It wasn't a lump of wood. It was a leg.

A leg that still wore a shoe.

This was going to be bad.

Cole pulled a flashlight from his bag and flicked the switch. The bright beam of light swept across walls splattered with blood and chunkier bits of God knows what. Then it caught the limb and stopped.

"Nice shoe," he commented.

"Yeah." It was a silver stiletto, with sparkly bits around the toes. The sort of shoe worn to parties or dances, not abandoned houses.

"I'd better set up a mobile recording unit here."

"I hope you have more than one in that little black bag of yours. I'm thinking we're going to need it."

"I'm thinking you could be right."

He assembled then pressed what looked to be a small black globe against the ceiling, waited until the suction took hold, then hit the record button. The unit whirred to life, and one of the lenses behind the black glass sphere did a circuit of the hall before coming back to rest on the two of us. From here on in, any movement and all conversation would be tracked and recorded.

He handed me a pair of those paper-thin shoe-covers supposedly designed to stop further contamination of the crime scene. Once I'd slipped them over my heels, we moved inside, carefully avoiding the blood and gore. Two bedrooms led off the hallway, but a brief glance through the doorways revealed nothing out of the ordinary. The destruction seemed to have swept past them.

The stink grew richer, stronger, the farther we moved into the house. It wasn't just death, but age, mold, and urine. This house smelled like it had been abandoned for some time—and if the cloying scent of piss was anything to go by, it had been claimed as a squat for the homeless for almost as long.

So what would a woman who wore costly, sparkly shoes be doing here?

The eye-witness report hadn't mentioned anyone being forced into the house. Just a shadow breaking into it.

We stopped near the limb. I stared down at it, seeing the obvious tearing at the end of her leg, in the muscles and flesh. Someone had ripped this leg from her body. Not cut it, not bitten it, but literally pulled it free.

That took incredible strength. Which meant we were definitely dealing with something preternatural.

Cole glanced back to the mobile unit. "Zoom and record all floor elements at current location."

"Scanning." We waited, and after several seconds, the unit beeped. "Area scanned and recorded."

We moved on carefully. Footsteps from behind indicated the two other shifters had entered the house, but Cole didn't acknowledge them and neither did I.

The room beyond the hallway was a living room. Chunks of plaster were missing from the walls, and the grubby window to the right was smashed, allowing the light and the wind to swirl into the room. The smell of urine was stronger, almost masking the scent of death.

Almost.

There were more body parts here. An arm thrown casually on top of the fireplace. A shoeless foot leaning at an angle in a corner. And blood. Lots of blood, splattered in haphazard patterns across the walls and across the ceiling.

Shallow breathing wasn't helping any. The aroma seemed to be seeping into my skin, making my stomach curl.

"Don't move while I place another scanner," Cole said, his voice matter-of-fact.

"How do you manage it?" I asked, my gaze on the kitchen entrance and the shadows and death and thick evil that waited there.

It almost felt as if whatever had caused this destruction was waiting for our reaction. Reveling in it.

I shivered and rubbed my arms. My imagination really needed to be shoved into a box and left there, otherwise I was going to have a whole lot of trouble getting through days like this.

Cole pressed the black globe against the ceiling, then said, "Manage what?"

"The sort of detachment you have. How do you get through day after day of confronting this sort of destruction?"

He shrugged as the scanner whirred to life. "I imagine I cope much the same way you do. You do what you have to, and deal with the consequences later."

No matter how casual he seemed, it had to be a whole lot harder for him. He saw the destruction of good people day after day after day, but he had no hand in the final resolution. Didn't have the satisfaction of seeing yet another murdering psycho removed from society.

I did.

And it was at times like this—when I was confronting such useless devastation—I was fiercely glad that fate had made me a guardian. I mightn't have wanted the job—and I might still be reluctant to kill on order—but if I could help take out the monsters who wreaked this sort of havoc, then hey, I could live with a bit of blood on my hands.

The scanner beeped, confirming that the initial scan of the room had been completed, I moved forward, my gaze on the kitchen. The smell of death and the sense of evil seemed to be concentrated there, and a large part me didn't want to go anywhere near it. But that wasn't an option. If there was a soul to be found, then that was where I'd find her. With the major parts of her body, not her bits.

My steps slowed as I neared the breakfast counter The blood was heavier here, huge swaths of color rather than mere splatter.

I licked my lips and forced my feet on through the open doorway between the counter and the wall.

Her torso lay in a corner, huddled between the cabinets and the fridge, as though she'd sought refuge from whatever had come after her.

Her head…

Bile rose in my throat, and it was all I could do not to throw up right there and then. Someone had driven a knife through her right eye, into her brain, back out through her skull, and into the plaster. Then they'd shaved her.

And I have no idea why that seemed such a defilement, but somehow, it did.

A hand touched my shoulder and I jumped.

"Jesus, arc you all right?" Cole asked. "You're shaking like a leaf."

"I'm fine," I said, voice somewhat restricted as I battled the urge to puke. "I just wasn't expecting… that." I waved a hand at the woman's bald head.

"No," Cole agreed, then added, "Worse, there doesn't appear to be any hair here. Our killer must have taken it with him."

I looked around and saw that he was right. "Oh, great. A freakazoid with a hair fetish. Just what we need."

He smiled, but there was little amusement visible in his pale blue eyes. "All hunters like their trophies."

I stared at him for a minute, not sure whether to be angry or just let it slide, when energy stirred past me.

I looked away. In the corner near the body, a wisp of thick air moved. It looked to be little more than smoke curling gently upward, barely visible against the darker shadows that clung to the body.

But it was not smoke, and a chill ran through me.

Her soul had come to talk.

"She's here," I whispered.

Cole looked at me, then at the body. "Where?"

The smoke grew stronger, found shape. Became more human in form. "Near her head."

He frowned. "I can't see anything."

"Trust me, she's there." I rubbed my arms but it did little to ward off the chill. It was almost as if seeing and communicating with these lingering souls brought me altogether too close to the fierce cold of the underworld.

And far too close to that lingering, gloating sense of evil.

Wispy features formed. A mouth opened. He did it, she said.

There was an awful lot of anguish in that statement. And a pain that had nothing to do with her dismemberment.

Who? I asked the question telepathically, though I was still unsure as to whether a soul could actually understand or even hear me.

The figure stirred—an insubstantial form with only vague features. Liam.

So they could hear me, even if some didn't answer directly. Who is Liam?