Sacrificed in Shadow by S.M. Reine

trophies and more to do with uncontrollable hunger.
    The mind of the wolf and the mind of the man were totally disconnected. If the wolf had been killing, the man might only realize long after the deed was done. Maybe the wolf had dragged the carcass into town, and the man came back to find out why he had woken up drenched in blood.
    “How much of the bodies remained intact?” she asked.
    “Not much. I have photos.”
    “I want to see the cadavers,” Elise said. “The coroner’s report won’t be enough. He won’t have been looking for the right things.”
    “I’ll see what I can arrange.”
    Their slow tour through Northgate finally escaped the forest. The center of town was decorated with a huge statue: a man with his eyes uplifted, a hand extended toward the sky, and feet spread in an unmistakably aggressive stance. His lowered hand was clutching a cross.  
    It was the kind of statue an emperor might commission for himself. It didn’t match the rest of the town square, which was decorated with wrought iron fences, old boardwalks, and tidy flowerbeds. Children played in the fallen leaves around the feet of the statue, unimpressed by his grandeur.
    Lincoln noticed where Elise was looking. Discomfort buzzed over his mind, leaving a sour aftertaste in her mouth. “Don’t ask.”
    “Don’t ask what?”
    “The statue. Don’t ask,” he said.
    She hadn’t planned on it, but she was curious now that he brought it up. Elise leaned close to the window as they circled around it, squinting at the sign on the base.
    Bain Marshall .
    When she turned to Lincoln, she found confirmation of their relation etched in the annoyance on his face.
    Elise didn’t ask.
    He turned off the road into a parking lot. Pedestrians streamed off the road toward a sign that said St. Philomene’s Cathedral, although the trees concealed the building itself.
    “Park in the shade over there,” Elise said.
    The fact that she was avoiding direct sunlight hadn’t escaped Lincoln’s notice. He parked deep in the shade, then leaned around the back of his car to grab a hooded sweater. “The cathedral’s set back on a trail,” he said. “Lots of sun between here and there. And the leather won’t go over well in church.”
    She gave a short nod, swapping out her jacket. The logo on the breast must have belonged to Lincoln’s alma mater. She jerked the hood over her head.
    Even with the shelter of the sweater, stepping out of the car made Elise begin to sweat immediately. She gripped the door of the car, knuckles tight, and took deep breaths. Lincoln rounded the car to join her.
    “You can stay here,” he said.
    Elise tugged the aviators off of Lincoln’s face. “I’ll be fine,” she said, putting on his sunglasses.
    “Help yourself,” he said with a grunt. He looked annoyed, but arousal made his heart speed. There were fireworks in his mind, exploding over his brain with a wash of adrenaline. He liked seeing her wearing his clothing.
    She lifted an eyebrow at him, but he turned away and started walking.
    As promised, they had to walk a short distance to reach the church. They had a lot of company from the other parishioners in town. They soon passed a sign listing the priests in attendance: Father Night, and Father Armstrong.
    St. Philomene’s Cathedral sounded much grander than it looked. The recent whitewashing did nothing to conceal its age. Old shutters were stacked on the lawn, waiting to be replaced by new ones in a pickup parked by the front doors. A new cross was being installed on its steeple, although the crane was currently motionless; nobody was working on Sunday.
    “And on the seventh day, He rested,” Elise muttered, back pressed to the wall beside the front door, enjoying the few inches of shade it gave her. She wiped pink-tinted sweat off of her cheek.
    A witch’s wards could keep Elise out of the police station, but there was nothing about holy ground in particular that repelled her. Her jobs with Anthony and