"Jeremy," I managed.
"I'm sorry," he said, still holding my arm. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"We need to bell you, like a cat."
A twitch of his lips. Not much of a smile, but I knew it was one.
"So," I continued, "you could follow my trail from the coffee shop."
"Not easy in the daylight, when I can't crouch to sniff the sidewalk. Fortunately, your perfume is distinctive."
"It's worth the price then."
He released my arm and gave me a once-over, and while I'd love to think he was checking out my hot new outfit, I knew the truth- he was trying to figure out what had happened. He plucked a leaf from my hair.
"I ran into some trouble," I said.
"So I see."
His voice and expression were impassive, but he was worried. With Jeremy, the emotional signs were never obvious.
His gaze flitted toward Molly's house.
"She's… tied up for a while. But you're right, talking here probably isn't a wise idea."
"I didn't say that."
"No, but you were thinking it. Come on, then. Let's get someplace safer and I'll explain."
As we walked down the street, I snuck another look at him. Just over six feet, he was lean and athletic, though that side of him rarely showed… unless he was leaping over six-foot fences. Not the kind of maneuver you'd expect from a fifty-eight-year-old, but it was easy to forget how old Jeremy was. Werewolves age slowly and- with silver just starting to thread through his dark hair and shallow lines around his mouth-I'd peg him at my age, if that.
Paige swore Jeremy had Asian blood, presumably from his mother, but there was no use asking him; he knew nothing about the woman. She'd disappeared from his life shortly after his birth. That was the world of werewolves, where mothers and sisters played no role, wives were unheard of, and even lovers came and went quickly. Elena was the exception-the only living female werewolf.
It was a world of men. The Pack and its bonds were everything, and everyone else was an outsider. And this was the man I'd fallen in love with-the leader of a world in which I would always be "the other." My heart, it seemed, could be as feckless as my brain.
"Here," he said, guiding me into a darkened playground.
His fingers rested on my arm as he steered me, and I found myself trying not to read too much into the casual contact that tingled up my arm. Yet it did mean something. Werewolves, while very physical with one another, don't extend that attitude toward others. Clay, the most wolflike of the Pack, avoids even handshakes. Elena's politer about it, but I figured out early on that she wasn't someone I should greet with a hug.
Jeremy doesn't avoid contact, but doesn't initiate it either. In the last year or so, though, that's changed.
I found myself evaluating his touch. Gripping me tighter than usual? Lingering longer? I searched for a sign that something had changed-that something was about to change, proof that he'd come here to take that next step. A lot to read into a touch and, of course, I couldn't.
The park was barely half the size of the small surrounding lots, just enough room for the developers to plop down swings, a slide and a bench and say, "Look, we gave you a playground." It was dark now, the equipment deserted.
Jeremy motioned me to the bench. "I'd like to check that blow to your head."
"How-? Oh, you smell the blood."
I pointed to the spot. He brushed my hair aside, then examined it, his touch so light I barely felt it. Then he checked my pupils and asked whether I was feeling nauseous or experiencing any pain other than at the point of impact. I wasn't.
"I'll need to keep an eye on you, to ensure it isn't a concussion, but it seems fine. Now…" He sat beside me on the bench. "What happened?" I told him.
AS WE waited for a taxi, I pulled the jacket tighter against the bitter wind. Jeremy's jacket. He'd offered, and I'd hated taking it, but as the sun dropped so had the temperature.
I looked up at him. "Ghosts do play pranks. I've had it happen. But these ones are breaching the physical barrier. That is different."
"I know. But about this human folk magic business, I'm not sure what to make of it. I don't know enough about magic to give an educated opinion."
"Well, I'm not the best informed supernatural around, but even I know that human magic doesn't work. Robert would be our best source on that."
Jeremy stared down the street, his expression unreadable. "I don't suppose there's any need to follow up with Molly Crane, something we might discover by breaking into her house later or interrogating her further."
I shook my head.
"Did she give you any other contacts? Let a name slip? Another dark-magic practitioner or black-market contact we should investigate?"
"Nothing."
He looked almost disappointed. Then he said, with a soft sigh, "I suppose it's on to Robert, then. I'll call the airport and see when we can get a flight to San Francisco or San Jose."
"One there for you and one to L.A. for me, I'm afraid. I need to be back on the set first thing in the morning."
"Ah. Of course." His gaze dipped away and I was certain he did look disappointed. Then he cleared his throat. "I'll see Robert alone then, and come to L.A. tomorrow. I'll help him with the preliminary research, to be polite, but I'll get away as soon as I can."
PART II
This was always the hardest part. Not only was it delicate work, but the smell was enough to unsettle even the strongest stomach. It didn't bother her as much as it did the others, and it wasn't so much the smell itself as the thought of what was burning.
They'd been careful not to use too much gasoline on the boy, but the flames had still licked the artifacts high above the concrete floor An interesting experiment, but not one they were likely to repeat… not unless this material proved significantly better than the rest.
She adjusted her mask and checked the temperature on their tiny version of a cremation oven, designed to incinerate the organs, which was all they needed.
This oven burned at a lower temperature than ones used by funeral homes, so the soft tissue turned to ash. Even then an auxiliary power supply was necessary. In Brentwood, a power spike would likely be attributed to marijuana growing and ignored-there were better uses for the police budget than stopping movie stars and pop singers growing a little weed-but it was always safest to provide no excuse for investigation.
After they'd taken the organs from the body, they'd needed to dispose of the remainder. Burning an entire corpse wasn't feasible. The boy's body-larger than that of their previous cases-would have been difficult to transport whole. So Don had recruited Murray 's help, and they'd cut the body in two so they could carry it out in reinforced garbage bags.
It was then that Murray had snapped. Odd, she mused as she unraveled the bolt of cheesecloth. After all they'd been through together, it had been helping Don bisect the corpse that had done it.
Tina had calmed him down. She was good at that, one advantage to having a psychologist in the group. To reap the magic, they had to do things that were bound to affect the weaker among them, but Tina could always get the shaky back on track… and assess how likely they were to stay there.
The door opened, and Don walked in, nose wrinkling. She pointed at the stack of surgical masks, but he waved them away.
"How's Murray?" she asked.
"Better. Embarrassed about the whole thing now. Work's been stressful this past week."
She nodded. "It happens."
The timer sounded and she opened the oven, stepping back as heat poured out.
"He should take a vacation," she said as she examined the tray of gray and white ash.
"I'll suggest-"
"No. Insist."
Their eyes met. Don nodded.
"How was the new disposal site?" she asked.