Murder Game (GhostWalkers #7)(37)
Author: Christine Feehan

She was breathing hard—too hard. Already he could feel the headache beating at her, piercing her skull like an ice pick. He tasted blood in his mouth and knew she was bleeding. His belly churned in response to her pain. He detested her doing this—and they had at least six more game pieces to go through.

Kadan stepped closer to pull her into his arms, but she shook her head, waving him away from her so she could finish. She looked fragile, swaying, her skin pale and beaded with tiny drops of sweat, although there were goose bumps on her arms and she kept shivering.

“He’s small and slight, barely able to make the requirements for the military. Everyone underestimates him and that makes him angry. He wants women to notice him, but he can’t really perform well because deep down he’s insecure. He relates better when he’s feeling murderous. His friends tease him a lot. He’s the butt of some very ugly jokes, but after he gets over his mad, he convinces himself it’s their way of showing him affection.”

“And this particular murder?” Kadan began to rub her shoulders. He didn’t want to share her mind while it was pounding with pain, and he had to ignore her suffering in order for her to get the rest out. He wanted to stop her, hold her, wipe her mind clean. He felt like a bastard, twisting the knife deeper, looking for more to help him uncover the killers.

She shook her head adamantly. “He was so angry, angry enough that for a moment he thought about killing . . .” She frowned, pressing her fingertips to her eyes. “Who? Someone else, someone supposed to be impartial, fair. How can he be successful at this kind of murder?”

She closed her eyes, took a breath, and let herself drown in the sludge. It wasn’t as thick or as bloody, but the impression of “Frog” was strong. He didn’t like killing this way. The guys were bastards, helping him plan but laughing behind his back. He knew they were laughing. Hell. He didn’t want to do a couple of nerdy high school kids. At least give him jocks. He might want to cut off a few body parts while they watched him. Damn bullies shoving him around just because they could. Now he was going to have to off a couple of skinny nerds who’d been bullied all their lives. Paper-pushing bastard probably rigged the game—did one of his endless psych evals and saw this would make him sick.

Young voices rose into wails. Pleading. Begging.

I’m sorry, man, it’s just a game, you know. I gotta do it for my team, but when this is over, I’ll find that dickhead paper pusher and watch him die for you. He chose you, not me.

The pleading rose to a crescendo. She could see their eyes. So young. So scared. They’d never even been with a girl and they were going to die. Frog kept talking to them, assuaging his guilt at the expense of his two victims. He wanted them to understand that he had no choice. It was all part of the brotherhood. He needed forgiveness.

Girlish screams of fear. Tears tracking down baby faces. They couldn’t be more than fifteen. Two young boys just beginning life. Mom. Dad. I love you. I’m sorry.

What did they have to be sorry about? Only that a killer had trapped them and was about to end their lives. Nothing else. They hadn’t lived long enough or screwed up bad enough. Two boys who were intelligent and loved gadgets.

Her entire body shuddered, muscles locking. They were just babies, and Frog was going to kill them and then cut them into tiny pieces. At least he was merciful enough to kill them with a single shot to the head, to make certain they didn’t suffer. And then he began to slice them into pieces. Thirty each.

Stay cool, baby. I’m here with you. Feel me. Look into my eyes. You’re only far away in your head, but if you reach for me, they can’t take you. I’m your anchor.

Why thirty? What’s the significance of thirty? The number had to mean something. It meant something to Frog. A signal, a message, but to whom?

Kadan slid his hands from her shoulders to her wrists, holding tight, needing the contact more than she did. Her mind was amazing to him, cataloguing data, working fast, discarding theories. He’d never seen anything like it. But it took its toll.

Keep the barrier in place.

It wasn’t second nature to her, holding that wall to keep a separation. As a rule she merged herself totally with the killer and victims. Maybe the details were a little blurry, but as far as Kadan was concerned, she was picking up enough through the gloves to destroy her mind.

“What’s significant, Tansy?” she murmured to herself. “Thirty pieces of silver is all I can think of. What would that have to do with . . .” She trailed off, her eyes going wide. Blood trickled from her nose.

Pull away, break off completely.

She swallowed. Blinked. Her opaque eyes looked into his. Blood leaked from her mouth and one ear.

Kadan’s fingers tightened on her wrists and he dragged her into the shelter of his body, thrusting his mind into hers, dominant. Controlling. You f**king listen to me, Tansy. Break off. He was prepared to use anything to get her back. Sex. A beating. Hell, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but separating her from those whispers calling to her, beckoning, raping her mind, filling her full of oily sludge and too much blood, so that she was drowning in it.

His hand went to the nape of her neck, thumbs under her jaw, forcing her head up. He took her mouth brutally. Desperately. His mind vibrated with sexual thoughts, with erotic visions, with need and hunger and such a craving for the taste and texture of her he shook with it.

Her mouth moved against his, and he felt that first burst of real awareness, her mind recognizing him as the sludge receded, leaving her raw and shaking but intact. He held her close, burying his face in the hollow of her shoulder, shaken beyond anything he could remember since he was that eight-year-old boy standing alone, frightened and covered in blood.

Damn it, baby. Just damn it. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his arms locking her head to his chest as if he never wanted to let go of her.

“I’m all right. I’m with you.” Her voice was small and muffled. Thin. As if she was stretched beyond endurance.

“I’m not going to survive this,” he said. “I’m not. We have to do better than this or you’re done.” He tipped her face up to his, his gaze drifting over it, brooding, edged with icy resolve. “You’re done, Tansy.”

“Thirty pieces of silver. Betrayal. This is huge. It was worth it.”

“Fuck that. It wasn’t worth it. It will never be worth it. Look at you. These are disgusting savages and they’re raping your mind. They eat you alive. You think I can’t feel what they’re doing inside your head?” He wiped at the blood on her face. “Like pieces of glass digging at the inside of your mind, scraping you raw. Leaving scars. And in each of those scars, images, voices—sick, perverted killers who won’t ever leave you alone. You’re done.”