent of tobacco filled his head, and he drew in a slow, deep breath, letting the smoke fill his lungs, seeking the cool, calm remoteness that he’d always been able to pull down around him. But it was gone. Shattered, ground into dust, replaced by this unstable, incomprehensible chaos of hunger and worry and gnawing uncertainty. Christ, he felt shredded. Scraped raw. And there was no denying the panic clawing at his insides, slashing him into emotional ribbons.

Taking another deep drag of the cigarette, he turned back to the others. “That was Simmons.”

Brody jerked his chin at the woman, the moonlight setting the fiery strands of her long auburn hair afire, where they spread into the dark spill of blood beneath her. “Did he claim her?”

“He’s playing mind games. You know Simmons—it’s always some dramatic production with him. But my gut tells me he’s the one.”

“Wanna know what my gut tells me?” Hennessey drawled, one knee bent, black boot jammed against the tree, while he lifted his cigarette to his mouth, the filter pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

“You’ll tell me one way or another, so spit it out,” he growled, impatient to get the hell out of there and back home, where he could keep watch over Torrance.

“I know the significance of this brilliant red hair hasn’t been lost on you,” the Irishman murmured, his pale gaze sweeping over the victim’s fiery tresses with a meaningful glance. “It occurs to me that with Simmons so focused on you, maybe one of us should take the girl off your hands.”

Rage, perfect and pure, sparked to life. “Don’t go there, Hennessey. Not now.”

But the Irishman didn’t look in the mood to heed the warning. “I’m just making a helpful, friendly suggestion,” he drawled, taking another long, slow pull on his cigarette, before his mouth curled in a knowing smile. “If one of us were to put our mark on her, maybe he’d leave her alone, and you could go back to your lovely existence of hunting the bastard down, without having to worry about her. Isn’t that the way you like things? Nice and easy, without any fussy emotional attachments?”

“Cian,” Brody muttered in a low tone of warning, obviously seeing where this was headed.

“One more word,” Mason rasped, flicking his cigarette into the damp moss covering the base of the trees, “and you’re going to regret it, Hennessey.”

“I’m just being a pal, Dillinger. An offer from one friend to another. If you don’t want me touching her, I’m sure Brody would be up for the challenge, though God only knows what she might do when she sees that beast of his. And Jeremy’s still not in top form.” He shrugged as if coming to a decision. “Looks like I’d be the best bet.” A slow, devil’s smile spread cross his mouth. “Can’t say that I mind. She looks like she’d be a fun…handful.”

“That’s it, you son of a bitch.”

Brody lunged to force his way between them, but Mason was already taking the Irishman down. They hit the ground hard, rolling across the damp earth, the silent forest suddenly filled with the brutal, battering sounds of battle.

Nearly an hour later, his body aching and sore, Mason steered the Tahoe to a stop in front of the cabin. The nighttime sky shone clear and endless, illuminated by the giant yellow sphere of the moon as it hung low on the horizon, the surrounding trees resembling giant, swaying swamp monsters beneath the hazy moonlight. It was a beautiful night, and one he’d have preferred to spend with Torrance, rather than studying a brutal crime scene and brawling with Hennessey.

Now that he was home, he’d hoped that some of his tension would ease, but as he opened his door and climbed out of the Tahoe, he still couldn’t shake the worry riding across the back of his neck. Couldn’t put an end to the churning unease knotting his gut that warned him he’d left something undone, unfinished. That he was selling himself short.

Locking his jaw, he turned his back on it, determined not to get sidetracked by emotion. He didn’t have time for emotion. Things were going to start rolling now; he knew it. Simmons was too on edge, his madness controlling him more than his thirst for revenge. The rogue was close to the breaking point, and when he cracked, Mason was going to be there to bring him down.

Bring him down, and put an end to the miserable bastard’s existence once and for all.

But he knew that would only be the beginning. No, Simmons was only one arm of this monster. Someone was playing with him, using the rogue as a means to an end that Mason didn’t yet completely understand—and he was man enough to admit that he was terrified of what they were dealing with.

Too many open ends. Too many deadly possibilities.

After the ugliness of the night, he needed something clean. Something pure. He needed Torrance. Needed her freshness, that sweet, incandescent spark that lit her up inside. He wanted her. God, did he want her. Wanted to crawl up inside of her and learn everything there was to know. What made her smile…laugh. What turned her on and what made her cry. He wanted to know all of it, every fascinating detail that made her who she was.

And someone wanted to take her away from him.

Not in this lifetime.

He found her curled up on her side in his bed, resting her head in one hand, while she held a book with the other—and the relief he felt at seeing her safe shot through him like a flame, piercing and warm. Her long hair spilled across the ivory white of his pillow, flowing over her shoulder, the soft curls gleaming a deep, dark red in the glowing light from the lamp, and a low, husky moan rumbled in his chest. She glanced up at the sound, and her green eyes went wide with horror as she looked him over. Mason winced, fully aware that Hennessey had left him battered and bruised.

“What happened to you?” she gasped, climbing off the bed to stand nervously at its side, looking torn between running to him and keeping her distance.

Pulling off his jacket, Mason tossed it toward the wooden chair in the corner. “Had a bit of a disagreement with the Irishman.”

Her head tilted at a curious angle. “You were fighting with Cian?”

“Just blowing off steam,” he told her, brutally aware of the dark spill of lust rushing through him, just because she was near. Because she was beautiful and strong and his. “No big deal. I’ll live.”

He felt her warm gaze as it moved over the scrape burning across his left cheekbone, the swelling skin beneath his right eye, the swollen, bloodied corner of his mouth. “You call this blowing off steam?” she asked, her tone dry as she crossed her arms and arched one slim brow. “Are you both crazy?”

“Fighting is just the way we cope,” he explained. “It helps keep the tension from getting to the point where we want to kill each other.”

“Well at least tell me that he looks as bad as you do.”

“I think Brody had to carry him home,” he laughed, the words heavy with satisfaction.

“Boys and their macho trips,” she drawled, rolling her eyes.

Propping himself against the dresser, Mason leaned over to unlace his boots, choking back a groan of pain from his bruised ribs. “I’m…surprised you’re still up.”

“Of course I’m still up,” she muttered, setting her book on the bedside table, along with her glasses. “I can’t sleep when I’m worrying myself to death. You didn’t say goodbye and Jeremy didn’t know when you’d be back and I was—”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. He could see it now, the strain and nerves she’d been trying hard to hide from him since he’d walked into the room. Something warm and satisfying bloomed in his chest at the idea of her caring about him—about what happened to him. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I should’ve called.”