She was in Hell. People surrounded her, but they were warped and distorted in her eyes, more like demons, or reflections off a funhouse mirror. Red lights flashed everywhere, disorienting, causing her to stumble repeatedly. Hands brushed at her, clutched at her, tried vainly to hold her back, but she broke through them, past their whispering voices, the cries and pleads that tried to keep her away.
She broke through. Past the flimsy barriers, over soft rustling grass, brick steps, a door, a hallway.
She stopped.
Someone, some sick bastard, had thrown red paint all over the walls of her living room. Her mother was going to be so pissed. If this was Damien's idea of a joke, she was going to rip him in half when she found him.
Then the smells hit her, a wretched coppery smell, the sweeter stench of death.
That wasn't red paint. It was blood.
There were people laying on the floor. Two of them. White tape outlined their bodies. Occasionally, a lightning-bright flash of light exploded somewhere behind her, illuminating the faces of the dead in ghastly contrast.
Oh god, mama!
Emory sank to her knees, and the carpet squished beneath her weight. Her sight went fuzzy, her body felt as though she was moving through maple syrup.
She had never felt fear before, never since she could remember. But the feeling that blossomed in her chest was much worse. It crushed everything inside her, crushed the breath from her lungs, the blood from her veins, crushed all her thoughts into a faint buzzing sound. She could catch whispers from the demon in her mind, the one that laughed and danced with glee. It murmured to her, full of pride and maybe a hint of jealousy.
An instant later, Emory took a deep breath.
And she screamed.
When she opened her eyes, she was back at the motel, and Michael was glaring at her with an intensely bemused expression in his eyes. His hand was clamped tightly over her mouth. Emory reached up and pulled his hand away; it moved without resistance, but there was a flicker of distrust in his eyes.
"I haven't had that nightmare in years," she whispered. Curiosity flickered in her companion. Emory only shook her head.
He moved away, to the sliding glass doors, and stood in a pool of warm sunlight. The alarm clock beside the bed read 2:47 in the afternoon. She looked back over at him; he had closed his eyes. Emory smiled.
He was basking. Dark golden hair fell to his shoulders in golden waves. He reminded her of a male lion, proud and quiet, sitting patiently on a plateau in the African savannah. King of everything. So confident.
"I'm going to take a shower," she told him, ignoring the sly look he shot at her from over his shoulder. "Then I need to go do some research."
His eyes questioned her. Where?
"Livingston County Courthouse," she replied. "They'll have Bonnie's adoption records."
One eyebrow lifted slightly in skepticism.
Emory smiled thinly. "I'm more than capable of handling a courthouse clerk," she stated. There was no arrogance in her voice, she was stating simple fact. This would not be the first time she'd exercised her almost inhuman determination on an interest that was... not quite legal.
When she went into the bathroom, he didn't follow her, as she'd half expected. Instead, he returned his gaze to the bright world of sunlight that had been taken away from him so long ago. Emory smiled to herself. He deserved what little peace he could find.
She made quick work of her shower; no need to linger and remind herself of the one she'd had the night before. It would only frustrate her. She still longed for his touch, a desire that was so strong it was almost painful. How could she let herself get so attached to him?
A family of violent rats had nested in her hair while she slept, so it took her a painfully long amount of time to tame all those black curls into some semblance of neatness. And by the time she'd done that, her stomach was beginning to yell at her, for it had not been fed since lunch, yesterday.
She slipped back into the dress pants and black blouse she'd been wearing last night at the hospital and opened the bathroom door. Michael was still standing exactly where he had been earlier, still soaking up the afternoon light. She watched him for a moment. His body was silhouetted against the sun, head tilted slightly back, eyes closed, hands relaxed at his sides. Emory felt drawn to him, and she had to smother the sudden and powerful urge to walk across the room and wrap her arms around his waist. It was ridiculous. She was a reasonably sane person. She could not become emotionally involved with a psychopath.
Still, the desire to touch him tingled through her body. She bit her lip to keep herself grounded. As if sensing her inner turmoil, Michael turned and met her gaze. His eyes were smiling. He looked content. She could not help but wonder if her presence contributed to his mood. She hated herself for hoping.
She grabbed her purse, trying her best to ignore the invitation in his gaze. Her heart fluttered with delight, but she couldn't control her heart. She had an iron grip on her mind, and she'd be damned before she let her mind fall for him.
As she crossed the room to get her keys, Michael reached out and caught her; one arm casually wrapped around her waist and drew her up against him. She thought about fighting but dismissed the idea immediately; fighting Michael would be much like trying to fight a brick wall.
He sensed her hesitation, loosened his grip enough to turn her around to face him. He placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted her head so that she had no choice but to meet his gaze.
He tilted his head at her. Why was she so angry?
She considered telling him the truth, but decided that she wasn't ready to put herself in such a vulnerable position. She considered snapping, taking her frustration out on him, but then she imagined the look on his face as pleasure dissolved into cold fury. The image sent a bolt of pain through her chest, and it made her want to scream and cry at the same time.
Because at that moment, she knew that she would never be able to take any happiness away from him.
She was deeper than she'd first thought.
Shit.
"I'm hungry," she said. "I get irritable when I'm hungry."
A look of supreme amusement flickered across his face. Oh, he knew very well how irritated she could get when she was 'hungry'. Emory cocked an eyebrow up at him. Then a new thought hit her.
"You haven't had real food in years, Michael." He blinked at her words. "What would you like?"
He tried to pretend that he had no idea what she was talking about, but since she already knew how damn smart he was, she simply ignored his ploy, squeezed out of his grip, dropped her purse and ran over to the bed, extracting the phonebook from a drawer in the nightstand.
"Don't play dumb with me," she scolded playfully as he sat down next to her on the bed. His weight made a dent in the mattress that pulled her closer against him. "Tell me what you want."
In one casual motion, Michael reached out, pulled her onto his lap and kissed her. Desire blossomed within her, coiling tight in her abdomen, forcing a soft moan from her throat. His lips caressed hers, soft and warm and so expressive.
"I meant what you want to eat," she muttered when he broke the kiss to graze his teeth over her neck. She could almost hear his laughter in her head. But God, sometimes she felt like she might go insane if she didn't hear him speak. What did his voice sound like? Would she ever hear it?
He released her from his seduction by unwrapping his arms from around her and allowing her to slide off his lap. She stood, straightened her blouse, trying her damndest to ignore his hungry gaze as it followed her every move.
"I'll bring something back for you," she told him, picking up her keys and dropping them into her purse. "It shouldn't take me long to get into the courthouse. I'll be back before sunset." She paused, then in a softer voice: "Will you still be here?"
Michael stood up, went over to her, leaned down and kissed her. Just a quick, simple kiss. A promise.
"Thank you," she whispered, bringing her hands up to press them against his chest. He was so warm. So gentle.
Her mind flailed.
She turned and left the room.