"Could be another victim," I suggest, though even as I say it, I know it's wrong somehow.
I know this scent, even if it shouldn't be possible.
We follow the scent trail, and it's not hard because whoever's bleeding isn't trying to hide it. The blood forms a path through the snow like someone's painting directions in red. My medical training kicks in, cataloging the volume of blood loss, calculating how long someone can survive bleeding at this rate. Not long, is the answer. Maybe an hour if they're lucky.
The first body appears around a cluster of pine trees, and even I have to pause at the brutality of it. The soldier's throat has been opened clean, but that's not what killed him. No, what killed him was the knife buried to the hilt in his eye socket, driven in with enough force to crack through the orbital bone and into the brain.
"Now that's interesting," Carlisle murmurs, crouching beside the corpse with the kind of fascination most people reserve for art galleries. "Look at the angle of entry. They went under the tactical helmet, found the one spot that wasn't protected. That takes skill."
"Or desperation," I point out, but Carlisle's already moved on to examining the wound pattern.
"No, this is deliberate." He traces the air above the throat wound without touching it. "See how clean this cut is? No hesitation marks, no sawing. One smooth motion, probably while the target was distracted by something else. This is professional work."
The scent gets stronger as we move forward, and I'm having trouble focusing on anything else. It's like someone's reached into my chest and grabbed hold of something vital, pulling me forward with invisible strings the way it did with Juniper. My alpha instincts are screaming, but I can't tell if they're warning me of danger or something else entirely.
The second body is even more impressive, if you can call violent death impressive. This one took multiple stab wounds to the torso, but they're not random. Each one is placed preciselybetween the plates of body armor, finding the gaps with an almost supernatural accuracy.
"They knew exactly where to strike," Carlisle observes, and there's something in his voice I rarely hear—respect. "Whoever it was turned this poor bastard into an anatomy lesson."
"You sound impressed," I say, watching him study the corpse like it's a particularly fascinating puzzle.
He looks up at me with that shark smile that makes most people want to run. "An artist recognizes art, Doctor. And this? This is a masterpiece of violence."
The third body is slumped against a tree, and this one died harder than the others. There are defensive wounds on his hands, torn knuckles that suggest he fought back. But it didn't matter. His neck is twisted at an angle that makes it clear his spine is severed, probably snapped with bare hands.
"Shit," I breathe, because even for someone who's seen as much death as I have, this is intense. "Whoever did this?—"
"Is very, very good at killing," Carlisle finishes, and he's practically vibrating with excitement now.
The blood trail leads us deeper into the woods, and the scent is so strong now it's making my head swim. Every breath brings more of it into my lungs, and my body is responding in ways that make no fucking sense. This isn't Juniper. This shouldn't be affecting me like this. But it is, and I have to consciously regulate my breathing to keep from hyperventilating like some virgin alpha catching his first whiff of omega pheromones.
We find two more bodies near a frozen stream. These two died together, probably trying to flank whoever they were hunting. One has a gun still in his hand, finger on the trigger, but he never got a shot off. His throat is crushed, trachea collapsed inward like someone grabbed it and just squeezed until everything inside broke.
The other one is worse. Or better, depending on your perspective. He's been opened from sternum to pelvis, a single devastating wound that would have spilled his guts if the cold hadn't frozen everything in place. It's almost surgical in its precision, following the line where a medical examiner would make their Y-incision.
"They're showing off now," Carlisle says with obvious delight. "This is making a statement."
"What kind of statement?"
"That they're not prey." Carlisle stands, scanning the trees ahead. "They're the predator."
The blood trail leads to the base of a cliff, and that's where we find him.
Felix.
He's slumped against the rock face, and for a moment I think he's dead. There's so much blood it's hard to tell where his injuries end and the general carnage he's inflicted begins. His clothes are shredded, revealing wounds that would have dropped most alphas hours ago. But he's still breathing, harsh and ragged, and when we approach, his head snaps up with predatory alertness.
That's when the scent hits me full force.
It's him. Felix. But not the Felix we've been smelling for days. The alpha pheromones are completely gone now, washed away by blood and sweat. What's underneath is pure omega. Winter and diamonds and something sharp enough to cut, all wrapped up in omega pheromones that make my alpha instincts roar to life. Just like they did with Juniper.
"Do you smell that?" I ask Carlisle, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
"Yes," he says, and for once, all the playfulness is gone from his tone. We're both staring at Felix like we're seeing him for the first time, because in a way, we are.
"Felix," I call out, keeping my voice calm and medical, the one I use with trauma patients. "It's Dr. Cole. You're injured. Let me help."
He raises a gun I didn't even see him holding, and the snarl that comes out of him is not like any omega growl I've ever heard. His silver eyes are wild, unfocused, probably from blood loss and shock. He's running on pure instinct now, and those instincts are telling him that two alphas approaching means danger.
