(SPECTR 1) Hunter of Demons by Jordan L. Hawk Page A

Agent Starkweather,” she said with a crisp nod. “Mr. Jansen; thank you for joining us.”
    “Sure.” The floodlights stole what little color Caleb had to begin with. His eyes darted nervously in the direction of the scene, but the bodies of the forensics team blocked the view.
    “Starkweather tells me you can track the NHE responsible,” she said. It sounded like a challenge.
    Caleb swallowed, but his eyes lifted to meet hers. “I can. I can smell it.”
    “Hmm.” Her eyes narrowed but she didn’t say anything. “Why don’t you take a look at the scene, get a fix on what direction the perp went?”
    When Kaniyar turned to bark orders at the forensics team, John surreptitiously put a hand to Caleb’s arm. “Just relax.”
    “You’re wildly optimistic, aren’t you?” Caleb muttered back. “There’s not going to be any relaxing. Gray…wants to get on with this.”
    Just what they needed—for Gray to take over and go charging off in front of Kaniyar. “Hang in there. Show the chief she can trust you.”
    “Starkweather!” Kaniyar called. Seeing the techs had cleared out, John dropped his hand from Caleb’s arm and led the way to the body.
    What little remained lay in a short side-alley, in between a converted warehouse and the brick wall surrounding the overgrown garden of a private residence. The upper part of the man’s body was still intact. He lay sprawled on his back, arms out-flung, a look of horror frozen on his face.
    The rest of him…was less intact, to put it mildly. Blood splatters marked the walls to either side and pooled in the uneven bricks beneath him. His clothing was nothing more than gore-stained tatters, ripped apart as his attacker tried to get to the vulnerable flesh beneath. Everything from mid-sternum down was nothing but a chewed, torn mess of blood and bone fragments.
    The human part of the lycanthrope was losing control. It wouldn’t be long until it became nothing but a force of fury and hunger, all intellect and personality wiped away. Time to catch it before it did serious damage to a lot of people was running out.
    Caleb let out a low moan, turned away, and dropped to his knees. John winced at the sound of retching. Well, at least Caleb had the presence of mind not to throw up on the crime scene.
    Crouching by the other man, John gently rubbed a soothing circle on his back. Caleb had forgotten his coat—and not even shivered when they walked out into the winter night.
    Was time running out for him, too?
    At the moment, he was still mostly human, and his back felt warm through the thin fabric of the t-shirt. “It’s okay,” John said.
    “The fuck it is. That is not okay.” Caleb stumbled shakily to his feet; John helped him up with a steadying hand.
    “Can’t argue with you there.” John glanced back at the body. “We need to catch this thing before it kills again.”
    Caleb scrubbed at his face with his wrist, as if impatient with his brief show of weakness. “No. I mean, yes, but you don’t get it. I knew the victim.”
    *   *   *
    Caleb wrapped his arms around himself, against an inner chill. God, this was twelve different kinds of fucked-up. The alley reeked to his super-charged senses: blood and bile and shit, and his stomach did a slow roll.
    “Who is he?” Starkweather asked, at the same time as Kaniyar demanded, “You know the victim?”
    He didn’t want to look at Kaniyar. She scared the shit out of him. If she thought he was holding something back, she could throw him in a cell to rot, and the cold look in her eyes made him think she wouldn’t lose a second’s sleep over it.
    “His name is—was—Dave,” he said, directing the comment at Starkweather. “He was a friend of Melanie’s. I don’t know his last name. I never met him before he came with us to the abandoned house. He drove the van.”
    Kaniyar and Starkweather exchanged a glance loaded with meaning. “Later,” the chief said decisively. “For now, let’s concentrate on