Once Bitten (Shadow Guild: The Rebel #1)(2)

I needed to see something useful here.

As soon as I touched the man’s rapidly cooling skin, a vision flashed in my mind’s eye. I couldn’t choose what I saw through physical contact with something—or someone—but in cases like this, I always prayed for a look at the killer.

My breathing heaved as I tried to process the images flickering in my mind.

A tall man with broad shoulders, standing impossibly still in front of the victim. He was cast in shadow, only his icy gray eyes gleaming in the night. A million things seemed to flash in his eyes, and my head began to buzz. I felt like I was staring into the future and the past, unable to decipher any of it but knowing that there was something important there.

I dragged my attention away from his eyes. I was being a freaking weirdo.

The rest of him gave me the impression of stone—like this man had been hewn from granite. Tall and broad shouldered, everything about him screamed strength. He was as powerful and immovable as a mountain, and a shiver of fear raced over me.

But there was something about him that drew me toward him. Something so visceral that it tugged at me. A connection. Heat.

My heart sped up, and my skin warmed.

He was a killer.

Why did I feel this…this pull toward him?

Like knowledge. Like connection. Like two stars spinning through space about to collide with each other.

No.

There was every chance he was the killer.

I couldn’t see a weapon in his hand—no bat or crowbar or anything for bashing—but he’d been here at the time of the man’s death. Otherwise, I wouldn’t see him now. He shifted slightly so that light slashed across his face, revealing a sharp cheekbone and strong jaw. His lips were full—the only soft thing about him that I could see. A flash of white teeth gleamed in the darkness, two of them longer than the others. Pointed.

Fangs.

I stumbled back, my hand breaking contact with the body.

Fangs?

That was impossible. I was losing it. People didn’t have fangs.

“Come to me.” His voice rumbled with low power, and my mind spun.

“What?” I croaked. My visions never spoke to me.

“Come to me.” His voice seemed to roll through me, lighting up nerve endings that I hadn’t known existed.

Was the murderer really telling me to come to him? How?

How was this even possible?

How was any of my talent possible?

“Did you do this?” My voice trembled.

He didn’t respond, and his shadowy form disappeared.

I hated to admit what a coward I was, but relief flowed through me. The guy scared the crap out of me. My attraction to him scared the crap out of me.

He could be Beatrix’s killer. It was unacceptable

I shook my hand as if to drive off the memory of the man. But I couldn’t. I needed to see. At my feet, there was a dead man with a bashed-in face, and I could help find that killer. Nerves prickled as I touched the body again, reluctantly hoping to see the moment of death.

Nothing. The vision was gone. The man was gone.

“Damn it,” I muttered.

My gift or whatever it was didn’t come on command, and I’d just lost the thread of the vision. It hadn’t been enough to find the killer, though I’d know that man anywhere if I saw him again.

I needed more, and I needed it quick. I’d already called in an anonymous tip to the police, hoping they’d arrive in time to prevent the murder. They hadn’t, but as soon as they did arrive, they wouldn’t want me rooting through the body for answers. Most didn’t believe in my gifts. Hell, I hardly believed in them myself.

Focused, I turned my attention back toward the body. Now that I needed to touch more of him, it was imperative to be careful. I pulled a pair of disposable gloves from my pocket and slipped them on, then began to search the body for clues. I moved quickly, desperate to be done.

My hand had just closed over a matchbook when I heard the shout from behind me: “Freeze!”

Shit.

Cold fear shivered down my spine.

I’d lingered too long.

Please be Corrigan.

He was my only friend with the police, though “friend” was still a stretch.

“Raise your hands!” a man shouted.

My gaze flicked to the matchbook in my hand. The leads on Beatrix’s murder had run cold months ago. This was now the only clue I had, and I couldn’t read it unless I took my gloves off. I should leave it for the police, but I needed something else to help me find Beatrix’s killer.

Quickly, I shoved the matchbook into the inner pocket of my worn leather jacket and raised my hands, knowing how damning the gloves looked. I ran this risk every time I came to a murder scene, but I couldn’t stop myself from trying.

“It’s just me, guys. Carrow Burton.”

One of the policemen cursed, and I knew it had to be Corrigan. He’d told me he didn’t want to find me at one of these scenes again, even though I helped him close half his cases.

Slowly, I stood and turned.

Two police officers stood at the end of the alley, their forms silhouetted in the dark night by the streetlights behind them. The taller, broader one was familiar in a good way. Corrigan.

The shorter, skinnier one was just as familiar, and my heart sank.

Banks.

He thought I was full of shit. Worse, he thought I was probably a killer. He’d made it his life’s work to get me for crimes I hadn’t committed. At the memories, ice chilled my veins.