Fury of Fire (9 page)

And wasn’t that the perfect nightcap to an already gut-wrenching day.

Calamity erupted from the bedside table, guitars riffs screaming heavy metal. Detective Angela Keen burrowed a little deeper into her pillow, trying to tune out the screech of AC/DC. It didn’t work. Brian Johnson just kept singing.

Holy hell. “Thunderstruck” was fast becoming her least favorite song.

But then, that was the point. The whole reason she’d chosen death rock in the first place. She needed a good kick to jar her awake, and the ringtone was the only one that ever managed it.

Cracking an eyelid, she stared at the digital alarm clock. The red lines stayed blurry for a moment, then jumped into focus. Three forty-two a.m. Great. She’d only climbed into bed four hours ago.

Angela reached for her cell phone, fumbled a second before getting a hold of it and flipped the top open. “Yeah?”

“Wakey-wakey, Ange.” The gruff male voice came through the line loud and clear. “I need you on site A-SAP. We’ve got another vic.”

Her brows drawn tight, she pushed up onto one elbow. “Are you sure?”

“Same MO,” her partner said, his East Coast accent clipped.

Not a good sign. The intensity of Mac’s voice always indicated his level of pissed off. And a tight tone on Ian MacCord meant one thing…another girl had turned up dead.

A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach and, fighting clingy sheets, Angela shoved her duvet aside. She loved her job—she really did—even though someone had to die for her to go work. The problem here? Young women were the ones doing the dying, and she didn’t have a lead. Not one. A big, fat goose egg of an information string.

Liberated from the cotton cling, Angela swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Ash pile?”

“Haven’t found one…yet.”

“Where are you?”

“Corner of Yesler and First,” Mac said, sirens wailing in the background. “Follow the circus…reporters are already here.”

Lovely. Just what they needed. Sharks already circling in the tank.

“Keep it tight, Mac.” She ran her hand over the top of her head, ruffling her short hair. “See you in twenty.”

“Uh-huh.”

The snap of Mac’s phone sounded as she flipped her own closed. Setting the Motorola Razr on the bedside table, Angela reached for the civvies folded on the bench at the end of her bed. Force of habit. She couldn’t sleep unless her clothes were laid out, ready to go…just in case. Well, “just in case” had come about three hours too early. Not that it mattered. The investigation she and Mac had caught wasn’t a nine-to-fiver.

Army-style chinos went on first. The plain white tee and button-down shirt got pulled over her head next before she reached for her Roots boots. The footwear was a thing of beauty, a rare budgetary splurge: heavy on comfort with gobs of style to spare.

Stomping her right foot into her boot, she tucked her shirttails in, grabbed her holstered Glock 23 along with her badge from the drawer in her nightstand. After adding her Razr to the melee, she headed for the door. As she stepped out into the corridor and reengaged her condo’s double deadbolts, Angela ran her tongue over her teeth. Ugh. She really should brush—Mac would no doubt thank her for it—but with another crime scene on the go, getting there took precedence over fresh breath. Her partner would have to deal, and the Lifesavers in the glove box of her Jeep would have to do.

In less time than it would have taken to find the Colgate, she was out of the underground garage and rolling down the deserted boulevard. Streetlights cast murky shadows, LEDs barely bleeding through the haze of night fog. Typical of Seattle, but Angela thanked God it wasn’t raining. The mist might be a pain, but reduced visibility was better than losing the integrity of her crime scene to weather.

Ten minutes and two Lifesavers later, she hung a left onto Yesler Way. Her hand tightened on the steering wheel as she spotted the police cruisers. Lights flashing off gray brick, three patrol vehicles angled out from the curb, establishing the outer perimeter, keeping the growing crowd at bay.

Yeah, the Thursday night club scene was a real Cirque du Soleil. And the biggest clown of all had come out to play.

Even from half a block away, Angela could see Miss Thing powering up her microphone, cameraman following behind like a whipped dog. Clarissa Newton—pain-in-the-butt reporter with air in place of a brain.

Angela shook her head, pulled up to the curb behind the cruisers. It was sad, really. The woman was a throwback, a bleached-out blonde who thought looks mattered more than intelligence. Had Clarissa used mental acuity instead of push-up bras and blow jobs to land her stories, Angela would’ve thrown her a bone and traded a little information. But the whole “I’m-beautiful-help-me-out” attitude annoyed the hell out of her. So, Miss Thing was on her own.

“Yeah, definitely,” Angela murmured, watching Clarissa cozy up to a rookie uniform guarding a perimeter cordoned off by yellow police tape.

Slamming the Jeep door behind her, she clipped her badge on her belt and made tracks, moving down the sidewalk at a fast clip. Dressed in club wear, the crowd stood three deep, college-age looky-loos jockeying for a sneak peek. Same story, different night. Except with Mac’s radar up and running, Angela knew this scene
was
different. Murdered girls, same MO, dead within days of each other. Nothing run-of-the-mill about that.

With an “excuse me” or two, the gang of coeds parted and she slipped through, flashing her creds as she ducked beneath the crime scene tape.

Miss Thing didn’t miss a beat. Waving her microphone like a cheerleading baton, she went from batting her eyelashes to the flapping red-lacquered lips in a heartbeat. “Detective Keen…Detective Keen! What can you tell me about the—”

“Nothing.” A warning in her gaze, Angela made eye contact with the rookie patrol officer. Her focus slid from him to the reporter then back again. “Watch out, man. She’s got teeth.”

One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Roger that, Red.”

Angela wanted to grimace. She nodded instead and, brushing by him, quashed any outward sign of discomfort.
Red
. The nickname from hell. One she’d tried to murder when she moved from Vice to Homicide. No such luck. The guys in her squad had picked it up quick. Even after she whacked off her hair—going from ponytail to pixie—the God-awful name stuck like gum on the bottom of a shoe.

The only saving grace? Her partner never called her that, knowing she didn’t like it. Not that she’d ever told him. But Mac was scary like that—so perceptive that it sometimes bordered on eerie.

“Hey, Ange…over here.”

Speak of the devil.

Ignoring the smell of week-old garbage, Angela stepped into the mouth of the alley, toward six and a half feet of ripped Irish-American. Harvard-smart with a whole lot of street savvy, Mac was a man women loved to look at…eye candy without the inferred sweetness.

Most cops didn’t want to work with him. He was too aggressive, too hot-tempered, too, well,
everything
. Angela had heard the stories, been warned six ways to Sunday that Mac rode the razor edge and was on his way out, but a fluke in scheduling had thrown them together. Now, almost two years later, she couldn’t imagine working with anyone else.

But the biggest bonus? No sexual spark to screw it up.

Most women would have mourned that fact—done backflips to catch Mac’s eye. Not her. She liked the big brother vibe, thank you very much. And so did he. It was the perfect scenario in an imperfect job…great chemistry without the mind fuck of physical attraction. Outstanding.

Boots traveling over cracked asphalt, Angela stepped over a crumpled soda can, coming up alongside her partner. “Don’t you sleep, Irish?”

Mac flashed his pearly whites, the grin half-angel, half-devil. “Not much and never alone.”

Angela rolled her eyes, but let his evasion slide. She didn’t need to ride him about his insomnia or taking better care of himself. No matter how subtle, he’d gotten the message. “You’re a sick puppy, you know that?”

He shrugged and, tapping his pen against his notebook, returned his attention to the CSIs on the other side of the beat-up Dumpster. Silver crime-scene cases open and tools in use, the two techs were working the scene like pros: cameras flashing, markers out, gathering evidence before the ME came to take the body away.

“Less than twenty, Ange. You’re getting faster.” Restlessness getting the better of him, Mac walked to one of the small orange cones set out on the pavement. Crouching to examine the evidence beside it, he glanced at her over his shoulder. “Didn’t take the time to brush your teeth, did ya?”

Lifesaver in her mouth, Angela drilled him with a glare. “Shut up and fill me in.”

“Dead girl…name’s Hannah Gains.” Fighting a smile over the big cop attitude she was throwing his way, he pushed to his feet. “Nineteen, five foot five, brown hair, blue eyes. A freshman at Seattle U.”

“Crap.”

“I used something a bit stronger.”

“I’m sure,” she said, aware Mac’s vocabulary rivaled a gang banger’s. “Anything else?”

“Big-ass boot print…military issue.” A muscle twitched along her partner’s jaw as he pointed his pen toward the girl splayed like a broken doll on damp pavement. “My guess? About a size fourteen.”

Saying a soft “hey” to the CSI scraping under the victim’s fingernails, Angela circled around behind Mac to where the dead girl lay, eyes wide open, staring up at a starless sky. The sight made Angela’s chest go tight. The sick bastard. Look what he had done…how he’d left her: half dressed, lying in the worst filth the city had to offer.

Balanced on the balls of her feet, Angela crouched a few feet away. Her heart sank as she got her first glimpse of her victim’s face. Yeah, she fit the profile: young, pretty, a leggy brunette in a halter top and micromini. Just like the other two. Mac was right. It was the same guy, and he had a type.

She glanced over, catching Mac’s gaze. “Military? How do you know for sure?”

“I used to wear something similar.”

In the SEAL teams. Angela didn’t need him to say it to know he was thinking it. She knew about his military background. Had snuck into records to read through his file before taking a second shift with him—even though IA would have her ass if they knew.

Chewing on the inside of her bottom lip, she propped her elbows on her knees and forced herself to look at the woman again…to put her anger at the senseless murder aside and do her job.

Like the others, there were no outward signs of struggle. But something told her Hannah Gains’s autopsy report would read like the other two on her desk: sexual penetration but no sperm, so no viable DNA; bruises on the lower back and nape of the neck; marks on her throat. And the kicker? The COD was catastrophic organ failure, a systematic shutdown of everything…heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, and finally, brain function.

So far, the only thing different about Hannah’s murder was absence of an ash pile. The other two girls had been practically laid out beside one. The lab work wasn’t back yet, but the ME had given them his best guess…cremated human remains.

Angela looked down the length of the alleyway, staring into shadows and fog, wondering if they’d find the ashes at the other end. Holy hell. What kind of sicko were they dealing with here? Murder a girl…leave a cremated body behind to keep her company? It didn’t make any sense, but neither did killing innocent women. So, what the hell did she know?

Wiping her hands on her thighs, she said, “Our boy’s stepping up his game…escalating. It’s only been eleven days since his last strike.”

Her partner nodded as his cell phone went off, screaming “Highway to Hell.” Unclipping it from his belt, he cut off the music by flipping it open. “MacCord.”

Angela returned her attention to the body, thinking about the boot print. Maybe it was the break they needed. Not many guys wore size fourteens, and if the body dumps were any indication, he liked the club scene, so—

“Jesus fucking Christ. Where?”

Mac’s snarl raised the hair on the nape of her neck. Pushing to her feet, she zeroed in on his face and caught the anger in his eyes. Crap. That look coupled with his tone said it all. Something nasty had gone down.

Expression grim, Mac held her gaze and listened hard to the rapid string of words she could hear coming through the cell phone’s earpiece. She tipped her chin as she came up beside him and mouthed, “What?”

He shook his head, listened some more, and then said, “Don’t touch a fucking thing. Our CSI Unit will handle it. We’ll be there in forty minutes.”

As soon as he snapped his phone closed, Angela said, “Tell me.”

“Dead girl. Missing baby. Two ash piles off Route Eighteen. Captain fielded the call…figured the case is linked to ours and told the locals out there to contact me.” Digging into the front pocket of his jeans, Mac tossed her the keys to his X-Trail. “You drive.”

Quick reflexes helped her catch the Harley-Davidson keychain on the down arc before she put her boots into motion and followed Mac out of the alley. Yeah, no doubt about it. Her driving was a good idea. They were heading into a shit storm, and her partner was already pissed off.

The glowing globes hugged the cave’s dome ceiling, putting on a light show. Her backside still glued to the car—with Bastian looming like the Unmasked Avenger—Myst glanced up to watch the lanterns for a second. Some big, some small, the lights bobbed like a swarm of jellyfish, paper-thin bodies suspended by, ah…

Yup. Just as she thought. Nothing. Not a cable or safely net in sight.

Too bad, really. She could have used one.

Not that she thought the globes would fall or anything. It was magic up there, a swaying extravaganza of glory, glory, hallelujah without end. So the net she needed was all about her…to catch her sorry butt when she took a header and fell into the bottomless pit called Trouble. With one foot already planted in the abyss, she could’ve thought of a way to pull herself out…if she’d been alone. But she couldn’t run with a baby. Not without a circus-size safety net, which meant she was pretty much screwed.

Bastian knew it. She did, too.

So…one way to go, then.

Done with the pity party—and the crying—her priorities realigned. The newborn needed attention. The medical kind that included a neonatal incubator, diapers, clothes, and infant formula. He’d been born in less than ideal circumstances. Okay, now whom was she kidding? The environment had been nightmarish: unsanitary, stress-filled, and bloody. The fact he was so quiet—sleeping so soundly after all that—worried her. He wasn’t injured, at least, not on the outside. But inside? Many things could be wrong: brain injury, internal bleeding, any number of preemie malformations.

Myst’s throat went tight. She threw another prayer into the universe.
Please, God…don’t let it be anything like that.

Losing Caroline had been torture enough. She couldn’t lose the baby, too.

Kicking her nurse back into gear, she pushed the terrible memory away and dragged her attention from the tufts of curling dark hair on her angel’s head to look at Bastian. “I need something from my trunk.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction.

That was all it took. She started babbling, “A bag…with baby stuff. Medical stuff. You know, a stethoscope and ah…formula, diapers, and—”

“We have all you need inside the lair.” He slid left, powerful body keeping pace with her as she inched toward the back end of her car.

“I want my own equipment.”

He hesitated, his gaze not only locked on her, but loaded with warning.

“Please,” she whispered, unwilling to waste anymore time. What did he think she had back there? A sawed-off shotgun? Well, that was definitely going on her wish list when she got out of this mess. But here and now? It was all about the newborn…about getting him what he needed. Bastian and his mistrust could go to hell. “I need my own stuff. I trust it.”

He nodded, the movement tight. “Fair enough.”

Myst exhaled long and slow, a thank you on the tip of her tongue. She swallowed it. Reasonable or not, Bastian didn’t deserve her gratitude. Heading around the back bumper, she almost lost control and snorted. Yeah, right. What he deserved was a boot to the gonads…a swift, hard, very accurate dropkick.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” he said, beating her to the back of the car. With a flick, he popped the trunk latch. A ssssssss sounded as the air hinges did their job, raising the hatch while her mouth hung open. She snapped it closed so hard her teeth clicked together.

What the heck had just happened? Had he—

“A word to the wise,
bellmia
. I’m well aware of what you think of me.”

A horrible thought took hold. Was it possible…could he…

“Are you reading my mind?”

He shrugged.

And well, wasn’t that a big, fat yes. Somehow, his ability to read minds didn’t surprise her…which surprised her. She must be getting used to all his hocus-pocus. Being airlifted while in a car by a dragon could do that to a girl. Still, it didn’t mean she liked it.

“Stop it.” She glared at him, her snarl factor hitting double digits. “My thoughts are private…not for you or anyone else.”

“As you wish,” he murmured, all
Princess Bride,
as he took inventory of her trunk. “Which one?”

What? Oh, right. The bag. “The small blue one. And I mean it, Bastian. It’s an unfair advantage. Don’t even try to—”

“You want ground rules?” His big hand curled around the bag’s straps, lifting it out on an arcing swing.

“No. I want my freedom back.”

“Too late for that.” The bag slung over his shoulder, he strode past her, heading for who-knew-where. His scent followed, all the gorgeousness of Lanvin cologne enveloping her with an erotic twist. “Come. We’ve wasted enough time here.”

With a grumble, she followed, trailing in his wake, calling him every nasty name she could think of, hoping like hell he was reading her mind. And that his ears were burning. Maybe if she tried hard enough, all the cerebral screaming would make him deaf—or drive him insane—without her uttering a single word.

Would serve him right.

On so many levels.

All because she was trapped.

As Bastian’s heavy boots echoed across the vastness—walking her closer to prison and further from independence—Myst struggled to keep herself together. The life she knew was over. He was taking away everything she loved: her friends, her job, her life.

None of it was fair. Not much of it made sense. At least, not yet. This world—the one Bastian and his friends occupied—was not, and never would be, hers.

The urge to let loose and scream almost overwhelmed her. But hysterics wouldn’t get her anywhere but teary-eyed. And honestly? Becoming an emotional mess over her loss was about as productive as having a stroke. Not the best if she wanted to keep her brain in the ON position.

Halfway across the cavern, Myst checked the baby again. Looked at his small face, made sure…

Her heart skipped a beat. Was he even breathing?

Her pace slowed to a shuffle as she slid her hand past the fleece lining to touch his chest. He was warm and…thank God! His little ribcage expanded. Myst inhaled hard, more gasp than actual breath, and turned her attention to finding his pulse. The fast, steady beat reassured her. Okay, no need to lose it. He was still—

“He’s all right, Myst.”

Her throat so tight she could hardly breathe, she glanced up to find Bastian watching her. “I’m so afraid for him.”

“He’s healthy.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me.”

And there it was again—the appeal—and despite everything, she wanted to trust him. Under normal circumstances, she would’ve given what he asked. But tonight wasn’t normal. And no matter how trustworthy he acted, she knew he could turn on her in an instant.

So…no. Trusting him wasn’t on her to-do list.

She forced herself to nod anyway—to play submissive to his dominant—and made herself follow him. Their footfalls echoed in the cavern, taking up space inside her head. Adjusting her raincoat around the baby, she studied her surroundings, paying close attention to the details…all the small things that might make a big difference later on. Things like the width of the cave, the number of stalagmites near the back, and the almost hidden ledge that hugged the side wall and met the landing platform. She measured its narrowness, followed its line as it disappeared into the tunnel leading toward the river. That could be a way out, but…

She’d need a few things before attempting it. A flash-light, for one. A baby carrier, for another. Having her hands free would become a necessity among jagged outcroppings and slick rocks. What else? A waterproof jacket would be good: sturdy boots, warm clothes for both her and the baby. A compass, maybe. A few power bars for her, bottles and formula for him. Add some extra diapers and she’d be set.

Yeah, that was definitely doable.

Hope picked up her heart, lifting her mood. She chanced a quick peek at Bastian. About five feet in front of her, he stared at her over his shoulder: eyes narrowed, brows drawn tight, an unhappy expression on his face.

Oh, crap. Had he read her mind on that one, too?

Leather creaked as he rolled his shoulders. As far as statements went, it was an excellent one. It showcased his strength, put it up front along with the unholy light in his eyes. “Stop planning your escape. Once inside, there is no way out of Black Diamond.”

Okay, so that answered the whole thought-poaching thing. “I asked you not to do that.”

He raised a brow. “I’ll stop…when you start to behave.”

“I am behaving.”

He snorted.

She huffed. “I’m following you, aren’t I?”

He uh-hummed, and she wished she had something to throw at him. Like a crowbar.

Stopping in front of a solid wall, he held out his hands. “Give me the infant.”

“No.” The
he’s mine
went unspoken as she hugged the baby closer to her chest.

“I’ll give him right back,
bellmia
.” The soles of his boots scraping against the granite floor, he pivoted to face her, expression full of understanding. “He
is
yours, but he will not survive the portal without protection. Look behind me.”

Myst retreated another step as the wall behind Bastian became a wavy, indistinct blur. She swallowed. “We have to…”

“Walk through it,” he said, finishing her sentence. “It will be hard enough on you, but the infant will not survive unless I am holding him.”

“H-how—”

“Magic…I’ll cocoon him in the equivalent of a human air lock.”

“He’ll be protected?”

“One hundred percent.” Stepping toward her, he held out his arms. “I’ll be gentle, Myst. He’s not the first infant I’ve had the privilege of holding.”

The privilege
. She bit her bottom lip, vacillating. As much as she hated to admit it, his sincerity convinced her. Still, as she handed over her angel—as she gave up his warmth—her heart beat triple time, fear and loss moving through her like poison.

True to his word, Bastian handled the newborn with care, supporting his head, settling him gently in the crook of his arm. “Come,
bellmia
. Take my hand.”

Taking a deep breath, she slipped her hand into his much larger one, flinching at the contact. Palm to palm wasn’t something she wanted to do with him. Touching Bastian was simply too intense…way beyond her comfort zone. And more than she could handle.

“Take a deep breath.” He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze locking onto hers over the wide expanse of black leather. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. We’ll pass through quick, but…”

“But?”

“It won’t be pleasant for you.”

Terrific. Just what she needed…more pain. “Bastian, why don’t we just go another way? I don’t think I can—”

He squeezed her hand. “You can take it.”

Without giving her a chance to protest, he tightened his grip on her and tugged. She sucked in a quick breath, holding on tight as he drew her toward the wall. Rippling like water, the stone hissed, humming like an electrical station…reminding her of chain-link fences and big signs that read “High Voltage. Keep Out.”

Bastian gave her another squeeze. She muttered a curse as the first wave of static electricity hit. The current arced, raising the hair on her forearms, attacking her spine as it went head to head with her central nervous system. As the spasm hit, muscles tightened over her bones. Gasping, she clung to Bastian, double fisting his hand, stumbling behind him, hopping back on the name-calling train—big jerk, bonehead, Neanderthal dragon-man all took a turn on her mental wheel. God, she sucked at this…needed a whole lot of practice in the insult arena. Maybe an urban dictionary—the one rappers used—would help with that shortcoming. Maybe—

An electro-pulse zapped the air out of her lungs. A howling burst of frigid wind followed, tearing at her already mangled braid. As the tendrils flew around her head, the terrible prickling sensation showed no mercy. Her muscles cramped, shooting pain from the soles of her feet, up her spine, to the back of her head.

Holy crap. This was…so not…normal.

She choked on empty lungs. Her vision shorted out, going dark and then light, flickering like a schizophrenic lightbulb. She blinked fast, then gave up and squeezed her eyes shut, forcing one foot in front of the other.

Dear God, when would the nastiness end?

The smell of stagnant water in the cave faded. Something pungent and clean stepped into the void. Heavy on the antiseptic, the scent reminded Myst of the hospital…of pine floor cleaner and surgical soap.

“All right?”

She shook her head as Bastian slid his arm around her. Leaning into his heat, she settled her cheek against his shoulder, feeling sick to her stomach and blank in the head.
Breathe.
In. Out. In. Out. She followed the pattern, curling her hands in Bastian’s coat, unlocking her lungs one gasp at a time. Little by little, the pinwheeling stopped and the kaleidoscoping color faded into dark spots.

“Bastian?” His name came out on a weak exhalation, raspy and unhinged.

“Yeah.”

“I can’t see.”

“Give it a minute.” His voice came soft, and his breath warm against her ear. “The doorway is a little intense if you’re not used to it. Keep your eyes closed. Concentrate on breathing instead of seeing. It’ll come.”

“Is he all right?” she asked, tasting the bile poised at the back of her throat.

“Came through like a champ.”

Relief rolled through her as she listened to his voice and took his direction…even though she wanted to punch him instead.
Just breathe
. What kind of advice was that anyway? The stupid kind, and nowhere near sufficient for what she’d just stepped through. Score another point on the jerk-o-meter for Bastian. He was already up to two million, and the number just kept climbing. Especially when he was playing the whole savior angle…
playing
being the operative word.

“You know, the whole nice routine?” Pressed up against him, her voice came out muffled, but at least she sounded better, more steady, less shaken. Thank God. “You might as well drop it. I’m not going to forgive you for kidnapping me…ever.”