The Guardian. Connie Hall

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      Their gazes held. She stared into his silver eyes, stark against thick black lashes. His eyes were cold, sheenless bits of granite, the color of that strange moon tonight. She couldn’t find one glimmer of human vulnerability in them. And they were too direct, too bold, hiding something behind them. Coupled with that deceptively smooth voice, he could be lethal around women.

      Fala managed to nod in answer to his question.

      “Thanks. I owe you.” He strode up to her, his long legs moving with oiled grace, almost as if he were floating toward her. He paused and towered over her, his wide shoulders blocking her view of the woods—actually obstructing her whole field of vision. He reached for the coffee.

      Fala realized her fingers were digging into the cardboard holder. Before she could react, he steadied the holder, covering her hand. The heat of his palm seeped through her skin, the hot width of it penetrating her fingers, branding a path up the length of her arm. She wanted to jerk her hand back, but he held it tight as he reached for the cup.

      His head turned into the light and she noticed a faded scar that spread small talons over his right jaw. It added to the aloofness that oozed from him.

      He took the cup and finally released her hand. “Thanks.” His voice held too much warmth as he made direct eye contact.

      Fala stepped back from him, putting a good three feet of personal space between them. His nearness made her feel vulnerable somehow. She wasn’t one to lose her cool over a guy’s touch. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at him as she found her voice. “You must be Agent Winter.”

      “That’s right. You can call me Stephen, or Ice Storm.” He didn’t smile as he extended a long-fingered hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Detective.”

      She eyed the proffered hand. She wasn’t falling for that one again. She nodded uncomfortably, catching a hint of a ruthless sneer on Winter’s lips. Had he sensed the reaction she’d had to his touch? Clearly, he was messing with her.

      “Let’s skip the niceties. Why are we on this case?” she asked, meeting his gaze now that she stood a safe distance away.

      “Because Senator Osgood Kent is involved, and my superiors thought you’d help solve it quicker.”

      “Before the press gets wind of it, you mean.”

      Joe interrupted. “What’s the senator got to do with this?”

      Bergman picked up an evidence bag near his case and handed it to Joe as if answering the question. “We found this in a pocket of the jogging shorts.”

      Joe looked at the contents, then handed the evidence bag to her. She examined the small card-carrying case. Then she looked at Katrina Sanecki’s license, Senate ID card, and a twenty-dollar bill. No denying the girl’s beauty. Blonde, blue-eyed, dimpled smile, perfect teeth, tiny nose and flawless skin. But it didn’t explain anything. “Who is she?”

      Winter sipped the coffee, made a face as if it were too bitter for him, then said, “The senator’s aide.”

      “So we’re assuming the vic is Sanecki?” Joe asked.

      Winter nodded.

      Fala asked, “How did the feds learn of the case so soon?”

      Winter angled a brow at her. “My department follows cases where the possibility of the public interest could be considerable.”

      “A nice way of saying it involves a U.S. senator, a vicious murder and a wealthy victim,” Fala said.

      “All of that, yes, and to keep certain aspects discreet.” He waited to speak again until Fala’s eyes and attention fell squarely under his control. “You know how it is with secrets in this town.”

      Fala betrayed nothing, although her pulse quickened and her mind raced to figure out his game. Was he alluding to the fact she was a shape-shifter, or merely referring to the typical D.C. trash where truth was a dirty word?

      When she didn’t speak, he added, “Who knows what else will turn up? Everyone working this case will come under intense scrutiny.”

      The way he looked at her when he uttered the final three words gave her a start. What was he implying? Did he know about her powers? “So what are you, FBI, CIA?” she asked.

      Winter merely nodded in a controlled and poised way, a smug expression guarding a myriad of secrets.

      She picked up on his adversarial vibe. It was clear he enjoyed keeping others off balance and in the dark. Nothing felt right about this guy, now that she studied him. Usually she could see spiritual auras glowing around a person. Not with Winter. Stone-cold blank. Nothing close to the normal violet or indigo. Was he the undead? No, vamps and zombies gave off a sickly, reddish-black hue. Something was blocking his aura. But what? And why had he called them into this case? Later, she promised herself she’d find out.

      She let it drop for the moment and turned to Bergman, who was nursing his coffee. “So, Dr. B, what are we looking at?”

      Bergman finished his coffee and stuck the cup in a brown satchel near his leg. He shoved up the black spectacles perched on the end of his nose, then bent and picked up a shredded sports bra. “If you enjoy M. Night Shyamalan, this is all the entertainment you’ll ever want.” He held the blood-covered top by the straps. Five jagged tears scored the center of the back.

      At the sight of the destroyed material, Fala felt a sick sensation in the pit of her stomach. She could imagine what the body looked like.

      Winter asked, “Have any theories on how the murder was committed?”

      “An animal, surely,” Bergman said.

      “With big claws or teeth,” Fala added.

      “A zoo animal?” Winter asked.

      Joe polished off his coffee and said, “We got a guy checking to see if they have an escapee.”

      Fala pointed at the three-foot patch of blood that had soaked the ground. “All the vic’s blood?”

      Bergman shoved his slipping glasses back up on his nose with the inside of his forearm. “I’ve taken a sample to test against the stains on this bra. I’ll test it against a hair sample Mr. Winter retrieved from Miss Sanecki’s apartment, too.”

      Winter eyed Bergman over the top of his coffee cup. “I’d be glad to run it through my own lab.”

      “It’s on top of my list.” Bergman shot Winter an indignant glance for trying to step into his forensic domain.

      “I’m sure Senator Kent will look favorably upon any priority you can give this case.” Winter worked a smile but it never quite touched his face. “Just give me a call when you get the results.”

      Fala didn’t like the superior expression Winter wore. She glanced over at the bagged shredded panties and shorts, or what was left of them. Beside them, she noted a pair of tennis shoes, torn and shredded as if something chewed on them then spit them out. Other than the bloodstain, that was all the evidence they had.

      “How much blood is that?” Fala asked.

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