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An early spring wind kicked at Skamar like a hard leather boot, though winter still laced the air, lending it icy force. Physical discomfort had taken some getting used to upon claiming her corporeal form, but she tried to look on the bright side. Having to consider her clothing made her blend more naturally with humanity, and she was confident she looked like any other tourist as she patrolled the Boulevard. Though she was admittedly missing the yard-long pink plastic margarita cup. Yet once she’d entered the site of the first victim’s abduction—a giant mall centering the infamous Las Vegas Strip—it seemed all she really needed to do to blend was wander aimlessly . . . and buy a bunch of crap she didn’t need.
The place was decked out like the North Pole had puked on it, Skamar thought, making her way to the food court. It was there, claimed the newspapers, that a Caucasian man had approached the counter of McGee’s Muffin Shop, ordered a lemon-poppyseed pastry, warmed, before yanking the owner’s daughter, Lilly, from behind the counter. Some eyewitnesses claimed he’d then leapt a glass balustrade to drop thirty feet before disappearing, and the police hadn’t been able to decide whether they should ignore those onlookers altogether or look at them most closely.
So the muffin shop, now considered a crime scene, was cordoned off and dark, and mothers of young children steered their offspring from the storefront as if abduction were an infectious disease. Therefore Skamar hadn’t long to wait for an opportunity to leap the counter and disappear into the back room.
The giant stainless-steel mixers were clean, the counter-tops wiped. It was orderly for a place so abruptly deserted. Yet beneath the scents of flour and sugar—and a particularly noticeable half-open tub of hardening blueberry muffin batter—Skamar still recognized human. The most obvious one smelled of whittled wood, a signatory male scent, though one laced with peppery shock. Skamar dismissed it and ferreted out the other, one as faint as soft, boiled ginger. That had to be Lilly’s.
Shutting her eyes, Skamar memorized the hooks and nuances in order to track the girl later. When the door handle next to her began to twist, she jerked back to awareness and thought briefly of bolting back over the counter . . . but why give the mortals another far-fetched story? Besides, the ID cards Zoe had provided included one for a licensed P.I. She’d just tell the shop owner that one of the other families had hired her. Any man desperate to find his missing daughter wouldn’t question that.
Yet it wasn’t the owner who flicked on the lights and startled at the sight of her. Skamar was dumbfounded, too. Of all people, her annoying neighbor was the last she expected to see.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked in as unfriendly a voice as she’d ever heard. As if he had a right to question her.
Skamar flashed her license. “I should ask you the same.”
“Brass trumps paper.” Vaughn flashed his badge. “Now answer the question.”
“A cop?” was all she said, letting her arm fall. “You have a job?”
“You can complete actual sentences?”
Her eyes hardened, but so did his. This was a different Vaughn from the one who undressed her with his gaze each time she passed his balcony. This one was a cool opponent, and perversely she liked it. She also thought she could use it.
“You’re the lead detective, then?” she asked, gaining a mere perfunctory nod. “I was hired by the Brundage family to find their daughter. Maybe we could work together?”
That flat cop’s gaze met the suggestion as enthusiastically as a cat met water. Yes, Skamar thought. She liked this Vaughn very much. “Does that mean you have something useful to add to the investigation, or would I be the only one contributing to this working relationship?”
“I’ve just started,” she admitted with a tilt of her head. “But I’m good, dogged . . . and I was born to hunt the people who do this.”
He didn’t answer immediately, frowning as he looked around and then shuddering as his eyes fell on the bin of batter. The odd moment passed quickly, though. “You mean the monsters.”
She smiled briefly. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
Eyes narrowed, Vaughn considered her a moment longer, then offered up his own thin smile. “The third victim was abducted while sleeping. I’m headed to her house now if you want to come along.”
Skamar nodded her thanks, so relieved he’d agreed that she didn’t worry too much about why. Maybe he was suspicious and wanted to keep her close. Maybe it was another way to angle in for that damn cup of coffee. Whatever, Skamar thought, following Vaughn from the shop. She’d find a way to work it to her advantage. And the unusual step of working with a mortal might prove a good tactic. Busting through the Tulpa’s defenses via his front door hadn’t produced results, but maybe she could slip through the back this way. If she was really lucky, she might even catch him sleeping.
They were allowed into Debi Truby’s bedroom by parents so grief-stricken, they looked like the walking dead. Skamar had never scented so sharp an anguish before, and she wondered how such a little person could be so firmly anchored in a family that her absence set them all adrift. Debi’s father floated inconsequentially from room to room, and her mother looked as though she’d been yanked up at the root.
Meanwhile, this new Vaughn pointed out that there was no sign of struggle, forced entry, or unfamiliar fingerprints, which told Skamar little in the way of anything new. She confirmed that Debi was exactly Ashlyn’s age and that her youthful scent was impossible to distinguish from an initiate’s. That’s why the Shadows were casting such a wide net. They’d probably hold the girls until they started menses, returning them, memories erased, once it was clear they weren’t Ashlyn. Then again, they might just kill them.
But puberty varied from child to child, so Skamar couldn’t help wondering how many years Debi’s parents would have to walk the world in panicked despair. Or how many families would be fractured this way before the Shadows ended their search.
The unknown clearly bothered Vaughn as well. As they drove to the second crime scene, a schoolyard, he gnawed on his fingernails, gaze distant.
“These are crimes of opportunity,” he finally said out of nowhere. “These girls aren’t stalked. That’s usually a solo endeavor, and I’m certain there’s more than one person in on this. Maybe a cult . . . yet there’s no ritual, no social connection. Just similar looks.”
“And their birthdays,” Skamar added. He was so earnest that she felt compelled to help. She didn’t have a lot, but she knew that much. “They’re all born within months of each other.”
Vaughn frowned, made a note of it on his pad while driving, then sighed as he pulled into the school front’s horseshoe drive. They slipped through a narrow opening in the fence, where they stared out over the blacktop. Skamar could almost hear the echo of children’s laughter in the darkening yard.
“Why’s this so personal to you?” The question earned her a sharp look, but she only inched closer, genuinely curious about what she was scenting. It was an old emotion, dry but still cloying, like the cold ash of incense. “Don’t take offense. I’m good at reading people. These cases are touching you in a way others haven’t.”
Vaughn’s gaze locked on the gently swaying tetherballs, and his jaw clenched. “Remember when you were a kid, around nine or so, and you started playing chase with the opposite sex? It was both terrifying and exhilarating . . . though you didn’t really know why.”
Since she’d had no childhood to speak of, Skamar’s nod was a lie.
“The first girl I let catch me was named Anna. She had long brown hair and always wore those plastic barrettes. You know, the ones with bunnies on them? She smelled like blueberry gum, and I can still remember her laugh when she pressed her lips to my cheek. She said she wanted to taste my freckles. Then she raced off, left me standing with my mind in a full buzz.”
