What You Can't See (11 page)

Skye was pinned to the floor but looked right at him.

In her eyes, Anthony saw her pain and love and loneliness and, mostly, her trust.

Suddenly she screamed,
“NO!”
as her body arched in pain.

The demon’s hold on Anthony slipped. Anthony pushed back from the wall. Corinne grabbed Skye’s hair, held the knife to her throat.

The demon’s horrid face could be seen in Juan as he touched Skye. “Blood for my Master and two souls.”

Corinne brought the knife up and, chanting with the demon, aimed the tip for Skye’s heart.

Anthony tackled Corinne, threw her from the circle. The tip of the knife sliced his side. He grabbed her wrist, slammed it against the edge of a low table, hearing the bone crack.

The smell of smoke grew. In the struggle, candles fell and both the couch and the curtains ignited.

Anthony grabbed the knife and pulled from his belt a vial of holy water from the river Jordan. He poured the water on the knife; steam rose and the knife burned his hand. It was a demonic knife, one used in many deadly rituals.

And very likely one of the knives used in the massacre at the mission.

Anthony had one chance.

The demon grabbed Skye and held her to him. Her face twisted in pain. She struggled to breathe.

Anthony glanced to Skye’s right. She blinked once.

He raised the knife. “Let her go, Ianax!”

An unnatural voice rose from Juan’s throat. “Mine.”

Anthony felt his chest tighten. He threw the knife at the same time as Skye pivoted right. The demon’s hold on her was tight and she couldn’t get away. The fire grew around them, feeding on the fuel that was the house.

The knife missed her by an inch, landing exactly where Anthony aimed in Juan’s thigh.

The demon screeched, his head thrown back, and Skye fell to the floor. Thick black smoke shot out of Juan’s mouth, up to the ceiling, then with a shriek that made Anthony’s ears ring, the demon disappeared through the fire.

He would be back. Anthony had to get them out of the house.

“What have you done?” Corinne shouted.

As soon as the demon was gone, Skye could breathe. But the smoke was thick, the fire hot. She crawled over to Juan’s prone body.

“Juan!” she cried. The knife was in his leg and she knew it would be even more dangerous to attempt to remove it now.

“We have to get out now,” Anthony said, staggering toward her.

Blood soaked through the side of his shirt.

The ceiling began to collapse around them. Skye stood unsteadily, grabbed Juan under his arms, and dragged him toward the door.

Corinne blocked the door. “You will die with us!” she said. “And I’ll drag all your souls down to Hell!”

Anthony lunged at her, knocked her to the side. They fought and Anthony shouted, “Get out, Skye!”

Skye couldn’t leave Anthony. But Juan was unconscious.

She struggled to open the door, an ungodly scream echoing around them in the night sky. Coughing out smoke and taking in as much air as possible, she dragged Juan off the porch.

The house was engulfed in flames. She couldn’t see the sky through the smoke, but something looked off. The fire itself was red, the flames dense. The house seemed to be shrinking in front of her.

Anthony.

She ran up the steps and through the open door. Anthony was lying on the floor, unmoving.
No, no, no!
He’d saved her life. Again. She wasn’t going to let him die, not when she had so much to tell him.

It took all her strength to drag him out. The smoke weakened her, the fire burned her skin. She glanced at Corinne Davies, unconscious. She couldn’t see her daughter Lisa through the smoke, on the far side of the living room.

She couldn’t save them. She didn’t even know if she could save Anthony and herself.

“You are mine!”

The flames danced and whispered, a cacophony of heat and flames and burning wood and falling timber, but all Skye heard was the call of the demon.

“You are mine. You are mine. You are mine.”

Skye didn’t stop. She used strength she didn’t know she had to drag Anthony from the burning house. The porch collapsed as they crossed it, and Skye rolled down the stairs with Anthony. He grunted when they landed on the sandy soil.

“Anthony!” She crawled away, dragging him, feeling the house pulling her back. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the face of evil in the flames as an inhuman scream echoed through the night.

With a deafening roar, the house collapsed into itself, and nothing but the smoldering foundation remained.

Sirens pierced the air. “Anthony, Anthony, talk to me,” Skye whispered, her voice hoarse and dry from the smoke.

“Skye,” he murmured. “My Skye.”

She cried with relief. She kissed him, her hand touching his chest.

The blood.

She ripped open his shirt. A deep cut sliced open his lower abdomen. He’d lost so much blood already. It coated his shirt, her fingers. She pressed her hands on the wound, but it didn’t stop the bleeding.

“No, no!” She couldn’t lose him. “I’m sorry.”

“Do. You. Trust me?” His speech was labored.

“Yes, of course. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe—”

“Water in my pocket.”

“I don’t—”

“Hurry.”

She reached into his pockets. In one was a plastic bottle half full of a clear liquid. Water?

“Pour it. On the wound.”

“I don’t think—”

“Trust, my Skye.” He coughed.

Hands shaking, she unscrewed the cap. She smelled the liquid. Nothing.

She poured it over his wound. Before her eyes, the wound stopped bleeding. It seemed to…shrink.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

He reached for her, pulled her into the nook of his arm. “My faith, your trust.”

She relaxed in his arms. The sirens were closer, the lights of the rescue vehicles cutting across the cliff where the Davies house used to stand.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered.

“Never.”

She took his hand in hers, brought it to her lips. “I thought I’d lost you. I’m so alone, Anthony.”

“Not anymore.”

She turned her head, looked at his face. “What is this, Anthony? I feel complete. With you.”

He smiled. “We’re complete together. I love you, Skye.”

“You live in Italy.”

“I live with you.”

Realization hit her, but she didn’t want to believe. Didn’t want to be hurt. “But your life—”

He kissed the top of her head. “My life is with you. My soul belongs to you while I walk this earth. I am what I am, warts and all, but I am a man who believes in fate, a man who believes I came here for a reason. To save you.”

He kissed her again, his lips stealing her loneliness.

“I was a lonely man,” he whispered in her ear. “Until I saw you.”

Skye had never felt truly at peace, until now, lying in the nook of Anthony’s arm, being held, and holding.

Maybe, maybe she could believe in love.

S
KYE WATCHED
A
NTHONY
from afar. He stood in the middle of the rubble that had been the Santa Louisa de Los Padres Mission. His dark hair was pulled back into a leather band, his white shirt billowed in the wind, and his hands were outstretched.

He was the most beautiful creature who had ever walked on earth, and the knowledge that he was
hers,
that he loved her, that he wasn’t going to leave, had finally sunk in.

She’d had a lot of work this past week, rarely saw him, but he waited for her at her house each night. He made love to her with passion and tenderness, heat and softness, showing her a love she had not believed existed. Because Anthony was in her bed and in her heart, she could put aside the questions from her colleagues, the lawyers, the threats of lawsuits by Corinne Davies’s surviving family in Oregon, the forensic evidence that was still a puzzle because—except for Rod Fielding—she’d told no one about the demon, or her belief that supernatural forces were responsible for so much of the destruction.

As far as the public was concerned, Corrine and Lisa Davies had worked in conjunction with Jeremiah Hatch to poison the reclusive Santa Louisa priests until they committed suicide. The press had implied that it was a Catholic hate crime aimed specifically at the mission, and Skye did nothing to dissuade the rumors.

But there were still so many questions and evidence to sort through. Fielding and his team were scouring the ashes at the Davies house to identify remains. And even though Skye had heard the motive out of Corrine Davies’s own mouth—immortality—she had a difficult time accepting it. Without Anthony by her side, she would have believed everything she’d seen had been caused by drugs. But her eyes hadn’t deceived her.

With Anthony, she would not only survive but heal. She hoped Juan could as well. A very weak Juan had finally been released from the hospital that morning. He remembered everything that had happened, was tortured by his actions.

“It was the demon.” She had finally said it. And believed. She had seen the face of evil, and doubting Thomas was no more.

Juan still tortured himself. Anthony was talking with him daily. If anyone could help Juan, it was Anthony.

The funeral for the priests had been that morning, and Anthony and Skye were the last to leave. Anthony had insisted that the men, except Jeremiah Hatch, be buried at the mission. No one argued. Hatch’s body had been shipped overseas, for what purpose Skye didn’t know.

Anthony saw her watching him and waved. She stepped over the stones, to the rose garden that had—miraculously—been spared in the fire. Something else unexplainable that Skye was beginning to simply accept as part of her new life.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

“The demon didn’t get their souls, but I don’t know if they are at peace.”

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what Anthony meant exactly, but he was upset and that, in turn, saddened her.

“They may have a message, but they’re not sharing with me.”

“Like ghosts?”

He shrugged. “I should be grateful they’re not in Hell.”

She leaned up and kissed him. “You did everything you could.”

“Not everything.”

He was thinking about his friend Rafe Cooper. “The doctors said there’s nothing physical keeping him from making a recovery,” she said.

“I thought—I thought when Ianax was destroyed that Rafe would come out of the coma.”

She touched his handsome face, her finger gliding over the dark stone in his ear. “You did everything you could.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“He’ll recover. Have faith, Anthony.”

He opened his mouth, closed it. Smiled. “I love you, Skye.”

“I love you, too, Anthony Zaccardi.”

He pulled her to him. “I spoke with Father Philip earlier. He’s going to convince the historical preservation committee at the Vatican that I need to oversee the rebuilding of the mission.”

“You’re going to rebuild?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll need to stay in town.”

“I don’t have a place to live. I suppose I could go back to the inn.” His mouth turned up in a half grin.

She kissed him. “You already have a place to stay. As long as you want.”

He rubbed her back, ran a hand through her hair. Made her feel warm and loved and whole for the first time in her life.

“Is forever too long?” he murmured into her lips.

“Sounds just about right.”

H
OW COME SCIENTISTS
could build a fully functioning laboratory eighty miles above the earth, but couldn’t figure out a way to fix the L.A. freeway system? Chase Ryker had been on both, and the space station ran smoother than the 405—whose bumper-to-bumper congestion extended onto another freeway and all the way into Burbank.

He finally whipped the Porsche into the studio lot and announced himself to the guard, though he wasn’t scheduled to arrive until the next day.

“You’re on the list,” the young man said. “Tomorrow’s list.”

“I’ll wait at Ms. Killian’s trailer,” Chase said with the authoritative tone he’d perfected in the military.

The guard looked dubious, checking Chase’s ID a second time as if this had never occurred at his gate before. “Listen, I can’t let you go to her trailer, but this’ll get you into sound stage four and you can sit in the audience.” He held out a bright red pass.

Good man. He
shouldn’t
let anyone go to Arianna Killian’s dressing trailer, especially after dark. Security like this made his job easier. But could he push the kid? “I’m not that interested in the show, and I have an appointment.”

“For tomorrow,” the guard said. “Anyway, her show is great. People wait eighteen months to get tickets. You won’t believe it.”

No, he wouldn’t—that was certain. “All right. Thanks.” He took the map of the lot the guard offered and waited for the mesh gate to open.

Chase slid the map behind the visor, not needing it. He’d memorized the layout of the MetroNet studios, along with the roads in and out of the hillside neighborhood where Arianna Killian lived, the gym where she did Jnana Yoga, the natural-food restaurants she frequented, and the Santa Monica home of her widowed father that she visited almost every week. There wasn’t much he didn’t know logistically about the TV psychic, and he’d learned all of it on the plane down from San Francisco that morning. A photographic memory helped a lot in his job.

Another guard let him into the sound stage where the black and red logo for the show
Closure
hung over the door. Chase declined to sign a taping release, which the guard noted but didn’t question. Good thing. He had no intention of being on camera.

When a perky college-aged page took him to the audience seating area, he made a mental note that there was no metal detector to spot the Glock 19 that rested on his hip, hidden by a sports jacket. How many other people in this room packed? He scouted the crowd as the young lady escorted him to an empty seat at the end of the third row.

“There’s nothing in the back?” he asked.

“Oh, you’ll like it up here,” she assured him. “You have a better chance of getting her attention. Who are you here to talk to?”

“The host.”

“I mean, who have you lost? Who do you want Arianna to talk to?”

“No one.”

That earned him a surprised look. When she walked away, he covertly checked out the audience. These weren’t the celebrity-starved tourists who waited to see Jay Leno down the road. All around him, the audience wore expressions that ranged from expectation to raw pain. Many held hands, a few mumbled prayers.

All of them were there because they actually believed in the chance to have that final chat with someone on the other side. They all wanted
closure
. Talk about exploiting a ripe market.

Suddenly the stage blackened and a lonesome piano hit a few slow notes. When the lights came back up and the New Age music died down, the sound stage had two occupants—one, he had to admit, quite riveting.

No doubt about it, the woo-woo girl was pretty.

Not stunning by the extreme standards of Los Angeles, where even the garbage collectors harbored dreams of stardom. But she had an earthy, wild beauty that came as much from the playful glimmer in her emerald green eyes as the cascades of copper waves that fell over her shoulders.

“David,” she said, leaning toward the young man sitting across from her. “Don’t look so serious. This is supposed to be totally fun.” She trilled the
totally
and added a saucy wink. “I promise.”

David damn near melted.

She wore a wireless mic clipped to the V-neck of a buttercream-colored sweater that amplified her soft, feminine voice, and soft, feminine cleavage. All part of the carefully crafted package that had made her a media favorite. Charming, witty, adorable Arianna the TV psychic. But underneath the clingy clothes and sweet curves, despite the whimsical curls and the musical laugh, he’d bet there was a very shrewd businesswoman who knew exactly how to exploit human frailty.

The male guest on the set nodded, leaving his hand-print impressions on the leather armrest when he released his grip and wiped his palms on his trousers.

“Are you ready, David?”

“Oh, I’m ready,” he said. “I’ve been ready for two years.”

“Okay, then.” Arianna closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Let’s talk to Mary Jo.” A long moment of silence passed before she opened her eyes, a hint of a smile so sweet and subtle it had to be practiced a zillion times in front of a mirror. A smile that could sell anything. Even the idea of talking to the dead.

“She wants you to know that she appreciates what you’ve done for her dog.”

Oh, brother.
For this, he left the side of a Nobel scientist doing top-secret research on particle physics? But that was the nature of his job. And he’d do this one exactly like he’d done every other assignment: thoroughly.

She clasped her hands, twirling a ring on the left middle finger, her face serene and trancelike. “I’m getting something…with food. In the kitchen. Did Mary Jo like to cook?”

“God, yes. She was an amazing cook.”

Arianna held up her hand as though to silence him, but of course that just made it look like she was getting all her info from poor dead Mary Jo, when all she was doing was playing an elaborate game of Twenty Questions that would lead her exactly where she wanted to go.

Did Mary Jo like to cook?
That basically covered half the female population. Talking to the dead, according to the quick research he’d done this morning, was little more than a sophisticated form of Q&A and black magic.

He’d also learned that
Closure
had been running on MetroNet for eight months, and judging by the cost of a minute’s worth of advertising, plenty of people were tuning in to witness strangers have those last few words with the dearly departed. Of course, who wouldn’t pay big bucks for that last conversation? Even he could think of a few things he’d like to say to someone now gone.

The thought hit him hard, and he forced himself to concentrate on the woman he’d come to watch.

“Mary Jo wants you to know that…” She tilted her head up, no doubt to look like she was hearing voices from the grave, but it gave the camera a nice view of her face, oval and symmetrical, with a slightly upturned nose and a little cleft in her chin. A television face, smoothed by the hand of a makeup artist. She wore the creamy color from head to designer toe, no doubt to give her an angelic, ethereal look. It worked.

“There’s definitely something about the dog…”

“Skippy. Our spaniel. She adored him.”

“Skippy.” She cooed the name, as if the animal were right there begging for a treat. Then her expression turned compassionate and she leaned closer to David. “Was Skippy with her when she passed?”

David looked down, nodded, fighting tears. She reached over and touched his hand. “She wants you to be happy.”

The reading took fifteen excruciating minutes, but by the time she was done, David was persuaded that his dead wife condoned, even supported, his next marriage.

Arianna Killian was a fraud, no doubt about it. Charismatic, infectious, and really, really good at her game. But as fake as her cinnamon hair and long eyelashes.

When David joined his family, who all shared tearful, happy hugs, Arianna stood. The lighting changed, the atmosphere grew charged. All around him, people leaned forward, stared at her, silently mouthed words.

They all wanted to get picked. They all wanted their chance at
closure
.

Psychics who claimed to talk to the dead had been around for centuries, but few had turned the parlor game into a business this big. And very few, Chase thought as he watched the silk of her slacks slide over narrow hips and slender legs with every step, made it look so good.

Or fun. She bantered with an audience member. She made a joke to the cameraman following her. She teased, winked, giggled, and then, without warning, she stopped.

Not far from his section, her body language changed from lighthearted to serious. She began to scan the seats, giving him a chance to notice that under all that makeup, she probably had a dusting of freckles. And her curls had thin strands of gold woven into the red, just enough to look like she’d been sprinkled with glittery bronze.

She placed her hands on her hips and bit gently on a full lower lip. “Is there a…” She frowned, searching for a word. “A pilot here?”

He fought the urge to draw back in surprise at the bizarre, but lucky, guess.

A man one row in front of him sat up straighter. “I have a pilot’s license,” he said eagerly. “You must want me.”

Thank God there was a sucker in every crowd. Or in this case, in every seat.

She regarded the man for a moment, her eyes narrowed in thought, her index finger tapping the dip in her chin. “I don’t think so. It’s over here.” Her gaze moved to Chase’s section. “Something like a pilot? I’m getting…” She played with her ring again, as into the part as any method actor. “Someone inside a missile? A rocket? Is that possible?”

Years of training response control allowed him to maintain an absolutely blank expression. Someone had gotten to her first. They had to have.

“I see a person sitting at what looks like the controls of a plane…but he’s on his back.” She looked his way, massaging her temple, shaking her head as though nothing made sense.

And son of a bitch, it didn’t.

“He’s wearing a helmet, a visor.” She shot a demanding look at the crowd. “And I’m seeing something…military or quasi-military.”

A young lady in the other side of the audience stood. “Ari, my sister was killed when her helicopter went down in Iraq.”

She glanced toward the slightly desperate voice, but gave her head a definitive shake and returned to a study of the people around Chase.

“No, it’s not a woman. And it’s not a helicopter.” She raked a hand through her curls, messing the stylist’s careful work, but her practiced expression said she didn’t care. “Is it a rocket ship?”

That elicited a light, surprised laugh from everyone.

Everyone except Chase.

“Something’s definitely wrong,” she continued.

Yes, it was. Very wrong. Who told her he was coming? Who briefed her? There was no other explanation.

“There’s an explosion. A fire. It’s so hot. Hotter than—things are actually
melting
.” She burned the crowd with a frustrated look. “Surely this is coming from one of you.”

Chase mentally swore, running through every possible paradigm for how she could have gotten this information. There were a few ways—none of them feasible. Or appealing. Or possible.

She had no way of knowing he’d be in the audience, or who he was.

Their gazes locked and for a minute, he thought he’d sworn out loud. The man next to him turned, and the licensed pilot a row down swiveled to get a look. He could feel the power of numerous stares, but none as direct or unwavering as Arianna Killian’s.

“Sir? Have you lost someone in a fire? Someone in the military, perhaps?”

She wanted a nod, some simple assent, and then she’d make a few more educated guesses, ask an open-ended question, redirect the information if she didn’t like what she heard. She would hunt and peck, blinding any skeptic with a dazzling smile and pretty green eyes, until she hit a mark. She already knew way more than was possible.

“No,” he answered, emotionless.

“I’m getting three initials. STS,” she said, as though she didn’t hear the denial. “Someone you lost? Someone you cared about?”

Could she know his name? His face? Could she know that every space shuttle mission started with the same three letters?
Highly improbable,
screamed the pragmatic scientist who resided firmly inside him. But possible.

“These initials mean something to you, don’t they?”

Blood roared like an afterburner in his head. Still, he said nothing. It was not the time or place to reveal himself to her, and he’d obviously made a strategic error in coming here.

“I’m getting a lot of blue,” she told him, taking slow, deliberate steps closer. “But not sky blue. A dark royal blue. Is that a uniform?”

He didn’t nod, didn’t move. But he could tell she was reading a response in his eyes. Yeah, she was way past good at this.

“This is someone sitting…where you should have been, isn’t it?”

Chase felt his fingers tighten around the armrest of his seat. Just like the poor bastard who’d started the show twenty minutes earlier.

Yes, someone had been sitting, launching, and dying…where he should have. Gone because Chase was doing something so…trivial.

“You can tell me.” Her eyes were warm and inviting. He imagined most men did exactly what this woman wanted. But he wasn’t most men.

“Save yourself the trouble, Ms. Killian,” he said softly, and cocked his head toward the anxious pilot in the row below him. “Try someone who believes.”

“He wants to tell you something,” she continued, undeterred by his suggestion. “About the…incident.”

Incident
. She even used the right euphemism, as NASA did. He maintained a blank expression as she climbed the two steps to his row, vaguely aware of the red light of the camera over her shoulder, the black lens pointed at his face. Her wide green eyes speared him with a look so intense, it felt like she was peering right into his soul. Which, damn it, she was.

“I didn’t sign a release,” he said quietly.

A smile tipped her lips. “He doesn’t care. He’s here.”