Presuming he was here, of course. We wouldn't know until we got into the house, but while it seemed an illogical place for the witch to hide her creature, people in deep grief sometimes didn't question miracles-even if that miracle was a son they'd freshly buried appearing on their doorstep.

"You don't know that," Kye said.

"I do. It's dead. The blood of others fuels its body, and the thoughts of whoever raised it provide its direction."

"So it really is the walking dead?"

"I'm afraid so."

He considered me for a moment, probably judging whether I was telling the truth or not. "The parents might know something, though."

"They might not, too."

He nodded in acceptance of the point. "We can't stay here all day. Short of cuffing me to the car-and I assure you, that will not be an easy task-you can't really stop me from following you inside."

He had a point. I didn't really want to create a scene-or expend that sort of energy-and that's exactly what would happen if I tried to force the issue.

And to be honest, what would it gain me? Even if I arrested his ass, I had nothing to hold him on. Not that it would stop Jack from detaining him if he became a real problem.

"Besides," he added, "I have a legit press pass. That means I can be here talking to the parents anytime I wish."

"With their approval."

"I'd get it, trust me."

Meaning one way or another he was going to get his information from them. Meaning it was probably better for him to come inside with me, because at least then I could have some control over what was said or done.

"I guess you'd better come in-as long as you shut your mouth and let me do the talking."

"That I can do."

"Let's see, shall we?"

He smiled and opened the small metal gate, then ushered me up the path with a hand to my back. The warmth of his fingers flushed across my skin and the need to step away from his touch warred with the desire to enjoy it.

I knocked on the red-painted door. The sound seemed to echo, as if the house was empty. There was no response for several seconds, though there were at least two wolves inside. I could smell them, as they could undoubtedly smell us.

Eventually footsteps approached and the door opened, revealing a tall, brown wolf with a pinched face and hawklike nose. "Yes?"

"Mr. Habbsheen? Riley Jenson from the Directorate." I showed him my ID then slid it back into my pocket. "I need to talk to you and your wife about your son."

"Our son is dead."

He tried to close the door on us, but I slapped a hand against it and stopped him. "Mr. Habbsheen, as a guardian I don't need a search warrant, and I will force my way into this house if you refuse to cooperate."

Anger flared deep in his brown eyes and for a moment the threat of it filled the air. It was a threat that drew a deep rumbling growl from behind me. Kye wasn't appreciating the response. And I know who'd I'd be putting money on in any fight that arose.

Not that it would. Habbsheen's gaze went from me to Kye and back again, then he visibly forced himself to relax.

"I guess you'd better come in, then." He opened the door wider. "First door on the left."

The house smelled musty, a scent that was both wolf and aged air. And it was cold-icy cold.

Maybe to stop the kid's flesh from rotting too quickly?

My nostrils flared as I drew in the deeper aromas of the house. Underneath the dust and cooking scents, there was another.

Dead flesh.

He was here all right.

I glanced at Kye. You smell him?

Yes.

He stopped slightly behind me, the warmth of his strong body flowing across my back like a fire, heating me more than was wise given the situation. Maybe it wasn't such a great idea to let him accompany me.

"What is this all about, Ms. Jenson?" Habbsheen was propped in the doorway and basically blocked our exit.

"As I said, we're here about your son."

"Our son is dead. What possible interest can he have to the Directorate?"

"Your son may be dead, but we've reason to believe he has been raised from the grave."

He didn't blink, didn't react in any normal way. But then, I wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. "No one can raise the dead, Ms. Jenson."

"Certain sorcerers can."

"Magic doesn't exist."

"As vampires and werewolves don't exist?" I gave him a polite smile. "Mr. Habbsheen, the body you harbor is not your son. It is simply reanimated flesh that remains in control of the person who raised it."

"Ms. Jenson, I told you. Our son is not here."

"Oh, I agree, your son isn't here. However, his reanimated flesh is. We can smell him," I added softly.

"And what if he is?" Tension rolled across his shoulders and crossed arms, and again the scent of his anger flowed around his. "He's done no harm. We've done no harm."

Kye didn't respond to the growing threat in Habbsheen's stance, and yet I felt the tension in him rise. Felt his readiness to move.

"That thing you're protecting murdered a teenager last night. It slashed her throat then sucked the blood from her body."

The blood seemed to flow from his face. "Rob wouldn't do that."

"Rob probably wouldn't have. But as I've said, that's not Rob down there. Not anymore."

His mouth tightened. "I don't believe you. Get out."

"I'm afraid we can't leave without Rob's body."

"And I can't let you leave with it."

I didn't have the chance to reply, because Kye was suddenly past me, launching himself bodily at the other man. The two of them crashed into the far wall of the hallway, denting the plaster and sending a white puff of debris into the air.

"Go," Kye said, as he grappled with the other man.

I jumped over them, avoiding Habbsheen's flailing arms and running down the hallway, following the aroma of decay. It led me through a kitchen and on into a laundry. The scent of female sharpened abruptly, seemingly surrounding me even though there was no one but me in the room. I reached for the back door, but at the last moment became aware of air stirring, and of something approaching the back of my head.

Fast.

I dropped hard, jarring my knees on the tiled floor. The axe aimed at my head embedded itself into the wall instead, the force behind the blow enough that the whole metal head buried itself deep into the plaster.

I swung around, sweeping out with a leg, knocking the woman off her feet. She screamed as she went down, but it was a sound filled with fury rather than pain.

I grabbed her legs, pinning them under mine, but her arms were another thing. She screamed and bit and flailed like a mad thing, her blue eyes wide and without any sense.

A wolf protecting her cub, whatever the cost.

"Damn it," I yelled, as her nails raked my arms. "It's not your son down there. You buried him. It's just flesh that resembles him. Nothing more, nothing less."

She didn't say anything, just kept on fighting.

I avoided another blow, then drew back my fist and hit her hard. Not enough to truly hurt her, but enough to knock her out.

When her body went limp, I blew out a breath and studied the shadows out of which she'd come. A small trapdoor led down into deeper darkness-and it was here that the aroma of decay was coming from.

Just to make sure she couldn't get up to any more mischief while I was investigating, I grabbed a shirt from the nearby washing basket and tore it into thick strips-lots and lots of strips that would be hard to tear as a whole-using those to tie both her hands and feet. Then I stepped over her trussed body and ducked through the trapdoor, walking cautiously down the short flight of stairs.

It was a small cellar area. Shelving lined one wall, stacked with dusty wine bottles, many of which looked older than me. In the middle of the room sat a small table and several chairs, and on this, wineglasses and a tub of old corks. In the far corner was a bed, and on this lay the zombie.