Raine gritted her teeth and made a choked, growling sound deep in her throat. She was not a sniveling coward-She would not go out like this. She was a Lazar. She hadn't come so far and tried so hard to end up a pathetic victim. She struggled to her feet and seized the brass lamp from the top, so the weighted pedestal would serve as a club.
Monster man was going to have to fight for her blood.
The bathroom doorknob turned, rattled Her lips curled back hi a silent snarl. She raised the lamp high in her shaking hands and waited.
She had to make this split second count. She stifled a whimper as monster man rammed his shoulder into the door. Once, twice, with a grunt and a muffled obscenity. That was a relief. At least he was mortal, not some demon from the beyond. The monster of the Corazon.
Smash, crunch. He burst in, a huge, black-clad figure.
She swung the lamp down with all her strength. He spun around and parried the blow with his forearm, howling with fury. He slammed her against the wall, knocking the wind out of her. She struggled to draw air into her flattened lungs, clawing at the mask that hid his face.
“Fucking bitch,” he hissed. His bloodshot dark eyes glared through the eyeholes at her. He stunned her with a sharp backhand blow across the face. With the first gasp she managed to draw, his smell hit her. Old sweat, liquor... and fear.
The smell of liquor made her think of her father. Uncle, her brain corrected, inanely. What a ridiculous thought at such a time. She gasped for breath. “Why?” she croaked,
“Shut up.” He seized her by the neck of her sweater and spun her around, twisting her wrists up with a painful wrench. He smacked her, face first, against the wall. She felt a bursting, the warmth of blood running from her nose. Then pain. Everything went black.
Seth chambered the round as he bolted for the front door. Locked, of course. Panic was making him stupid. He cursed the lost seconds as he fumbled with the keys Raine had given him. He threw open the door and tore through the foyer, the SIG ready in his hand. He stopped dead at the foot of the stairs, staring up. Time slowed, to a frozen tableau.
A big man in a ski mask was poised at the top of the stairs, gun in hand, holding Raine in front of him. Her eyes were closed, blood was running from her nose, but she was alive. On her feet, and blocking his line of fire.
Ski Mask stared down. Seth stared up. Each waited for the other to turn over a new card.
The world exploded into movement. Ski Mask shoved Raine ahead of him down the stairs. She bounced against the wall, tried to get her balance, toppled and fell. Seth leaped to catch her with a shout. Her weight and momentum carried them down, and they crashed against the newel post, bringing it and a chunk of banister down with them. Raine landed on top of him, bounced and rolled.
Ski Mask leaped right past them, burst through the swinging doors into the kitchen and ran out the garage.
The hunting frenzy inside him screamed for him to give chase, but when he rolled up onto his knees, he saw Raine lying very still on the carpet, the blood on her face hideously bright against her pallor.
He forgot about Ski Mask, about Lazar, Novak, Jesse, everything. Panic wiped his mind clean.
He felt for her pulse, and almost wept in relief when he found one. Strong and steady. He moved his trembling hands gently over her body, feeling for injuries. He understood, with all the raw energy of fear, how precious and unique she was. That what he valued about her had nothing to do with beauty, or with sex, or power. And everything to do with that bright place in his mind that she inhabited; that encompassed the tiny baby she once had been, the beautiful old lady she would someday be. If he had anything to say about it.
Seth's heart swelled and ached as he ran his hands over her, repeating her name, his voice rough with entreaty while an incoherent litany repeated in his mind: please wake up, please be all right, please don't leave me alone now that I know the truth, please....
Her eyelids fluttered. They opened, dazed. She focused on him with difficulty. Tried to smile.
He sagged over her like a puppet with cut strings and pressed his face against her chest. Her arms moved. She draped them over his shoulders. Cold fingers patted his hair. He tried not to burst into tears.
He got the number wrong the first six times he dialed it. He needed a drink, to chill him just enough so he could make his big fingers hit the right goddamn buttons on the goddamn microscopic phone. His arm was swelling. The spiteful bitch had given him a wicked crack with that lamp. She was more like Alix than he'd thought.
God, what a fuck-up. He could have shot the girl's lover. Or controlled him by using her as a hostage. There were a million things he could've done, if he'd had the brains and the guts for them.
He finally got the number right, and the ring sent a fresh wave of dread through him. His stomach cramped and burned.
The phone line clicked open. “Yes?”
“All—there's been a problem,” he stammered. “But if you'd just give me a little time to fix it—”
“What happened?” The very gentleness of Novak's voice made chills crawl across Riggs's sweating back.
“Her, uh, boyfriend got in the way, and I—”
“I am very disappointed, Edward. I chose you for this job for artistic reasons, not practical ones. To have her father's murderer be the one who brings her to me—the theatricality of it appealed to me. Now I regret having been so fanciful. I regret it very much.”
“No, no, please. I swear, I have the situation under control.”
“I thought that even a pathetic failure such as yourself would be able to handle such a simple task.”
Riggs squeezed his eyes shut. “The guy just appeared in her house, out of nowhere. There was no way to get her out of there without killing him, and I thought—”
“Ask me how much I care if you are forced to kill someone, Edward. Go on. Ask me.” “Please, let me try again” he pleaded. “I've still got her on the monitor. They're not moving yet. I've got her cold. I swear to God.”
“And her lover? Are you equal to the task?”
Riggs tried to swallow, but his throat just bumped, dusty and dry and thick. He thought of the death that had looked up at him in those glittering black eyes, waiting for him to make a wrong move. The gun, held easily in his hand, the loose-limbed crouch of a trained fighter.
And him, his gut burning like a bed of barbecue coals, his liver shot, no luck left in him at all. Oh, God, Erin. He let his breath out heavily. “The guy's a professional,” he admitted. “Either I kill him, or he'll kill me. It's a fifty-fifty call.”
And that was a hopeful estimate, he thought.
Novak was silent. A minute ticked by, then another.
“Follow them if they move,” he ordered. “I will now give you the number of a certain person. You will call him to communicate your location. You will rendezvous with him. You will lead him to the girl, and you will keep out of his way and let him do his job. Understood?”
“Yes,” he muttered. “And—and—”
“What? Speak up, man.”
“Erin,” he said desperately.
“Oh. The hammer need not fall just yet. Georg is being a perfect gentleman. A maiden's fondest dream. Here is the number. Are you paying attention?”
“Yeah.” Riggs wrote down the number that Novak dictated.
“And Edward?”
“What?” He held his breath, clutching the wheel. “What?”
Novak chuckled softly. “Try to relax.”
Riggs's arm went slack, the phone dropping out of his stiff fingers. He touched his arm. It throbbed. It hurt like a bastard, but pain didn't matter. Only Erin mattered. If he could salvage her from the wreck of his life, that would be enough. That would be all he asked. As the hours went by, he asked less and less of life. Run, run, run, ruined old rat. He closed his eyes, and thought of Erin's sweet smile.