Free Frostbitten by Kelley Armstrong

researching a series on missing and murdered local women. The police had almost twenty cases of unsolved sex-worker deaths in as many years. Many of the victims were young, many Native Canadians, and all prostitutes.
     
    One of my reasons for doing the articles was that Jeremy had sent me there to check out potential werewolf activity. Young sex-trade workers and street girls were the preferred prey of werewolves, who know how little attention will be paid to the deaths. It turned out that a few of those deaths had been a mutt. But it would be odd to have a man-eater in Anchorage mixing vanished young women with men left lying in the open.
     
    “Were the girls from Anchorage?” I asked.
     
    “One was. Two were from Native communities farther inland. Why don’t we go grab a bite to eat and discuss it?”
     
    “I’d love to, but I’m supposed to meet my husband for lunch.”
     
    His gaze dropped to my hand. “Oh, right. Sure. Well, if you decide to run the story, call me.”
     
    He headed back into the offices without giving me his last name, card or any way to “call him.” I reached the exterior doors this time before he hailed me again. He walked over, looking chagrined, as if realizing how it must look, taking off once he discovered I was married.
     
    “About Mallory’s story,” he said. “The wolves. There’s someone else you could talk to. A local woman who knows more about the case than anyone, including Mallory.”
     
    “Oh?”
     
    He waved for me to step outside. It had started drizzling. We ducked under an overhang.
     
    “Her name’s Lynn Nygard,” he continued. “She works for the state police. Mallory used her as a source, but I know she didn’t give Mallory everything.” Garth lowered his voice. “Mallory can rub people the wrong way.”
     
    Really? Huh . “Will Ms. Nygard talk to me?”
     
    “Oh, sure. There’s just one thing. Lynn has this theory about the deaths and it would, uh, help if you didn’t… discourage it.”
     
    “Theory?”
     
    He waved to a coworker stepping out for a cigarette, then lowered his voice. “She thinks they were killed by some kind of Inuit shapeshifter. There’s a name for them—I can’t remember it. You don’t have to say you believe in them, just…”
     
    “Don’t laugh when she mentions it?”
     
    “Exactly. If she warms to you, you can also ask about the missing girls. She has a theory on that, too.”
     
    “Alien abductions?”
     
    He laughed. “Met a few Lynns in your time, have you?”
     
    “I have. You said she works for the police?”
     
    “They tolerate her eccentricities because she’s the best damned crime-scene photographer and sketch artist in Alaska. Of course, according to her, that’s because she’s the reincarnation of Leonardo da Vinci.”
     
    “Ah.”
     
    “Yes, she loves that paranormal shit, but obsession can be good if you’re looking for the best source of detailed information. You’ll find Lynn in the phone book.” He spelled her last name as I wrote it down, then gave me his card and offered, genuinely it seemed, to help if he could.
     
    * * * *
     
    I called Clay from the SUV.
     
    “How’d it go at the paper?” he asked.
     
    “She called me perky.”
     
    “Ouch.”
     
    I told him about Mallory Hirsch. After he said a few choice words about that, I explained the lead on Lynn Nygard. “I called her place. No answer. I’m going to swing by there on my way, then grab lunch.”
     
    * * * *
     
    I made it three blocks before Clay called.
     
    “Change course, darling,” he said.
     
    “Did Reese show up?”
     
    “Yeah. And we’ve got a situation.”

SITUATION
     
    I was still ten feet from Reese’s hotel room when I smelled blood. I slowed, my stomach giving a reflexive clench.
     
    Yes, I hadn’t wanted Reese hurt, but if he gave Clay any trouble, fists would fly and blood would flow. That was a given. There was a time when I’d convinced myself that Clay liked hurting