Beneath a Rising Moon Page 15

  She was running out of time. And so was Savannah.

  She surged through the main gates and down into the

  trees. The snow here was lighter, allowing her to pick up

  speed. But the wind tore at her coat, and it felt like the ice

  in the air was invading every pore. She was so cold it hurt

  to move. Not even the thick winter coat of a wolf provided

  much protection against the force of a storm like this.

  She couldn’t yet see the lights of Ripple Creek, and

  normally they would have been visible by now. The

  fierceness of the storm was whiting everything out. She

  leapt the stream and raced on, her heart slamming against

  her rib cage and her tongue lolling as she battled for breath.

  The minute she came out of the protection of the trees,

  the wind hurled her sideways. She tumbled downhill,

  gathering momentum until she smashed into a tree. She

  yelped, and pain rose in a red tide through her body.

  Neva?

  The tremulous voice cut through the pain, blanketing

  her mind, and joy swept through her. Sav, I’m coming.

  She scrambled to her feet and, ignoring the ache in

  her ribs, ran on. The smell of wood smoke and humanity

  stung the freezing air. She was close to Ripple Creek, even

  if she couldn’t yet see it.

  There’s someone here.

  Oh God. Who?

  Confusion swirled through the link between them.

  Savannah was holding on to consciousness by the

  slenderest of margins, and if she slipped away, she’d die,

  of that Neva was certain.

  I don’t...Her voice faded away.

  Savannah!

  Here. But her reply was soft. Distant.

  Neva raced down Main Street, suddenly glad for the

  storm. At least she didn’t have to worry about traffic. What

  do you smell? Tell me.

  Age. Death. Antiseptic.

  Sav didn’t realize she was in the hospital, obviously.

  Look beyond that.

  Sour milk.

  Sour milk? What on earth did that mean? Give me

  more, Savannah. You’re a wolf and a ranger. Use your

  skills, damn it.

  The link was silent for a long moment. Neva raced left

  onto South King Street and saw the warm glow of lights

  through the icy whiteness. She wasn’t that far away now.

  I remember that smell. It belonged to the wolf who

  attacked me.

  Fear flashed though her, spreading like fire through

  her body, lending her feet greater speed. He’s in the hospital

  with you?

  Not in the room. Sav hesitated. But close.

  Can you see him?

  No. Can’t see anything. Bandages.

  Neva felt like cursing. The severity of the wounds on

  her sister’s face had forced many painstaking hours of

  microsurgery, and most of Savannah’s face and neck had

  been bandaged.

  Listen, then. What do you hear?

  Footsteps. Coming closer.

  She was never going to get there in time. Feel for the

  buzzer, Savannah. Call the nurse.

  It might be the nurse.

  Not if she smells the same as the wolf who attacked

  you. None of the nurses in the hospital smell like sour milk.

  Neva changed shape as she raced through the

  hospital’s main entrance. An almost overwhelming tide of

  emotion hit her—not Savannah’s, not hers, just the misery

  and pain of countless hospital patients, past and present,

  lingering in the air. She slammed up her shields, but the

  emotive swirl still seeped past, making her ache. And her

  parents wondered why she refused to come to the hospital

  much.

  She continued on towards the stairs, knowing she

  couldn’t afford to wait for the elevator. Not when the killer

  was in the hospital and going after Savannah. Nurses

  shouted after her, telling her to slow down, telling her

  visiting hours weren’t for another two hours. She ignored

  them and took the stairs two at a time.

  She crashed through the door to the third floor corridor

  and raced down the hall. There were nurses running ahead

  of her, and fear surged. Both hers and Savannah’s.

  Surely the murderer couldn’t have gotten to her sister.

  Sav was still listed as critical, and no one but immediate

  family was supposed to be allowed in the room. Down the

  far end of the hall the exit door slowly closed. Was it the

  killer retreating or someone else?

  The nurses are here. He’s not. Savannah’s mind voice

  was stronger. He’s left. Don’t give chase.

  Like hell she wouldn’t. She was not only going to go

  after him, but she was going to kill the bastard. Going to

  grab his mind and fry his brain with emotion.

  No! Savannah’s horror stung her mind.

  He has to be stopped, Neva said grimly.

  He has to face the weight of the courts, not be killed.

  Neva snorted. Yeah, right. With good behavior he’d be

  out in ten or less. That’s not enough punishment for what

  he’s done.

  I’m a ranger, Neva. I can’t condone vigilante behavior,

  and I certainly can’t let you do this.

  I made promises to the moon—

  I don’t care. You can’t do this. I won’t let you.

  Right now, you can’t stop me.

  If you want to do something, follow his trail. But nothing

  else. Promise me.

  Neva hesitated under the weight of her sister’s fury.

  Promise not to kill him! Sav all but yelled.

  Neva winced and sighed. While she still so desperately

  wanted to avenge what had been done to Savannah, she

  also knew her sister was right.

  All right. I promise. She slid to a stop outside her sister’s

  room. There were two nurses inside, and Savannah was

  waving her hand weakly at them and trying to get up.

  Are you all right? Neva asked.

  Yes.

  Then lie down and lie still.

  Damn it, you can’t do this—

  Sister, you have no idea what I can and can’t do.

  Believe me. Up until a few days ago, even she hadn’t been

  aware of the extremes she’d go to in order to protect those

  she loved.

  Savannah’s sigh was a warm breeze through Neva’s

  mind. Just make sure you don’t get too close.

  Neva’s smile was grim. She didn’t have to get close to

  use her empathic abilities. All she had to do was find him.

  And she’d keep her promises—both of them. The killer

  would experience the pain he’d inflicted on Savannah and

  the others, but she wouldn’t kill him.

  And part of her was extremely glad of that fact.

  She continued on and pushed open the exit door.

  Footsteps rattled down the steps below her, and the smell

  of sour milk stung the air. She leaned over the railing,

  briefly catching sight of a lone figure with black hair

  wearing a white coat—the sort of coat doctors wore. Then

  the door below opened, and he was gone. She raced down

  the stairs and flung open the lobby door.

  No white-coated male to be seen anywhere. She sniffed

  the air and followed the scent toward the exit. The doors<
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  swished open, and the chill of the storm swept in. She

  shivered and headed out, even though there was no hope

  of finding a scent in this sort of weather. She did find the

  coat in the trash can near the entrance and saw a trail of

  footsteps leading away. She followed for a little while, but

  they were quickly obliterated by the storm.

  Cursing, shivering, she headed back to the hospital

  to talk to her sister.

  ***

  Duncan leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes

  as the words on the computer screen began to blur. He’d

  only been sitting here for a couple of hours, but he’d had

  little more than an hour’s sleep in the last twenty four,

  and probably three or four in the last forty-eight. He had

  to be getting old. Once upon a time he could have gone

  four or five days on that amount of sleep.

  The phone beside the computer rang. He swiveled the

  chair and rested his feet on the edge of the desk as he

  picked up the receiver.

  “Duncan Sinclair,” he said, stifling a yawn.

  “Lance here. Got those search results you wanted.”

  Lance Wilton was a computer geek he’d met while

  whiling the days away in jail. Lance was a hacker beyond

  compare, but he’d liked to drink just a little too much

  and had very few qualms about driving when drunk. He’d

  ended up almost killing someone and, in the end, had

  landed in prison for five years.

  “That was quick work.”

  “Hey, you saved my life by getting me this dream of a

  job. It’s the least I can do.”

  Duncan smiled. Lance’s dream job was developing

  software for Tye’s small but profitable company. Being

  stuck in front of a computer screen for long hours was

  not a job he would have considered a dream, but he’d

  always been a wolf who preferred work that gave him the

  freedom to roam.

  “Did you come up with any connection among the four

  victims?”

  “Other than the fact they all lived in Ripple Creek and

  were regular attendees of the dance, no.”

  “What about Levon Grant? Anything interesting on

  him?”

  “He’s squeaky clean. No police record, never even had

  a parking ticket. School records show he was a middle

  range student who didn’t live up to the potential he

  showed. He apparently hated sports, but loved debating.

  Never did drugs or alcohol, but was an outspoken advocate

  in saving oneself for marriage.”

  The word boring came to mind, but then, most of the

  wolves from the golden tribe tended to be. It was only the

  current generation who were starting to break the leash

  of control and at least enjoying life—and the dance. Though

  some, like Neva, were doing so more reluctantly than

  others.

  “What about Nancy Grant?”

  “Ah, now there’s a totally different proposition.”

  Duncan raised an eyebrow. Holier-than-thou Nancy

  had a past? “Why?”

  “Nancy was born and raised on the Bitterroot

  Reservation over in Idaho. She was an A-grade student

  until she got in with the wrong crowd, and as a sixteen-

  year-old was part of a pack that raided the Sinclair

  stronghold over there and burned it to the ground.”

  Though he’d been too young to remember it happening,

  he could recall reading about it in later years. Thirteen

  people had died that night, and many more were injured.

  “Was she charged?”

  “No. Word is her father slipped a lot of cash to the

  right people, and a blind eye was turned. She was sent to

  relatives in Ripple Creek, and that’s how she met Levon.”

  “Anything since then?”

  “Quiet as a mouse.”

  Did that mean her involvement with the raid had

  merely been a one-time prank that had gone horribly

  wrong? Or did the anger that had led to the raid still

  simmer deep inside? “Did you find any connection between

  Nancy and the four murdered women?”

  “None. But you’d probably uncover more by talking to

  her relatives in that respect.”

  Probably. Only he very much doubted whether her

  relatives would tell him the time of day right now. Which

  left him with Neva—and she certainly wasn’t going to tell

  him anything willingly. “Nothing else on either of them?”

  “Nothing you wouldn’t already know.”

  He hesitated. “You want to check into the Bitterroot

  raid a bit more? See if you can get names and perhaps

  trace what has happened to those who were charged?” It

  was always possible one or two of the others had recently

  gathered in Ripple Creek and old prejudices had flared. It

  was certainly a link worth exploring.

  “Sure. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Thanks for your help, Lance.”

  “No prob.”

  Duncan hung up, then glanced across at the window

  as the glass rattled. The Ripple Creek Special had well

  and truly hit. They’d only get the diehards at the dance

  tonight, that was for sure.

  He looked at the computer screen again, then grimaced

  and reluctantly continued his search. He’d spent most of

  his time this morning going though the online news.

  Something must have triggered the start of these murders

  three weeks ago, and if it was at all newsworthy, it would

  be mentioned in one of the papers somewhere. A long shot,

  but one worth trying. He had very little else to try right

  now—at least until his father got those test results back

  from the samples Martin had taken from Betise. Talking

  to his brothers again had provided nothing new in the

  way of clues.

  He worked his way through the remainder of last

  week’s news reports for last week and was just about to

  give up when he caught sight of a small photo that looked

  horribly familiar. Something clenched in his gut as he

  enlarged the image.

  Neva. In a ranger’s uniform.

  Impossible. There was no way on this Earth she was a

  ranger.

  He glanced down at the name under the caption.

  Savannah Grant. Neva’s sister—twin sister, if this photo

  was anything to go by. And now that he knew, he could

  see the slight differences. Neva’s mouth was slightly lusher,

  the look in her eyes less analytical, and her hair longer.

  He quickly read the accompanying article. Savannah

  had been attacked and left in critical condition while

  continuing investigations at the scene of the last murder.

  Her attacker and the murderer were believed to be one

  and the same.

  Which meant it was more than possible Neva was here

  to find her sister’s attacker, not spy on what he was doing.

  And if that were the case, they’d been working on the same

  side all along, despite his conclusions to the contrary.

  He swore softly and rubbed a hand across his eyes.

  What a goddamn mess. He stared at the photo a few

  seconds longer, then thrust up from the chair. It was time


  he got some answers, and if she wasn’t forthcoming, he’d

  force them out her. She already loathed him, so it didn’t

  really matter anymore.

  He strode down the silent corridors, unable to believe

  no one had bothered mentioning the fact that Neva had a

  sister who was a ranger. A sister who was lying critically

  ill in the hospital. But then, maybe his father and brothers

  had presumed he knew.

  Nor could he believe she’d go to such lengths to track

  down her sister’s attacker. To come to the dance and give

  herself willingly to pleasure when it went against

  everything she’d ever believed in was an incredible act of

  selflessness. And, in many ways, also incredibly stupid.

  The killer had almost overwhelmed her sister—a trained

  ranger. What made Neva think she’d fare any better?

  But if it was the killer who’d attacked Savannah, then

  that surely crossed Nancy Grant’s name off the suspect

  list—or would, if they’d actually had a list of suspects.

  She might be against the dance, but there was no way

  she’d attack her own daughter. Not from what he’d seen

  of her, anyway.

  Which led him to another question—why did Neva

  believe the killer was here at the mansion? What

  information had her sister given her?

  The wind whistled icily around his ankles as he entered

  the old section, and he frowned. It felt like there was a

  door open somewhere. These halls were normally cold,

  but not this cold. Or windy.

  He opened the door to his suite only to be greeted by a

  snow storm. He cursed loudly and made his way into the

  bedroom, where the storm seemed to be originating. Neva

  wasn’t there. And the French doors were wide open. He

  swore again and walked out onto the snowbound balcony.

  She’d gone, and if the depth of snow inside the bedroom

  was any indicator, she’d left at least an hour ago. He swept

  his gaze across the swirling whiteness and knew something

  bad must have happened for her to leave in a storm like

  this. And that something undoubtedly involved her twin.

  If she was willing to risk her reputation and her

  relationship with her parents to find the man who’d

  attacked her sister, this storm certainly wouldn’t provide

  much of a challenge.

  He spun and walked back into the bedroom, closing

  the French doors behind him. He swept a disparaging