“What do you mean?” Max knelt on the path, and the scent of blood caught in his nostrils. It had been days since Nathan had killed the woman, and the air was damp with rain. There must have been an enormous amount of blood for it not to have all been washed away by now. “God almighty.”

“When you kill, do you leave this much blood behind?” The werewolf regarded him with a raised eyebrow.

Max couldn’t decide if she was being intentionally antagonistic or if her poor manners were due to the fact she was, biologically, a canine. “For your information, I’ve never killed anyone.”

At least, not in the technical sense.

“But no, a vampire wouldn’t have left this behind. He would have fed on her.” Absently, Max traced the chalk outline of the dead woman’s ankle. Rising, he wiped his hands on his jeans as though he’d touched something dirty. “This place gives me the creeps. Let’s get out of here.”

She looked as surprised as he was sure he did. The words had erupted from him out of habit. They implied a kinship, teamwork, a shared goal. They were certainly not something he would say to a werewolf, of all people.

To his immense relief, she shook her head. Her long black braid slithered across her leather-covered shoulders. “I have a job to do. I will leave you to wallow in the shrubbery.”

What a bitch. Still, a wide grin curved his mouth.

He watched her walk away, her braid snapping like a whip behind her. “Bella,” he warned through gritted teeth. “If you get in my way again, I will kill you.”

Her laughter, low and throaty, floated back to him on a wave of musky perfume in the night air. “No, you will not. If I were you, I would hurry. The police are coming back.”

Max looked toward the bridge. No traffic crossed as he stood rooted to the spot, but soon enough the thin, high whine of a siren broke the evening stillness.

When he turned back, Bella was gone.

Cyrus woke in the night in a cold sweat. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he might have screamed, because Mouse woke at the same time.

“Cyrus? What’s the matter?” Her hand was hot against his shoulder.

He swallowed. His throat was so dry, it was like gulping down razor blades. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

When he stood, he wrapped the sheet around his waist. Though she slept beside him on the narrow bed, she still possessed a bizarre modesty.

“Tell me, please.” She pulled her legs beneath her as she sat up, a waif in her too-large T-shirt.

If he’d been asked at that very moment to describe her in one word, it would have been fragile. So how could she expect him to share the details of his nightmare?

“I said go back to sleep.”