It was a game that had almost killed me.

“Look, ring him if you want to chew out someone. I’m here in an advisory role only.”

Rhoan snorted. “Don’t get me wrong, Ris, because you know I love you to death, but what the hell can you give a murder investigation that I and everyone else at the Directorate cannot?”

“Hell is precisely what I can give you,” I replied, voice grim. Damn it, while I understood his anger stemmed from fear for my safety, it was fucking annoying to get chewed out over something I could not control. Not if I wanted to keep on enjoying my life, anyway. “Or rather, a working knowledge of what is—and isn’t—coming through the gates now that one has been opened. And then there’s Azriel.”

Rhoan’s gaze cut briefly to the man standing quietly at my back. “And whatever happened to the option of saying no? You’re not employed by the Directorate. They can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Yeah, but Hunter could—not that that was something I could admit to. I took a deep breath and released it slowly as I racked my brain for an answer that wasn’t going to get me yelled at too much more. In the end, I went with the truth—or as close to it as I was likely to get in this sort of situation.

“I agreed because if whatever—whoever—is committing these crimes is a denizen from hell, then it’s my damn fault that it’s out there.”

He continued to glare at me but, after a few minutes, muttered something under his breath and thrust a hand through his short hair. “I hate that you’re involved with the Directorate, however peripherally. They have a way of sucking you in deeper and deeper and never letting go. Neither Riley nor I want that sort of life for you.”

“I don’t want that sort of life for me, either.” I gave him the best fake smile I could manage. “Trust me, you’re welcome to the investigation. I’m just here to see what you might be dealing with.”

His expression remained uncertain. “You’re hiding something, Ris. I can smell it a mile off.”

“Honestly, I’m not.”

He snorted softly. “Yeah, trusting that statement, too. But for now, I’ll let it drop. Come on.”

He spun and headed back up the steps. I let out a silent sigh of relief and followed, putting on the protective booties and gloves as he identified me to the hovering crime-scene recorder.

The inside of the two-story home was as modern as its outside. Crisp white walls, shiny wooden floors, bright abstract art, and leather and chrome furnishings. This time the murder had taken place in an upstairs bedroom rather than in a living space, but as with the first victim, this man was fully dressed and apparently hadn’t noticed the web being spun up his body.

Rhoan stopped at the end of the bed. I halted beside him, Azriel still a warm presence at my back. The man on the bed was a thin, graying individual who looked to be in his midsixties, and he was as modern in the way he dressed as he furnished his house. But the expression frozen onto his face was one of pleasure, and his stomach bore the two fist-sized slashes that had been evident on Wolfgang. I flared my nostrils, trying to find some hint of the odd alien musk that I’d smelled at the first murder scene, but either it had dissipated, or it was lost under the scent of all the crime men and women coming and going in the room.

“Did you get here first?” I asked, glancing at Rhoan.

“Yes.” He met my gaze. “Why?”

“Did you smell an unusual aroma? It’s similar to the musk of a shifter, but odder, if that makes sense.”

“It was faint, but yes.”

“What about at the first victim’s?”

“Also present.” His expression remained noncommittal, but the anger in him suddenly ramped up again. “How did you know about the scent when it’s not evident now?”

“Because, uh—” My voice faltered, and I cleared my throat, resisting the urge to step away from the anger that would undoubtedly follow if I finished that sentence. I knew he would never hurt me, but that didn’t make him any less scary at times like this.

“It is a smell common to many of the darker spirits who inhabit this world,” Azriel cut in smoothly. “Especially those who are also capable of shape-shifting.”

Oh, good reason, I said to Azriel. Thanks.

It is also the truth, he replied. His mental tones were still frosty.

I sighed. And just how long are you planning to remain annoyed at me over something so trivial, Azriel?

I do not know. For as long as it takes for you to regain common sense, perhaps.

You could be in for a long wait.

I am a reaper. Patience is part of our nature.

I snorted mentally. Oh yeah, you’ve so totally proven that.

As you’ve said to me often enough, sarcasm does not become you.

“I do get the feeling,” Rhoan said, “that there’s a whole conversation happening that I know nothing about.”

I glanced at him. “I was just asking Azriel if he could tell whether we were dealing with a spirit or a demon.”

“And the answer?” His tone suggested he wasn’t believing that for a second, either.

“It’s not a demon, but he can’t confirm or deny the possibility of a spirit because they’re of this world rather than the other and therefore not his field of expertise.”

“Huh.” He crossed his arms. “Anything else you can tell us?”

I frowned, my gaze drifting up the body. The silken web that encased the victim had been leashed to the bed end rather than the floor this time, but otherwise it looked almost identical. I opened my mouth to ask if they’d found a Dark Soul business card in one of his pockets, then remembered I wasn’t supposed to know about that. Subterfuge, I thought, sucked.

“Is that wound on his stomach the only one?” I asked instead.

“Yes. And whatever was injected through those slashes liquefied every inch of his innards,” Rhoan said. “There’s nothing left but a hardened outer shell of skin.”

So it was definitely the same MO. “What about the victim? Is he human?”

“He’s a hawk-shifter. He’s also a perp with a long line of break-and-enter convictions behind him.”

I glanced at him sharply. “So this isn’t his house?”

“It’s not even his suit.” Amusement briefly touched the corners of his eyes. “The actual owner is one Shamus O’Callagan, and he’s overseas on business. Apparently, old Sam here has been putting his psychic talents to good use and keeping himself off the street by not only sourcing out temporary high-end accommodations, but taking over the owner’s identity.”

“He might still be alive if he’d been on the streets.”

Rhoan raised his eyebrows. “Meaning you think our killer has a taste for the high life?”

Maybe not so much the high life, but possibly a taste for those who are psychically endowed. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the first two victims were both gifted in that area. “How strong a psychic was he?”

“Strong enough to easily convince doubters he really was O’Callagan.”

“From what I’ve been told, the first victim was a strong telepath.”

“Given he was an old vampire, that goes without saying.”

Not all vamps were strong telepaths. There were a few—a very rare few—who missed out on that particular gift. “Then being a strong psychic of some kind could be the link.” I half shrugged. “Of course, he was also rich. Maybe our killer is going after the wealthy. Maybe their innards taste better than us more ordinary folk.”

He snorted softly. “You’re about as ordinary as a blue diamond.”

I grinned. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me for ages.”

“That’s because you keep doing dumb things.” He nodded toward the body. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”

I sighed. “No. Bit of a waste of time, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe, but at least we now know we could be looking for a spirit; it’ll give the witches in the Directorate’s employ something to do on this one.” He gave me a stern look. “You’re not going to attempt to track this thing down, are you?”

“Not unless I’m forced to.” I gave him a lopsided smile, then rose on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Tell Riley I’ll see her on Thursday for lunch.”

“I’d advise not missing this one, or she’ll be royally pissed.”

“And that’s never very pleasant for anyone,” I said. “Tell Jack I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more use.”

He nodded. I turned and headed out. At the front door, I stripped off the protective booties and gloves, dumping them in the hazmat bin before walking down the front steps.

“Now what do you wish to do?” Azriel said, as I stopped near the front gate.

“Run away to a desert island somewhere with a mountain of chocolate and a refrigerator full of Coke.” But running away wasn’t going to solve anything. Not when I had a world to save, keys to find, and beings willing to kill those I loved if I didn’t get my ass into gear sooner rather than later. I sighed. “But I guess we’d better go home and see if we can do anything to pinpoint the location of the next key.”

“Home it is,” he said, and had us there in a heartbeat.

I rang Hunter, but this time, she didn’t answer. I left a message that our killer appeared to be going after men who were psychically strong and asked if I could grab a copy of the crime-scene report when it came through.

My phone rang the minute I hung up. “Ilianna,” I said. “Please tell me you’ve found him.”

“Unfortunately, no.” Frustration and concern filled her voice and expression. “If he’s out there, then I can’t see him. God, I hope he’s okay.”

So did I. “Would it be worth trying location spells every hour or so?”