Lover Unveiled, page 32
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Narrowing his eyes, he recognized the symbols of the language he had learned as a young. Indeed, he could now read what was upon the parchment, and he had the sense that it was a message for him. Or perhaps a calling . . . or a command—
Sahvage covered his eyes. “No.”
He knew not what he was saying, nor to whom. But the denial had to stand true, stand strong. He somehow had the conviction that if he set his gaze upon the pages, if he absorbed the symbols and translated them into words, he would embark upon a path from which he could not depart.
With a wrench, he turned away. The slatted shutters of the windows were, as the drawbridge had been, open and offering a ready exit.
Tap. Tap. Taptaptaptaptaptap—
As the summoning sound started up once more, and became so loud it was the now a pounding like heavy boots upon a wooden floor, Sahvage closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the fresh night air. He had to block out the scents that made him violent, the blood and the sex of an innocent taken by force, rendering it impossible for him to calm himself.
So he needed must put them aside.
As he focused on dematerializing, he was as the others of the household had been, compelled by a sense of survival to depart, depart, depart—
• • •
Sahvage jumped back to present awareness with a full-body jerk and a suck of air. For a moment, the now-familiar details of Tallah’s kitchen were utterly foreign. But then he saw the pots and pans he had washed drying in the rack, the refrigerator against the door, the duffle of guns and ammo on the table in front of him.
“Shit,” he breathed.
Rubbing his head, he could still picture that trestle table in the bloodied bedchamber, and what had been with the Book made him think back to what Mae and Tallah had laid out here, the salad dressing ingredients that were not for any lettuce leaves ever—
He looked around sharply. “Mae?”
His hand shot out and grabbed his phone. As he checked his texts . . . nothing from her. No calls, either. And it was over an hour and twenty minutes since he’d left her house.
Where the fuck was she?
Mae came back to consciousness slowly, and the markers that her brain was back online were mainly the physical information that she began processing: Her head hurt. She was lying on something that had thin ridges. One whole arm was numb.
And what was that smell?
She focused on the fragrance for no particular reason, and as a mental connection was made, the image that her memories coughed up was one that didn’t make a whole lot of sense.
The Galleria Mall. Christmas time.
The perfume counter in Macy’s. An aggressive saleslady double-fisting spray bottles that had had hair triggers. Mae getting hit in the face with something that had made her eyes sting and her nose tickle like she had a single strand of fine cat hair up each nostril.
Her eyes flipped open.
Right in front of her face . . . there was a pattern of wires. But that couldn’t be right . . . ?
It took some deep breaths before things focused properly and she discovered that what she thought she was seeing was correct—and also wrong. The thin ridges pressing into her were a weave of black coated wires.
She was in a cage. Like a dog cage.
“You’re reminding me of someone.”
At the sound of the familiar voice, Mae moved her eyes, not her head. Through the pattern of crosshatches, she looked across an open space . . .
Wait . . . was this a department store? There were racks and racks of clothes . . . a display of designer purses and shoes . . . a makeup table. But there was also an exposed kitchen that ran down one wall and a bathroom without walls or a door. A king-sized bed.
“I’m over here, dummy.”
Mae tracked the sound to the center of the whatever-it-was. Sitting on a white leather sofa, with her legs crossed like a lady, the brunette had changed her clothes and done her hair over. Now she was in a white skirt suit, the top formfitting to her tiny waist, the bottom with a slit that went to mid-thigh. The stilettos were black and white, and there were pearls, lots of pearls.
But that wasn’t all.
She had a spectacular white hat on, a derby hat, with a brim that carouseled around her beautiful face and her graceful neck, lower in some places, higher in others.
“Do you like it?” the brunette murmured as her blood-red-tipped fingers hovered around the delicate black piping on the bill.
Mae pushed herself up and banged her head on the top of the cage.
“Oh, sorry. It’s for dogs.” The brunette smiled. “Big dogs are not as big as grown females, though, are they.”
Shuffling her feet around, Mae sat up as much as she could, her head at an awkward angle. With a better look at the area they were in, she saw four thousand square feet with a low ceiling held up by thick, featureless supports. No windows. And a single door.
So that was where she needed to get to.
“Alexis Carrington Colby.” The brunette swept a hand down her smooth legs. “This is her outfit. From the season-two first episode. And not a copy, this is the actual suit. I bought it off the wardrobe guy. Or, rather, I let him fuck me for it. He was small, by the way, and size does matter. But this suit—with the hat? So worth it. Besides, I was so much hotter than the shit he usually got that he lasted a minute and a half.”
Mae blinked.
“Okay, fine. It was two minutes, tops.” The brunette frowned. “Hold up, did you not watch it? How could anyone not watch Dynasty? Although, considering your sartorial choices . . .”
The dog cage had a latch right in front, and also one on the short side. Both were locked with a padlock. The wire was steel. Not exactly mesh, and if she had been calm, she would have been able to exit the cage safely. But she was in pain and terrified.
The brunette seemed piqued by a lack of fawning. “You know, I dressed up for you. You could show some appreciation.” When Mae didn’t respond, there was an elegant shrug. “Fine, you’ve been out for a while now. How’s your head? Hm?”
The cage was made up of panels that were collapsible, the hard corners of right angles held in place by virtue of the two short sides having been pushed up to hold the top.
“You don’t say much.” The brunette flashed her hand. “Do you see this diamond? Twenty-five carats. Do you like it?”
Mae knew her only hope was to kick at the sides and bend the metal hooks until the structural integrity of the panels failed.
“It’s glass.” The brunette put her hand out to herself and moved the huge stone from side to side. “You know, some would say that pear shapes are not classic, not like rounds or emeralds are. They’re supposedly like marquise cuts—or that fucking princess-cut shit. But see, this is the ring that Joan Collins wore. I got it at an auction like three years ago. I would have paid more—”
Mae shifted around and planted her boots on the cage’s short side. Cramming herself against the other end, she started to put her strength into it—
“What are you doing.” The brunette lifted a stenciled brow. “Honestly, you think that is going to work?”
Straining, Mae felt the wires bite into her shoulders and the back of her neck, her head. The injuries from the car accident—her bad shoulder from where the seat belt had tightened on it, her face from landing on the dirt, her temple from God only knew what—began to hum louder and throb. Especially as she started to kick.
The brunette laughed and rose to her feet. “Getting a good workout? And one, and two, and one, and two—tell me, are you feeling the burn?”
Bang, bang, bang, rattle, rattle, rattle—
Mae grunted. Sweat broke out across her face. Her eyesight swam as her body protested at the demands she was putting on it.
“After this”—the brunette smiled—“can we work the core? Core is so important.”
Things were loosening up in the cage, the top sinking as she punched out, popping back when she retracted her knees.
“I swear . . . you remind me of someone.” The brunette came over to stand by the commotion. “But that’s not important—”
With one last, powerful extension, Mae busted the end out, the lattice of heavy wires bouncing on the floor. Half of the top came down on her, and she shoved it off as she shuffled out of the escape route she’d created.
The second she was free, she scrambled to stand up—
Her balance was for shit, her body totally uncoordinated, and she was aware of the brunette laughing as Mae hit the hard floor and tried to stand again. And again.
She collapsed in a sprawl, panting, her head spinning, all kinds of pain pretty much everywhere.
“And where do you think you’re going now?”
The pair of black-and-white stilettos appeared right next to Mae’s face—which was the only reason she figured out she had ended up on her side with her ear and cheek on some cool, cool marble.
“You know,” the brunette murmured, “you ruined a perfectly good cage. I’m going to have to make you pay for it, one way or the other. And I’ll be choosing something other than cash, of course—”
“You won’t hurt me.”
“I beg your pardon.”
Mae lifted her head. Lifted her torso. Tried to lift her whole body, but settled for sitting up against the wall where the cage had been.
Even though her eyes were still focusing intermittently, she trained them in the direction of the brunette.
Taking a deep breath, she said, “You. Aren’t. Going. To. Hurt. Me.”
Those glossy red lips flattened and that voice got nasty. “You keep thinking that, then. We’ll see how long the bullshit lasts.”
With a sudden rush, an invisible force levitated Mae up off the floor and pinned her against the wall. Bone-crushing pressure covered her entire body, a blanket that weighed as much as a car, and as she struggled to draw breath, she tried to fight the squeeze, but there was nothing to fight against.
The brunette walked up and struck a pose, one hip curving out, the opposite hand poised on her waist. Yet her face was drawn in harsh, ugly lines.
“I’m going to do anything I want to you.” Her eyes raked down Mae—and then surprise registered. “Well, well, well. Looks like that big male hasn’t gotten into you yet. A virgin? Really? What a prize you are.” Now she smiled again. “Just what every guy wants, fumbling hands and awkward winces of pain. How sexy—”
“You can’t hurt me,” Mae grunted, “because you need the Book.”
The brunette went silent and closed her mouth. Then she turned on one stiletto and walked over to the display of boxy, two-handled purses with little locks on them. There were easily a dozen of them, in a rainbow’s worth of colors and with just as many different textures.
“You know,” the brunette said, “I’ve used a lot of male virgins over the years. And tsk, tsk, tsk, not like you’re thinking. They were necessary for a private, non-sexual purpose—which sadly is no longer applicable—”
“You need me alive.” Mae coughed. “Because I summoned the Book. You need me to get the Book.”
The brunette looked over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing. “I wouldn’t be so cocky, honey. I have other sources for that.”
“Then kill me. Right here and now—”
Mae let out a scream as the pressure became unbearable, the bones in her face threatening to collapse flat, her ribs squeezing her heart and lungs, her pelvis nearly cracking. And just as she began to black out, at the moment she felt herself slipping away, she was able to drag some air down her throat.
As her eyes started to clear a little, the brunette was right in front her again. No longer angry, but pensive.
“Tell me how you did it,” she said.
“Hmm?” Mae wheezed.
“Look at you. You’re not bad-looking, but you’re hardly worth crossing the street for. You have no style, no personality, nothing to recommend you, and no experience in bed. And yet . . . that male. He’s so fucking into you. I don’t get it.”
As the brunette went silent, Mae put some strength in her voice. “That’s what you want the Book for. Isn’t it.”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
The brunette’s glare was a promise of misery. Infinite misery. “And you can kiss my fucking ass.”
All at once, the pain and suffocation returned, and Mae knew she’d overplayed her hand.
It was the last conscious thought she had.
Out on a rural property that had a lot of junk on its grounds, Erika ducked her head as she entered a dilapidated trailer. Inside, there was mess everywhere on everything, pizza boxes, crumpled cigarette packs, and empty booze bottles choking out the details of the galley kitchen, the floor underfoot, the ragged furniture. Unsurprisingly, there was also a collection of bongs, syringes, plastic baggies, and bricks wrapped in supermarket bags.
The body was over on a couch that was so stained it looked like it had started its life a muck brown. Victim was a male, somewhere in his twenties, and he was sprawled back against the worn cushions, his face frozen in a stare-ahead, the single execution-style bullet wound nearly dead center in his forehead.
As her eyes went down to the front of his chest, as opposed to the red wash on the wall behind his skull, she heard her sergeant from back late in the afternoon.
You need a night off, Saunders. You’ve been going too hard for too long—
We’re short-staffed after Pam went on maternity leave and Sharanya moved. What else can we do—
—and that’s how mistakes are made.
I haven’t made any. And I won’t—
This is not a request, Erika. I can’t remember when your last break was, and neither can you.
“The father called it in,” one of the uniforms—the younger of the two—reported. Because the older one was on the phone. “Poor man. Nobody wants to see their son like this.”
Erika leaned down and checked out the bullet wound in the forehead. No gunpowder residue, so it hadn’t been a point-blank kind of thing. The shooter had been back some distance.
“Professional shot,” she murmured.
The uniform continued, “The victim’s name is David Eckler and he’s got a record. Mostly selling stolen property, but he has a number of drug charges, two of which were just dropped on technicalities. Detective de la Cruz took the father down to the station to talk.”
Outing her penlight, she looked around at the mess on the floor. “Here’s a shell.”
She bent down to put a marker on it, and before she straightened back up, she found herself going eye level with an off-kilter coffee table that had had one of its legs replaced by a milk carton. In the midst of its clutter? A leather box about a foot long and five inches wide. Unlike everything else in the trailer, the thing was of fine construction and without dust or scratches.
“Surprise, surprise,” she murmured as she peered through its glass top.
The lineup of watches inside were big names even someone middle class like her would know: Rolex. Piaget. Okay, fine, she’d never heard of Hublot.
“How’d you even say that,” she said. “‘Whoo-blot’?”
“Huh?”
And that was when she saw it. A little wink in the far corner off to the side of the couch: A lens that had caught her flashlight beam.
“We have security,” she announced.
“You mean a dog chained in the yard? I didn’t see one—”
“No, as in a camera.”
She leaned in and carefully inspected the recording unit. Then she followed the wires around the back of the sofa—avoiding the victim—to a cupboard. Inside? A laptop that was shiny new and plugged into a surge protector. The thing was running.
“Thank you, baby Jesus,” she muttered.
“Aren’t you supposed to be off?”
Erika straightened and looked at the uniform properly for the first time. “Dick?”
“Rick.” The fresh-faced guy pointed to his badge. “Donaldson. I’m still on the beat, but I hope to transfer to homicide soon.”
“I’m Detective—”
“Oh, I know who you are. And I thought you were supposed to be off tonight—”
“How do you know my schedule?”
The guy looked around like he was hoping someone else would answer that. Unfortunately for him, the older officer was still on the phone.
“Ah . . . everyone knows your schedule, Detective.”
As headlights washed the front of the trailer, slices of illumination speared into the interior.
“Well, you’re in luck.” Erika clicked off her flashlight. “I’ll see you in the morning. I’m going home to get some sleep.”
While Dick-Rick-whoever Donaldson looked relieved, like someone had spared him a trip to Target on Black Friday, Erika hit the broken door. It took every ounce of self-control to step out of the trailer, but the reality was, the crime scene folks were going to need four to six hours to clear everything, and it was now, what—? She checked her watch. Three a.m. Perfect. She could be in her bed at home in forty-five minutes, with her teeth brushed, her feet in fresh socks, and her head wrapped in a blanket to cut the noise of the early-risers who lived in the apartment above her.
Totally living the high life, she thought as she started her unmarked and waved at the crime scene investigators.
She would be back in the proverbial saddle no later than eight in the morning. And then the sergeant couldn’t have a good goddamn thing to say about her shift work. Nailed it.
Besides, as long as there was a heart still in that victim’s chest? She was okay turning the case over to someone else.
• • •
When Syphon was finally resting quietly, and the folks in blue scrubs with the ticker-listening necklaces were satisfied he was going to be okay, Balz was the first to beat feet out of the training center. And he once again looked casual—or tried to appear that way.
Inside his skin, he was screaming.
At the far end of the underground tunnel, he stepped out from under the mansion’s grand staircase and then dematerialized up to the second-floor sitting room. As he went down to his own bedroom, he moved silently, like the thief he was, and prayed he ran into no one. In his suite, it took him under a minute to change into his all-blacks, and not much longer than that to cinch a double holster around his waist.
