Burning Darkness

by Jaime Rush

  “You have enough going on.”

  “I don’t care. I want this guy out of the picture. Look, I . . .” He glanced at Fonda, who was staring out the window. The hell with it. “I know I’ve done some reckless things, things that have put you guys in danger. Maybe it’s this sleeplessness, but I’m getting flashbacks, and it ain’t pretty. Let me do this for you and Lucas.”

  “I don’t know, Eric.”

  “I’ll rephrase. I’m doing this for you and Lucas. For now, we’ve given this Westerfield dude the slip. So while we’re in a safe place, I’ll find Sayre. Have Nicholas do a locate on him.”

  “Thanks, Eric, but please be careful. He’s evil.” Her emotions were at the surface: gratitude, but also fear.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” he said, not wanting to hear another woman cry. He couldn’t take it.

  Fonda was now looking at him, her eyebrows furrowed. “Who are you going to take care of?”

  “Did you ever meet Sayre Andrus at Darkwell’s estate?”

  She shook her head.

  “Darkwell brought the murdering son of a bitch in from prison, pulled some major strings to arrange his release. Sayre’s caused a lot of problems, including trying to rape and kill Olivia Darkwell.”

  When Fonda winced, he remembered that she’d almost been raped.

  “You said someone tried to rape you.”

  “Remember,” she said, “we forgot everything that happened in the closet. So this Sayre was working on the program?”

  “Yeah. He can get into a person’s dreams and make them do things. But he seems to like attacking women in person. The dude is a first-class psycho. He’s been toying with Lucas, making his life miserable. I have no doubt his goal is nothing less than murder. Lucas and Amy, they’ve been through enough. I’m going to stop him.”

  “Now? While we’ve got our own psycho to deal with?”

  His mouth tightened. “My friends are hurting, and they’re in danger.” Not only from above, but from within. “Darkwell had Sayre try to come in through Lucas and kill us all. Since I can’t sleep deep, I don’t think he’ll be able to get into me. But in case he latches onto me, if I have a blank, dark look on my face, get the hell away from me.”

  She shivered, looking away for a moment. “You do like war.”

  “I’m not going to let someone kill me.” He rubbed his hand across his forehead. Be honest. “I did like it. I craved the adrenaline rush, but I’m tired. Tired of hiding and tired of fighting.” He had way too much to deal with now. These new people. Sayre. Fonda. All on not enough sleep.

  The sun was setting, the most brilliant orange he’d ever seen as it colored a grid of small puffy clouds. They needed to find a safe place to duck into for the night. Westerfield had found them before, which meant they couldn’t stay in any one place for long.

  The phone rang again, and this time it was Nicholas. “I found Sayre. He’s in a small wooded area east of D.C. Looks like he’s hanging out with the homeless folks.” Nicholas gave him specifics.

  “I don’t want to be that far away from you guys,” he said. “How are things there?”

  “Tense, man. A sneeze could shatter everyone. But we’re ready for an invasion. Looks like an armed camp. Go, take care of the bastard. You have our blessing.”

  “All right. If anything changes—”

  “We’ll call you.”

  Eric disconnected and looked at Fonda, who had been listening. “Sayre escaped when the estate burned down. Since there hasn’t been word one about him on the news, I’m guessing the CIA is trying to keep the fact that he’s on the loose secret. They sure as hell don’t want to admit that one of their own arranged for his release and now they’ve lost him. They’re putting Lucas’s mug on the news, hoping to snag Sayre since they’re identical twins. Nicholas found him hanging out with the homeless in the woods.”

  “So why not let the police know where he is?”

  “Because he’ll end up back in prison, and that’s not good enough.”

  “I know how you work. Don’t you dare hurt those people or burn the woods down.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “Is that an order?” He could see the concern in her face, and oddly enough, it was kind of endearing.

  “Yes. Most of those people have some kind of mental thing going. They’re—”

  “Innocent. Got it. I’m not going to go in and torch everyone, hoping to get Sayre.” He headed toward the highway. “Any particular reason you feel so compelled to protect them?”

  She looked ahead, something he noticed she did when she was uncomfortable discussing something. “I’ve known a few homeless people.”

  She was content to leave it at that, and really, he didn’t want to know that much about her.

  Except, “How so?” came out of his mouth instead of nothing.

  “I grew up in some pretty rough areas. Sometimes I knew their stories. Girls who found it safer to sleep outside than in what you could loosely call their homes. Men who still live in a war, so no one wants to hire them and no family wants to deal with them. Sometimes life sucks.”

  He looked at her. Her gaze was trained straight ahead, her mouth in a hard line. Her father was drugged out, she’d said. Forget it. It’s none of your business. “Were you one of those girls?” Argh. He could have banged his forehead against the steering wheel.

  She flicked a glance at him. “No. I locked myself in my room, cut my hair short and dressed like a boy. And I learned to kick ass.”

  He could feel her anger. Something about it drew him. Sparked in him. He’d always been angry. Even his father had said he was an angry baby. Here was someone who had a right to be angry. He started to say something else, but she cut him off.

  “I don’t want to talk about my life anymore. And I really don’t want you to have that look on your face—”

  “What look?”

  “Pity, or whatever it is. I survived. I’m over it. Subject closed. Everything’s groovy.” She looked out the window. “Yeah, perfectly groovy.”

  She wasn’t over it, though. She’d built a fling into love because of one act of chivalry. Because no one had ever stood up for her, protected her. Damn. He did not want that tight hot feeling in his chest when he thought of it. He turned up the radio and tuned in an alternative rock station.

  After a few minutes she looked at him. “I want to go by the motel where . . . well, you know. Even though they’ve probably cleared out the room, I want to see if I can get my purse and my favorite boots.”

  Sayre was probably going to be in the woods for the night, so they had time. Westerfield would be long gone by now and most likely wouldn’t expect them to return. Not that she’d asked, but he said, “Okey-dokey,” drawing an ireful look from her.

  They drove in silence, he trying to keep his gaze ahead. He thought about the best way to nail Sayre. Torching him would be the easiest, though if Sayre sensed him, he could push him out. Maybe he’d get lucky and catch Sayre otherwise occupied, like with Jerryl. Except that would put an innocent woman in jeopardy. Seeing it from Fonda’s point of view made him think about things like that.

  He passed the honky-tonk, glancing over to see if she was looking at the place, too.

  Damn. She was curled up against the door asleep. Her palms were tucked beneath her head, eyelashes fanned out above her cheeks. She looked small and vulnerable, hardly capable of trying to kill a guy. Without her anger, she looked sweet, her full mouth sensuous now that it wasn’t in that tight line.

  Eric realized he was looking at her more than at the road. He pulled up to the motel a few minutes later. Three vehicles sat in the faded asphalt parking lot, none of them his or Fonda’s. The bastard had them towed away. Eric didn’t know what Westerfield drove. Still, he was on alert. Lights glowed from three rooms, including the one they’d been in. He parked, leaving the engine running, and surveyed the area.

  The door to Room 19 was slightly ajar, just as they might have left it when they tore out.
Could they get that lucky? He tucked the gun beneath his shirt and stepped out of the truck. Scanned the surroundings. So far, so good. He pushed the motel door open and stepped in, gun now at the ready, and surveyed the room. Ropes still tied to the bed frame. Picture on the floor. Her purse and a duffel bag in the corner.

  A sound behind him at the open doorway had him spinning around. A small wiry man with glasses so thick he reminded him of Mr. Magoo stood there. Eric kept the gun at his side but tucked out of sight. Dude didn’t look like some maniac, but he’d learned never to judge a book by its cover, scrawny as it was.

  “I was about to clean the room,” the man said. “I’m running behind, had a stomach bug.”

  Eric couldn’t tell if his eyes were widened in surprise; they were huge in magnification. “We’re staying another night.”

  “Where’s the young lady who rented the room?”

  “In the truck asleep.” He thrust some bills at the man, probably more than the room cost. “That should cover us.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Her boyfriend. We’ll be out early in the morning.” He stepped toward the open doorway, forcing the little man to back up. He did, indeed, have a cart of cleaning supplies with him. He hesitated, but Eric walked to the truck without any further conversation. When he turned back, Magoo was pushing the cart back toward the office at the far end.

  From his angle, Eric couldn’t see Fonda’s face, but she was still curled up against the seat. He knocked on the glass. “Come on. We’re here.”

  He could see her clearly enough in his mind, mouth soft and tempting, pink even without lipstick. Damn, he did not want to be attracted to the succubus who’d tried to kill him.

  “Come on, Fonda!” he barked, his annoyance at himself bursting out. He yanked open the door, and she fell backward.

  He caught her before she hit the ground, scooping her up. Her eyes fluttered open, but they were drunk with sleep. She weighed next to nothing as he carried her like a baby.

  “Where . . . ?” she managed.

  “I’m taking you to bed.”

  Her eyes opened at that and she began to wriggle. He replayed the words in his mind, and his body took them the same way she had. “Not that kind of taking you to bed. Get a couple of hours of sleep.”

  “Put me down.”

  “We’re almost there.” He kicked open the door with his foot.

  She put up a bigger struggle, the anger taking hold of her face again. He released her, and she dropped to her wobbly legs. She grabbed onto his arm and let go just as fast.

  “Sorry, following orders,” he said, raising his hands.

  She walked in, her gaze going to her purse and the bag. “It’s all still here?”

  “Apparently the manager spent the day in the bathroom and hadn’t gotten to the room yet.”

  She stumbled to the bed. “So tired. Need sleep.” She pulled herself onto the bed, only enough to fit her curled body on it. Her dress slid up mid-thighs, and that display of skin was enough to perk him up even more.

  A wave of dizziness swept over him for a moment as he watched her. Lust? Sometimes it did that, washed over him like a wave. No, not lust, not for this one. Sleep. He needed it, too. Neither of them had gotten rest, much less sleep, in the last twenty-four hours. He locked the door, taking one last glance outside. He stripped out of his shirt and lay down on the bed, careful not to touch her. Not that she’d know it; she was out. He watched her sleep, her anger gone again, leaving the sweet innocence. If he didn’t know better.

  But you do.

  He closed his eyes, but they opened again. She filled his vision, her white-blond hair spilling across her cheek, the pink hairs now dispersed rather than being in one streak. She still wore the red hoop earrings, and one draped against her neck. She was one of the most interesting women he’d ever met.

  He forced his eyes closed, but he made one detour on the way to trying to sleep. Using the coordinates Nicholas had given him, he zoned in on Sayre, in a sleeping bag on the ground. Damn but he wanted to just torch him and get it over with.

  No more jumping in without thinking.

  He scanned Sayre’s surroundings: trees, several other forms on the ground, a few tents. Homeless people. If he set Sayre on fire, some of those hobos would probably die, too. He envisioned the mansion going up in flames, killing Richard Wallace. The fires he produced psychically were so hot, they got quickly out of control. He would have to approach in person.

  Sayre’s eyes popped open, and he sat up and searched the area. Eric pulled out. Hopefully Sayre would think the strange feeling was his imagination. Otherwise, getting to him was going to be a lot harder—and more dangerous.

  Sayre Andrus searched the woods. Nothing more than the usual noises and movements: groans, mumbling, and every now and then some guy who’d relive the war, waking up screaming and shit.

  The annoyances were worth it. This was the best place to hide out. None of these guys watched the news, and he had shaved his head so he looked nothing like Lucas’s picture the police were showing on television. That would die down eventually, and he’d find a way to integrate back into society again. Like taking one of these guys’ identity. For now, lying low was working good.

  Except for that prickle of sensation he’d just felt. Not his twin brother’s energy either. He thought for damned sure Lucas would have dove right into his dreams to teach him a lesson about diddling his girlfriend, but no. Nothing.

  He poked into Lucas’s head and found him asleep, alone in his bed. Aw, ain’t that a pity? Alone because of little ol’ me? Well, that hadn’t stopped him last time. He grinned wide at the memory. He hadn’t had a chance to get himself some beaver, not with the bulletins running. No need to take a chance. Getting some through Lucas was only a tease, but one he had enjoyed anyway.

  He didn’t know whose energy it was he’d felt, but he was going to keep his sixth sense alert. If someone was gunning for him, he’d be ready.

  Chapter 10

  The scream rocked Eric out of half sleep. Fonda’s scream. He lurched up and grabbed the gun. Scanned the room. No one. Then looked to Fonda, still screaming and writhing on the bed.

  Nightmare.

  He hardly had time to register relief. He needed to quiet her down before someone came to investigate.

  “No! No, oh, my God,” she said in a strangled voice. Her eyes were twitching beneath her closed lids.

  He put his hand over her mouth, hovering close. “Fonda. Wake up. It’s a dream.”

  “Jerryl!” she screamed in agony, but it was muffled beneath his hand.

  Damn. She was having a nightmare about the fire. Seeing her reliving it yanked out his guts. He shook her, pressing his other hand on her shoulder and pushing her into the bed. “Wake up, Fonda!” She kicked, and he had to press his body down onto hers to keep her from hurting him or herself. “Fonda!” he said into her ear.

  He felt moisture on his lip. Tears slid down her temples.

  “Put it out! Oh, God, oh, God.”

  “Fonda, wake up!”

  He pulled her to a sitting position, his hands on her shoulders. Her eyes fluttered open.

  He didn’t dare pull her closer, not after what had happened in the closet. A part of him wanted to, though. “You had a nightmare. It’s all right.”

  Something in her eyes changed as she came fully awake. She looked around her, breathing hard. Not the estate. No fire. She swiped at her eyes with trembling hands. “I tried to put the fire out. I threw blankets on him. But I couldn’t . . . couldn’t . . .”

  “No, you couldn’t. There was nothing you could do. What I do, it’s too hot to easily put out.”

  He readied himself for her anger, for her to rail at him for taking Jerryl away again. He saw no anger in her eyes, only guilt. He rubbed his fingers across her cheek, erasing the last of the tears. “No one could have helped him.”

  “But I lived. He died and I lived.”

  “Because you weren’t my ta
rget.”

  He ran his hand down her arm. She had a fine network of scars crisscrossing her upper arms. His chest tightened.

  “Who did this to you?”

  She pulled away from his finger, which traced the lines, and scrambled off the bed, her gaze averted. “No one.”

  He got to his feet, too. “Did your father do that?” he asked, lowering his voice. She shook her head. “Jerryl? No, they’re too old for him. Ex-boyfriend?”

  “No.” After digging in her duffel, Fonda grabbed a small bag and walked into the bathroom. “Why does it matter, anyway?”

  “I don’t like the idea of someone cutting a woman. It’s the kind of brutality that makes me nuts.”

  “I’m not your concern. Forget about them,” she said from the other side of the door.

  When she emerged a few minutes later, he was waiting. “Just tell me who did it.” His gaze went to her thighs. Above her knees he saw more of the same scars. “You’ve got a lot of cuts.” Most in places people wouldn’t see.

  “It’s none of your business. What’s our next step?”

  He released a breath. She was right. “I’m going to take care of Sayre Andrus. You’re coming with me, but not into the woods. Then we’ll find another place to hunker down while we try to find Westerfield.”

  Fonda pulled some dark clothes from her bag and went back into the bathroom. She moved like a cat, her body fluid in motion. She came out wearing black leggings and a long black top, and slid little feet into the black combat boots. He noticed they had patches, pink cats with X’s over their eyes.

  She looked up at him. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

  “What’s wrong? Don’t like the happy memories?” He nodded toward the ropes still hanging from the bedposts.

  She looked away, and did he see regret? Probably over not succeeding in killing him. “I just want to go. Put on your shirt.”

  He only now realized he still didn’t have his shirt on. What was the big deal? He slid it on, catching her watching in the mirror over the dresser. He hit the bathroom, splashed water over his face, and put on his shoes. “Ready.”