Race the Darkness (Fatal Dreams, #1)(101)

“The worst thing Little Man would ever do is lick you. His tongue is six inches wide, seems two feet long, and he slobbers. A lot.” Lathan bent his head to see her mouth, hoping for a smile, but she stared at her hand, her lips pulled back over her teeth in repulsed horror.

She lifted her hand, her slender bicep straining and bulging as if whatever she clutched in her fist weighed too much to raise.

Her fingers fanned opened.

Lathan stared at the object she held. His heart stalled and his brain shuddered to a stop, leaving him thoughtless for a few picoseconds, before everything turned back on and shifted gears in a direction he sure as hell didn’t want to go.





Chapter 3


An eye. A human eye. In her hand.

Lathan blinked, not quite believing the message his eyes were sending his brain.

“What the… Where’d you get that?” He scented the air and visually scanned his home—only himself, Little Man, and her. No one else had been inside. Nothing was missing or out of place. “Did you leave the house?”

She didn’t answer. She looked and smelled befuddled, dazed, stunned.

“Did you find it outside?”

No answer.

Why did she have it in her hand? What would possess her to touch it, pick it up? His innards lurched and sank down into his gut. Was the owner of the eye still alive? He suspected they weren’t, and that meant there was a body outside. Nearby.

But he would’ve smelled a body. He was just out there.

Her hand fell, the enucleated orb went with it, bouncing once, then rolling, iris over white, to a stop in the crevice between the cushions. Her body wilted; her head thunked against his shoulder.

He grabbed her chin, shaking her face. “Honey. Wake up. I need some answers here.” But she was twelve-rounds-with-the-champ out. Fuck.

He cradled her limp form against him and reached into his pants pocket to get his cell phone. He took a picture of the eye, sent it to Gill, and followed up with a text.

Human eye on my couch.

Gill was gonna hit an eleven on the freak-o-meter. Either that or think Lathan was trying to punk him. A moment later, Gill responded.

A little late for Halloween.

Seriously.

You fucking with me?

No.

What happened?

IDK, but I’m pretty sure where there’s an eye, there’s a body.

Don’t move. Don’t touch anything. I’ll contact Eric on my way.

For the first time since he’d been hired as a special skills consultant, he was going to demand a favor from the FBI, and they would grant it—without question—for the man who had closed more cold cases than everyone else combined. The most important condition of his contract was that his privacy, his total seclusion, be maintained at all times.

He shoved his arm under Honey’s legs, lifted her tight against his chest, and stood.

“Little Man. Come.”

The dog didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His attention focused on the eye.

Lathan nudged the dog’s thick haunch with his boot until Little Man gave him the look. The I-swear-I’ll-never-chew-on-the-table-legs-ever-again-if-you-just-let-me-have-it, please, please, please look.

“No. Leave it.” He put the You’re-not-allowed-to-play-with-it-or-eat-it tone in his voice. “Little Man. Come.”

Little Man heaved a giant sigh that fanned his massive jowls outward, but stood and headed upstairs. Lathan followed, carrying Honey. By the time he got into the bedroom, Little Man was settled on his mastiff-sized dog bed in the corner.

“Stay.”

Lathan laid Honey in his bed. Her body was deadweight and awkward, so he adjusted her arms, her legs, her head as if she were a life-sized rag doll until she looked comfortable.

He tore off his gloves, pressed his fingers to her neck, and concentrated on finding her pulse. The steady pressure of her heartbeat tapped against his fingertips with a Morse code rhythm all its own. He laid his other hand on her chest, just below her clavicles, to ensure the rise and fall of her breathing. He tried not to notice how close his hand was to her breasts. Failed.

The side of his hand rested next to the gentle slope of her breast. If he fanned out his pinkie finger—no. He pulled his hand away.

She must’ve just passed out.

He went into the bathroom, soaped up half the stack of clean washcloths, and washed the lingering scent of decay from her hand.

Her skin was rough and red, her fingers knobby and strong, her nails ragged and short. She had the body and clothing of a stripper, but he expected something more faux sexy than torn-up fingernails and blistered feet. What kind of job abused her hands and her feet? Nothing seemed to fit.

He had questions and not one answer. What was her name? Why didn’t he get SMs from her? Why was he able to touch her? Where the fuck did she get a human eyeball?

He stared at her face as if the answers were written in the delicate arch of her brows or in the gentle curve of her lashes. Or in the small sickle-shaped scar at the corner of her mouth that curved upward, giving her the curious appearance of smiling out of one side of her mouth, while the other side frowned.

Her eyelids fluttered. Opened.

“How are you feeling?” That question was more appropriate than interrogating her on how she came into possession of a human eyeball. He’d wait until she was fully conscious before tripping down that trail.