Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(37)

And this being couldn’t be a man. A ghost demon rising up from the depths of her subconscious mind, maybe. Looming, black-clad, ski-masked. The wild, hot blast of his aggressive energy zinged through her nerves, like lightning stabbing. A hallucination, an archetype, a myth.

A god.

It must be the formula. Maybe because they’d maxed out the dose. She was crumbling into her component parts. No way could someone have found her. Who would bother to look for her? Mother and Dad were the only two people in the world who might have cared enough to risk their lives for her, and they were both gone. Murdered.

But this wasn’t a wishful fantasy, either, because she hadn’t been wishing for rescue. She’d just been hoping for her Lord of the Citadel to sweep her away into heaven. Eternal erotic bliss. It would be nice.

Hu was huddled on the ground at the ghost demon’s feet. He lifted his bloodied face. “Please!”

“Move!” The dark figure’s voice was brusque. He wrenched his leg free of Hu’s clutching hand. “Get up! Hurry!” He was directing the words at her. He pulled a phone from his pocket, and swiftly texted into it. That prosaic gesture was hardly that of a demon or a god.

She stared. “But I . . . ah, but you—”

“I’m the guy you text when you trip on psi-max,” he cut in. “You’ve been camping out in my head.”

She gaped, blinking. “You? That’s you?”

“Me. On your feet. This is your chance, so take it!”

Hu hoisted himself higher, rolling up to grab the guy’s leg. “You said I could call the hospital if I brought you here!” Hu’s voice was thin and wobbly. “You said you’d—”

“That was before you f*cked me over, douchebag. Twice. Too bad for Leah. Better luck in the next life.”

“No! Please. Leah never hurt you!” Hu babbled. “Let me call them and tell them about her reaction to suxamethonium before they start the surgery! Then do anything to me that you want!”

“Correction. I can do anything I want now.”

“But you promised—”

“I lied.” Whack. The ghost demon slammed the pistol into the back of Hu’s head. Hu thudded onto the concrete, face down.

Lara pulled herself tighter into a ball.

“Lara.” The edge in his voice got sharper. “Do you have a shirt?”

She somehow forced the words out. “If I did, I’d be wearing it.”

“Great,” he muttered. “Are you hurt? Or just stoned?”

“I . . . I . . .” Nothing came out. The circuits were disconnected.

She stared at him, arms up high to protect her face, legs folded to protect her belly. It was a reflex she could no longer control.

“Shit,” the guy muttered. “It’s the mask, right? Creeps you out?” He looked up at the camera pointed down at them from the opposite wall, crouched down before her with his back to it, and wrenched it off.

“This is me,” he said. “Look fast. I’m putting it back on now.”

She gaped. It was him. The Lord of the Citadel. Unmistakably him, with that hawk nose, but so different, with that hot glitter in his eyes, that lean, feral face. Thinner, darker, harder than she remembered from her heated fantasies. “It’s . . . it’s you,” she squeaked.

“Last I checked. Miles, remember? Come on.” He whipped the mask back on, reached for her. “Fast.”

She stiffened when his hands gripped her elbows, lifting her effortlessly. He dragged her past Hu’s prone body, and out of the rat hole. Anabel sprawled in the corridor in a pool of blood.

The man crouched down at Anabel’s feet, tugging at them.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was so thin, raspy, creaky.

“Shoes, for you. Quiet!” Miles shoved blood spattered white athletic shoes at her.

She flinched back. “Is she dead?”

“Do you care?” He pushed the shoes at her again, and shoved at the small of her back when she finally took them, propelling her up the stairs. “Dudes, that diversion would be really awesome right about now,” he muttered under his breath, and shoved the door open. They heard shouts, running feet, getting louder.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered. “Get behind me!”

The running footsteps amplified. It happened fast, and she saw very little from the stairwell, back flat to the wall. The masked guy lunged through the door. There was a shout, grunts, a few sharp thuds.

One of the men on the security staff tumbled past her down the stairs. He sprawled halfway down and lay, unmoving.

The masked guy’s leather-gloved hand yanked her out into the corridor. She clutched Anabel’s shoes to her chest, trying to keep her bare feet under herself and somehow keep up.

A faraway gun cracked. Glass shattered nearby. Again, and again. Huge, shattering sounds came from different levels of the building. Someone was shooting out those huge picture windows. More shouts.

“About f*cking time,” Miles said sourly.

He slapped a door open. They ran out into the dark grounds.

She’d forgotten how big the sky was, how loud. Sighing with wind, leaves swishing and bugs clicking and humming. The rocky, thorny ground bit her feet, but she lurched stupidly along behind him, dazzled by the darkness that was not darkness. It was immensely deep, painted in a million textured qualities of blue and gray and black. Wind petted her skin, countless caressing hands. She dragged in chestfuls of the cold, complicated air, so rich in oxygen and earth, plant and sky perfumes. It made her dizzy. So different from the dead, stale air she’d breathed for months.