Without stepping inside, he displayed his ID. “I am Ayatas FireWind, PsyLED, regional director in charge of the eastern seaboard, not FBI.” He smiled and his entire face transformed into something peaceful and kind and understanding. It ratcheted up his gorgeous factor about six notches and was not a look he shared with his team. The unfamiliar expression faded into compassion. “I have always been a great fan of Stella’s work and music, from the time she released her first single, ‘Show Me Every Day.’ The guitar licks were unique, the harmonics were utterly bewitching, and the first time I heard her voice I was captivated. Please allow me to express my deepest condolenceson your loss.” He bowed slightly. FireWind was either a class-A actor or he really felt everything he was saying.
“He’s here to help,” I said.
“If you’r’un wanting to help”—Tondra lowered the footrest of her recliner—“then you can get Catriona outta jail. She didnotdo this.”
FireWind gave the evidence bags to me and tipped his head as if in agreement with the statement. “We are working on that. Special Agent Ingram”—he nodded to me—“has asked questions, but if you are willing, I’d like to ask a few more.”
Tondra gave him a frown worthy of an elder churchwoman but gestured to one of the square tables. Her daughters followed her there, their eyes on FireWind. They took seats at the table, leaving only one. It placed FireWind’s back to the door, deliberately I would assume, by Tondra’s fleeting expression.
Most law enforcement officers hated to sit with an open door at their back, but FireWind smiled and I felt electric tings on my skin. There was no question that FireWind had some kind of passive magic. It was like a slow breeze blowing over long grasses, rippling them gently. Almost a vampire mesmerism in its overwhelming calming. It practically demanded for the human women to trust him. I didn’t like him using it on them. Not that my opinion counted for anything. He placed a recording device on the table where no one could miss it and turned to me.
“Jones has sent you the address of the hotel where PsyLED is staying. The ninety-minute drive to Knoxville is too difficult for an every-day commute, and we can expect to pull long days for a bit. You may tell the unit to check in and get settled. We’ll hold an abbreviated debriefing when I arrive.”
It wasn’t the abrupt dismissal that a vampire might give, but it was thorough.
He turned his back and took the vulnerable seat.
I realized for the first time that, with FireWind being a big Stella Mae fan, he intended to run the entire scene. He intended tomicromanage(a wonderful and horrible term I had picked up from the unit) the entire case. And that meant FireWind would be staying at the hotel with us, would be here every moment, peering over our shoulders.
Shaking my head, I carried the evidence bags downstairs. This was going to be a very unusual, high-profile case becauseof Stella Mae’s stardom and rabid fan base, but for Unit Eighteen it would be especially distinctive, with Ayatas FireWind running things. Rick LaFleur, who was stationed out of Knoxville HQ, actually ran most of the southeastern states, which was why he and Margot Racer, the unit’s sort-of-probie, were in Chattanooga on a crime scene. We’d be without them, at a time when Margot’s reputation as a star interviewer and her history in the FBI would have been helpful. I missed things being run the way I was used to. I might not get along with him all the time, but being healed by Soulwood had changed Rick LaFleur. He was, by far, the more comfortable boss to have around, which was saying a great deal, since I had kicked him in his testicles not long after we first met.
Downstairs, I discovered that the PsyCSI team had arrived from Richmond and had set up their equipment in the gathering room off the kitchen. They and the Nashville coven were dressing out in spelled unis as I passed by, T. Laine giving them instructions on limiting time in the studio since they wouldn’t have access to the null room until morning. The crime scene team would soon clear the house so they could work through the night, though what they might find was in question since we had trampled through the house and most everything in the basement was decomposing.
I passed FireWind’s message about the hotel to T. Laine, glad I wasn’t part of CSI, forced to work straight through tonight. I needed sleep—and I had to deal with the situation at home. There had been more calls with voice messages from my sisters. Both sisters. I had been too cowardly to listen to their complaints, but the list of calls showed that the last three had been within minutes of each other, so I couldn’t put it off much longer. I was afraid that Mud and Esther would kill each other if I continued to disregard the war simmering between them.
While everything was fresh in my mind, I stopped in the kitchen and wrote my reports, sending them to HQ. I also read reports filed by some of the others. I was avoiding the car and the privacy I needed to call my sisters. Cowardice, pure and simple. When I had dithered as long as I reasonably could, I left the house and trudged to my car.
The house and grounds were brightly lit, patrolled by privatesecurity as well as deputies. That was probably smart, based on the numbers of lights, cars, cameras, and generators at the far end of the drive. I didn’t see Occam, so texted FireWind’s message about the hotel, and he text-promised back to be along shortly. I stopped at FireWind’s unlocked car, placed the evidence bags containing photo albums on the passenger seat, and locked the doors.
As I closed the door, I caught a glimpse of something pale in the darkness. I squinted against the security lights to see FireWind standing in a paddock, his white shirt the pale thing that had attracted my attention. I hadn’t seen him leave the house and wasn’t certain how he had gotten past me. He was utterly still, both arms out to his sides, his head down, his hair loose. A horse, one whose coat was too dark to identify in the night, flowed around him, prancing, tossing his head. As the light caught him, I recognized the lightning-blazed stallion. I stopped and watched.
The stallion danced, whirled, raced around the paddock, hooves pounding. He reared on his hind feet. A challenge. He pounded down. He snorted.
FireWind didn’t move.
The stallion raced again, around the entire paddock. He bucked. Kicked out with his back hooves. He stopped, snorting like a bull, pawing the earth, his head going up and down. Then he charged. At a dead run he raced, attacking FireWind. My breath caught in my throat. The horse stopped fast, sitting back on his haunches. He whirled away, dancing around FireWind. Closer. Closer still. Around and around. Blowing and snorting and making sounds I couldn’t identify but which were scary and mean. The stallion stopped. Man and horse in the same space. A man who... who likely didn’t smell like a human.
Because FireWind was a skinwalker.
The horse pawed the earth. The man didn’t move.
The horse tossed his head. The man didn’t move.
The horse took a step closer. Until that moment I hadn’t realized how curious horses were. Cat-curious. The stallion stepped closer. Kicked out with back hooves. Stopped. Took a step closer. He was within two feet of FireWind’s left hand.
Stretching out his neck, the stallion sniffed the hand. Hebreathed on FireWind’s hand. A stillness followed, man and horse holding position. Slowly, the blaze shifted lower, down to touch FireWind’s palm.
The hand slowly cupped around the muzzle, stroking. The horse blew out, pranced, and moved up to FireWind’s elbow. To his shoulder.
The two seemed to curl around one another, FireWind’s arm circling around the stallion’s neck. His hands caressing beneath the mane. They stood still, in the dark, entwined. The stallion whickered.
Feeling as if I was encroaching on something private, an intimate experience, I turned and found my car and drove away. Turned into the street. A memorial of flowers, dolls, and teddy bears had been started and had grown into a long row at the fence line. Cameras and cell phones were everywhere, reporters trying to get a shot of my face through the car windows, and probably succeeding. The press had been joined by what looked like hundreds of cars as Stella Mae’s fans continued to gather, standing in small groups, staring at the entrance and at me as I drove down the car-blocked, increasingly narrow road in front of the horse farm, toward Cookeville. As I drove, I called JoJo Jones at HQ. She answered, “Hey there, country hick chick. How you holding up, girl?”
“I’m more a plant person than a baby chicken, but I’m doing good.”
She laughed and I updated her on the case.
JoJo told me about the media frenzy over the death of one of America’s best-known country singers. “I spotted y’all in a few of the aerial shots,” she said. “You’re famous.”
