“I locked that door for a reason,” she muttered.
“You’ve grieved enough.” Damien’s voice washed over her with another wave of warmth. “I can feel your exhaustion. Rest now.”
“You can’t keep doing this,” she protested, feeling the pull toward nothingness. She rolled over and glared up at him. “What about free will?”
“Mine is stronger than yours.”
Arrogant male, she thought, battling the pull. She was going to have to…to…sleep…
She awoke with a start, completely disoriented. It took her a moment to realize she was in her bedroom, and that it was late afternoon, judging from the dim light coming through the partially open blinds. The quilt from the foot of the bed was thrown over her.
It took another moment to remember that Michael Thornton had been murdered. A fresh wave of pain swept through her, and more tears threatened. She sat up, blinking them back. She was through crying. It was time to go after Mikey’s murderer.
She went into her bathroom, splashed some cool water on her face, but there was no help for her red, puffy eyes. She rinsed her mouth, ran a brush through her hair and changed into a pair of sweats. Then she went to find Damien.
He was the only light in the darkness.
* * * *
Damien sat in the large chair in the living room. The blinds were closed, but the dim room was bright in comparison to his dark mood. After he’d sent Kara to sleep, knowing it was the best thing, considering her fatigue and distraught state, he’d spent an hour in meditation. He hoped that would help firm up a psychic imprint from what he’d gathered at today’s BCS. But it wasn’t enough, damn it to Belial and back. He’d need more before attempting a conduction.
He’d listened to the police scanner as he fixed and ate two sandwiches, but hadn’t garnered any helpful information. He typed a report of the latest murder and e-mailed it to Adam, then sat down to center himself and think through every event of the past two weeks. There might be something, even the tiniest clue, he had overlooked. But nothing jumped out at him. He thought of Michael Thornton—just a child, about the same age as Alex—and a mixture of rage and pity roared through him. He had to stop this thing now.
A whisper of sound snagged his attention, and he looked up to see Kara standing just inside the room. Her hair fell loose and simple around her pale face. She’d changed into a slate blue sweat suit. With no makeup on, and her slender figure, she looked incredibly young. But he knew from firsthand experience she was all woman beneath that bulky fabric.
Her gaze locked with his. She looked sad and…alone. Just as alone as he felt. He should be used to loneliness by now. He’d been isolated, either self-imposed or by circumstances, for over thirty years. But sometimes the emptiness closed in on him, although he’d always had another hunt to keep him going. And sometimes…sometimes he wished for companionship, for a kindred spirit to ease the barrenness of his existence.
Motivated by emotions he didn’t dare examine too closely, he held out his hand to Kara. Wordlessly, she came to him, folding that lithe body into his lap, tucking herself against him. He wrapped an arm around her and rested his cheek against her head. She smelled like lavender—from her shampoo, he knew—and the classic Chanel perfume she favored. She felt soft and warm and…wonderful. A dangerous exercise in futility, he told himself.
Yet the door had been opened when he’d let her get too close, when he’d taken her—and allowed himself to be taken—in non-conduction intimacy. But he wasn’t quite ready to close that door. Not yet. It was hard to return to the loneliness.
He felt her shiver, realized the room was cold. With a flick of his hand, he ignited the gas logs. Another gesture and the afghan over the back of the couch floated to them.
He tucked the cover around her. “Are you feeling better?”
“I’m not as tired as I was.” She placed her palm on his chest. He wondered if she could feel his heart speed up. “We’re going to have to talk about your overbearing and macho attitude, Sentinel. You do not decide when I go to sleep.”
As long as there was danger, and innocents were involved, he would have the final say in everything. But he merely said, “Let’s get through this, then we’ll discuss your sleeping habits.”
She sniffed, but didn’t argue. “What now?” she asked. “Shouldn’t we do a conduction?”
“Not yet. I need that last bit of the psychic signature. We can’t do much until the activity at the Thorntons’ calms down and I can go back over there.”
“I was afraid that sheriff’s interruption messed up the reading.” She was silent a minute. “If Michael was mur—” She shuddered. “If it happened last night, why didn’t I dream it?”
Feeling the tension invading her body, Damien splayed his hand over her back, rubbed in slow, calming circles. “I don’t know. But you’re not going to dream about everything the Belian does. Or you might have dreamed about the boy, but your subconscious buried it. Even if you had dreamed on a conscious level, you couldn’t have stopped it.”
“I know.” She shifted to look up at him. “Have you been listening to the scanner?”
“Some, but there’s really nothing new, except they picked up Luz for questioning. It wouldn’t surprise me if they officially charge her for murder.”
“Oh, no.” Her hand clenched against his chest. “I shouldn’t be so shocked but… her nails were red when I saw her.”
“What?”
Kara sighed. “I didn’t tell you about this, but I went to see Luz Thursday morning, after Matt was murdered. She acted very odd, which might have been because of the grief. But her nails looked freshly painted—in bright red.”
He should read her the riot act for going to see a Belian suspect on her own, but she was so upset right now, he’d save the lecture for later. “Another clue,” he murmured.
“I don’t want it to be Luz. She’s been a good friend since I moved here. I hate to think of her being in jail.”
“If she is the Belian, everyone is safer with her behind bars. If she’s innocent, then she’s better off in jail, safe from the Belian and from those who believe she’s a murderer.”
“I guess you’re right.” She settled closer to him, and they sat quietly for several moments before her whisper broke the silence. “How do you stand it? How can you watch innocent people get murdered, day after day?”
He slid his hand up beneath her hair, kneaded the tension in her neck. “Knowing I’m going to stop the things responsible for those acts, knowing I’m fighting evil—and maybe even winning the war—makes it bearable.” Just barely.
She looked up at him. “Mikey was a child, hardly older than Alex. How am I going to tell him his best friend is dead?” Tears filled her eyes and she swiped at them. “Damn it. I’m not going to cry anymore.”
“Sometimes all you can do is to mourn for those departed. We’re not always the ones in control.”
“I hate that!”
“I’m not wild about it, either, even though I have faith in The One.”
She stared at him solemnly. “You do, don’t you? That’s something I admired about Richard—his total and absolute faith in a supreme being. I wish I could have such conviction.” She lifted her hand to his cheek. “But I have total faith in you. I know you won’t stop until this evil is destroyed.”
No one had ever looked at him with such complete trust. He felt a wrench inside, prayed he could keep her and Alex safe. She slid her hand behind his head, tugged him down. He needed no further invitation to lower his mouth to hers, to take what she offered so freely. Trust. Faith—in him. Compassion. Light, in an existence dominated by darkness.
Exploring her mouth, he savored the sensuality of kissing, something in which he rarely indulged. He slipped one hand beneath her sweatshirt, stroked the smooth skin of her back. No bra, which made it all too tempting to slide his hand around and cup one perfect breast. With a little moan, she shifted to her knees, straddling him and worki
ng his sweater up. She ended the kiss, moved her lips along his neck.
“Damien…” Her husky voice heated his blood. “Make love with me.”
He had every intention of doing just that, even if he shouldn’t be doing it, even if he was damning himself by giving in. He just couldn’t stop himself. He cradled her against him and stood, carrying her to the bedroom in a few rapid strides. Placing her on the bed, he swept off her sweatpants and panties. Then he ran his hands along her legs, parting them so he could look at her.
“Hey,” she protested. “I want you naked, too.”
“Soon.” He stroked her, watched her shudder. Slipping a finger inside her, he found her hot and wet. God, she turned him on. He settled beside her and pushed up her shirt, teased a nipple with his tongue.
“Damien!” She twisted toward him, tried to touch him.
He ruthlessly used his strength to keep her where he wanted her, to slow down the pace. Their first nonconduction sex had been wild and urgent. This time, he wanted to show her what he would never be able to tell her. That he respected her, admired her, found her worthy. That he cared. He told her with his lovemaking, using his hands and mouth to give her the first orgasm.
Then he stood, stripped, and returned to her arms. He started again, still controlling the pace as he built desire back to a fever pitch. When he finally entered her with a slow, drawn-out stoke, he entwined his fingers with hers, pressing their hands against the mattress. Exerting extra effort to keep the chakras closed to conduction energy, he stroked slow and deep.
Her gaze locked with his, her feelings reflected in her radiant eyes. He committed this moment to memory, for those future times he’d again embrace the darkness. Alone.
Then he took them both over the edge.
* * * *
The breeze stirred Damien’s hair. It was a clear day, and the bright sunshine warmed the air, making the temperature almost balmy. Last night, he and Kara had driven out here to the Thornton house, but there had still been too much activity for them to attempt a reading.
Today, however, the area was deserted. Except for the yellow crime-scene tape flapping in the breeze, the small, unpainted cinder block home looked nondescript. There were no vehicles in the driveway or on the street, so Damien figured no one was there. Not surprising. The remaining Thorntons were probably staying with family or friends.
He strode around to the back of the house, where he wouldn’t be visible from the road. There wasn’t much grass here, just barren, rocky Earth. A rusted swing set, minus the swings, and a large, torn trampoline took up much of the yard. Someone had started a garden, with an area of ground dug up. A shovel and a rake were leaned against the house.
Walking to the edge of the lot, he stared out across the Blanco River, which flowed in a narrow, sparkling ribbon about twenty yards away. It was a beautiful day, and yet he sensed the evil, felt the dark psychic energy drifting around the house.
Closing his eyes, he pressed his hand over the crystal beneath his shirt, shielded, and then opened himself to the energies, which were enhanced by the nearby water. Darkness raced toward him, reaching out insidious tendrils—
“What are you doing?”
The soft female voice jolted him from the beginnings of a trance. He reoriented himself, looked around at the slight figure standing behind him. Her hands jammed into a threadbare cardigan sweater over a knit crewneck top and worn jeans, Sara Thornton appeared fragile and vulnerable.
“Mrs. Thornton.” He walked toward her, sending out calming energy so she wouldn’t feel threatened. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
Her pale skin made her eyes seem even darker. Her face had that pinched look of someone who was suffering, and her dark brown hair was tangled. She took a distrustful step back. “Who are you?”
He stopped. “I’m Damien Morgan. And I’m very sorry for your losses.”
Her lips trembled, but she kept her composure. Her gaze was wary. “You’re that reporter.”
“I’m not really a reporter. I’m a writer for Society Magazine.”
She took another step back, staggered slightly. “What are you doing here?”
Her voice slurred a little, and he wondered if she had been drinking. “I write about crimes, and since there have been several unexplained deaths in Zorro, I’ve been investigating them.”
“I don’t want you here!” Her voice rose to a hysterical pitch. “This is a private matter. I’ve lost my husband and my s-son, and—” Her composure crumpled, and she turned away, sobbing.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Thornton.” Damien knew she wouldn’t appreciate his touch, so he sent her reassuring energy instead. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll get off your property now.”
He turned to leave, but something caught his eye. A scruffy live oak tree. It was on the southern boundary of the lot, which was probably why he hadn’t seen it yesterday. A big branch had been severed, leaving a jagged edge. Down the front of the tree, the bark had been sheared off, as though it had been struck by lightning. It was the same tree he had seen in the first conduction with Kara.
His internal alarms went on full alert. Reaching for the gun tucked in his waistband, he spun around. Just as he saw a flash of silver coming toward him. Then darkness.
* * * *
Kara’s patient load was light this morning, which was a good thing, since she was exhausted and distracted, and she had a grueling conduction to look forward to later. Maybe she could sneak a nap in her office at lunchtime. She was headed toward exam room two when Bonnie intercepted her.
“Dr. Kara, you have a phone call. It’s Sara Thornton, and she sounds upset.”
Dread snaked through Kara. What could she say to Sara, after a loss of such magnitude? No parent should have to bury a child. It was unimaginable. Yet, if Sara needed her, she’d do her best. Taking a deep breath, she picked up the phone and engaged the line. “Hello, Sara.”
“Dr. Kara. I’m so glad you’re there!”
“How are you doing? I’m so sorry about Michael. I-I don’t even know what to say.”
There was a moment of silence, then a little sob. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
Kara’s heart ached for her. “What can I do for you?”
Sara sniffed loudly. “I’m not calling about me. I’m calling about Julie. She’s sick.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She has a fever over a hundred and three, and she’s shaking and says her throat’s hurtin’ real bad. Will you take a look at her?”
“Of course. Bring her by, and I’ll see her right away.”
“I don’t have my truck. We stayed with Beth Gonzales last night, and she dropped us off at our house so we could…so—” A soft sob. “I’m sorry. Anyways, Beth’s off to work, and I didn’t realize how sick Julie was until I just took her temperature.”
“The poor baby. I’ll come by your house, then. Give me thirty minutes. I have one more patient to see before lunch.”
“Bless you, Dr. Kara. I knew you’d come.”
“See you soon.” Kara hung up, and hustled off to see little Joy Mason. She quickly diagnosed an ear infection and took care of that.
Then she told Bonnie where she was going, and that she planned to be back in time for the afternoon appointments. She packed some medical supplies, including antibiotic samples, in her briefcase, and got her purse and jacket.
As she drove, she wondered if Damien was still there, if he’d seen Sara and Julie, or if they’d seen him. He’d been planning on heading there around ten, after people got to work. She glanced at her watch—almost noon. He should be long gone.
But as she headed north on River Road, she saw Damien’s gray sedan parked on a dirt turnaround three houses south of the Thornton home. That was odd, unless he was staying with Sara and Julie until she got there. He had a deep well of compassion, and it would be like him to use his powers to make Julie feel better.
Her thoughts flashe
d to yesterday, to images of Damien lacing his fingers with hers as he moved inside her, of the emotion she’d seen in his eyes. He hadn’t tried to hide his feelings for her, even though he hadn’t expressed them verbally.
She hadn’t hidden her feelings, either, but she refused to burden him with words that would only cause him more pain. She knew he’d leave as soon as the Belian was identified and dealt with, just as she understood he was too emotionally damaged to commit to a relationship.
But man, oh man, she had it bad for the guy. And it was going to hurt big-time when he left. Bittersweet emotions swept through her as she pulled into Sara’s driveway. As she got out of the car, she noticed a white Ford F-150 truck parked further up on the road, just clear of the Thornton lot. Whose vehicle was that, if Sara’s truck was at Beth Gonzales’s house?
She shrugged it off. Lots of people owned those trucks. She got her briefcase from the backseat and walked up the cracked cement steps. The front door was slightly ajar, so she knocked lightly, pushed it open. “Sara? Julie? It’s Dr. Kara.”
Nothing but silence answered her. She walked farther inside. “Hello! Anybody here?” Still only silence, and a familiar oppressive feeling that she’d felt…at Doris’s house, the day she’d found her body. A chill swept through Kara. She put her free hand in her jacket pocket, fingered the pepper spray there.
“Sara? Julie? Where are you?” She looked around as she walked toward the kitchen at the back of the house, but there was no sound or movement, no indication of anyone around. Where was Damien? Maybe they were all in the back yard. It was a beautiful day, and it would be nice by the river.
Kara walked toward the back door. It felt even more oppressive in the kitchen. She wondered if it was residual energy from Michael’s murder. Thinking about that chilled her more. She found the back door unlocked and stepped outside.
At first she saw nothing, but when she looked to the right, she saw a form on the ground. What—? Shock roared through her when she realized it was Damien, lying on his side, blood on his face.
“Damien!” Dropping the briefcase, she leaped off the stoop and ran toward him.