Murder Game (GhostWalkers, #7)(43)

The jolt was hard. The room shifted beneath her feet as the energy rushed at her with greedy claws. She hadn’t expected the frog to be so strong. She’d already formed an opinion that he was one of the lesser members of the team, but his psychic energy was intense. She felt the familiar slick oil pouring into her mind, a sludge that indicated perverse sickness. He sought power. Always power. He wanted attention. Wanted his strength known when no one saw him. He was always passed over by everyone. His commanding officers thought themselves superior, but they were nothing to him—nothing.

Each week he took people down into his world. They had no idea he held their lives in the palm of his hand. He enjoyed that feeling, deciding—live or die by his hand. Who would he choose to let live? He wanted them to know, but only the ones who died knew, at last, looking into his eyes while he held them under. See me. Drowning, drowning. See me.

Tansy! Kadan’s voice was sharp, filled with menace, with command.

She dared not disobey him. His fingers forced her hand open. She hadn’t realized she was sobbing, or that the whispers had grown loud in her mind. Tears poured down her face. The screams were loud now, victims screaming as water poured into their lungs and he stood toe to toe, holding them down, forcing them to stare at his mocking, exultant face.

Revere me. I’m a god. I condemn you to death. See me. Damn you, look at me. You will stay with me and always see me.

Kadan shook her. “Look at me. Look at me now.”

Her dazed eyes, shimmering with opaque violet, jumped to his. Kadan dragged her away from the table to the center of the room. He could feel the thick oil clouding her mind, hear the screams and whispers threatening to take over. He refused to allow her to look away from him. Deliberately he filled her mind with emotion, with warmth and tenderness, his hands gentle.

“Are you with me, baby?”

She moistened her dry lips, blinking rapidly. He could feel her mind clinging to his. “I’m all right. He was stronger than I expected.” She shivered again, trying to drown out the sound of his voice. Thankfully, Kadan’s firm, velvet-soft voice, although low, pushed over the top of the other. Kadan had established his dominance, and his power and control over her was absolute. His voice took over in her mind. We’re together, baby, one mind, one skin. They can’t touch you.

His voice was a caress, sliding over her, into her, so that she grasped at the feel of him as if he were a life preserver.

“I’m all right. I’m good.” It wasn’t altogether true; she retained the sludge, but it was easier to break with the voices.

“Tell me what you saw.”

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Bodies in the water. At least six, maybe more; I couldn’t make myself look. He drags them down and drowns them. He likes to watch their eyes.” She frowned. “He doesn’t need scuba gear; he can hold his breath a really long time, or maybe he doesn’t even need to do that. He breathes underwater—is that possible? Can one of the GhostWalkers actually breathe underwater? He’s killed many times. But his murder in the game wasn’t satisfactory to him. Something went wrong. He wants another turn.”

She was breathing hard—too hard. Already he could feel the headache beating at her, piercing her skull like an ice pick. He tasted blood in his mouth and knew she was bleeding. His belly churned in response to her pain. He detested her doing this—and they had at least six more game pieces to go through.

Kadan stepped closer to pull her into his arms, but she shook her head, waving him away from her so she could finish. She looked fragile, swaying, her skin pale and beaded with tiny drops of sweat, although there were goose bumps on her arms and she kept shivering.

“He’s small and slight, barely able to make the requirements for the military. Everyone underestimates him and that makes him angry. He wants women to notice him, but he can’t really perform well because deep down he’s insecure. He relates better when he’s feeling murderous. His friends tease him a lot. He’s the butt of some very ugly jokes, but after he gets over his mad, he convinces himself it’s their way of showing him affection.”

“And this particular murder?” Kadan began to rub her shoulders. He didn’t want to share her mind while it was pounding with pain, and he had to ignore her suffering in order for her to get the rest out. He wanted to stop her, hold her, wipe her mind clean. He felt like a bastard, twisting the knife deeper, looking for more to help him uncover the killers.

She shook her head adamantly. “He was so angry, angry enough that for a moment he thought about killing . . .” She frowned, pressing her fingertips to her eyes. “Who? Someone else, someone supposed to be impartial, fair. How can he be successful at this kind of murder?”

She closed her eyes, took a breath, and let herself drown in the sludge. It wasn’t as thick or as bloody, but the impression of “Frog” was strong. He didn’t like killing this way. The guys were bastards, helping him plan but laughing behind his back. He knew they were laughing. Hell. He didn’t want to do a couple of nerdy high school kids. At least give him jocks. He might want to cut off a few body parts while they watched him. Damn bullies shoving him around just because they could. Now he was going to have to off a couple of skinny nerds who’d been bullied all their lives. Paper-pushing bastard probably rigged the game—did one of his endless psych evals and saw this would make him sick.