Divided in Death (In Death #18)(108)

But he came toward her, and she saw in his eyes there hadn't been enough drink that night. Not enough to save her.

What are you doing, little girl?

And his voice turned her bowels to ice.

The first blow stunned her, but she fell limply. A dog who'd been kicked often enough knew to stay down and submit.

But he had to punish her. He had to teach her a lesson. Despite her fear, despite her knowing, she couldn't stop herself from pleading.

Please don't please don't please don't.

Of course he would. He did. Bearing down on her, striking her. Hurting her, hurting her while she begged, while she wept, while she struggled.

Her arm broke with a sound as thin as her shocked scream.

The knife she'd dropped was in her hand again. She had to make him stop. Make him stop. The pain, the horrible pain in her arm, between her legs. He had to stop.

Blood gushed warm over her hand. Warm and wet, and she scented it like an animal in the wild. When his body jerked on hers, she plunged the knife into him again, again. Again and again as he tried to crawl away. Again and again and again as the blood splashed her arms, her face, her clothes, and the sounds she made were nothing human.

When she crawled away, shivering, panting, to huddle in the corner, he was sprawled on the floor, drowned in his own blood.

As always.

But this time she wasn't alone with the man she'd killed. She wasn't alone with the dead in the hideous room. There were others, countless others, men and women in dark suits, sitting in row after row of chairs. Like people at a play. Observers with empty faces.

They watched as she wept. Watched as she bled and her broken arm hung limply at her side.

They watched, and said nothing. Did nothing. Even when Richie Troy rose, as he sometimes did. When he rose, pouring blood from all the wounds she'd put into him and began to shuffle toward her, they did nothing.

She awoke bathed in sweat with the scream tearing at her throat. Instinctively she rolled and reached out for Roarke, but he wasn't there. He wasn't there to gather her in, to soothe away those horrible jagged edges.

So she curled into a ball, battling the tears while the cat bumped his head against hers.

"I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay." She pressed her damp face against his fur, rocked herself. "God. Oh God. Lights on, twenty-five percent."

The low light helped, so she lay in it until her chest stopped burning. Then, still shivering, she rose to drag herself to the shower, and the heat of the water.

Rose to drag herself into the day.

21

It was too early for the team to be up, and she was glad of it. She wasn't quite in the frame of mind for teamwork. She'd close herself up in her office and review everything again. She would walk through it all with Bissel one more time.

She resisted checking the house monitoring system to see where Roarke was. It was more important where he hadn't been, and that was in bed with her. If he'd slept-and there were times she thought he needed less sleep than a damn vampire-he'd slept elsewhere.

She wouldn't bring it up, wouldn't mention it, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of that. They'd finish the investigation, they would close this case, and when Bissel was wrapped, they would...

She wished to God she knew.

She programmed coffee in the kitchen off her office. Just coffee as even the thought of food made her stomach pitch. But she took pity on the pathetic begging from the cat, and poured him a double shot of kibble.

She turned, and there he was, leaning against the doorjamb watching her. His beautiful face was unshaven-a rarity-and as expressionless and remote as those in her dream had been.

The comparison turned her blood cold.

"You need more sleep," he said at length. "You don't look well."

"I got all I'm getting."

"You worked late, and no one's going to be up and around for at least another hour. Take a soother, for pity's sake, Eve, and lie down."

"Why don't you take your own advice? You don't look so hot yourself, ace."

He opened his mouth. She could almost see the venom. But whatever poisonous thing he'd been about to say, he swallowed. She had to give him points for it.

"We made some progress in the lab. I assume you'll want to brief the team, and be briefed." He moved in to program coffee for himself.

"Yeah."

"Bruises look better," he said as he lifted his cup. "On the face, anyway. How's the rest?"

"Better."

"You're very pale. If you won't lie down, at least sit and have something to eat."

"I'm not hungry." She caught the petulant tone, hated it and herself. "I'm not," she said in a calmer voice. "Coffee's enough."

She braced the mug in both hands when the first one trembled, just a bit. He stepped forward, took her chin in his hand. "You had a nightmare."

She started to jerk her head away, but his fingers tightened. "I'm awake now." She put a hand to his wrist, nudged it away. "I'm fine."

He said nothing as she walked back into her office, but stood staring down into the black pool of coffee in his cup. She'd pushed him away, and that was more than a small ache. It was a vicious tear through the heart.

He'd seen she was exhausted and hurt, and knew how much more susceptible she was in those states to the nightmares. But he'd left her alone, and that was another tear.