Circle of Desire (4 page)

He nodded and looked at Mark. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Morgan, I’m warning you—”

“It’s my wife’s birthday,” Mark cut in. “No business allowed.”

“Leave,” Benton said, stabbing a finger in Ethan’s direction. “Now.”

Ethan went.

K
AT FLOPPED ONTO THE SOFA AND PLACED THE AROMATIC
herbal pack on her forehead. Though the trembling had eased, every muscle still felt weak, and her head boomed. Right now, she needed sleep, she needed coffee, and she needed chocolate—and she was likely to get only one of those in the near future.

A soft sigh filled the silence. She cranked open an eye and looked across the room. Her grandmother sat at the laminate table, chin resting on palms, as she stared at the small crystal ball in front of her.

“No luck?”

“Not a damn thing.” Gwen leaned back and rubbed her forehead. Moonlight danced across the multicolored stones decorating her gnarled fingers.

“It’s been a long night. Maybe you’ll get something once you take a break.”

“Maybe.” She met Kat’s gaze and smiled. “I did see one thing, though.”

Kat had seen that smile before, and it usually meant trouble headed her way. Wariness edged her voice as she said, “What?”

“Your werewolf is on the way here.”

Kat frowned at her word choice. “Werewolf?”

“The man you met in the warehouse.”

“He’s a werewolf?” It would certainly explain the anger she’d sensed in him. And her own, somewhat surprising, attraction to a man she couldn’t even see. Werewolves were sexually alluring when the full moon
was rising. “So why didn’t I sense that? I thought he was a shifter.”

“No, he’s definitely something more than a shifter. But the question is, what type of werewolf is he?”

Kat raised an eyebrow. “There is more than one type?”

Gwen laughed softly. “Of course. There are those who are born and those who are bitten.”

“Really? I didn’t know.” Mainly because they’d never actually come across any werewolves in their travels for the Circle. A couple of wolf shifters was as close as they’d ever gotten.

“Those who are bitten are the ones responsible for all the bad press werewolves get.” Gwen rose, her movements stiff as she hobbled over to the kettle. “They’re usually bitten well after puberty and don’t have the experience or knowledge to control the sexual and emotional turmoil the rising moon causes. And of course, the physical change makes most quite mad.”

“And those that are born?”

Gwen filled the kettle and plugged it in, then grabbed three cups and spooned instant coffee into them. “The werewolf born can generally control the worst of his urges. And they can generally shift shape anytime they want.”

“Does the moon still force the change?”

“Always. That’s part of the legacy that can never be escaped.”

Like the weakness and headaches she got after using her abilities to the fullest. Like the arthritis ravaging her grandmother’s body. “So why is he coming here?”

“He’s one of the cops on the special task force. And his niece is one of the missing kids.”

“Oh, great.” A werewolf seeking vengeance was not what they needed right now. The kettle’s shrill whistle sounded. She put the herbal pack on the coffee table and swung off the sofa. “And you didn’t answer my original question.”

“No.” Gwen hesitated. “He seeks us out because he thinks we know more than we are saying.”

“Which we do.” Kat grabbed the kettle and poured the water into the three cups. “Does he take milk?”

Her grandmother shook her head. “Three sugars.”

“Black syrup. Yuck.”

Gwen smiled and continued. “And because he’s desperate for a miracle and willing to chase even the craziest of leads.”

Kat nodded. Had their positions been reversed, she’d be doing the same. “So, what’s the plan?”

“I think we need to keep your wolf on a very tight leash.”

“He’s not my anything, so quit it.” She stirred some sugar into the second coffee, then handed it to her grandmother. “You don’t have to try to set me up with every eligible male that comes within sniffing distance.”

“Someone has to. You’re doing an abysmal job of it yourself.”

Kat rolled her eyes. “I thought gray-haired grannies were supposed to warn their granddaughters against the evils of casual sex, not devise ways of getting them into the sack.”

“My dear, you’re so much easier to deal with when you’ve been laid.”

“Gran!”

Gwen’s green eyes twinkled. “Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Kat muttered. A good night of sex certainly did have a way of easing the tension—but she didn’t have the time for that sort of thing. Not with this case.

“My dear, there’s always time if you use your imagination.” Gwen patted Kat’s arm, then hobbled over to the sofa.

Kat picked up the two remaining coffees and followed. “What do you mean by a tight leash?”

“Just that.” Gwen eased her feet onto the coffee table and sighed. “Would you mind massaging my feet later? They’re aching something fierce.”

Kat nodded and placed one coffee cup on the table. The other she held on to as she walked to the door. “We can hardly hog-tie him and keep him captive.”

“We won’t have to. Trust your grandmother and open the door.”

She did. “Welcome, detec—”

The words died, snatched away by the potency of the man approaching. In some ways, he was nothing out of the ordinary—dark hair, nut-brown eyes, a determined chin that desperately needed a razor. He wore a black leather jacket that strained across his shoulders, a white shirt pulled over the top of faded denims, and black boots. An everyday man. Except on this man, everyday was not only powerful but sexy as hell.

She inanely offered him the cup. “Coffee?”

One dark eyebrow rose as his gaze rolled languidly down her body. It was a touch that wasn’t a touch,
and yet one that sent lust winging through every fiber of her being. Though she wore an old T-shirt and loose sweatpants, the intensity of his gaze suggested she might well have been standing there naked. His desire burned her. Made her tremble. Ache.

“Thank you.”

As he wrapped a hand around the cup, his fingers briefly caressed hers. Energy jolted her spine. Knowing werewolves were sexually magnetic during the rising of the full moon and actually experiencing the effects were two entirely different things. She resisted the urge to mop her brow and stepped back.

“Come in.”

“Thanks.”

He moved past, and she caught a whiff of his aftershave. It was an odd mix—the rich aroma of freshly cut wood combined with the tang of earthy spices.

“Evening, Detective Morgan.” Amusement touched her grandmother’s voice. “Nice of you to finally drop by and say hello.”

“You were expecting me?”

“You seem surprised.”

“A little.” He folded onto the chair opposite Gwen. “Though Benton told me you were both psychics.”

Kat sat crossed-legged on the floor and grabbed her coffee. “But you didn’t believe him.” It was a statement rather than a question. One that had echoed through their entire lives.

His gaze met hers. There was nothing to see in those rich depths now. No emotion, no heat. What had passed between them at the door had been carefully controlled and thrust away.

“I had no reason to. I still don’t.”

A werewolf who didn’t believe in the supernatural? Interesting. She shared a glance with her grandmother, then said, “So what did you come here for?”

“To satisfy curiosity.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Perfect. Thanks.”

Kat ducked her head to hide her smile. He might not believe, but he wasn’t about to query. Not when he wanted help.

It was Gwen who continued. “Ask your questions, werewolf. It’s been a long night, and we both need our rest.”

A raised eyebrow was the only reaction Gwen got to her calling him a werewolf. Maybe he thought ignoring the statement was better than confirming what he was. “You found the body of the second victim. How?”

His tone was deliberate. Controlled. Looking at him, you’d never guess his niece was one of the missing kids. Still, you didn’t have to be psychic to see where this line of questioning would lead. Kat glanced at her grandmother. Usually Gwen didn’t go too in-depth with details, but she had an odd feeling it would be different with the werewolf.

“Scrying,” Gwen answered.

“Which is?”

“You want the short form or the proper explanation?”

He hesitated. “Proper.”

“Then it’s a type of divination in which a trance is induced that allows the practitioner to see events or people—be they past, present, or future. My preferred method is via a crystal ball, but any polished surface will do in an emergency.”

“Then you’ve tried finding the other victims?”

Absolutely nothing showed in his face. But then, he was a cop, long schooled in the art of questioning without revealing. And despite the earlier instances of sensing his emotions, right now Kat was getting zip.

“Yes, but it’s not something you can turn on and off. It often takes time.”

“Time those children might not have.”

“We know that, Detective.”

He nodded. “Does talking to the victims’ families help?”

“No. It usually only muddies the psychic waters.” Gwen hesitated. “You do know the chances of your niece still being alive are small, don’t you?”

He didn’t react, not physically. Yet his anger stepped into the room, became a presence that was almost overwhelming. “Until I see her body, I won’t give up hope.”

“That’s as it should be.”

“So will you try to find her? Now?”

Gwen pursed her lips. “I can’t guarantee—”

“I’m asking you to try, not guarantee.”

His voice was brusque, harsh. The voice of a man not used to asking for anything.

Gwen considered him for a long moment, then nodded. “Kat, get the crystal.”

“Gran, you need to rest—”

“I feel the need to do this. Get the crystal for me.”

Kat shot an annoyed look the detective’s way, but he absorbed it without impact. She climbed to her feet and retrieved the small ball from the table, handing it carefully to her grandmother.

Gwen eased her feet off the coffee table, then carefully placed the crystal on it. She rolled her neck, stretched gnarled fingers until they cracked, then began to stare at the glittering surface of the ball. After a few moments, her gaze became glassy and unfocused—a sure sign it was working.

Kat walked over to the sink, grabbed a glass of water and a couple of painkillers, then sat back down. There was nothing to do now but wait.

The detective made no noise, no movement, his expression intense as he watched Gwen. He might not believe in psychics and witchcraft, but right now he was obviously desperate and willing to go to any lengths. Even if it meant relying on the unbelievable.

Kat finished her coffee and reached for the herbal pack, then lay back on the floor and placed it over her forehead. The detective’s gaze swept her—something she felt rather than saw. Desire stirred deep inside. Gran was right—it had been far too long since she’d been with a man. And self-administering to ease the ache was certainly a pale substitute.

But by the same token, casual sex had lost its allure. She wanted something more. Something deeper. Something that just couldn’t work, given what she did.

Lord, why did this man have to be a werewolf in the midst of moon fever? She’d been doing all right until he came along, reminding her she had needs just like everyone else.

Time ticked by. The sofa creaked as the detective leaned back. His gaze was a heated touch that began to sweep her more often. Hunger stirred between them, though it was less of a potent force than what
she’d faced at the door. He could obviously control it better at some times than others, and she wondered what the deciding factor was. Inactivity, perhaps? Or the touch of the moon itself?

Gwen sighed. Kat sat up, catching the pack as it fell. Her grandmother’s face was ashen, her breathing shallow. Kat scrambled to her feet and grabbed the water and painkillers.

“Here, take these.”

She placed the tablets in her grandmother’s mouth, then held the glass while she drank. Gwen’s fingers were locked in a hooked position, and she wouldn’t be able to hold anything until the rigidness had eased. It could take minutes, or it could take hours.

Gwen’s gaze met Kat’s. The depth of despair and horror so evident in those green depths told Kat it was another bad situation. She swallowed heavily, not sure she could stand it again so soon. She didn’t have the strength—physically or mentally.

“Where?” she whispered.

“Warehouse on Tenth Avenue. First floor.”

Kat rose, grabbed her coat and keys, then finally looked at the detective. His face was expressionless, but his shoulders were taut—an indication of the tension she could feel.

“You coming?”

“Yes.” His gaze flicked to Gwen. “Is it her?”

Gwen sighed. “I don’t know.”

He rose. “I hope to God it’s not.”

So did Kat. Because if the violence so evident in his aura was anything to go by, they didn’t want to be around him when his niece’s body was discovered. She slipped on some shoes, then headed out the door.

“Detective?” Gwen called.

They both paused and looked back.

“Be prepared, because what you’re about to find will not be pleasant.”

“I’m a cop. I’ve seen humanity at its worst.” His voice held an edge that was both anger and resignation.

“But humanity has nothing to do with what is happening here.” Gwen’s gaze flicked to Kat. “Don’t go too deep. Even surface-level readings will be bad.”

Kat swallowed back bile. It had been bad enough last time. What the hell had the soul-sucker done now?