Murder Game (GhostWalkers #7)(106)
Author: Christine Feehan

“Don’t you die on us, Tansy!” Jeff yelled. “You’re not going to die on us.” He slammed his fist hard on her heart, turning her on her side, trying to drain her lungs. “It’s not real. You can’t let him kill you this way.”

Nico jerked Dunbar close to him, face-to-face, staring into his malicious eyes. Without warning, Nico slammed his forehead hard against Dunbar’s face, shattering his nose, driving the man backward and down. Before he could fall, Nico caught him by the throat, his fingers—with their superhuman strength—choking the air from the man. He dragged him across the macabre lake, wading through blood and victims as if they weren’t there, to throw Dunbar on the ground beside Tansy.

“Don’t let this son of bitch move,” he ordered and crouched down beside Tansy.

Dahlia, his wife, had always been the one to focus energy, and then Nico had done the healing with Kadan, but this was a dream, not reality. Whether or not he could heal on his own outside the dreamscape world didn’t matter—he was certain he could here. Tansy had woven the dream, and the puppet master had used it against her, but Nico could twist the dream for his own purposes, just as Jeff could.

He rubbed his hands together, gathering energy from the violence so thick in the surrounding air. When he’d acquired a pool large enough, he focused the energy between his palms, aiming it directly at Tansy’s heart and lungs. White light burst from his skin, shining around each individual finger. The light hit Tansy’s body, rippling over her like a wave. Her limp body shuddered.

“He’s fighting us,” Nico said, his voice flat and calm, wanting to scare the puppet master. “Kill him.”

Dunbar’s eyes widened in horror as Jeff’s fingers tightened around his throat. “You can’t,” he gasped, his voice hoarse. “I’m holding the dream.”

Jeff looked into the man’s eyes, shock blossoming. “He’s lying, Nico. This is Tansy’s dream. She pulled him into her dream.”

“Are you sure?” Nico asked.

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure.”

Jeff released Dunbar and then swung his hand hard, the edge slamming into the puppet master’s throat, crushing the larynx and smashing the trachea. “See you in hell, you bastard,” he muttered.

Dunbar fell back, gasping for air, strangling, his face turning a mottled purple.

“This is her worst nightmare,” Jeff explained. “It was powerful enough to supersede anything the rest of us were doing. She’s a dreamwalker as well, which is why she’s so good at what she does.”

The moment Jeff broke Dunbar’s hold on Tansy, the light soaked into her body. She shuddered, coughing. Gasping. Fighting to draw in air.

“Wake up, Tansy,” Jeff ordered.

Ryland slipped into the neighborhood like the ghost he was, easing his way through the streets until he found the house he was looking for. The backyard was protected from the rest of the houses on the street, and he went up and over the fence and through the landscaping to the small toolshed. It took only minutes to open the lock and go inside.

The shed was amazing. Each wall was lined with shelves holding every kind of nut and bolt and screw possible. Tools hung neatly, each clearly labeled. There wasn’t a speck of dirt anywhere. On the table were Dunbar’s carving tools, the various blades razor-sharp and laid out neatly like surgical instruments. Beside the tools was a small piece of ivory, the shape of a frog emerging.

Ryland searched through the drawers and found a laminating machine and thick card stock. There was an index box of cards already laminated, and each card had precise instructions detailing a murder: the name or names of victims, address, how the victims had to be killed, and the time frame allotted. There were points awarded for each detail, and at the bottom of the card, there was the total number of points each murder could accumulate. Ryland had found the actual game, along with a website he was building for an online game.

Dunbar, being as neat and as precise as he was, had filed the game cards already used along with the total points for each team in the index box. The points were totaled in a fussy little hand and attached to the team’s cards. In another drawer were drawings and notes on a proposed video game, titled Murder Game. There was no doubt that Dunbar had his cover already in place should any suspicion fall on him. The man was so precise, Ryland wouldn’t have been shocked to find a neatly signed contract for each contracted murder filed away, along with a ledger and books for his banking.

On the floor beside the table was a wastepaper bin, and he could see a torn box with “James R. Dunbar” written clearly on it, the label Tansy had spotted. Ryland let out his breath. He was in the right place. There was no mistake. He made his way through the backyard until he came to the house. Shrubbery and flowers were well manicured. The lawn was mowed and the patio in the back was extraordinarily clean. Each window was screened and the screen was free of dirt and debris.

Ryland pried one loose and set it aside to be replaced later. The window wasn’t locked, nor did Dunbar have an alarm, a testament to how safe he felt—how superior. There was no need for such things. The man probably believed it would only make him appear more innocent should any of the murders ever be traced back to him. With the proposed video game in various stages, he might actually get away with claiming the serial killers had seen his idea and had decided to implement it for their own purposes.

Ryland slipped through the window and eased his weight onto the floor. Dunbar was reputed to live alone, with no pets. He was a man who would never want dog or cat hair on furniture or clothes. Each room was immaculate, everything in its place. Ryland made his way to the bedroom.

James Dunbar lay on his bed in full uniform. He stared unseeing up at the ceiling, his body jerking and shuddering, in the throes of his dream. Ryland crept up beside him, knife out, waiting. Minutes ticked by. Dunbar’s eyes suddenly bulged and wheezing gasps escaped. One hand waved in the air and then went to his throat as he choked and fought for air. Ryland stepped up, a dark shadow, looming over the figure on the bed. The eyes found him, there in the dark, and recognized death when they saw it. Ryland cut his throat.

“Puppet master down,” he whispered softly, and walked away.

Tansy woke gasping for air, her throat raw and swollen, her lungs burning. Her heart pounded in her ears, and for a moment she was completely disoriented. Her chest hurt, felt bruised and battered, as if someone had been pounding on her. She touched her throat as she turned her head searching for Kadan.