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Which meant a deck out back, too. Maybe a pool. It would be a constant battle to skim the leaves out of the water, but—
Wait. As she scanned the living room, the daydream vanished, and her senses suddenly came to life. Something was off. What, exactly, she couldn’t say. The back of her neck prickled as she inched farther into the house, scenting the air.
She smelled nothing unusual. Just traces of Micah’s scent, of their breakfast. The general, sort-of-musty old scent of the house itself. At first glance no items appeared to be moved or taken. So what was that itch between her shoulder blades? She told herself she was being ridiculous. And yet . . .
Moving slowly, silently, she did a closer inspection. Since she’d recently dusted, there was no way to tell if the pictures, lamps, and such had been moved, so she walked on to the kitchen. They’d left it clean, dishes washed, and the space was undisturbed. For no reason
in particular, she opened the fridge.
Yeah, part of her had half expected to find a dead cat with a note pinned to its carcass or something. She was that creeped out. But nothing. Her arm was in motion, closing the door, when she spotted it.
A plastic container of leftovers wasn’t on the same shelf where she’d left it. She was sure of it. Reaching out, she grabbed the container and set it on the counter. Then she lifted the lid and peered at the chicken-and-rice casserole. It was only from the night before, but it smelled weird. Not like it was too old to eat, but a different sort of weird. Chemical. Her coyote couldn’t identify it, but it made her want to hurl.
Frowning, she replaced the lid but didn’t put the container back in the refrigerator. A quick scan of the other contents revealed nothing else strange, but she decided she’d toss all the perishables if the casserole had in fact been tampered with. Micah would know how to find out.
Leaving the container, she crept through the rest of the silent house. The place felt empty. Couldn’t be too careful, though. Her shifter senses reached out to every part of the house, every corner of every room. Exceptional hearing and smell told her she was alone, and yet someone had been here.
Why couldn’t she pick up a clear scent on the intruder?
Her bedroom was last, and when she entered . . .
Destruction. Complete, utter devastation.
“Oh, my God,” she gasped. Her hand went to her chest, her heart pounding underneath her breastbone.
The sheets and quilt had been ripped from the bed and were piled in ribbons on the floor. Literally sliced with either claws or a knife. The mattress had fared no better, cut in long, ragged gashes. The anger of the person who’d done this was horribly evident in the personal nature of the attack, and it permeated the very air she breathed.
Unable to take her eyes off the scene, she yanked her cell phone from her jeans pocket. Hands shaking so badly she almost dropped the device, she managed to punch in Micah’s number. After three rings, however, it went to voice mail.
“Dammit,” she moaned, ending the call. Should she wait for him to come home? Try again?
Somewhere, a creak sounded in the house. Almost like a footstep on the old boards near the back of the house, perhaps outside. On the porch. Her pulse leapt and she tried Micah’s phone again, but her mate wasn’t answering.
“Fuck this.” As soon as voice mail picked up, she left a message, voice wobbling, trying not to cry. She was already moving toward the kitchen. “I’m driving to the compound. Someone broke into the house while I was at work. Whoever it was tore up our bed, Micah! I’m getting the hell out of here. See you soon. Call me.”
Scooping up the container of possibly contaminated food, her purse and keys, she jogged out the door, barely pausing to lock it behind her. She definitely wasn’t staying long enough to pack an overnight bag for them both. They’d worry about a change of clothes later.
In seconds she was on the road, glancing in the rearview mirror, trying to calm her racing heart.
She could’ve sworn she felt malevolent eyes watching her as she raced away.
* * *
Micah rubbed his tired eyes and again scanned the list that he, Nick, and Jax had been over several times.
“We don’t have much,” Jax remarked, tossing down his section of the list in frustration. Then he stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “The shifters who healed and have been released from Sanctuary are doing remarkably well, according to our sources. All of them are accounted for.”
“And the worst cases are still inside, under our care.” Micah sighed. “Some are getting close to release, but none of them is fit enough to cause the damage we saw earlier today.”
Nick nodded. “Agreed.”
Picking up a paper from the center of the conference table, Micah looked over the names of the deceased again. “These people who didn’t make it out alive—do we have verification on every single one?”
“That’s the problem,” Nick said. “In a few cases, we only know what other shifters told us, that some of the captives disappeared and were presumed dead, although we didn’t find their bodies. They may have been disposed of long before we made the rescue. We’ll never know for sure, but we have to assume they’re dead.”
Micah’s jaw clenched as he studied the names.
“What’s wrong?” Jax asked.
