Burning Darkness (11 page)

E
ric went through the motions of taking the gun and extra ammunition from Magnus, of stuffing the bag behind the seats of the old truck, but his head was still back in that closet.

That wasn’t him, that was a possession, but not by Sayre. No, more like a Lucas possession. That tender, caring shit was something Lucas, not he, would do. Especially with a woman who, not twenty-four hours ago, had tried to kill him.

Tried, but couldn’t.

Yeah, and she wasn’t real happy with herself that she couldn’t. What does it say about you that you want a woman who damned near tried to kill you?

She walked out, wearing the hobo dress with a skirt that came to mid-thigh. In contrast to the dress, she looked mad as hell. Thank God. If he’d seen her come out with a gooey, dewy look on her face or a smidgen of vulnerability, he’d be in big trouble. Damn, he knew women used tears to get their way, but seeing one actually crying—and because of him—sliced and diced him three ways and then some.

She got into the truck, slamming the door closed and slumping back, her arms over her chest, gaze riveted ahead.

Magnus tapped the door. “Good luck, mates. Let me know what’s going on.” He nodded toward Fonda, his smile barely concealed. “Be on your guard.” He walked over to her side, and she rolled down the window. “It was nice to meet you. Could be good to have a sister.”

Her expression softened, though Eric could see her surprise, too. Her smile was tentative. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure how you felt, being . . . well, the way it happened.”

“That my father messed around on my mother? It was Blue Moon. He was devoted to Mum. He would never have hurt her on purpose. We’ll see you again?” She nodded. “Be safe,” he said, and stepped back.

Eric started the truck. The muffler roared, and the whole truck vibrated with power. “How fast is this thing?” he asked Magnus.

“It’s got a turbo 350 with a TH350 tranny, three hundred horses. It’ll do.”

Eric nodded. “Yes, it will.”

Lachlan walked out, his shoulders stiff, his expression in a snarl. Angry. Yeah, he could relate. He waved as they pulled away, but Lachlan stood and glared.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” Fonda said, her gaze pointedly ahead.

“What, wave at Lachlan? I was just being friendly.”

She huffed. “I meant what you did in the closet.”

He came to a stop where the gravel drive met the road. “What, exactly?” He’d done a few things he probably shouldn’t have. Might as well narrow it down.

“Belittling what Jerryl and I had. Making it seem like he was only using me.”

“Maybe he was. Guys are like that sometimes.”

Her lips tightened into a hard line. “Maybe you’re like that. Maybe you use women and toss them away. But you didn’t know Jerryl, so you have no right to insinuate that he was an asshole, too.”

“I’m happy to accommodate a willing woman, no doubt. But to repeatedly bang a woman and not be absolutely clear on where the relationship is or isn’t going . . .” He shook his head. “Nope, wouldn’t do that.”

Her upper lip lifted in a sneer that reminded him of Billy Idol. “Because you’re so
honorable
.”

“Hey, I’m the biggest asshole you’ve ever met. But I’m an honest one. I call ’em as I see ’em. You can hate me for that, or because I killed him or because I’m a jerk or for any reason you want. You’ve got a few to choose from. But I didn’t take away the love of your life, because he wasn’t.”

“And that was important to make clear to me because . . .”

That made him stop. Why had it been so important? Because he wanted her free of the illusion that she’d loved Jerryl, and that he’d loved her.

It was more than that, bud.

“I was trying to make you feel better.”

She pointed at him, finally looking his way. “You’re just doing it to make yourself feel better.”

Was he? He did feel better knowing Jerryl wasn’t her big love.

“And that other thing you did,” she added.

Uh-oh, here it comes
. “Kissing you.”

“Yeah. That. That was totally . . . totally . . .” Her eyes were wide, searching for the right word.

“Stupid? Wrong? Crazy?” he supplied.

“All of the above.” With another huff, she turned to look out the passenger window. She wanted to hold onto her anger at him. It had probably killed her to break down in front of him—especially him—like that.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll forget the thing in the closet ever happened.”

“Forgotten,” she said in a singsong voice, still turned away.

He pulled out onto the road. That was the best thing that could happen. Forget it, bury it deep. Act as though it had never happened.

But he knew that neither one of them was going to forget it, no matter how hard they tried. Something had happened between them. Something had changed, and he had a feeling it was going to mess everything up.

His phone rang: Amy. “Did the cops leave?” he said as a greeting.

“They still have guys posted. They must think one of us will come back here, but so far they haven’t made a move to come in or find an entrance. We’re all right for the most part, but we have an old problem that’s returned: Sayre.” She told him about the possession, her voice taut, trembling at times. “So far Lucas can’t get into his dreams, but maybe Sayre’s not asleep.”

Eric felt a swell of anger and resoluteness. “I’m going to get him.”

“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.