Bite Deep (2 page)

Lance's human eye flicked past Jericho, noticing Reaper and Blades flanking him, then his shoulders drooped as if he was exhausted with just the effort of standing. Jericho's aim wavered. If he could reach Lance, get him to back down, then maybe there was still hope. Maybe this was the one he could save.

A chill wind dipped into the clearing, ruffling Lance's blood-matted hair and cooling Jericho's heated skin. Lance blinked sluggishly, distorted chest heaving, and the clearing became still, the night sounds muted around them, the moment compressed.

From the corner of his eye Jericho saw Reaper shift his position, one boot stepping on a large twig, and the snap filled the silence like the crack of bones. Lance blinked, then the madness flooded back into his eyes and he sprung forward with a roar, clawed hands outstretched. Jericho fired twice, missing once. The second hit Lance's shoulder, but it didn't slow him down any.

Reaper and Blades both rushed forward, but Lance's reflexes moved double-time and he was nothing but a blur of rage, hair and teeth. Blades copped a faceful of claws and Reaper was sliced across the chest, his vest taking most of the damage. Jericho fired again but missed, and Lance whirled, smashing Jericho's hand to one side, gun sent flying. Jericho recovered quick, ducking a second swipe and then answering with a hammer-fist, scoring a solid hit against Lance's disfigured jaw, sending him stumbling back.

Jericho threw back his head and howled, the sound a heady vibration in the sweet night air, rattling the leaves around them with the sound of an alpha who demanded obedience. It was a last, desperate effort to pull Lance back.

Beside him, Reaper and Blades backed off, waiting. They were the soldiers in this fight, not the executioner. Lance glared at them, then zeroed in on Jericho, eyes full of a wild madness.

Jericho shifted a boot heel, getting his footing just right. Lance was gone, he knew this. A savage wildness echoed through Lance's face, all his humanity consumed.

The women were long gone now, their faint screams heading east and toward town, and Jericho knew it was a small blessing. They couldn't have seen much, and who would believe a group of stoned backpackers?

Lance's lips peeled back to bare a row of razor canine teeth, slick loops of saliva swinging from his jaw. Jericho steadied himself, knowing it was too dangerous to put it off any longer. He knew his duty and would always fulfil it, knowing that for Lance death was a mercy.

* * *

Lydia Gault rubbed her eyes against the rosy sunrise, mind parched for coffee. She'd even take it without milk and sugar if she had to. Anything to help prop her up after yet another sleepless night.

Her eyes dropped to the corpse stretched out before her in the long grass and fear knotted her stomach. Tucking a stray curl of scarlet hair back under the baseball-style police cap, she looked over to the bristling pine forest that edged the field. The Pembly Forest Reserve was just a ten-minute walk from town, sitting at the foothold of the surrounding mountains. Filled with acres of ancient pines, deep river gorges and sweeping fern glades, it was a popular place for tourists, crisscrossed by walking tracks and information boards that detailed the wildlife to be seen.

The body had been discovered by early-morning hikers in a small clearing of green moss, bracken and a scattering of bright fungi. Around her, Lydia caught glimpses of volunteers in bright yellow coats who'd begun searching the woods.

Bringing her attention back to the body with a sigh, she snapped on a pair of latex gloves and tried to compose herself, tried to ignore the queasy sensation rolling her stomach. She never used to be squeamish about bodies. For chrissake, she'd joined the Force when she was nineteen. Four years on general duties, then blazing her way to detective. The things she'd seen in that time had given her a cast-iron stomach. Of course, that was
before
, when she had been whole. In the shocked months of
after
, when she'd realised her old life was no longer an option, she'd fled here to her hometown of Camden, for a quiet country cop's job.

And now, this.

‘What do you think?' Senior Sergeant Derek Bowden appeared beside her, expression grim as he tilted back his wide-brimmed hat. ‘Hunting season doesn't kick off until February, but there's always folk who'll ignore the rules. Maybe she got in the line of fire of some drunk idiot.'

Lydia shifted her bulky duty belt under her coat and crouched down beside the body. The woman lay face down, arms splayed out, and Lydia's eyes traced over the details: bare feet, jeans, casual shirt. Skin was pale under a tan and the woman's feet were grass-stained. She'd been running, hard and fast, before she'd been killed. A splotch of blood marked where the bullet had entered her back, ending her life.

‘Do we have a name?' she asked Bowden.

‘I think I've seen her around town now and then,' he said. ‘Might be one of the girls who lives in that women-only hippie retreat just out of town.'

Lydia nodded absently and looked around her. The discovery of a body was big news for this small community and a crowd of people with sombre faces had gathered some distance away. Someone had even called the fire department. Her eyes moved over the volunteer firefighters lounging against the town's fire truck, some sipping from a Thermos, and while they were wearing their all-purpose reflective coats, she spied a few pyjama pants and Ugg boots underneath.

‘Well?'

Bowden's voice broke into her thoughts and she held back a frown, wishing he'd keep quiet and let her concentrate. She didn't answer, still scanning the crowd and looking for someone who might be a little too interested in what she was doing. Someone who might have something invested in the body, or be holding onto some guilt. Her eyes caught one of the firefighters: a young man with blond hair and broad shoulders. He gave her a sad smile and she frowned, breaking eye contact quickly. She didn't need anyone's sympathy; she had no use for it.

‘I'm not so sure it was a hunting accident.' She pointed at the woman's bare feet. ‘Bit cold to be walking with no shoes.'

‘Yeah, but hippies don't wear shoes, do they?' Bowden asked.

She ignored the comment, not sure if he was being serious or trying to make some sort of grim joke. She drew her attention back to the body. In her darkest hours, she'd imagined returning to the sanctuary of Camden, wanting more than anything to put the trauma of last year behind her. But staring at the body of an unidentified murdered woman, she couldn't help wondering if violence was a part of who she was, slinking after her like a dark shadow.

Footsteps approached from behind her, making soft squelching sounds against the damp moss. She straightened and glanced back, seeing a thin man with a pencil moustache and a large bag grasped in one hand. His sharp eyes pinned Lydia.

‘I trust you've had the good sense not to disturb anything,' he said.

Her eyebrows snapped down. ‘Of course not.'

‘Jacob, this is Constable Lydia Gault.' Bowden blew on his hands, breath puffing steam around his knuckles. He nodded at the thin man. ‘Constable, this is Jacob Anglo. He's a medical examiner.'

‘Only here on sabbatical.' Anglo pursed his lips, staring at the body on the ground.

‘He's writing a memoir.' Bowden winked at her. ‘We're pretty damned lucky he's around.'

‘Lucky for who,' Lydia muttered under her breath.

‘I'd like your officer away from my body,' Anglo instructed Bowden. ‘I don't want her contaminating the scene.'

‘Easy on there.' Bowden raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Lydia here worked on the force on the mainland. I just asked her for some impressions.'

‘It's fine.' Lydia peeled off her gloves. ‘I'll get out of the way.'

She stalked off, back stiff and jaw tight. She'd met posturing men with big egos before and they didn't scare her, but Anglo was still a self-righteous prick, acting like she was kicking shit over the body. She reached the mud-splattered police Ford Ranger and took deep breaths.
Easy Lydia
, she told herself.
You came here to take it easy, remember?
Maybe it was exactly what Bowden said, a hunting accident. Sure. And maybe she'd win lotto.

‘You okay?'

She turned to see the blond firefighter, still wearing that annoying sad look on his face, like he understood something of what she was going through. She doubted he would have been wearing that expression if she were a man. Her eyes flicked behind him. His mates by the fire truck were watching and nudging each other with wide grins.

So. She was fresh meat, was she? She fixed him with a scorching glare. ‘Why wouldn't I be okay?'

‘I dunno.' His high cheekbones flushed rosy and his feet shifted awkwardly. He stuck a hand out. ‘My name's Jamie. Jamie McCormick.'

She ignored the hand and stared pointedly behind him. ‘I think your friends want your attention.'

He glanced back and swore, then gave her a sheepish expression. ‘They think I'm going to ask you on a date.'

‘Which would hardly be appropriate.' Her look flipped from inferno hot to glacial cold.

He muttered something she didn't catch, then slunk back to the fire truck, where his fellow volunteers chuckled and patted him on the back. Lydia ignored them, rubbing her arms, the stiff material of her jacket rustling under her palms, and watched Anglo take photographs of the dead woman. Bowden stood to one side, one hand repeatedly rubbing the back of his neck and wearing a puzzled expression, as if he couldn't figure how such a thing could happen in this quiet northeastern town. Camden was a quaint little town with apple orchards on its edge and rolling hills wherever you turned. Just a two-hour drive from Launceston on the Tasman Highway, it was a region known for fresh fruit, dark ales and creamy cheese. Not cold-blooded killing.

But Lydia knew from firsthand experience that anyone was capable of becoming a monster and killing. She'd just hoped it wouldn't happen here.

She climbed into the car and pulled out a notebook from her jacket, scribbling down notes about the body she'd observed. Anglo didn't want her help, but she didn't care. While she knew nothing about her absent father, her mother had been part Polish, part German and a whole lot of stubborn, something Lydia had inherited.

Camden might be a small town surrounded by mountains and pine plantations, but procedures were the same, no matter where you lived. Bowden was going to get a report from her, whether he wanted it or not.

Chapter 2

‘Freshen that drink for you, Bulldog?'

Jericho looked down at the whiskey glass in his hand, surprised to see it was empty. Behind the bar of Dusty Roads, one of the Diablo Dogs prospects, Winger, waited with an expectant look. Jericho shook his head, though his mouth was dry enough for another. But he couldn't drink much, couldn't afford to lose the control he needed at all times.

Sunrise had begun streaming through the grimy windows of the bar and he blinked against the glow, eyes gritty as the past night stretched long behind him, full of nightmares and murder. When he'd returned from digging Lance's grave, he'd showered the blood and dirt off in the staff bathroom in the back of the bar, and though he'd rubbed his skin raw with soap in the shower, he still felt dirty. The only good thing to come from the night was the realisation the blood on Lance had been animal, most likely a cow from a nearby dairy farm.

Still holding his glass, Jericho leaned against the bar to survey the mixed crowd inside the Dusty Roads Saloon: messy leftovers from the night before and truckers looking for a greasy breakfast special before taking off on their Monday-morning trips. According to Winger, last night had been profitable, complete with a rowdy hen's party making an appearance at midnight.

‘Trying to blend in with the locals?' Winger quipped from behind him. Jericho knew the prospect was just wondering why he wasn't wearing his cut, and while the question was innocent enough, it drove a spike of fresh regret through him. He almost reconsidered that second drink.

‘Something like that,' he murmured, not turning around. The blood-drenched fight had been brutal. Lance had gotten close enough to tear through Jericho's vest, his claws shredding his clothes and leaving deep gouges on his chest. Turk, the vice-president of the Diablo Dogs, had assured him he'd organise a replacement, but Jericho knew it wouldn't be the same. The loss of his cut added to the sense of failure, along with the fresh blisters on his hands from digging Lance's forest grave, a task he performed alone, every time. He knew the men at the Dog House would be even more unsettled now, and while everyone knew the consequences of losing themselves to the madness that dogged the virus, Lance's fall had driven the hard message home. Control. At all times, or suffer the ultimate consequence.

A rowdy bark of laughter drew his attention to a handful of out-of-town bikers who had had roared in twenty minutes ago. They'd ordered a round of fried eggs and bacon from the kitchen and had settled back with breakfast beers. Jericho recognised their cuts; an outlaw club called the Slayers. They came from the north, and occasionally got the bright idea of forming an allegiance with the Dogs. A powerful club, the Slayers had many chapters around the world, operating a gauntlet of trades: from chop shops to illegal brothels, with a brisk business in the production and trade of methamphetamine.

Jericho had turned down their offer of joining forces twice last year. The second refusal had been done with enough force to knock one of the biker's front teeth out after he'd been stupid enough to make threats. After all, the purpose of the Diablo Dogs MC was only to act as a massive ‘fuck off' to anyone who got too interested in the compound nestled deep in the thick pine forest that hemmed the bar. The club was a necessary cover, set up twenty years ago by the previous Head Rehabilitator, and as time passed, the club had become an important part of the members' identities, and a symbol of strength to those they helped.