Rising Darkness (Game of Shadows #1)(50)

“Good God,” she uttered. She stared at the lines of his hard-edged profile. “You can’t be serious.”

Michael said, “It’s another one of his favorite tricks, to either assume the identity of a head of state or, failing that, to control one. He’s not yet in a position to make his play, but it won’t take him much longer to get there. The good news is that he has to try to take control in person. The bad news is, we no longer have someone in the White House with the ability to sense his presence and with the authority to act on it.”

Maybe a month on the beach had happened in other lifetimes, but it didn’t sound like it would be happening here soon, or even in this lifetime. She let her head fall back on her headrest.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary. You’re bleeding again.

And it’s been over nine centuries.

A wound of the spirit as deep as yours can only come from your mate.

The black diamond man was such a liar. Of course he was. He was a mean-spirited malcontent who used words to manipulate and wound. She couldn’t let him worm his way into her head.

But there was Michael who had just hours ago rubbed at his temple with the barrel of his gun. Michael had looked like a man standing at the edge of a precipice, like a man bereft of a single reason not to plunge over that edge and shatter himself on the jagged rocks below.

She held herself tense, closed off from the occasional searching glances that he gave her, until he slowed the car and turned onto an exit ramp. Then she looked around.

Dawn had begun to turn the eastern part of the sky rose-colored while the western horizon darkened to a royal purple. Close by, a cluster of gas stations, fast-food restaurants and diners huddled together. The buildings looked dingy and tired of their codependency. Michael pulled into one of the gas stations and parked in the lane closest to the road.

“I’ll get gas since we’re stopping.” He spoke in his terse voice. “Don’t take long.”

“I’ll take as long as I have to.” Her reply was just as terse. She could feel him looking at her but she refused to turn her head. She got out and walked inside, feeling as tired and shabby as the buildings looked.

The station attendant was a pimply young man wearing earbuds. Mary could hear the rap music from across the counter. She struggled to find a friendly smile and asked in a loud voice, “Where are your restrooms?”

The smile was a wasted effort. He didn’t glance up from his magazine. “Outside. You need a key.”

She waited a moment, but he didn’t move. Her friendly expression vaporized. She slapped her hand on his magazine and snapped, “May I have the key, please?”

The attendant gave her a nasty glance. She sneered back at him, feeling as if she had regressed to a snotty teenager. He shoved the key across the counter. She snatched it up and stomped outside.

Michael stood by the car pumping gas. He had shrugged on his jacket, no doubt to hide his gun, and he stood hipshot, hands resting at his waist. He looked haggard as well, the lines of his hard face jagged.

She felt a ghost of compassion stir at the sight. This life had not been kind to him. In the glow of the station’s lights his eyes were the color of pewter. He watched her with his Mister Enigmatic expression.

She forced herself to walk at a decent speed around the corner of the building. Once she was out of Michael’s line of sight, she rotated her shoulders and stared at the open field that bordered the gas station. The ever-present forest lay just beyond. She felt the urge to run until she couldn’t run any longer, just for the illusion of freedom for a few brief minutes.

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” she muttered. “The freaky son of a bitch got that much right.”

She jabbed the key into the lock and opened the door. The restroom looked as bad as she had expected, with a broken mirror, and a rust-stained sink and toilet. Her gaze bounced around, taking in the filthy floor and the lack of paper towels. At least the dispenser had toilet paper.

Her hotel on the beach would have gorgeous bathrooms with designer soaps and lotions, fresh-cut flowers delivered daily and Jacuzzi bathtubs. Populations of small island countries could live in those bathrooms. Hell, forget about the beach. Give her a bathroom like that, and she would take her entire vacation in it.

She shut and locked the door, and used the facility. Then she washed in cold water. There was no hand soap. Of course. When she finished, she studied the door. At least that was adequate for what she wanted, constructed as it was of sturdy metal. Better yet, it had the kind of lock that bolted from inside.

She gritted her teeth and lowered herself onto the floor in a corner as far away from the sink and toilet as she could get. Leaning against the wall, she closed her eyes and took deep breaths as she concentrated on relaxing and remembering how easy it had felt in her dreams to slip away from her body, like sliding a knife through whipped cream.

She could do this again. She remembered how.

She breathed in deep, slow breaths, and after a few moments, she slid away from her body. As the first pounding began on the door, she stared at her transparent hands, then at the crack down her torso that continued to bleed light.

Michael’s deep voice reached her through the door. “Mary? Mary!”

She smiled and walked through the door.

She hadn’t counted on Michael’s thirty-plus years of experience, or his psychic sensitivity. His head snapped around as she passed him, his hard-angled expression incredulous. They stared at each other. He said, “Jesus. What the hell are you doing?”