Lover Unleashed

FIFTY-SEVEN

Thomas DelVecchio knew exactly where his killer was going next.

There was no question in his mind. Even as Detective de la Cruz was back at HQ, working with the other boys on theories and leads—all of which were smart enough—Veck knew where to go.

And as he approached the parking lot of the Monroe Motel & Suites with his lights off and his motorcycle in an idle, he thought it was probably a good idea to call de la Cruz and let the guy know where he was.

Ultimately, however, he left his phone where it was in his pocket.

Halting the BMW in the trees to the right of the parking lot, he kicked out the stand, dismounted, and hung his helmet on the handlebars. His gun was in its holster under his armpit, and he told himself it was going to stay there if anyone showed.

Mostly believed the lie, too.

The terrible truth, however, was that he was animated by something that had been dormant for a long, long time. De la Cruz was right to be wary about him as a partner—and correct to question where the father’s sins ended and the son’s began.

Because Veck was a sinner. And he’d joined the police force to try to drain that out of himself.

It was probably better to get that shit exorcised, however. Because sometimes he felt like there was a demon inside of him, he really did.

Still, he wasn’t here to kill anyone. He was here to take a killer into custody before the bastard got back to work.

Honest.

As Veck approached the motel, he stuck to the darkness of the trees and focused on the room where that latest girl had been found. Everything was as the CPD had left it: There was still crime scene tape in a triangle around the door and the portion of the sidewalk right in front—also a seal in place at the jamb, which theoretically could be broken only on official business. No lights on inside the room or out in front of it. Nobody around.

Settling behind a thick-trunked evergreen, he used his blackgloved hands to pull his black wool hat down closer to his black turtleneck.

He was very good at staying so still that he all but disappeared. He was also very good at channeling his energy into a pervasive calm that conserved resources while leaving him hyperalert.

His prey was going to show up. That murdering madman had lost all his trophies—his collection was now in the hands of the authorities, and the CSIers were scrambling to tie him to multiple unsolved murders across the nation. But the sick bastard wouldn’t come here in hopes of getting some or all of it back. The return would be about revisiting and mourning the loss of what he had put so much effort into acquiring.

Would it be reckless on his part? Absolutely, but then, that was part of the gorging cycle. The killer wouldn’t be thinking clearly, and he would be desperate from his losses. And Veck would just cool his heels over the next couple of nights until the appearance was made.

As time passed and he waited, and waited, and waited some more . . . he was as patient as any good stalker. Although it did dawn on him that this could be disastrous, him being here alone. With a knife holstered on the back of his waist. And that damn gun—

The snap of a twig drew his eyes to the right, although not his head. He did not move or change his breathing or even so much as twitch.

And there he was. A surprisingly slight man weaving his way cautiously through the forest’s crinoline of fluffy bushes. The expression on the man’s face was nearly religious as he approached the flank of the motel, but that wasn’t the only part of what identified him as the killer. His clothes were covered with dried blood, his shoes, too. He was limping, as if he had a leg injury, and his face had streaks gouged in it—from fingernails.

Gotcha, Veck thought.

And now that he was staring at the killer . . . his hand crept down to his hips and went around to the back. To his knife.

Even as he told himself to leave the weapon where it was and go for his cuffs, he didn’t change course. There had always been two halves of him, two people in one skin, and in moments like this, he felt as though he were watching himself act, sure as if he were a passenger in a cab and whatever destination he was bound for was not going to be a result of his own efforts.

He began to close in on the man, tracking him silently as a shadow, shortening the distance until he was a mere five feet from the bastard. The knife had found its way into Veck’s palm, and he really didn’t want it there, but it was too late to resheathe. Too late to derail. Too late to listen to the voice that told him this was a crime that was going to land him in jail. The other side of him had taken over and he was lost to it, on the verge of killing—

The third man came from out of nowhere.

A mammoth man dressed in leather jumped into the killer’s path, blocking his way. And as David Kroner leaped back in alarm, a hiss seethed through the air.

God, that didn’t even sound human. And . . . were those . . . fangs?

What the fuck—?

The attack was so brutal that with just the first strike at the serial killer’s neck, the guy’s head nearly came off. And it kept going from there, blood flying so far and wide that it speckled Veck’s heavy black pants and turtleneck and hat.

Except there was no knife or dagger involved.

Teeth. The motherfucker was ripping shit apart with his teeth.

Veck tried to scramble back, but he slammed into a tree, and the impact sent him careening to the ground waaaay closer than he needed to be. And he should have run for his bike, or just plain run away, but he was transfixed by the violence . . . and the conviction that whatever he was watching was most certainly not human.

When it was over, the monster dropped the massacred remains of the serial killer to the ground . . . and then it looked at Veck.

“Holy . . . fuck . . .” Veck breathed.

The face had a very humanlike bone structure, but the fangs were all wrong and so was the size and that vengeful stare. God, blood was actually dripping from its mouth.

“Look into my eyes,” an accented voice said.

A gurgling sound rose up from what was left of the serial killer. But Veck didn’t glance over. He was transfixed by a stunning set of peepers . . . so very blue . . . glowing....

“Shit . . .” he choked out, a sudden headache cutting out everything he saw or heard. Collapsing sideways, he went fetal from the pain and stayed there.

Blink.

Why was he on the ground?

Blink.

He smelled blood. But why?

Blink. Blink.

With a groan, he lifted his head and—“Shit!”

Leaping to his feet in shock, he stared down at the bloody mess that was in front of him.

“Oh . . . fuck,” he cursed. He’d done it. He’d finally killed someone—

Except then he looked at the knife in his fist. No blood: Not on the blade. Not on his hands. And only specks on his clothes.

Looking around, he had no clue what had just rolled out. He remembered driving here . . . and parking his motorcycle . . . and tracking the man who was now dying on the ground.

If he was brutally honest with himself, he’d had the intent to kill. All along. But going by the physical evidence? It hadn’t been him.

The problem was, all he had was a black hole of no info.

A moan from the serial killer snapped his head to the right. The man was reaching for him. Mutely asking for help as he leaked all over the place. How was he still alive?

With shaking hands, Veck grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911. “Yeah, Detective DelVecchio, CPD Homicide. I need an ambulance out at the Monroe Motel & Suites now.”

After the report was logged and the medics were on their way, he yanked off his jacket, wadded it up into a ball, and knelt down by the man. Pressing his coat into the guy’s throat wounds, he prayed the fucker survived. And then had to wonder whether that was a good thing or not.

“I didn’t kill you,” he said. “Did I?”

Oh, God . . . what the hell had happened here?