Santiago rubbed his jaw, solid as a boxer’s and bristly with salt-and-pepper stubble that was even more apparent against skin the color of dry tobacco leaves. “Rookie.” He lifted up a section that had enough leeway that she could duck under even with her wings. “He freaked—first DB. It’s not as bad as some I’ve seen though.”
Elena had to fight not to let the detective’s words kick her into a past that refused to stay buried. She’d freaked at her first dead body, too. The only difference was, she’d been ten years old, and the body had been that of her sister Mirabel e. Long-legged Bel e, who’d played bal and danced with the same athletic grace. Bel e, whose legs Slater had shattered into so many pieces that she’d never have been able to do either again even if she’d lived.
“Could be a human psycho”—Santiago’s deep voice jerked her back into the present—“but after the things I’ve seen in my career, I’ve learned to check.”
Walking careful y down the slight slope, Elena fol owed the scent of blood almost to the water’s edge. She’d half expected the victim to be wet or semisubmerged, but the teenage girl lay dry in the long grasses in a shadowy corner beneath the bridge. Dry except for the blood. It coated her from head to toe, leaving bare glimpses of skin of such a pale hue, it appeared made of tissue.
Santiago, having navigated the slope with a little less grace, his black loafers slipping on the grass, blew out a breath. “Just a kid.”
Elena tried not to let the girl’s youth matter, tried not to see her sisters Bel e and Ariel in the victim’s coltish form. It was hard. With her thick, dark hair and summer dress patterned with forget-me-nots, she looked like a pagan sacrifice lying there caressed by the waving strands of grass. Then the wind shifted, bringing with it the scent of death, and the il usion shattered. “Yeah.”
“Ready to do your bloodhound thing?”
“Yes.” Finding her footing in work, she took a deep breath. Frowned. “Unusual number of vampiric scents in the area.” The entire section was drenched in notes as diverse as cotton-wood and lime, to bitter black tea with sprinkles of sea salt, and sticky strands of taffy. Those weren’t the only things she caught in the air. Oh. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was a make out spot.”
Santiago raised his head. “Hey, Brent! You owe me ten bucks!”
“Aw, shit.”
Elena felt her lips quirk. Guilt threatened. How dare she smile while a girl lay dead at her feet? Elena fought that voice—fact was, you had to distance yourself somehow at these scenes or they’d eat away at you until there was nothing left. “You betting on me now?”
Santiago winked. “Another rookie. Like taking candy from a baby.” Putting his hands on his hips, he pushed back his jacket in that way men had of doing, and said, “Lot of the young vamps hang out here, along with their human partners. We keep an eye on things, but they’re harmless for the most part
—like to party a bit and, yeah, make out.”
“Huh.” Elena realized she hadn’t been around any vampires that young since she woke from the coma. “Wel , that’s going to cause a problem unless the perpetrator—if he was a vampire—left enough of a trace behind on her that I can conclusively separate out his scent.”
Pul ing on the latex gloves she’d grabbed from a kit at Guild Academy—because while she might be immune to disease, she didn’t much enjoy dipping her fingers in blood and other bodily fluids—she hunkered down beside the body. Not a young girl who liked forget-me-nots and wore a pretty summer dress in spite of the nip in the air. Not someone with the long legs of a dancer. Just a body. “Can I touch?” she asked, fighting to maintain the emotional distance.
“Go ahead. I cleared it with the crime-scene folks.”
The grass prickling the underside of her wings, she placed one hand beside the dead girl’s head to brace herself, and bent down to sniff at her ravaged neck.
Iron. Old. Dry.
Soap.
Synthetic perfume.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Lush, lyrical, sensual, a scent so extraordinary it was beyond unique. “Black orchids,” she whispered under her breath, but there was something ...
She was sure she’d caught hints of a subtle underlying note when the wind smashed into her and Raphael outside the house, but this scent was pure, so, so pure. However, given the erratic nature of her angel-sensing abilities, that wasn’t conclusive of anything.
“What?” Santiago came down beside her. “You think it might’ve been a pack of vamps?”
Swal owing against the near-certain knowledge that this was much, much worse, Elena held up a finger, then—going to her knees—bent close enough to the body that she could examine some of the wounds that weren’t crusted over with blood. “Not bite marks,” she said in surprise. “Slices. Tiny, tiny slices.” Al over the victim’s body. Done by someone holding a blade, but the real question was, what or who had driven that hand?
“Yeah. Tortured.” The big detective rose to his feet with a groan. “Guild case or us?”