Reckless Road

by Christine Feehan

  Something was in the room with them, and she wanted Player one hundred percent aware, because whatever was staring out of the darkness seemed malevolent.

  Player. Look at me, now. I need you. Open your eyes and see me. No one else. Not your past. Not the bomb. Not Sorbacov or the White Rabbit. Someone is in the room with us. Look at me and then look around. They can’t know we can communicate like this. Honey, please wake up. She poured herself into him. Into his mind, flooding him with her.

  There was a brief moment while her heart pounded and whatever seemed to be in the room with them stared at them like some bloated spider waiting for the moment it could pounce.

  I’m with you, baby. He sounded rough, but he didn’t suddenly open his eyes and look wildly around. He lifted a hand to her face, shaping her bone structure, as if reading her by Braille. He lifted his face to hers, brushing a kiss on her lips and then wrapping his arms around her tightly, his head on her shoulder.

  Zyah felt his heart pounding, the aftermath of the nightmare. She felt his breath catch, but he didn’t make a sound.

  The drawing. Your grandfather’s drawing. I’m going to lie down, and I want you to sit back slowly against the headboard with me. Look at the picture. Just glance at it.

  Zyah didn’t want him to let her go. First the White Rabbit had been standing in front of the picture, and then Sorbacov had been directly in front of it, where the White Rabbit had been. She felt his arms slide away from her, although one hand stayed in contact with her as he slowly started to sit up. She moved with him to the headboard, so they both faced the drawing her grandfather had made so lovingly for her grandmother.

  The White Rabbit was completely gone, Player’s illusion morphed into his alternate reality. Sorbacov’s blurred image became so faded he wavered and was transparent. Where his face had been, in the center of the picture, eyes stared at the two of them, looking eerie, as if they actually peered out of the drawing itself, or through Sorbacov’s wavering, ghostly body.

  Zyah held her breath. Those eyes lifted to look around the room, at her. This was becoming far too real. The eyes wavered, grew transparent, just as Sorbacov had, and then slowly faded away. For a moment, she could have sworn, the frame on the picture rolled in a weird circle and then righted itself.

  She gripped Player’s arm, her nails digging into his skin. “That was insane. And very scary. I need a cup of tea. Or maybe a drink.”

  “Let’s have a drink of whatever Hannah sent us and get out the notebooks. Each of us can write down what we remember and then compare notes. Czar said we’d figure it out faster that way, and we’re going to have to figure this out.”

  “At least the bomb didn’t start ticking.”

  “I hadn’t started building it.” Player pushed back his hair. “I hate that you have to go through this with me, Zyah. And I hate feeling Anat could be in danger. That thing staring at us was all too real, and it sure as fuck felt real.”

  “It was,” Zyah confirmed in a low voice. She shivered as she reached into the drawer of the end table to remove the notebooks and pens she’d stashed there so they’d both have something to write in. “Something was in this room with us, Player—it wasn’t the first time.”

  Was that the terrible dread she’d been feeling throughout the evening? She pressed one hand to her churning stomach. Had Sorbacov really been so evil that he’d found a way to come back from the dead? Was that even possible? She shivered again and moved closer to Player. His body was always hot. Always. Most of the time he felt like a furnace. She needed that heat right at that moment. Something evil had found its way into their home. A trace of its presence lingered behind.

  “It’s gone, Zyah. After you write down what you felt and saw, think back to the first time you felt the presence and write down anything you can remember about that night as well. Even what I was dreaming.”

  She leaned into him, rubbing her face against his shoulder. “I hate that anything like that creature might share knowledge that is just ours.”

  “He doesn’t. He isn’t part of my past.” Player spoke with absolute conviction.

  “He’s not the other man who was there that day?” Zyah asked tentatively. Player rarely directly addressed his actual childhood with her, and she hesitated to bring it up unless he did. She’d seen enough that she didn’t think talking about details unless he wanted or needed to was necessary. On the other hand, his past was entirely private, and no intruder should have any part of Player. He’d already had so much taken from him.

  “No. That man is dead, Zyah. He would be like Sorbacov, a shadow, no more.” He was writing in the notebook and didn’t look up.

  “You’re certain he’s dead?” she asked. “Sorbacov’s friend? You know for a fact that he’s dead?”

  “Yes, baby. I know that for a fact.”

  She wasn’t going to ask him how he knew it. “This was a shadow,” she persisted. The room was dimly lit. There were shadows everywhere, and she didn’t understand why Player wasn’t as shaky as she was. She went still inside and turned her face up to Player’s, her eyes on his. “Player. Look at me.”

  His gaze flicked from the notebook to her, and she flinched. The blue was a glacier. Burning, yes, but so cold it was burning blue. Scary blue. She was looking at something in him that could be . . . deadly. Deliberately, she blinked, but that expression didn’t go away.

  “Player.” She whispered his name in a kind of despair.

  “I’m right here, baby.”

  She shook her head. “No, you’re not. You’re letting them drag you back there. You’re letting them swallow you with their darkness. You were out of that.”

  He threaded his fingers through hers and pulled her fist to his chest, pressing their locked hands over his heart. “I’ve never been out of it, Zyah.”

  His voice was very quiet. Tender. That black velvet that whispered over her skin and broke her heart in so many ways. He brought their hands to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. The sensation caused her stomach to do a slow somersault. He rubbed his jaw along the back of her hand so she could feel the slight growth of his beard over her sensitive skin. At once, a thousand butterflies took wing. She was so susceptible to him.

  “There’s no getting out of what was done to me. They had me for years. You see glimpses and you’re sick inside. I try to protect you, but when I’m asleep, I can’t. I tried to walk away from you, give you up, but I’m not that strong. I’m so in love with you I can’t think straight. But you have to know, if you accept me, if you want me with you—in your life, in your bed—you have to have all of me. You have to know who you’re going to bed with, Zyah. I don’t want you waking up one morning and saying you had no idea.”

  She couldn’t stop looking into his eyes. She could see what they’d shaped him into. That cold man capable of things she’d caught glimpses of later on. Not just the building of the bombs. The man who could lie on a floor and shoot a gun blindly and hit his target accurately. A boy, a teenager, sent out to kill grown men for his country, who did so without hesitation. He sat next to her, showing her he was still there, inside that gentle man who had massaged her feet and legs so thoughtfully when she was tired.

  “What am I going to do with you, Player?” She honestly didn’t know.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it, baby?” He indicated her notebook. “Have you written down your impressions while they’re still fresh? I’m about done. While you’re writing, I’m going to make us a couple of those refreshing drinks. Hopefully, that will make us both feel a little better.”

  She didn’t like him moving away from her, even just to slide out of the bed and pull the beautiful basket filled with items from the Floating Hat to him. Instead of writing down everything she’d observed, or thought she saw, she kept her eyes fixed on Player. That feeling in the pit of her stomach was still there, a dark dread that just wouldn’t go away.


  She didn’t want to lose Player, and there was a deep fear that she could. She knew, from the little she’d seen of the glimpses into the members of Torpedo Ink’s past, that they didn’t like to take their eyes off one another. That was why they often traveled in pairs. Now she really understood. She felt as long as she could see Player, nothing could happen to him.

  She watched him mix the liquid with water into the glasses and then come to her dressed only in loose-fitting drawstring pants that rode low on his hips. He looked disheveled after his nightmare. A little wild. He came around the bed to stand on her side in order to give her one of the tall, hand-blown goblets. It was beautiful, just like the man. Sometimes she felt overwhelmed with love for him—and fear for him.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Zyah,” he assured quietly.

  She took a sip of the liquid. She’d never tasted anything so good. It wasn’t too sweet. Or too tart. The drink actually cleared the clouds from her mind, and she was able to take a full breath for the first time since she’d felt the malevolence enter her space.

  Player walked to the end of the bed to stand in front of her grandfather’s drawing, staring at it. He was motionless as he sipped the drink. She didn’t really understand what he expected to see. He was standing right where the White Rabbit, Sorbacov and, ultimately, the malevolent eyes of the intruder had been. Zyah sighed and began to write down her impressions of the night’s events and then the time before when she’d first felt the presence of the intruder.

  “I’m finished.” Zyah put her empty flute on the bedside table.

  Player slipped back into bed next to her and handed her his notebook, taking hers in exchange. She read his notes several times, frowning. Shocked. Not comprehending what he put down at first. His handwriting was impeccable. He didn’t scribble, and each letter was precise, flawlessly slanted. No one had such perfect handwriting. It almost looked as if a machine had written the notes rather than a man.

  “Player? You think this evil entity is inside my grandfather’s drawing?” She couldn’t keep the quiver from her voice. Even trying to concentrate on his handwriting and wondering how it had gotten so perfect couldn’t prevent the absolute horror from recoiling in every single cell in her body.

  She loved her grandfather’s drawing. Every stroke, every line had been drawn with love. He had spent months on that carefully drawn artwork for her grandmother. And the frame? Moving like some ancient scroll? Her father had done the same—taken months of care to create a masterpiece to frame the art for her grandfather’s gift of love for Anat. How could Player think evil could intrude on love? It was impossible. Impossible.

  “You believe you saw those eyes staring at us from in front of the drawing?” Player said. As usual, his voice was low. Where her voice had been all emotion, and she was still wanting to leap out of bed and pace or roll over and weep, he was very calm.

  “Yes. They had to be. The White Rabbit was there like he always was, standing just over your shoulder. Then he was Sorbacov. I saw Sorbacov much clearer this time. His features. He was blurry and transparent, but I could see what he looked like. And right where his face was, where his eyes were, there was the other one.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering, remembering the way those eyes had looked at them. Too real. As if he could really see them. Identify them. She suddenly gasped. “Player. You didn’t have a shirt on. You have a Torpedo Ink tattoo on your back. It’s too large for anyone not to see it. He saw you and saw me. When you kissed me, he saw your back and the Torpedo Ink tattoo.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  Why did he have to be so pragmatic about it, as if it didn’t matter at all? It mattered. If that man was real and he was looking for Player, he now had a way to find him.

  “His eyes were in the center of the drawing, Zyah, looking right at us. From inside the drawing. Think about it. Picture it in your mind.” Again, his voice was very calm.

  She shook her head, rejecting the idea. “You don’t understand about that drawing, Player. Nothing evil could ever get inside anything created with such love. I just won’t believe that. My grandfather loved Anat. It was in every single thing he did for and with her. My father loved my mother that same way. The person looking at us isn’t capable of anything close to love, at least I don’t believe he is.”

  “Have you ever really examined that drawing?”

  She frowned at him. “What is that supposed to mean? It’s been in my life always. It’s hung in my room since I was a little girl. I begged Mama Anat for it. I know every line almost by heart. I think I could reproduce it, as well as the frame.”

  “Have you studied it from various angles?”

  “I’ve looked at it from every angle.” But had she? Growing up, she had just admired the drawing on her wall. Then she’d been at school and then off to college and overseas to her job. Since coming home, she’d spent more time with the artwork, but she hadn’t really taken the time to study it from every angle. What was she expected to see?

  “Do you know what anamorphosis art is?”

  “I think so. The artist distorts the drawing or painting in some way, and the viewer uses a mirror or some device to see the true picture. Right?” She looked at her grandfather’s very precise drawing. “But there’s no distortion.”

  “My mind sees in patterns.” For the first time he hesitated.

  “We have to discuss this, even if you think it’s going to upset me, Player.” She knew she was going to be upset no matter what. That clarifying drink, so refreshing, had cleared her mind enough to give her the strength to continue. She needed to do this. It had to be done. She and Player had to figure it out once and for all in order to keep Anat safe as well as Player. Everyone, for that matter. She pressed her hand to her churning stomach. She loved her grandfather’s picture. Had the eyes been staring at them from inside the picture? Was that even possible? No matter how terrible, they had to get at the truth.

  Zyah tried to do what Player said and go back and pull the details out of her head—not what she wanted to see but what she’d really seen. Player covered her hand, and she realized she was gripping her thigh so hard her fingers were digging into her skin as she tried to recall the details. She’d been afraid the moment she saw the White Rabbit, even when she was aware she hadn’t heard the ticking of the bomb. She could see the boy was no longer at the bench, but a man was bent over it, working. She would recognize him anywhere with his wild hair and distinctive tattoo.

  The White Rabbit peered over his left shoulder, tapping his foot impatiently and staring down at his gold pocket watch. She tore her gaze from the watch to look above him. The rabbit’s head was centered exactly in her grandfather’s drawing, but in front of it. Relief flooded her. The White Rabbit began to fade, and there was the rather handsome older man looking a bit like the devil with his silver-streaked hair and beard, standing where the rabbit had been. Sorbacov wasn’t as distinct as the white-furred creature. Much more blurred, even fully transparent in spots, his head in the exact spot the White Rabbit’s had been, in the center of the drawing, but in front of it.

  Zyah took a deep breath, filling her lungs with Player, before turning her gaze inward again. Instinctively, she tightened her fingers around Player’s. He immediately brought her fingertips to his mouth and kissed them before pressing her palm to his thigh and just holding her hand there tightly. Those eyes staring so malevolently had really scared her, and conjuring them up again was terrifying, but they had to know. She had to know she was right.

  She forced herself to look at Sorbacov, his face. His eyes. He was staring down at Player so gleefully. Twice he switched his gaze to his watch. He was a man who loved power over all things. He rode on the waves of fear pouring off the children when he visited the “school” he’d created for his chosen victims. His eyes showed how depraved he was. Still, Zyah refused to turn away. She wanted to see
that moment when he began to fade and the other took his place. The transformation was entirely unexpected.

  Zyah swallowed and even leaned toward the apparition, even though it was all taking place in her mind, not in the bedroom. She saw Sorbacov fade even more, his facial features so thin she could see her grandfather’s drawing distinctly behind him. The lines were etched into her memory, so she knew them and filled them in around his head, like a child’s Etch A Sketch.

  Weirdly, her eyes began to play tricks on her. The frame around the picture appeared to be rolling slowly and then picked up speed. She glanced back to look at Player. He was staring at the picture, his eyes very focused. They were holding hands, sitting close together, backs to the headboard, staring at her grandfather’s drawing.

  Her heart began to pound as she forced herself to look at Sorbacov. His head had completely faded away. Those malevolent eyes were staring at them, and they were all too real. Around the eyes was absolutely nothing but black. There were no lines. No charcoal drawings. The eyes did seem to be set back into the drawing, not out in front of it, as if the drawing itself were some kind of a tube.

  “Player.” She whispered his name, knowing the entity was gone, but still terrified. She needed the connection of her hand on his thigh, but raised the other one defensively to her throat. “What is that thing? Why is it here in my bedroom with us? It really does look like it’s inside my grandfather’s picture.”

  He suddenly gathered her into his arms and pulled her onto his lap. “Stop shaking. We’ll figure this out. I can take you and your grandmother out of here and put you somewhere safe until we know what is going on.”