Willpower

by Anna Durand

  "Are you hurt?" one of the security guards asked.

  She managed to shake her head without grimacing. "I think I'm okay."

  The men helped her stand.

  "What happened?" the second guard asked.

  The car tried to kill me. She kept that to herself and said, "I don't know."

  "Did the gas pedal suddenly go down? Cuz I saw a story on CNN 'bout that."

  "That's exactly what happened."

  It wasn't a lie, not really. The gas pedal had gone down suddenly. She couldn't tell the officer that a demon had possessed her car and floored the accelerator. She sincerely doubted he would understand the invisible man defense.

  Sometimes, a lie sounded more honest than the truth.

  Stan Arnold, the CNN fan, drove Grace home an hour later. He and his partner had waited with her for the tow truck and the police to show up. The cops had questioned her politely but thoroughly about the accident and decided the gas pedal really had malfunctioned, like in the CNN story Arnold mentioned. Grace said little, letting the men reach their own conclusions. She had no desire to tell them the truth.

  After Arnold parked at the curb outside Grace's house, he took a few moments to offer her advice on how to deal with her insurance company. She let him talk and nodded her head at the appropriate moments. He was being nice, which she appreciated, especially since everybody else seemed to want to abduct or murder her. No point in telling this nice man she couldn't afford her deductible, and therefore would be without a car for the foreseeable future.

  Finally, Arnold bid her goodbye. She thanked him with genuine gratitude, but then forced a smile as she exited his car. The brave face pinched a little more than usual today.

  She waved as Arnold drove away.

  Breathing deeply, she winced as the bruises on her chest, abdomen, and thighs flexed. Maybe that somber young man would come back to fix her up again. Whatever he did to her had seemed to drain him, though, and she didn't want to hurt — albeit inadvertently — one of the few people who had tried to help her. So maybe he should stay away. Bruises weren't life threatening.

  Sighing, she trudged into the house. After the security guards had summoned a tow truck, she'd sneaked into the Mail 'N More restroom. She hadn't needed to relieve herself. Rather, she needed to see what evidence the invisible attacker left behind. There, in the flicker of a crackling fluorescent bulb in a bathroom that no one had cleaned since President Truman left office, she'd surveyed her entire body.

  Large, purple bruises had formed on the backs of her thighs. Matching bruises dotted her chest and abdomen. Blood caked at the edges of several fingernails. All of those injuries must've resulted from either her struggle with the door or the backward thrust of the car. None proved what she knew had happened.

  Someone tried to kill her. An invisible someone who wielded paranormal powers.

  It sounded insane. But it was true.

  As she shuffled into the kitchen, each movement tweaked the muscles, irritated the bruises, and elicited a faint grimace accompanied by a half-suppressed groan. She moved without lifting her feet from the floor, for each step twanged her muscles. While breathing was no fun either, she relished it compared to walking.

  In the bathroom, she found an old bottle of prescription anti-inflammatory pills and swallowed one, washing it down with water slurped straight from the bathroom tap. She applied antibiotic ointment and an adhesive bandage to a small cut on her arm. That was all she could do for now, so she headed into the bedroom.

  A man sat on the bed.

  Grace froze.

  Waldron looked at her without expression.

  She needed a second — but just a second — to gather her courage and her thoughts.

  "What the hell do you want?" she asked.

  His voice sounded calm, yet hard as concrete. "You know what I want."

  "I'm not going anywhere with you. And if you try to force me, I'll kill you."

  He laughed.

  Not a chuckle. Not a derisive snort. A full-out guffaw.

  Grace stared at him, feeling certain her face resembled that of a cartoon character emoting shock. Waldron laughed as if they were good buddies and she'd just told him a whopper of a joke. He even looked … happy.

  A shiver swept through her, frigid and sharp.

  As quickly as his laughter had erupted, it ended. The stoic, vaguely threatening expression returned.

  Waldron stood and took two steps toward her. "Don't make this worse than it needs to be."

  He was six feet from her. She scuffled backward into the doorway.

  In one swift motion, Waldron whipped a semiautomatic handgun out of a holster inside his jacket and, with the other hand, pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his hip pocket.

  She knew that bulge under his jacket was a gun, not a cell phone. Being right about it hardly seemed important at the moment, though.

  "Last chance," Waldron said. "Come willingly or — "

  She spun around and bolted down the hallway.

  Waldron took off after her. She heard his footfalls but didn't dare look back.

  As she ran, she unzipped her purse and curled her hand around her gun.

  A hand seized her left wrist.

  Waldron wrenched her backward into him. He wrapped his other arm around her torso, pinning her arms as they bounced to a halt.

  His lips brushed her ear. Softly, he said, "Stop fighting. It's easier."

  His fingernails pinched her skin. She struggled against his embrace. He cinched his arm tighter around her torso. She fought the urge to kick and flail, because she knew that wouldn't help. He was stronger and bigger and armed with both a gun and powerful muscles that felt as unyielding as steel wires. She couldn't wrench free of him. She refused to let him know she had given up, though. She refused to look as weak and helpless as she felt, because he would just love that.

  Her right hand was still clamped around her gun.

  Waldron's arm was clinched around her just above her right elbow. She looked down at her feet. Waldron's much-larger shoes straddled her feet. If she moved her hand a little bit to the right …

  He released her left wrist to reach into his jacket pocket. Peripherally, she saw him withdraw a long, thin object from the pocket.

  A syringe.

  She pulled the trigger.

  The shot boomed through the house.

  Waldron jerked and bellowed. Even through the deafening effect of the gunshot, she heard his cry. His mouth was inches from her ear.

  His grip loosened just enough. She rammed her elbow backward into his gut and he stumbled backward. She yanked the gun out of her purse, whirled on him, and fired another shot.

  He dove sideways through the kitchen doorway.

  She ran out of the house.

  No car. Jesus, no car. She had to get away from him fast. She ran down the sidewalk as fast as her legs would carry her, gritting her teeth against the pain of too many bruises. If she made it to the bus stop, and if there just happened to be a bus waiting there, she might have a chance. No, dammit, she had a chance either way. Think.

  She fled past a car parked along the curb. A car with a man inside it. A man watching her. Through the open passenger window. He must've heard the gunshot. He saw her fleeing. Yet he looked interested, perhaps even a little excited, rather than disturbed. No time to think about that.

  Around the corner. Panting. Praying.

  No bus. Just an empty bench.

  She kept running.

  Chapter Twelve

  She lost track of how many blocks she ran before she finally caught up with a bus. She boarded along with two other people who paid zero attention to her. The driver glanced at the hole in her purse, arched an eyebrow, and said nothing. The gunshot had torn straight through the leather and her previous escapades had left the bag scuffed an
d stained. The combined effect lent her purse a postmodern apocalyptic chic.

  The bus transported her to within a couple blocks of the Prairie Grass Motel. The establishment's name had always seemed odd to her. Sure, they had grass here in Lassiter Falls. But this was hill country, not prairie. Today, however, she really didn't give a damn what they called the place so long as they gave her a room and let her pay cash. The pleasant gray-haired man in the office granted her wish.

  Inside the room, she locked the door and closed the drapes. By the window, two chairs bookended a small, round table. She hauled one of the chairs over to the door, bracing it under the doorknob for extra protection.

  Then she tossed her purse onto the bedside table and collapsed onto the bed.

  The mattress was blissfully soft. The quilt featured a patchwork of pastel colors. She rolled onto her side. Letting her muscles relax, at last, she absently ran her fingers over the quilt's pattern. Everyone wanted the flash drive. They all assumed she had it or knew where to find it. If she didn't find the flash drive soon, whoever killed her grandfather would kill her too. If the presence in her car had been the same someone, then he'd already tried to kill her once. No, he could've killed her any time if he really wanted to. He — based on the disembodied voice, she assumed it was a man — wanted to frighten her, probably hoping that would induce her to cough up the flash drive.

  Andrew Haley had mentioned a particular him. What had he said? The man with evil eyes. Darkness inside. Unfortunately, Andrew had been unable to remember the man's name or offer a more detailed description. Xavier Waldron's eyes definitely qualified as evil and he most assuredly harbored a darkness inside him. But given the skimpy description, she shouldn't assume Waldron was the man Andrew mentioned. Surely if Waldron could attack her in absentia, he wouldn't bother harassing her in her home. Then again, she didn't understand the mind of a psychotic.

  She rolled onto her back, gazing straight up at the ceiling.

  A draft swirled through the room. The room looked nice but it clearly wasn't well insulated, she mused, but then her thoughts spiraled back to the flash drive. Goose bumps popped up on her arms. The draft had turned chilly.

  Look at the door.

  The back of her neck tingled. Overcome by a sensation that she was not alone, she moved only her eyes to look at the door. The chair stood braced under the door handle, two of its feet tilted up off the floor. She shook her head. No one there, of course.

  She yelped when he materialized near the door.

  He just sort of … blurred into sight. Within a half second, the blurriness gave way to high definition and he appeared as solid as any object in the room. If she touched him, he would feel solid and warm and alive. She knew that. She felt it. He focused his blue eyes on her and excitement tingle inside her.

  His mouth twitched at the corners. He crossed half the distance between them and halted.

  She sat up, folding her arms over her chest. "Are you trying to kill me?"

  "No. Someone else."

  "Who?"

  "I don't know."

  "Come on, David."

  His expression remained stoic. Damn, she'd hoped to surprise him with the revelation that she knew his name, to somehow make him show a little emotion, if only for a second. She never knew what he was thinking, good or bad, and never could discern his intentions. His actions, like phrases heard out of context, gave her clues she struggled to decipher. So she longed for an emotional outburst to help her out, or even a flash of anything on his face. Instead, he looked her up and down as if assessing her physical state — not in a medical way, but rather in a concerned manner tinged with something else she couldn't quite identify. Something familiar and far more personal.

  Familiar? Please. She knew nothing about him except his name.

  As far as she remembered. That phrase left her feeling less than certain.

  She scooted backward until her back met the headboard. Clasping her hands over her stomach, she eyed him with an expression she hoped conveyed dispassion. "You know the guy who visited me in the hospital, don't you? The redhead who looked barely old enough to vote."

  "I don't know what — "

  She gave him a don't-screw-with-me look.

  He stared at her for a second, and then said, "Yes. I know him."

  "Is he invisible too?"

  David furrowed his brow. Finally, some emotion.

  Grace rolled her eyes at him. "For pity's sake, would you please drop the strong-and-silent routine? It's getting old. I know who you are, David Ransom, so you might as well talk to me."

  "My name isn't who I am."

  She snorted. Not the most feminine sound, but it made the point.

  Motionless, he watched her.

  She watched him right back.

  After a moment, he broke eye contact and cautiously settled onto the bed near her feet. He asked, "Do you have the flash drive?"

  "Screw the flash drive."

  They exchanged stares again. If they knew each other, she might've thought her rudeness surprised him. They did not know each other. He couldn't know she rarely spoke her mind with such bluntness, for fear of offending someone. Impolite behavior betrayed three things she avoided displaying — anger, fear, and weakness. Sure, she felt them sometimes. But nobody needed to know. Once people knew someone's weaknesses, they could exploit them.

  So his look of confusion couldn't stem from shock at her rudeness. Her refusal to follow orders confused him, no doubt, because he expected to get his way. He confided as little as possible in her while demanding her complete trust. She never granted her complete and unconditional faith to people who refused to reciprocate.

  "You told me to destroy the flash drive," she said. "Now you want it. Give me one good reason why I should trust you."

  He laid a hand on her ankle. The gesture, like much of his behavior toward her, felt intimate and oddly familiar.

  He sighed. "I thought destroying the flash drive would protect you. I was wrong."

  She couldn't look away from his eyes. Blue as jewels. Backlit by a fire within. The cool hue ignited a warmth in her belly that spread outward to infuse her entire being.

  "I'm trying to help you," he said. "Did you destroy the flash drive?"

  "I don't have it." She hesitated, then asked, "Why do you want to help me? I could be a criminal or a devil worshiper or something."

  He shook his head. "You're a good person. The best, actually."

  About to speak, she froze with her mouth open. His voice, soft yet firm, divulged a deep and inexplicable belief in her basic goodness, a faith beyond what his words conveyed, beyond anything anyone had shown her in all her life. If he was acting, he deserved an Academy Award. Her instincts told her he wasn't lying. He meant exactly what he said.

  Maybe she could trust him. A little.

  "If you really want to help," she said, "then help me get the flash drive."

  "I don't know where it is."

  "Of course not."

  She regretted the sarcasm in her voice the instant she spoke the words. David sat absolutely still, his head cocked to one side, those luminous eyes fixed on her. After a few seconds, he turned toward the door and stepped through it.

  He actually stepped through the closed door. Through a solid object.

  A chill sidled up her spine.

  Before she could wonder where he'd gone, David stepped back through the door into the room. He seated himself on the bed again, this time much closer to her. His hip nearly brushed against hers as he sat down, and he could've reached out to touch her face. Another wave of warmth swept through her. When she spoke, her voice came out a little more breathless than she'd intended.

  "You walked through the door," she said. "How did you do that?"

  He shrugged. "I thought I sensed activity out there. It's all calm, though."


  She straightened her spine and toughened her voice. "Don't ignore my questions. I want to know how you can walk through solid objects. What the hell are you?"

  "Later."

  "No, now."

  He leaned toward her, so close that his breath wafted over her. It smelled like cinnamon. How odd that a ghost should have nice breath. Or any breath at all.

  "Are you dead?" she asked.

  "No." He took hold of her shoulders. "Listen to me. You are in danger. The people who want the flash drive will stop at to find it — and I mean nothing. Blackmail. Torture. Murder." He pulled her forward until their noses almost touched. "We must find the flash drive. Now. Maybe then we can find a way to stop our enemies."

  We. He kept saying we, as if they worked together or … something.

  His breath tickled her lips, and she had the strangest urge to kiss him.

  Instead, she asked, "Who are our enemies?"

  "I don't know. I've met their employees, but never the person or group in charge."

  The man with evil eyes. Grace swallowed against a newly formed lump in her throat. "I don't know how to find the flash drive."

  David released her shoulders. He dropped his hands and folded them over hers, which she still held on her lap. His skin felt hot on hers. She hadn't realized how cold her hands were.

  "I'll help you," he said.

  "Okay."

  He squeezed her hands, then let go and pulled away from her. "Did your grandfather leave you anything when he died?"

  "Um, no."

  "You didn't receive any of his effects?"

  She thought about that for a moment. "Just a box of clothes and stuff."

  David raised his eyebrows. "What stuff?"

  "Mementos."

  He jumped up, sending a little earthquake through the bed. "We should check all of Edward's effects. He might've hidden something in them."

  She saluted him. "Yes, sir."

  A smile threatened to rupture his stoicism. He regained control just in time, however — which, in her opinion, was a shame.

  She clambered off the bed and onto her feet.

  David started for the door.