Jack snorted. "Undoubtedly thinking they could be together in the afterlife. Psychos never seem to learn things aren't that easy."
"Well, I wish it was, because then he wouldn't still be here on this plane of existence, destroying lives," I glanced at the file again, "According to the report, he's been at it for five years now."
Jack frowned. "If his spirit has been killing for five years, why haven't there been more murders?"
"Because he only hunts and kills for one week of every year." And few of the cases actually got reported to us, because by the time the various departments realized they had a serial killer, the killings stopped.
"Unusual for a tormented soul to be so restrained," Jack commented.
"Not if his sprees only happen during the anniversary week of his death."
"Which was?"
"October 31. Halloween itself."
Jack snorted. "Explains a lot."
I leaned back in my chair. "I know Halloween tends to bring out the weirdness in both humans and nonhumans, but I didn't realize it had a similar effect on the spiritual world."
"That's the problem with the world today—no one knows the real meanings of anything anymore."
"I know it used to be an old pagan festival that celebrated the end of summer and the beginning of winter."
He smiled. It was one of those "pleased with a student" smiles that really annoyed me. "That's right. But the Celts—and many other cultures—also believed that during Samhain, the boundary between the living and the dead blurred, and spirits could roam the earth."
"Which explains why he was able to rise on the day of his death, but not how he was able to continue his killing spree for the next five days."
"The days between Samhain and November 5 have been times of feasting, celebrations, and remembrances of the dead down through many centuries."
"Giving him—and spirits like him—the chance to do their evil bidding?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
"How come the guardian division hasn't had more ghostly disturbances to take care of then?"
"Because our magi division usually takes care of these sorts of problems, not our guardians."
I guess that made sense. I mean, our regular hunter-killers wouldn't even be able to sense a spirit. "So have we discovered yet how to stop a soul intent on murder?"
"Marg and her team are still going through their texts to find out."
Marg was the spindly magi who'd helped us contain a spirit intending to let a dark god loose on the world. A spirit who had turned out to be Quinn's sister—and the reason he'd actually become a vampire.
"Tell her we haven't a whole lot of time to work with. It's been three days already. We only have two more before he's off in hibernation for the next year."
He nodded. "I've asked her to get back with ideas before sunset. In the meantime, I suggest you uncover where he was buried."
I frowned. "Why?"
"Because sometimes a soul sullied by suicide cannot be sent on. They can only be restrained."
And I guess I was going to find out how that was done soon enough. "You seem to know an awful lot about this sort of stuff, boss."
"I'm a vampire," he said. "And you'd know a lot stuff if you'd been around for eight hundred years, too."
"Not me. I've got a memory like a sieve."
"Especially when it comes to leaving the corn-link on," he said, voice dry as he pushed away from the desk and headed for the door. "You'd better catch some rest once you find out where Wilson is buried, just in case Marg needs your help with the ceremony."
"My help?" I all but yelped. Hell, the last thing I wanted to be doing tonight was wandering about a cemetery helping to restrain a spirit. "Why the hell would she need my help?"
"Because you're the only guardian that can see or talk to souls."
"Marg's a magi. Surely she's got ways and means to communicate with the dead?"
"Your way is more direct. Besides, Wilson may get nasty," he said, as he disappeared out the door.
I muttered obscenities under my breath, then started tracking down Harvey Wilson's final resting place. And really, it wasn't all that hard, because Veronica Ward had given me the clue. She'd said he'd lived in Fawkner. Given Wilson had been an itinerant in life, she could only mean that was where he lived now. In the Fawkner cemetery.
Which is exactly where I found him. I scribbled down the plot number and street address, then signed off the computer and went home. Jack was right. I needed sleep. A look in the mirror only confirmed that. My eyeballs were bloodshot, and there were huge bags under my eyes. Which was never a good look when combined with pale skin and red hair.
The last remnants of the sunset were fading as I pulled to a halt outside our apartment. I climbed out of the car and breathed deep. The air was crisp and filled with the sharpness of oncoming rain. With my luck, it'd be absolutely bucketing down come cemetery time tonight.
Then another scent caught my interest—that of a wolf. A male wolf. It was a sour, almost unpleasant aroma, and certainly didn't belong to anyone I was familiar with. I scanned the pavement, looking for the origin of the scent. A woman struggled along with bags of shopping clenched in each hand, her very human scent tangy and not unpleasant. Further down, a somewhat disheveled-looking man sat on the front steps of a building and smoked something that looked hand-rolled. A joint, probably.
No sour-smelling wolves in sight.
I raised my nose, tasting the slight breeze again. The aroma of rotting rubbish, perfume, and the thick scent of humans rode the air. Underneath all that, the vaguest hint of death and decay—a vampire had passed this way recently, and his unwashed scent still stained the breeze. The sour smell seemed to be coming from my building. Maybe the old biddy who owned it had decided Rhoan and I had been such good tenants, she'd let another wolf in.
The thought stopped abruptly as a sharp sound snagged my interest and got my pulse racing.
The air seemed to scream, as if something fast and deadly was tearing through the dusk toward me.
Fear hit like a punch to the gut. I knew that sound. I'd heard it far too often now to mistake it. I threw myself sideways, but wasn't fast enough by half. The bullet tore into my arm, right through the flesh of my underarm, then continued, smashing into the windshield and shattering it into a thousand different pieces.
Glass flew, the glittering fragments raining around me as I hit the roadside. My chin struck hard, smashing my teeth into my lip, cutting flesh.
As the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, another bullet tore through the air, punching a hole through the still-open car door and pinging off the road inches from my hip.
I swore softly. The bastard had to be up high. He had too good a sight on me to be anywhere near ground level. I scooted forward, my arm burning and bullets pinging around me. And they were all silver, because while ordinary bullet wounds hurt like blazes, they didn't burn like this one was.
Which meant this bastard, whoever he was, knew I was a werewolf. Meaning it was no damn accident I was being shot at.
Could Blake be so angry about me not saving Adrienne he'd sent out a hit?
Probably, but all the same I doubted he was behind the shots. Torment was more his style.
I stopped behind the rear tire and scanned the surrounding rooftops. I couldn't see a goddamn thing… until a shadow moved on the top of the apartment building next to ours. It was moving, half-crouched, along the roof, probably searching for a better angle. But I'd be damned if I was going to let him get it. I scooted around the back of the car, and felt another bullet nip at my toes.
The bastard had found a better angle.
God, if only I'd had a weapon on me, I could have taken the shooter out when he'd moved. But I'd left my damn laser locked securely in the apartment safe this morning, just like I always did. Stupid, stupid, stupid.