Caitlin and Shauna stood, walked to the podium, joined Fiona.

The three of them joined hands.

"There will be peace," Fiona announced. "Prejudice and intolerance killed our parents, and we're not going to let those attitudes win. We can promise you two things. The killer will be found. And the peace will not be broken. As Granny Caldwell said, our city is magic. And we intend to keep it that way."

Chapter 11

Jagger was exhausted. He'd joined David after the meeting, staying to speak with those who wanted a word, and he felt disheartened.

One of the werewolves was certain the killer was the vampire down the street.A vampire was certain it was his shapeshifter hairdresser.

He stayed, he listened, he carefully noted every complaint and tried each time to remind the accuser not to cast suspicion unless they had evidence. Because of course none of the accusers had anything approaching proof.

Of course, he realized he had his own suspicions. While he believed in Billy Harrington, the nagging knowledge that Billy did have a motive in the second slaying kept him in the picture as a suspect.

Mateas Grenard was a newcomer and seemed to have a hidden agenda.

And then...any shapeshifter out there.

It was nearly light when he made his way to the MacDonald house, and he realized he was so tired he could barely make the shift into the mist that would allow him to enter unnoticed.

He slipped into Fiona's bedroom and discovered that he was not the only one who was exhausted.

She was sound asleep, lying on one side of the bed, as if she'd been waiting for him but been unable to stay awake until he arrived.

He watched her sleep. Not even Abigail, as young and innocent as she was, had ever looked so beautiful, he thought. Fiona's hair was splayed out in a glorious golden halo around her perfect face. Her lips were slightly parted, moist, and so tempting that he was drawn to touch them with his own.

But he didn't.

He didn't want to disturb her.

She was lying on her side, her arms around a pillow, partially covered by the drape of the sheet, the beauty of one long leg bared to his view.

He sat carefully on the side of the bed and shed his shoes and socks, jacket, gun and holster, then stood to discard the rest of his clothing. He lay quietly down beside her but kept his distance, propped on his elbow to watch her.

Just to watch her.

He was hopelessly infatuated, he realized.

No, this was far more than infatuation.

He took pleasure in watching her sleep, in watching her breathe.

A sudden chill shook him.

She was blonde, with immense blue eyes. She was beyond beautiful.

She was the exact type the killer seemed to like.

He'd been so busy debating the possibility of vampire vs. shapeshifter that he'd somehow managed to miss making that basic connection until now.

He moved closer to her, taking her gently into his arms. She stirred, and a murmur escaped her, but she didn't waken, though she seemed to know, in the depths of sleep, that he was there.

And she was content to be in his arms.

He suddenly knew that if she was ever threatened, he would not be a cop. He wouldn't even be a vampire. He would be a man who would defend her in any way he could, with his very last ounce of strength and being. He would die a thousand times for her, or follow her into eternity, if that was where she chose to lead.

Holding her close, he felt the beat of her heart.

He was afraid, and he was renewed.

And he knew he would move heaven and hell to end the evil that had entered their world.

Fiona awoke slowly, aware that she wasn't alone, and basking in the comfort of being exactly where she was, in the comfort of her bed.

And in the sheer heaven of Jagger's arms.

She had thought that he would come. She had waited.

But the day had been too long, and sleep had won out over her determination to stay awake.

She felt his arms tighten around her, and she opened her eyes slowly to find that he was watching her. She smiled slowly.

"You certainly make me hope I don't snore," she said.

He laughed. "If you snored, I'm sure the sound would be pure music."

She felt a surge of vitality fill her, and she rolled, casting off the covers, to straddle him. "Tell me it's still early," she whispered.

Without answering, he slid his hands up her torso. He cradled her nape, drawing her down to him, and their lips met in a liquid kiss. Before she knew it, he had shifted just slightly, arched, lifted her, and brought her slowly back down over his erection, drawing her closer, filling her completely and igniting a wild and abandoned desire in her.

His whisper touched her ear. "I'm not sure if it's early or late, so..."

Then he moved.

And she moved.

And the world moved with them.

In minutes, the earth itself seemed to explode, and she fell against him, awed and dazzled, and wondering how she had lived without this, without the sound of his voice, without him so solidly in her world.

Her sheets felt softer, the sun shone brighter, than ever before....

He kissed her quickly and rose.

"Another day, and another reason to work quickly," he said huskily, then started toward the bathroom.

"Oh, no! I get the shower first...or too," she said, racing after him.

It was a mistake--or would have been, if she'd had any interest in getting an early start on the day.

She loved to shower.

She loved it so much more when he was there.

They made love again, slick with soap, luxuriating in the suds and water and steam.

But as he held her, steam rising around them like a cocoon, the spell was broken by a pounding on the door to the bedroom.

Fiona swore softly.

"It's Caitlin, I'm sure of it, and she doesn't accept the fact that we're together," Fiona told him, angry. Then she left Jagger in the bathroom and, wrapped in her towel, hurried to open her bedroom door.

It wasn't Caitlin. It was Shauna.

Her face was white, her expression tense.

"It's on the news. There's been another murder."

Once again, the corpse had been found in a cemetery just outside the French Quarter, no ID anywhere to be found.

The dead woman was wearing a long white nightgown, blond hair streaming around her face. Her flesh was cold, her skin as white as snow.

She was lying on a tomb in the middle of a family vault--the Taussant vault, this time. Her hands were folded over her chest.

She looked like an angel.

Jagger managed to get his team out of the vault long enough to find the telltale pricks, so small that not even Craig Dewey would notice. This time the killer had gone for the throat.

The jugular vein.

The kill had probably been quick; that might have been the only mercy.

He was standing there, staring at the corpse, when Dewey walked in. The M.E. was silent for a minute, staring at the corpse.

"Another angel," he said softly.

"Well, I'm not sure Tina Lawrence was an angel," Jagger said, shaking his head. "And we don't know anything about this woman yet," he added wearily. "She could be a nun or the biggest bitch in the city, for all we know."

"I haven't touched her yet, but I can tell you the cause of death is going to be the same as the other two," Dewey said. "I'll get this one straight into autopsy."

Jagger nodded, feeling ill. Another death. It was on his head. He should have caught the killer by now.

"Thanks, Dewey," he said. "The sooner we check her prints, compare dental records, the sooner we'll know who she is."

"I'll get right on it," Dewey said. "I won't leave her for a minute."

"Think you can give me a time of death?" Jagger asked.

"Sure."

The girl was dead, but even so, Jagger turned away while the medical examiner opened her eyes, checked her limbs, gave the body a cursory examination and checked the corpse's temperature.

"She hasn't been dead long. I'd say she was killed around five this morning. Just before light," Dewey told him. "I think someone is really trying to make this vampire thing look real."

"So it seems," Jagger said. "Thanks, Dewey."

"I'll be opening her up in about two hours, if you want to meet me at the morgue."

"Thanks."

Jagger walked outside.

He'd searched the tomb and the cordoned-off area around it. The killer hadn't left behind a single clue.

He looked across the cemetery. Celia Larson and her crew were coming to comb the cemetery for footprints, for any small piece of trace evidence the killer might have left behind.

He already knew they weren't going to find anything.

"DeFarge, I would have thought you'd have put a stop to this by now," she said. "You know, the city will rise up in a panic soon. Maybe they already are."

"Thank you, Celia. I'm glad to be aware of your thoughts," he said flatly. He started to walk by her, but then returned.

"It would be helpful if I were getting more from my technical support team," he said.

Her eyes narrowed. "We've gone over everything with a magnifying glass," she snapped.

"No, you haven't."

"The killer hasn't left any clues! Not so much as a drop of blood, nothing with DNA, nothing anywhere! Not a single victim scratched her assailant or--"

"Celia, there is a clue."

"What?"

"The nightgowns."

She looked at him blankly.

"Celia, they've all been wearing white nightgowns, different, but basically the same. Or did you think they all went to bed in white nightgowns? Where's my report on the gowns?"

She turned away, her face red. "They were killed at night. We didn't think--"

"I need to know where those nightgowns were purchased. Can you get on that?"

"You should have asked before," she pointed out.

She was right. He should have.

He didn't reply but headed over to the cemetery gates. The press was gathering outside. He saw Gina, and gave her a nod, assuring her that he was coming out to speak.