Hunt the Dawn

by Abbie Roads

James’s eyes were partially rolled up inside his head, but they retracted and focused on her.

  Lathan handed her a wad of material—his shirt. She held it in her hand and stared at it until Lathan guided her hand to James’s neck. Oh yeah. That’s what she was supposed to do. She pressed it against James’s wound. The material soaked through and wet her hands.

  “We were destined.” Blood gurgled in James’s mouth, bubbled and popped like a sadistic gum bubble. “I didn’t know it at first, or I would’ve come for you sooner.”

  I would’ve come for you sooner. Evanee stored the words on a shelf in the back of her mind. She’d take them out later, much later, and look at them, turn them over, examine them for all their meanings, but right now James was in front of her, dying, sucking in violent breaths that jerked his entire body.

  “Those tears”—a brutal gasp of air—“are for me.”

  She hadn’t even realized she was crying. “All yours,” she whispered around the wad of them in her throat. She took his hand, held it up to her face, let him feel the grief leaking from her eyes. Let him stroke her cheek with his finger one last time.

  “Death’s here.” James shuddered in a breath. “For me.” His eyes moved to a place beside her.

  A weird weightless, dizzy—but not quite—sensation buzzed through Evanee’s body. “I don’t want you to die.” She stroked his cheek with the back of her finger. Just like he’d always done her.

  His body jerked. Once. Twice. His mouth slowly fell open. Death had taken him.

  “James. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The words snagged on her sobs.

  Gill burst through the trees on the edge of the road, startling her from her grief. He ran to them, gun aimed at the ground. “What’s going on?” His eyes swept over James and her, then stopped on Lathan. “Holy fucking shit. Not now.”

  She turned to Lathan. His left eye fluttered around the socket, going every direction on the compass. He was doing that thing—getting SMs. From Gill? From James? But she wasn’t worried about him. Not like Gill seemed to be. Lathan was alive. Everything else would eventually work itself out. Right?

  “Lathan.” She placed her hand on his cheek, smearing James’s blood on his face. Lathan’s eye stabilized and focused directly on her. He grasped her hand, moved it off his face, his expression changing into something she couldn’t read and wasn’t really in the right frame of mind to try to translate. He gathered her tight to his chest. Like a fortress, his arms closed around her, keeping her safe from everything. So much loss. So much death and blood and misery in the world.

  Everything became quiet, silent except for Evanee’s soft sobbing. The stillness shattered with the noise of many feet running through the woods. Men, at least half a dozen, burst out upon the road. Bright lights, flashlights suddenly illuminated the four of them as if they were center stage of a grotesque show.

  “All clear. He’s dead,” Gill called.

  Everything seemed to still for a beat, but it wasn’t a peaceful sound. It was heavy and expectant and impatient. She could feel the men’s angry energy, see it in the restless way none of them could stand still and yet all of them were focused on James. She would’ve thought they’d be more interested in her.

  A man walked right up to James’s body and knelt down next to him. “Am I the only one befuddled by this? How can he be the Strategist?”

  How can he be the Strategist? The words corkscrewed through her mind, drilling through her memories of James, trying to find a way to make that phrase understandable.

  “What’s he talking about?” she asked Gill.

  Gill’s eyebrows bounced up his forehead, and she could’ve sworn he startled a little. His gaze flicked to Lathan, to her, then back to Lathan. Message clear: Lathan, take care of this.

  In the spotlights, Lathan’s tattoo shone brilliant and detailed like a work of art. She put her hand over it again, smearing more blood on his beautiful face. He wrinkled his nose, but she continued. “How is James’s death related to the Strategist?”

  Lathan covered her hand on his cheek. “He is the Strategist.”

  “No. Not James. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

  Sadness crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I watched his SMs. He didn’t find you. He took you. Came into my house and took you from me. He’d been watching me for weeks. He thought you’d be able to explain how I discovered his kills when no one else could link cases to him. Then he found out about your dreams…”

  Lathan wouldn’t lie to her about this. He wouldn’t. But it went against everything she knew about James. “He was kind to me. Took care of me. Wanted to help me.”

  “Everyone you dreamed about—the little girl, the woman in Texas, the severed man. He killed them all. And so many others that we didn’t know about.”

  We were destined. I didn’t know it at first, or I would’ve come for you sooner. James’s words came back to her. She had told him about all the dreams, and yeah, he’d seemed surprised, but not you’re-a-crazy-lady shocked like he should have been. “But he was nice to me. Nice. Really nice. He said he found me wandering in the woods, and I begged him to keep me safe.”

  “You don’t remember that. I smell your doubt every time you say it. He lied to you. Fucked with your mind. Made you think he was one thing, maybe even wanted to be that thing, but that doesn’t change who he was.”

  “He never hurt me.” As ridiculous as it was, she couldn’t help defending him.

  “He did. While you were unconscious. You just don’t remember it.” The muscles in Lathan’s cheek were as hard as bone.

  “No.” Evanee shook her head. “He didn’t. He wouldn’t.”

  Lathan didn’t argue. He didn’t have to. The look on his face was enough—a combination of pity and rage and helplessness. The truth so awful he didn’t want her to ask questions about it.

  Her insides shivered. Didn’t stop. The trembling radiated outward through her limbs until she could barely stand.

  “No. No. No. No…” A man wailed the word nonstop.

  She instantly recognized his build, the shape of his face, the color of his eyes. He went to his knees next to James, grabbed his body, and pulled it to his chest, still chanting his one word.

  She settled her hand on James’s father’s arm and waited for him to quiet.

  “He loved you.” Maybe James hadn’t come right out and said the words, but that’s what he’d meant. From the little boy who kept a painful secret, always afraid that something would happen to the only parent he had left. To the adult man, always afraid someone would hurt his father. All of that was born out of love. That was the one thing, maybe the only thing, that had been total and complete truth.

  No matter how much she hated what the man had done, she couldn’t hate the hurt little boy inside him.

  Chapter 22

  The clouds over the highway roiled in nebulous masses of impending gloom. Lathan fumbled with the switches on Gill’s car until he found the headlights and flicked them on. He owed Gill for loaning him the car. No telling how long it would’ve taken for Gill to be done with whatever shit needed to be done to tidy up the mess. It was one fuck of mess. One that would change the Bureau forever. One that would change Evanee forever—no matter how many miles he put between her and the Strategist’s corpse.

  “Looks like we’re in for a drencher.” During the drive, he’d found things, made up shit to talk about. She might be asleep, but if he didn’t keep talking, she got restless and agitated. His voice soothed her.

  The first bloated drop of rain splatted onto the windshield. It clung to the glass overlong, then reluctantly slid toward the roof. The temperature had dropped. Freezing rain was obviously in the forecast. “We’re almost home.” He choked on the last word.

  Home. Where he’d been shot. Where she’d almost been raped. Where the Strategist had found her. Bad memories squatted in Lathan
’s home now. Where else could he take her?

  Gill’s bachelor pad that probably smelled of sex and anonymous women? No.

  His parents’ estate? No way.

  Morty’s Motor Lodge? No fucking way.

  He clenched the wheel, the bones in his knuckles bulging, the skin covering them bleached. He sucked in a slow breath to calm himself and almost gagged—swallowed the urge with a gulp and a mouthful of willpower. She’d been through so much already without him complaining that she smelled.

  The sweet vanilla-ish scent of the Strategist’s blood clung to her hands—despite her having washed them. His sickening scent adhered to her hair better than hair spray. Lathan had been trying to breathe through his mouth the entire drive, but had forgotten. Now rage and helplessness throbbed underneath his skin, wanting to rip through his flesh and—do what? There was no one to vent his feelings toward unless he wanted to assault a corpse. But that would hold no satisfaction.

  He glanced down at her, slumped over, using his shoulder as a pillow. Sleep was best for her. She was injured—he smelled her blood too—but she’d refused all medical treatment. Even when they were finally alone, she hadn’t wanted him to place her hand on his tattoo of healing and ease her discomfort.

  He understood. She wanted the pain. All he had to do was pull up his borrowed shirtsleeve, peel back the bandage, and see her name carved in his flesh. Pain was holding her together. For the first time, he recognized the abhorrent nature of pain as a coping skill. It wasn’t an antidote for agony; it was a diversion. One he would no longer allow her to inflict upon herself.

  Lathan slowed, turned into his driveway, and parked near the front door. The sky welcomed them home with a deluge of rain, obscuring the outside world from view.

  Honey lifted her head from his shoulder, tried to peer through the downpour.

  “Is this okay? Being here? Being home,” he asked.

  She turned her damaged face to him. His breath hiccupped in his throat. Even though he’d seen it, stared at it, willed it away, he couldn’t cover his reaction to the heinous injury done to her. Her eye, part of her cheek, and her temple were stained a vile shade somewhere between burgundy and purple. The entire mass of color was puffy and distorted her features. She will heal. He’d make certain of it. Even if the injury changed her features forever, he loved her for so much more than how she looked. He loved her soul. That part of her that no one could see, but that he recognized as the other piece of himself.

  Tenderly, oh so tenderly, he cupped her injury. He expected her skin to be inflamed, to feel the anger that had fueled the injury, but her skin was cool and smooth and received his touch like a dry field absorbs rain. It was that sensation of absorption that he recognized. Healing. Some of his strength, his light was flowing into her. Not nearly as strong as when she touched his tattoo, but it was something. As she leaned into his touch, a tear escaped her beautiful bleak eyes, splashed again his thumb, and ruptured his heart.

  He had no words. No phrases to make it all better. All he could do was this. Hold her damaged face in his hand and tell her with his eyes how much he loved her. How much he wished for her healing and wholeness and happiness, wished none of the bad stuff had happened.

  “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than here. With you.” She kissed his palm, then repositioned his hand on her cheek.

  For a long, crazy moment, everything in the world fell away except for him and her and the rain slashing the windshield.

  Finally, the rain tapered to a drizzle, revealing his house and all the memories hiding inside. He withdrew his hand from her cheek. The bruise was still there, but had faded to a less-intense, less-dense shade of burgundy.

  He reached for his door handle at the same time she reached for hers. He got out and walked over to her side before she’d even swung her legs out of the car. Exhaustion weighted down each of her movements. He pulled her up next to him and wrapped his arm around her back, holding her close. Together they would fight the memories.

  Just before he opened the front door, he angled his body to block her view of the kitchen and hopefully block her from having any flashbacks. He led her upstairs to the bathroom.

  “You’re going to get a shower, then I’m going to make you a peanut butter and raspberry sandwich, and then you’re going to get good night’s sleep.” The words gushed out his mouth. “And then, tomorrow, everything will be better.”

  He hoped. For her sake. She needed a good day. Since he’d known her, there had been too many bad ones. The last five being chart-toppers.

  “Your brother will probably want to see you. He stopped by earlier with Dr. Stone, Xander, and Isleen.” Lathan watched her face fall, smelled the tinge of garlic in the air. “They were concerned for you. And me.” He almost couldn’t believe the truth in his own words. “It was Isleen who told me you were alive and gave me hope. She dreamed about you and the Strat—James.” To Evanee, the guy had a name, not a killer’s moniker. “And Xander told me how to find you.” He was babbling.

  She was too quiet. Just like that first day out on the road with Junior. Except this was worse. So much worse.

  He helped her sit on the closed toilet lid.

  She bowed her head, her hair a shroud blocking her from his view. The scent of salted honey found him. Again. More tears.

  He knelt in front of her, the rest of his meaningless words dying before they could be born. He parted the veil of her hair, tucked it over her shoulder, and then tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him.

  Tears welled and spilled, sluicing down her cheeks.

  She settled her palm against the tattoo. Something electric, magnetic, something more powerful than either of them alone, passed between them and bound them together. Sweet spring coolness rushed into him from her hand and spread through him until it reached his arm—her name carved into his flesh. The skin tingled, itched. He recognized the sensation. Healing.

  Part of himself passed into her. The bruise on her face lost its puffiness and lightened.

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice wobbled, but the sound of it was sweet to his ears. “I know it’s stupid. I know I’m stupid for wanting this, but I need…”

  “Tell me. Whatever you need, it’s yours.” He’d figure out how to pluck the damned stars from the sky if that would put the sparkle back in her eyes.

  “I need… I need to go to James’s funeral.”

  He heard her, but denial forced him to replay the way her lips formed the words in his mind. The meaning was the same either way. Damn. Shit. Fuck. That wasn’t at all what he’d expected her to say. His face got hot and his brain boiled, cooking him from the inside out.

  “I know he was bad. He was…” Her tone wavered. “He was the Strategist. But he treated me with kindness.”

  “No. He. Didn’t.” He’d been inside the Strategist’s memories. Seen how the asshole touched her, manipulated her, preyed on her grief, mind-fucked her. “He stole you from me. Lied to you. Told you I was dead.” Granted the guy hadn’t known Lathan survived the gunshot, but that was no excuse for what he’d done. “Tried to kill me. In front of you. Would’ve if we weren’t special when we’re together.”

  He left out the part about what the Strategist had done to her in the bathtub. Some things were too appalling to speak aloud.

  “I know.” She sounded small and defeated, and Lathan hated himself for ever speaking. “But he told me about himself. Told me some things I know are true. It’s that part of him—that hurt, desperate boy that needed a friend—that I need to say good-bye to.”

  “I’ll find out about the arrangements.” He tried to unclench his jaw. Wasn’t successful. Maybe the heat in his head had melted the bones together.

  Lathan’s phone vibrated, and he yanked it from his pocket. There was a text from Dr. Stone.

  We’ve just arrived. Everyone is anxious to see Evanee.


  He typed in a response without even thinking.

  Be there in a minute.

  At some point during the long night of questioning, Lathan had texted Dr. Stone to tell him Honey was found. Alive. He’d asked the doctor to relay the message to Thomas.

  “Your brother is here. Dr. Stone, Xander, and Isleen, too.”

  Panic flared in her eyes, dilated her pupils, and infused the already pungent air around her with garlic. “I don’t want to see anyone. I can’t. Not right now.”

  “Do you at least want to see your brother? He was worried.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll get rid of them. Will you be all right for a few minutes?” Translation: Will you be all right without me? She was being even clingier than on that first day out on the road.

  She drew in a breath, held it for a few seconds, then let it out. “I’ll be fine.”

  The itchy, peppery scent of her deception tickled his nose, but he let her have the dignity of that little lie. “Get in the shower.” He squeezed her hand against his face to infuse her with enough healing to last during his absence. “I’ll be right back.” Breaking the connection took effort, like they were suctioned together.

  He shut the door behind him and hurried down the stairs. He didn’t want to leave her alone, but he almost looked forward to seeing everyone. An odd thought. He normally would be like her—wanting to hole up and isolate from everyone.

  Lathan opened the front door.

  Thomas stood front and center, holding a stuffed teddy bear wearing a purple pair of pants. Under another set of circumstances, it would’ve been comical to see the guy standing around holding a child’s toy.

  Thomas’s forehead wrinkled in concern. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s”—Lathan could hardly find the words—“rough. Raw right now.” He would never speak of what she’d been through to anyone else. It was her decision to share or not share that experience. He looked at everyone standing on his porch, all their faces expectant. All of them concerned about Honey. “Physically, she’s cut, bruised, scraped, exhausted. Mentally, she’s struggling to hold it together. And doesn’t want to see anyone.” Lathan was doing his own struggling.