The Art of Shadows (The Marradith Ryder Series, #2) by Lori Titus

Author:Lori Titus
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Urban Fantasy, Paranormal, Superheroes, Occult, Supernatural
Publisher: Lori Titus
Published: 2018-01-19T00:00:00+00:00

TWO DAYS LATER AT A house in the Hollywood Hills, Lysette Vega stood behind a glass patio door eying Christopher Stuckey as he stood at the side of the pool. She watched him with barely disguised interest. He wore an expensive dark suit with a white shirt and gray tie. His aviator sunglasses covered the expression of his eyes, but Lysette saw the slightest twitch of his jaw as she approached him. His blondish brown hair was cut military short, and the suit had been tailored just well enough to show off the outline of his wiry, toned body. Lysette licked her lips. Her heels clicked on the cement as she went to join him outside.

“Well,” he drawled in a Southern accent. “What do you think?”

“Your Wolf hasn’t been gone long. I can smell her all over this place. In fact, she was even in the pool,” she added. “She made herself very comfortable. How long has the victim been dead?”

Stuckey put his hands in his pockets, shrugging his shoulders. “We figure a few days. Not like she left anything much of the poor bastard.”

“If he was a tall man, a female alone could have Feasted off him for the better part of a week. So that’s what we’re probably looking at. My guess is she’s moved on to other prey by now.”

His upper lip twisted. “Excuse me for being indelicate, but how often do ya’ll feed?”

“A mature Wolf —one that has been Changed for at least fifty years - can go without Feasting for months, if need be. But newborns are greedy. This Wolf, whoever she is, will have the desire to feed every two days or so. It varies. What one needs to survive and what one wants are separate things. Some of us love meat. Like some of you humans can’t pass a day without a hamburger.”

He laughed, a sarcastic little growl. “Yes, but hamburger is made of cow meat, last time I checked. No one is gonna care when Flossie the Cow comes up missing. Unless said cow is part of your farm, anyway.”

“Well obviously the victim was rich,” Lysette said. “Who was he?”

“Alan Martinson. The director. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes. So this presents a problem for you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes and no,” he replied. “Mr. Martinson was actually a client of ours. He had business with Mr. Ramshead, so when he didn’t show, we sent someone out to check on him—and found out he’d already been dispatched, if you could call it that. We found what was left of him lying on the bed, picked clean like a box of fried chicken bones.”

“So you have the press and authorities covered?” Lysette brushed back a tendril of hair that had fallen in her face.

Stuckey nodded. “Oh yes. Martinson just got a divorce last year, from an actress that hated his guts. No kids, and his folks have been dead for fifteen years. We’ll make a legend of him. Put out a story about alcoholism and his need to flee Hollywood and become a recluse.

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