by Nora Roberts
His grip tightened again, and he kissed her hair. Complicated, he realized, didn’t begin to cover whatever was going on inside him. But right at that moment, he didn’t give a damn.
TO AVOID HAVING EVERYONE TIPTOEING AROUND her, Cybil voted for work. The small second-floor office might’ve been cramped with six people inside, but she had to admit, it felt safe.
“Gage found what may be another pattern dealing with locations,” she began, “that springs off the one we talked about before. We can look at them as hot spots and safe zones. The bowling center. While that was the location of the first known infection and violence and has seen other incidents, it’s never sustained any damage. No fires, no vandalism. Right?”
Cal nodded. “Not really. Some fights, but most of the trouble’s been outside.”
“This house,” Cybil continued. “Incidents since we moved in, and there may have been some during previous Sevens, but no deaths here, no fires. The old library.” She paused to look at Fox. “I know you lost someone important to you there, but before Carly’s death, there’d been no major incident there. And again, the building itself has never been attacked. There are several other locations, including Fox’s family farm and Cal’s family home that have proven to be safe zones. Fox, your office building’s another. It can get in, but not physically. Only to create its illusions, so nothing it’s been able to do in those places is real. Nor, more importantly, I think, have any of those locations been attacked by those infected during the Seven.”
“So the questions are why, and how do we use it.” Fox scanned the map. “The old library was Ann Hawkins’s home, and my family farm was where she stayed and gave birth to her sons. If we go back to energy, it may be that enough of hers remains as a kind of shield.”
“There you go.” Quinn planted her hands on her hips. “So we dig and find out what connection the safe zones, or even those places that see less violence, have.”
“I can tell you that the land the center sits on was the site of the home Ann Hawkins’s sister and her husband built.” Cal puffed out his cheeks. “I can check the books, and with my grandmother, but what I remember is it was originally a house, then converted to a market. It morphed and evolved over the years until my grandfather opened the original Bowl-a-Rama. But the land was always Hawkins’s land.”
“I think that’s going to be our why,” Layla commented. “But we need to remember that the old library was, well, breached, during the last Seven. It could happen to any of these locations this time.”
“There wasn’t a Hawkins in the library over the last Seven.” Gage continued to study the map, the pattern. “Essie’d retired by then, hadn’t she?”
“Yeah, she had. She still went in most every day, but . . . It wasn’t hers anymore.” Cal stepped up to look more closely. “They’d already started building the new library, and approved plans to make the old one a community center. It belonged to the town then. Technically, it had for years, but . . .”
“But emotionally, essentially.” Cybil nodded. “It was Essie’s. How long has your family owned this house, Cal?”
“I don’t know. I’ll find out.”
“I bought my building from your dad,” Fox reminded Cal. “Yeah, that’s going to be the why. So how do we use it?”
“Sanctuaries,” Layla said.
“Prisons,” Gage corrected. “The question will be how do we hold a couple thousand infected people bent on murder and mayhem in a bowling alley, on a farm, and in a law office, to start.”
“We can’t. I’m not talking about the legal crap,” Cal added.
“Hey, if anyone’s going to talk about legal crap, it should be me.” Fox took a pull from his beer. “And I’m not going to deny trampling over civil liberties isn’t a big issue with me during the Seven, but the logistics won’t hold.”
“How many could we convince to camp out at your farm before they were infected?” Cybil met Fox’s eyes as he turned to her. “And yes, I realize what an enormous risk this would be, but if a few hundred people could be talked into going there before the Seven, staying there through it—or until we kill this bastard—then others might be convinced to leave altogether for that period, or hole up in what we’ll designate as safe zones, or as close to safe as we can define.”
“Some leave anyway,” Cal pointed out. “But the majority don’t remember, don’t get it, not until it’s too late.”
“It’s different this time,” Quinn added. “It’s been showing itself, showing off. This is all or nothing for both sides. Even if only ten percent of the town moves out or holes up, it’s a stand, isn’t it?”
“Every step we take toward the positive counts,” Cybil agreed.
“But doesn’t kill it.”
Cybil turned to Gage. “No, but it uses tactics to try to weaken us. We’ll counter with those that may weaken it.” She gestured toward the board with the Tarot outline. “We all have our strengths, too. Knowing who and what we are is a positive step. We have a weapon in the bloodstone, another positive. We know more, are more, and have more to work with than the three of you did before.”
“If we’re going to try moving anyone out who’s willing, Fox needs to talk to his family. If you want to ditch the idea from the get,” Cal continued, “no arguments.”
“Yeah, I want to ditch it, but I’m stuck with the old free will, make your own choices song and dance I was raised on. They’ll decide for themselves if they want to start a damn refugee camp. Which they will because that’s how they’re made. Damn.”
“I’ll need to talk to mine, too.” Cal blew out a breath. “First, people in town tend to listen to my father, give what he says some weight. Second, we’ll figure if their house or the center should be a secondary camp, or if they should stay out at the farm to help Fox’s family. And we’re going to need to push, and push hard on finding out how to use the stone. Having a weapon’s no damn good if we don’t know how to trigger it.”
“We’ve built on the past,” Quinn began, “and we have a handle on the now.”
“We need to look again.” Cybil nodded. “We’ve started on that, but—”
“We’re not going there tonight.” Gage’s statement came cold and firm. “No point in pushing on that,” he said before Cybil could argue. “It’s nothing you mess with when you’re already worn down. Go back to that positive energy crap you’re hyping. I’d say you’re running low on that tonight.”
“You’d be right. Rude, which is no surprise, but accurate. In fact, I’d probably be better off hunkering down with some research, solo, for tonight. I’ll do more digging on the stone because Cal’s right, too.”
Eleven
SHE DIDN’T DREAM, AND THAT SURPRISED HER. Cybil had fully expected to be dogged by nightmares, portents, imagery, but instead had slept straight through the night.
Something accomplished, she supposed, as she’d gotten nowhere on the evening research. Hopefully, she’d do better today, rested and focused. Rising, she walked over to take a good, hard look at herself in the mirror.
She looked the same, she thought. She was the same. What had happened to her wasn’t a turning point in her life. It didn’t make her less, and it hadn’t broken her down. If anything, the attack had given her more incentive, made her more involved and more determined to win.
It may feed on humans, she realized. But it didn’t understand them. And that, she supposed, could be another weapon in their arsenal.
Now, she wanted a session at the gym to kick her energy level up. Sweating out the toxins, she thought, would be a kind of ritual cleansing. With any luck Quinn would be available for gym buddy. She pulled on a sports bra, bike pants, tossed what she’d need in a small tote. Stepping out, she noted Quinn’s bedroom door was open, and the room empty. So, she’d grab a bottle of water out of the kitchen, and catch up with Quinn and Cal at the health club in the basement of the old library.
She strode into the kitchen, pulling up short when she saw Gage at the table with
a mug of coffee and a deck of cards.
“You’re out early.”
“Never left.” As she’d done herself, he gave her a long, hard look. “Bunked on the couch.”
“Oh.” It gave her a quiver in the belly. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“Do what?” His eyes never left her face, adding another quiver. “Stay, or bunk on the couch?”
She opened the refrigerator, got out the water. “Either. But thanks. I’m going over to the gym. I want some cardio. I assume that’s where Quinn is?”
“Noises were made. Why don’t you stick with the Gumby routine?”
“It’s not what I’m after. Yoga relaxes me. I need to pump.”
“Crap.”
“What?” she demanded as he rose.
“Cal’s got half his gear here. I’ll find something. Wait,” he ordered and strode out.
If she was going to wait, she wanted coffee, so she picked up Gage’s mug and finished his off. He came back wearing a pair of gray sweats that had seen much better days, and a Baltimore Orioles T-shirt. “Let’s go,” he ordered.
“Am I correct in assuming you’re going to the gym with me?”
“Yeah, get it moving.”
She opened the fridge, took out a second bottle of water and shoved it in her tote. She doubted he could have done or said anything at that particular moment that would have meant more to her. “I’m not going to argue or tell you I can get to the gym fine by myself. First, because it would be stupid after yesterday. And second, I want to see what you’ve got.”
“You’ve already seen what I’ve got.”
She laughed, and felt better than she’d have believed possible. “Good point.”
She got a solid hour in, and had the bonus of watching Gage work up a nice sweat lifting weights. It was more than the very appealing view, she realized. Watching him gave her just a little more insight into him. He didn’t want to be there, particularly, but since he was, he put his time to use. Focused, thorough, patient, she thought. It might have been more the cat-at-the-mouse-hole kind of patience than the altruistic sort, but the results were the same. He waited.
Looser and energized, she walked back with him. “Where will you go when this is over?” she asked, then moved her shoulders at his quiet look. “That’s optimism, which is positive energy. Any particular destination in mind?”
“I’ve kicked around a couple. Probably Europe, unless there’s something happening in the States. I’ll come back for the wedding—Jesus, weddings now. You?”
“I’ll go back to New York, I think, at least briefly. I miss it, and that’s God’s truth, so I’ll give myself an infusion of crowds and noise and pace. Plus, I’ll need to get back to work that pays. But I expect I’ll put in considerable time here. The girl part of the weddings will be more demanding than your boy part of them. If I can swing it after Quinn’s, I thought a few days on a nice island—palm trees and margaritas, and balmy, tropical nights.”
“That’s a plan.”
“A flexible one, which is my favorite kind.” As they turned at the Square, she gestured to the Bowl-a-Rama. “I admire people like that. Cal and his family, who dig in and build and make a genuine mark on a place. I’m grateful they exist, and glad of the fact that by existing and digging in and building, they allow me to make flexible plans and visit lots of those genuine marks someone else has made.”
“No burning desire to make a mark?”
“I like to think I do make them, in my own fashion. I find things out. You need information to write a book, make a movie, rehab a house, build a shopping center, and I can get that for you. And I can get you information you didn’t realize you needed or wanted. Maybe all of those projects would have gotten done without me, but I can promise you they’re better with me. That’s enough of a mark for me. How about you?”
“I just like to win. I can settle for having played if the game’s solid, but winning’s always better.”
“Isn’t it just,” she agreed.
“But if I leave a mark, it gives the other players too much information, too much they might use if we faced each other over a pile of chips again. Better to have a blank slate, as much as possible. They don’t know you, it’s harder for them to read you.”
“Yes.” She spoke quietly. “Yes, that’s exactly right. And to bring this into our situation, I had a similar thought this morning. It doesn’t understand us. It can’t really know us. It can anticipate some. What it did to me, what it did to Fox years ago by killing Carly right in front of him. It knows how to hurt, how to use specific weapons to harm and to undermine. But it still doesn’t get it. It doesn’t seem to comprehend that the opposite side of fear is courage. Every time it uses our fears, it only pushes us to find more courage. It can’t read us, not accurately.”
“Wouldn’t flip to a bluff.”
“A bluff? What bluff?”
“I don’t know yet, but it’s worth thinking about because you’ve got a point. I want a shower and my own clothes,” he added the minute they stepped into the house, and headed straight upstairs.
Cybil considered. She heard the voices from the kitchen. Quinn and Cal had left the gym a good twenty minutes before, and were probably finishing up breakfast and talking with Fox and Layla. She could go back, grab some coffee before going up. Or . . .
Since the shower was already running, she stripped in the bedroom before strolling in. Hair dripping, Gage narrowed his eyes when she tugged back the curtain and stepped in with him.
“Mind?”
His gaze skimmed over her, then stayed steady on hers. “There’s probably enough water for both of us.”
“That’s what I thought.” Casually, she picked up her tube of gel, squirted a generous amount into her hand. “And twofers are more efficient. Plus.” Watching him, she soaped her breasts in slow circles. “I could pay you back for the night spent on the couch, and the stint at the gym.”
“I don’t see any money on you.”
“Barter system.” Slick and soapy, she pressed against him. “Unless you’d rather take an IOU.”
He plunged his hand into her hair, got a good grip to jerk her face up to his. “Pay up,” he demanded, then closed his mouth over hers.
There it was, she thought, outrageously grateful. There was the instant thrill, the response, the need. It had taken nothing from her. His body moved wet and hard against hers, his mouth took from hers, and there was nothing, nothing but pleasure.
“Touch me.” She demanded it, using her teeth, her nails. Nothing fragile here, nothing damaged or in need of tending. Touch me, she thought, take me. Make me feel utterly, utterly human.
He’d wanted to give her time, had been prepared to give her room. And perhaps to give both to himself as well. But her need, the challenge and raw edges of it spoke to his own. So he touched, hands sliding over that sleek skin as the steam plumed and the water pounded.
And he took, pressing her back to the wet tiles, keeping his eyes on hers as he thrust into her. What he saw in hers was dark delight. He gripped her hips to anchor her, drove them both to peak.
Winded, she dropped her head to his shoulder. “Just hang on a minute.”
“Same goes.”
“Okay. All right. Thanks for getting into the spirit so quickly.”
“Same goes.”
She laughed, stayed where she was. “This might be a good time to say that I didn’t like you, particularly, when we first met.”
He let his eyes close, let himself steep in her scent. “I’m going to repeat myself again. Same goes.”
“My first instincts are generally very accurate. Not this time. I do like you, and not just because you’re very talented in bed, and in the shower.”
Idly, hardly realizing he did so, he traced the tattoo at the base of her spine with a fingertip. “You’re not as annoying as I initially thought.”
“Here we are, all wet and naked and sentimental.” Sighing now, she eased back to study him through t
he steam. “I trust you. That’s an important issue for me. I can work with someone I don’t completely trust, it just makes it a little more of a challenge. I can sleep with someone I don’t completely trust, it just means it’s going to be a very brief encounter. But the work’s more productive, and the sex more satisfying, when I trust.”
“You want to shake on that?”
She laughed again. “A superfluous gesture, under the circumstances.” She lifted the gel again, turned his hand over and poured some into his palm. And turned. “But you could wash my back.”
AN HOUR LATER, CYBIL POURED HER FIRST FULL cup of coffee, and had to admit she felt well-buzzed without it. She went upstairs to the office where Quinn and Layla sat at laptops. On the chart, her rape was documented.
Good, Cybil thought. It was good to see it there, straight-out, and know she’d survived it intact. “I’m going to keep the setup in my room this morning,” she told them. “But I asked Gage to come back later. It’s time we tried another link. I’m hoping one or both of you will hang around, act as an anchor.”
“We’ll be here,” Quinn said.
“Did you know Gage stayed, slept on the couch downstairs?”
“We talked about going back with him, to Cal’s.” Layla swiveled away from the keyboard. “He said he was staying. The fact is, none of us wanted to leave in case you had a bad night.”
“Maybe because none of you left, I didn’t have one. Thanks.”
“I’ve got something that might perk you up, too. This house.” Quinn spread her hands. “Or the land this house is on—considerably more of it at one time, but this particular plot? Ann Hawkins’s grandson Patrick Hawkins, son of Fletcher, owned it. Fox is checking on his building, but I’d say we’re well on the way to proving another theory.”
“If this is right, and even if Gage’s definition of it as prison is more accurate than mine as sanctuary,” Layla continued, “it could give us a viable way to protect people. At least some people.”