Brenna took a long look at the man who’d claimed her as his captive. In the small room the pain radiated from him so strongly it made her own heart ache with sympathy she could ill afford. She needed to focus only on finding her brother and ensuring his safety.

“Let’s go,” Carson said.

“Wait.” She held up a hand. “We need to get something straight. Your family is gone. You want revenge. I’ve got that. But I want to know the truth. You said you knew Alex well, that he was your partner. Well, why would he go bad? Is it possible there was some other explanation why he was at your house when it happened? Some other reason he had a gun?”

The absolute silence in which he glared at her was the embodiment of rage. Though the muscle that ticked in his clenched jaw should have been adequate warning, she couldn’t stop herself from continuing.

“What do you think he did? Really? Murder, rape, torture?” The mere notion of someone thinking her twin could hurt anyone for no reason, anyone at all, made her furious. “He’s incapable of those things. You should know that, too—if you truly know him as well as you say.”

Despite her taunts, Carson said nothing. His features seemed cast in stone. Implacable. Angry. Hurt. She noticed he, too, wore the same faded jeans and dark flannel shirt as the night before. And boots. The man wore cowboy boots made of some kind of exotic leather.

“Somehow I have to prove to you that my brother is not the devil incarnate.”

“You only have to prove it to yourself.” Bitterness coated his words with acid. “Grab your coat. We’re hitting the road. Since the robbery was less than an hour ago, the investigation will be in full swing.” He consulted his watch. “The interstate should be plowed. If we leave now, we’ll get there in time to talk to them.”

For the space of a heartbeat, she merely looked at him. “Logic,” she drawled. “The one thing I can’t argue with.”

A few minutes later they were back on the road. He’d been right about the snowplows. Piles of snow lined the one open lane on each side. Carson constantly pressed the Seek button on the radio, looking for more news about the robbery.

The farther north they went, the less deeply the snow appeared to blanket the ground. The highway opened up, too, all lanes, though the traffic seemed considerably lighter than the day before.

Welkory, Exit One Mile.

As they approached the turnoff, he reached behind him and yanked a wrinkled black jacket from behind the seat.

“Here,” he said, shoving it into her lap. “Put this on over yours.”

Noting the yellow DEA on the back, she guessed the coat would provide cover as well as warmth. Shrugging out of her own parka, she slipped on the lighter jacket. “What about you?”

“I’ve got a cap.” His tone discouraged conversation.

The two-lane road that led to Welkory was curved and lined with towering, leafless trees. Coated with a light dusting of snow, they appeared both majestic and threatening. Brenna sensed the presence of animals in the woods, though she and Carson sped by so fast that she had no time to communicate with any of them. Before long they rounded the final curve and found themselves smack-dab in the middle of Welkory.

Downtown seemed oddly deserted, as though at the first hint of danger all the shops had rolled up their carpets and locked their doors.

Carson slowed the car, though every one of the four stoplights turned green at his approach. First Street, flanked by well-maintained, charming historical buildings. Then Second and Third, until finally they reached the intersection of Main Street and Fourth. Yellow police tape squared off the corner of Welkory First Bank and Trust, and a yellow fire truck, lights flashing, was parked next to the drive.

Brenna counted no fewer than seven police cruisers, two of them local, the rest state police.

Carson rolled down his window to flash his ID at the officer blocking the entrance. “DEA,” he barked and was rewarded with an immediate wave past the barricade. They barely glanced at Brenna. Wearing Carson’s jacket made her look like another DEA agent.

He parked between two police cars, right next to the building. After turning off the ignition, he pocketed the keys and grabbed a battered black cap and crammed it on his head. The DEA letters in yellow made the cap a mate to her jacket.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice raspy. All traces of emotion had vanished from his face. He looked every part the professional government officer, stern and unforgiving in his quest for justice.

She licked lips suddenly gone dry before she replied quietly, “Yes.”

“Then let’s go,” he said. “More than anyone else, you need to see this.”

She heard the unspoken second part of his sentence: so you’ll understand what kind of man your brother has become.

Eager to prove him wrong, Brenna pushed open her door. Ice-coated gravel crunched underfoot as she walked beside Carson to the squat brick building. Crisp air carried a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the grim mood radiating from the uniformed officers who congregated inside the bank.

Brenna froze, sensation overwhelming her. The interior of this place smelled strongly of fear, of blood and death, like a hunt gone brutally wrong. She wanted to cover her nose, so nauseated did the scent make her. The odor of evil hung in the air so strongly she thought she might be sick. More than anything, she wanted to break away, lunge for the door and run. But she was a huntress, strong not weak. Though her sense of smell was ten times more powerful than a human’s, she would force herself to stay.

She breathed, though each lung full of air felt cloying, full of decay and hate. She swallowed, tasted bile and concentrated on not being weak. Nothing, not the hunting rituals of the Pack, nor any of the limited television shows she watched, had ever prepared her for the carnage here.

Mindless savagery. Hate. Pure evil.

It felt surreal and simultaneously more real than any experience had ever felt. She despised every minute, wishing she were somewhere, anywhere, else.

Three sheet-covered bodies lay in front of the long, paneled counter. One man, probably the coroner, knelt beside the nearest one, making notes. Quiet sobbing came from a group of people clustered in the back.

“Tellers and other customers, most likely,” Carson told her, sotto voce. “The ones who survived to tell their stories to the police.”

Heart in her throat, Brenna managed a nod, trying to hide her trembling. Though hunters by nature, her people did not believe in mindless violence or senseless slaughter.

Two uniformed locals intercepted them.

“DEA,” Carson said again, touching the brim of his cap. They looked at Brenna, eyed her jacket and relaxed their stances. One, a younger man, met her gaze and blanched. Some humans always reacted so to one of the Pack.

“Where’s the FBI?” the shorter of the two officers asked, his tone disapproving. At Carson’s shrug, he grimaced and moved aside to allow them access to the witnesses.

Striding across the room as if they belonged, they moved into the edge of the group surrounding the survivors.

Then she smelled it, mingled with the acrid, coppery scent of blood. His scent—faint, but definitely Alex. She felt an instant of panic. Was he hurt? She nearly turned to Carson, then, remembering he was not like her, glanced casually around the room instead.

There. A faded jean jacket lay crumpled on the floor next to the wall, splattered with blood. It carried her brother’s scent. She would have to inspect it, smell it better and touch the cloth before she could determine if the blood belonged to him.

Carson’s hand on her shoulder kept her in place.

An older, heavyset woman, bright spots of color high on her pale cheeks, talked quietly. “The leader was a tall man, built like a wrestler or something. Muscular, and he liked to show those muscles off, I think. Despite the weather, he didn’t wear a shirt or coat, only a black leather vest. And jeans.”

The officer taking notes nodded. “Any other distinguishing characteristics, ma’am?”

“His hair was long—longer than mine. Oh—and he had a tattoo.”

Carson looked at Brenna. She knew he was thinking of Alex’s birthmark, shaped like a wolf.

“Tattoo?” she asked, keeping her voice professionally level. “What did it look like?”

Eyes wide, the woman waved one plump beringed hand. “Oh, it was very intricate, some sort of curly snake thing, evil looking, that wrapped all the way up his arm.”

Not Alex’s birthmark. With an effort, Brenna kept her relief from showing on her face.

“Hades’ Claws.” One of the troopers muttered to another. “It’s their mark.”

Carson gave Brenna a narrow-eyed look, and she saw that he already knew about this tattoo. Again she wanted to open her mouth, to tell him Alex would never defile himself like that, but too many others surrounded them, so she held her silence.

“Eye color? Hair color?”

Ah, now was the important part. Brenna held her breath.

The woman didn’t hesitate. “Dark eyes. Brown, I think. And that hair, why it was so inky black it didn’t reflect the light. It had to be dyed.”

Another officer had begun to question two more tellers, who responded with similar answers to the first. Carson watched and listened, intent on their answers.

Brenna had heard enough. Glancing around the brightly lit interior of the bank, she wondered at the creepy feel of it, as though the room had taken on a texture both clean and sharp, yet tainted and foul. She ran her hand along the faux wood surface of a desk, the smoothness an odd contrast to the rough menace that still hung in the air.

Moving as unobtrusively as possible, she went to the jacket and lifted it, resisting the urge to bury her nose in the cloth and breathe in the familiar scent. Carson made no move to stop her, though she could feel his watchful gaze boring into her back. Instead she held the coat a few feet away, inhaled deeply and breathed.

Another’s smell tainted the material, mingling with and overriding her brother’s. This other man, a human who had left the sharp smell of anger and fear embedded in the fabric, had worn it recently. Though it might once have belonged to Alex, someone else had worn it here. With a quiet sigh, she let it fall back to the floor and turned to rejoin Carson.

Something else…Teasing her sensitive nose, the scent came strong, alive instead of dead. Not human nor of the Pack. She stopped before reaching Carson, carefully looking around. A high-pitched whimper from under a nearby desk caught her attention. Crouching down to peer underneath, she let her breath out in a quiet hiss. A tiny black puppy of mixed heritage, eyes huge and frightened, stared up at her from the floor, shaking.

Here, then, was something she understood, one in many ways closer to her kind than the myriad assortment of humans inside this place. Still kneeling, Brenna held out her hand, letting the small creature absorb her scent before she reached out to stroke the softness of his midnight-colored fur, noticing the contrast of his white paws.

Touching the animal, Brenna felt a sensation of noise and terror. She shivered with the aftershocks of what the small creature had experienced and even now still felt. This young dog had been with his human companion when he died. Glancing at the sheeted bodies, she received a brief image of love, burst apart by a single gunshot to the head. The noise, the blood, the hatred, had terrified this young animal. Grieving and fearful, he was alone now.

Without a second thought, Brenna scooped him up in her arms. “I will be your protector now, small one,” she promised, whispering the ancient words that had always bound her people to their animal companions.

“Has anyone viewed the tapes?” Carson asked the nearest officer.

“Not yet.” The cop indicated another man, a plainclothes detective from the looks of him. “We were waiting for him.”

“He’s here, let’s go,” Carson barked.

The other two men conferred, then moved toward a darkened back office. Carson signaled Brenna to follow. Head held high, she did, the pup cradled in her arms, trying to burrow under her jacket.

“Where’d that dog come from?” one of the local officers asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

She lifted her chin to reply. “He was under the desk. I think he might have belonged to one of the victims.”

The officer gave her a skeptical frown. “Do they allow pets in here?”

“Who cares?” the detective snapped. “Let’s go.”

With the lights dimmed, they had already set up the equipment to play the security tape.

“Ready?” At the collective nod, he hit Play. Grainy images began to move on the monitor as the horrifyingly brutal robbery was reenacted in black-and-white.

From the general area outside the office, Brenna could hear a woman sobbing.

“There.” One officer pointed to the tallest man in the video, the obvious leader, the one with the bare chest and intricate tattoo twining up his muscular arm.

“Can’t see his face,” another man grunted, leaning so close to the monitor his nose touched it.

A grumbled complaint from the others moved him back.

Brenna held her breath, letting it out with a loud sound as she got a better look at the criminals’ leader. He was built like her brother, yes. But there the resemblance ended. Though she couldn’t make out the killer’s features, she could tell from the way the man moved that he was not her twin.

Relief flooded her. Carson’s unwavering certainty that her brother had gone bad had given her doubts. But the man in the video was not Alex. A quick glance at Carson told her he knew that, as well.

“Hey.” Catching the interaction, the detective moved closer. “Why didn’t you come with the other DEA guys who called this morning? They’re on their way in.”

Carson went still. “We wanted to be first,” he said. “We wanted to check around on our own.”

Though the other man nodded, Brenna got the distinct impression he knew Carson was lying.

“As a matter of fact, I think we’re gonna head into Hawks Falls and look around there. We’ll check back with you guys tomorrow to see if anything new turns up.”

As they left the room, Brenna heard one man comment, “DEA or FBI, they’re all the same. Always want to sweep in and steal the glory, even from their own.”

“What was that all about?” she asked, as soon as they were outside. “Why aren’t you working with the other DEA guys?”

He didn’t answer, just yanked her truck door open with a brusque motion. Without protest, she climbed into the cab, the puppy still tucked in the curve of her arm.

“Just a minute.” Carson indicated the young dog with a wave of his hand. “Leave the animal here.”

“No. That’s not negotiable. He comes with me or I don’t go at all.”

Carson frowned. “That puppy doesn’t belong to you.”

“He does now.” She pulled the door closed behind her with a thunk. Adjusting her seat belt, she made sure the dog was comfortable before turning to look at Carson, who was still standing outside the truck. Finally, as she continued petting the pup’s soft fur, Carson shook his head and strode around the vehicle. He climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed his own door. Without another word, he started the ignition and put the vehicle in Reverse.

“Tell me one thing,” he said, one arm draped over the back of the seat. “Are you bringing that dog because he’s your brother’s?”

Brenna laughed. “You really think Alex would bring a puppy with him to rob a bank and kill a bunch of people? And then leave his pet behind?”

Carson lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Why not?

In his tone she heard what he did not say: If The Wolf didn’t value human life, what would the life of one small animal matter?

“Not my brother’s,” she told him finally. “I think the owner was probably one of the people killed in the robbery. Now it’s your turn to answer a question. Why aren’t you working with the other DEA agents? You lied. You didn’t even know they were coming.”

Carson drove as if a demon were chasing him, rapidly increasing their speed until they were hurtling down the highway. They took the left lane by storm and passed every other vehicle they encountered.

“What are you hiding?” Brenna heard the taunt in her voice and lifted her chin. “Tell me, Mr. Level-With-Me. Why aren’t you working with the other government people?”

“I work better alone,” Carson snapped. “I’ll find him and bring him in before they even get their heads out of their asses.”

“You never stop, do you?”

His expression grim, he shook his head. “No. And I never will. Not until he’s in custody.”

“Did it ever occur to you that he might still be undercover?”

“Yeah.” His mouth twisted. “It did. Briefly. But I saw him. I’ll never forget that. He shot my family, then threw away the gun. And he never contacted me. Ever. Not even the day of the funeral, the day I buried Julie and Becky. He was my partner, damn it. My friend.”

The bitterness of betrayal rang in his voice. Unable to take the stark desolation in his eyes, she looked away.

“That wasn’t Alex in the video,” he said finally. He eased up on the gas pedal and moved into the middle lane.

Staring at him, she nodded. “I know.”

“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved.”

“He wasn’t.”

The puppy whimpered, shifting in her arms. Some of her tension must have communicated itself to the animal. Taking a deep breath, Brenna forced herself to relax.

“You’ll see,” she told him. “Once we find him, I’m sure he’ll have a reasonable explanation for everything.”

Ignoring her, Carson exited the freeway and pulled into a service station.

While he refueled, Brenna concentrated on her new companion. He had to have a name. For now she would call him Phelan, little wolf.

As she spoke the name out loud, three times in the custom of her people, the puppy raised his head. He lifted a small foot, accepting the naming with quiet dignity. As she took his paw in her hand, Brenna saw a splotch of rust marring the white fur. Blood, dried and flaking. Surely Carson had tissues or something in the glove box. A sidelong glance showed her that he had his back to her.

She opened the glove box. Inside there were no tissues, only a few sheets of paper, crumpled and wadded into a ball. One of those would have to do. Smoothing one out, she glanced at the words printed on it and froze.

“Leave of Absence—Medical.” Swiftly she scanned the rest of the document. In disbelief she read it again, before crumpling and tossing the paper back. Carson Turner had lied. Whatever he did, he was no longer acting under the auspices of the DEA. Since early summer, he’d been on forced medical leave. Six months ago. That meant that in his hunt for her brother, he was acting alone and unsanctioned, his reasons personal rather than official.

A private vendetta. Now, more than ever, she knew she had to find Alex first.

Chapter 4

Outside, the sharp ice of the wind cut straight to the bone. Shivering, Carson regretted giving Brenna his work jacket. Quickly he fitted the icy gas nozzle into his tank, setting the metal pin so the gas would run automatically. Then, turning his back to the wind, he punched a number into his cell phone. Warm as it was inside the Tahoe, he needed to talk to his informant privately yet still keep an eye on his reluctant passenger.

Three rings, a click, then a muffled answer. As usual, the man he knew only as Jack didn’t want to talk. Carson kept his voice low, rational, cajoling. He did the usual song and dance with the normal promise of payment, and finally got the information he needed. A potential sighting of Hades’ Claws. As he’d thought they might, they were heading north, toward their compound in Hawk’s Falls.

Jack believed Alex traveled with them.

Snapping the cell phone closed, he got back in the truck, shivering, and turned up the heat. A quick look at Brenna told him something had happened in the brief time he had taken to make the call. Her entire demeanor, posture and expression had changed. From the rigid line of her back to the way the sharp edge of her glare touched on him before skittering away, he read a simmering anger.

He swept the gas station at a glance. Two or three other vehicles were parked at the pumps, their drivers bundled against the cold while pumping gas. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and no one had approached the Tahoe while he was on the phone.

Then why was his new companion spoiling for a fight?

“What’s up?” He avoided her gaze as he turned the key and started the engine. The less eye contact, the less chance for an argument.

“You used your cell phone. Who’d you call?” Her tone sounded surprisingly pleasant, even with contained anger.

He suppressed a smile. Damn she was good. Answering a question with another question. One of the oldest avoidance tactics in the book.

“Informant.” Signaling, he pulled onto the road. With one hand looped over the top of the steering wheel, he fiddled with the radio, finding a station that played soothing classical music to calm her. Small tricks like that had become ingrained, something he did without conscious thought.

Her face still averted, Brenna made a sound low in her throat. It could have been either pleasure or disgust; he didn’t know her well enough to determine which.

Nor did he care. Again he reached for the radio. One flick of the dial increased the volume to a level loud enough to discourage conversation, and he settled back in anticipation of a nice, quiet ride. Alex’s sister seemed inclined to cooperate, watching the snow-covered landscape go past with no attempt to speak further.

But when the melody on the radio switched to Liszt’s “Hungarian Fantasy,” she swung around in her seat to face him. The swiftness of her movement, in keeping with the ominous crash of the music, startled him.

Even more alarming was her degree of anger. One quick glance told him the shoulder restraint was all that kept her from launching herself at him. Even her exotic eyes glowed caramel with fury. She took a deep breath, baring her white teeth, before exhaling loudly.

She looked almost like a wild animal.

“What the h—” Imagination. Had to be. He took a deep breath himself, blinked and took another look.

The furious glare remained. Quickly he turned the radio off.

“Now what?” he asked. “You got a problem?”

“Why did you lie to me?” Simmering rage trembled in her voice. “You said you had an official reason for looking for my brother, but you’re not even working for the DEA.”

Damn. He shook his head. “You snooped in my glove box.”

“I was looking for a tissue. Instead I found a crumpled piece of paper that says you’re on medical leave.”

He clenched his jaw. “None of this is your business.”

“I think it is.” She tilted her chin, contempt blazing from her gaze. “Tell me, Carson Turner, have you become the thing you profess to hate?”

“What?”

“A criminal.”

“Lady, I’m no criminal.”

Again she blew out her breath. “You’re acting without the sanction of the Justice Department. You’re on medical leave. Impersonating a federal agent is a crime.”

“You just did the same thing at the bank.”

“That was different. You led me to believe you were there on official business, and I was with you. You’ve been doing it for…what? The last six months?”

Carson felt his face heat. “I have good reason—”

“Sure you do.” Scorn sharpened her tone. “Even Ted Bundy thought he had good reason.”

“Give me a break.” He ran his hand through his hair, his earlier expectation of a peaceful drive evaporating. “You can’t compare me to him.”

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