“Open her up, laddie, and we’ll see what happens.”
Aiden stepped to one side of the door then carefully grabbed the door handle. It turned. After a glance at Ashworth, he thrust it open.
Nothing stirred. Nothing jumped out at us. There was no flash or surge of magic. The house was as inert on the inside as it was on the outside.
“I’m smelling a lot of blood—and it’s fresh.” Aiden drew his gun and glanced at Ashworth. “Is it safe to go in?”
When the older man nodded, Aiden edged around the doorway. He paused again, and then swore.
I quickly followed him inside.
Lying on the floor between the old sofa and the TV stand was a blonde-haired woman who looked to be no more than thirty or so, and who had a dark mole near the left corner of her lip. Trent’s contact, Abby Jones.
She was dead.
Murdered.
Chapter Ten
If the rawness of the gaping wound across her throat and the blood still dripping from the nearby coffee table was any indication, her death had happened very recently.
We might have missed the heretic, but we hadn’t done so by much.
Her blood was a dark halo that surrounded her head. I wasn’t a wolf and my sense of smell was pretty ordinary, but even I couldn’t help but notice the sickly sweet, metallic odor that rode the air. I swallowed heavily, dragged my gaze away from the gruesome sight, and quickly scanned the rest of the room. There was no soul or ghost lingering either near her body or in the room itself, which meant this brutal death had been destined. I briefly closed my eyes and said a silent prayer to the gods that her next life was a longer, happier one.
Aiden shoved his gun away and then moved across to Abby, dragging my gaze back to her. Her hands were up near her neck, as if she’d tried to stem the flow of blood. But even from where I was standing, it was pretty obvious her windpipe and her two main arteries had been cut. Unconsciousness or even death might have hit within a minute, but that minute would have been utter hell.
Aiden grabbed a pair of gloves from his pocket and then knelt beside the woman. “Judging from the positioning of the body and the knife used to kill her, I’d say she was attacked from behind.”
Ashworth walked across. “There’s some residue on that knife.”
Aiden glanced up at him sharply. “Magical residue?”
Ashworth nodded. “It’s fading, though, and has the feel of a mobility spell.”
Aiden frowned. “Meaning magic was the force behind this deed rather than a human hand?”
Ashworth nodded again. “Our witch wouldn’t have had the strength to cut her throat so deeply or precisely with a kitchen knife. Few people would, let alone a man who’d still be recovering from a soul transfer.”
“How long ago was she killed?” I asked.
“Five minutes, if that.” Aiden glanced up at me. “Do you think you can grab information from her mind?”
I hesitated and rubbed my arms. There was something about this house that just didn’t feel right, something other than the brutal death. “To be honest, I don’t know, because I have no idea if her bleeding out so quickly would make a difference to what she might or might not remember. But it’s worth a try if it helps us track this bastard down.”
But my stomach was already churning at the thought of not only getting any closer, but the risk of being overrun by the emotions and horror she must have experienced in the brief minute between life and death.
“Do you want me to construct a protection circle?” Ashworth asked.
I hesitated again and then shook my head. “I don’t sense any evil lingering near this place, and you’ve already said there’s no spell work here.”
“That doesn’t mean her body can’t be spelled,” he said.
My gaze unwillingly jumped back to Abby’s prone form, but this time I studied her with my “other” senses. “I can’t see anything suggesting that’s the case.”
Which might not mean anything given I wasn’t even sensing the lingering magic on the knife still laying under her head.
“Neither am I, lass, but it’s more than possible he’s left some other kind of trap—like a nasty little dream imp that’ll cause all manner of nighttime craziness.”