The world was all black, a mass of heartbeats and razored hesitation—
Something crashed against the closed door, and Dawn startled away from it. A rain of thumps followed, like fists pelting the thick wood.
She thought she heard cries, thin and rushed, like voices threading through a wind tunnel.
Kalin, stop, Kalin…
In back of her, Jonah made a sound of disgust. “Damn it, you’d better go to your sisters, Kalin. Go.”
The cloak of cold fire unwrapped itself from around Dawn’s body, spinning her mind as the door’s lock snapped, allowing the wood to whoosh open, then slam shut. In the hall, there was a screech, then what sounded like a thousand wails of responding anger.
“Go!” Jonah yelled.
With a clipped cry, all the voices merged into one long scream that traveled down the hall, through the house, into oblivion or wherever the Friends resided.
Something, no, a lot of things, weren’t right. She had to get out of here, now, before—
At the same time Dawn reached for the blindfold, she angled away from Jonah. But before she could maneuver away, he gripped her wrist.
Solid, real—
“No…” he began.
But his words sliced off as he jerked back from her. Still blindfolded, she heard him fall to the ground.
As she fumbled to take the material off, she didn’t even have time to ask another what-the-hell. She got rid of the silk, but when she squinted her eyes to see, she couldn’t. With the candlelight gone, it was too dark.
Meanwhile, Jonah writhed and grunted on the floor, and she frantically slid her hands along the wall, coming to the light switch.
“Stop, Dawn!”
It was The Voice she knew.
She was bolted back to the wall by the command’s power…and also by the thrust of a carnal presence, exponentially more debilitating than before. She realized that, earlier, she’d only been anticipating The Voice, that her body had just been reacting to the promise of what would definitely come.
For a few seconds, she couldn’t move at all, could only gasp at the erotic waves consuming her.
The darkness covered the sounds of Jonah moving—was he sliding along the carpet?—toward the bookcase, then the mild roar of wood slipping back into place.
A secret door, she managed to think. It was probably where Jonah had first entered the room.
And…silence, except for her erratic intake of oxygen. She clawed for it, hampered by the pounding of her body, the sharp ache between her legs.
Melting, she thought, wanting him to come back, to finish what he’d started.
What had just happened?
Again, she grappled for the light switch, finally turning it on.
Illumination flooded the room, but not her mind. She looked at the bookcase, finding it opened to a slit, just as the office door had been.
But she didn’t think it was so much of an invitation this time.
The next moment, she felt his essence, expanding around her, taking up the air she so sorely needed.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly. His dark, low accent was back, and it didn’t sound like he was coming through the speakers. Still, it didn’t sound like he was quite in the room, either.
Even so, his obvious concern threw her off balance. “Nice, Jonah. Was that your take on the female version of blue balls? Because I don’t like that game so much.”
“I am sorry, Dawn. I…I didn’t mean to get so out of hand.”
Her lust was evening out to a slow rhythm, no less stimulating but definitely less frenzied.
She slid down the wall, resting on the floor before her legs gave out. “What happened?”
“I lost control. This time.”
Her brain finally grasped all his foreign allure again; his tone brushed over her with the same rough strokes that always escalated her desire.
Back in familiar territory, she relaxed, allowing her head to rest against the wall, her neck exposed. She ran a hand over her throat, her beating jugular. Tempting him, she played dirty so he would consider telling her more.
Again, she thought back to that one sexual battle they’d had after she’d found out that The Voice had used Frank as bait. She’d been enraged, tearing around the house to find him. Then he’d come to her, offering scant answers but somehow managing to get her back on his side—as much as possible anyway.
Inevitably, they’d fallen into their usual pattern, raw and starved pseudo-sex, leading up to the moment she’d given him permission to enter her. And she never failed to give it: he supplied her with such a high that she didn’t mind when he used her lust to avoid answering her questions.
Maybe that’s why he kept doing it.
“I went too long without sustenance.” Why did he sound so different…sad? “That must be what got to me.”
Sustenance, she thought. What kept him going? Sex?
When he hushed around her, his presence fluttering the strands of her wig, Dawn realized that sustenance was just a double entendre for what he really wanted right now.
Her.
She started to quiver, shaken by her need for him. “You looking for permission?”
In answer, a caress of air skimmed her earlobe, as if marking where her earring—a sign of the old Dawn—used to be. The pressure of his essence was a disarming sigh telling her how much he needed her, too.
“Why is it always me?” she asked. “Why not Breisi? Or—”
“I need you more than anything.”
His admission made her heart clench just as ferociously as the rest of her body. She didn’t like how that made her feel: vulnerable, open to attack.
“Why?” she asked, being difficult, defensive.
His essence stroked and memorized her face, making her feel beautiful. She closed her eyes, taking it in, holding on to it before she had to get back to reality.
“When I’m in you, I’m fortified,” he said. “You surround me in comfort and strength.” He brushed down her body then back up in one, long, endlessly lulling drag. It was almost as if there was something else going on with him though—something so uncharacteristically emotional she couldn’t possibly get a bead on it. “You are the only true safety I’ve known in…years.”
An anchor, she thought. Just like Breisi and Frank.
“In other words,” she said, unwilling to roam into this new territory without at least some armor, “you’re using me.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I use you, too.”
It was true, she realized. She’d gone from one-night stands to an even more dangerous form of supposed intimacy with The Voice, an entity she couldn’t even see. But maybe that’s how she wanted the bedroom lies to go: invisible, easy, and addictive. He was so intoxicating because he always made her believe she was one of a kind, more spellbinding than Eva. The fact that he had to ask permission to enter gave her a power unlike any other. She controlled her intake.
He was combing over her wig now, pace melancholy. “This gives you the appearance of a Russian Cold War spy. And these clothes…” He tugged at the long white blouse and Gypsy skirt. “A brilliant disguise.”
“Not as brilliant as yours.”
“Yes.” He seemed to sigh. “You’re right.”
She’d slid farther down to the ground, unbuttoning her blouse, bending and parting her legs and allowing her skirt to rustle down to her hips. He skimmed her inner thighs and she reached down to touch herself, to assuage the buzz of his presence.
“Why don’t you come on and make yourself feel better,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you today, but—”
“There it is again. The ‘using’ reference.”
What was he talking about? Ever since they’d found out that she could block him out of her mind, he hadn’t attempted to read her again, so that left their relationship purely physical. As much as it could be anyway. Why did it sound like that wasn’t enough for him? What was going on?
She flushed with twisted contentment. “You talking about Matt Lonigan again? Why, I didn’t know you cared.”
“Don’t be flippant. Breisi and Kiko are uneasy about him, you realize.”
“And you?”
Instead of answering, he bathed her with swirls of movement, light yet insistent, urging her to stroke herself harder. She bucked, getting wet, slick with vibrating excitement.
Okay…ignoring the whole Matt thing.
Not to be trumped, Dawn reached up with her other hand to part her blouse, showing her undershirt and bra. The last was a pretty standard satin creation, but it didn’t matter. With The Voice’s attentions, she was the hottest lingerie angel on earth.
While still working her, he stretched upward, over her belly, which jumped with his pressure. Fingertip-light sensations traced over her ribs.
Her skin prickled as his touch seemed to go below the skin, saturating it with gnawing heat, flowing to the core of her.
It turned Dawn on so much that she lifted a leg, hooking it under the arm of the chair next to her for balance. Slowly, she opened her legs farther for him, swollen, stiff, aching. Ready. So damned ready.
“How much experience in this”—she blew out a breath—“have you…had?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Why not?” It’d keep her sane, pinned to her old habit of keeping this interaction casual and simple enough to leave behind after she’d gotten what she wanted out of it. “You’ve been in my head. You know I’ve banged a lot of guys.”
“Never say it that way.” His essence went cold. “That’s not what you are to me.”
Power overcame her, building up until it pushed against her skin. It felt good, and bad, to upset him. He’d used her for bait and she could bait him just the same.
“I’ll bet,” she said, shifting her hips and reminding him that she was the one who would or wouldn’t be letting him in, “you’ve had quite a few partners yourself. Your technique tells me you aren’t exactly a virgin.”
Something like a hand came to clasp itself around her throat, harshly, delicately. Body swamped with adrenaline, Dawn swallowed but didn’t back down.
“Many women,” he said, his tone so low it seemed to scratch the surface of hell. “I have had many women. Is that what you’d like to hear?”
He squeezed slightly, and she arched her hips against his invisible form, taking in the escalated danger, the chance of losing everything with her need to push him.
And to push herself.
“Yes, I like to hear that, Jonah.” His name was a reminder of everything he refused to tell her, and she reveled in using it against him. “I’m not surprised you’ve had many women. You seem to like them.”
She was talking about all his female portraits. A collection.
He squeezed again, and she gasped. Immediately, he released her, as if horrified by what she’d brought out in him.
Fascinated, she pushed it even further. “Who’s Kalin, the Friend you talked to when I came in the room?”
“Stop—”
“Do all the other women in your portraits have names, too? Who are they? Why—”
The air rumbled, whipping up a combination of lust and fear around her—in her. Did he compel her so much because she didn’t trust him? Was that another part of his appeal?
She was drawn to his danger, needed it inside of her because that’s what had kept her going for most of her life: fury, confusion, and now terror.
“Come in,” she whispered urgently, fully opening herself to his destruction, his intangible power.
He obeyed, crashing into her with such searing rage that she cried out, devastated and completed.
As if reflecting his fury, the lights blinked out, plunging the room into pitch black. He hammered into every cell of her body, stretching them to the point of explosion. He shredded her membranes, pieced them back together, then ripped them apart again. She allowed him the fevered pleasure, her emotions so scrambled she didn’t know what to cling to or who she was anymore.
As she came, shuddering while she strained against the pressure of him, she reached out and grabbed the leg of the chair, holding on, afraid to let go. When she cried out, she yanked at it, toppling it over, the wood crashing to the ground. Brought down. Beaten.
Panting, she opened her eyes, still electrified, even though something inside of her was dying back to its original form. Inner sparks buzzed on, then off, jittering to the occasional flash of something lost as she lay in the dark.
She felt The Voice hovering above her, his essence clenched in what she thought might still be anger.
“Why can’t it be any other way with you?” he said, his tone edged with devastation.
She couldn’t answer, because she really didn’t know herself.
TEN
THE LOV-AH
POSTORGASM, Dawn left the office, then methodically shed the wig, cleaned up, and got dressed into regular garb: comfortable jeans, another of Frank’s T-shirts, and her worked-in motorcycle boots.
Of course, while slipping out of the guest room she’d been using as a changing area, she came face-to-face with another portrait. There was no way to avoid them.
This one featured a woman with Chinese features, her head bowed, her body barely covered in a blue silk robe. She looked like she’d just done some questionable canoodling, too.
Who were these ghosts? And how had they gotten into the paintings? More important, why did they stay if they had the freedom to move in and out of them?
Dawn waited a second, just in case anyone—including a freakin’ portrait person—wanted to answer. But there was nothing. Only the sounds of an old house settling into a night of creaks and moans.
“So much for female bonding,” she muttered, leaving the picture to itself.
It was time to get back to work. Sure, The Voice had let her punch out a little steam, probably knowing full well that the interaction made her more limber in both body and mind. And she did feel exercised plus…well, kind of exorcised, too. Even if today’s session had been a little weirder—but hardly more mentally exhausting—than usual.
Beating back all the lingering questions from her time with the boss, she went into the computer room, a bland space lined with dark wood and a stand of work stations. No portraits in here. No distractions while she checked some items off her mental to-do list and forgot about everything else.
Even though she knew she should remember.
Flipping her shower-wet ponytail over her shoulder, Dawn sat and turned on a machine. As it warmed up, she took out her cell phone and accessed the number for Kiko’s therapist.
Before she’d left Jonah, she’d done one of those awkward by-the-way asides that hadn’t erased any of the tension between them. Avoiding any more mention of their sex, she’d told him about her worries regarding Kiko’s pills, but the boss had already been aware of all that. In fact, he’d already called Kiko’s doctor with his concerns, and he agreed that having Dawn get in touch with the therapist, too, could only help.
Then he’d disappeared into the TV, the walls, or whatever. She’d shut the door behind her, moving into the lighted hall, relieved and miffed at the same time.
The call to Kiko’s therapist didn’t rock the earth: Dawn let the woman know about how his medication was affecting his mind and, after asking general questions about his behavior, the other woman promised to conference with Kik’s doctor and look further into it. Afterward, hardly comforted, Dawn clicked onto the Internet, promising herself she’d follow up.
Knowing that’s all she could do for now, she got down to other business, doing a search on Lee Tomlinson, concentrating on the lover angle.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything available that the team hadn’t uncovered before. Premurder, Lee’s PR exposure was low. The highest
profile he’d enjoyed was on MySpace.com, where he’d trumpeted his one big commercial. Dawn would bet his legal team—or maybe those Underground connections—had tampered with anything and everything that was currently in the public eye.
Frustrated, she navigated away from all the murder-related hits his name brought up, typing in the name of Lee’s brother, Lane, just to see what that would conjure.
Links were just flashing on the screen when Breisi stuck her head in the room.
“Busy?” she asked.
“Spinning in circles with Lee Tomlinson and…”
A memory of The Voice skimming over her, through her, shot a tingle under her skin.
Yeah, not going there with Breisi.
Dawn veered around in her chair to face her coworker. “Can I ask you something?”
Breisi stepped inside, having dressed back into street clothes, too: a black Buzz Lightyear shirt and cargo pants. Her expression remained neutral, telling Dawn that she could ask, but she shouldn’t expect any answers. Huge shock there.
She went for it anyway. “It’s about the Friends.”
“Yes?”
Argh, the calm acceptance of this woman. “Who’s Kalin?”
At the name, Breisi straightened her spine. “Where did you hear that?”
Ah-ha-ha. She was on to something. Breisi wouldn’t be quietly having a cow if the name didn’t matter. “I heard The Voice say it. I thought he was addressing one of the Friends, and I just wondered if you knew who she was.”
“I don’t know any of the spirits personally.”
She looked stunned that Dawn had even heard the name, as if the rest of the team were adults who took great pains to spell out things like “h-e-l-l” and “i-c-e c-r-e-a-m” in front of a two-year-old who would end up decoding their efforts anyway.
Was saying the name of a spirit bad? But then why had The Voice done it in front of Dawn?
Breisi looked like she was turning something over in her mind. “Truthfully, I don’t know much about the Friends, only that they protect us.”
You should’ve told that to Kalin when the ghosty messed with me earlier, Dawn thought.
Midnight Reign Page 11