Burning Darkness (12 page)

The door to Room 19 was slightly ajar, just as they might have left it when they tore out. Could they get that lucky? He tucked the gun beneath his shirt and stepped out of the truck. Scanned the surroundings. So far, so good. He pushed the motel door open and stepped in, gun now at the ready, and surveyed the room. Ropes still tied to the bed frame. Picture on the floor. Her purse and a duffel bag in the corner.

A sound behind him at the open doorway had him spinning around. A small wiry man with glasses so thick he reminded him of Mr. Magoo stood there. Eric kept the gun at his side but tucked out of sight. Dude didn’t look like some maniac, but he’d learned never to judge a book by its cover, scrawny as it was.

“I was about to clean the room,” the man said. “I’m running behind, had a stomach bug.”

Eric couldn’t tell if his eyes were widened in surprise; they were huge in magnification. “We’re staying another night.”

“Where’s the young lady who rented the room?”

“In the truck asleep.” He thrust some bills at the man, probably more than the room cost. “That should cover us.”

“Who are you?”

“Her boyfriend. We’ll be out early in the morning.” He stepped toward the open doorway, forcing the little man to back up. He did, indeed, have a cart of cleaning supplies with him. He hesitated, but Eric walked to the truck without any further conversation. When he turned back, Magoo was pushing the cart back toward the office at the far end.

From his angle, Eric couldn’t see Fonda’s face, but she was still curled up against the seat. He knocked on the glass. “Come on. We’re here.”

He could see her clearly enough in his mind, mouth soft and tempting, pink even without lipstick. Damn, he did not want to be attracted to the succubus who’d tried to kill him.

“Come on, Fonda!” he barked, his annoyance at himself bursting out. He yanked open the door, and she fell backward.

He caught her before she hit the ground, scooping her up. Her eyes fluttered open, but they were drunk with sleep. She weighed next to nothing as he carried her like a baby.

“Where . . . ?” she managed.

“I’m taking you to bed.”

Her eyes opened at that and she began to wriggle. He replayed the words in his mind, and his body took them the same way she had. “Not that kind of taking you to bed. Get a couple of hours of sleep.”

“Put me down.”

“We’re almost there.” He kicked open the door with his foot.

She put up a bigger struggle, the anger taking hold of her face again. He released her, and she dropped to her wobbly legs. She grabbed onto his arm and let go just as fast.

“Sorry, following orders,” he said, raising his hands.

She walked in, her gaze going to her purse and the bag. “It’s all still here?”

“Apparently the manager spent the day in the bathroom and hadn’t gotten to the room yet.”

She stumbled to the bed. “So tired. Need sleep.” She pulled herself onto the bed, only enough to fit her curled body on it. Her dress slid up mid-thighs, and that display of skin was enough to perk him up even more.

A wave of dizziness swept over him for a moment as he watched her. Lust? Sometimes it did that, washed over him like a wave. No, not lust, not for this one. Sleep. He needed it, too. Neither of them had gotten rest, much less sleep, in the last twenty-four hours. He locked the door, taking one last glance outside. He stripped out of his shirt and lay down on the bed, careful not to touch her. Not that she’d know it; she was out. He watched her sleep, her anger gone again, leaving the sweet innocence. If he didn’t know better.

But you do.

He closed his eyes, but they opened again. She filled his vision, her white-blond hair spilling across her cheek, the pink hairs now dispersed rather than being in one streak. She still wore the red hoop earrings, and one draped against her neck. She was one of the most interesting women he’d ever met.

He forced his eyes closed, but he made one detour on the way to trying to sleep. Using the coordinates Nicholas had given him, he zoned in on Sayre, in a sleeping bag on the ground. Damn but he wanted to just torch him and get it over with.

No more jumping in without thinking.

He scanned Sayre’s surroundings: trees, several other forms on the ground, a few tents. Homeless people. If he set Sayre on fire, some of those hobos would probably die, too. He envisioned the mansion going up in flames, killing Richard Wallace. The fires he produced psychically were so hot, they got quickly out of control. He would have to approach in person.

Sayre’s eyes popped open, and he sat up and searched the area. Eric pulled out. Hopefully Sayre would think the strange feeling was his imagination. Otherwise, getting to him was going to be a lot harder—and more dangerous.

Sayre Andrus searched the woods. Nothing more than the usual noises and movements: groans, mumbling, and every now and then some guy who’d relive the war, waking up screaming and shit.

The annoyances were worth it. This was the best place to hide out. None of these guys watched the news, and he had shaved his head so he looked nothing like Lucas’s picture the police were showing on television. That would die down eventually, and he’d find a way to integrate back into society again. Like taking one of these guys’ identity. For now, lying low was working good.

Except for that prickle of sensation he’d just felt. Not his twin brother’s energy either. He thought for damned sure Lucas would have dove right into his dreams to teach him a lesson about diddling his girlfriend, but no. Nothing.

He poked into Lucas’s head and found him asleep, alone in his bed.
Aw, ain’t that a pity? Alone because of little ol’ me?
Well, that hadn’t stopped him last time. He grinned wide at the memory. He hadn’t had a chance to get himself some beaver, not with the bulletins running. No need to take a chance. Getting some through Lucas was only a tease, but one he had enjoyed anyway.

He didn’t know whose energy it was he’d felt, but he was going to keep his sixth sense alert. If someone was gunning for him, he’d be ready.

T
he scream rocked Eric out of half sleep. Fonda’s scream. He lurched up and grabbed the gun. Scanned the room. No one. Then looked to Fonda, still screaming and writhing on the bed.

Nightmare.

He hardly had time to register relief. He needed to quiet her down before someone came to investigate.

“No! No, oh, my God,” she said in a strangled voice. Her eyes were twitching beneath her closed lids.

He put his hand over her mouth, hovering close. “Fonda. Wake up. It’s a dream.”

“Jerryl!” she screamed in agony, but it was muffled beneath his hand.

Damn. She was having a nightmare about the fire. Seeing her reliving it yanked out his guts. He shook her, pressing his other hand on her shoulder and pushing her into the bed. “Wake up, Fonda!” She kicked, and he had to press his body down onto hers to keep her from hurting him or herself. “Fonda!” he said into her ear.

He felt moisture on his lip. Tears slid down her temples.

“Put it out! Oh, God, oh, God.”

“Fonda, wake up!”

He pulled her to a sitting position, his hands on her shoulders. Her eyes fluttered open.

He didn’t dare pull her closer, not after what had happened in the closet. A part of him wanted to, though. “You had a nightmare. It’s all right.”

Something in her eyes changed as she came fully awake. She looked around her, breathing hard. Not the estate. No fire. She swiped at her eyes with trembling hands. “I tried to put the fire out. I threw blankets on him. But I couldn’t . . . couldn’t . . .”

“No, you couldn’t. There was nothing you could do. What I do, it’s too hot to easily put out.”

He readied himself for her anger, for her to rail at him for taking Jerryl away again. He saw no anger in her eyes, only guilt. He rubbed his fingers across her cheek, erasing the last of the tears. “No one could have helped him.”

“But I lived. He died and I lived.”

“Because you weren’t my target.”

He ran his hand down her arm. She had a fine network of scars crisscrossing her upper arms. His chest tightened.

“Who did this to you?”

She pulled away from his finger, which traced the lines, and scrambled off the bed, her gaze averted. “No one.”

He got to his feet, too. “Did your father do that?” he asked, lowering his voice. She shook her head. “Jerryl? No, they’re too old for him. Ex-boyfriend?”

“No.” After digging in her duffel, Fonda grabbed a small bag and walked into the bathroom. “Why does it matter, anyway?”

“I don’t like the idea of someone cutting a woman. It’s the kind of brutality that makes me nuts.”

“I’m not your concern. Forget about them,” she said from the other side of the door.

When she emerged a few minutes later, he was waiting. “Just tell me who did it.” His gaze went to her thighs. Above her knees he saw more of the same scars. “You’ve got a lot of cuts.” Most in places people wouldn’t see.

“It’s none of your business. What’s our next step?”

He released a breath. She was right. “I’m going to take care of Sayre Andrus. You’re coming with me, but not into the woods. Then we’ll find another place to hunker down while we try to find Westerfield.”

Fonda pulled some dark clothes from her bag and went back into the bathroom. She moved like a cat, her body fluid in motion. She came out wearing black leggings and a long black top, and slid little feet into the black combat boots. He noticed they had patches, pink cats with X’s over their eyes.

She looked up at him. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“What’s wrong? Don’t like the happy memories?” He nodded toward the ropes still hanging from the bedposts.

She looked away, and did he see regret? Probably over not succeeding in killing him. “I just want to go. Put on your shirt.”

He only now realized he still didn’t have his shirt on. What was the big deal? He slid it on, catching her watching in the mirror over the dresser. He hit the bathroom, splashed water over his face, and put on his shoes. “Ready.”

She was about to walk past but paused in front of him. “Don’t be nice to me. Holding me, trying to make me feel better . . . don’t do that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“I don’t want to like you, Eric Aruda. Don’t make me.”

She walked out to the truck. He remained there for a moment, watching her, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. That smile dropped. No one had ever accused him of being nice before. Why was he being nice to her? He was proud of being a butthead. It was his nature. So why wasn’t he one around a woman who couldn’t stand him? Probably his guilt over what he put her through.

He watched her get into the truck and pull the door closed. She brushed her fingers through her hair, her mouth in that hard line. No, it was more than that. Something about her got to him, reached into his chest and squeezed, not unlike the way Westerfield could, only this felt . . . different. A combination of good and scary.
Don’t explore that too closely. Last thing you need is to get involved. Remember, bad idea.

He closed the door and followed her to the truck.

Fonda tried to keep her gaze from sliding over to Eric as they drove west. She could feel his eyes on her, though. Like he was speculating about her. Wondering about her scars. She had bigger scars inside. She didn’t want him wondering about any of them.

Holy crap, to wake up from that horrible nightmare with his hands on her shoulders. He comforted her, smoothed away her tears. She had felt safe and protected, something she hardly ever felt. Only it was in Eric Aruda’s arms, and that wasn’t a safe place to be at all.

He was dangerous. Evil. Bad. The enemy. Yet, he’d been tender twice, this time absolving her from guilt. Apologizing for her pain and meaning it. She’d heard enough empty words to know the difference.

She found her gaze drifting to him, the line of his jaw, the tendons in his neck, and past his loose shirt to his jeans that encased his thighs. His fingers were tapping on his knee to the Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter.” Strong hands, long fingers. She’d seen him naked, knew the lines of that big, hard body, the ridges of his flat stomach, the curve of his ass, which was finely dusted in golden blond hairs.

She felt that stirring deep in her stomach.
Stop that!
She was so desperate not to have those stirrings about Eric, she pulled up Jerryl’s image in her mind.
Feel how you’re betraying his memory. Feel how . . 
.

She could only see Jerryl in a hazy way. Bristly hair that was too short to run her fingers through, brown eyes that narrowed in an annoyed way when she’d come to his room and he was concentrating on work. She couldn’t picture his mouth at all.

Her eyes widened, and it felt as though someone had thumped her hard in the chest. Jerryl hadn’t loved her. What he had loved was killing. And not only killing in general, but killing Eric Aruda. Sometimes when they had sex, she would see a lusty passion in his eyes. As soon as he came, though, the first words out of his mouth were: “I can’t wait to kill that son of a bitch.” He’d actually been thinking about it while they were having sex! Like a woman who ignores the signs that her man is cheating, she had ignored the signs that he didn’t care about her beyond as a sex partner.

When Eric asked if Jerryl loved her, she’d believed her answer. She had told Jerryl she loved him, and what had he said?
That’s nice.

She had heard,
That’s so nice that you love me. I love you, too.
That’s not what he’d meant at all. It was,
That’s nice,
the way someone says those words when you give them an ugly sweater. Her words were an ugly sweater to him . . . because the only reason she’d said them was to hear him say them back to her. She thought sex, and saying the words, meant it was love. Her fingers kneaded her forehead. It wasn’t love at all.

It was embarrassing to see now how she had thrown herself at him. The act of chivalry in the bar, that he possessed powers like her, such an allure. All Jerryl had cared about was becoming Darkwell’s number one. She wasn’t even number three or four on his list. It hurt, but not as much as she thought it might. It also lessened the loss of him, as Eric had intended.

He’s done more to protect you than Jerryl ever did.

The thought walloped her upside the head. She hadn’t seen it, of course, hadn’t wanted to, but there it was. From the beginning, right after she tried to kill him. He’d grabbed her hand when they ran out of the room, helped her get Westerfield out of her head, and stepped in front of her twice, with Westerfield and when Magnus walked into the closet.

Warmth rushed through her body.
No, you’re not doing that again. It’s probably instinct. He has people. He’s used to protecting them.

She closed her eyes at the thought.
People.
She had no people. Former coworkers that she hadn’t let in. Nothing more than that.

“You okay?”

His voice yanked her from her dark thoughts.

“You looked like you were in pain,” he said.

She could see by the crease in his forehead—he cared. “Cramps,” she said. It was hard to keep from rolling her eyes at that lame excuse.

“Do you need . . . you know, that stuff? Having a sister, I know it’s a life and death thing—”

“No, I’m fine.”

Double damn him. No, he was probably protecting her because he saw her as weak. That made her feel better.

At a light, he picked up the map. “Almost there. I want you to stay in the truck. I don’t want him to know you exist.”

There he went again, protecting her. “I have no interest in getting involved in your wars.”

“Good.”

He pulled down a side street and then to a parking lot. He parked, reached into the back and pulled out a gun from the storage area. “Westerfield’s gun has a silencer on it.”

“He was going to use that on me.”

He tilted it at an angle, looking at it. “Yeah.” His mouth tightened. “I don’t know why, when he has a far deadlier weapon. Much quieter to squeeze our guts and brains. Or maybe not.”

His screams of agony echoed in her memory. She shook her head. “Not.” She glanced at the woods. “What are you going to do to this guy?”

“Can’t burn him. Like you said, it’d send the whole place up in flames.” He was staring intently at those dark woods. “I’m going to figure out which bundle is him and shoot.” The intensity in his eyes burned as bright as any fire. Normally she didn’t like men with very light eyes. His were the color of a wintry blue sky reflected in a pond. Icy blue, hard to read. He looked at her. “Be ready for anything. I don’t like leaving you by yourself, but I won’t be long. Westerfield shouldn’t be able to find you that fast. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, drive the truck away and come back in an hour.” He pinned her with his gaze. “But come back.”

“I will,” she said, surprised she hadn’t thought of ditching him. No, she couldn’t do that to him.

He dug around in the back, twisting his body so his jean-clad ass was right beside her. “I thought I saw a flashlight . . . Ah.” He slid back to the front seat. “Do you have a cell phone?”

She nodded, digging in her duffel bag and extracting it from her purse.

“Give me your number.” He punched in numbers as she recited it, and her phone rang. “Now you have mine. Put it on vibrate and keep it with you. We’ve found that’s the safest way, so the ring doesn’t give you away in case you’re in a touchy situation.”

He was used to being hunted. Hunted by Jerryl and the man she’d worked for.

He got out of the truck. “Be careful.”

After he disappeared into the woods, she sat for a minute, listening to the crickets singing. Most of the time she’d worked for Darkwell, she was left out of the action. What if Eric ran into trouble? Not that she cared about his personal safety, but she had to admit she felt better having a big strong guy around.

Telling herself she could prove she wasn’t some scared girl, Fonda slid out of the truck, pocketing the keys, and followed his path into the woods. She listened, tuning into his footsteps in the distance. Her foot hit something lumpy, and a man said, “Ow.”

“Sorry.” She stopped, looking around as her eyes adjusted. Tents and sleeping bags were everywhere. The homeless. She’d been so focused on Eric, she hadn’t looked down.

Ahead, Eric flashed his beam across the ground. Some of the forms on the ground didn’t even stir when the beam lit up their faces. Others covered themselves and grumbled. Eric didn’t linger for more than a second.

She saw one man standing beside a tree, and something about his posture said
predator
. She picked up her pace. The man stepped closer to Eric. Danger burned her throat with a bitter taste. She lifted her gun but couldn’t shoot, not without knowing what was behind the man.

The predator took three quick steps toward Eric, his hand raised in a gesture that screamed
Knife!

“Eric! Watch out!”

He spun as the man lunged toward him. Both went down, and the flashlight landed nearby, lightening them up. She ran toward them.