As the last wisp of mist emerged from Dunleavy's bloodied body and converged with the rest, his body seemed to collapse in on itself a little and another moan escaped—this one so soft I could barely even hear it.
And it sounded like a word. Dahaki.
I blinked, wondering if I was hearing things. Wondering who or what the hell Dahaki was.
I glanced at the vid-phone, hoping it had been close enough to record the soft sound, then steeled myself mentally and looked at the mess that was his back.
In some areas, the layers of skin had been stripped as one, leaving muscles and meat totally untouched. In others, skin and muscles were a raw and ugly mess. There was blood, and lots of it, because the skin is the body's cover—it seals and protects, and blood runs rich under its surface. Which was why simple wounds often bled the worst. But to achieve something like this took skill, practice, and a razor-sharp knife. Why would Gautier bother, when he was one of the most efficient killing machines the Directorate had ever produced?
And yet, besides Dunleavy, there were only two other scents in the room. One was Gautier's. The other was more flowery and feminine, so it undoubtedly belonged to the girlfriend the old girl had mentioned.
So, if this was Gautier's handiwork, where the hell had he learned to skin a body this skillfully? Dunleavy's back might be a mess in places, but the knife work was still way above that of an amateur. Which Gautier surely would have been. He might have been off the Directorate leash for months, but was that enough time to learn the ins and outs of skinning without the benefits of a teacher?
And if he had been practicing, where were the bodies?
Then I remembered all the body parts I'd found in the factory. Maybe, if I'd taken the time to sort through the bits and pieces, I would have found skins, whole and not.
Maybe the bits and pieces weren't the result of a baby vamps feeding frenzy, but rather, Gautier's efforts to learn new and terrifying skills.
I shivered and rubbed my arms. Perhaps the more worrying thought was the fact that Gautier had obviously left the town house after dawn had risen. The old girl had said the noise all stopped hours ago, which still placed the fall of silence well after dawn. And the stickiness of the blood on the sheets and on Dunleavy's body would probably match that estimate.
Gautier was a young vamp. He shouldn't have been able to go anywhere once the sun was up, and yet it looked like he had. I had a bad feeling we'd better find out how real fast, or the shit could really hit the fan.
I took a breath and released it slowly, and let my gaze travel across Dunleavy's body. There was no obvious sign of a struggle—neither his hands nor his feet were tied, and nothing in the room was upturned or knocked over.
Which meant Gautier had used mind control to bring Dunleavy in here, and he'd obviously used it to control the girlfriend, because the old girl in the first town house had heard no shouting. So who'd been destroying the place? And why not stop that as well? Gautier was certainly powerful enough to fully control the actions of two humans. Unless, of course, he didn't want to.
It was a thought that had chills skating across my skin. Gautier didn't do anything without a reason—how often had I thought that in the past?
Frowning, I lifted my gaze from Dunleavy's body and looked around. The walk-in closet was filled with a mix of women's and men's clothing, meaning Dunleavy's girlfriend either lived here, or spent a hell of a lot of time here. But there was little else in the room. Dunleavy was a man who didn't spend a lot on furnishings, because everything in this room was bargain-basement type furniture. Either he wasn't a very successful thief, or he spent his takings on other things. Maybe the living room might hold that particular answer.
As I turned to leave the room, a tingle of awareness ran across my neck, even as the scent of musk reached my nostrils.
"Riley Jenson?" an unknown voice said. "Cole Reece, Directorate cleanup team."
I smiled at the caution in his voice. Obviously, Cole was a man who'd worked around a few too many quicktempered—or perhaps that should be quick-reacting—guardians. "In here."
Footsteps echoed down the hall—three sets, all men. The heavy weight of their steps was as much of a giveaway as their thick scent. A tall, craggy-faced man of indeterminate age appeared, his gray hair glinting silver in the harsh light streaming in through the window. His musky, spicy scent swum around me, as refreshing as an evening sea breeze in the less than aromatic atmosphere of the apartment. My hormones did an excited little shuffle—not that that took a lot of doing when the moon heat was rising.
His scent also told me he was a wolf, though not a were. Every species had its own particular scent—a base, if you like, that personal odors were built upon. Male werewolves tended to have sharper basic aroma than males of other species. Or maybe it just seemed that way to us females because we were more attuned to them. Werewolves might spend a lot of time enjoying sex, but there was a serious purpose to all the fun—no matter what other races might think. The desire to find out soul mate was patterned into our DNA, and few wolves settled down until this aim was accomplished. And playing around with other species certainly wasn't going to accomplish anything—except, perhaps, fun. But no wolf could survive on fun forever.
No matter what my brother thought.
The shifter's gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on Dunleavy before coming to rest on mine. Surprise briefly overran the caution in his pale blue eyes. "Agent Jensen?"
I nodded. "Not what you expected, huh?"
His sudden grin crinkled the corners of his eyes, making his timeworn face a lot more attractive than I'd initially figured. "Not in the least. Never knew we'd gained a werewolf guardian."
Two other men crowded into the doorway behind him. One of them swore lightly as his gaze fell on Dunleavy. The other didn't react at all. Both of them, like Cole, were shifters. One had a cat scent, the other was a bird of some kind. Neither tickled my hormones in the least. Which was a good thing—there was nothing worse than a moon heat that lusted after everything with a dick. Especially when there was work to be done.
Cole motioned with his chin to the body. "What happened?"
"He was skinned."
Cole studied me for a moment, the brief spark of amusement gone. "By you?"
"Hell, yeah. And after that, we danced a tango down the hall."
He raised an eyebrow, like he wasn't entirely believing. But then, if he'd worked with guardians for any length of time, he'd know full well what they were capable of.
And given I'd identified myself as one of their number, I guess he had a right to be wary.
"Some guardians do like their torture."
"I'm a werewolf," I said dryly. "I think I could come up with a better means of getting information from a suspect than using torture."
He looked me up and down, but in a purely nonsexual way. Much to my hormones' disappointment. "I bet you could."
If four seemingly innocent words could state an opinion, then his certainly had. He might not have called me whore straight out, but his tone had certainly implied it. If I'd been in wolf form, the hackles around my neck would be bristling right about now.
I clamped down on the rising tide of my temper, and said, as mildly as I could, "You know, werewolves get enough attitude from humans. We certainly don't need it from our own kind as well."
He stepped forward to allow the two other men entry into the room, then said, "I am not your kind. I'm a shifter."
Thank God.
The unspoken words practically hung in the air and flashed like a neon sign. I flexed my fingers. "You're wolf, so therefore kin, whether you like it or not. And shifters of all kinds have a high sex drive, so don't try and get all high and mighty with me."