The second I walked into my house, the hair stood on the back of my neck. Nothing seemed disturbed at first glance. My door was locked, and the small table next to the door still held the decorative box where I threw my keys every night. A print of Monet's Garden Path hung straight on the wall across from the front door. But something was wrong. A smell in the air maybe, or an imperfect silence that was usually perfect. Whatever the subtle clue, my subconscious translated it to a bad feeling in my gut. Not for the first time in my career as a cop, I wished I possessed the abilities of a sensitive.

I pulled my 9mm from its shoulder holster and crept into my living room. Light glowed from the dining room. Pretty certain I hadn't left a light on, I eased forward. I took a deep breath and held the air in my lungs, in case whatever waited for me couldn't be hurt with bullets.

I swung my gun up then rounded the corner into my dining room. A man—or something that looked like one anyway—sat at the oak table. He was reading a book. A cup of coffee rested on a coaster in front of him and he'd propped sock-covered feet on my table. Settled in, right at home.

I gaped, unsure of what to say. My face grew hot when I saw the cover of the book in his hand. A beautiful woman held in the arms of a tall, too-handsome hero with abs of steel graced the cover of the romance novel. I barely resisted the urge to shoot him. Who says I don't have fan- freaking-tastic self-control?

"Who are you?" I finally spluttered out.

He set the book down and smiled at me. It was one heck of a smile on one heck of a face. A strong jaw covered in five o'clock shadow, dark eyes, and a head of messy black hair set on a very fit, long body.

"Ah, Kiera McLoughlin, I presume?" I thought I detected a slight Irish lilt to his voice, but if he had an accent, it was subtle. He took his feet off the table, moving slowly.

"Presume away. Who are you and what are you doing in my house?"

His smiled turned into a full-on flirtatious grin. "Why don't you put your gun away so we can talk? About your interesting taste in books, perhaps."

I glared at him, face burning. Handsome or not, I was in charge in my own house. "No way, cupcake. Tell me who you are and I might consider putting my gun away."

He sighed, his chest pressing against his tight T-shirt. I glared harder.

"All right. My name is Aidan Byrne. I'm here to talk to you about the murders you're investigating."

I lowered my gun a few inches, more because of the weight than any level of trust I felt toward the stranger. "You a witness or something, Aidan? There're safer ways to report your info than breaking into a cop's house."

"Not a witness. I'm a cop, too. OWEA. I think we're looking for the same killer."

I raised my eyebrows. The Otherworlder Enforcement Agency was similar to the FBI in that they were selective in what they investigated. Generally, they took on paranormal-related crimes that crossed state lines or OW cases that needed resources outside of what a standard police department could pull together.

"So this perp has killed in other jurisdictions?"

"We think so."

"Show me some ID." I lowered my gun a few more inches and approached him carefully. "Please," I added, belatedly remembering that being polite to the jerk who broke into my house wouldn't kill me—but pissing off the OWEA might be the death of my career.

Raising one empty hand in the air, he leaned forward, reached into his back pocket with the other hand, and pulled out a leather badge and ID holder. He flipped it open and turned it so I could see.

I took the wallet from his hands and scanned its contents. The dark badge glinted in the low light, and beneath it, nestled in a reflective piece of plastic, was an ID badge. The man's face grinned at me from behind the plastic, his dark hair and startling eyes clearly visible, even in the crappy ID photo. I shoved my gun into its holster and handed the wallet back to him. Fighting embarrassment, I grabbed the steamy romance novel he'd taken from the stack on the table, and shoved it onto the pile where it belonged.

"Okay, Agent Byrne, why did you think you needed to break into my house to talk to me about this case? OWEA running on hard times? Can't afford to supply agents with cell phones anymore?"

He put his badge away. "I wanted to talk to you tonight. We're strictly looking at this one on an unofficial basis." His easy smile disappeared and he shifted on the chair. "In fact, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention the agency's involvement to anyone just yet."

I gave him my best cop stare. "Why come to me? Amanda's the senior investigator on this."

His grin returned. "She wasn't home yet."

Nothing like being the second-best choice. "You've got my attention. What are we looking for?"

"Wish I knew. What we do know is that it has been killing women all over the country for the last two years, at least."

I started. How many people had this sicko murdered? "Only women?" I pulled out my notepad and pen and sat down.

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Twelve that we know of."

I whistled under my breath. "Jesus. All...human?"

"No. Not all."