Race the Darkness (16 page)

What the fuck was that all about? The guy never said a word. The frequency connection never opened. And Xander was left with even more questions. He'd have to ask Kent to pry into the guy. If for no other reason than Xander wanted—no, needed—to find out why the guy kept visiting the totem.

He turned his attention to the carving.

As always, the animal stood on his hind legs, big and lethal looking. Lips drawn back to display deadly teeth. Eyes blazing hollow blackness. If animals were capable of facial expressions, this one looked pissed off. Funny how he had never noticed that before. It was hard to miss.

Xander got back in his truck, pulled out onto the road, and began his descent toward the driveway at the bottom of the hill.

A black sedan was parked along the median across from the property. That a car would just be
randomly
sitting across from their driveway seemed odd. Xander pulled up next to the vehicle. From his perch inside the truck he could see it was empty. Maybe some asshole got tagged for drunk driving. Or maybe… His brain flashed to the hospital and that cross on Isleen's forehead and the way she said she hadn't been able to breathe and had thought Queen tried to hurt her.

Right there in the center of the road, Xander rolled down his window and shut off the engine. The night chorus flooded his ears, and hot, humid air instantly dampened his skin. He closed his eyes, listening for anything out of the ordinary, but all he heard was a small animal scrounging around in the ditch and something larger, probably a deer, up the hill picking its way down one of the ravines. Something about the abject normalcy didn't feel right to him.

He was being paranoid. His new truck started with more of purr than a growl—he'd fix that later—and he pulled away from the car and pedal-to-the-metaled up the driveway. All the while, he kept seeing Isleen lying in that hospital bed with that vile X on her forehead. Who would try to hurt Isleen? Queen was dead. And there was no link between her and Simon Smith or William Goodspeed.

He was probably just tired and not thinking clearly. Though last night while he'd held Isleen, he'd actually slept. And the night before in the hospital he'd slept. That had to be a personal best. Maybe guilt drove him—for all those years he heard her begging for help and didn't listen. Maybe this was his penance. Always feeling like he had to make certain she was safe.

At the main house, he jammed the brake a bit too hard, fishtailing and making fun furrows in the gravel. He'd just run in, check on her quick-like, then get the hell outta there. He'd already spent too much time in that house. He forced himself to walk at a normal pace up the porch steps to the front door. The knob turned too easily in his hand. Why wasn't the door locked? He walked in and felt like he'd been swallowed by a whale.

The ostentatious size of the house made him feel diminished, like the little boy he'd been when he lived here. The little boy whose father would never look at him or speak to him or acknowledge him in any way. Sweat slicked Xander's skin just thinking about it. But that was then, and right now he was here because of Isleen. After he checked on her, he wasn't setting foot in this place ever again.

He walked slowly so his boots wouldn't bang across the wood floor and alert the household that he was sneaking into Isleen's room. Up the stairs, down the hallway, past his old room to the room next to it, the room that used to belong to Shayla. How many nights had she let him crawl in bed with her when it was stormy, or he woke up scared, or just didn't want to be alone? Now that he thought about it from his adult perspective, she'd been the best big sister.

After Gale and Shayla left, he'd sometimes sneak into Shayla's room and climb in her bed, praying that they would come back and everything would go back to normal. There was a reason he no longer believed in God. If God wasn't there for brokenhearted little boys, he sure as hell wouldn't be there for grown-up assholes like himself.

He lifted his shoulder and wiped the sweat off his face. Fuck. Just remembering burned.

Her doorknob was cold against his fingers. One look and then he was gone. He poked his head in through the opening. The room was flooded in tarnished moonlight, the bed empty, covers tossed and tussled like she'd just been there. He swung the door wide. His heart galloped in his ears; his own breathing bellowed in and out of his lungs. The sound of his body was so alarmingly loud, he held his breath so his ears could find her.

And then he heard her. A soft sob and a sound of pain from the far side of the bed. No longer caring about the noise, he ran. He found her sitting slumped on the floor, the pretty, pale-blue sundress she'd worn that morning scrunched up around her thighs. Her eyes cut him to the core. They were wide open, staring down at a nothing space. Tears dripped in a steady flow, slicking her hands and splashing onto her dress.

She was having one of those dreams again. And this one looked like a real fucker. He crouched down to face her and then snagged her by the upper arms, yanking her up straight.

Her skin was arctic, while he felt volcanic. He could practically feel his own heat thawing her. “Isleen? Baby, wake up. You're dreaming.” He hated to do it, but it always seemed to work so he shook her, rattling her head around on her slender neck.

The tension eased from her muscles, and her eyes blinked and moved instead of being fixed on nothingness.

“You back?”

Her gaze shifted upward, her eyes brimming and overflowing, the tears a river of sorrow on her face. “Gran.” Her voice quavered. Her chin quivered. “Oh my God. Gran.” Her tone was filled with fear and horror. She wrenched out of his grip, turned, and scrambled on hands and knees until she got her feet beneath her, then sprinted out of the room.

What now? He'd thought she was awake. “Wait.” He chased after her, out the door and down the hallway. For such a tiny thing, she was damned fast. “Isleen. Stop.” His voice echoed through the cavernous house, and his boots slapping on the hardwood floor were mini-earthquakes of noise. What was going on?

“Xander? What the—” Matt's voice reached him, but he didn't have time or energy for a response. All his attention was focused on getting to Isleen before she hurt herself. He gained on her going down the stairs, the muscle memory of running down the stairs as a child taking over. At the bottom he reached out to her, but she darted behind the steps to Gale's room.

Isleen stopped in the middle of the room as quickly as if someone had hit her pause button. He crashed into her, sending her sprawling forward. Somehow he managed to grab on to her and haul her against his chest. He held her back against his front, her body limp and compliant, and he had a second—only a second—when he thought everything was going to be all right.

Then his gaze found the bed and the frail figure whose covers were pulled up over her head.

And then he noticed what he didn't hear: the rush and swoosh of Gale's heart pumping blood, or the suck and whine of air being processed through her lungs.

“No.” Isleen's voice was a whisper and a world of pain. “No. No.
No
.” Each
no
got louder. “
No!
” She screamed the word one final time and then just screamed, bucking and fighting in his arms to go to her grandmother's corpse. He wouldn't let her. She didn't need to see whatever was under those covers.

“Jesus!” Uncle Matt rushed by them to the bed.

Xander whipped around and half carried, half dragged Isleen out of the room. Dad rushed by, not even glancing at them.

Isleen bit, she clawed, she tried to kick him, but nothing was gonna make him let go. She'd had enough trauma in her life without seeing her grandmother in death. The sounds coming out of her were pure undiluted pain and brought wetness to his eyes.

“Baby, I'm here.” He didn't have any other words. Nothing to take away her grief. All he could give her was himself and the assurance that whatever she had to face, she wouldn't be doing it alone. “I'm here.”

“Gale, wake up.” Dad's voice carried out to them.

“I'm here,” Xander said to Isleen.

“Wake up.”

“I'm here.”

“Gale. Wake up.” Grief frayed the edges of Dad's voice. “I'm touching you. Wake up. Wake up. Wakeupwakeupwakeup…”

Isleen's muscles and bones seemed to melt. Xander lost his grip on her for a moment, then locked on tighter and hauled her up in his arms.

“You killed her!” Dad stood in the doorway, pointing his finger at them, but the way his eyes shot hate beams at Isleen, it was clear just who he meant.

“Don't. You. Ever accuse her of harming her grandmother. She was already dead when we found her.”

His father looked up at Xander, his face streaked with wetness. “I hate you for finding her. For bringing her back into my life. For making me go through this again.”

“No sweat off my balls. But don't you dare hate Isleen. She's the granddaughter of this woman you loved. She's innocent. And she needs you to help her. She's been having dreams that come true. And this was one of them.”

Three days later…

“Xan, she's had a break from reality.” Uncle Matt spoke the words real slow, as if allowing each syllable time to be absorbed before moving on to the next one. The asshole didn't even bother hiding that he thought Xander was a weak-minded fool.

The muscles between Xander's shoulder blades went taut. He rolled his neck, both hearing and feeling the snap-crackle of restrained pissed-off-ness.

They sat at Xander's kitchen table, Matt enticingly close—so close it'd be no trouble for Xander to pop his fist into the guy's too-perfect schnoz.

For shit's sake, she's practically catatonic.
Matt's thoughts were nothing Xander hadn't been hearing for a full three days. At least, when he chose to listen. He'd discovered that while within a certain proximity of Isleen, he could control what he heard and he never hurt. For the first time since the lightning strike, he could turn it off and on at will—the only silver lining in this funnel cloud of doom they were all swirling in. And he fucking hated storms.

“She isn't catatonic. She responds to me.” That was a half-truth, and he damned well knew it. The only time she responded to him was when he got in bed with her. She snuggled up into his body, clinging to him as if she were about to be swept away by a rushing current of pain. He would whisper, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm with you. I'm here with you.” He didn't know what else to say. Eventually, her grip on him would relax—not let go. Just relax.

“Dad's the one who's gone crazier than a tin of mixed nuts.” When Xander cared to listen to Matt and Row's thoughts, he heard all about Dad raving nonsense and trashing the house and the Institute. “There's a reason you're sitting here in my cabin, drinking my coffee. There's a reason Row is cooking in my kitchen, using my oven for her cinnamon rolls. Dad's lost his jacks, and neither of you want to be there. So don't tell me Isleen's the one with the problem.”

“Hush now and eat.” Row slid a plate in front of each of them. Her cinnamon rolls were a sweet nirvana and an effective diversion from the blowout he and Matt had been edging closer to for days. “I'll take one up to Isleen and see if I can get her to eat.”
If she doesn't eat—

Xander flipped the switch and turned off Row's thoughts. Control was a wonderful thing. He didn't need to hear any more about how worried Row was about Isleen. He had his own goddamned set of worries. There was no denying the situation was dire. She hadn't gotten out of bed in three days. Hadn't slept either. Not one wink. She just stared, but saying that wasn't accurate—to stare implied she was actually looking at something and she wasn't.

She'd barely eaten enough to keep a spring sparrow alive, and she wasn't talking. Not one word. But Xander clung like a burr to the fact that she sought comfort from him. She wasn't all gone. A piece of her remained.

They ate in the safety of silence, and Xander let his attention stray out the cabin's many windows. The sky was the color of sorrow. Birds didn't sing, branches didn't sway, leaves didn't rustle. It was kinda like the stillness of grief had pervaded the entire world.

Row came back downstairs and set the cinnamon roll on the counter. Only one bite was missing.

Matt's gaze landed on the uneaten roll, then bounced back and forth between their empty plates. “She needs to be evaluated by a psychiatrist.”

Part of Xander recognized the truth in his uncle's words. The other part said she just needed time.

“I've contacted Dr. Hendrix. He's a trauma specialist,” Matt said. “Once I explained Isleen was one of the women from the news, he agreed to make a house call this afternoon. After the funeral.”

A cold jet of energy zipped along Xander's scars. He recognized the feeling. The Bastard in His Brain was preparing for a performance. “By some miracle, her name hasn't yet been leaked to the media, and you pull this? It'll only take hours before the news vans are lined up at the end of the driveway.”

“He's a professional. A trauma specialist. He's dealt with this kind of thing before.”

“I don't fucking care if he's Sigmund Freud. You are not making decisions about her, her mental state, or her future. If he shows up, he better be an MMA championship fighter wearing a bulletproof vest.”

“You'd be content to allow her to continue this way? That”—Matt pointed over his head to Xander's loft bedroom—“isn't living.”

“You didn't see the shithole she was imprisoned in. You didn't see that bitch who held her captive. And you certainly will never see all the scars her body bears from what she's endured. She's been through the absolute worst life has had to offer, and she's going to come out the other side. She just needs time. And patience. Not you trying to force her into the nuthouse.”

“She
needs
treatment. Medication. Counseling.”

She needs me. I can heal her.
The words floated around inside his mouth tasting sweet and true, but Xander clenched his teeth and didn't let them loose. They sounded insane and would only be lighter fluid on Matt's flickering flame.

“Xan, I agree with your uncle.” Row had been strangely quiet for the past few days. She usually had too much to say on every topic and always sprinkled her language with expletives—unless she was upset. “You know I wouldn't say this if I didn't honestly believe it was the only way. You've given her time. She's not snapping out of this. How much longer are you going to let her deteriorate? You have to think about her physical health. She's already drastically underweight, and now she's barely eating.”

“I won't have her trading one prison for another.”

“The poor girl. What she went through… And Gale being…murdered… It's almost too much for me. I can't imagine what it's like for her.”

Wasn't that the mind fuck they were all dealing with? Someone had snuck onto the property, into the house, and poisoned Gale. The only lead was the black sedan parked at the end of the driveway, and that had led nowhere. Xander even had Kent find out if the tattooed consultant guy had seen anything. Nothing.

The BCI was beyond puzzled. Why take out Gale? She had dementia and memory problems. She was no threat. Isleen would've been the better target. Which scared the piss out of Xander—and he didn't do scared. The best the BCI could offer was an officer stationed at the end of the driveway, one outside the main house, and a guy outside Xander's cabin.

“I'll give her two more days. You refuse her treatment then, and I'll go through legal channels.” Matt shoved back from his seat.

A cold electrical burn seeped from Xander's scars outward, infusing the rest of him with its anger. The Bastard in His Brain spread, taking over cell by cell. “You're asshole enough to do that, aren't you?”

“I'm the only one
thinking
about this. I'm not bewitched like your father was with Gale or you are with her.”

Xander shoved back from his seat and stalked around the table to stand toe to toe, nose to nose with Matt. All he had to do was cock his arm back and let it fly. His hand curled into a fist. “You try to take her away from me, and I'll kill you.” He was surprised by the vehemence of his words, but not their meaning. He would kill anyone that tried to come between them.

“You want to fistfight over her?”

“We've fought over less.”

“Boys. Stop it. Right now.” Roweena shoved her way between the two of them. “Matt, leave. Xan, calm down. Nobody is going to do anything today. Today we're supposed to be saying good-bye to Gale.”

“We're not done.” Matt backed off and pointed at Xander. “Little boy, you need to wake up to what's really happening here.”

“You know what's really happening? I'll tell you, old man. You're jealous. Dad had Gale. Knew what it was like to be loved. Who have you ever had? Nobody you didn't
buy
and
pay
for. Not one person can tolerate you other than family. And we don't even like you very much.”

“Xander.” Row gasped his name as if he'd just shit on a holy relic. “That's low.”

Something dark and dangerous contorted Matt's features. Something that promised payment for that truism at a future date. Without another word, he left, slamming the door so hard on his way out that the thing bounced back and forth, unable to latch.

“You two.” Row sounded like an exasperated mother. “You're too much alike. That's why you've always locked horns.”

“We've locked horns because he's an asshole.”

“So are you,” Row said and headed for the staircase. “I'll go help Isleen get a bath and dressed.”

“Row?”

Row stopped at the bottom of the stairs, her face—the face of the only person who had ever loved him—turned to him, and he suddenly saw her age, every wrinkle cutting through her skin. The way her light-purple hair made her face sallow and almost sick looking. For the first time, her tattoos seemed garish and overdone. She was struggling as much as they all were. And he couldn't bear adding to her burden. “It's okay. I'll take care of her.”

“Xan, that's not right. I think she'd be more comfortable—”

He went to her, needing to give her a hug, the same way she used to always be able to sense when he needed one as a child. She squeezed him tight, and things seemed a bit better. Jeesh, maybe he was going pussy or something. But even that thought wasn't enough to make him pull away.

“Everything is just such a-a-a mess,” she said. “There's just so much bad. Gale being murdered in our home. I don't feel safe now. Your father is a raving, destructive lunatic. What the BCI officers must think of us. You and Matt are fighting. And Isleen…” A breathy hitch in Row's voice almost melted Xander's heart into an ooey-gooey mess.

“It'll be all right. Things will work themselves out.” The conviction in his tone surprised him. “We'll get a security system on the house. A gate at the end of the driveway. Dad will always be Dad. I'll try to not fight with Matt—as long as he doesn't…” He trailed off, not wanting to reignite his own anger. “Isleen's going to be all right. She just needs time. And to be with me. She feels safe with me. And that's something.”

“I understand about her and you.” She pulled out of his arms, then clasped his face between her hands, staring into his eyes. “I see so much of your father in you and so much of Gale in her.”

He tried to shake his head in denial that she would compare him to his father, but she held his cheeks in a vise grip.

“The biggest mistake your father ever made was allowing Gale to leave. The second biggest was never going after her. Don't make those same mistakes. Promise me you won't.”

The way she held his face mashed his lips together.

“I won't,” he said knowing full well that he was making fishy lips. “Promise.”

“Now say it again.”

“I won't. Promise.”

“Again.”

“Okay. Now you're just enjoying this.”

She laughed, patting him on the cheeks. “Wondered when you'd figure it out.” She stepped back and gestured toward the loft bedroom. “Are you sure you want to care for her?”

“I need to, and I think it's what she'd want,” he said softly, knowing Row would understand. “She's mine. My responsibility.”

“Okay. I already set out her clothes, and there's a small bag of her toiletries. You want me to swing by after I change and help you get her to the cemetery?”

“I've got her. We'll meet you there.” He walked Row out onto the porch. “Hopkins,” he said to the BCI guy hanging out on his porch swing. “See that she gets home.”

“Ms. McNeal, it would be my pleasure to be your escort this fine morning.” Hopkins held his arm out to Row like she was a fancy lady, causing her to giggle like a girl. Xander was going to have to thank the dude later for being exactly what Row needed at that moment.

Back in the house, Xander went upstairs to the bathroom. He turned on the shower, adjusted to the temperature until it was perfect, then set out the clothes Row had brought for Isleen.

Something had to change with Isleen. Row was right. Isleen's body couldn't handle losing any more weight. He went into the bedroom and sat next to his girl.

“Baby.” She didn't look at him. He threw back the covers. She still wore the blue sundress she'd been wearing the day everything went to shit. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bathroom. “You're going to take a shower. You're going to get dressed. And then I'm going to take you to your grandmother's funeral.” His voice was firmer than he intended.

Gently, he settled her on her feet, keeping hold of her until he felt that she was steady and then stepped back. “Now, get in the shower, wash, and get dressed.”

She didn't move or give any indication she understood his words. Maybe she just needed a little direction. By the hand, he guided her closer to the glass-enclosed shower. Without hesitation, she followed him, but that was it. She wasn't going to be able to do this on her own.

“Okay, we'll do this together.” He shucked his boots and shirt, then opened the glass door and stepped inside. The water soaked his jeans, sucking them against his legs like sodden weights, but he'd deal. “Come on, baby.” He held out his hand to her. All she had to do was reach out a few inches and… She stepped toward him. “Yes. Come on.”

The first pellets of water splashed against the side of her face and arm. She flinched away from them, but he pulled her in tight, shielding her, protecting her from something as simple as water. “It's okay. It's just the shower.”

She leaned into him, her arms sneaking around his waist. Everywhere their skin met was a miracle. Her touch perfectly comfortable in a way he'd never experienced. It soothed something inside him. Hopefully, something in her too.