The second I walked into my house, the hair stood on the
back of my neck. Nothing seemed disturbed at first glance.
My door was locked, and the small table next to the door
still held the decorative box where I threw my keys every
night. A print of Monet's Garden Path hung straight on the
wall across from the front door. But something was wrong. A
smell in the air maybe, or an imperfect silence that was
usually perfect. Whatever the subtle clue, my subconscious
translated it to a bad feeling in my gut. Not for the first
time in my career as a cop, I wished I possessed the
abilities of a sensitive.
I pulled my 9mm from its shoulder holster and crept into
my living room. Light glowed from the dining room. Pretty
certain I hadn't left a light on, I eased forward. I took
a
deep breath and held the air in my lungs, in case whatever
waited for me couldn't be hurt with bullets.
I swung my gun up then rounded the corner into my dining
room. A man—or something that looked like one
anyway—sat at the oak table. He was reading a book. A
cup of coffee rested on a coaster in front of him and he'd
propped sock-covered feet on my table. Settled in, right at
home.
I gaped, unsure of what to say. My face grew hot when I
saw the cover of the book in his hand. A beautiful woman
held in the arms of a tall, too-handsome hero with abs of
steel graced the cover of the romance novel. I barely
resisted the urge to shoot him. Who says I don't have fan-
freaking-tastic self-control?
"Who are you?" I finally spluttered out.
He set the book down and smiled at me. It was one heck
of a smile on one heck of a face. A strong jaw covered in
five o'clock shadow, dark eyes, and a head of messy black
hair set on a very fit, long body.
"Ah, Kiera McLoughlin, I presume?" I thought I
detected
a slight Irish lilt to his voice, but if he had an accent,
it was subtle. He took his feet off the table, moving
slowly.
"Presume away. Who are you and what are you doing in my
house?"
His smiled turned into a full-on flirtatious grin. "Why
don't you put your gun away so we can talk? About your
interesting taste in books, perhaps."
I glared at him, face burning. Handsome or not, I was in
charge in my own house. "No way, cupcake. Tell me who you
are and I might consider putting my gun away."
He sighed, his chest pressing against his tight T-shirt.
I glared harder.
"All right. My name is Aidan Byrne. I'm here to talk
to
you about the murders you're investigating."
I lowered my gun a few inches, more because of the
weight than any level of trust I felt toward the
stranger. "You a witness or something, Aidan? There're
safer ways to report your info than breaking into a cop's
house."
"Not a witness. I'm a cop, too. OWEA. I think we're
looking for the same killer."
I raised my eyebrows. The Otherworlder Enforcement
Agency was similar to the FBI in that they were selective
in what they investigated. Generally, they took on
paranormal-related crimes that crossed state lines or OW
cases that needed resources outside of what a standard
police department could pull together.
"So this perp has killed in other jurisdictions?"
"We think so."
"Show me some ID." I lowered my gun a few more inches
and approached him carefully. "Please," I added,
belatedly
remembering that being polite to the jerk who broke into my
house wouldn't kill me—but pissing off the OWEA might
be the death of my career.
Raising one empty hand in the air, he leaned forward,
reached into his back pocket with the other hand, and
pulled out a leather badge and ID holder. He flipped it
open and turned it so I could see.
I took the wallet from his hands and scanned its
contents. The dark badge glinted in the low light, and
beneath it, nestled in a reflective piece of plastic, was
an ID badge. The man's face grinned at me from behind the
plastic, his dark hair and startling eyes clearly visible,
even in the crappy ID photo. I shoved my gun into its
holster and handed the wallet back to him. Fighting
embarrassment, I grabbed the steamy romance novel he'd
taken from the stack on the table, and shoved it onto the
pile where it belonged.
"Okay, Agent Byrne, why did you think you needed to
break into my house to talk to me about this case? OWEA
running on hard times? Can't afford to supply agents with
cell phones anymore?"
He put his badge away. "I wanted to talk to you
tonight.
We're strictly looking at this one on an unofficial
basis."
His easy smile disappeared and he shifted on the chair.
"In
fact, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention the
agency's involvement to anyone just yet."
I gave him my best cop stare. "Why come to me?
Amanda's
the senior investigator on this."
His grin returned. "She wasn't home yet."
Nothing like being the second-best choice. "You've got
my attention. What are we looking for?"
"Wish I knew. What we do know is that it has been
killing women all over the country for the last two years,
at least."
I started. How many people had this sicko
murdered? "Only women?" I pulled out my notepad and pen
and
sat down.
"Yes."
"How many?"
"Twelve that we know of."
I whistled under my breath. "Jesus. All...human?"
"No. Not all."