A tall, thin woman with coffee cream skin—a woman so beautiful Cara doubted she was human—stepped into the hallway. She frowned when she saw them.
“Smith, just the woman we wanted to see,” Todd called out.
The woman wore light green scrubs. Behind her, Cara heard the sound of jazz music drifting from the open door.
“I’m takin’ a break, Brooks.”
He sighed. “We need to look at the bodies.”
A stare that was as dark as night locked on Cara. “Who is she?”
Todd raised a brow. “She’s the expert you need.”
“What?”
“Remember, Smith? You said you were out of your ‘element’—well, trust me, for Cara—this is definitely her area of expertise.”
Smith’s gaze darted to Gyth. “One of yours, huh?”
“She sure as hell isn’t!” Todd snapped, just as Cara asked blankly, “One of his what?”
Gyth marched to the doctor’s side. Whispered to her. Cara caught the familiar “succubus” and the equally familiar “dangerous.”
“No need for whispers,” Todd said, grabbing her hand and pulling Cara toward the door. “Okay. I know what’s going on, I’ve been a blind idiot, but I get it now. I get it.”
Smith’s stare was solemn. “You’re not an idiot. You’re just human, and I’m beginning to think that we’re pretty damn rare.”
Oh, but the doctor was very much mistaken. “Actually,” Cara murmured, “at the last count,” unofficial though it had been, “humans outnumber supernaturals two hundred and fifty-four thousand to one.” Give or take a bit.
Smith didn’t look particularly pleased or impressed by this bit of news. But after a moment, she turned around and marched back into the slightly chilled room.
Back to where the bodies waited.
Cara pulled in a deep gulp of air, tasted death, and knew this wasn’t about to be pretty.
Cara’s skin still seemed too pale when she crossed the threshold of the Crypt.
The impulse to comfort her, to wrap his hands around her delicate shoulders and pull her close, was strong. As strong as the impulse to kiss her had been in the elevator.
His shoulder brushed against hers, a subtle gesture to let her know that he was there.
She wasn’t facing this alone.
Smith kept glancing at Cara. Then at Colin. Then Cara. The woman looked nervous and…angry.
Colin had told him the full truth about Smith’s abduction earlier. He knew that one of the Other had kidnapped her and tortured her. Before that horrible experience, Smith had no idea that any creatures like shifters or demons really existed.
It had been a brutal introduction for her. One that she had apparently not recovered from yet.
Of course, he couldn’t really blame the woman. If he’d been held captive by a sadistic psychopath who also happened to be a damn powerful supernatural being, well, he would have freaked, too.
Not that Smith had freaked, per se. The lady was far too controlled for that. But she’d changed. No denying it. Shut down. Blocked herself off.
She wouldn’t be able to live that way.
No one could. Not and stay sane. He knew. He’d tried once—after his mother’s shooting. He hadn’t wanted to feel again after that. The pain had been too much for him.
Over the years, Todd had learned a hard truth, though. If you weren’t feeling, you weren’t living, and life was too damn short to sit on the sidelines.
Smith used to know that.
The screech of a wheel caught his attention. His head turned, and Todd watched as Smith pushed a sheet-covered body toward them.
“Just finished some more work on him. Was about to transfer him out…”
Then they’d arrived just in time.
Smith’s gloved fingers pulled back the sheet. Todd heard Cara’s sharply indrawn breath. When he glanced at her face, he saw a faint quiver shake her lower lip.
Maybe demons weren’t so different from humans, after all.
She’d deceived him, yeah, no fucking denying that, but his Cara wasn’t a killer.
And he didn’t need his “psychic edge” to tell him that.
“Lower the sheet more.” Her voice was soft but steady.
Smith pulled down the sheet, exposing the surgical marks on Michael House’s chest and the dark handprint.
Cara’s fingers lifted over him. Hovered above that perfect impression. Her hand was smaller than the print, by at least a few inches.
Cara’s fine-boned fingers were nowhere near close to being a match. He hadn’t thought they would be, though. He hadn’t brought her down there to match hands—he’d brought her there to show her the print—and to find out what the hell it was.
“Cover him.” A tight order as her hand fisted. Smith jerked the sheet back up. Cara’s breath came faster now. Her gaze lifted, shot to his. “You were right, Todd. Damn it, you were right.”
He noticed that Smith and Colin craned just a bit closer. “You’ve seen that mark before.”
“I’ve seen a mark like that before.”
“How was the impression made?” Smith immediately wanted to know. “The bruising isn’t like—”
“It’s not bruising.” She cleared her throat. “And it was made with a simple touch.”
“I don’t understand.” Smith frowned at her.
Me, either, Todd thought.
Gyth said nothing, but his attention was completely focused on Cara.
“We like to feel the beat of the heart when we take power from someone.”
He remembered the soft press of her hand against his chest.
“In ancient Egypt,” her voice was strangely calm, almost dispassionate as her gaze stayed on the sheet-covered body, “they believed that the true essence of a man was kept in his heart. His spirit. His soul. All in the heart. Not the brain.”
“That’s why they used a stick to yank out the brains,” Smith sniffed. “Didn’t really care about preserving that part.”
Todd wondered where the history lesson was going.
“When the brain stops functioning, a person’s body is still alive.” Cara’s gaze dropped to House’s covered chest. “As long as that wonderful heart keeps beating, the person is alive.”
She wet her lips, continued, “To my kind, the heart is life. We want to feel that precious beat. To share the pleasure, the thrill. Sometimes that release of pleasure is so intense,” her voice dropped, “so powerful that the urge to keep taking is too strong.” Cara swallowed. “If you drain a human while you’re feeling the wild beat of a heart, when the human dies, the stain of the touch will remain.”
“Then you’ve seen this before?” He repeated. She seemed absolutely certain, but Todd had to know.
“Something like this. Yeah, once.” Shadows cloaked her eyes. “But I’ve heard stories. Before the killings stopped—”
Yeah, well, if she was telling him the truth, the succubus killings hadn’t exactly stopped.
“—brands like this were found all over France. England. Humans didn’t understand what they were seeing back then.” A quick glance at a silent Smith. “Now the doctors know it’s not just a bruise.”
It was a brand. A fucking calling card left by a killer who’d wanted to mark his victims.
“The hand, it’s average size,” Smith said, “could be a woman with long fingers or maybe a man with sm—”
“No.” Cara’s denial was absolute. Said at once. She shot a frowning stare at the body. “You all need to understand something—Michael—he was straight. There’s no way an incubus could have been with Michael.”
She’d know.
“An incubus can only seduce those who would find him attractive. Same thing for a succubus. It’s a basic, primitive response.” A firm shake of her head. “Michael would never have gone with an incubus. The killer, hell, the killer’s a succubus.”
She swiped a tear from her eye and whispered, “You deserved better than this.” She spoke to Michael, her voice the intimate one of a friend.
Or lover.