by Jackie Ivie
What the hell?
His heart slowed. Dots danced about his vision. He felt dizzy. Weak. Faint.
Oh, no. No. No.
He was going to lose consciousness?
Now?
At the last moment, she yanked her head from where she’d been latched onto his neck, arched backward, and sent an otherworldly cry resounding through the room. Her body quivered in a series of pulsations that not only gripped about his rod, but pleasured it at the same time. It sounded like the epitome of orgasmic pleasure. Or he was going crazy.
“Oh, Mitchell. My love.”
She couldn’t have whispered what he thought he’d heard, but the next second he didn’t care about that, either. Because she slammed her lips to his, and the kiss that ensued almost blew his head off. Fluid filled his mouth. He had to swallow or drown. And the moment his throat made the motion, his entire world shifted. The mattress became a mass of indefinable fog. The room a vista of darkness. Energy slammed through him. It gave him back consciousness. Strength. And a hell of a case of raving desire.
Mitch grabbed her close, and spun, getting her onto her back with a move that ruptured the fog about them. The mattress reassembled into place as it lurched on the box springs. Mitch sucked and laved with his lips on hers, while his hips began pumping. Entering her cavern. Pulling out. Slamming back in. The mattress joined in, hopping beneath them in sync, sending throbbing sounds with it. Mitch pumped harder. Faster.
Deeper.
She broke the kiss, tilted her chin up and sent an unearthly shriek into the room. It lifted hairs on the back of his neck and sent shivers through his frame. A new fervor added all kinds of power to his motions. Mitch’s thrusts grew even harder. Went even deeper. The release he’d kept at bay grew into a powerful mass at his back. It grabbed at the base of his spine. Enlarging. Obtaining bursting level. Before it rocketed through his groin.
And Mitch exploded.
Ecstasy blasted through him. Mitch scrunched his eyes shut, flung his head back, and groaned until his breath gave out. He sucked in air and did it again. Bliss hammered everywhere with every ongoing pulsation. Fireworks might as well have erupted. All sorts of lights flashed through his vision, even with his eyes shut. He barely heard her answering cry of pleasure.
They dropped back onto the bed. As if they’d been soaring as a unit above it. Her arms wrapped about him. Her legs held him captive as well. Nothing had ever felt this good. Even if it was impossible. Improbable. Or pretty unlikely.
He knew it wasn’t real but he’d worry about that later. Reality was light years away. He’d just made love with a woman from fantasy. She couldn’t exist. He couldn’t possibly feel this wondrous. This couldn’t remotely have happened. He should figure things out...but it could wait.
For now, he was depleted. Completely satiated. Adrift on a cushion of warmth. Encased in bliss. Still wrapped in her embrace. And moments later, he was asleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The station bell rang precisely at eight a.m. Mitch had just entered the building. He shot through the halls in a blur of motion that astounded and stopped shy of the interrogation room door. If anyone saw him, their jaws probably dropped. His had done the same thing when he’d broken into a run this morning...after he’d had to abandon his bike. He couldn’t see clearly enough to pilot it through early morning traffic. Not with this much sunlight.
The motorcycle that was his pride and joy was parked off the side of E-470 bypass. He’d taken his belongings. Pushed his 1000cc Ninja into tall grass that sort-of camouflaged it. Run a locking cable through the front tire and around a light pole. And then he’d called a cab. He had to keep changing his pick-up point with the taxi service, however. He seemed to jog effortlessly and quickly, and with machine-like efficiency. He’d finally caught up with his ride at the toll exchange. He should have just run. The cab barely made it to the station in time.
Mitch had never felt better.
Ever.
He wasn’t even winded.
If it was due to the dream he’d had...the one with a succubus from the darkest of fantasies? Well. He wasn’t offering it up. It felt even crazier than when he’d awakened. Somebody might think he needed another appointment with the shrink. And he might even agree.
He stood at the doorway, regarding the occupants of the interrogation room, hiding his thought process. He still wore his leathers. His helmet was under one arm and a shitload of gear in a backpack was under the other arm. He hadn’t taken off his sunglasses. He was having a severe light-sensitivity issue. It had been there since he’d awakened and slammed every blind on every window into place. The problem hadn’t diminished. If anything, it was even worse. Mitch hadn’t noticed how many windows they had in the station until right now.
It was frickin’ bright in here.
“It’s eight o’clock. Looks like hotshot isn’t going to make it,” Randy commented. He didn’t exhibit a hint of hostility. No aggressive vibe. That was odd.
“Excuse me?” Mitch replied and stepped through the portal.
“Hartnett. Glad you made it.”
Captain Thomas spoke. The slightest smile flashed across her overly-red lips. She’d obviously just had her upper lip waxed. The skin was just a shade lighter than the rest of her skin. Neither the lipstick, nor the wax-job did much for her age-fighting efforts. If she didn’t want people to notice the lines about her mouth, she shouldn’t use such vivid lipstick right after a beautician appointment. Then again, if he hadn’t possessed incredible vision all-of-a-sudden, he probably wouldn’t have noticed.
“We have a locker room for personal belongings,” she added.
“Woke up late,” he replied.
“I see. Well, we’ll wait. Won’t we, gentlemen?”
“Do we have a choice?” somebody asked.
“No,” Captain Thomas responded.
Mitch knew he liked her. Now he remembered why. He smirked and headed for the locker room. He easily heard the low-voiced comment between Sam and Randy about dealing with yet another smart-ass local and how it was always the same with cops. They might have whispered but Mitch heard it easily. His hearing was incredibly sharp. He added that to how acute his vision had become. And the fact that his ability to move was beyond extraordinary. He consciously slowed his steps to a pace that seemed normal. It was akin to running his bike engine at half-throttle. He’d never felt this energetic. Strong.
This was really cool.
And really bizarre.
Morning sunlight from a myriad of high windows reflected off the rows of lockers. Mitch zipped through his locker combination, opened the front with a careful tug, and settled the backpack containing his belongings at the bottom of it. He topped the backpack bundle with his helmet. Removed his riding coat, hung it from a peg. Shimmied out of his chaps, swatting them back to right-side out. Draped the leather pants from another peg. Pulled off his sunglasses, and—
Holy shit!
The world immediately turned into a blindingly bright, scorching, light-filled blur. Mitch shoved the sunglasses back on and waited a few moments before attempting to squint. He regarded the dark blob image in the mirror hanging from his upper shelf before slamming the locker shut. That was stupid. His action put a large dent into the metal. These oddball changes could get annoying. He needed to investigate. Figure it out. His strength had been multiplied or something. He couldn’t seem to get a decent reflection. His senses were at hyper-level. He had two distinct sore spots on his neck. And direct sunlight was akin to taking a blow. There were a lot of sunlit windows between here and the interrogation room. He didn’t need to be a seer to get the message: It was going to be an unpleasant morning.
He sighed heavily and got ready for the heckling.
Nobody had shifted in the interrogation room. Some of the occupants were sipping coffee. Donny shoved a half-doughnut into his mouth and chewed. Swallowed. Grabbed another glazed confection from the open box on the table. The doughnut box wasn’t the lone thing
on the table. There was a cardboard box containing a row of folders now. A pitcher of water was at the far end. A stack of plastic cups. Mitch walked past Donny and poured out a cup full of cold water. And then he worked to hide the gag reflex as he tried to swallow it.
Damn it.
The same thing had happened when he’d tried to eat breakfast. Now he couldn’t handle drinking water?
He managed to swallow half of the glass before setting it down and looking over and down at most of the assemblage. It was pretty much the same personnel as yesterday. The sketch artist was missing. She’d been replaced by an older gent in a suit that needed pressing. Another suited fellow with gray-tipped temples stood beside Captain Thomas. They were all looking at him.
“You want to remove the glasses, Hartnett?” Captain Thomas requested.
“In a minute.”
She sighed.
“Apologies, Captain. It was...a bad night.”
That was so far from the truth he almost chuckled. It was better to answer in monosyllables. Easier to defend, too.
“Get the lights dimmed, Donny. In the meantime, why don’t we start? Doctor? Would you step outside for a moment?”
Donny left. The fellow in the rumpled suit breezed past where Mitch stood and followed on Donny’s heels. The door shut behind them. Mitch felt the space between his shoulder blades tense. He stood straighter. They had a doctor here?
A doctor of what?
“Go ahead, director. This is your show.”
Captain Thomas motioned toward the dude with the gray-tipped temples. He took a step forward.
Whoa.
They had an FBI director, too? Well. That certainly explained Randy’s lack of antagonism this morning. Mitch almost smiled.
“I’m a field director, gentlemen. And lady. I’m not normally investigating pick-pockets from rock festivals. But. As you all know. This is different.”
He broke the words into mini-phrases. The spot in Mitch’s back twinged. That could get annoying, too.
“Apparently, we’ve lucked onto the trail of a – I’m not going to say she’s a serial killer, because that has yet to be proven. But the evidence is clearly mounting. We have something significant here. The woman Detective Harnett tried to arrest has a very strange set of fingerprints. So far we’ve linked her prints to twelve unsolved cold-case murders. Twelve. The oldest one is from 1956. Nineteen...fifty...six. We did that one visually. That case wasn’t even in the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System. There could be more murders. Even older ones. Ponder that for a moment.”
The lighting went a hair bit dimmer. Mitch narrowed his eyes and pulled off the sunglasses. Nothing much happened. That was a relief. The spot in the center of his back relaxed. He folded the glasses and slid them into his breast pocket, then pulled out a chair.
“You have something to say, Detective Hartnett?”
Mitch sat. “I didn’t try to arrest anyone...sir. I did arrest her. She escaped by breaking my cuffs. And then she pulled the door off an unbreakable safe.”
“I know. I read your report. Several times. My flight just landed an hour ago. I didn’t get much sleep enroute. We may have had the same kind of night.”
Mitch cleared his throat. “Doubtful,” he replied.
Randy coughed. Nobody said anything for several moments. The director pulled out a chair across from Mitch and sat. He folded his arms and leaned back. The chair creaked. It was loud in the silence. The director finally spoke, and ended his comment with two words that felt like a pronouncement.
“There’s no way that woman was in her twenties, detective. No. Way.”
Oh.
Mitch’s mind answered. Addie was very much in her twenties. Lithe. Rounded in exactly the right places. Smooth-skinned. Athletic. And she had the most fantastic legs...
“...possible explanation?”
Crap.
His attention had wandered? This was as bad as when the sketch of her eyes had snagged him during the session yesterday. Mitch leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Have you considered that she’s part of a group? A fringe one? Fanatical?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“And...just maybe they’ve got some method of imprinting latex gloves with the same set of fingerprints and they all wear them?”
“Latex wasn’t around in the fifties, detective.”
Mitch regarded him at length. “Rubber was.”
“True. But, that’s rather unbelievable. Don’t you think?”
Mitch shrugged.
“Have you looked over some of these crime scene files, detective?”
“Yeah. Yesterday.”
“Let’s talk Modus Operandi first, shall we? The murders take place at night. Alarm systems have been in place on eight of them and activated. But they aren’t triggered. Two of the scenes had active security guards on site. In one case, the victim was found inside a safe room. Concrete sides and floor. Combination safe door. The murderer pried off the door and tossed it aside. There were scratch marks on the metal. They resemble the ones found on your safe.”
Mitch grunted.
“Then...there’s the weapon. It’s always a sharp instrument. Forensics placed the blade length at ten to twenty-four inches. That means either forensics are dunces, or the perpetrator has access to different blades.”
The instant image of Addie’s dagger came to mind. The one she’d shoved into the front of her petticoat and used to slit the garment open...the move revealing perfect legs. Supple thighs. Absolute heaven.
“...the blood evidence? There isn’t much. Most of the victims appear to have been drained of blood. Drained. Let’s stop for a moment and let that sink in, too. Shall we?”
“What about a sacrificial cult?”
Sam spoke up. Mitch glanced toward him. The director swiveled in his chair and moved his focus to the three agents.
“Sacrificial cult?”
“Yeah. Maybe something like...the Illuminati?”
“You’ve been watching too much Sci-Fi channel, man,” Tom remarked.
Somebody snickered. It wasn’t him. The director turned back to Mitch.
“You have a different idea, detective?”
“Maybe there’s a link between the victims aside from M.O.?” Mitch offered.
The director smiled at him with the same type of expression Captain Thomas used.
“They appear completely random on the surface. But then something starts to become apparent. The victims all seem to have been major scumbags in their particular field and era. At every level of society.”
“We have a vigilante group?”
“Very good, detective.”
“Well, that is what I do. Detect,” Mitch answered. He could have bitten his tongue. It didn’t make sense. Now, he was the antagonistic one?
The director’s smile disappeared. “This particular group has been operating under the radar. We don’t know for how long. Or how high it might go. That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh.”
It wasn’t a bright answer, but it’s all Mitch could think of. Obviously, the director had been up all night – and he hadn’t wasted the time.
“We’re going to need some more information from you.”
Mitch pondered the man. He didn’t shift. He didn’t make any expression. He moderated his heart rate and breathing. He’d learned this facet about being a cop when he was a kid. Never exhibit anything. Body language could give away any secret. And he had a big one. He’d had the most amazing experience of his life with the most incredible woman. Even if it was imaginary, making love with Adelaide had surpassed every prior experience. If he paused for any amount of time, he could bring her to mind. Her perfect body. Their shared passion. The level of satiation he’d achieved.
He wasn’t willing to divulge a moment of it.
“I gave you all I had,” he finally answered.
“Perhaps.”
“I’m clueless here. Okay? Same as you guys. I
can barely remember what she looks like.” And it was harder than hell to get that lie out without making any expression.
“Well. That’s exactly why we have a doctor of hypnotism here, Detective Hartnett.”
Oh.
Fuck.
Mitch’s eyes widened. Somebody opened the door. Daylight poured in. Fire speared his eyeballs and lanced deeply into his skull. Mitch jerked his head down and blinked rapidly against an onslaught of tears. They didn’t do much against this level of trauma, but they did send a tiny bit of cooling relief. Things couldn’t get much worse.
And then Donny walked back in.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Adelaide hummed a melody popular during the first weeks of World War I as she moved about her room. She couldn’t remember the name of the tune or the composer, but it was a catchy song. She dressed with care. Tonight she’d decided on white. Her brocade skirt was fashioned in cream and white tones. Her corset was white satin, adorned with aged, cream-colored lace. The elbow-length gloves were white. Her thigh-high stockings were fashioned from white lace. A grosgrain ribbon bow tied at the backs. Her ankle boots were off-white. Lace-covered. As was the tiny veiled hat she’d wear. The entire ensemble was sexy, yet classy.
Very classy.
She dumped the contents from a large bag onto the seat of a red-velvet, turned-arm sofa. She bypassed the wallets and made a pile of the jewelry. She had brooches and rings, and watches – one still attached to its fob – as well as all manner and style of necklaces. She had a lot to choose from. First-class passengers hadn’t skimped on fashion back in nineteen fifteen. Actually...the well-to-do passengers aboard the Lusitania hadn’t skimped on much.
The necklace she chose was choker-length, the pearls of an exquisite quality. No doubt the original owner had selected and purchased it due to the gem color and shape and size. Addie slid her fingers along the strand before fastening the piece about her throat.