Dirk And Steele: The Wild Road Part 13

Never, she imagined him saying in her mind, with such clarity she wondered if it was more than her imagination.

Lannes released her hand and stepped away, but the distance meant nothing. He still held her gaze, and the power of that, the intimacy of his intensity, felt the same as a touch. The woman wished, more than anything, that she had memories to draw from-experience-but she felt like a blank slate when it came to human contact. And Lannes, no matter what he looked like, was so much more than that. She did not know how to react.

And does he? What makes you think his experience is any greater than yours?

You can't let anyone get close.

Never.

She battled a perverse desire to touch him again, just because...just because she needed to feel his warmth and she was cold, so cold she might have been standing chest-deep in a glacier, but she felt his tension roll over her- tension and even, she imagined, fear-and she stayed rooted in one spot. Sick and swaying.

Lannes looked little better. He bowed his head and backed away, leaving her alone in the doorway of the bedroom.

She watched him disappear at the end of the hall, and sucked in a deep breath. Her spine felt like it was made of ice cubes, and she clutched the blanket tighter, forcing herself to go deeper into the bedroom. It was a large and simple s.p.a.ce. Closet doors were already open, which was some relief. She felt like a little kid terrorized by shadows.

It was an eerie thing, rifling through a dead lady's closet, but the woman had little choice in the matter. She needed clothes.

Wherever Etta was from, she had not lived in this house-if at all-in a long time. As with the kitchen, a fine layer of dust covered everything, and the few clothes in the closet, while in good condition, smelled musty. Some belonged to men. Some dresses were clearly from the fifties and had more in common with flowered curtains than high fashion.

The woman pulled down some clothes and clutched them in her arms. She crossed the hall and found bedrooms that had belonged to children. One of them was decorated in pink bunnies; the other had wallpaper covered in an old-fashioned montage of cowboys and Indians. In that bedroom, the woman discovered a shoe box, contents already poured on the hard narrow bed-as though Etta had been in here going through some things. At least, she hoped it was Etta; the idea of someone else being here made the woman uneasy.

Still clutching the blanket and clothes with one hand, she pushed aside the shoe box and sat down on the bed. There were black-and-white photographs in front of her, a feather, a piece of folded pink stationery and several yellowed postcards, one of which showed a man with red clothes and skin, horns on his head and a tail that ended in a dagger point. A sword was buckled to his side, and his hand was raised in an oddly delicate gesture. pluto water, read the postcard. French lick springs HOTEL.

The image was both disturbing and compelling. Pluto. Hades. G.o.d of the underworld. She looked on the back of the card and saw a short message written in neat, childish script.

Dear Etta, I am sorry you are sick. Mama says you will be coming soon to the Springs, and I cannot wait. Simon is here. So are the others. It is hot.

Yours, Marcel The photographs were creased and old. One of them showed a group of children standing in front of a graveyard. It was a faintly ominous picture, filled with two little girls who could not have been older than ten, and four boys who seemed to range in age from three to eighteen. The girls were sitting in the gra.s.s, round faces framed in curls and ribbons. They looked happy.

Only two of the boys were smiling-they could have been ten or twelve and were lounging against the fence bordering the graveyard. Dressed in slacks and suit jackets, hair slicked back. They looked like trouble, the kind that might throw rocks at dogs or yank the skirts of girls.

The other two boys were different. The older was tall and strong looking, with an honest face and a clear gaze. The woman liked him immediately. She also liked the little boy he held, who seemed shy of the camera and had his face partially hidden by his hand and a shadow. There was something familiar about the curve of his cheek. It nagged at her.

The back of the photo had an inscription: From Will. Late '30s. Indiana. Summer.

The woman stared at the photograph a moment longer then tucked it away in the shoe box along with all the other little knickknacks. She gathered up the box and took it with her to the bathroom, placing it on top of the clean clothes she had found in the closet.

The woman locked the door and kept her back to the mirror. She took a shower. There was only a dried up sliver of soap in the stall, and some old shampoo that looked like it had not been used in ten years.

It was hard to scrub off the blood. She had to use her fingernails and left welts in her skin. But the hot water felt so good she never wanted to turn it off, and she bowed her head, pummeled by the near-scalding stream, inhaling steam, knuckling her burning eyes. Her feet stung and her shoulder ached. She had almost managed to forget both. She supposed that meant she was healing. Or maybe she had been running on nothing but adrenaline.

Beyond the shower curtain, she heard knocking at the bathroom door. It made her jump, but she heard Lannes' m.u.f.fled rumbling voice and forced herself to breathe.

"Yes?" she said shakily.

"You've been in there awhile," came his gruff reply. "I wanted to make sure you're all right."

"Fine," she said, and shut off the water. Cold air seemed to blast her, and she fumbled for a towel, which smelled musty and old. Her hair was a snarled mess, dripping down her back. When she stepped from the stall, she caught her reflection in the mirror.

Pale face, hollow eyes. Bruises all over, especially her shoulder. She still did not recognize herself. She could have been in a chicken suit, and she would have felt the same numb disconnect.

It was not a bad body. But it was just a body.

She heard nothing on the other side of the door, but she sensed him there, like a tickle on the edge of her mind. More than instinct. She began to dress and said, "Did you call your brother?"

"He's sending help. He...asked after you."

The woman nodded to herself, but said nothing. She dressed in loose black slacks and a black sweater, as well as a soft pair of black leather shoes she had found in the closet. She found them a little snug, but it didn't matter. Wearing shoes was almost enough to make her feel like a new woman. Even her feet did not hurt as much. Her shoulder was slightly stiff, but not nearly as mangled and sore as it should have been, considering the blow she'd taken. Maybe it wasn't just adrenaline.

Lannes, she thought. He had something to do with it, this healing.

Taking care of her. Saving her life. All of which was enough to cut through any mystery, no matter how bizarre. She could not think of him without a twist in her heart.

Her hair was a snarled mess, but she opened the door and found Lannes leaning against the wall, across the hall from the bathroom. His eyes were the only part of him she looked at. The only part that mattered.

The only true piece of you I can see.

She searched his gaze for the same look he had given her earlier, when she had opened her eyes and found him watching her. As though she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She had felt beautiful in that moment. Haunted, as well. And the way he had kissed her hand...

Her heart lurched. She stopped herself from thinking of it. Wrong time, wrong place.

His jeans looked different. "Real or illusion?" she asked, pointing.

Lannes seemed embarra.s.sed by her question. "Real. I had some clothes in the back of the car."

"Ah," she said, smiling briefly. "I'm glad you're wearing pants."

He grunted. "How do you feel?"

"I'm still standing."

"Your shoulder?"

"You did something to help it heal," she suggested. No matter how impossible that seemed-even now, with everything she had seen.

"Maybe," he replied. "But you didn't answer my question."

"Still hurts a little," she admitted.

Lannes pushed away from the wall and filled up the bathroom doorway. "I can look at it again."

The woman's heart beat a little faster, and she slowly, carefully, tugged aside the soft collar of the sweater. Lannes edged into the bathroom, huge and solid, and very gently grazed his knuckles against her shoulder.

She shivered, but not from cold-and quickly averted her eyes, afraid of what he might see in her face. She folded her arms over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, too. She had no bra, and her reaction to him was obvious in other ways. Embarra.s.sing. Totally inexplicable. Utterly improper, given the circ.u.mstances.

But she was hungry for his touch. Aching for it. And when his knuckles finally rested heavily on her sore shoulder, every part of her stilled in utter focus on that one small connection. His nearness made it difficult to breathe-but then it stopped being about him, and instead she noted an odd tingling heat that spread through her skin. The pain eased. Her feet stopped throbbing, though the lessening discomfort was preceded by a p.r.o.nounced burning sensation in her soles.

She finally braved a look at Lannes' face, and found his eyes slightly unfocused; he was lost in concentration.

Healing me, she told herself, filled with wonder; followed by: What are you?

And then: What am I?

Lannes' hand shifted, sliding slightly down her arm, against her sweater. His eyes focused on her face with an intensity that made her blush, though she felt more grim than shy.

"You're not scared," he said quietly. "Not of me."

"I should be. You're a walking lie. But I suppose I'm not much better."

"I lie by choice," he replied. "You have none."

She smiled bitterly. "I might have forgotten a lot of things, but not, I hope, my common sense. You have...limbs...attached to your body that I don't think you could show this world, any more than I can remember my name. Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're not," he said, and she felt his tension roll over her, hard and hot. "Which is why you're such a puzzle. In more ways than one."

"Ah," she replied. "You expect screaming."

"Pitchforks, at the very least."

"Boiling oil? Flame-tipped arrows?"

"Aimed for my heart." A faint, grim smile touched his mouth. "Try to match some of my expectations, why don't you?"

"Sorry," she said. "What you see is what you get."

Lannes hesitated. "Yes. I suppose it is."

The woman could not help herself. She touched him again, pressing her palm flat against his chest, watching her skin shimmer and disappear into his body, as though his shirt was made of nothing but shadows. She felt no wounds, though his skin seemed slightly sticky. She had not cleaned off all the blood, after all.

Her hand slid down slightly, and encountered the hard leather ridge of the belt. He covered her hand.

"We should go."

"I know," she said, staring at their hands. "But I'm tired of running."

Lannes' other hand, very carefully, slid against her neck into her tangled hair. His palm seemed to engulf the entire left side of her head. She fought the urge to lean into his touch, but the effort was overwhelming, and she finally gave in, swaying forward, digging her fingers into the invisible belt strapped again around his ma.s.sive body. Lannes did not move as she pressed her forehead against him, though she felt the rise and fall of his chest, and his scent, though unidentifiable, was musky and warm. He felt so good. Like a wall against the world.

She fought the urge to press even closer, trying to ignore the parts of her body that wanted to touch him in ways that were totally inappropriate. Jesus, but she was in trouble.

And it wasn't just her, she realized. Lannes' breathing seemed to be just a little faster, and she felt something-an energy from him that seemed to run deep as her mind, and that sank bolts of liquid heat through her limbs. His hand tightened in her hair and she sagged against him, just a little more, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s finally rubbing against his torso. She had to bite her bottom lip to keep silent, and was instantly ashamed of herself. There was a dead woman in the other room, four dead men in her past. She had no memories, and there were things in her mind that could not be explained.

Lannes could not be explained. And here she was, every part of her humming, wanting nothing more than to reach beneath that illusion and...f.u.c.k the h.e.l.l out of him?

He sucked in a deep ragged breath and began to pull away, but not before she closed the distance between them one last time and felt against her hip the long hard line of his c.o.c.k pushing against his jeans. She was all instinct in that moment, part of her primitive as some animal lost in heat, and she rubbed against him, briefly, savoring the shock of pure l.u.s.t that slammed heavy and wet between her legs.

"Lannes," she breathed.

"You don't know what you're asking," he muttered hoa.r.s.ely. "You have no idea."

The woman swallowed hard, trying to control herself. "I know. I'm sorry. I won't... I won't touch you again."

A short bitter gasp of laughter escaped him. "Trying to kill me, aren't you?"

She almost forgot. For a moment, she was so lost inside him, being near him, those words nearly pa.s.sed over her. But then they hit her like a brick, and all the cold and pain returned with such force that it was all she could do not to sit down on the floor.

"No," Lannes said, dismayed, but she tore herself away from him, grabbed the shoe box of Etta's possessions and staggered from the bathroom.

He caught up with her in one step, his fingers grazing her arm. She wrenched away, running past Etta's corpse in the living room-trying not to vomit when she saw it- and headed for the front door.

Lannes stepped in front of her, blocking the way out. Big as a mountain, all muscle and sinew beneath that illusion of his shirt. Her hands remembered what it felt like to touch him. His power was no fantasy. Not a play of smoke and mirrors. He was as strong as he looked. Probably stronger.

But it was his eyes she could not look away from. Those d.a.m.n beautiful eyes. Filled now with a peculiar grief and desperation that made her heart ache.

"That's not what I meant," he said quietly, "and you know it."

"Yes," she told him, clutching the shoe box to her chest. "But there was truth to it. I might hurt you. I already have."

"If that's easier for you to believe." Lannes took a step toward her, and it was hard not to back away. "You're not what I wanted in my life. Not what I needed. Not in a million years. But there you were, and here we are, and I don't care about a little pain. So I won't leave you. I won't let you walk away. And I won't-" He stopped abruptly, looking down at his hands, which curled into ma.s.sive fists.

I won't stop wanting to touch you, she imagined him saying, hearing it so clearly she might have thought he had spoken out loud if her gaze had not been solely on his mouth. Instead his words rang through her head, and she was hard pressed not to respond. With what, she had no idea.

Lannes finally met her gaze again, and his expression was haunted. No words, though. He stepped aside and opened the front door. The woman hesitated, glancing over her shoulder into the living room. She could not see Etta's body, but knowing it was there made the pain just as acute.

"I know," Lannes said quietly, as if in response to her hesitation. "I hate the idea of leaving her, too. My brother is sending someone to take care of her body, but it still doesn't seem right."

Nothing seemed right, least of all Etta's death. "We could wait."

He hesitated. "Feels like a trap to sit still."

"Do you think she was telling the truth?"

"I don't know. Did you feel anything? When that...thing...was inside you?"

"Just anger. I was shut off from everything else."

"In a bubble," he said quietly, gaze distant. "Walls around you."

A chill raced through her. "How did you know?"

"Lucky guess," he said, but she did not believe him. She would have said so, but her stomach growled. Lannes' mouth softened with faint amus.e.m.e.nt.

"We need to eat," he said.

"Seems wrong to admit I'm hungry. I shouldn't have an appet.i.te."

"You have a good survival instinct. Nothing wrong with that."

They left the front light off and went outside, in the dark, to the Impala. There was a small pile of garbage bags by the back wheel. Lannes popped the trunk, threw them inside, and then pulled out a flannel blanket.