Murder Game (GhostWalkers, #7)(49)

“Tansy?” Kadan prompted. “You’ve done enough tonight. All the detectives working on these cases, the FBI task force—no one has found a link to this man. This is a huge break.”

“We know he exists, but we have no idea of his identity or how he fits in yet. Let me go over everything. The snake enjoys inflicting pain. He’s been in Vietnam, but not during the war. I got the impression of tunnels in a cane field.” She shuddered. “He did terrible things to the farmers. A man and his son. He remembered the details very vividly.”

“Don’t,” Kadan said. The details were in her mind, just as vivid. Every cut, every sadistic torture the bastard snake had conceived of—Tansy had it in her mind now. Kadan was already trying to push the memories behind the door for her, trying to protect her from the stubborn streak that kept her pursuing evil killers when it cost her so much.

Tansy visibly made an effort to stay focused on him, to keep the voices from scraping her mind raw. “The camera is really important to him, but he worries it will be found. He’s a long way from it and has to go back to retrieve it.” Her brows drew together as she tried to bring the details into sharper images. “Have your team look up, a good distance away. He camouflaged the camera so it looks like an old piece of machinery and could easily be overlooked. He worked on it a long time, and he made the metal to wrap it in. If you find it, I should get some very good impressions of him, maybe even somewhat of a description.”

His fingers tightened. “That’s good, baby. Now let it go so we can combat the headache before it starts.” It was already swelling in her head, rolling through her like a wave. She’d used her talent too often and too close together and her mind was raw. Now she was just scraping over old wounds. Even he could hear the whispers of the victims, when the previous times he had only heard the killers.

She shook her head and he gritted his teeth, shoving down the urge to shake her hard and force her out of the half-hypnotic trance.

“The other one is the important one—the puppet master. I see him surrounded by paper. And a desk. He doesn’t want anyone to notice him. He prides himself on blending into the background. He’s very nondescript and strives to keep it that way, although he has a bit of a problem hiding his . . .” She touched her eyes. “He wears tinted contacts to keep people from seeing.”

That sheen in her eyes, blue to violet and then a shimmering silver or opaque. Sign of a tracker. He’d never seen it or heard of it before, but now he knew what he was looking for, now he knew what that peculiar shine really was.

“He’s very clever. He’s surrounded by killers, by . . .” She frowned again. “I feel Whitney’s taint on him. He knows Whitney. They’re connected somehow, but I can’t see it. Papers. That’s all I’m getting. There’s money. Lots of money, but . . .” She shook her head. “Whitney doesn’t know. His killers don’t know. He’s the boss, but none of them know.”

She blinked at Kadan, unable to comprehend the rush of images and impressions, shivering with cold, fighting hard to keep the voices at bay. “What does that mean?”

Kadan brushed back her hair and leaned into her, taking possession of her soft, trembling lips. “It doesn’t matter, honey, come back to me.” His voice was a velvet-soft lure, stroking and caressing along her skin, teasing at her nerves until she was wholly aware of him—just him.

She made a little sound in her throat, distress pouring into his mind, and she stepped into his arms. It was the first real move she’d made for comfort, and he tightened his hold around her, caging her in with a protective gesture. Lips skimming her hair and temples, he murmured soft, soothing words, uncaring what they were, only wanting to push out evil and fill her with warmth.

She buried her face against his chest. She didn’t make a sound; there was no outward sobbing, but in her mind, he could hear quiet weeping, and when he lifted her chin, there were tears tracking down her face. He bent his head and licked at them, following the tracks to the corner of her mouth.

Kadan lifted her. “You’re going to spend a lot of time in bed if you keep this up.”

She didn’t smile, just circled his neck with her arms and let him carry her without protest back to his bedroom. He undressed her, careful not to jar her, when he could feel the pain pounding in her head. He found the headache pills and gave her one with a glass of water, then stretched out again beside her, fully dressed, after snapping off the light.

“You don’t have to stay,” Tansy protested. “I’ll be all right. The dark helps.”

“I’m staying, baby. I have to chase away the nightmares if any are stupid enough to visit you tonight. Go to sleep.” He flipped her onto her side, her back to him, curving his body around hers, one hand sliding beneath her shirt, palm locked over her rib cage. His breath was warm and rhythmic on the nape of her neck. He couldn’t resist curling his fingers into a fist and allowing his knuckles to run along the underside of her breasts with gentle caresses.

Tansy found his touch soothed and relaxed her, easing all the tension out of her when it should have done just the opposite. Maybe because she’d spent her life without skin-to-skin contact, the tactile feeling of the pads of his fingers, the brush of knuckles, or the heat of his palm took the tightness from her muscles and melted her body.

She floated on a sea of pain, the waves crashing in her head, voices rising and sinking, the whispers loud and then soft, but instead of fighting it, curling up in the fetal position and enduring hours, or even days, of agony, she drifted also on a tide of warmth and security, feeling Kadan riding out the pain with her.