Falling Light (Game of Shadows #2)(8)

There might be a certain brute strength sewn into this meat, but there was no style or elegance at all to it. Oh, look, there was even more of that awful wiry ginger shit coating the backs of the fingers.

Dirt crusted the edge of the fingernails.

Surprise and revulsion held him frozen.

He had put that filthy thumbnail in his mouth. Actually his mouth was part of the new body attached to that filthy thumb. He ran the tongue over the teeth. They felt crusted and dirty.

The last of the floating high from the restaurant murders left him abruptly. He crashed and became completely aware of his connection to this disgusting flesh.

Growling, he threw the phone on the bed and stormed into the bathroom to confront his image in the mirror.

Muddy green eyes looked back at him out of a boxy face that had a lumpy nose shaped like a potato. It had clearly been broken at least once before. His host had a short buzz cut that did nothing to disguise the fact that his hairline was receding. He bared his teeth. They were prominent and yellow.

Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.

He punched the mirror. A starburst of cracks shot across the surface, destroying the reflection. Then he snatched up toothbrush and toothpaste and brushed the body’s teeth furiously until the gums bled. When he had finally finished, he tore off all the clothes and showered in water so hot it made the body’s skin redden.

He ignored the discomfort, just as he ignored the pain from his—NOT HIS—the body’s cut and bleeding knuckles. He didn’t have any drones with him. He didn’t have the time to search for a suitable candidate to use as a replacement. He also couldn’t afford to expend any energy on migrating to yet another new host. For the moment he would have to suck it up and suffer some time in this monkey suit.

“I owe you for this one, cookie,” he whispered to Mary.

He could add it to a very long list of grievances that was thousands of years old. To tell the truth, he just never got tired of being angry.

The old proverb had gotten it entirely wrong. Revenge was not a dish best served cold.

Revenge was a dish best served with all the passion and ingenuity one could muster.

Chapter Four

AS SOON AS Astra had appeared by the fountain, Mary realized she was dreaming. She knew that every word they spoke to each other was as real and true as if they physically stood in the same room together.

When they finished talking and Astra disappeared, she woke up.

Afternoon sun spilled into the car. Her nap had been much too short, and her body groaned with the accumulation of tiredness and the bruising. Her left shoulder felt especially stiff, the muscles aching, but the gunshot wound was really and truly healed. She poked at the area in wonder.

She caused that to happen. A smile broke across her face. She stripped off her bandage and put the flannel shirt on properly.

Then she turned to face Michael. The visual impact of him was a shock to the senses. He was a tough-looking, tall man, broad in the shoulders and chest with lean, toned muscle. His dark hair was too short to be tousled, but a new growth of beard dusted the hard planes and angles of his face and gave him a slightly disheveled appearance. He carried himself with a hard, bright soldier’s confidence, and his presence filled the interior of the car.

She wondered if the sense of shock came because they were still so new to each other, almost strangers, or if she would always feel it when she looked at him. She suspected she would always feel it. She had seen the tiger that lived in his skin.

He had slipped on a pair of sunglasses and drove with one hand on the wheel, while he leaned his head against the other hand, his elbow propped against his door.

He looked haggard and remote, locked into some private world she couldn’t reach. There was an ashen tinge underneath his tan. She didn’t like the look of it.

“Okay,” she said, her tone careful. “I’m better, and I’m ready to help.”

“Good. I’ll pull over as soon as I can.” He spoke tersely, his face hard and expressionless.

She frowned. She had a nickname for his capacity to shut off all emotions: Mister Enigmatic. For a short while, she had thought they had banished that part of him, but it looked like Mister Enigmatic was back and doing well. She reached out to him, intending to lay her hand on his arm.

“Don’t,” he said, his tone abrupt. “Don’t touch me right now.”

This was not the lover who had been in her bed last night, who had whispered to her so tenderly as he moved inside of her.

She recoiled and sat in hurt silence until he signaled ten minutes later and pulled into a rest stop. He pulled the Ford into a parking space some distance from the other cars, killed the engine and dropped his head back against the seat. His body went lax, and he heaved a shuddering sigh.

Mary studied him. The difference between his earlier tension and this utter wretchedness worried her even more. Ignoring his earlier rebuff, she put a light hand on his shoulder and reached out with her senses.

Pain and exhaustion buffeted her through the tactile contact. She sucked in a breath.

“Well, shit,” she said. He had stayed in a clench just to keep driving, while she was preoccupied with immature hurt feelings. She tugged at him, but he was so big and heavy, she couldn’t budge him. “Come here.”

He half-leaned, half-fell toward her. She removed his sunglasses, tucked his head onto her shoulder and held him tight. He put his face in her neck. “Get into the driver’s seat,” he muttered. “We need to keep driving north. Let me know when we reach Petoskey.”