Christine Feehan - Murder Game

Don't pretend concern for me . Now there was an edge to her voice.

Kadan sighed. There was little point in telling her he'd rather not do his job, because in the end, he was going to do it and they both knew it. I'm not chasing you over the damned mountain all night. I need sleep .

That's a relief. Go to sleep and leave in the morning.

The distance was greater between them. She was on the move and had to stretch to reach him. She wasn't used to telepathic communication, because few others, probably none that she knew, actually had the ability-but several of the GhostWalkers were able to use the talent. He'd had plenty of practice honing the skill.

You're going to force me to do this the hard way, because I'm not coming after you. Just come back now before we take this to the next level . He found himself holding his breath, hoping she would listen to him. If he believed in God, he would have sent up a quick prayer for a little help, but he'd long ago learned to rely on himself. He'd seen too many fucked-up, perverted people to believe in a higher power watching over him.

Don't threaten me. I don't intimidate so easily.

He had an instant vision of her rising up from her nap, completely nude without even an attempt to cover herself and dressing right in front of him. No, she definitely didn't give in to intimidation, and he'd wanted her to be afraid enough to learn a lesson in self-preservation.

The water was hot enough to clean the dishes with. He ignored the side of him that wanted her to like him, the part that needed her, and he tapped into the ruthless, merciless side that gave him orders when he was on a mission. He began to whisper to her, commanding her to come back as he did the dishes and set them out to air dry.

He rolled out his bedding and prepared to lie down. There would be no sleeping until she returned, but he could take a look at the missing hunk of skin, sew up the torn flesh and relax while he persuaded her to come back to the campsite.

Kadan was driving her crazy. She couldn't get the sound of his voice out of her head. She resorted to running, a dangerous thing to do in the dark. Twice she fell and rolled, but the whispers didn't let up, not even for a breath. She lay on the ground staring up at the stars, her heart beating too loud and her stomach in knots.

It was his voice, that soft, velvety rasp, in her mind. Somewhere along the way, between the insistent hypnotic commands, he began to talk to her about himself.

Come back to me. I need you to come to me now, tonight. Do you know why I have to do this? Unlike you, living with your very rich, loving parents, my entire family was wiped out. I was eight years old. My father was a drug dealer and someone wanted to take over his territory. They broke into our home and shot my sister first. She was in the living room watching television. She was only twelve and very small. I didn't think a child's body could hold that much blood in it.

Tansy closed her eyes. She didn't want to hear this. Didn't want to see him as human. She'd been to too many crime scenes where the blood ran in rivers.

Dad grabbed me and stuffed me under the floorboards, pulling out the gun that was hidden there. I could hear them all screaming. And blood began dripping into the space from the cracks. It collected all around me until I was covered in it. Until it was an inch deep in the space and I was breathing it in. Do you know what that smells like, Tansy?

She knew. She still had nightmares. She pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from sobbing. He had to stop. The images in his head were vivid, as if the crime had just occurred. His voice was without emotion, cold and dispassionate, but she was in his head and there was rage and pain and a sorrow too deep to express. She connected with those raw emotions, so that tears clogged her throat, threatening to choke her.

Come back to me. I need you to come to me now, tonight.

The pull of that demand was so strong she rolled over and got to her feet, looking in the direction of her camp. She even took a few steps before she managed to stop herself. She couldn't continue to put distance between them, but she didn't run to him the way her mind and body was urging her to do.

The thing is, now, as an adult, I realize my father was not a good man. He was a major drug dealer and involved with some very bad people, but to me, he was my father. He played games with me and loved me and tucked me in at night. Maybe, as an adult, I can even admit he was responsible for bringing a bloodbath to our home, but the child in me loved him. Always really loved him and looked up to him. I need you, Tansy. Come back to me now, tonight.

She closed her eyes, feeling ill. His voice drove her temperature up, but the things he said to her made her feel sick. He was lost and alone. And that person inside her that needed to make the world a better place, that had too much empathy and compassion to be able to even touch people, drove her to her knees at the naked sorrow in his voice.

I heard screams and shots and my mother's voice pleading not to kill my brother. His name was James and he was only ten years old. He shared my room and taught me to play ball. He never minded when I tagged along after him .

She was astonished at the cool voice he used relating such a terrible childhood trauma. Maybe he believed he had buried the whole thing deep enough that he could tell it without feeling, but she knew it wasn't so. The rage in him was frightening. The sorrow devastating. Tansy found herself moving back up the slope toward her campsite. She caught the trunk of a sapling and held on to keep from hurrying back to comfort him. Now his commands had taken on an entirely different meaning. He did need her, whether he knew it or not-and she suspected he didn't know that any more than he knew he was still that enraged, shattered, devastated child.

Come back to me. The stars are out. Do you see them? I never thought I'd see them again. Confined in that space, with blood dripping on me and pooling all around me, I never thought I'd ever be able to be inside again. I don't like walls.

He used the present tense. She took a breath and let it out. Her hands released the sapling and she began walking back toward camp, her feet moving her in spite of the fact that her brain was telling her no. Where was her self preservation? Why did his voice affect her so strongly? She only knew she wept inside for that innocent child and wept even more for the man he had become.

I stayed hidden for hours, days, I don't know. I was terrified, not so much of being killed - I think I was long past that fear - but of what I knew I was going to find. I thought the screams were the worst, the pleading, and I prayed for it to be over. But then there was silence. Nothing broke the silence. I couldn't hear footsteps, or cries, or even breath. After a while I wasn't even certain I was alive .

She hadn't lived through a serial killer destroying her family, but she'd been present, hearing the victims' last thoughts, their fears and cries and pain-filled whimpers, their last gasps of breath and that horrible rattle she couldn't get out of her head. She didn't need an object to touch to bring the images into vivid detail. She was in Kadan's head and the images were burned there for all eternity. Now they were in her head as well. She wasn't good at getting rid of blood and death. Tansy reached up and brushed at the tears on her face.

The first thing I saw when I pushed open the door was my brother's face. His eyes were open and he was staring at me. Sometimes I can't sleep and I see his eyes and I know I was supposed to find them and make them pay for what they did. But then I remind myself I'm not eight and he was dead and there was nothing left of him but a vacant stare, so I can't really blame anything on him. His eyes looked like glass. Come back to me, Tansy. I need you tonight.