Awaken Me Darkly (18 page)

“I’ll be good,” I whimpered. “I promise.”

“This is the only way to learn,” he said. “You’ll thank me one day.” He slammed the door, cutting off all light. The click of the lock resounded in my ears.

So cold. So dark. Both consumed me almost instantly, and my chest suddenly felt too tight. I couldn’t draw in a breath. My heart was pounding frantically, near bursting from the strain. “I’ll be good,”

I cried to the door. “I’ll be so good.”

I sank to my knees, the cold wall at my back. Tears froze on my cheeks, and the stale, dusty air stung my nostrils. I wished my mom were here, or Dare, but they were both gone. They’d both abandoned me, though in different ways. Right now my only companion was a single rickety chair, visible for the few seconds the door had remained open. I was going to die here, my mind screamed; the darkness was going to swallow me whole.

As my body shook with terror, the room’s only exit suddenly twisted, and my dream shifted again.

In the next instant, I was sixteen and holding an overnight bag. I stood over Dare’s grave. The moon was high, the air warm. Fireflies flickered overhead, and crickets sang a chorus of hosannas around the headstone. Colorful faux flowers bloomed all around my feet, in direct contrast to my mood.

“I will avenge your death, Dare,” I vowed. “I’ll avenge your death and make Dad proud. You’ll see.”

I slowly cracked open my eyes, only to realize I was panting, sucking in breath after breath as if I couldn’

t get enough oxygen. Sweat soaked my body, causing the blankets to stick to my skin.

Dreams usually had that effect on me, and I hated it.

With a conscious effort, I forced my breathing to slow and my bones to relax. I cast a glance at my wall clock. The numbers flashed 5:39 P.M. I had time to clean up and do a little research before my dinner with Jaxon.

I lumbered from the bed and only tripped twice on my way to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, showered, the dry spray doing nothing to wake me.

When I emerged, the scent of freshly brewed synthetic coffee filled my nostrils, strong and intense.

I donned the same type of clothing as yesterday—well-fitted black slacks, black button-up shirt, boots, and a black leather jacket. My pants possessed a Velcro strip down the outer seam, allowing easy access to the weapons strapped to my thighs. Of course, I also had guns and knives strategically tethered to the rest of my body.

I twisted my hair in a ponytail, frowned when several locks slipped free, then retied the band with a scowl. Sometimes I yearned to hack off every freaking strand, but I always stopped myself before actually applying the scissors. It was the one feminine aspect of my life, and I just didn’t want to give it up.

Dressed now, I trod into the kitchen and quickly drained two mugs of coffee. I poured myself a third cup and carried the steaming liquid to my desk. I logged onto my computer by voice recognition and fingerprint ID. Mandalay had mentioned that neither Kyrin nor Atlanna were in a database, but I checked again anyway.

When I typed in Atlanna’s name, information about the lost city of Atlantis filled the screen instead. Atlanna’s namesake, perhaps? I scrolled, found the most intriguing articles, and uttered a single command: “Print.”

Holding the papers in my hand, I read, “At the beginning of history, Zeus, the god of gods, granted his brother, Poseidon, the city of Atlantis. This island lay outside the pillars of Hercules, a meeting point of all the worlds’ oceans. For many generations, Atlanteans flourished in wisdom and riches, and the lands overflowed with food and wine. Yet these great warriors and scientists did not remain content with what they had, and greed soon grew in their hearts. They began to invade other lands, hoping to enslave foreign citizens. War reigned supreme. Zeus was angered by the constant battling, and rightly blamed the Alanteans. He hurled a great lightning bolt from the sky into the heart of the city. The land rumbled and shook, and in minutes, the ocean swallowed every rock, hollow, and denizen.”

Brow furrowed, I placed the article beside my coffee mug and frowned. Was Atlanna like these Atlanteans? Was she greedy for slaves? If so, where did the babies come in? Did she want to raise them and make her own army?

That sounded so far-fetched.

To sell them, perhaps? I sat up straighter. Now that made sense.

“Fertility,” I said to the computer, recalling that that had been a common thread in all of the cases.

Seconds later, several sites popped onscreen. I printed each page and discovered that Rianne Harte, the lab tech, had been trying to gain government support for fertility drugs to help increase the number of children alien women could bear. Alien women, not human.

That was interesting, but it didn’t help my case. I was dealing with human men, which meant Atlanna had to breed them with human women. Our scientists had tried splicing alien and human DNA to create halflings, but it simply couldn’t be done. Something about the different cell types being foreign and trying to kill each other.

I read the rest of Harte’s article and stilled when I came across the name A. en Arr, who was helping fund the research. A. en Arr. Atlanna en Arr. So, she wanted her aliens to be able to have more babies. So what did she need with the human men? They couldn’t help her with that.

I typed my notes and thoughts into a new base titled “Fertility Murders and Abductions.” I worked for the next half hour, relieved that I had one answer, at least. Without a doubt, Atlanna was the killer.

When I finished, I muttered, “Save and close,” and my computer shut down. I stood. It was time to meet Jaxon for dinner. I could barely wait to tell him what I’d learned.

Just then my phone unit erupted in a high-pitched wail. My dad, was my guess, so I purposely didn’t answer as I gathered the rest of my guns and knives. I didn’t have time to deal with him. A few moments later, my cell unit erupted in a series of beeps. Caller ID revealed the station house.

I immediately answered.

“We found Rianne Harte,” Jack said. “She’s dead.”

I stood in the middle of the crime scene, cataloging the details. Unlike William Steele, Rianne Harte had not been posed to look seductive. She’d been posed to look brutalized. Of course, she
had
been brutalized. Her eyes were still wide with terror; she lay inside a coffin, her legs and arms painfully akimbo.

We had the casket completely open, giving us an unobstructed view inside. Naked as she was, I was able to catalog the welts, scratches, bite marks, and bruises that marred her entire body. The hair atop her head had been hacked off completely. Her nails were ragged and broken.

She was barely recognizable as the smiling woman I’d seen in ID photos, yet a blood sample had revealed this was indeed Miss Harte. She’d been locked inside the stifling black coffin with some sort of snake or lizard, only it was bright red and obviously not from this planet. Mandalay had found her here in Whore’s Corner, in the same woods we’d discovered Steele.

“Damn shame,” Mandalay muttered before striding to her car.

“Lilla couldn’t have done this,” Jaxon said beside me. His voice carried on the winter breeze. He stared down at the body, shaking his head. “Not enough time.”

“You’re wrong. She had plenty of time. This body isn’t fresh, and Lilla hasn’t been in custody long. To be honest, though,” I added, “I don’t think she did it. Again, this crime is too methodical. Too precise. Every detail complete.”

I paused as a thought occurred to me. “Was Harte, or is she, pregnant?”

“I don’t know.”

“You,” I called to one of the agents nearby. “Do a pregnancy test on her blood, pronto.”

Five minutes later, I discovered she was not and had not been pregnant recently.

“Ghost found two strands of hair,” Jaxon said. “Arcadian.”

“Of course.”

“They were located on the same branch as before. It’s highly doubtful the killer would snag their hair twice in the same spot. Either they were planted and we’re on the wrong path, or the killer is taunting us.”

“We’re being taunted.” Yes, Atlanna was taunting us. I told him what I’d found out about fertility, Harte, and the deadly Atlanna. “She’s cocky as hell and assured of success. That much we already knew. But why not pose Harte as prettily as she posed Steele?”

“Could be we’re getting too close to the truth, and we’re pissing her off. Could be Harte betrayed her. Or could be Steele was a gift to us, but Harte is a warning.”

All of those made sense. Atlanna had seen me in the parking lot. I’d shot at her, tried to catch her.

That had to have pissed her off. “Only one way to find out for sure,” I said.

“By catching our gal,” Jaxon finished for me.

I nodded. Easier said than done.

W
hen homicide arrived, Jaxon and I gathered our notes and vacated the scene. We had all the information we needed, anyway.

“Let’s visit Dallas,” I told him. “Then we’ll do dinner and talk.” I hadn’t seen him in a while, and I suddenly needed to assure myself that he was okay, that he hadn’t slipped closer to death.

Jaxon must have sensed my desperation, because he opened his mouth to protest, then snapped his lips closed. “Good idea,” he finally said.

He drove to County without another word. I rested my head on the back of my seat and emptied my mind. Minutes or perhaps hours later, we arrived, and I found myself striding down the twisted, bland hospital hallways. Visiting hours were over in ICU, but the staff was smart enough to let us pass.

While Jaxon waited in the corridor, I stepped into Dallas’s room, drew in a cleansing breath, and perched myself at his beside. I read his chart. His condition was still considered stable, though there had been no new improvement. I held his cold, limp hand. His complexion had faded slightly; his breathing was not as strong as before.

I fought back a wave of fear, wishing to God I could cling to life for him.

“Listen up,” I told him. “You’re going to recover. Do you hear me? You’re going to recover. I’ve got a plan.” And I proceeded to tell him every detail. “Jaxon is going to help me. He doesn’t have your flare for drama, but I think he’ll provide some entertainment.”

Once, Dallas actually squeezed my hand, as if he heard every word I uttered.

When I left, I felt revived, more willing to conquer the day’s events.

“You hungry?” I asked Jaxon.

“Always.”

I sped down the highway and parked at the front of Trollie’s, in a no parking zone.

Jaxon and I ate a quick, silent meal, both lost in our own thoughts. I had the special, club sandwich, fries, and a bowl of steaming beef soup. Jaxon had wheat toast, plain chicken breast, and a large orange juice.

“How do you survive on so little?” I asked him.

“By eating more meals than the average person.” When he finished, he wadded up his napkin and tossed the crinkled paper onto the tabletop. “Something you should consider.”

The time for relaxation had ended.

A hard gleam entered Jaxon’s eyes, and I knew the same gleam was reflected in mine. Time for business. I leaned back in my seat. “The most important thing is to find Atlanna, but we have no leads on her. There are two people who seem to know the most about her—Kyrin and Lilla. Lilla’s in lockup, and I’ll question her again, but we need Kyrin too. We can play them off each other.”

“If we’re going to have any hope of catching him, we need to talk with Lilla’s boyfriend, St. John, ASAP,” he said. “Get our ball moving, so to speak, for the big event.”

Ah, yes. The fake execution. “Let’s go.”

Half an hour later, I found myself standing inside St. John’s office.

This was nothing like the sparsely decorated enclosure Lilla had occupied. Here, plush burgundy carpet layered the floor. The desk was composed of high-gloss Moroccan wood, expensive and rare.

The chairs were padded with altar cloth and mated with matching, perfectly rounded footrests. Murals of cavorting, naked religious figures covered the walls, their mocking expressions so richly detailed that they almost appeared alive.

St. John was seated behind the desk, his freckled face cold and hard. His fingers were laced in front of him. At least he was dressed, and his hands weren’t filled with breasts. I noticed he didn’t ask us to take a seat. I didn’t want to anyway.

A tall, muscular Ell-Rollis, though it wasn’t Bob, I noticed, stepped inside the room. He was wearing a shiny purple suit. “You okay, boss?” he asked, eyeing us like we were ice cold mugs of water and he’d been trapped in the desert for at least a year.

“I’m fine,” St. John said. “You may go.”

The other-worlder gave a quick nod, turned, and snapped the double French doors shut behind him.

I crossed my arms over my chest and waited.

“I want you to know my lawyers are working diligently on Lilla’s case,” he said through clenched teeth. “She’ll be released before you can snap your fingers.”

Just for the hell of it, I snapped my fingers, then glanced over each of my shoulders. “Think she’s been released?”

Beside me, Jaxon grinned.

St. John’s nostrils flared, and he leapt to his feet. His chair skidded behind him, blending with the sound of his hissing breath. I heard the
tick, tock
of the wall clock as St. John glared at me with hatred in his eyes, but he visibly reined in his temper. He eased back into his seat.

“What can I do for you, Agent Snow?” he asked, his tone all that was polite, though I caught a hint of fury in the undercurrents.

“What were you doing February second between the hours of nine and twelve P.M.?” I asked.

He laughed with genuine amusement, completely abandoning his anger for the moment. He even lifted a cigar from a small humidor on the corner of his desktop and ran the length through his fingers, practically daring me to arrest him for the illegal possession. “You’re not going to implicate me in this murder.”

I arched a brow. “Answer my question.”

Still grinning, he shrugged. “I was here, working. A thousand people can verify that.”

“So you weren’t at the murder scene,” I said, unfolding my arms and planting my fists near the weapons strapped to my waist. “That doesn’t mean you weren’t involved in the actual killing.”