Master of Wolves by Angela Knight Page A

I take care of my wife. I feel the need for a little nibbling myself.”
    Guinevere laughed, her grim mood lightening. With a wave of her hand and a swirl of magic, she made their clothing disappear. As her husband bore her back on the fur rug she’d conjured on the floor, Gwen sighed in pleasure.
    There were vampires, and then there were vampires .
    Â 
    It was close to midnight and shift change when Faith started yet another circuit through Bomar. It being Monday night, the Clarkston neighborhood was, for once, almost painfully quiet.
    Behind her head, Rambo whined.
    â€œYeah, I’m bored, too.” She instantly winced at her unthinking reply. “Great. Just great. Now I’ve cursed us.”
    Every officer knew simply thinking things were slow was an invocation to the evil cop gods, who would promptly deliver a fifteen-car pileup or a serial-killing axe murderer. The last time Faith had complained about being bored, she’d found three dead bodies in an Atlanta convenience store not two hours later.
    It never failed.
    Sure enough, ten minutes later she glimpsed what looked like a man lying near the basketball hoop in the city park. Faith slowed the car for a closer look, frowning past the swing set and jungle gym.
    The figure lay in the spill of light from one of the park’s security lights. It looked oddly dark and mottled, as if covered in dirt.
    Or blood.
    Faith grabbed her mike and radioed dispatch that she was getting out for a safety check. Then, ignoring Rambo’s questioning whine, she swung the car door open.
    The leather of her belt creaking, she ducked through the wrought iron gate in the park fence.
    Judging from the size, the victim was an adult male. He lay on his side in a twisted, contorted position, covered in dark patches that did indeed look like dried gore. As if to confirm that suspicion, the breeze shifted into her face as she approached, bringing the scent of blood and human waste. Faith gagged.
    â€œSir? Sir, are you all right?” No answer, not that she’d expected one. Not with that smell. Instinctively, she dropped her hand to her service weapon and looked around for his attacker.
    She saw nothing but the spidery silhouettes of the park’s play equipment. In the distance, a dog bayed, the sound faint and lonely. The swings swayed in the breeze, knocking against the legs of the swing set with a metallic ring.
    Holding her breath as every hair on the back of her neck rose, Faith looked down at the body.
    White male, early thirties. Shirtless. He lay on his back, arms and legs spread wide. Something had scooped a big chunk out of his torso, leaving his belly a red, stinking ruin.
    Faith swallowed against her heaving stomach, then dropped to one knee to lay two fingers against his throat. His skin was cold. He’d been dead a couple of hours at least.
    Good, her inner coward whispered. I sure as hell don’t want to run into whoever did this to him.
    Her instincts concurred, strongly suggesting she get her butt back to the safety of the patrol car and Rambo. Ignoring both mental voices, Faith grabbed her radio handset off the clip on her shoulder. Glancing down at the body, she finally recognized him.
    Samuel Cruise, the drug addict with a phobia of the city jail, was just as dead as he’d predicted he’d be.
    But it was damn sure no witch that had killed him.

THREE
    Half an hour later, the area was swarming with cops. Units were parked up and down the street, blue lights revolving slowly across the trees and neighboring houses to give the park an unearthly glow.
    Faith watched Detective Gordon Taylor walk toward her. A heavyset man in a cheap, rumpled suit, he wore an expression of irritation. “Weston,” he growled, as he stopped at her side and looked down at Cruise’s body. “This your…” He broke off. His expression shifted into horror as he saw the man’s ruined torso, then went carefully blank again. Looking