Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(74)

“Each other.” He laid her back, covered her with his body. “We saved each other.”

She needed him, the tangible act of loving. Mouth on mouth, hands on flesh, heart beating to heart.

Not the cold, the dark, not the ugly pulse of red light and blood black against white. But warmth and beauty and passion, and all the brilliance he’d brought to her life simply by loving her.

Whatever she’d been, whatever she’d become, she was more because he loved her.

So strong, he thought, and so vulnerable. The two aspects of her in constant conflict. But that pull and tug made her what she was. And what she was, here and now, was his. Only his.

So he soothed her with long, gentle strokes. And aroused her with depthless kisses. And took the gift of her for himself, saturated himself in the feel of those long limbs, those tough muscles under soft skin.

The pulse in her throat, in her wrists, the beat, beat, beat of her heart, all that life twined with his.

She needed this, just this, more than sleep, more than food, more even than breath at that moment. Needed his body joined with hers. A testament to what she was, what he was. What they were.

Away from death, away from brutality, away from the cold.

She opened for him, took him in, gave herself utterly to that joining. Rising and falling together, pleasure building on pleasure until nothing else existed.

And reaching, reaching for that moment, that exquisite moment when they emptied all they were into the other.

Filled with him, she wept.

“What’s this, what’s this?” Undone, he gathered her close again, tried to kiss away the tears.

“I don’t know.” Trembling, she held tight.

So he shifted, cradled her, rocked her, and still felt helpless.

“It’s stupid. Who am I crying for?”

“You’re worn out, that’s all. Just worn out, worn down.”

It was more, she knew it, but couldn’t pinpoint it. The tears, so hot, so strong, came from something, fell for something.

“I’m okay. Sorry. I’m okay.”

“I’m going to get you a soother.”

“No, no, I have to be up in a couple hours, right? What time is it?”

Even as she asked, her communicator signaled.

She bolted up, cheeks still wet, scrambled for the device still in the pocket of the pants she’d worn the day before.

“Lights on ten percent,” Roarke ordered.

“Block video.” Eve sucked in a breath. “Dallas.”

“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Report to Madison Square Garden, Thirty-First and Seventh. Multiple victims.”

“Acknowledged. Contact Peabody, Detective Delia, Lowenbaum, Lieutenant, ah, Mitchell. I’m on my way.”

Roarke tossed her clothes, grabbed his own.

“It has to be the lawyer,” Eve said as she dressed. “Unless she’s gone off script, it’s the lawyer we couldn’t find. It’s after two in the goddamn morning. How did she find him?”

“Concert at Madison Square,” Roarke told her. “Newly rebuilt. I expect it let out near to two. Christ Jesus, the place would have been packed. Eve, Mavis was one of the headliners.”

Her hand jerked as she hooked on her weapon harness, then she forced herself to move, to just keep moving. Mavis wouldn’t have exited with the crowd. It wouldn’t be Mavis among the fallen.

I’ll kill everyone you care about.

“We had tickets.”

She pulled herself back as she dragged on boots. “What? Tickets, to this thing?”

“I gave them to Summerset.”

He moved so fast, so efficiently, tossing Eve her coat, grabbing his own. But his eyes, she saw now that his eyes were stricken.

“You drive,” she said as they both bolted out of the room. “I’ll try to contact both of them.”

Everyone you care about, she thought again, snapping Mavis’s name into her ’link while they rushed down the stairs.

Yo! Can’t chat ’cause I’m doing something mag! But I’ll catch you later. Fill me in on what’s the what. Cha!

“Mavis, tag me back. It’s urgent. If you’re still at Madison Square, stay inside. Stay inside.”

Even as she jumped into the car, she tried Summerset.

I’m unavailable at the moment. please leave your name, a contact number, and a brief message. I’ll return your call as soon as possible.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. They’re all right. They’re both fine.” She wanted to try Leonardo, but realized if he’d stayed home with the baby, she’d just terrify him.

No point, no point, she told herself as Roarke bulleted through the gates.

Instead she set the dash ’link on a loop, tagging them each in turn while she punched in Baxter, and hit the sirens.

He didn’t block video, looked wild-eyed and exhausted at the same time, showed a shadow of beard and hair in messy sleep tuffs.

“Baxter.”

“She hit Madison Square—big concert. I’m on my way. I need you to contact the squad. I want Jenkinson and Reineke on scene. The rest report to Central unless I tell you different.”

“Done.”

She cut him off, tagged Feeney.

“I’m on my way,” he said the minute he came on. “McNab filled me in. ETA, maybe fifteen. Do you know how many?”