Possession in Death (In Death #31.5)(25)

“I can’t get out,” the woman said and held out her hands. “We can’t get out. Can you help me?”

“You have to wait.”

“Eve?”

“It’s Vanessa Warwich.” Eve fought off shudders as her skin shivered from the sudden cold. “You have to wait a little longer.”

“I couldn’t dance anymore.” She lifted her sparkling white skirt. “He cried when he killed me.” She touched her fingers to the gaping slice across her throat. “But I couldn’t dance anymore.”

“Just wait.” And gritting her teeth, Eve walked through the pleading woman. She reached out to try to balance herself when her head spun.

Roarke grabbed her, braced her. “Bloody hell. Stay here.”

“I have to finish it. You know I have to finish it. I have to make it stop.” She glanced back and into Vanessa Warwich’s eyes but saw the others behind her. All the pretty girls in their sparkling skirts and toe shoes.

All those white throats gaping.

“She’s waiting. Warwich waiting—trapped. And God, she’s not alone. We have to move.”

“Hold on to me if you have to.”

He took the lead, brooked no argument. She steadied herself as she followed, cleared her throat as she listened to team updates.

Her op, she reminded herself. She was in command here. She had to be.

Natalya and Alexi were secured, Peabody had reached the first of her voids. An empty room. The search of Sasha’s apartment was under way, but neither he nor the murder weapon had been found.

Roarke held up a hand, stopped her. “Sensors,” he murmured. “They’ll read us.”

“Then we’re getting close.”

“They’ll likely signal in his apartment but could very well alert him if he’s down here. Give me a minute to jam them.”

“You’re handy.”

“We do what we can.” He took out what looked like an innocent PPC, keyed in various codes. “It’s rudimentary,” he told her. “Just a precaution to let him know if anyone’s down this way.”

“Or if his current ballerina managed to get out. Are we clear?”

“We are.”

“Peabody, we hit sensors. Watch for them. We’re moving.”

Another turn, another twenty feet, and they spotted the door. “Secured door,” she said into her mic. “Accessing now.”

She rolled her shoulders as Roarke got to work. She was ready, she thought. She was herself.

When he nodded, they went through the door together, swept it.

She supposed it would be called a sitting room—windowless, but with a softly faded carpet, a sofa, a lamp. And a small monitoring station.

He could sit here and watch her before he went in, she thought, studying the blank monitor, then the second secured door, the one painted bright bloodred.

“The red door,” she murmured. “Locked behind the red door.”

Without a word Roarke went to the door, checked the security. She had to breathe deeply, slowly, fighting the voice inside her begging her to hurry, hurry, hurry.

“Got his lair,” she said to Peabody. “Key in on me. Secondary door and inner security being bypassed. Feeney, I’ve got a monitoring station here. Send McNab in. We’re clear,” she said at Roarke’s nod. “We’re going in.”

She looked at him, trusted him to keep her centered. She held up three fingers, closed to a fist, then held up one, two. On three they were through the door.

Chapter Ten

He’d set his prison with a stage with filmy white curtains on either side and lights to enhance the mood of the music that soared. Roses, their petals glowing silver in the light, scented the air. Eve spotted all this, and another door, in an instant, but her focus centered on the stage and the dancers.

Beata, her face pale with exhaustion, her eyes empty of hope, wore a white, filmy skirt, topped by a bodice glittering with gold like the ring that crowned her.

The same costume as all the others. All the pretty dancers.

Beata rose, fluid as water, en pointe and into an arabesque before turning into the arms of the devil.

He gripped her waist, lifted her high, while his eyes shone through the holes in his mask. His cape flowed from his shoulders as he dipped her head toward the floor.

Eve’s weapon seemed to burn in her hand. She longed to fire it, craved it as her heart raged in her chest. And the words, the thoughts that roared through her head were in Romany.

Roarke touched a hand to the small of her back, just a bare brush of fingers. “Your move, Lieutenant,” he murmured beneath the swell of music.

Her move, she thought, and took it when the dancers leaped apart.

“Nice jump,” she called out, training her weapon on Sasha. “Now freeze, or I’ll drop you off your twinkle toes.”

She heard Beata’s cry, swore she felt it rip through her soul, but kept her eyes on Sasha.

“You’re interrupting the performance.” He spoke with some heat—as a man would when bumped violently on the street by a stranger.

“Show’s canceled.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He dismissed her with a wave of the hand, then reached it out for his partner. Roarke had already moved in and put himself between them.