But Max was already running through the doors.
Sophia rolled off the bed and began to stagger to the door. He hadn’t tied her up when he went to have his shower, and that was his mistake.
Her leg went out from under her after three halting steps, her knee hitting the floor hard enough to send pain shooting up her leg. Biting off her cry, she gripped the edge of the bed and pulled herself up again. It took too long. She could hear him whistling in the smoked-glass enclosure a bare few feet away, obscenely cheerful, a man without a care in the world.
The bedroom door swayed then stretched sideways, making her grip the end of the bed for balance. Forcing herself to let go of the anchor, she lurched forward, desperate to get through that twisting, stretched door. She could almost hear it laughing at her. “Stop. Stop.”
The laughter turned into chuckles. “And where do you think you’re going?” Damp around her waist, skin so close to her cheek. She flinched, trying to hide her bare hands under her armpits.
“Now walk back . . . there you go.”
She knew she had to do what he said, because his semi-nakedness was on purpose, a threat. “Why?” It came out raw, but it was also from the center of her brain, the part that hadn’t been compromised.
He didn’t answer until she was sitting with her back braced against the headboard, her legs stretched out in front of her. “You fascinate me,” he said, stroking his hand down her thigh.
Nauseated, she tried to pull away, but he pinned her in place.
“When we talked before,” he continued in a calm, clear voice, as if they were close acquaintances having an everyday conversation, “I used to wonder what you were like beneath that Psy surface. I wondered if you were like other women or if you were more.”
“Drugged,” she said, her mouth full of cotton wool. “Not myself.”
Anger rippled across his features. “No. That’s rather disappointing. I want to play with you. It doesn’t matter—we have time.” He leaned in. “Your skin is so clear, so lovely.” His hand moved a bare centimeter away from the vulnerable flesh of her face. “I don’t want to lose my playmate too quickly, but after so long, I just . . . can’t resist.” His fingertip brushed her flesh.
Gaping, screaming mouths.
Pleas. Whispers. Cries.
Earth, dark and dirty.
Blood spraying a wall. A thousand droplets of horror.
Sophia fought the spiraling whirlpool, knowing that this time someone would come for her, her cop would come for her. All she had to do was survive.
Max made himself come to a full stop a few feet from Bungalow Ten, his lungs burning after the sprint that had brought him here.
Instinct urged him to slam the door open and blast in, guns blazing, but he took two deep gulps of air, settled his breathing. “We have to be careful,” he said to the cold-eyed Psy who’d run beside him with a lethal grace that made it inhumanly clear he was a telekinetic. “If he’s near her with a weapon, he could decide to kill her if we startle him.”
Krychek looked at the building, no change in his expression. “The windows are curtained. How will you know what’s happening within?”
“Bonner’s ego was always his undoing,” Max said, walking silently to the door and twisting the old-fashioned door handle with care. As he’d hoped, the monster hadn’t locked it—the possibility of escape a taunt to his victim. Pushing it back a fraction, he chanced a look. Seeing nothing and no one in the living area, he opened it enough that he could slide in.
Not sure what Krychek’s interest was in this beyond a cool intellectual curiosity, he left the Councilor to make his own choices as he toed off his shoes and sodden socks and crossed the living area on quiet feet, heading toward the semi-open doorway he could see on the other end. Pressing himself to the wall, he glanced in through the crack on the hinged side of the door.
Sophie.
She sat propped up against the headboard, her hair tangled, her face grazed and bruised. But it was the way she sat that worried him. Her head kept flopping to the side, and she seemed to have to force it back up. Her hands lay by her thighs, bare and unprotected from the monster who sat in front of her, his own hand stroking the air bare inches from her face. Torturing her.
Shoulders rigid with the need to put the stunner in his hand to Bonner’s skull, Max was about to chance a shot when Krychek appeared beside him. The Councilor gave him a single nod, and this time, Max was ready for the teleport. He found himself standing in front of Bonner, his stunner pressed to the Butcher of Park Avenue’s temple.
Bonner froze. “Detective.”
“Drop that hand,” Max said in a flat tone that left no room for doubt, “or I’ll press the trigger.”
Bonner’s blue eyes went wide. “You sound as if you mean that.” He jerked his arm.
Twisting, Max shot him through the palm of his fucking hand before he could touch Sophia again, exposing the whiteness of bone. Sophia wrenched herself sideways on the bed at the same instant. The situation under control, Max was about to shove the Butcher to the floor and cuff him when a screaming Bonner was slammed across the room to come to a crumpled standstill in one corner.
Max, having thrown his body in a protective curve over Sophia’s, raised his head. “He was no longer a threat.” He got on the bed, cradling Sophia to his side.
“He’ll be a threat as long as he lives,” Kaleb said, turning to watch Max and Sophia with a detached kind of focus that made Max wonder if he’d exchanged one killer for another. “It makes logical sense to get rid of him.”
“He’s not dead?”
“Close enough as makes no difference.”
Max made a ruthless decision. “Strip his mind. We need to know where he buried his victims so their parents can take them home, so they can grieve.” He wondered if a Psy would understand.
But Kaleb Krychek asked no questions. “It’s done. I’ll note down the locations for you.” A pause. “He’s dead. Are you sorry?”
Max looked at Bonner’s crumpled body and felt nothing but a savage kind of satisfaction. “No.” Maybe a better man would’ve answered differently, but Max had never claimed to be a better man. Holding Sophia tight, he looked down, “Sophie?”
She didn’t answer, her eyes closed, her lashes dark-moon crescents against her cheeks. “I need to get her to a hospital.”
Krychek didn’t move a muscle but an instant later, Max found himself standing in the middle of what appeared to be a Psy medical facility, Krychek beside him. The medics went motionless for a second before moving into gear. Answering their snapped questions as to what had happened, Max gave over his custody of Sophia—but refused to move from her side.
He had no awareness of when Krychek disappeared.
Kaleb looked at the body of the human he’d just killed, his fingers playing with the small platinum charm—a single perfect star—that was always with him, no matter where he went. Glancing down at the star, he said, “For you.” For the one person who he knew better than anyone else on this earth, and yet could not teleport to, no matter how many times he tried.
And he’d tried every single day for over six years.
If others had been present in the room at that moment, they might’ve wondered at the sweep of black that eclipsed the stars in his eyes, a black so absolute, it was beyond ordinary, beyond acceptable. But there was only a dead man in the room, so there were no questions.
Placing the star in his pocket, Kaleb contacted the authorities and made sure this incident wouldn’t cause any problems. Given Gerard Bonner’s predilections, he didn’t have to push at all.
Then, when he was alone, he teleported to every location he’d ripped from Bonner’s mind to ensure he had the correct coordinates. Cold and desolate, each unmarked grave reminded him of the lightless rooms used by another killer, a sociopath who’d groomed Kaleb to be his audience . . . and his protégé.