Fire Dancer (Spellbound in Sedona #2)

Chapter Two

INGO

I threw my Jeep into gear and sped off down the road in pursuit of the SUV.

Grabbing my phone, I recorded the address Pippa had shown me. “TTC Limited, 3020 North Baseline Road, Park City, Utah.”

There’d been a six-digit office number too, but I wasn’t sure I’d gotten it right. One-two-eight, then a dash, and three more numbers. Not an address I recognized, but I would call it in soon.

I like 422 Forest Road better, my wolf growled the address of Pippa’s glass shop into my mind.

Every cell in my body screamed for me to turn around and race back to her, because she was all that counted. I could explain everything and patch things up between us. We could figure things out and get back on track to that happily-ever-after that had seemed like such a sure thing eight long years ago.

But how could I explain things to her if I could barely explain to myself?

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and continued in the direction the beige SUV had gone. The one with Utah plates and tinted windows.

Suspicious as hell, if you ask me, an inner voice declared.

Yes and no. Tinted windows could mean a lot of things. Some legit, some not so legit.

My money was on not legit, but I couldn’t explain why.

I knew what Pippa would say to that. Chill out. You don’t need to suspect everyone.

Words she’d uttered about a hundred times before we’d broken up.

Which was for the best. Pippa deserved a guy who not only put her on a pedestal, but also remembered not to leave her stranded there while he went off chasing windmills.

My wolf growled continuously, and I hesitated at the next corner — the perfect place to make a U-turn and race back to where I belonged. To Pippa, the only woman I’d ever met who combined the gumption of a tomboy with the grace of a supermodel.

On the other hand, the SUV was heading away quickly. Something about the driver — a bear shifter I’d caught a whiff of at a gas station a few minutes earlier — seemed off. It was my job to keep an eye on supernaturals in Sedona, so I’d decided to observe from a discreet distance, just in case. When they’d stopped at Pippa’s glass shop, every alarm in my body had started clanging.

I gripped the steering wheel harder and drove through the intersection, following my hunch instead of my heart.

I scanned the side streets as I drove, then pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall. And, bingo. One beige Chevy Tahoe, and one redhead heading into the drugstore.

I studied the parked vehicle, not that I could see much through those deeply tinted windows. I dialed a contact on my phone while scanning every detail. The vehicle had a ding in the front bumper, but it was clean as hell, not caked with dust — or mud from the storm that passed last week. No Forest Service parking tag, no bumper stickers, no dealer sticker.

When a voice came over the line I’d called, I replied with a little swell of pride. “Agent Kemper, Sedona office. I need Records & Tracing, please.”

Dozens of agents had applied for the job, but I’d been the one to get it. Taking a brand-new, one-man post was a great opportunity to set my own priorities and demonstrate initiative, which would help me work my way up the ladder. It didn’t hurt that my friend Nash had just moved to Sedona or that the place was beautiful. All those red rocks, all that space to roam on two feet or four.

And Pippa, my wolf had eagerly reasoned at the time.

I’d ignored it, imagining I could be around Pippa without being haunted by what could have been.

But, ha. Sedona could build me a statue and call it wishful thinking .

Apparently, I wasn’t smarter now than I’d been at twenty-two, but then again, we’d been different people and truly perfect for each other back then.

We’re still perfect for each other, my wolf insisted.

Maybe. Probably. But a guy didn’t hunt vampires by day — or night — and lead a white-picket-fence life with a sweet, peppy woman on the side. It was just too much to risk — especially when that sweet, peppy woman didn’t understand the meaning of the word risk . Pippa was trusting. Optimistic. Unguarded. In the normal world, those were all positive traits.

In my world, they could get her killed.

Just then, I spotted Stacy exiting the drugstore, pausing to hold the door open for the next person with a bright smile.

In some ways, she was a lot like Pippa. All the ways that could get her killed.

“Records & Tracing. This is Agent Heller,” a voice came over the phone.

I snapped back to focus. “I’d like you to run a license plate number, please.”

I gave him the number, listened, then nodded. “Later today would be fine. Thank you.”

I hung up, still watching Stacy. She placed her purchases in the vehicle, then walked to a coffee shop and disappeared inside.

Stacy who? From where? Doing what, for whom, and why?

And what about her hulking driver who barely showed himself? He wasn’t a bodyguard or her employee, because he never emerged to open the door or help her. That suggested two employees of similar rank. But employees for whom or what company?

My radio squawked with an APB.

“All units. Report of a 10-54 at Gunnery Point. Repeat, possible 10-54 at Gunnery Point.”

I frowned. A 10-54 was a dead body. I listened in as two police units called in. Both were dispatched to the scene.

I glanced at the SUV, then the radio, torn. The 10-54 could be anything or anyone, and I could read the police report later. But two units — and the urgency in the dispatcher’s tone — suggested a case of special interest. And as good as the local police were, they were mere humans and thus likely to overlook any hints of supernatural activity.

Stacy emerged from the coffee shop, looking as carefree as ever. Meanwhile, a police car drove down the main road, followed closely by a second one. Neither had their lights on, but they were clearly in a hurry.

I threw a last glance at Stacy, then threw the Jeep into gear. Right now, the police call took priority.

I pulled out onto the main road, following the squad cars.

* * *

Gunnery Point, as it turned out, was an overlook five miles north of town and another two miles down a rough trail. Two pink Jeeps stood there with about a dozen tourists milling around, some peering downward, others turned away in horror. Several hugged or shed tears, while others held hands, looking morose.

The police waved me away at first but let me through a moment later.

“Ah, Agent Kemper,” the first officer, an olive-skinned woman, sighed with a note of resignation.

City police officers didn’t know what agency I worked for, but they knew I was cleared to observe all local investigations. I’d overheard rumors claiming I was everything from FBI to a top-secret NSA unit specializing in extraterrestrial activity.

Close enough, I supposed, to my actual employer — the Agency for the Detection and Monitoring of Supernatural Activity, or ADMSA.

“Officer Jimenez.” I nodded my greetings and strode over toward the heart of the action, where a police officer and one of the Jeep drivers had started herding the tourists away to a safe distance. Another two officers peered over the edge of the cliff as the second driver and a pair of tourists explained how they’d made their discovery.

“…taking pictures, and that’s when we spotted her,” one of the tourists was saying.

I stepped up, exchanging silent nods of greeting with the officers.

“We wanted to go down and check in case there was any hope,” the other tourist said. “But Jim here said it was too late.”

I glanced over the cliff, grimacing. Definitely too late for the woman sprawled over the rocks below, her limbs askew, eyes wide in unblinking shock and fear.

I jutted my jaw, reminded of another place, another young woman, another senseless death. Another case where I’d arrived too late.

I sucked in a lungful of clean mountain air, then exhaled slowly.

My mind jumped to Stacy. Worse, it jumped to Pippa next, and my breath broke sharply. Beautiful, bubbly Pippa with her bright-blue eyes, smattering of freckles, and long, wavy hair the color of sunshine. It was impossible to think of all that life, all that beauty, getting cut off far too soon. But not impossible enough.

One of the officers patted me on the back. “You never get used to it, do you?”

I shook my head. His thoughts weren’t where mine were, but the sentiment still rang true.

“Never seen nothing like it,” Jim, the tour driver, lamented. “Never wanted to.”

“How long do you think she’s been down there?” one of the tourists asked.

“Too early to tell,” one of the officers said, ushering them away.

I stepped back, leaving the investigative perimeter the police started to mark. Any tracks on the ground had been obliterated by the tour vehicles and dozens of footprints, so I didn’t hold much hope of visual clues. Instead, I closed my eyes and sniffed.

Pine…oak…a few drops of oil… My wolf side dissected and identified latent odors one by one. Sweat…

Then my nose wrinkled, and I froze. Shifter. Bear shifter. At least two, in animal form, not human, judging by the intensity of the scent.

I moved around, sniffing here and there and studying the ground. No clear bear marks, and only a few other Jeep tracks, but nothing recent. The dead woman seemed to have arrived here on foot.

“A hiker, I suppose,” I heard the tourists speculate. “Or one of those trail runners?”

I shook my head quietly. Not in that frilly shirt and sandals of hers.

I pictured Pippa getting dressed in the morning, checking in the mirror that everything matched and looked good. The dead woman had probably taken the same care, this morning or last night, never suspecting it would be her last.

“Maybe she went too close to the edge to take a picture?” another tried.

Officer Jimenez and I exchanged doubtful looks. It happened, but you’d have to have your eyes closed to miss a drop-off that obvious.

“Suicide?” someone else tried.

“Why come all the way out here to do that?” another asked.

I pursued my lips. Why, indeed?

“Maybe she was afraid of something — or someone,” another person suggested.

That was my bet, though any telltale paw prints would have been erased by the tour group. Still, it wasn’t hard to picture a couple of bears charging after that poor young woman, who would have been running for her life.

I frowned at the cliff. Life just sucked sometimes. Death, even more so, especially when it hit far too soon.

I stepped left, then right, painting a grim picture in my mind. A couple of bear shifters had chased the woman over the edge, then prowled back and forth several times, making sure she was dead before they lumbered away.

The scenario was all too easy to picture but harder to explain. Who were those bears? Why did they want the woman dead?

Again, my mind went to Stacy — and the bear shifter who drove that SUV.

“God, I hate these cases,” one of the officers muttered. A guy old enough to have a daughter about the victim’s age.

“Even figuring out what happened doesn’t help the family,” Jimenez lamented.

The police would do their best, but I doubted they would find any evidence that suggested foul play. Even if they did find bear prints, they would conclude a wild animal was involved. And I couldn’t exactly say, It was a shifter. Shifters, actually. I can smell them all over the place.

I kicked the ground, silently agreeing with the officer. Yeah, I hate these cases too.