Who was on that platter? George in the basement? Someone else?
I bit my cheek hard enough to taste blood, trying to bring some order to my mind. But it was frantic, darting from Tommy to the human leg to Lulu to Larrimer.
Wrong screamed at me in so many ways I couldn’t breathe.
Clea. Larrimer’s honeyed voice compelled my attention.
Had I imagined it, that soothing voice in my mind?
Didn’t matter. Focus. Focus.
“Why, Tommy?” I asked. “Why this horror show?”
His lips pursed. “A small enterprise, an important one that, I confess, didn’t result in what we anticipated.”
I whirled on him, pushed hard, backed toward Ronan and Lulu.
A blur, and Larrimer bristled with guns. A goon crumpled to the floor, Larrimer pointing one gun at the other goon, the second tracking Tommy’s calm amble to the stage.
Larrimer counter-moved, materializing beside me.
“Clea,” was all he said, and I settled further into an iron calm.
“Isn’t this something?” Tommy said. “You, and that thing beside you.” He splayed his arms in front of him. “All I wanted was to talk to you. To explain. Please come here. Please, sweetness.”
A crack in my steel exposed our childhood, our adventures, our intertwined lives. Tommy was love, caring, home. Confusion, thoughts so muddled, and I wandered the hills and valleys of our past.
Tommy. My Tommy.
“Clea!” Larrimer said through gritted teeth.
James. Tommy.
Larrimer’s arms were rock still. “Babe, come back.”
His heat combusted those beguiling memories, and I slammed my shields up so hard it hurt. “I’m with you,” I said so soft only he would hear. “Completely.”
“Clea!” Lulu said, her voice pleading. Tears splashed her face, now twisted in pain.
“I told you not to speak, girl.” Tommy flicked a finger, and she moaned.
The scent. Just a hint. Rotted geraniums, cat urine.
My thoughts jigsawed into a picture—his thirst for power, his pleasure in pain.
But had I sensed this part of him? And ignored it?
I opened my mind and reached for Tommy.
His arms dropped, and he leaned a hip on the wall. “Nice parlor trick, but you can’t get inside me.”
But I could, and I found anger and elation and righteousness. He actually believed he was in the right. That was rich. And lust. For me, for my abilities. Fat fucking chance. But the guns, he didn’t fear them. And he seethed with power. A hurricane’s worth, gathering.
Except he was unaware I could taste him. Score one for us. “We’re here for Lulu and Ronan.”
“So you think,” he said.
“Why aren’t these people reacting?” I asked. “What’s wrong with them?” Other than eating human flesh.
His cocktail of disdain and pleasure was vile. “Entranced. They’re sheep. I couldn’t entrance the little redhead, though. Annoying. Zip ties work just as well.”
“I don’t care what they are,” I said. “What you are. Just give us the girl and the boy.” Bob’s troops would be on site any minute.
He nodded, a sage, considering my request. But he wasn’t. This was some sick game, and it was delighting him. Why? Why wasn’t he afraid of Larrimer’s guns?
He flicked out a hand, and a river of silver quills bristled across Larrimer’s chest. A grunt, then blood.
I gasped.
Lulu screamed.
Larrimer fell to one knee, guns steady.
I stepped in front of him. Tommy wouldn’t hurt me. Except this creature wasn’t my Tommy.
“Move away from the freak,” he said.
“No.”
Larrimer sagged against the backs of my legs and fired both guns. The bullets never reached Tommy, but the goon to my right fell. Then, Larrimer collapsed at my feet.
Tommy’s shield had stopped the bullets. They lay on the floor, rolled sideways. What protected him? I saw nothing.
Tommy smirked, that same damned look when he’d won a game of Scrabble or done a triple flip.
Back then, I’d found his pleasure funny and endearing. Now, it was sick. He was sick. No. He was a monster.
“We adepts don’t fear bullets,” he said, with grating grandiosity.
Little taste here, Tommy? I forced myself not to glance at Larrimer, bleeding out at my feet. I chuckled. “Reading too much fantasy fiction, Tom?”
His face darkened. “You don’t believe.”
“In what, that you’re an adept? C’mon.” He only guessed at what I’d learned, had no idea what I could do.
I had to get Larrimer out of there. But I wouldn’t leave without Ronan and Lulu. In one motion, I drew the knife from my boot and leapt, landing beside the boy.
“Ronan!” I slapped him. “Ronan!” He shook his head, as if awaking from endless sleep.
I moved to Lulu.
“Oh no, you don’t, sweetness.” Tommy waggled a finger, and as I reached for Lulu, I met resistance, like a viscous wall. Thorns of pain pierced my fingers. Panic twisted Lulu’s face, and she shouted, “Clea!”, but it was muffled, like she was underwater.
“Please join me, sweetness,” Tommy said. “I want you with me. Imagine what we could do together.”
I could. That was the problem. “In your dreams.”
“That’s the girl I remember!” he said with manic glee.
I groped for Lulu, or tried to, but the barrier held. Pain scoured my hands, moved to my wrists, my elbows.
“She’s coming with me, sweetness. Until I have the chest.”
Screams. Bursts of noise. Gunfire. The FBI!
“Ronan!” I said. “Ronan!”
The boy struggled, raised his head, blinked.
“Take Larrimer. Get out of here!”
But he reached for Lulu, and his body shook, his hands not penetrating the wall. And mine were frigging stuck inside it. Tears of pain sluiced down my face.
“Go!” I said. “The FBI are here. I’ll bring her! Take him!”
Ronan scooped Larrimer up and lurched out of the room. And the diners kept eating, cocooned in the nightmare they’d brought unto themselves. The wages of sin.
The slime climbed higher, rising to my biceps, burning me, blistering me.
“You’ll bring her?” Tommy said. “And how, sweetness, will you do that?” He glanced at his watch. “Three minutes. I am cutting it rather close, but oh, this is fun.”
I absorbed the pain, goaded it, forced it to center my mind. “I will.”
“No,” he said. “She stays with me, and you will bring me the Chest of Bone. Find it! You don’t want to join me? Fine. I’ll trade. The girl for the chest.”
His lips pulled back into a mockery of a smile, and he sauntered toward Lulu.
Closer. Closer. The pain in my arms expanded. Live it. Absorb it. Make it mine. Ten feet, nine, now. I went feral. Fireflies glittered, swirled in my palms, and dissolved.
hhh, poor Clea.” Tommy paused. “Can’t make the mojo happen, can you?”
What a flop! I tracked him as he closed on Lulu. My vision blurred, saw Larrimer broken, his blood, his essence draining away, dyingdyingdying.
Golden fireflies burst, cutting the slime, incinerating it, forming the feather and fan stitch. I aimed the torrent straight at Tommy.
Face frozen in shock, he stumbled back. But his shields held.
I grinned, didn’t give a shit. I laughed, pure energy pouring from me, scorching, scything. I pressed harder, faster. More. I wanted more.
His shields cracked.
Yes!
Tommy’s hands, a conductor’s.
Lulu screamed, flew through the air.
She smashed into him, knocking him backward, but he clamped her to him, turned, and vanished.
I fisted my hands and raced after them, through the alcove—and into a wall.
I fell on my ass, stunned.
Tommy and Lulu
were gone. Gone.
I leapt to my feet, groped for a handle, a clasp, anything. Fingers scraped the brick, clawed, punched, but the wall was solid. Tried to firefly. Nothing. Where the hell was the catch? None. I could find none.
An image of Larrimer choked my fury.
I swiped my bloody hands on my pants, ran to snag my purse, slung my FBI badge around my neck, and flew through the dining rooms. Agents swarmed, blurred as I passed. I flashed my badge over and over. No one gave me a second glance.
Bob. His momentary stare slid past me, my costume at last effective on someone.
Outside, chill air bit me. I paused. There, Ronan in the parking lot, talking to a young agent, waving frantic hands at the guy. I raced to him, waved my badge at the agent.
“He’s with me,” I said, thinking time, precious time.
“Sorry, Agent. No one can leave.”
Shit!
Ronan gripped my arm. “Where’s Lulu?”
I shook my head. “I’ll bring her home. I will.” I turned back to the agent. “Look, Ronan’s my nephew. ASAC Balfour authorized it.”
The agent held my badge, then flipped it around, checked my ID. Slow. So slow.
“I’m Special Agent Clea Reese. Out of Boston headquarters. ASAC Balfour will be most unhappy if you detain us.” A confidential smile. “You know how he can get.”
If he confirmed on his walkie-talkie to Bob, we were screwed.
“He’s a kid,” I said. “A high school kid. C’mon. He’s hurting. “
Ronan managed to look hangdog, and the young agent made awkward noises.
I turned back toward the club, shook my head. “Ronan, let’s go find Agent Balfour.”
“Wait,” the young agent said. A pause, then he flapped a hand.
He was letting us go.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll make sure the ASAC knows what a help you’ve been.” I dragged Ronan away. “Where’s Larrimer?”
“The car.”
We raced to the Audi.
Larrimer, supine on the gravel, eyes closed.
I beeped the car open with the spare. “Hurry!”
“No hospital,” came Larrimer’s voice, rough and faint.
Oh James. “Put him in the back. Gently!”
Ronan heaved and slid Larrimer onto the seat.
A spike of fear. I’d seen guys talk a blue streak, then die. Larrimer. He wouldn’t dare.
I tore off my shirt and wrapped it tight around his torso to stem the bleeding. Then I eased into the backseat, lifted his head and shoulders onto my lap. I handed Ronan the key. “Drive.”
Moonlight spilled into the car, across his battered face. Larrimer lay like the dead, and I smoothed the hair from his forehead, threaded fingers through the midnight strands. My lips trembled.
There’s no crying in baseball. No crying.
The car flowed forward. At each checkpoint, I showed my badge, and we passed. Once on the road, Ronan accelerated to a mighty thirty-miles-an-hour.
“Speed it up, Ronan.”
“But I don’t want to get a ticket.”
“Gods save me,” I said. “Faster. Now.”
I looked down at Larrimer, a faint smile on his face.
“James.”
“No… hospital,” he whispered hoarsely.
Deja vu, tables turned. “You’re bleeding out. You need blood.”
“Trust… me,” he said. “Home. Trust…”
“James.”
He went limp. He was out of his mind. He was dying. I knew the signs. But he’d asked me to trust him.
“Ronan,” I said. “Back to Sparrow Farm.”
“Are you—”
“Do it.”
We zoomed up the driveway, jerked to a halt.
The mudroom door flew open. Bernadette, limned by the porch light, hair turbaned, eyes wild, derringer in hand.
She holstered her gun. “Do you know what time it is, cookie? You have school tomorrow!”
With great care, Ronan hoisted Larrimer into his arms.
I gripped her shoulders. “Larrimer needs your help. James. Your nursing skills. You’re a nurse. Remember. Please remember.”
Forehead creased, brows caterpillared, she stared for endless moments at the blood-drenched man.
Dammit, I would drag her back to reality. Fireflies glowed beneath my hands and around her shoulders.
She blinked furiously, her gaze snapping to my fireflies. Her eyes blazed with pleasure, then cooled.
“On the couch,” she barked. “Wait. A sheet. More hygienic.”
Thankyouthankyouthankyou.
Dogs prowled at our feet, silent for once as Ronan carried Larrimer into the living room.
Helpless. I was drowning, breath coming in gasps.
Bernadette spread a white sheet dotted with bluebells across the sofa, then Ronan lay down Larrimer, a groan slipping from his lips.
Bernadette slid a pillow beneath his head. “I’m going to get some things.”
I knelt by Larrimer. Amidst the bloody bruises and cuts, his face was gray. Blood pooled on his chest.
Trust him, he’d said.
Was I a fool? Had I killed him?
“Lulu?” Ronan’s voice broke.
“I will get her, Ronan. I failed. I know, but—”
“Didn’t fail.”
“James.” I took his hand. “Why here?”
Bernadette reappeared.
His lips twitched a smile. “Needed the Lady’s kind ministrations.”
She glared at him, then me. “Well, are you just going to look at the man or are you going to help me fix him? Go wash your hands.”
I ran to the kitchen. Pins flew as I ripped off the wig, now tipped in blood. His blood. I threw the wig into the trash, lathered my hands, and scrubbed.
“Vite, cookie!”
I moved. She’d already cleaned his face of makeup and blood, butterflied his facial wounds, and covered his legs and hips in my knit afghan. I knelt beside her.
“Where is that boy?” she asked.
“Ronan!”
“Stop the bleeding,” Bernadette said, as if chanting to herself. “Clean the wound. Probe for fabric. Sterile gauze.”
Ronan appeared beside us.
“Now.” Bernadette thinned her lips. “Clea, turn his head to the side, in case he has trouble breathing.”
My fingers shook as I moved his head, brushed the hair aside at the back of his neck. A tattoo I’d never seen—a lightning bolt with a star at its end. Beautiful. I’d ask him about it when he…
“Ronan!” Bernadette pointed to the end of the couch. “Stand there. Can you hold his shoulders and arms still, boy? Careful, not too hard. Don’t press, just restrain.”
He looked terrified. “But.”
“Now, please.” When Bernadette used this tone, stronger men than Ronan folded.
He placed his arms across Larrimer’s shoulders, his hands circling his wrists.
“Ready?” Bernadette said.
I ripped open his shirt, exposing his blood-soaked chest. Tommy’s quills had vanished, leaving dozens of gaping holes.
Bernadette wiped away the blood. No fresh pooled.
“Unusual,” she said. “The wounds seem to have stopped bleeding.”
She cleaned the area with Betadine, then with a nasty stainless steel tool she probed a hole. Larrimer’s muscles flexed, but he didn’t move. Ronan held on. In seconds, Bernadette pulled a shred of bloody cloth from the wound, released it into her tray.
Bernadette clucked. “Deep.”
Again and again, she dug. He held rock still, but his pain scoured my senses.
She let out a sigh as she finally lay down the probe. “Hand me the Neosporin.” She circled his wounds with the antiseptic.
“Clea, the sugar box.”
She scooped sugar onto the wounds, keeping it inside the ointment circle. Was she still loopy?
She unwrapped several antiseptic bandages, smeared them with more Neosporin and placed them o
n his wounds. She sealed the bandages with tape and rocked back on her heels.
Larrimer lay limp, unmoving. I could barely sense him. My eyes burned as I wove my fingers through his hair.
“Get my heating blanket,” she said.
We covered him with the blanket and plugged it in. She ran her hand across it. “Good. Warm. Going into shock will kill him.”
When she struggled to stand, I took her elbow.
She gave me a wan smile. “I’m fine.”
“I know you are,” I said. “Sugar?”
Her eyes snapped. “Sugar and honey have been used to treat battle wounds forever. Have you forgotten I was a nurse in Vietnam?”
“No, ma’am,” I said, like when I was ten.
She nodded, pursed her wrinkled lips. “Had to make do, since you failed to take the man to the hospital. Shame on you for bringing him here.”
“He asked me to. I trust him,” I said, voice firm.
“You’re too trusting, cookie.” She harrumphed. “I’m going to bake some buns.”
Ronan watched over Larrimer while I got him a fresh t-shirt for later.
When I returned, Bernadette stood over him. “He’s lost too much blood. Whatever hit him, his lungs, heart, liver…” She shook her head. “A shame, cookie.”
She walked away.
I sat on the floor, holding his hand, watching his chest rise and fall, shallow, barely taking in air. My breaths synced with his, as if I could help fill his lungs, as if his next breath wasn’t a hope, and I could make it a reality. He was far away, a mere wisp of life. Fading, fading.
Do not let this be. Please.
Grace curled up beside me and slept.
I warmed his hand, icy in mine, and rested my head against the couch.
How would I ever tell Bernadette about Tommy? He was her alpha and omega. I desperately tried not to picture what we once were to each other. But the slideshow continued.
I wished I’d never known him.
But of course, that was a lie.
My heart ached, that special place where Tommy always lived. It had been secure, safe, home. He’d loved me unconditionally. And I, him.
That was gone now, too, and the emptiness gaped black.
Time passed. Larrimer had lost too much blood, damaged too many vital systems.
Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1) Page 31
