Vision of Darkness (D.I.E. Squadron Book 1)

by Tonya Burrows

It hit him like a blow to the gut and he took a step backward.

  “That’s Lovie’s husband,” Nick said. “He had an extramarital relationship with a woman named—”

  “Olivia.” The woman from his dreams. He could see it so clearly: Olivia telling Silas she was pregnant that warm, fall night on the beach under the lighthouse. Not a dream any longer, but a far-away memory. “He never saw his baby. He died before she was born.”

  “Yeah, he did.” Nick narrowed his eyes. “He died tonight, eighty-nine years ago, and Lovie’s been gettin’ revenge on his illegitimate family ever since. Grandma Mae is his daughter.”

  The accidents.

  God help him, it all made a sick sort of sense. Pru’s uncle’s car accident. Her father’s fall while painting the lighthouse tower last year. Wade’s fall into that hole in the backyard. John Jr.’s fall down the stairs in the carriage house.

  Alex tried to wrap his mind around the idea and came up against a wall. No. It was ridiculous. He shook his head and started for the house. “Ghosts don’t exist. This is all bull—”

  “You stubborn jackass.” Nick grabbed his shoulders and slammed him against the car with enough force to rattle his teeth. He tensed in automatic reaction, adrenaline spilling into his blood, readying for a fight, but Nick expelled a breath and stepped back.

  “Even with the proof starin’ you in the face, you still won’t believe. You know how the mirrors keep explodin’? Think about it. It only happens when both you and Pru are reflected in one. And every time you two get intimate, somethin’ happens like those scratches on your back. Sorry, but I’m not lettin’ you go in there, pal. You’re a carbon copy of Silas True and Lovie’s goin’ta want you dead.”

  Alex also breathed out, struggling to control the instinct to kick Nick’s ass. It’d feel damn good to go a round with the Sioux man and work out all the frustration and aggression burning a hole in his gut, but it wouldn’t help the current situation any. He sucked in another breath. “Pru—”

  “Will be fine as long as you stay away from her tonight.”

  “No, she won’t. Fuck.” Wound up, his nerves as taut as a tightrope with a full-blown trapeze act balancing on top, Alex jerked away from his best friend. “On the phone, she wasn’t acting normal. She called me Silas before she hung up.”

  Nick shut his eyes for a second, sorrow flashing over his features before he got control of himself and hardened his jaw. “Lovie’s possessed her.”

  “It happened once before for just a few minutes after the séance, but I brushed it off as a hallucination. She asked me why I left her and tried to strangle me.”

  Nick muttered a soft oath. “All right. What do you want to do?”

  “I have to go in there.”

  “Al—”

  “I see no other choice. If Lovie’s reliving the past, she’ll reenact her suicide. In Pru’s body. I won’t let that happen.”

  “Aw, man.” Nick looked pained and rubbed a hand over his shadowed jaw. “Don’t do this, pal. My orders are to keep you safe.”

  “Fuck orders. We’re not soldiers anymore. We don’t take orders from Sully or anyone else.”

  “True. But I’m not goin’ta let you commit suicide, and that’s what this plan is. Suicide.” He gave Alex’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’m not sayin’ we abandon Pru. Let’s just be smart about this.”

  In theory, it sounded like a good idea, one that Alex would go for if he had the time. He liked plans, liked to calculate and weigh and choose the best option, but there wasn’t time to be smart. And Nick was only going to stand in his way.

  “I’m really sorry for this, buddy.”

  Nick opened his mouth to respond. Alex pulled back a fist and issued an uppercut calculated to fall even a man of Nick’s size. The impact jarred every bone up to his shoulder.

  “Umph.” Nick staggered back three steps, eyes rolling in his head. “You’re…asshole.” Gravity took over as his legs gave out and he collapsed with the force of two-hundred plus pounds of cement.

  “Said I was sorry.” Alex shook out his stinging hand, and crouched to check his friend’s pulse. Strong and steady. He’d wake up in a bit with a nasty headache and a bruised jaw, but none the worse for wear.

  Alex grabbed his leather coat from the front seat of his car and draped it over Nick’s wide chest, then straightened and looked at the house.

  Goddammit, his inner cynic said. Nick’s right. This is suicide.

  For once, they were in total agreement.

  ***

  Dark. Quiet. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention and the air temperature dropped ten degrees as Alex inched into the foyer. Triton cowered underneath the chiffonier, chestnut eyes wide and darting.

  “Hey, bud,” he said in a voice just above whisper. “It’ll be okay. Out. Go to Nick.” He held the door long enough for the terrified pooch to run outside, then shut it, careful to not let it squeak. His always steady hand trembled as he peaked around the corner and saw a man sprawled on the threshold between the dining room and kitchen.

  Who the hell was that?

  The man’s body twitched, a dark puddle pooling under his head like oil. The kitchen beyond glowed with light and inside, a knife hit a cutting board in staccato rhythm, keeping time with Alex’s heart.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  His stomach knotted up tight as he slid toward the wounded man and knelt down on one knee to check his pulse. Weak. The guy made a strange sound, somewhere between a moan and a gurgle. His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, showing no hint of recognition as his body continued to twitch.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  A blow had flattened the top of his head, knotted his blond hair with blood. If he lived, he’d be a vegetable. If Alex had any sympathy, he’d shoot him now and put him out of his misery.

  Alex climbed to his feet and kept moving. Whatever the man had been doing here at this time of night, it hadn’t been good.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Warm, delicious scents floated from inside the kitchen. Pumpkin, spices, fresh bread and stew. A pot bubbled on the stove. Pru stood at the counter chopping carrots, so at ease and in her element that he felt a spurt of hope. Maybe he was wrong about Lovie possessing her. She looked normal enough as she balanced the carrot slices on her blade and dumped them into the pot in one graceful move. No weird 1920’s costume or haircut. In a simple sweater-dress cinched at the waist with a wide brown belt, she looked like—well, like Pru, with her feet and legs bare to the November chill. Her black hair swung in long, loose waves down her back. She was humming and he recognized the tune as the one he’d sang in the shower his first night here. Bad Company’s Feel Like Making Love.

  Lovie couldn’t possibly know that song, right?

  Alex relaxed a little and took a step forward before realization slammed into him. Green. She was wearing green dress. He sucked in a sharp breath and she turned at the sound, knife in hand. Long and thick, it was for slicing meat instead of chopping veggies and he suspected the meat she planned on slicing was his. She smiled and the cold, dark hatred in her blue eyes chilled him to his marrow.

  Pru’s body stood before him, but it was not Pru.

  “Silas, dear, you’re home early,” she said. “Dinner’s not ready yet, I’m afraid. I had a little trouble finding the flour.” She kicked over the burlap bag of flour by her feet, revealing a tattered suitcase propped against the cupboard. She clucked her tongue. “Were you planning a trip, darling?”

  His suitcase. He’d hidden it in the back of the pantry, behind an unopened bag of flour so it’d be easy to grab on his way out the back door. He’d planned to leave his wife tonight, leave his lighthouse, for Olivia and their unborn baby.

  Lovie wasn’t going to let him live to see his baby now.

  Alex pressed a hand over his eye and staggered back a step. No, not real. Visions of the past. Just visions.

  Gritting his teeth against the headache, he raised his gun and leveled it on Pru’s head. He wouldn’t
shoot it, couldn’t shoot it even if his life depended on it, but he could damn well fake it.

  “Cut the shit, Lovie. You know I’m not Silas.”

  She glided forward, the knife still in hand. Alex swallowed. Her feet hovered millimeters from the floor.

  “Oh, you cut your hair and got yourself a brand new body.” She pressed the knife tip to his chest, dragging it down to his navel and up to his throat. With a flick of the wrist, she nicked his collarbone through his shirt. “But don’t you tell me I don’t know my own husband when I see him.”

  “Silas is dead.”

  “Not yet. But give me a minute.”

  Ignoring the bite of the knife, he leaned forward, his face inches from hers. His gun dug into the soft flesh of her belly and he clicked off the safety. “You’d better get me directly in the heart or I will shoot you. Ready to die again?”

  She tossed her hair back and laughed. “You won’t kill your sweetheart.”

  “You underestimate my self-preservation, lady.”

  Her face crumpled. Eyes wide, she gazed down at the gun in her stomach and then back at the knife she held against his chest. She gasped and dropped the knife.

  “Alex…”

  “Pru?” With his free hand, he touched her face but still kept the gun aimed. She looked like Pru, but dammit, she had all along. “Is that you, baby?”

  Her lips trembled. “Don’t hurt me.”

  “Oh, babe, I don’t want to. Is she gone?”

  She shut her eyes, brow furrowing in concentration. Then she looked up at him and all he saw there was the fear of Pru, not the hatred of Lovie. “I think so. I fought her every step. She wants to kill you. She thinks you’re Silas.”

  “I know.” Alex lowered the gun and drew her into his arms. He soothed her hair and kissed the top of her head, hugging her tight. “That’s my girl. You keep on fighting her. Are you all—” He felt a gun’s muzzle press to his side a millisecond before the bullet ripped into him. Then another. Pain tore the air from his lungs.

  Pru—no, it wasn’t Pru. Lovie. She grinned at him and held up his own Ruger, the one K.C. had given him, the inscription glinting on the barrel like a taunt. Always the hero, huh?

  Yeah, and his hero complex just got him killed.

  Lovie tossed the gun at his feet and was damn lucky the revolver didn’t go off again as it hit the floor. “Did you really think I’d let Prudence come back for good?”

  Stunned, he gazed down at the holes in his side bubbling blood and dropped to his knees. He swayed and found himself face-to-face with the pine floor, staring at a petite foot with a small rose tattoo above the ankle. Pru’s foot.

  Pru shot him.

  No, no, not Pru. Lovie. It was Lovie.

  The ankle moved and Pru’s voice sounded from far, far away. Pru’s voice, but not her talking.

  Lovie.

  Alex struggled to his hands and knees and watched her sashay over to the pot on the stove. With a grin, she dumped the boiling contents on the floor and flicked each burner’s setting to high. Four flames leaped to hungry life. She whipped a dishtowel from the cupboard over the sink and dropped it on the open fire, then walked to the back door. Damp, icy air seeped inside as she yanked the door open.

  “Pru—”

  She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “If you’ll excuse us, Silas, Prudence and I have a date on the tower with the catwalk.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Nick blinked awake to the feel of a wet tongue lapping ice-cold rain from his face. Triton whimpered, nuzzling his cheek as if to say, Get up!

  “Good boy.” His voice came out a croak. He cleared his throat, knotted his hand in Triton’s scruff, and tried to push the dog back and sit up, but his head whirled.

  Goddamn Alex.

  He looped his arms around Triton, inhaling the scent of wet fur and smoke, and let the dog pull him upright. “Good boy. Good dog.”

  Triton stiffened, a low rumble rising in his throat as he peered toward the house. The silhouette of a man jogged down the porch steps, too short by a couple inches to be Alex.

  “You’re alive,” he said as he approached, wiping the sleeve of his white button-up across his soot-smeared face. “Good. I could use the help. Let’s go.”

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere but inside that house.”

  The stranger shook his head, his blond ponytail flicking off rainwater. “The kitchen’s on fire. Tried putting it out, but that’s not happening. Alex and Pru are gone. There’s a big puddle of blood on the floor.”

  Fire. Shit. Nick’s gaze shot to the lighthouse tower. He didn’t see anything, just the light circling, but his gut told him it was too late to prevent the past from repeating itself. Time to go on the offensive, move to plan B, and hope to hell it worked. He shoved himself to his feet and wobbled, his stomach threatening to heave. Goddamn Alex to hell and back. His jaw flamed with every word he spoke and he was no doubt slightly concussed. Driving in this condition was an unnecessary risk, one he refused to chance, but he had to stop Lovie before she hurt anyone.

  Nick considered the stranger. His pricey clothes jarred with his week-old beard stubble and wavy, dark blond hair pulled back in a tail. Whoever he was, friend or foe, he was the only option Nick had at the moment.

  “I need you to drive me to the grocery store.”

  The stranger’s face scrunched up. “Dude, your friend’s in serious trouble wherever he is. Now’s not the time for a case of the munchies.”

  “I need salt.” Nick went to his truck, grabbed his bag from the seat and a shovel from the bed. He eyed the beat-up old muscle car that had blocked him in. “That death trap yours?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he opened the GTO’s passenger side door. It squeaked loudly. Inside, the leather seats were faded and ripped and the ash tray overflowed with butts. Stale cigarette smoke clung to the interior like a layer of city smog and rosary beads swung from the rearview mirror. In a clear-front leather case on the dash next to a holstered gun was a private investigator’s license for Mikhail Harkov.

  “You’re the P.I. Alex spoke with about the missing girl?” Nick asked.

  “Not missing anymore,” Mischa muttered and slid behind the wheel. “Fuck me, I hate finding them like that.” He crossed himself then fired the engine. “Mind telling me what the hell’s going on here?”

  “No time right now.” By his reckoning they had fifteen minutes, at most, to get to the cemetery, dig up Lovie True, and salt and burn her bones before history made a repeat performance. If it wasn’t already too late. He looked at the rosary and thought of Alex’s little crucifix. He wasn’t much the praying type, but he sent one up anyway.

  Please, please, let him not be too late.

  Nick felt an odd probing sensation in his head and touched his temple, squeezing his eyes shut against it. The sensation stopped and three words whispered through his mind: The operator’s dead.

  His gaze whipped over to Mischa, who was watching him with hard gray-blue eyes. “You’re one of us?”

  No shit, Sherlock, Mischa said inside Nick’s mind.

  A telepath. Holy hell. Sully was going to shit a brick. “So you know about the Sierra Group?”

  “Know about them? I’ve been chasing down those motherfucking killers for years,” Mischa said out loud and crossed himself again. “But the operator after Alex is dead. Someone flattened his skull.” He scanned the lighthouse grounds. “It’s that ghost, isn’t it? I knew she was up to no good.”

  Nick didn’t bother trying to figure out how Mischa knew about Lovie. The man was a mind reader, after all. “She’s tryin’ for an instant replay of her death, starring Alex and Pru.”

  “I got the salt.” Mischa slammed the junker into reverse, threw his arm over the seat, and backed out of the drive like the devil was chasing them. “Where’s her body? Let’s burn the bitch.”

  ***

  Each step was a mile. Alex hoisted himself up the twist of cast iron stairs, muscles quivering as he
hand-over-handed it up the railing, breath coming in short gasps.

  Stupid, inner cynic said, but at least he sounded like he was in just as much pain. You’re making it worse.

  “Don’t care,” Alex said through his teeth and kept his eye on the prize: the little square of light at the top of the stairs. The hatch door leading to the catwalk. Pru was headed up there. Lovie too. Her footsteps vibrated through the iron into his arms. She was almost to the top. Too close, and he lagged too far behind.

  No. He bared down and commanded himself to keep moving. One step at a time. As long as he was breathing, history would not repeat itself.

  Rain spattered through the opening, turning the iron staircase into black ice, and his numb foot slipped out from under him on the next step. He went down hard on his bad knee, the crack like a gun’s report.

  Forget it. Keep moving.

  Something jarred loose. He tried to yank himself upright, put pressure on that knee and collapsed again with a groan. Blinding pain knifed up his leg, so bad it overshadowed the ache of the gunshot wound. Cold sweat poured into his eyes. Or maybe that was rain. Gasping, he hooked his arms over the railing and hung there, boneless, energy drained.

  So this is what pain feels like, he thought semiconsciously as shivers wracked his body and shook the whole staircase. It had been so long since he’d really felt physical pain, not since Granddad scarred up his chest with a butcher knife and put him in ICU when he was twelve.

  The knife had hurt. After that, bare-fist beatings and leather belts paled in comparison.

  Theo never got knifed for mouthing back. He barely got grounded. How was that fair? He’d sit by Alex’s bed and talk about how wrong Granddad was and yet never did a damn thing to stop it. Even the ICU staff had done nothing. They all looked at him with sad eyes and whispered about his yellowed bruises and healed broken bones, but they took Granddad at his word that he was “clumsy” and did nothing about it. How was that fair? It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t.

  Damn, the knife had hurt. About like this pain.

  Tears blurred Alex’s vision as his rambling thoughts mashed into unintelligible sludge.