Protector: The Flawed Series Book Three

by Becca J. Campbell

  He closed his lids for a moment, fingertips pressing into his neck. “I’m not in the mood right now, Violet.”

  “Mmm,” she said reflexively. “Squabble’s got you grumpy, huh?”

  When he lifted his gaze, she was seated in the chair next to him, her back stretched in an arch that was either haughty or flirtatious. Logan didn’t care to figure out which.

  “You know you can do better than her, right?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The girl you were fighting with.”

  “You were in the library.” So it hadn’t been his imagination. “Were you following me again?” He kept his voice even.

  “It’s a public place. I’m allowed to be there as much as you are.”

  Logan sighed and pushed his greasy plate aside. “Fine. So. Did you need something?”

  Violet’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly and crawled down his form, hovering longer over his biceps and coming to rest where his rear met the plastic chair. “Just wanted to let you know that if things don’t work out with what’s-her-name, it’s not the end of the world.”

  Supplying Jade’s name was something Logan wouldn’t do. If Violet had heard them arguing, she’d already gotten too close.

  “I mean,” she continued, “when that whole thing goes belly up—and it looks like it’s heading that way—I’ll be here for you. Just like you were there for me when I needed it.” Her warm palm fell on his shoulder.

  Logan twisted abruptly to dislodge her grip but realized he hadn’t thought it through when her hand dropped to his thigh. His body went hot with restrained frustration, that hand paralyzing him as well as a straitjacket. “Thank you, but things are fine between us, and either way, I’m not interested.”

  In one swift motion he grabbed his coffee cup, stood, and headed back to the library. Halfway across the lawn, he dared glance over his shoulder, but thankfully Violet wasn’t following. He blew out a breath of relief. If there was any place he wanted that woman to be, it was as far from his girlfriend as possible.

  When he returned, Jade was still gazing at the computer, so he eased into the seat next to her. He wouldn’t mention the run-in with Violet. That was the last thing Jade needed right now.

  The sense of unease that had settled in his stomach last week had grown and spread through his limbs, a fresh anxiety tightening his nerves. He couldn’t pinpoint the cause, but Jade’s sudden eagerness to get involved with the case worried him. If these men came back, she could be in serious trouble.

  It wasn’t until ten o’clock that Logan noticed the time. “Ready to head out? It’s getting late.”

  She looked up from the monitor and blinked at him then yawned. “Yeah, I guess I should call it a night.”

  “You haven’t even eaten dinner yet.”

  She pushed back her chair and stood, stretching her arms above her head. “I’ll grab something at home before I crash.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded.

  The moonlight glistened on the frosted grass as they headed out of the library. Jade dug inside her purse and pulled out a small key. “Good thing I rode my bike. My legs could really use the exercise after being in that chair all day.”

  Logan caught her free hand and wove his fingers through hers. “You think you’ll be okay riding home this late? It’s pretty cold out, and I bet you’re tired. I can drive you back if you want. You could get the bike tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s not far, and the riding will keep me warm.” She flicked the small key against her palm in a spastic tap-a-tap pattern as they approached the bike rack, an absent gesture that, along with the pinch at the bridge of her nose, conveyed the state of her nerves.

  Jade slipped on a patch of frost, yanking his hand forward with her. He tightened his grip and pulled her back upright. The key flashed as it flew from her hand. He heard the tinkle as it fell against something metallic.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I just dropped my—Oh no!” She knelt down to examine the curb and stared into a metal grate where rainwater drained. “My key fell down there.”

  “You have a spare?” Logan asked.

  “No.” She sighed and went to her bike, fingering the padlock. “Well, that’s one more piece of crappy luck today.”

  “I might have some industrial cutters in my garage,” he said. “I can look tomorrow. I’ll just take you home—”

  Jade held the lock in her palm and studied it. “Or…”

  “Or what?”

  She glanced at him. “You could just take care of this now.”

  He frowned. “You know I don’t like doing that.”

  “But there’s no one around.”

  “It’s not about who’s watching.” Logan stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared at the lock, unable to shrug off her intrusive gaze. “You know how I feel about my ability.”

  “But it’s way simpler than driving to your place for cutters.”

  “It makes me feel like a freak.”

  “But you’re not. Besides, you grew your hair out.” She touched his hair, the back of her delicate hand grazing his cheek. “What’s the point if you aren’t ever going to use your strength?”

  “I didn’t grow my hair out because I wanted super strength. I keep it this way because you like how it looks.”

  “Okay. Forget I asked.”

  Logan’s resolve evaporated. He sighed, pulled free, and grabbed the chain between his hands. With a glance over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone, he tightened his grip and tugged. One of the links broke, and the chain fell free with a clatter.

  “Was that so hard?” Jade asked, a note of teasing in her voice.

  “You know I don’t like to use my ability,” Logan said quietly.

  Jade picked up the broken chain and tossed it into a nearby waste can. “I know. I just don’t understand why. You have this amazing gift. Why let it go to waste?”

  Logan wrinkled his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Jade shrugged. “You could be…I don’t know…fighting crime or something. Saving people who are in danger and all that.”

  “I suppose you want me to wear a cape and tights, too?”

  Jade laughed. “You said it, not me. Seriously, though. With your ability, you could be helping people.”

  “I helped you just now, didn’t I?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Breaking your bike chain doesn’t count because I’m not risking my neck? What do you want from me?”

  Jade sighed. “Never mind.”

  After she left, Logan’s irritation lifted, but he couldn’t get their disagreement out of his head. As he drove home, he glanced into the rearview mirror and fingered his long, dark hair. It was the cause of his strength, and now the catalyst of tension between them.

  He noticed a piece of paper on the passenger seat of his truck that hadn’t been there earlier. He plucked it up, examining it more closely. It was a pink Post-It note. Flipping it over, he read the swirling handwriting.

  You can’t get rid of me that easily. I’ll always be here, Logan.

  Always.

  It was signed with a V, and the i’s on the note were dotted with hearts.

  Logan glared accusingly at his old, worn truck’s passenger door that hadn’t locked properly since last year. And now Violet knew about it.

  He crumpled the note in a sweaty, shaking fist, trying hard not to believe its claim.

  ~

  Ethan Black admired the scorpion’s stinger, the delicate precision of its poisonous tip. The dark creature lurked in its cage, docile for the moment, but easily provoked to attack. Those who treated it poorly would regret the mistake while writhing in agony. And yet the curve of its tail was as graceful as the notes of the orchestral sounds waltzing around him.

  The door banged open, vibrating the walls.

  “Turn that down!” an irritated voice yelled.

  Ethan looked up
. The light from beyond was harsh on his eyes. He squinted at the silhouetted figure—a short, wiry man with a puff of fuzz at the top of his head. Nicodemus Zachau blamed his untameable curls on the Florida humidity, but no matter what the reason, he looked ridiculous. Nicodemus wasn’t Ethan’s favorite person in the world, but right now he was necessary.

  Nicodemus barged in, felt around in the dark where Ethan kept his stereo, and finally managed to slap the “off” button. The music came to a screeching halt.

  Irritation flared in Ethan. “I told you not to touch my things. What’s the problem?”

  The silhouette put his hands on his hips. “Problem is, I’m doing your dirty work, and you’re blarin’ that crap. I can’t even think!”

  Ethan turned back to the cage next to him. He watched the scorpion resolutely, forcing a calm exterior. He’d rather get stung by this creature a dozen times than listen to Nicodemus’s incessant whining. The screechy voice was the worst. It had grated on Ethan’s nerves ten years ago when they had moved to Colorado together to look for the girl who’d fled him, and it still drove him crazy.

  “Found anything yet?” he asked.

  “I searched every set of Florida state records I can get my hands on. There’s nothin’ on a ‘Kelsey Mason’ with the right birthdate past high school. No addresses, no phone numbers, no email, nothin’. Girl either ain’t there, or she’s good at hiding.”

  “What about Colorado? She had an aunt who lived there—some small town, she never said where.”

  “Searching, but I ain’t having much luck.”

  “Try harder,” Ethan said.

  “It’s been ten years! She could be anywhere by now.”

  “She loved Colorado.”

  “Is that why you dragged me out there a decade ago? All for this girl?”

  Ethan didn’t answer.

  “You never found her then. What makes you think you’ll find her now?”

  “Just keep looking.”

  Nicodemus huffed. “Easy for you to say. All you do is stay holed up in the dark with your pets. I’m the one doin’ all the work, and I’m about sick of it.”

  Ethan pursed his lips and forced a breath through his nose. “You still owe me. And we’re not going after your girl until you help me get mine.”

  “I know the deal,” Nicodemus said. “And she ain’t my girl. She’s a witch who needs her magic stripped.”

  “Whatever,” Ethan said.

  “But I can’t listen to that noise any longer,” Nicodemus said.

  “And I can’t listen to silence.”

  “Just keep it down, okay?”

  Ethan didn’t turn from the creature in front of him. He’d been saving this one for Kelsey, to serve as a reminder that she may have escaped him once, but that he was still the one in control. It would take an incredible amount of willpower not to use the scorpion on Nicodemus in the meantime.

  “I’m done for the night,” Nicodemus said. “I’ll work on it tomorrow.”

  “Fine,” Ethan said.

  “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “We need funds.”

  “I’ll work the corner tomorrow.”

  “Too slow,” Nicodemus said. “We need real cash. Tonight.”

  Ethan closed the lid on the scorpion’s cage, thinking it would be nice to get out for a change. “I’ll be ready in five minutes.”

  Blue paint spattered Kelsey’s face. She blinked then swiped at her lids with a hand, clearing her vision enough to see the next fistful of bright-colored tempera flung from the wild-eyed child across the art studio. Blonde curls flashed, and red globs flew at her. She took a quick step, and the liquid spattered her left side.

  “Gwendolyn—” Kelsey lunged, aiming for the paint jar the girl’s hand was stuck inside. She made it in time to get a small, purple palm shoved in her face. Cool, slick paint slid across her cheek, but she grabbed the girl’s wrist as it came down. Gwendolyn’s free hand grasped at the spattered table, catching the cup of brushes soaking in muddy-colored water.

  “Don’t—” Kelsey said, but the girl threw the cup. Cold water sprayed down Kelsey’s smock, soaked her jeans, and trickled over her shoes. Kelsey, who’d lost her grip on the child, opened her eyes and made a quick grab for the girl. She captured both wrists.

  “Gwendolyn, honey, we use our words to express our feelings, we don’t throw—”

  The girl screamed at the top of her lungs.

  Kelsey gritted her teeth but let go, worried she was hurting the girl. Once released, Gwendolyn streaked across the room and threw herself on the modeling station. Her screams stopped. Twisting to see, Kelsey watched the girl grab at the hunk of clay with wet, paint-covered fingers and wring off several chunks. A half-second later the globs came hurtling at Kelsey, smacking her in the middle and sticking to the front of her wet smock like giant gray boogers. More clumps flew, shooting past Kelsey and splattering on damp canvases and hung pieces of newsprint covered with charcoal scribbles.

  Not the residents’ work. Kelsey usually put the projects up at the end of the day, but she cursed herself silently for not clearing the room out before her first session with this girl. A tantrum was one thing, and heaven knew that Sprawling Plains Mental Health Center saw plenty of those, but the ruin of other patients’ artistic expressions was worse.

  Instead of lunging at her again like before, Kelsey strode cautiously forward, each foot placed tentative and careful, as if she might startle a bird. Three feet away, when the girl was just out of range, Kelsey held up her hands in surrender.

  “It’s okay, Gwendolyn. It’s going to be all right. Look at me.” The girl ignored her, now satisfied with spreading clumpy clay all over the nearby wall. Kelsey swallowed. The hospital staff wouldn’t be happy about this mess. She could hear her boss Mr. Eisenman now, asking why she’d let the girl get so out of control during their therapy session.

  With a step up behind her, Kelsey grabbed Gwendolyn around the waist, pulling her away as gently as she could yet refusing to release her grip. The girl screeched again, her lungs expelling endless breath. Kelsey bit down on her lip and refused to let go of the child.

  The door to the art studio opened, and one of the recently hired orderlies walked in. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “She’s—”

  Gwendolyn’s head swung up, and she bucked in Kelsey’s arms, causing her to slide free of the grasp. She darted across the room, scooting behind one of the easels.

  “I’m trying to get her contained. Can you help?”

  “What should I do?” the orderly asked.

  Gwendolyn had crouched down behind the easel and scribbled angrily on the floor with a piece of charcoal she’d procured from somewhere. Probably it was left from one of Kelsey’s other art therapy sessions.

  Kelsey took a deep breath, maintaining a calm voice. “I think we’re done for the day, Gwendolyn. Why don’t you let Mister Beau take you back to your room?” The orderly stepped up to the easel and moved it aside. The instant Gwendolyn was unprotected, she darted away again, zigzagging through the room, so that it was impossible to tell her destination. Arms out like a basketball player, the orderly sank into a squat and scuttled toward her.

  Gwendolyn’s path diverted around him, zipping toward Kelsey and knocking her off her feet.

  Movement at the door caught Kelsey’s attention.

  “Kelsey—” Misty, the receptionist, poked her head in, a silent question on her lips as she took in the terrorized studio.

  Gwendolyn dashed under one of the tables where she crouched and waited.

  “Is everything all right?” Misty asked.

  With her eyes, Kelsey gave an exasperated plea.

  Misty gave Kelsey a quick nod and turned her gaze to the girl hiding under the table. “Gwendolyn? You ready to come back to your room? I can get you a cup of Jell-O.”

  Gwendolyn didn’t move, but at the mention of the treat, her wide gaze locked onto Misty. “Red.” It was
a serious command given in a high voice.

  “Of course,” Misty said. “Always red for Miss Gwendolyn.”

  A beat passed as Gwendolyn considered. Then she crawled out from the table. Her gaze darted from Kelsey to the orderly at the other end of the room.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Misty said. “Just come with me.” She held out a hand, and Gwendolyn paused only a moment before hurrying toward the receptionist. Her tiny, messy hand clutched at Misty’s, who didn’t seem to notice the slime oozing between her fingers.

  “Let’s go get that Jello.” Misty guided the girl into the hall and glanced over her shoulder at Kelsey. “You have a phone call. Line four.”

  “Okay.” Kelsey pushed up off the floor and sent the orderly a glance. “Guess you just got initiated. Thanks for trying, anyway.”

  He gave a nervous grimace.

  Kelsey stripped off her dripping smock, threw it onto one of the tables, and grabbed a paper towel for her hands. After hurrying down the hospital corridor, past patient rooms and a nurse station, Kelsey entered her office and picked up the phone. “Yes?”

  “Miss Matthews, is it?”

  “That’s me. How can I help you?”

  “I was hoping to speak to Donald Eisenman.”

  “Oh. Well, I can have you transferred if you wa—”

  “Dammit, don’t you dare transfer me again. It took me three tries to finally get a hold of someone in the right department. Apparently Eisenman is out of the office.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Would you like me to take a message?”

  “No! I hate those damn recorders. I just want to speak to a human who works with the children.”

  “Well, I work with some of them. I’m the art therapist here at the hospital. How can I help you?”

  “I’m Wendell Rheinhardt. Do you know my goddaughter, Simone Boudreau?”

  “Yes. I—”

  “Then you know about her condition—and that it’s worsened.”