Night Game (GhostWalkers, #3)(75)

Gator crouched down to touch the smears of blood on the leaves. “She left me. Damn her for this. She left me.”

The earth vibrated beneath their feet and shook the smaller puddles of water gathered in several depressions, drawing his attention. He sucked in his breath and fought back the need to express his anger and growing fear. Already the trees around him were shaking. He drew in a hard breath. “One of them is tracking her. When I catch up with her, I’m going to shake that woman until her teeth rattle.”

That’ll help,” Ian agreed. “Betcha that will get you a lot a points. Where’d you ever get the rep for being charming?”

Gator flashed him a single warning look. His stomach churned with alarm for Flame. She was on the move and she was losing too much blood. He had held on to his control every moment of the hunt, yet now he felt wounded, a terrible hole torn through his gut and he wasn’t so certain he could hold back the intense emotions crowding in, all conflicting with each other. “I’m not letting her go.” He made the announcement between his teeth.

Ian shrugged his broad shoulders. “No one expected you to, bro.”

“She expected me to.”

‘She doesn’t know what a stubborn son of a bitch you are.” Tucker pointed out.

“Let’s go get her,” Kadan said.



* * *





CHAPTER 13





Flame sat in the mud with her back against the tree, breathing through the pain shooting down her arm. “Rat bastard alligator. I don’t care if you were just looking for a meal. I should have made a purse out of you.” She glanced down at her muddy boots. “And shoes. Real alligator leather shoes too.”

Her arm hurt like a son of a bitch, but that wasn’t the reason tears burned behind her eyes and her throat felt clogged. She was leaving New Orleans and Raoul Fontenot. It wasn’t safe for her to stay. She wouldn’t be able to find poor Joy Chiasson or avenge Burrell’s murder. And there would be no making love to Raoul Fontenot. She closed her eyes briefly, regret pouring through her. She’d never wanted a man the way she wanted him. Just the simple sound of his Cajun drawl made her body hot. She even liked his swearing.

Flame groaned. She was a lost cause. Raoul was a dream, a life out of her reach and she wasn’t going to die for something she knew she couldn’t have. Whitney was too close. She could smell him. He had locked on to her presence and he was sending in the troops to retrieve her.

Raoul had never been her enemy and he would try to protect her. After spending time with him she felt she could only do the right thing for both of them. As long as she was around he would be torn between the people he loved and her. He believed in the GhostWalkers—and maybe he even had reason to—but she would never be comfortable with them.

Gator wanted and deserved a home and family, a woman to take home to his grandmother, one who would produce babies he could put in her arms. That woman could never be Flame. If she stayed he would need to defend her and no matter what his dreams of family, he would never leave her. That was the kind of man he was. Flame gritted her teeth and forced herself into a standing position, holding on to a tree trunk to steady herself. Waves of dizziness washed over her. She fought back the feeling and looked around her, trying to get her bearings and pick the safest way back to the frontage road. She couldn’t get in Raoul’s path. He was bound to use low frequency sound waves and they would affect her in the same way they would their enemies.

“You can do anything for a short period of time. Control. Discipline. Patience.” How many times as a child had she recited the same familiar mantra when Whitney had made her so ill? How many times had she knelt on the cold bathroom floor near the toilet, rocking back and forth to ease the nausea brought on by the chemotherapy treatments?

She’d slept on the bathroom floor, a thick blanket under her with Dahlia and Tansy pressed tight against her on either side. She hadn’t thought of those days in years, hadn’t allowed herself to think about the other girls. It hurt to remember them. Their voices and laughter. The sound of their sobbing when the pain of working with their psychic talents became too much.

Tansy had brushed her hair for her when they were allowed to be together and when it all fell out, she’d cried with Flame. Who else had been there? Dahlia. She’d been fairly good friends with Dahlia, the other “bad” girl. And Lily. Flame sucked in her breath sharply. She remembered laying her head in Lily’s lap while she stroked Flame’s bald head, rocking gently and whispering that everything would be all right.

Back then, she’d believed Lily. And maybe that was why her betrayal went so deep. Flame worked for months on her first escape plan, hoarding the secret closely, confiding in no one. Until that one moment of weakness. She’d been up all night retching from the aftereffects of chemotherapy, helplessly weeping over the loss of her hair, and the other girls had sat with her, holding her hands, washing her face, and sharing her tears. Stupidly, foolishly Flame had confided in the other girls. Lily protested vigorously, claiming she feared Flame would die without treatment—but Flame didn’t care. She’d figured Whitney was going to kill her anyway.

Lily hadn’t allowed Flame that freedom. She’d gone to her father and told him of Flame’s plan. Whitney’s men were waiting for her when she escaped. She’d been punished, kept locked up for weeks without seeing the other girls. She’d been so sick and Whitney forced her to take the medicine, even giving her shots while strong men held her down. Lily had crept in once to admit what she’d done and whisper she was sorry, but Flame turned her face away and never spoke another word to her.