Blood Kissed (Lizzie Grace 1)

The smell of smoke began to taint the crisp, eucalyptus-scented air. The memory of the campfire rose and I ran on, my speed close to reckless in scrub this thick. A branch snagged my jacket and ripped my sleeve; I pulled free, leaped over a log, and ran on. The ground began to rise and, up ahead, the trees seemed to be thinning. Hope flared, and I pushed on.

When I reached the top of the hill, I paused despite the urgency riding me. The clearing was small and half filled with leaf and tree litter. The teenager lay in the middle; there was no life in her, just as there was no life in the locket. Her spirit had fled.

“Goddammit, no!” The words were wrenched from me. I’d been so close—so damn close. But once again, close enough simply wasn’t good enough. A thick sense of uselessness washed over me and, for a second, all I wanted to do was drop to the ground and let the tears flow. Not just for this teenager, but also for the sister I’d failed to save so many years ago.

But tears had never helped anyone. Not then, and certainly not now.

So I shoved my emotions back in their box and studied the clearing. The embers still glowing in the fire pit provided little in the way of light, but it was enough to see Karen’s clothes were missing. Maybe the man she’d been with—the man she’d called Tomme—had taken them. Maybe he’d wanted a memento of his sick crime.

The wisp shot forward unasked, its light trailing behind it like a comet as it ran along the length of the teenager’s body, not only highlighting her nakedness but the dark dampness matting her blonde hair. The memory of Tomme biting her neck rose. Had it been a fetish, or something worse?

Something like a vampire, perhaps?

Even thinking the word had me shuddering. Vampires existed, everyone knew that, but they certainly weren’t the accepted part of society that werewolves had become. Vampires were not only loners, they were also hunters, in a way that werewolves had never been. The simple fact was, vamps needed human blood to survive and went mad if they didn’t get it. All the rot Hollywood and fiction had everyone believing about them being able to survive on animal blood was just that—fiction. They could certainly drink it—and often did—but it wouldn’t sustain them long-term.

Of course, few vampires risked killing their human prey these days, but that didn’t alter the fact they were an unwelcome addition to most towns and cities. So unwelcome, in fact, that few announced their presence and they generally hunted well away from home ground.

Was that what had happened here?

Until I saw the wound, I wouldn’t know for sure. I shoved the now dead locket into my pocket and continued on. The wisp’s brightness had muted, until the only thing it highlighted was Karen’s face. The cool light gave the teenager’s skin a frosty, bluish tinge, and yet her lips seemed to glow a rich, ruby red, which was decidedly odd.

I stopped and stared down at her for several seconds. Despite the flush of heat still in her lips, her face was drawn and her expression one of terror. Whoever said a vampire’s bite was orgasmic either had rocks in their head or had clearly never been bitten.

I squatted down beside her and reached to sweep her bloodied hair away from her neck. But as I did, the wisp’s light went out.

Then, from behind me, a deep voice growled, “Don’t you dare touch her, witch.”

Chapter Two

I froze, momentarily unsure if it was the killer or someone totally different behind me.

“Now get up, and step away from her,” he continued.

The voice was deeper than that of the man who’d killed the teenager, and filled with a whole world of anger. It might not be the killer, but it was someone who was very ready to kill.

I frowned at the strange insight and carefully obeyed, not even daring to look over my shoulder to see who was speaking. It wasn’t someone I’d met in town over the past few months, that was for sure.

“I didn’t kill her,” I said. “I’ve only just arrived.”

“When I said step away, I meant completely.” His words remained clipped, vibrating with an odd sort of violence.

I retreated a dozen more steps. A man stepped into view; he was tall and rangy, with darkish blond hair that was streaked with silver in the moonlight. He was wearing baggy track pants, a sweat-stained T-shirt, and a shoulder holster. The gun that should have been in that holster was aimed directly at my face.

And that meant he was both a werewolf and a ranger. They were the only ones allowed to carry weapons within the reservation.

“Do you often take your gun for a run in the forest?” I asked, and almost instantly regretted it.

His gaze met mine, and all I saw was death. My death, if I wasn’t very careful. Not because he believed I was responsible for Karen’s murder, but because his hatred for witches ran so deep—was so intense—that his body practically hummed with it.

And the fact I was gaining such an insight about this man without even touching him scared me a whole lot more than the gun still pointed at my face.

“Take that backpack off then place your hands behind you and turn around.”

“Please, just look at her neck and you’ll see—”

“Do as I goddamn say, witch, or I will make you.”

“I’m not a witch, Ranger.” Not one with any sort of power, anyway. I took off my pack, placed my hands behind my back, and then turned around as ordered. “And the man who killed the teenager is getting away while you hassle me.”