Falling Light (Game of Shadows #2)(78)

All of her dream images were filled with fire.

Chapter Twenty-seven

MICHAEL WOKE UP.

He couldn’t put a finger on why, but he was patient as he tried to pinpoint the reason. Pragmatism had certain benefits. It meant he never did anything without a reason, not even waking up.

He hadn’t awakened because he felt refreshed. Tiredness had accumulated to the point where he could use a week of good sleep. No, something else had disturbed him, something like his earlier niggle. Easing away from Mary’s sleeping figure, he climbed out of bed.

The digital alarm clock read half past three. He slid one corner of his curtains open and looked out the window. Moonlight flooded into the room, gilding him with silver. He could see a portion of lawn, the dark edge of the bordering forest and a corner of Astra’s chicken coop. The night sky was draped with sullen gray. He guessed that ash made up a good portion of it.

Mary had curled into the space he had just vacated, one hand on his pillow, but she hadn’t awakened. Careful not to wake her, he ran his fingers through the soft, loose ends of her wild, sexy hair. He sensed the trouble in her spirit and knew she wasn’t completely at rest.

But that wasn’t what had awakened him either.

He left the room, silent as moonlight and shadow.

The cabin’s large common area was empty of both physical and spiritual creatures. He glided from doorway to doorway, pushing doors open to scan the contents inside each room. All was quiet, dark and peaceful. Just as it should be.

When he reached the door to Astra’s bedroom, he hesitated only a moment before easing it open.

Her bedroom was empty.

Usually when she roamed the psychic landscape for information, she let her body rest in bed.

Michael didn’t like it when things weren’t the way he expected. He didn’t care for surprises. In his harsh life, surprises had hardly ever turned out to be good.

What are you doing, Astra? he thought.

Moving to the center of the cabin, he stood for a moment with his hands on his hips. He glanced at the stairs to the loft but didn’t bother to climb them. He could already sense that the darkened room upstairs was empty.

Barefoot and shirtless, he strode outside. The spring night air bit into his skin. The cold heightened his sense of urgency. He scanned the clearing, then made a swift circuit around the outside of the cabin. Astra’s presence wasn’t in any of the outbuildings.

He frowned. The clearing was only a small part of the island. Astra literally knew every inch, every broken rock, every nook and cranny of land. Going in search for her physically would take time and energy that he wasn’t willing to spend.

Centering himself, he expanded his awareness. He touched Mary’s presence in the house, the sleeping fowl in the henhouse, chirruping nightlife in the tangled foliage beyond the clearing. His awareness swirled through the forest, over the wetlands at the southern end, a ghost riding on the wind.

His senses kept trying to tell him that everything was as it should be. Astra was in bed. He knew that was an illusion. She wasn’t in the house. He could find no sign of her energy’s signature anywhere else on the island.

But he did detect other human presences.

Many human presences, in every direction. They quietly poured off several boats moored around the island, and moved fast toward land.

Shock gripped him in iron jaws. While his body stood frozen, his mind raced to the inescapable conclusion.

Astra was not on the island. She had either been taken or she had left. And she couldn’t have been taken without him knowing it. So she had left voluntarily, without telling him or Mary.

She might have discovered something she needed to act on. She might have decided to make a grand, self-sacrificing gesture. If so, he would have said, Okay. You sure you don’t need help? Good luck then. Make it count.

And she had known that. The old bitch had known that.

She should have awakened him so that he could resume watch on the island. She didn’t do that. Staying silent had benefited her in some way. She was like him. She never did anything without a reason.

And she would do anything if she thought it would take the Deceiver down.

She was making a grand gesture, all right, but he and Mary were the sacrifice.

“You Judas,” he breathed.

He found that he had room to be amused, both at the ruthlessness of her decision and at himself. While he had known she was capable of something like this, he had still been fool enough to trust her a little too much. He must have, to feel this sense of betrayal.

He hoped that she would make damn good use of the sacrifice. He, for one, had no intention of going out like a lamb to the slaughter.

He lunged inside the cabin and to his armory.

At the same time, he said telepathically, Wake up, Mary. It’s bad.

He heard her cranky mutter from the bedroom as well as her voice in his head. Of course it is. It’s always bad. He knew the moment she realized he was not with her and came fully awake. Her telepathic voice speared him. Michael?

He didn’t bother to be quiet. He flipped the light on, threw open lockers and armed himself. He called, “I’m in here.”

She appeared in the doorway. She held one shoe in each hand, her face crisscrossed by the pillow, her eyes wide and stricken. She sucked in a breath when she saw him. Her expression settled into a doctor’s calm. Her voice turned brisk. “What can I do?”