Race the Darkness (Fatal Dreams, #1)(48)

“Hey, man.” Xander raised his hand in a half wave. “What’s going on? Why do you keep stopping here?” His voice was loud compared to the murmurings of night sounds.

Lathan’s heart rate tweaked a bit, then settled back to normal. He gave Xander a hard stare. Not an if-looks-could-kill stare, but more of an apologetic look. He didn’t say anything. And the frequency connection didn’t open. Didn’t fucking open.

One of the universal rules of Xander’s ability was that when he asked a question, a person’s brain couldn’t help but answer. He waited. But Lathan gave a big, fat doughnut hole of nothing.

Okay. There was definitely a level of not-normal going on. Not that Xander was the poster boy for normal consultants. Maybe that was the reason he and Lathan were consultants—they weren’t normal.

Without a word, a wave, or a one-finger salute, the guy turned and walked to his bike.

“What’s with the silent treatment?” They weren’t besties and about to paint each other’s toenails, but Xander had thought they were at least at the level of civil communication.

No response.

“Do you know the story behind this carving?” Xander called. Shit. He half hated himself for being curious about it.

The bike roared to life with a growl of pipes that was both obscene and thrilling to any man with balls. Lathan didn’t glance back as he pulled out onto the road and sped off down the hill.

What the fuck was that all about? The guy never said a word. The frequency connection never opened. And Xander was left with even more questions. He’d have to ask Kent to pry into the guy. If for no other reason than Xander wanted—no, needed—to find out why the guy kept visiting the totem.

He turned his attention to the carving.

As always, the animal stood on his hind legs, big and lethal looking. Lips drawn back to display deadly teeth. Eyes blazing hollow blackness. If animals were capable of facial expressions, this one looked pissed off. Funny how he had never noticed that before. It was hard to miss.

Xander got back in his truck, pulled out onto the road, and began his descent toward the driveway at the bottom of the hill.

A black sedan was parked along the median across from the property. That a car would just be randomly sitting across from their driveway seemed odd. Xander pulled up next to the vehicle. From his perch inside the truck he could see it was empty. Maybe some asshole got tagged for drunk driving. Or maybe… His brain flashed to the hospital and that cross on Isleen’s forehead and the way she said she hadn’t been able to breathe and had thought Queen tried to hurt her.

Right there in the center of the road, Xander rolled down his window and shut off the engine. The night chorus flooded his ears, and hot, humid air instantly dampened his skin. He closed his eyes, listening for anything out of the ordinary, but all he heard was a small animal scrounging around in the ditch and something larger, probably a deer, up the hill picking its way down one of the ravines. Something about the abject normalcy didn’t feel right to him.

He was being paranoid. His new truck started with more of purr than a growl—he’d fix that later—and he pulled away from the car and pedal-to-the-metaled up the driveway. All the while, he kept seeing Isleen lying in that hospital bed with that vile X on her forehead. Who would try to hurt Isleen? Queen was dead. And there was no link between her and Simon Smith or William Goodspeed.

He was probably just tired and not thinking clearly. Though last night while he’d held Isleen, he’d actually slept. And the night before in the hospital he’d slept. That had to be a personal best. Maybe guilt drove him—for all those years he heard her begging for help and didn’t listen. Maybe this was his penance. Always feeling like he had to make certain she was safe.

At the main house, he jammed the brake a bit too hard, fishtailing and making fun furrows in the gravel. He’d just run in, check on her quick-like, then get the hell outta there. He’d already spent too much time in that house. He forced himself to walk at a normal pace up the porch steps to the front door. The knob turned too easily in his hand. Why wasn’t the door locked? He walked in and felt like he’d been swallowed by a whale.

The ostentatious size of the house made him feel diminished, like the little boy he’d been when he lived here. The little boy whose father would never look at him or speak to him or acknowledge him in any way. Sweat slicked Xander’s skin just thinking about it. But that was then, and right now he was here because of Isleen. After he checked on her, he wasn’t setting foot in this place ever again.

He walked slowly so his boots wouldn’t bang across the wood floor and alert the household that he was sneaking into Isleen’s room. Up the stairs, down the hallway, past his old room to the room next to it, the room that used to belong to Shayla. How many nights had she let him crawl in bed with her when it was stormy, or he woke up scared, or just didn’t want to be alone? Now that he thought about it from his adult perspective, she’d been the best big sister.

After Gale and Shayla left, he’d sometimes sneak into Shayla’s room and climb in her bed, praying that they would come back and everything would go back to normal. There was a reason he no longer believed in God. If God wasn’t there for brokenhearted little boys, he sure as hell wouldn’t be there for grown-up assholes like himself.

He lifted his shoulder and wiped the sweat off his face. Fuck. Just remembering burned.