Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(92)

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he said.

She kept hold of his cold, wet hands, squeezing them. “Growing pains,” she said. “You’ll get used to this, the way you got used to the rest of it.”

“But you felt what I did to you,” he said. “I couldn’t control it. I didn’t even feel myself do it. It’s not safe. I’m not safe. I should stay away from you—”

“Bullshit,” she said crisply. “I’d be dead in ten minutes without you. Sorry to be a clingy burden, but it’s true.”

“I could hurt you,” he said. “I could—”

“But you won’t. You could also snap my neck, or smother me, probably one-handed, or shoot me, for that matter. Easily. But you won’t. And I know that you won’t, so it’s not a problem. Understand?”

His chest was still heaving. “I don’t want you to trust me,” he said. “Not when I don’t trust myself.”

“Too late,” she said. “I trust you anyway. Deal with it.” She grabbed a hand towel from an oven handle, and proceeded to dry his arms with it. Long, gentle, soothing strokes.

The cloth was still blood-smeared when she was done, but his hands looked better than before. She clasped them both in hers, and brought them to her lips, kissing one—

He jerked them away. “Please, Lara. Don’t.”

“I’ll warm up some of that soup,” she said gently. “Why don’t you go and chill out for a little while? Rest.”

Now she was trying to take care of him. His spasm of laughter turned into a cough. “I’ll go get some firewood.”

“Take it easy,” she called as he headed out into the back.

He found some wood, but it needed splitting. He found an ax in a lean-to out back, and a big chopping block.

It was a blessed relief, to unload some of his jittery nervous energy by whacking the living shit out of something, but the movement got his emotions running, and each blow became a phantom death blow to Greaves, and it did a number on his shield. He didn’t even have to do the balancing act. His shield yawned open as the ax descended, and he silently shouted, from the depths of his being—

And stared, appalled, at the massive chopping block, thigh high and wider than it was tall, rolling on the ground, riven in two pieces.

Pine needles tumbled like rain around him, pattering softly.

The kitchen door opened. He didn’t turn. Not wanting to see the reproach radiating from her slender silhouette in the doorway.

dude. seriously?

He shook his head. He had nothing to say for himself.

try a little harder with the psychic scream i dont think they heard u in Salt Lake City

That jolted a laugh from his chest, which turned to a sob. He was grateful for the darkness as he leaned on the ax handle.

Melting down into a total f*cking basket case.





22


She was going to die today, Anabel reflected, as she stared at Greaves’ moving mouth. Probably badly. But who cared. She had come to expect pain, humiliation. It was her normal state of being.

Maybe death would roll that crushing weight off her. All those shadows, the darkness that clung, ooze that stuck and crept, and—

“Concentrate, Anabel!” Greaves’ voice was a whip-crack. She gasped at the coercive sting. Her head still hurt from when Lara’s pet ogre had slammed it, but the medics who tended the turnip—that disgusting, corpse-like thing that Greaves hauled with him everywhere—had pumped her full of antibiotics and pronounced her fit for the meeting. A throbbing concussion and a bullet through the meat of her thigh was no excuse to miss a session of ass-reaming.

Greaves had left the doors that opened onto the terrace open, the frigid November wind swirling in. A reminder of the conclusion of the last conference. Which of them would float into the air and go speeding out into the great emptiness tonight? Let it be her. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go. First it would be like flying, which she’d always longed to do. And after, boom. Nothing more. It would all just . . . stop.

Flying, with the wind in her hair. Like Lara did. Why couldn’t she have been a clairvoyant, and go on these dreamy trips? Why did she have to be a goddamn telepath, doomed to see all the garbage in peoples’ minds? Steaming filth. Trash dumps. She was sick of it. She had enough filth of her own.

“. . . data-gathering network, using the facial-recognition software?” Greaves was addressing the room at large. “What is the status of that project?”

Silva piped up. “At this point, we have live footage available twenty-four/seven from security cams at every major tranporta-tion hub on the West Coast, and we’re expanding every day. Airports, bus and train stations, and rental car places. The facial recognition gives us warning with no more than a few seconds of delay.”

Silva sounded subtly pleased with himself. Always a mistake.

“This is useless if she stays on back roads and small towns,” Greaves observed. “Or if she gets a car at a smaller rental outlet.”

Silva looked crestfallen. “Ah, yes. We’re extending our network, but we have to outsource to cover that kind of—”

“Yes, yes. So the bots are constantly sifting this massive quantity of footage at all times for Lara Kirk’s face. Very good. As soon as we identify our man, we’ll do the same for him. For now, let’s move on. Pay attention to your monitors, please.”