Dragonsteel: Shadowsword's Harem (Book One) (Reverse Harem Urban Fantasy Romance) Read online

  “What did this?” Detective Haskal asked. I turned my head to see him standing inside the tent. “The guys say a wolf, but those claw marks are too big to be a wolf.”

  Mentally, I went over what Haskel would have been told about the case. After Chief Lawson had called me for help, he’d have given Haskal and his men a different version of events than he’d given me over the phone.

  The spin he’d have put on the story would have minimized media interest, but would have also allowed me to become involved in the case without anyone asking too many questions. My cover story as an animal expert would have kept anyone from realizing what my connection to this case was.

  The creature that had killed Officer Garrison was no timber wolf.

  I leaned in and sniffed. “Gunpowder, but he didn’t fire his sidearm,” I said as if Haskal hadn’t spoken. When I glanced back at him, he scowled. Was the annoyance in his eyes for having to include me in manly matters?

  “Look, Detective Garrison would have come out here to confront a predator. He fired a weapon, but the safety is still engaged on his sidearm. There’s another weapon. Where is it?”

  The disapproving scowl on his face lessened. He couldn’t deny I knew enough to be let into the club. He stepped out of the tent and waited for me to follow before pointing. “We found it over there, where those two officers are. We’ve bagged and tagged it.”

  “You found his rifle two hundred feet from the body?”

  Haskal nodded and waved me over to a table where the officer’s rifle lay. My brows shot up. The weapon had been broken in two, the halves closed into two evidence bags.

  “Jesus.” I picked up the two bagged pieces of the weapon, matching up the bite marks to see how they aligned. The weapon had been broken right where the barrel and magazine connected. Teeth marks gouged the steel, having cut clean through the metal and plastic.

  “What kind of a wolf bites through solid steel?” Rob asked.

  Only one wolf I know of.

  I set the rifle pieces down and looked around, secretly taking in a deep breath, a huge lungful of that rancid magic smell that clung to the air. Again, it reminded me of dog-meat. A canine predator.

  “Come out, little pig. Come out, or I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house down.” I parroted the child’s rhyme my father had once said.

  “What?” one of the officers asked behind me.

  I only half heard him. After talking over the case with Chief Lawson, I’d hoped the creature responsible for the attacks had been a run of the mill wolf. I’d hoped, even while certain things Lawson had said told me otherwise.

  If I’d needed any more confirmation that the creature I was dealing with now had been the same one I’d encountered all those years ago, this was it. This was the creature I, and my father before me, had hunted to no avail.

  I turned to the other officers watching me. “Show me Garrison’s vehicle.”

  With me following behind, Haskel drove over to the second tent. Crime scene tape sectioned off the area of field, and police barricades blocked off the road fifty feet before and behind. Cops had already taken plaster casts of boot prints leading to the tent. Four more officers worked this scene.

  Ducking inside, my eyes widened. The SUV was tipped on its side. No animal in Pennsylvania could do that.

  Holy fuck. Hunter would have found this fascinating. He loved a good mystery, and all the more so when it involved anything strange or out of the norm. He’d have hated that a cop was dead, but the case would have been right up his alley.

  I left the tent and looked back down the long road to the first scene, where Garrison had been killed. My face paled, registering the distance he’d gone.

  “He ran a hundred and fifty yards with the wolf chasing him.” The terror he must have felt hit me like a punch to the gut.

  “That’s impossible.” Haskel shook his head when I glanced at him. “A wolf would have caught him. And wolves don’t go through that much trouble to catch people.”

  This one does. “What else was it, Detective? Big Foot?”

  “All right, if this was a wolf, where the hell are its paw prints? We see Garrison’s boot prints, and the prints left by our men. But where’s the ones from the wolf?”

  This wolf doesn’t leave prints behind.

  “And why didn’t he hit the wolf? That boy never missed a shot in his life, but I don’t see any blood.”

  Instead of answering, I turned and walked back to my Blazer. Haskel followed to his.

  “Go home, Miss Jones, there’s nothing to see here. It’s past your bed time.”

  I was about to march over and give him a piece of my mind when his police radio sounded in his car, making us both stop. I caught only half the words over the static. Something about a farmer by the name of Weatherby having seen a wild dog on his property. An address came through.

  Haskel picked up his radio. “Dispatch, we’re a bit preoccupied with the Garrison case. It’s probably that same feral dog that ate Miss Crane’s chickens last week. Tell Weatherby to stay in his house and wait. We’ll send someone out when we can.”

  I noted Weatherby’s address, but kept my face expressionless. “It’s clear I’m not wanted here. I’ll tell the chief I’m out.”

  “You do that.”

  Ignoring him, I climbed into my Blazer and pulled away from the scene toward the Weatherby farm. The sooner I could deal with this beast, the sooner I could collect my bounty and then put all my focus, and the money, where it belonged.

  Slamming my foot on the gas, I closed my hand around a silver men’s neck chain I’d strung from the rear view mirror. The chain my father had worn until the day he’d gone missing.

  The day he’d been taken by the Dragonlords.

  My grip on the neck chain tightened. I gunned the gas.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, I pulled up into the long, winding driveway that led up to the two-story Weatherby farmhouse.

  I shut off the Blazer and assessed the property. From here, you’d never know anything was wrong. Lights glowed in the windows, cozy and inviting. Smoke rose from the chimney, just visible in the predawn light. To either side of the house, rows of corn reached seven feet high, the rows disappearing behind the large barn. I saw no sign of any wolf, but the quiet that blanketed the property made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  When I was twelve, before the horror found us again and forced my father and me to go on the run, we’d lived on a small farm in Ontario, Canada, for about a week. Between the crowing of a rooster—which contrary to popular belief, didn’t only crow in the morning, but all day long—the caw of crows in the fields, and the general sound of farm machinery, a farmer’s land was never this quiet. Even in the wee hours when the machines were shut off, there was always something going on, even if it was just ears of corn rustling in the breeze or cows mooing.

  I climbed out of the vehicle, senses primed for the slightest hint of danger, and scanned the area anew. The low breeze carried the smell of straw and dung, caressing my skin with cool fingers, yet it didn’t touch the corn stalks. The weathervane near the house was unnaturally still.

  Usually, when I listened carefully, I could hear the worms in the grass after the rains. I should have heard mice now and the distant creak of the trees in the nearby forest, but there was nothing. It was as if the animals had fled from something, the wind itself holding its breath in fear. Exactly as it had before.

  Not to mention, that putrid smell of magic, like rotting dog meat, clung to the air.

  Yeah, he was here all right.

  I’d have drawn my gun, but it wouldn’t have helped me if an attack came. Not from this. Instead, I went to the rear hatch, taking out my phone as I walked.

  “Chief,” I said when Lawson picked up.

  “Helena, do you have any idea what time it is?” His voice was gravely with sleep.

  “Chief, he’s here.”

  “Who? Who’s where?”

  I u
ncovered the hidden door to the secret compartment in the cargo hold. Pressing my thumb to the small identification pad revealed the tools of my trade. Specialized knives with poisoned blades, a sword that had been enchanted by a Fae witch, and guns with silver bullets. Once, these had been my father’s weapons. A hunter’s cache. Now, they were my livelihood.

  “The wolf that killed Garrison. It’s on a farm not far from where he was killed. I’m there now.”

  I heard a creak, as if he’d sat up in bed suddenly. “What? What farm?”

  “The Weatherby place. I need you to keep the cops away from here.”

  I set the phone on speaker and put it down, then reached in and selected my father’s crossbow. Grabbed a quiver of bolts with silver heads that had been coated in galsik venom and slung it on my back. It was possible that neither silver bolts nor the venom of a galsik would kill this creature, but I had to try.

  “I’m on my way,” Lawson said.

  “No. Look, I don’t have time to argue. Just keep the testosterone brigade off this case.”

  “Helena, you can’t handle this thing yourself.”

  Shaking my head, I buckled a black utility belt over the waist of my leather pants. Everything I wore was black and form fitting, not a stitch of color, allowing me to blend into the usually dark places I often had to venture into when hunting.

  “The male chauvinism is getting old, Chief Lawson.” I added bottles of holy water to some of the utility belt’s compartments, along with a twist of rope which my father said had been dipped in the same.

  “I’m not trying to be a jerk here. Your father’s the best there is. He was almost bit going up against this creature. If The Ghost himself couldn’t kill this thing… Just please be careful.”

  “I will be.” I hung up and closed the rear hatch. Locked it, then cocked a bolt on the crossbow. I made my way up the sidewalk to the farmhouse.

  Hearing the name so many people had used for my father over the years—The Ghost—filled me with as much grief and longing for him as holding his prized crossbow. Usually, people said the name with scorn, like a curse. Hearing someone say it with the respect I’d always felt for him was a surprise, especially from the chief of the Allentown Police Department. My father had always instilled a strong distrust for police in me. An unexpected surge of hope that he was alive, that I’d find him after all this time, rose up.

  My breathing sounded unnaturally loud in the otherwise too silent predawn. Once more, I scanned the landscape. Still, the corn stalks remained untouched by a breeze I could feel on my skin, the weathervane in the same position it had been.

  A good fifty feet from the farmhouse door, leaves rustled, breaking the eerie silence. I spun around, crossbow raised, bolt pointed toward the sound.

  A figure stepped out of the tree line that ran alongside the driveway. Even shrouded in darkness, I saw him clear as day, ash blond hair falling over his forehead, bright, azure eyes standing out in the black. I dropped the crossbow to my side, head falling back.

  “Hunter. Jesus Christ.”

  “It’s just me. Sorry for startling you.”

  Now that I thought about it, I should have smelled him. Mixed in with the smell of leather and male, he gave off that deliciously predatory scent I loved, rich and fierce and just a little dangerous. A werewolf’s scent, though it smelled fainter on him than on others like him, probably because he was half human. His wolf smell must have been buried under the far less pleasant scent given off by the creature I was here for. I’d never admit it now, but this man looked just as hot in a leather bomber jacket and faded jeans as he did in his NYPD uniform.

  “What are you doing here, Hunter?”

  “I can’t believe you heard me. I didn’t make a sound.”

  “You did to me.”

  “Your senses are amazing. I’ll never get used to that.”

  The implications in his words weren’t lost on me. I shouldn’t have been able to hear a werewolf coming. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Hunter.”

  “I didn’t want you to deal with this thing yourself.” He reached out, letting his fingers curl around mine. Gentle, protective, with a hint of something more. Emotions from him—warmth, and an intense, animalistic attraction that made my heart flutter—electrified my thoughts. I sighed, turning my hand in his, squeezing. “If this really is the same creature your dad came up against, you can’t handle it alone.”

  Irritation mixed with the warm feelings unfurling for him in my belly. This close, I had an urge to bury my face in his neck and breathe in that fascinating animal smell of his, to run my tongue along his warm neck, over his pulse point. “Is every man wired to become a Neanderthal when they see a woman facing danger?”

  “Sue me. If anything ever happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.” He lifted his head, nostrils flaring. “I don’t like that I can’t smell this thing, either. Even if it isn’t here now, to me, the air should smell thick with its scent if it’s an animal. Can you smell it?”

  “Oh yeah. Like death.”

  A crease delved between his brows, his confusion echoing my own. How could he not smell it and I could?

  “Hunter, how did you know I was here? How did you even get here?”

  “I heard about a wild dog on the local police scanner through my phone.” He pulled his smartphone out of his pocket long enough to show me. It was off, now. “As to how I got here, would you believe I rented a car but it broke down fifteen minutes away from here? I left it at some hole in the wall garage and hitched a ride the rest of the way.”

  I widened my eyes at the darkened road. “That was dangerous.”

  “Well, the farmer who drove me out here is long gone now, so you’re stuck with me.”

  Part of me wanted to demand that he leave, go back to New York where he was safe. The other half was relieved to have him there, especially knowing how every other encounter with this creature had turned out.

  “Fine. But stay behind me, and let me do the talking.”

  He gave me a lopsided smile. “You’re hot when you go all commando.”

  I bit my lip around a smile of my own. “I should have known you wouldn’t stay out of this.”

  At the farmhouse door, I knocked. “Mr. Weatherby? You in there?”

  No one answered.

  Fuck. Was he already dead? I glanced at Hunter, who slowly started to unbuckle his police firearm, concealed under his jacket.

  My heart sped up in my ears, grip around my crossbow tightening. Were Weatherby and his family already lying on their floor, maimed by that creature, throats ripped out like Garrison’s had been? Or was he just too scared to open the door?

  If he’d been visited by the same thing my father and I had both faced before, the wolf wasn’t the only thing he had to worry about now.

  “Mr. Weatherby.” I knocked again. “It’s all right, I’ve come to help.”

  I heard scraping, like a chair moving across a floor, then footsteps. A man’s voice, a woman whispering, and then another scrape, right on the other side of the door. The door opened.

  “You two are here for the wolf?” Two kids, both freckled with red curls, clung to farmer Weatherby’s stocky legs. He wore faded overalls and a white muscle-shirt that left pudgy arms bare. A woman, his wife I assumed, sat in a shadowed corner, her knitting needles clicking furiously.

  Hunter slid his gun back into his holster.

  I rolled my eyes, detecting the skepticism in the man’s voice. He relaxed a little when he saw Hunter behind me. We stepped into his front hall.

  “A crossbow? That’s all you guys have? Lady, this thing is huge.”

  “What were you expecting?” Hunter said. “Proton packs?”

  I elbowed him and heard him grunt. “I know, sir. Where is it?”

  “How do you know? You’ve seen it?”

  “I have.” At his doubtful look, I dropped my shoulders. “It had red eyes, right? Black fur, but too
black, like it’s made of the night?”

  He stood aside, relief sweeping across his face. “The last I saw, it was out back, in the cornfield. I could see its eyes between the stalks. I’ve never seen anything like it. Its eyes were like...”

  “Like a demon’s.”

  He nodded.

  I followed him to a back door, Hunter at my side. On the way past Weatherby, his bare arm brushed my hand. An image of him shooting a rifle at the shadow of a wild dog—one too large and too dark to be real—and the dog running off, flickered through my mind. I saw him pushing his wife into the safety of their house. Whatever doubt he showed in my abilities, the protectiveness this man felt for his family was undeniable.

  At the back end of the house, I glanced out at the darkened cornfield in the window.

  “What is that thing? What does it want?” Weatherby asked.

  Without answering him, I went to the hearth in his living room, already cracking with fire. Not much could protect them from what stalked their land, except what I could give them. Using my abilities in front of others was always a risk, but I could feel it in their minds; they didn’t carry the fear and uncertainty of me they would have if they had known what I was. Until tonight, this family didn’t know about such things.

  I concentrated and flung one hand out, willing the flames to go higher, letting my awareness of the Element become an imaginary poker with which to stoke the flames. The fire roared high and hot, manipulated in a way only two kinds of people could do, one of them bring people like me.

  Witches.

  “Wow.” Weatherby’s little girl stared, smiling at the flames. I ruffled her red curls.

  Hunter looked at me with fascination shining in his eyes. I addressed Weatherby’s family as a whole.

  “Stay by the flames. He won’t go near them.”

  “Because wolves are afraid of fire, right?” the boy said.

  “That’s right.” Oversimplifying, but I didn’t have time to explain the truth to him. I led Hunter back to the rear door. Weatherby followed.

  “Don’t you need a flashlight out there? It’s still dark.”

  I opened the door and stepped out, letting Hunter join me on the back step. In the near darkness, when I turned to Weatherby, his mouth dropped open. I knew what he saw. My eyes, glowing bright blue and nearly as unnatural as those of the wolf I was here for. “I can see fine.”