Page 98 of Roguefinder

“Holy shit,” Caleb breathed. “That’s the guy. The watch— Jesse, that’s the guy from the street outside the catacombs. The one arguing with the woman in the cab.”

Memory snapped into place. The heavyset man in the baggy suit, one hand braced on an open cab door while a woman’s sharp voice pushed him back. I’d cataloged him in half a second and dismissed him just as fast: a human on the losing end of a lover’s quarrel, no more relevant to my hunt than the rain. He’d stood thirty feet from where Ulfrik’s trail died, and I’d looked straight through him.

He roused now, and I rushed forward, grabbing him by the lapels and hauling him up. His bloodshot eyes went wide.

“Who are you?” I growled. The sour stench of panic and alcohol rolled off him. Human.

But not Ulfrik’s scent. The rot was gone.

For a second, the man gaped, mouth opening and closing like a fish caught on a hook. Then he came alive, kicking his legs and clawing at my arms. “Let go of me, asshole!”

Russian. Or something Slavic.

A sweeter, feminine scent wove between the others. The coppery bite of old blood floated there, too. He gripped my wrist.

Healing scratches covered the backs of his hands. A deeper gouge peeked from under his watchband, and a sinking feeling spread through my gut.

“Who gave you those scratches?” I dragged him higher, lifting him off the ground. “Did you hurt that woman?”

Fear flashed in his eyes. Then he fought like a demon, ripping at my arms and kicking my shins. His knee glanced off my groin.

“Answer me!” I demanded, giving him a shake.

“Fuck you!” he screamed. His arm swung wild and caught me across the jaw, snapping my head sideways.

Caleb detonated.

With a roar, he tore the man out of my grip and shook him like a terrier with a rat. “You don’t fucking touch him!” The man’s head snapped forward, then back, and a loud crack split the air.

He went boneless in Caleb’s grip. The sharp scent of urine hit my nose.

Caleb froze, his hands fisted in the man’s coat. The man’s head lolled, his eyes open but unseeing.

The Lungotevere was silent except for the bloated rush of the Tiber.

“Oh…” Caleb said weakly. “Oh, my god.”

I took the man from him and lowered his body to the ground so he slumped against the wall once more. His neck bent at an unnatural angle. I pressed my fingers to his throat, feeling for a pulse I knew I wouldn’t find.

“Dead,” I murmured. Which meant we couldn’t question him. I cursed softly in Dutch and leaned close, drawing his scent deep into my lungs. Perfume, sweat, expensive cologne, and the rust of old blood. Not his. He’d hurt someone in the past few days, but he wasn’t a werewolf.

I stood and scanned the top of the wall, searching for observers. No one looked down at us. The embankment was still deserted, the street above dark.

Caleb sat down hard on the ground. “Oh, Jesus,” he said, voice gone thin. “Oh, shit.”

I crouched in front of him and gripped his shoulders. His pupils were blown wide, and his breathing was fast and shallow.

“Caleb. Listen to me. Stop freaking out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

I let my wolf rise higher, and it deepened my voice as I said, “Yes, you are, and I need you to stop.”

Caleb whimpered and tried to drop his eyes, but he couldn’t. Not unless I allowed it.

I held steady, my beast bending his will to mine. It was as if invisible threads of power—his and mine—formed a net around us. My threads were thicker and stronger, and they always would be. My wolf was naturally more dominant, the same as a person being born with red hair.

“Calm,” I said. “Deep breaths. Calm, okay?”