crime scene techs weren’t in there, but I’d declined. The Harlequin had tried to kidnap me tonight; I wanted a gun.
Detective Lorenzo was taller than me, but only an inch or so taller than Edward, about five-nine.
His hair was thick, and though cut short it had waves to it. He’d have had to shave his head to not have waves, so that, though short, his hair would never be neat. His eyes were a dark, even brown, his face open and friendly, and cute in that boy-next-door way. He was probably thirty because of the detective shield, but he didn’t look it. There was some bulk under the suit that let me know either he had naturally good shoulders or he hit the gym, or maybe both. He’d been one of the detectives called to the crime scene before everyone was certain it was part of an ongoing federal investigation. Technically the Marshals Service could have kept him out of things, but most of us tried not to alienate the local police if we could help it. The preternatural branch especially ended up being alone a lot in the field. We relied on local police more than most other federal officers, even the rest of the Marshals Service. One of the nicknames among other cops for the preternatural branch was “lone wolf.” On the radio they’d say, “We’ve got a lone wolf on site.” I wondered how the nickname worked when there were this many of us. Can you say “lone wolves” and not sound silly?
Marshal Raborn was taller than all of us, and the fact that he carried a few extra pounds gave him some weight to back it up. He seemed to try to fill the room with his physical presence as if he were a much larger man than he was, or maybe his pissy attitude just seemed to take up more space.
“How did you know it was claws that cut Karlton if you didn’t see them?”
“Once I felt multiple wounds, I knew it had to be. If he’d used a blade, I’d have seen his arm moving as he drew it out to stab her again. His arm was stationary. He never had the range of movement to use a knife like that. Claws come out like switchblades; just hold them against the skin and they stab.”
“Only if they shift form first,” Raborn said.
“I told you, the really powerful lycanthropes can shift just their hands, so it’s just claws springing out.”
“That’s not possible. They have to shift into at least wolfman form to have claws.”
“I never said it was a werewolf, Raborn.”
“Wolfmanis what we call all the shapeshifters in half-man form, Anita,” Edward said. He was trying to use his Ted voice, but there was too much of the real Edward leaking through, so it came out cold.
“He was covered head to toe,” Marshal Tilford said. “He could have been in wolfman form.”
I glanced at Tilford. He was about the same height as Edward and Lorenzo; we were having an average height day on the crime scene, at least for the men. Tilford’s hair, what little there was of it, was cut very short and close to his head. He was carrying a little more weight around the middle than Raborn, which meant if he didn’t hit the gym soon he’d fail his physical retest. The preternatural branch had to test with the HRU, Hostage Rescue Unit, which was the marshals’
equivalent of SWAT. But it was a new requirement since an investigation late last year had ended with fault laid on lack of physical fitness on the officer’s part as a major contributing factor to his injuries and the deaths of two civilians.
I must have looked at him too long, or maybe my anger at Raborn was still in my eyes, because Tilford said, “Hey, I’m just saying what I saw.”
“He was too human-shaped even under the costume. If he’d been in half-man form, there would have been differences in his legs, his arms; the shape isn’t perfectly human even covered up like that,” I said.
“And how would you know that?” Raborn asked.
I gave him glare for glare. “Experience.”
“I’ll just bet you have experience with wolfmen.” His voice was low and
Detective Lorenzo was taller than me, but only an inch or so taller than Edward, about five-nine.
His hair was thick, and though cut short it had waves to it. He’d have had to shave his head to not have waves, so that, though short, his hair would never be neat. His eyes were a dark, even brown, his face open and friendly, and cute in that boy-next-door way. He was probably thirty because of the detective shield, but he didn’t look it. There was some bulk under the suit that let me know either he had naturally good shoulders or he hit the gym, or maybe both. He’d been one of the detectives called to the crime scene before everyone was certain it was part of an ongoing federal investigation. Technically the Marshals Service could have kept him out of things, but most of us tried not to alienate the local police if we could help it. The preternatural branch especially ended up being alone a lot in the field. We relied on local police more than most other federal officers, even the rest of the Marshals Service. One of the nicknames among other cops for the preternatural branch was “lone wolf.” On the radio they’d say, “We’ve got a lone wolf on site.” I wondered how the nickname worked when there were this many of us. Can you say “lone wolves” and not sound silly?
Marshal Raborn was taller than all of us, and the fact that he carried a few extra pounds gave him some weight to back it up. He seemed to try to fill the room with his physical presence as if he were a much larger man than he was, or maybe his pissy attitude just seemed to take up more space.
“How did you know it was claws that cut Karlton if you didn’t see them?”
“Once I felt multiple wounds, I knew it had to be. If he’d used a blade, I’d have seen his arm moving as he drew it out to stab her again. His arm was stationary. He never had the range of movement to use a knife like that. Claws come out like switchblades; just hold them against the skin and they stab.”
“Only if they shift form first,” Raborn said.
“I told you, the really powerful lycanthropes can shift just their hands, so it’s just claws springing out.”
“That’s not possible. They have to shift into at least wolfman form to have claws.”
“I never said it was a werewolf, Raborn.”
“Wolfmanis what we call all the shapeshifters in half-man form, Anita,” Edward said. He was trying to use his Ted voice, but there was too much of the real Edward leaking through, so it came out cold.
“He was covered head to toe,” Marshal Tilford said. “He could have been in wolfman form.”
I glanced at Tilford. He was about the same height as Edward and Lorenzo; we were having an average height day on the crime scene, at least for the men. Tilford’s hair, what little there was of it, was cut very short and close to his head. He was carrying a little more weight around the middle than Raborn, which meant if he didn’t hit the gym soon he’d fail his physical retest. The preternatural branch had to test with the HRU, Hostage Rescue Unit, which was the marshals’
equivalent of SWAT. But it was a new requirement since an investigation late last year had ended with fault laid on lack of physical fitness on the officer’s part as a major contributing factor to his injuries and the deaths of two civilians.
I must have looked at him too long, or maybe my anger at Raborn was still in my eyes, because Tilford said, “Hey, I’m just saying what I saw.”
“He was too human-shaped even under the costume. If he’d been in half-man form, there would have been differences in his legs, his arms; the shape isn’t perfectly human even covered up like that,” I said.
“And how would you know that?” Raborn asked.
I gave him glare for glare. “Experience.”
“I’ll just bet you have experience with wolfmen.” His voice was low and
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