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  “Yeah,” agreed Kara Woods, at Skye’s left. “Helping the first guy pass over was draining all by itself. And if that second guy was as gone as you say…” Kara was the most curvaceous of them. Her straight black hair belied her mother’s Nordic ancestry, but her dad’s side of family was Native American, and her strikingly sharp features had come from him…just as her powers, like Skye’s and Hayley’s, had come from her mom’s side of the family.

  “Of course he was.” Ron Gollar jutted his broad, smooth chin out belligerently as if expecting the women to contradict him…as usual. Like the others, Skye sometimes enjoyed giving Ron a hard time for fun, but not today, when she felt utterly serious and drained.

  Although Ron was also twenty-seven, he was like Skye’s little brother. He’d been in the marines for a while and now was a rookie ABPD cop. He had been at the warehouse, but not close enough to the victims to see how far gone they were. At the moment, he was just being supportive of Skye, which made her want to hug him.

  Skye sipped her peach margarita, feeling the sweet alcohol drink slip through her, relaxing her even more. She stared out at the golden sky. The sun was just setting over the Pacific, a beautiful, peaceful twilight that also helped to mellow her mood. As exhausted as she’d felt since her work at the crime scene that afternoon, she’d also been edgy. Worried. Had she made the right choices this time?

  And what was that odd sensation she had felt about the second victim, Owens? Since she’d left his side, she’d ached to see him again—to assure herself he really would be all right, to try to understand his unassailable need to survive, and why she had felt so compelled to save his life.

  “It’s the first time I ever took on two victims at the same time,” she said to her friends. “How do you two handle it?”

  Kara was an emergency medical technician. She faced multiple casualties nearly every day. And Hayley, who was on her way toward becoming a trauma surgeon, did as well. As a male, Ron did not share their unique abilities and never had to engage in the life-and-death decisions that Skye shared with her female friends. Friends whose mothers, like hers, were all descended from Valkyries.

  The waitress came to the table balancing delectable-looking salads containing greens with nuts and fruit, smothered in raspberry vinaigrette. “Here you are,” she said. “The rest of your food will be up shortly.”

  Skye used her fork to play with a piece of arugula. The others dug in right away, though, even Ron.

  “You’ll get used to it, honey,” Kara eventually said. Her piercing, hazel eyes had gone as sympathetic as Hayley’s blue ones. “It is exhausting, though. Drains our own life force. I’ve even managed to bring back a couple of guys from a motorcycle accident at the exact same time—although neither was as far gone as the officer you described.”

  “Doesn’t it help when you can also use regular lifesaving medical stuff, too?” Ron took a piece of bread from a basket. He’d curved his broad shoulders beneath his white T-shirt as if waiting to be criticized. “You two have it easier than a cop like Skye, don’t you?”

  “How would you know, twerp?” Hayley asked good-naturedly. Then she frowned, creating lines on her high forehead that the wispy bangs of her pale hair didn’t quite conceal. “But you’re right, Ron. Kara and I always use whatever resources we can and Skye has her Bella, who helps her find the bad guys. But we’re all stuck with making tough decisions about which people should live and which should die.”

  All were silent for a moment, and Skye felt the weight of what Hayley had said.

  They could have stayed in the familiar environment where their families had resided for over a century. There, in a small Minnesota town, their mothers and their mothers’ mothers, only had to use their special life-preserving powers on rare occasions when those who were young and healthy and not ready to head toward the afterlife suffered accidents or other life-threatening situations and needed to be brought back from the brink. No need for the split-second decisions that had to be made in other circumstances. Most of the time, their mothers merely held the hands of the elderly and infirm—those clearly at the crossroads between life and death—easing them to the other side.

  Over the years, a few with their powers had left the area, intending to partake in a broader mission, but it hadn’t been the majority.

  Until now. Skye’s generation was different. Many chose to leave so they could use their powers to reach out in secret and help people in other communities whose females did not share their powers.

  Skye and her three closest friends had often talked about moving to where trauma was an everyday occurrence, to maximize the number of lives they saved and those whose ends they eased. Ron could not actively participate, but he’d made it clear he wanted to join them and help however he could.

  Eventually, they’d settled on Angeles Beach. Near L.A. and growing almost as fast, it had more than its share of violence. And by the time they’d arrived, they each had decided on what path to take to achieve their goals.

  Skye had already trained in law enforcement at home and was a K-9 cop. With a caring, nonhuman partner, she could achieve what she needed to with as much secrecy as possible.

  She had already assisted quite a few people to the other side and had brought others back. But not fellow cops. And not anyone like Owens.

  “You okay, Skye?” Hayley reached her slender hand over and patted Skye’s arm. “If you’re too tired to eat, we’ll get our dinners to go and I’ll drive you home.”

  “No way!” Skye yanked her thoughts back to where they belonged. “I’m fine,” she said. “Hey, there’s our food.”

  The waitress was back with their mostly seafood entrées, and Skye joined in with the good-natured banter and sharing of bites that followed.

  But in the back of her mind, she wondered about the man whose life she had snatched from certain death.

  What was it about SWAT Officer Trevor Owens that now intrigued her?

  Trevor felt as if he’d been run over by one of the Robotic Offensive Bomb vehicles used by the ABPD’s bomb squad.

  He lay still and exhausted in his hospital bed, knowing it was only the drugs being sucked into his bloodstream via the IV needle in his arm that kept him from hurting like hell.

  The room was tiny, but it was all his. There was no one to fight him for control over the TV mounted overhead, but he didn’t even have enough strength to push a button on the remote. All he could do was wonder how—and why—he’d survived.

  He’d thought he was dying. Dead. Killed in the line of duty, protecting the public from a suspect who’d taken down yet another civilian victim and now a cop, too. Danver, damn it! His team leader didn’t deserve that.

  Trevor had always figured that would be how he’d go. On his own time, though. Up against a guilty suspect who’d gotten away with murder before Trevor was on him. A suspect about to be stopped from doing it again, even if Trevor had to die to take him down.

  But Trevor hadn’t had a chance to do things his way. He’d had to play by the book this time, and what had it gotten him?

  Shot in the neck. The kind of wound that’s usually fatal. But he hadn’t died. Instead, he’d heard someone telling him to get his ass in gear and get back to the world of the living.

  Then he’d opened his eyes to find that hot blond female K-9 officer staring at him. It seemed as if she was the one hollering in his head to wake up.

  Rydell was her name. She was relatively new to the force—not that his guys fraternized much with the rest of the department. He’d met her, seen her around, definitely noticed her. But had he ever talked to her?

  Not that he remembered. But—

  The phone rang. It was on a little table right beside him, and it took all his concentration to swivel and pick up the receiver. “Yeah?”

  “Owens, that you?” It was Greg Blanding, a fellow SWAT officer and Trevor’s closest bud on the force.

  “What do you want? You were here only a few minutes ago.”

&n
bsp; “Try a few hours ago. And I’m just about to go into the captain’s debriefing about your big show yesterday.”

  “Say hi to them all for me.”

  “Yeah. Will do.” Blanding sounded as if he was getting misty-eyed. Hell.

  “Any word on Marinaro?” Trevor asked gruffly.

  “No, but I’ll let you know if I hear of anything at the meeting.”

  “Good.” He paused. “We gotta get that SOB.”

  “Yeah.” Blanding’s tone was icy now. “Gotta run. I’ll call again later. You okay?”

  “Sure, if feeling like my neck’s been run over by an R.O.B. vehicle is okay.”

  Blanding laughed. “Got it. Talk to you soon.”

  “Hey, do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That K-9 officer, Rydell? If she’s at the meeting, tell her I need to talk to her. Right away.”

  “Why?”

  Damned if he knew. But it felt urgent. Like his life depended on it.

  He had to give Blanding some explanation. “She must be my lucky charm. I opened my eyes after I was shot, and what did I see? Her face.”

  “Not a bad face, either,” Blanding said, sounding as if he was getting all worked up just thinking about Rydell.

  “Go screw yourself, Blanding. And her, too.” Now, why the hell had he said that? It only made him wild to think his friend might even consider getting it on with that gorgeous, sexy woman whom he now had one hell of an urge to talk to.

  “I’ll leave that to you, sir,” Blanding said with a laugh as he hung up.

  Blanding’s remark peeved Trevor even more, but it gave him a sudden surge of strength, which made it possible for him to pick up the remote and push the button to turn on the TV news.

  “Easy,” Skye whispered to Bella, whose head kept turning as more people entered the roll call room. Captain Boyd Franks had called a late-afternoon debriefing after yesterday’s warehouse situation. Everyone who’d been on duty yesterday was to attend, except for those patrolling beats right now.

  Skye, still tired but functioning, sat uncomfortably on a chair at the end of a row. She had chosen a place in the middle of the room, which was now filled with the pulsing hum of dozens of conversations.

  Ron slipped in beside her and lifted his hand in greeting to a couple of the guys.

  It looked like her pal was fitting in well—maybe even better than she was even though she’d been in Angeles Beach for about eight months. Skye hadn’t spent a lot of time getting to know her fellow cops. Getting too chummy with them might make it harder to do what she had to, when she had to do it.

  Bella whined, and Ron gave her a rough pat. “How you doin’, girl?”

  Skye smiled. “Her or me?”

  “Both.”

  As the rush of people into the room slowed, Captain Franks took his place at the wooden dais at the front. Skye guessed he was nearing retirement age, with silver hair adorning a long face whose dourness and deep wrinkles suggested he’d experienced plenty of bad stuff in his time with the department. He wore a lot of stripes along the arm of his blue uniform, each signifying five years of service.

  “Listen up,” he bellowed to get everyone’s attention. The buzzing stopped abruptly. “Thanks. We’re here to go over the events at that auto parts warehouse yesterday.”

  “How’s Owens?” shouted someone near the front of the room.

  Skye’s heart started to race.

  “Wanna give us an update, Blanding?” Franks called, looking into the sea of uniforms seated in front of him.

  “I visited him at the hospital, just talked to him, too. The guy’s one tough bird. Most of the bullets hit his vest, but one got him above it, in the neck. Don’t know how, but it managed not to do a whole lot of damage. He’ll be sore for a while, but he’ll be okay.”

  A cheer erupted throughout the room, and Skye joined in. She was as pleased as anyone that Owens would survive. Maybe more than most. She knew exactly how the bullet failed to do permanent damage, but she wasn’t about to mention it.

  “Let’s not forget about Danver,” Captain Franks said, pouring icy water onto their brief celebration. A low, grief-filled rumble ensued.

  “When’s the funeral?” called someone.

  “Next week. We need enough time to make sure everyone who wants to get here can make it.” The captain’s voice rasped now, and Skye again felt tears rush to her eyes.

  She’d done what she had to and made dying at least a little easier for Danver.

  But it still hurt, and she hardly even knew him.

  “Anyone spotted Marinaro?” someone else shouted. The rumble turned into a roar of fury.

  “Not yet,” the captain admitted. He looked as enraged as everyone else in the crowded room. “But we’ll get him.”

  Shouts of agreement echoed off the walls.

  For a short while, the captain went over what was being done to track the suspect. A special team was being formed to follow up on any leads—assuming some came in.

  The person who’d called in with the initial tip that had led them to the warehouse had apparently disappeared. It wasn’t clear whether she’d fled in fear…or whether Marinaro had found her first.

  Soon, the meeting adjourned, and rows of uniformed officers filed out, rumbling and swatting each other on the arms, obviously glad to be alive despite their anger about their fallen comrade.

  “You on duty this evening?” Ron asked as they waited for the others in their row to leave. “I am—I’m patrolling downtown.”

  “No, soon as I finish my report Bella and I are through for the day.” She needed to rest. This meeting had made Skye feel…well, helpless—as if she’d initiated something important, yet left it undone.

  It wasn’t up to Bella and her to locate Marinaro now, yet she itched to find the suspect and bring him down.

  “You okay, Skye?” Ron asked.

  “Just fine,” she said. “I was only thinking of what the captain said, and wondering how, with all of us around like that, Marinaro was able to get away.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Ron said, straightening in his uniform.

  They’d reached the end of their row. Ron edged out first, but as Skye and Bella started to leave, their way was suddenly blocked.

  SWAT Officer Greg Blanding stood there, his shaved head emphasizing the breadth of his slightly misshapen nose. “Skye, hope you don’t mind, but I have a special request for you.”

  And when he told her what it was, she worked hard to maintain a straight face and nonchalant air despite the inappropriate cartwheels her insides had started to turn.

  “Sure,” she said. “I’m just happy Officer Owens survived. And I’d be glad to visit him in the hospital.”

  Chapter 3

  “W ant me to come with you, Skye?” Ron asked as they walked out of the roll call room door with Bella.

  “Hey, Gollar, joining us for dinner?” one of the other guys called, punching his shoulder good-naturedly. “Your turn to buy.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Like you need it.” Ron grinned at the taller and rounder cop.

  The other guy was also smiling. “I’ll let you try to beat me up one of these days.” He went on ahead.

  “I’ll be fine on my own,” Skye told Ron. “It looks like you have things to do.”

  “If you’re sure…”

  “Enjoy your dinner.”

  “Right. And you enjoy your handiwork.” Ron looked a little wistful. He was a good guy, with a deep sense of right and wrong. Too bad he had to save lives the ordinary way.

  Skye led Bella back toward the area in the station that contained their cubicle. She didn’t have the time, or the inclination, to break for a meal. She was thinking too much about her impending visit to Trevor Owens’s hospital room.

  But she couldn’t go immediately, and not just because she had to finish the report detailing her perspective on what happened yesterday. She had research to do. She couldn’t exactly ask Owens what he was thinki
ng when she brought him back from the dead or what made him so determined to survive. But she could arm herself with at least a little knowledge before going to see him.

  “Come on, Bella.” She led her companion out to the parklike fenced-in training area. The weather was Southern California perfect. The sun was shining, and it smelled…well, green and a little salty from the nearby Pacific.

  She let Bella run for a few minutes but she stayed still, conserving her energy. They were soon joined by three more members of the ABPD K-9 unit, guys with young, eager German shepherds who engaged Bella in roughhousing while Skye and her fellow humans cheered them on.

  “You were at that warehouse yesterday.” Ken Vesco was a by-the-book cop, an African-American who was friendly with Skye despite chiding her now and then about not treating Bella enough like a dog. “I wish to hell they’d called me back on duty, but Bandit and I had already worked ten hours.”

  “I doubt there was more you or any of the other guys could have done,” Skye said. She’d been the only K-9 handler there at the time. “Bella picked up the scent in the warehouse, but by the time she followed it outside to the parking lot the suspect was already gone.”

  “The bastard shot two cops,” Curt Tritt said through uneven, gritted teeth. His dog was Storm.

  “I want to be in on it when there’s something else to go on,” tall, thin Manny Igoa added. “Rusty and I’ll help bring him down.”

  “Bella and me, too.” Sure, Skye had taken on responsibilities in law enforcement for reasons far different from most of her compatriots’, but she always wanted to do a good job with her regular duties—not to mention those that her fellow officers would consider quite irregular.

  The others were still playing when she called Bella to go inside. She led her dog into the bull pen of cubicles shared by the K-9 team—a bunch of desks and file cabinets roughly organized in one moderate-sized room. She sat at her desk, told Bella “down” and booted up her computer.