Night Game (GhostWalkers #3)(63)
Author: Christine Feehan

“You can do anything for a short period of time. Control. Discipline. Patience.” How many times as a child had she recited the same familiar mantra when Whitney had made her so ill? How many times had she knelt on the cold bathroom floor near the toilet, rocking back and forth to ease the nausea brought on by the chemotherapy treatments?

She’d slept on the bathroom floor, a thick blanket under her with Dahlia and Tansy pressed tight against her on either side. She hadn’t thought of those days in years, hadn’t allowed herself to think about the other girls. It hurt to remember them. Their voices and laughter. The sound of their sobbing when the pain of working with their psychic talents became too much.

Tansy had brushed her hair for her when they were allowed to be together and when it all fell out, she’d cried with Flame. Who else had been there? Dahlia. She’d been fairly good friends with Dahlia, the other “bad” girl. And Lily. Flame sucked in her breath sharply. She remembered laying her head in Lily’s lap while she stroked Flame’s bald head, rocking gently and whispering that everything would be all right.

Back then, she’d believed Lily. And maybe that was why her betrayal went so deep. Flame worked for months on her first escape plan, hoarding the secret closely, confiding in no one. Until that one moment of weakness. She’d been up all night retching from the aftereffects of chemotherapy, helplessly weeping over the loss of her hair, and the other girls had sat with her, holding her hands, washing her face, and sharing her tears. Stupidly, foolishly Flame had confided in the other girls. Lily protested vigorously, claiming she feared Flame would die without treatment-but Flame didn’t care. She’d figured Whitney was going to kill her anyway.

Lily hadn’t allowed Flame that freedom. She’d gone to her father and told him of Flame’s plan. Whitney’s men were waiting for her when she escaped. She’d been punished, kept locked up for weeks without seeing the other girls. She’d been so sick and Whitney forced her to take the medicine, even giving her shots while strong men held her down. Lily had crept in once to admit what she’d done and whisper she was sorry, but Flame turned her face away and never spoke another word to her.

Pain shot through her head momentarily taking away the pain in her arm. It robbed her of breath and she bent over, dragging air into her lungs to keep from fainting. It was odd, but she always associated pain with her memories of the other girls. She tried never to think of them, not as children, not when they were with her.

Flash wiped her mind blank, pretending it was a chalkboard and she could just simply erase all thoughts. She wouldn’t think of her past. She wouldn’t think of Raoul and her bleak future, and she wouldn’t feel the broken bones in her arm or the raw flesh where the alligator had taken hold of her. She would concentrate only on walking.

The rain seemed endless, as if the storm had stalled right over the island. She was soaked and muddy, blood running down her arm, hair plastered to her face. She stumbled again and stopped, the jarring pain making her sick. She looked around carefully, frowning as she did so, all senses going on alert.

All she really wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep. The kick came out from behind a tree, slamming into her hard, driving her back and down so that she landed on her butt, cradling her arm protectively. She actually saw white stars as she fought to keep from fainting. When she could control the pain she forced her head up to look at her assailant. A man dressed in military- issue camouflage clothes stood over her pointing his rifle at her face.

She started to laugh, the sound slightly hysterical. “You know, this hurts like a son of a bitch. You’d be doing me a favor. Go ahead and shoot.”

“Get up.” He glanced right and left and then reached down, grasping her good arm and yanking her to her feet.

She went boneless, turning into a helpless rag doll. The barrel of his rifle dipped low as he used his strength to drag the dead weight of her body up. Blood dripped steadily down her useless arm and hit the reeds with small splatters. She concentrated on the pattern of the drops, focusing to keep from feeling the pain pumping through her, making her sick as he jarred her broken bones. The moment her feet were under her, she lashed out, kicking the rifle from his hands with enough force to send it spinning into the water.

He swore at her, circling a safe distance from her feet. “You’re losing a lot of blood. Eventually you’re going to go down and then I’ll just drag your ass through the swamp.”

“You can’t wait. They’re hunting you and this time there’s a pack after you. You don’t stand a chance and you know it.” She reached back between her shoulder blades and slid a knife out. The hilt was familiar and oddly comforting in her palm.

“I think I have more time than you do. You’re going to pass out.”

She drew in air, slow and even, watching him, turning in a slow circle to stay facing him, using the minimum amount of energy. “Men always underestimate women.” She watched the middle of his chest, able to see arms and legs, his entire body as he continued his slow stalking cir de. “You shouldn’t have come after me. You can walk away from this right now. Whitney will never know. If you don’t, I’ll have to kill you.”

He spat on the ground. “So you’re a tough chick.”

“Oh, you have no idea how tough.”

He moved with blurring speed, kicking out at her bro ken arm in an attempt to quickly end the standoff.

She stepped aside, just barely, just enough to allow the booted foot to miss her by a hair’s breadth. As she stepped she slashed his calf with the knife, slicing through his heavy clothes to cut deep.

“You bitch!”

“That was me being nice,” she contradicted.

He rushed her, fists clenched, the promise of death in his eyes.

She stood her ground, let him come, the knife held low and close to her body. She knew he expected her to try to bring it up when he was in close, but he was far too big and she was in bad shape. She didn’t dare let him get his hands on her. When he was two feet from her, she threw the blade straight and hard, using every bit of enhancement Whitney had given her. She stood unmoving when he clutched at the knife, blood bubbling around the shaft, a shocked look on his face. His legs crumpled and he went down hard, face in the muck.

“That was me being a bitch,” she said. She swayed, wanting to retrieve the knife, but knowing she didn’t have the strength to turn him over and pull it out of his chest.