"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.
He stood across the room from her, his back to her, strapping on a belt and shoving knives and guns into every conceivable loop. He pushed extra clips into a zippered pocket and reached for more.
She opened her mouth to call to him, but nothing came out, her throat was too raw and damaged. She reached with her mind, connecting, wanting him, needing him, only he wasn't there. In his place was something else, something not quite human. Ice-cold. A machine bent on destruction. Where there had been cool logic and distance, there was now utter chaos. He was no thinking person. Tansy doubted if he even knew what he was doing. He simply reacted. His warrior persona was his most familiar, and he took it like the chameleon he was, wearing the outer skin when his mind was fragmented.
He thought I was dead. He had probably watched her die. Her heart clenched. She couldn't imagine watching Kadan die. Tansy pressed a hand to her heart. He'd probably tried to revive her. She was fairly certain her chest was bruised.
Kadan. She sent his name to him wrapped in love as she sat up a little unsteadily.
He didn't turn around, the ice block in his mind an effective barrier.
She reached again, filling his mind with her, with the scent and taste of her--of cinnamon. Of love. She poured warmth into his mind. His entire body could be ice and she'd find a way to warm him. She tried to stand, needing to go to him, her body swaying weakly.
A small corner of his mind thawed just enough to let out raw pain. It burst from him in a rush of agony, so intense, so strong, it drove her to her knees. Kadan whirled around, gun in his fist, his eyes piercing cold, remote, distant, sorrow etched deep into the lines of his face.
Kadan. She whispered his name again, calling him back to her. She pushed her way deeper into his mind, filling him full of erotic images, of heat and love and her wrapped in the same skin with him. The scent of cinnamon grew stronger. Look at me. Really look at me.
His glacier-cold eyes flicked over her face, still remote, still distant, as if he didn't know who she was, as if he didn't see her. His hand tightened around the barrel of the gun.
She pulled herself up, hanging on to the bed. His mouth stiffened. His mind rejected what he was seeing. She forced her taste into his mouth, her scent into his nostrils, deeper, into his lungs. Breathe me in, Kadan. Let me in.
Fear flickered in his eyes and he took a step back. He shook his head slightly. He wasn't going to let himself feel that raw pain, no matter how real the hallucination was.
Tansy smiled at him. Gentle. Warm. She stepped closer, pushing aside the gun to move in close to him, to circle his neck with her arms and press her body, soft and pliant and so familiar, against his. He
stiffened, both hands locking on her hips to push her away. She could feel the outline of the gun pressed tightly into her skin. There was only a thin shirt between them, and her warmth slid into the palm of his hands.
Does this feel like a hallucination? She stood on her toes and lifted her face, finding his mouth to brush her lips back and forth persistently over his. Does this?
He didn't move. Didn't blink. His eyes, like a cat's, remained wide open and staring, focused on her face, but he wasn't seeing her. The denial in his mind was loud. He wouldn't go there. He wouldn't feel.
With one hand wrapped around the nape of his neck to keep him close to her, she unbuttoned her shirt with the other. His arm was heavy, but he didn't resist her when she cupped his palm around the warm, soft, inviting mound of her breast and pressed her hand over his to hold him there. Is this a hallucination, Kadan? Come back to me.
He blinked. She felt his mind move against hers. Tentative. Raw anguish. Fear mounting to terror. A tendril of hope. He inhaled, drawing the scent of cinnamon deep into his lungs, as if he could trust his sense of smell, but not his mind. The cold receded just a little more.
His hand moved against her breast, an involuntary reflex. His thumb brushed over her nipple, sending a shiver of awareness down her spine. She went up on her toes again and kissed his mouth. "Kadan." His name came out. A croak. Her throat protested, but she got his name out, aching for him, for that man crouched behind a wall of ice. A man shielded by the cold.
And then he crushed her. His arms whipped up and around her, nearly breaking her ribs with their strength. The gun landed on the chair, and the momentum of his body took her backward until she hit the wall. He enveloped her, his body so tight against hers she could barely breathe, his mouth in the hollow of her shoulder, his face wet against her skin. His body shuddered, wracked by silent sobs. He held her for a long time, just held her, without speaking, his mind in a turmoil, wild and unrestrained.
When he moved, his hand whipped up to span her throat, this time gently, but his thumb tipped her head back and he took her mouth, and there was nothing gentle there. He was rough, possessive, taking over, wanting to crawl inside her.