it was, but not as she’d feared. It was the loss of him, her own inadequacies—the intrinsic knowing she should have done more for this man who’d been her partner for the last five years. He’d been her partner, her friend, her family—like a brother. Unheard for an outsider—one who was not Gypsy.
He’d died alone, in agony and terror.
Unshriven.
“Damn it, Van Brunt,” she cried in a broken whisper. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” Marijka brushed a finger down his ruined cheek. It was the only goodbye she’d give. From here on out, it had to be about the job or she wouldn’t do him or the Guild any good.
She swallowed hard, choked back her bile and looked at him again with the eye of a Gypsy wise woman and then again as the forensics expert she’d become. Some of his wounds healed as she watched. Whatever this was, she couldn’t let him rise.
“Ma’am?” A hard-edged voice startled her from her thoughts.
Shit. She had to be more aware of her surroundings. She fumbled with the samples she’d been collecting and managed to stow them in her bag before she dropped them.
Marijka looked up at the intruder. He was big, like most supernatural males. Marijka couldn’t pin down what race, but he was obviously a leader from the way he carried himself. The yellow illumination of the streetlamp washed over him, accentuating the gold of his hair and the hard planes of his face. His mouth was set in a grim slash and she found his rugged appearance beautiful—like she did the Pyrenees. Harsh, brutal and immovable. His eyes were what captured her—the deep blue-black depths were like the sea off the northern coast of Ireland. Just as cold and black—and they pulled her down into the frigid dark...pierced her, probed her deepest secrets. Held her in thrall.
Oh, hell no. She erected her mental shields and Marijka pushed back with her own power, ejected him from her consciousness with the force of an army. Those icy eyes widened, but then slanted with surprised pleasure.
“Guild?” he asked, not bothering to apologize for the intrusion.
“Officer Marijka Zolinski. You?”
“Luka Stanislav. Aeternali consultant.”
“The Aeternali is consulting on this?”
He appraised her coolly. “I’m a regular on scene. In this part of the world, any death that’s not obviously human-on-human requires a consultant. Things they would openly mock in the States are accepted here. Like processing his body in accordance with the treaty.”
Marijka knew plenty about what the locals believed. She’d grown up in a Gypsy caravan traveling the world in an enchanted vardo—a traditional horse-drawn wagon much like a camper. She’d been all over Europe, from the open steppes of Russia to dark forgotten villages in France. And she’d never seen a consultant on any murder she’d investigated. She’d let him sell her that bridge to nowhere, though—it suited her needs to keep him in the dark about her skills. At least until he accessed the Aeternali database. She had to find out who he really was and what he knew about the deaths and the strange virus Evan had talked about.
He was good; she’d give him that. So she made a point of keeping her attention on her job. On what she had to do to keep Evan from the curse. He was a master of manipulation, this Luka. She wouldn’t let him get away with it, though. Marijka had questions and knew he could answer them.
“Since you’re familiar with the practice, maybe you could give me a hand?” She raised a brow.
“Full moon isn’t until tomorrow.”
Marijka debated how much to reveal. “He’s been infected with something unknown. Regeneration is happening fast. Faster than what I’ve seen even with the Zombie Virus.”
“You worried about the ceremony or just getting it done?” Stanislav asked in a brusque tone.
“Getting it done.” It was what Evan would want. He’d never been much on ceremony or tradition. He’d been tapping his foot and inching toward the door with the last Guild member they’d processed together.
The consultant produced a small, black bottle from the folds of his long overcoat and removed the stopper. He splashed what appeared to be oil on Evan’s body with three flicks of his wrist. Supernatural fire incinerated flesh, blood and bone, reaching out in a hungry spiral to destroy any trace of Evan Van Brunt.
A lone wolf howled, his song echoing around them.
Stanislav turned sharply, his stance one of a warrior, and those cold eyes scanned the landscape of the night. “The other officers are gone. Well secured against the beasts. You should go, Officer Marijka Zolinski.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you answer a few questions.”
A chorus of answering howls reverberated in the dark like a choir from hell.
“You should be inside,” he reiterated slowly. His blue-black eyes reflected nothing, only a deeper Abyss, a dark so cold and endless the chill stabbed into her bones with a thousand needles. “They’re coming for him.”
“There’s nothing for them to claim.” Marijka refused to be cowed by him and refused to acknowledge the fear that snapped in electric currents as the howls grew louder. It was a tactic designed to to foster terror and immobilize their prey.
She shuddered involuntarily. Marijka hated werewolves. Their howls terrified her and resurrected memories of her mother’s mutilated body
“Yet still they come, malenkaya.” His voice was smooth, like dark chocolate and silk.
Her survival instincts screamed at her to take shelter, but her pride was louder. “And here I stand,” she said, a fiery defiance of him and them burning in her gut.
“Is this really where you want to turn and make your stand? Alone against a rogue pack?”
A pack? She gritted her teeth and blinked hard as she swallowed her fear. “No,” she acknowledged. “But I’m not running.” Marijka had sworn she’d never run from a werewolf. She’d never surrender to her fear and if that meant another officer would be processing her body here where she’d said goodbye to Evan, then so be it.
“No one asked you to run. Only to come to the inn with me where there will be hot vodka with honey, warm cream biscuits with salted butter and where we may talk of the business of the day.” He spoke gently, as if to a wounded beast, his accent more pronounced—his Russian heritage more obvious in his speech patterns.
The words wrapped around her like velvet, soft and seductive, drew quaint images of large fires and soft light, the comfort of tradition, hot food and safety, and slipped inside of her to caress secret desires and guided her to follow his commands. She pushed again with her metal shields, but realized this was no magic, no telepathy. It was the innate power in his voice, the supernatural charisma of an Alpha male.
Marijka wondered again what he was and more importantly, who he was to the Aeternali. He was more than a consultant, more than what he portrayed himself to be. An ageless, eternal power thrummed through him and it resonated with her own.
“And you will answer my questions, Luka Stanislav?” she asked, doubtful. Marijka wasn’t sure she wanted to be in his company. He was dangerous.
“Yes, I will answer your questions. As best as I may.”
“Always a catch with the Aeternali, isn’t there?”
“As there must be,” he admitted with a boyish smirk and halfhearted shrug. When she still hesitated, he spoke again. “A female so lovely shouldn’t be unescorted in Aynkava. Even if you are an officer of the Guild. There are many dangerous males who would have no respect for your title.”
True, but they would respect her Evil Eye and the mark of Baba Zoranna she wore in the tattoo on the back of her neck. There was no power more potent than gypsy magic and she used it with the same precision as she did her 9mm.
“And