Blood Guilt

  Jack stopped pumping at the young man’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I think he’s dead.”

  With a wail, Mrs. Bell fell against her husband.

  Please, no, please, no. Please don’t let him be dead… Sera shifted position to follow Ferdy’s attention, and saw the two, bloody puncture wounds in Jason Bell’s throat.

  She stared, almost numb with shock, before she realized her fingers were clutching in panic at her own neck. At the very same spot the kilted stranger had touched.

  She whirled around with a muttered “Excuse me,” and pushed her way back out of the maze.

  The rest of the garden was almost deserted. The shadow of the woman in the strappy dress disappeared round the side of the house. But the figure she actually sought was striding, almost gliding, across the lawn: a tall man in a kilt who moved with the grace of a panther. And all the danger, she suspected, of a murderer. She ran after him, reluctant to shout in case he took to his heels. But he walked damned fast and she had to sprint flat out before, breathless, she finally caught at his sleeve and yanked him round to face her.

  He turned with ease, as if he’d always known she was there and wasn’t remotely surprised by her violent tugging. In the glow of the garden lights he gazed at her in silence. Her words dried up in her throat. All she could think of was the icy blackness of his touch, the blackness of a man capable of anything; and the weird attraction of his profound, unreadable eyes.

  “Was it you?” she choked out at last. “Did you kill him?”

  He didn’t answer. His lips quirked, as if they might smile, but didn’t. Then he simply turned and strode away. After three paces, he broke into a run and disappeared round the side of the house.

  Was that his answer?

  Sera pounded after him. Although the side garden was full of shadows, none of them were human. And at the front, there was no sign of anyone at all, except a middle aged couple who were waiting to direct the paramedics. Sera ran out to the street and scanned both directions. It was empty. Not even a car moved. Only a fine trail of mist, or car exhaust, hovered in the night air. She could almost imagine it formed the faded features of her quarry.

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