Page 62 of Reaper's Pack

I huffed up at her, then licked at my jowls with a grunt. Of course I understood. It was just… That new soul, the raised voice, the shuttered windows and locked door blocking my view.

Distracting, all of it.

“Okay, let’s go, then.”

I fought the urge to shoot up onto all four paws and bolt for the door, instead stalking along at Hazel’s side up the stone path to the house. The soul’s vibrations intensified, making every hair stand on end when we finally crossed the threshold. Pot roast permeated the air, same as the scent of meat and gravy and cooked vegetables that had often filled our own kitchen. That and cigarette smoke, a smell I had become familiar with at the bar the other day, humans puffing away at white sticks on the patio.

We entered a small foyer first, but Hazel veered right immediately into the bright white light of a living room.

I staggered to a halt in the doorway.

Not just a living room—but a murder scene too.

For there, on the floor, was a battered woman’s corpse. Bloodied nose. Split lip. Black eyes—both of them swollen and bruised. Red hand marks around her throat. Blood down her torn blouse, her skirt hitched up to her bare thighs. One of her purple slippers hung off her foot, while the other lay in front of a muted television, the evening news plastered across the screen.

Behind her, a man on a chair. Average height, perhaps even slightly below. Average build. White-skinned, freckled, balding. He wore a sport jersey and a pair of blue jeans. A lit cigarette hung limply between two fingers, a breath away from the upholstery. Tears streaked down his cheeks. Blood marred his knuckles—her blood. Even on the celestial plane, I could smell it.

Jaw locked, I looked from the burning end of the cigarette to the small circular marks on the corpse’s left arm.

Hazel, meanwhile, had already crossed the room, her deathly presence engulfing the whole house as she descended upon a cowering figure in the corner.

“Stupid fucking whore,” the male muttered under his breath, words catching in his throat, thick and vile. The ring on his one finger matched the delicate gold bands on the corpse’s hand. Humans exchanged rings when they married.

My hackles rose, a low growl vibrating in my chest.

They were mates, him and her.

The dead body, bloodied and beaten and violated—

“Amy?”

Amy. Amy’s corpse smelled like blood and smoke, like the vanilla and bourbon candle Hazel had added to the TV room at the manor. Her scent was all over this space—the twin two-seater couches, the little pillows, the blanket folded neatly over the back of the armchair. Slowly, my gaze drifted to a kneeling Hazel, to the slim soul of a woman in the corner. A squeaky wail filled the room, made the drawn floral curtains shudder. Her mate didn’t notice, smoking and staring at her corpse, cursing so softly that a human might have missed it, but my sensitive ears heard every fucking word.

“My name is Hazel, and this is Knox.” She gestured back to me, and I forced myself to move, to march stiffly by the dead human on the floor. At least the damage didn’t carry over to her soul; Amy was fresh and bright now, clean and well-groomed, her auburn hair in tight ringlets around an angular face with hollow cheeks. Hazel placed a hand on her knee, and the soul pushed back into the corner, made herself small, covering her head with both arms—like Hazel might strike her at any moment.

“Fucking worthless bitch,” the male grunted. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught him flick his cigarette at the corpse, then stand and disappear through another door deeper into the house. A moment later, rattling glass accompanied the whoosh of a refrigerator door opening.

“We’re here to take you to a better place,” Hazel murmured, situating herself so that Amy couldn’t stare at her own battered body. “I know it’s frightening, but you’re safe now…”

Strong and soft, this Hazel. A warrior with a gentle heart. As much as I longed to study her, reflect on her, I couldn’t focus on anything—couldn’t center my mind. Because there was all that blood weeping into the floor, between the wood panels, into the celestial plane. Then the vibrations of a new soul, sharp and vivid, deafening.

And the male.

I turned my back on him when he stumbled into the room again with a beer bottle in hand, gritting my teeth when he cracked it open. The metal cap landed on the floor seconds later—close to where he’d chucked the cigarette.

Next to her body.

Amy sobbed and buried her face in her hands, shaking, shaking, shaking so violently that it made my heart physically hurt. I crept closer, sniffing at her arms, her hidden face, her hair. My tongue swiped across her neck—a neck marred by her mate’s hands in the human realm, red and crushed—and instinct told me to hunker down, lie on top of her, make her feel safe and secure beneath me.

Security blankets. I’d read the phrase online, learned about compression therapy for humans who panicked like Declan once did, fighting for breath, heart racing, fear taking hold.

Only I couldn’t do any of that.

Because the male wouldn’t shut up.

Because that fucking piece of garbage had killed his mate.

And there was nothing worse, nothing fouler to my sensibilities, than the murder of one’s soul mate.

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