The Reunited (8 page)

Their faces—
aw, fuck
 . . . their faces.

Got to help . . .

Jillian’s thoughts, her fears, they were a desperate cry in the back of his mind as face after face circled through his mind.

There was a woman. Head bowed. Dark hair streaming around her shoulders.
He’s killing them . . . killing me . . . we can’t stop it . . .

We’ll stop it,
Joss wanted to tell her.
Look at me . . . let me see your face
 . . .

But then she was gone, as ephemeral as mist as, try as he might, he couldn’t bring her back.

Jillian’s voice continued to whisper, incomprehensible . . . what was she saying . . .
names?
It was almost a rhyme, he thought. But not quite.

Abruptly, the chaos in her mind came to a slamming halt and there was a man.

Everything stopped. And it was like time and space fell away. He and Jillian were no longer in that room, no longer in that hotel. They were somewhere else. He could hear laughter, screams. Smell the heat of the summer sun baking on the sidewalks. Cotton candy and cookies and ice cream . . .

“What is this?” he muttered.

“It was here,” Jillian said.

He flinched and looked over at the girl.

She stared straight ahead.

Automatically, he followed the line of her sight, startled to realize he could actually do it—it was so fucking real. Nothing like this had ever happened before when he’d synched to anybody. Blips of memory, yeah, but this wasn’t a blip. This was like a 3-D flashback from hell.

“It was here when I saw him. That was when it all started,” Jillian said. She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest. Thin arms, skinny, narrow body, hovering just at the verge of womanhood. She looked so young, Joss realized. So afraid.

It was instinct that made him turn his head and look down at her, wrap his own arm around those narrow shoulders. “Who is he?”

“The one who takes them.” She swallowed, staring at the back of the man’s head. It was a bright, cheerful place . . . and yet all Jillian could hear were screams. All she could feel was pain. It was like the man had an imprint of his own, and Jillian was keyed into it. And because she was, now Joss was as well. “He takes them. He sells them. He buys them. He gives them away. It’s like we’re nothing but toys to him. And I can’t see him well enough to stop him.”

A harsh sob ripped through her, and she covered her face with her hands. “All I had to do was run up there and look at him, but I was too afraid.”

Joss rubbed his hand down Jillian’s narrow back. “Does he sound like that when you look at him? Feel like that?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “It’s awful.”

“Then you did the right thing. There’s no way I’d go running up to somebody like that, if I were in your shoes. You called for the big guns.” He hugged her tight.

“I could have found Mom. Said something to her. She could have tried to find him . . .”

“Hey, I said you called in the big guns. Your mom is a tough cookie, but when you’ve got a big monster, you go for the biggest weapon you have. That’s Jones.” He continued to stare at the man, committing everything he could to memory, although he knew this was just a memory—a child’s memory—and it was entirely possible, and likely, that Jillian wasn’t recalling things clearly.

White male. Blond. Possibly around six feet, but hard to say from a distance. Lean build. Suit.

“A monster,” Jillian whispered again. And the chaos of her mind returned, and the crystalline clarity of the memory started to fracture. It hazed, covered by a wash of blood.

He’ll kill them . . .

That whisper echoed through him, growing in volume until it was a roar. And then, just like that, it was done. Over and done.

It was one thing he couldn’t quite define, knowing the sync had completed, that he’d been fully imprinted with the needed gift. Maybe it was just an instinctive thing, but as Jillian’s voice continued to echo through his mind, he tore away from her, shoving away from the table. He stumbled exactly three steps before he went to his knees.

Then his hands came out, just barely catching himself before he would have smashed his face into the ground.

He’ll kill them, Joss . . .

For long moments, he hovered there, the neurons in his brain all but shrieking from the overload.
Too much, too much, too much
—

Cold whispers danced down his spine, and he shoved a wall up. No time to deal with the ghosts just yet, and fortunately, that was one mess he knew how to handle. He could shut it off better than Dez could, too, maybe because he was a callous son of a bitch who wouldn’t have to handle having a ghost haunt him for the rest of his life.

Groaning, he eased into a sitting position and buried his face in his hands while the voices continued to shriek in his mind. Too many. Coming from everywhere.

Even Jillian’s carefully soft voice was too loud.

Dez was at the table, staring at him, and through her eyes, he was treated to a visual of how he looked—
Damn, he’s white as a ghost himself now. What in the hell . . .

Her mental voice was just too loud, though. Too loud, too much. Had to shut it down. Carefully, he eased up thicker shields, although it just barely managed to muffle the louder voices coming from Dez and people out in the hallway and surrounding rooms.

“How do you block them out?” Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on that one minor thing. Had to do that first or he’d go crazy. Everybody worked differently and he needed to know what worked for her.

“Doors,” Jillian said simply.

He nodded and pictured one giant, motherfucking door, slamming shut. The cacophonic noise inside his head faded to a dull roar.

“Thank God.” He swiped shaking hands down his sweating face. It wasn’t enough, nowhere near enough, but it was a start. The second he closed his eyes, he saw that flash again, that man. And he wondered if Jillian could sleep without nightmares about him.

“Where were you?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

She closed her eyes and lowered her head, resting it on the table. “Disney World. Mom and Dad took me to Disney World. We were by the castle when I saw him.”

He wanted to puke.

The memory of her terror, as she stood in a place that should have just held joy.

Just a kid.

But he realized she was right. She had more control than he did, because she’d been living with that horror in her mind. Somehow. And it hadn’t broken her.

The weight of her gift was a pressure inside his skull, stretching and moving inside him like a leviathan, and he didn’t know if he could contain it. Even with the presence of that door in his mind, he could feel everybody, and it was too much.

Dez, Taige, Jones. An odd blank spot that he recognized as Jillian’s father, only because he’d inherited that recognition from Jilly. Spread out, all around him, like stars in the night sky, were others.

“Show me how you shut your door,” he said gruffly. He’d work on the technique until he had one that suited him, but for now, he’d take the cues from her.

Jillian’s mind opened for him. Welcomed him. And he saw the door . . . it was like a stone gate, massive and immense, one that moved easily at her command. And when it was in place, the presence of others settled into the background.

Carefully, he climbed to his feet, still staring at Jillian.

Before she opened her mouth, he knew she would ask.

And even as the words formed in her mind, he knew the question.

“Can you stop him?” she was asking . . .

Even as he was answering, “I don’t know. But I’ll do it or die trying.”

She nodded.

Dez, unaffected, rose from the table.

There was a heavy, strained silence as she moved to open the door for him. As she turned to give him a sympathetic look, he kept his focus on his feet. On the floor. Just one step, then another.
That’s it . . . one step, then another . . .

All the way down the hall, to the elevator.

He kept that right up until he was in his room, right up until he hit the nicely stocked minibar.

There, he hit the alcohol and did it without feeling any shred of guilt at all. With a normal sync, it could take a good twelve to twenty-four hours to adjust, sometimes more. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t even in left field. It shot clear past left field, hurtling into unknown territory. For all he knew, he’d be a wreck for the next week.

No. Not acceptable
, he thought dully. Not with all these screams. Not with all this pain. Not with the whispers of the dead dancing across his skin.

But he could damn well take a few hours and get shit-faced drunk as he struggled to deal with this, while he tried to process the horror that the little girl had been living with . . . combined with the cries of the ghosts that haunted Desiree Jones.

If he got through this without losing his mind, or without turning into a bona fide alcoholic, it would be a fucking miracle.

EIGHT

"Y
OU
going to talk to me?”

It was hours later.

Jillian had fallen asleep, and Taige had stayed by her side until she knew the girl was sleeping.

Even now, she was having a hard time not going into the teen’s room to check on her.
Should have stayed in there
, she thought sourly as Cullen cut her off just outside their daughter’s room.

Chicken
. Damn straight.

Sometimes it wasn’t always a bad thing to back away from an ugly fight. Especially when she knew she might say things that would leave bruises. Or when she’d hear things that would bruise
her
.

But he wouldn’t leave it be, so fine.

They’d have their fight.

Carefully, she closed the door, reaching out once more with her mind to check on Jillian. The girl was asleep, sound asleep, probably for the first time in months. A lash of guilt hit Taige, full across the heart. It wasn’t unusual for Jillian to have problems sleeping. Between her gifts and her nightmares, she’d have spells when the restlessness got bad, when she’d sleep for only a few hours. So they’d take her to her therapist, do whatever they could to help get her through whatever was bothering her.

And they’d done that.

But it hadn’t been enough because Taige hadn’t seen just how much worse it was this time. Over the past few years, Jilly’s gift had grown so much and her shielding . . . hell. She left Taige in the dirt and she’d been hiding so much of this. What Taige didn’t understand was
why
she’d been hiding. Although considering how Cullen had reacted to today’s events? Yeah. Maybe she did understand why.

Worry about this later
, she told herself as she made her way into the sitting room. It was on the far side of the suite, and hopefully they could be quiet enough to keep from waking the girl.

Taige layered her shields down tight, knowing that was the only way to keep from leaking over on the girl. Cullen wasn’t an issue. She could pick up odd and random thoughts, but she almost always had to be touching him and
looking
for those thoughts. It wasn’t much different with Jillian. He was practically a psychic null.

Made it easier to have it out with him—that was for certain.

Flinging herself into a chair, she crossed her legs and stared up at him. Anger and frustration chewed a hole inside her. Underneath all of that there was hurt. He actually thought she’d do anything that would let Jilly get hurt.

“So, get it out,” she drawled, smiling at him.

“Get what out?” Cullen crossed his arms over his chest, staring at her like he wasn’t exactly sure which way to go from here.

“You want to lay into me over what’s going on, I’m sure. Have at it.” She pretended to study her nails. A few days ago, she’d decided to have a “girl’s day” with Jillian, hoping to cheer the kid up. She’d been bored out of her mind, and Jillian had figured that out about halfway through the manicure, but they’d finished up. Then they’d gone to the beach instead of getting a pedicure. The pale, silvery bluish-green was starting to chip a little. A waste of money, Taige thought. Pretty. But a waste of money.

“I . . . shit. Taige, are you going to look at me or admire your manicure?”

She studied him from under her lashes. “Cullen, I’m tired. It’s been a lousy few days, and I want to go to bed. So if you have something to say, please say it. Otherwise . . .”

His mouth opened. Closed. His lids drooped, shielding the lovely blue-green of his eyes. “You ever feel like making things easy, Taige?”

“Sure. I’ll make this easy.” She got up off the couch and sauntered past him. “Good night. Let me know when you decide to stop being an ass.”

She was five inches past him when he caught her arm.

As he whirled her around to face him, she blanked her expression. “Come on, Taige, would you cut me some slack? The last time that bastard was near my daughter, I’d just gotten her back. I’d almost lost you. He’d been pushing and probing at her head and . . .”

*   *   *

T
HE
warm, smooth gold of her skin had gone pale.

After all these years together, Cullen knew when he’d hurt her, but he didn’t quite realize what he’d done.

Snapping his mouth shut, he tugged her close. “What now, baby?” Stroking her hair back from her face, he dipped his head, nuzzling her neck.

Taige stood woodenly, her body rigid. Unyielding.

Groaning, Cullen dropped his head and rested it on her shoulder. “Taige, darlin’, you need to remember, I can’t read your mind. I don’t know what you’re thinking unless you tell me.”

Without saying a word, she extricated herself from his arms.

Unable to do anything but let go, Cullen stood. Frustrated, he opened his hands, closed them.

What in the hell had he done now . . .

“She’s my daughter, too,” Taige said quietly. “I know I didn’t give birth to her, but she’s my baby, and sometimes I think you forget how much I love her. Sometimes . . .” Her voice trembled, shuddered. Then she took a deep breath and said again, her voice steady once more, “Sometimes I think you forget that we both agreed to do this together. I’d die before I’d do anything that would harm her. But you don’t seem to think that. You lump me in the same class you’ve placed Taylor in.”

Then she sighed and shoved her hair back from her face. “But here’s the thing . . . I know you hate him. God knows I’ve had my differences with him. But he understands something about people like me and Jillian. What he’s doing right now will probably keep her from going insane—she saw too much this time, Cullen. And it almost broke her.” She slanted a look at him, her gray eyes as cold as ice. “So think about that the next time you decide to demonize him. He’s an icy piece of work, but he understands what this shit can do to people like me, like Jillian. I don’t like his methods, and heaven help him if he seeks her out. But he understand how it haunts us . . . he knows it’s a hell we live with. He could have worked this solo, figured out another way to go forward. But he knew she needed to be a part of it. This was the only
safe
way she could do it.”

While his mind whirled, tried to process that, she shut the door.

She saw too much.

Almost broke her.

By the time he could even think of anything to say, his legs were numb, his heart too heavy.

“Taige . . .”

But when he went to his wife, she wasn’t there.

She’d settled down in the bedroom where their daughter slept.

Leaving him out there.

Alone.

*   *   *

S
HE
stood on the bridge, gazing down into the lake.

It was her birthday, and she was spending it in the only place she could imagine being.

Here . . . where she’d spent so many days with him.

The agony was so great, Amelie just didn’t think she could take it anymore. Each day, she thought maybe, just maybe it would be the day she decided she was done. But she was almost certain today was
the
day. She’d even dressed for it, wearing a walking suit of black. The jet beads on it caught what little light managed to filter through the clouds, but she barely noticed.

Her mother had asked her how much longer she’d insist on wearing mourning colors. Amelie had answered, “When I no longer feel as though I’m in mourning.”

That time would never come, although she knew she’d have to stop soon. Her parents indulged her, and secretly, she suspected her mother and father were pleased to see her small defiance of Richard. They cared for him as little as she did.

She hoped they’d forgive her if she . . .

No. She wasn’t going to think about it yet.

There had been a great deal of rain lately and the water level was higher than normal. Even now the rain fell in a slow, steady drizzle from the leaden skies. An echo of how she felt inside, she thought. How she’d felt ever since that awful day two months earlier. When she’d watched as Richard lifted a gun, pointed it at a man’s back. Pulled the trigger.

The day he’d killed the man she loved.

It had been here. Odd that she still found comfort here, in this place where he’d died. Where Richard had his men throw the still, pale body of her love into the lake. No body to be buried, no grave for her visit.

All she had were her memories.

Memories that continued to burn so brightly even after two months.

Two months . . . yet it felt like an entire lifetime.

“I told you to stop coming here.”

Looking back, she saw Richard dismount from his horse. A frisson of fear shivered through her, but it passed quickly, and that numbness settled over her once more and she went back to staring at Thom’s resting place.

Perhaps it was fitting, though. He’d always loved it on the water . . .

“Did you hear me? I told you to stop coming here. And enough with the mourning rags,” he snarled. “You were not married to him. You’ll stop this nonsense, Amelie.”

Hard hands grabbed her, forced her around. With dull eyes, she stared at him. “You cannot stop me. You cannot dictate how I dress, where I choose to go.”

He let her go, but the relief she felt lasted just a moment—pain replaced it and she cried out as he struck her across the face. She fell, tumbling to the ground. “You foolish woman. Haven’t you learned yet?”

Learned . . . oh, yes. She’d learned. Through the tears, she stared at him, hoping he could see just how much she hated him. “Learned what?” she spit out. “How much I hate you? Yes. I’ve learned that.”

As he drove his booted foot into her belly, she cried out. Her stays didn’t offer much protection, and her breath gusted out of her in rush. Wheezing, gasping for air, she huddled there, tears leaking out of her eyes as he crouched at her side. “Are you such a silly girl that you don’t realize what I could do to you? I could kill you. As easy as that and not a soul would say a word . . .”

Kill me, then
, she thought.
Just do it. End this.

But even as she thought that, another thought came to mind. The knife. Thom’s knife. Tucked inside her beaded reticule, almost too large for the pretty, delicate bag she carried on her wrist.

How she longed to grab the knife, use it on Richard.

Did she truly want to die?

Or did she want to see
him
die?

*   *   *

S
TARING
at the reflection of her dull face, Dru rested her hands on the counter and tried to think past the headache pounding behind her eyes. The nightmares had been bad, and getting worse lately, but this one . . . bloody fuck, it had been worse than normal. And she couldn’t even grasp a thread of the dream this time.

A sense of grief. Loss. And then hatred. A blinding, unending hatred . . .

But nothing real. Nothing solid that she could grasp.

It terrified her, those black, uncertain nightmares. She dreaded sleep.

Feared closing her eyes. But at the same time, it was almost like she
had
to poke at those dreams. Had to understand them, or try to. What if the dream was tied into what she was doing and she
needed
to know what was hidden inside it?

Groaning, she bent over the sink and splashed water on her face. It wouldn’t do much to help with the headache, but maybe it would clear the cobwebs from her brain. Once she’d handled that, she could decide if she wanted to do anything about looking like death warmed over.

Although she suspected she wouldn’t.

One of her minor skirmishes in her losing battle against her fiancé. He’d hate taking her out looking like this, but he’d never get here in time to do much more than bitch. And he was too anal to reschedule, too. The wedding was getting close, and after all, they did need to make sure her dress fit.

He could damn well take her out with her face the color of a two-day-old corpse and all that rot. She’d take care of her hair, change her clothes, because otherwise, it would be pushing her luck, but she’d still look horrid. And she was just fine with that.

Hopefully, he’d be so aggravated with her, she could try on the damn dress and then come back here and sleep.

All she had to do was get through the bloody fitting.

*   *   *

T
HE
damn thing didn’t fit. It was too loose across her breasts, meager as they were, too loose in her waist.

“She’s lost weight,” the designer said, his pretty face unhappy. He shot Patrick a worried look and then looked back at Dru. “Oh, honey, you haven’t been crash dieting, have you? You look absolutely perfect as you are. Then you go and lose weight. I’ll have to take the dress in and it may not—”

“Don’t worry about taking the dress in.” Patrick stared at Dru with intense eyes. “We’ll just have to make sure she puts the weight back on.”

The designer was oblivious. He tugged here, pinched there. “Maybe if I try this . . .”

The look in Patrick’s eyes grew icy as he stared at the designer’s back. Suppressing a shiver, Dru touched the designer’s shoulder. “Seth, please don’t worry. It’s only a few pounds. It was silly of me to try and lose so much weight this close to the wedding. I didn’t think it would make such a difference.”

“You
were
crash dieting, weren’t you?” Seth straightened, glaring at her with accusatory eyes. The pained panic in those green eyes was just plain pathetic, she thought. One might think she’d ruined
his
wedding.

Giving him another smile, she said, “Not exactly.” She couldn’t call it crash dieting. She just didn’t eat, because she wasn’t hungry. After all, how hungry could she be, sitting next to the monster she was expecting to marry for breakfast, for dinner . . . sometimes he even expected her to eat lunch with him. Every touch was a reminder of what was to come, and her appetite had faded away to nothing.

She’d have to eat, though. That was all there was to it.