Micki found them reassuring. Angel would be back, even if only to retrieve her things. Whatever happened between them, they’d work through it. Eventually. She had to believe that.
As she turned to go, Micki noticed the small trash can by the desk was full. She snatched it up and a wadded piece of paper tumbled out. She bent to retrieve it, then smoothed it out.
Nothing on either side but a few strokes and smears of charcoal, the beginning of something gone bad.
Like her and Angel’s relationship.
Micki re-crumpled the paper, tossed it in the can. As she did, she noticed a pink and white stick peeking out from a wad of Kleenex.
A pregnancy test? It was, she saw, as she plucked it out of the trash. The display window was empty, whatever the results were, now long gone.
Micki sat on the edge of the bed, the stick still held between her thumb and first finger. Her mind raced. Could Angel be pregnant? If she was, it had to be Seth’s. She was crazy in love with him—she wouldn’t have been with anyone else. So, how far along would she be? Micki counted back.
Three months, give or take a few days. That was a long time to keep that kind of secret. Unless she hadn’t known. If Angel’s periods were irregular, that could happen. It happened all the time.
Angel had been moody, Micki realized. A couple times over the past weeks she’d mentioned feeling queasy, that she didn’t feel like eating. In retrospect, she should have suspected.
Micki stood up and headed to the kitchen. How long had Angel known? Not long, judging by test result’s location near the top of the waste basket—and the fact that she’d been gone three days.
Which meant she’d discovered she was pregnant and, basically, run to Arianna. That hurt. A lot.
But why? Micki wondered. Why not share the news with her? And who else would she tell? Surely not Zach? They were close, but he would have urged Angel to tell her. Eli and Professor Truebell, according to Arianna, were unavailable.
Micki found her phone, punched in Arianna’s number. Nearly eleven, the woman answered, voice sleepy sounding.
“It’s Micki,” she said.
“I can’t talk to you—”
“Don’t hang up. I just need to know one thing. Did Angel tell you she’s pregnant?”
“I guessed and she confirmed it.”
“Is she awake? I want to talk to her.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to you.”
She shouldn’t care, Micki thought. It shouldn’t hurt. But it did.
Another rejection in a long list of them.
But that didn’t matter. Angel’s health and her baby’s safety did. “I need to know that she’s okay.”
“She’s fine.”
“Has she been to the doctor?”
Arianna’s silence was her answer.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t think it was safe. Considering.”
Considering The Prophesy. That the Chosen One was coming: a being half light and half dark who would bring lasting peace or final destruction. Whoever controlled that being controlled the fate of the world.
“How did you find out?” Arianna asked.
“The home test was in her trash can. Who else knows?”
“No one. I think we should keep it that way. I’ve got to go.”
“Wait! Have you spoken with Eli or Professor Truebell yet?”
“No. Good night, Micki.”
Micki held the phone to her ear for several moments after Arianna hung up. Suddenly exhausted, she made her way to Hank’s old recliner. She sank into it, the worn leather cushioning her like a hug.
Neither Eli nor Professor Truebell had been in contact with Arianna yet. Yet Eli had contacted her twenty-four hours ago? They were both back in town, yet they hadn’t been by LAM?
Something was wrong. She rested her head back and gazed up at the ceiling. A long, thin crack ran from the fan at the center to the far edge. Arianna said no one else knew about Angel’s pregnancy. Which meant she hadn’t shared the information with Zach, her son, or Parker, her own brother.
None of this made sense. And until Eli or the professor got back to her, there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.
Chapter Forty
10:30 P.M.
Major Nichols had been taken to University Medical Center. Zach met Susan in the ICU waiting room. She looked ragged with worry and fatigue. Even her usually teased-up do had fallen.
“How is he?” he asked.
“In a lot of pain.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “They have him pretty heavily drugged now, so he’s out of it.”
“What are his injuries?”
“A punctured lung. Shattered all his ribs on his right side. Broken collar bone. It could have been much worse.”
She started to shake and Zach helped her to a seat. “It’s late. You need to go home.”
She nodded, chin quivering. “I know. I just . . . I feel so guilty.”
He took the chair next to hers and angled toward her. “Why’s that, Sue?”
“I should have done something. If I’d reacted quicker . . . maybe I could have kept him from falling.”
He thought of Mercedes King. That moment when she’d gone over the side and he knew he was too late. He’d lost her. That moment would haunt him for a long time. “I understand feeling that way. But sometimes there’s simply nothing you can do.”
She nodded and looked down at her hands. Her cat’s-eye glasses slid down her nose.
“What happened?” he asked gently. “I was just there with him, and he was fine.”
She pushed her glasses back up her nose; her hand shook. “He was at the window. He’d pushed it all the way up—you know how big those old windows are.”
“I do,” he said softly.
“He was looking down at the street. And . . . he just fell.”
“Just fell out the window?” Zach said.
She glanced at him, then looked back down at her hands. Again, the glasses slipped. “Uh-huh. Just fell.” She cleared her throat. “They think he may have had a seizure or blacked-out or something.”
“What do you think, Susan?”
“I don’t know what to think.” She looked fully at him then. “He’s the best boss I’ve ever had. And he’s a good man. A really good man.”
She wasn’t telling him everything. But not to protect herself, to protect Major Nichols.
“When I was going through my divorce, he was so kind. He made accommodations for me. If it was a particularly bad day, he’d tell me to go home. Take some time. But he never counted it against me, never docked my pay.” She nudged the glasses up. “Today was . . . it was so horrible, Zach.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “it was.” He paused. “Think for a moment, Sue. Was there anything else, something that might have spoken to his state of mind?”
She shook her head. “He was fine. You said so yourself.” Her chin inched slightly up. “He didn’t deliberately fall out that window. He didn’t jump.”
“I’m not suggesting he did.”
She went on, expression adamant, “He was in good spirits. He smiled at me when I came in the room. That’s not suicidal. Right?”
Zach pictured Mercedes, that strange, chilling smile the moment before she let go of the balcony rail, and a bitter, metallic taste filled his mouth.
“Right?” she asked again.
“Right.” He reached across and covered her hands with his. “Look at me, Susan.”
She did and he held her gaze. He felt the connection, like the tumbler of a lock, clicking into place. He ignored the pinch of guilt—Sue was a friend, traumatized and because of that, particularly vulnerable to him. He concentrated on using his light force to overcome her resistance.
His fingers tingled slightly, then his palm. “You’re exhausted,” he said.
“Yes.” Her lips trembled. “I’m so tired, Zach.”
“You know you can trust me.” She nodded. “You know I have Major Nichols’ back, just like you do.
”
She nodded again and he held her gaze. “Was Major Nichols’ falling out that window an accident, Sue?”
Tears flooded her eyes, and she slowly shook her head. “No, it wasn’t an accident.”
“When you walked into his office, tell me exactly what you saw.”
“He was perched there at the window. Talking to himself and staring down at the street. I said his name. In a question, you know? Like what’s going on? He looked at me and—” she shuddered, “—and grinned. Then he just . . . fell. On purpose.”
Talking to himself, the way Mercedes had been. The way her father had been. Both immediately before plunging to their deaths.
Zach swallowed hard, feeling sick. Killian was right this morning, when she said something didn’t add up. Partially right, anyway. Because it wasn’t something that didn’t add up—it was everything.
He had to go back to the Eighth and confirm what he suspected—that the amber-eyed woman had visited Major Nichols.
“Sue,” he said, “has anyone been in the major’s office since the fall?”
“No. I closed the window and locked the door before I left.”
He tightened his fingers around hers. “This doesn’t add up. I know he’d want me to search for clues to what really happened. You want that too, don’t you?”
A tear slipped down her cheek and her lips quivered. “I do.”
“I need to get into Major Nichols’ office. Can you help me do that, Sue?”
“I keep an extra key to his office in my desk. It’s taped to the underside of the middle drawer.”
“Thank you, Sue. You did the right thing.” He stood, helping her to her feet. “You need to get some sleep. I’ll walk you to your car.”
Twenty minutes later, Zach’s suspicions proved correct. The amber-eyed woman had been here. He picked her up on the arm of one of the chairs in front of Nichols’ desk, and again on the stand of a display baseball he kept on his desk, engraved with the logo of Nichols’ favorite team, the Chicago Cubs.
Zach crossed to the window and slid it up. He poked his head out the opening and the energy hit him. Not the woman. Something different. Dark. Mercurial and threatening.
Zach jerked away from the window, disturbing a feather resting on the ledge, sending it over the side. A black feather, he realized. Like the one Micki had found at King’s the night of his suicide? He couldn’t be sure, but his gut told him yes.
Zach shut the window. The amber-eyed woman hadn’t been alone. Not at King’s. Not here. And whatever he’d picked up was every bit as dangerous as the woman. And maybe more.
Because this creature had the ability to fly away.
Chapter Forty-one
Friday, November 16
12:01 A.M.
“Come, Michaela, let’s play a little game of make-believe.”
Uncle Beau. His voice in her ear. The smell of his bourbon-sweet breath filling her senses.
Micki’s eyes snapped open. Not her childhood bedroom. Her cozy living-room. The TV was on.
“In other news, Mercedes King, the daughter of developer Thomas King, has died. This afternoon, in a tragic turn of events, Ms. King leapt to her death from the same high-rise balcony her father had only six days ago.”
Micki came fully awake. She shook her head in an attempt to clear away the nightmare.
“Detective Zach Harris was at the scene. He endeavored to save the woman but was too late.”
Micki snatched up her phone to send Zach a text message. Just saw the news, she typed. Heard you were there. Call me when you—
She stopped. The professor had told her not to talk to anyone. Especially Zach. Zach, who had told Major Nichols she was emotionally fragile and acting erratically.
He was her partner. He was supposed to take her side, no matter what.
She deleted the text and tossed the phone aside, her attention turning back to the television. The segment had been edited to jump from an interview with one witness after another: the couple who had been sipping cocktails on the patio below, the housekeeper cleaning a room five floors below, a mother and daughter on their first trip to New Orleans.
She should have been there, Micki thought. Maybe she could have stopped it from happening.
But here she’d sat. Doing nothing. Disgusted, Micki grabbed the remote and silenced the TV.
And as the room went quiet, she became aware of the rhythmic squeaking of the front porch swing. With it came the scent of tobacco, one she remembered from her childhood.
And from her nightmares.
Micki broke into a cold sweat. Slowly, carefully, she reached for her gun, there on the side table beside the recliner, then eased out of the chair. She tucked the weapon into the waistband of her pants. And only then, with its cold weight pressing into the small of her back, did she take a breath.
It couldn’t be Uncle Beau. Her stir-crazy mind was playing tricks. He would be an old man now. She could take him, easily—with or without the firearm.
On bare feet, she went to the door, slid the dead bolt back, inched the door open.
She was wrong. The devil had, indeed, come to call.
“Hello, Michaela,” he said, stopping the swing and standing.
He hadn’t changed. Hadn’t aged. Her breath lodged in her lungs. She felt seven years old again, frightened and helpless. She felt his hands on her, his sweaty body touching hers with hair that rubbed her raw, his weight smothering her. Heard her silent screams for help and tasted her own vomit.
“You’re not welcome here,” she said.
He stopped directly in front of her. “I’m family, Michaela. I’m always welcome.” He moved around her and into her house.
And like the child she’d been back then, she didn’t stop him.
“Close the door, Michaela. You’ll let the moths in.”
“Yes, Uncle Beau.”
She curled her hands into fists. “Why are you here? Is it about mother? Aunt Jo?”
He looked at her. His grin was straight out of her nightmares. “You know why I’m here.”
“Come Michaela, let’s play a little game of make-believe . . .”
She started to tremble. From the inside out, core deep, until even her teeth chattered.
“No, Uncle Beau. Please don’t.”
He held out his hand. “Come along. Be a good girl.”
She stared at the short, pudgy fingers, stomach lurching to her throat. Knowing his palm would be damp as she slipped her tiny hand trustingly in his.
Not.
This.
Time.
She reached behind her. “This ends now.” Gripping the gun with both hands, she aimed at his chest.
He laughed. “You’re not going to shoot me.”
“Oh, yes, I am. I should have done it a long time ago.”
“But you didn’t. Because you’re weak, Michaela. You always were.”
“Maybe then. Not now.”
“You liked it. You liked the attention. My attention.”
“No.” She gripped the gun tighter. Sweat slid down her spine. “I hated it. And I hated you.”
“But you never told anyone, did you?” He leaned closer. “Our little secret to share. Just the two of us.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s still our little secret, isn’t it? You’ve never told anyone. Why’s that, Michaela?”
Shame. Guilt. Her fault Mama was so crazy. Her fault her daddy left.
Her fault Uncle Beau hurt her.
Sweat formed on her upper lip. “No.” She shook her head. “You’re a monster.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. And when she opened them, it was Hank standing before her.
“Hank!” she cried, and dropped the gun. He held out his arms and she threw herself into them. “What’s all the fuss about, girl?” he whispered, holding her tightly.
Micki pressed her face into his chest, her memory and senses swamped with him—the feel of her cheek against his chest, his clean, masculine sce
nt, the cadence of his breathing.
“I miss you so much! Why did you have to go, Hank? Why’d you have to die?”
“Because of you, Michaela. It’s your fault.”
Uncle Beau’s voice again. Not Hank’s. His comforting arms—gone. She was in the grip of a fiend.
With a cry, Micki pushed away, stumbling slightly. She righted herself. “You’re not Uncle Beau, or Hank. You’re a fabrication from my memories. You can’t hurt me.”
“Really?” He laughed. “A fabrication?”
“A thing called a chameleon. A type of Dark Bearer that uses a person’s dreams, desires and nightmares to control them.”
“Bravo! And where did you get all this information?”
“A friend. One with the ability to stop you.”
“A friend? With abilities? Which one?”
Transfixed, Micki watched the vision transform in front of her eyes. Like a snake shedding its skin, the shedding layer folded back into itself, at once horrible and fascinating.
“This friend?”
The elfin Professor Truebell stood before her.
“Or this one?”
The transformation happened again, more quickly this time, in the blink of an eye. So fast she could have imagined it.
Except there stood Eli, tall and classically handsome, close enough to reach out and touch. Eli, the healer, who would never hurt anyone. Her senses flooded with him and his brilliant blue eyes seemed to reach in to touch her soul.
He was so real. Both of them were. Micki took a step back, feeling as if the very foundation beneath her was crumbling. “But you can’t imprint a Full Light.”
“But I haven’t. I imprinted you. All of this, every detail, I got from you.”
Almost like a bird ruffling its feathers, the chameleon transformed back into Uncle Beau. “You didn’t even see it coming. You didn’t even question why Eli had to knock on your door that night. Like a mere human. He can communicate telepathically with you, Michaela. He can place his fingertips on your temple and access all you have to tell him. But did he do that?”
He leered at her. “No. But you didn’t wonder about that, not even once.”
Stupid, Micki realized. Gullible. She’d wanted so badly for Eli to come fix everything, she had never questioned if it was truly he.
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