Kelley Armstrong - Omens

Statement? The Larsens killed people. Brutally murdered them. No politics involved. Nothing but death.

“Angels of death,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “They took what they wanted without a thought for anyone but themselves. And you, of course. That’s all that mattered to them. Their family. Nothing else. They understood what it meant to take a life.”

No, I was pretty sure they didn’t. No one could destroy other human beings that way and fully comprehend what they were doing. Unless they just didn’t care.

“You look like her, you know.” He rose from his chair. “Except for the hair. Hers is dark. Maybe if you dyed it…”

The tip of his tongue slid between his teeth, rapturous. I glanced down at the scissors that dangled by his side and inched my fingers along the sheet.

“No,” he said, straightening. “That wouldn’t be right. It’s Todd’s color. A tribute to both of them. As it should be.” He rested a knee on the edge of the bed. “You are beautiful, Eden. A perfect blend of your parents.”

I resisted the urge to inch back. Keep still. Let him think he can come closer.

But he just stayed there. My gaze dropped to the scissors to measure the distance. He followed it and lifted them, casually, no menace, but I pretended to flinch.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Eden. I just brought these to get that.” He pointed to the curl on the dresser. “I’d never hurt you.”

“Then put them down.”

His lips twitched in a knowing smile. “Um, no. That wouldn’t be wise, would it?”

“You said you aren’t going to hurt me—”

“I’m not. But that doesn’t mean you won’t hurt me, does it? First chance you get. I know that. I’ll keep these. To defend myself and”—that smile again—“to keep you from getting your pretty hands on them and making a pretty mess of me with them.”

“I wouldn’t do that. You’re a”—I struggled for a word. Hated the one that came to mind—“ fan of my parents.”

“Which wouldn’t keep them from gouging out my eyes with these if they caught me in your motel room. And won’t keep you from doing the same to get away.”

“I’m not like them. I’ve never hurt anyone.”

“But you could. You just need the right circumstances. And I’d rather not provide them.” He twisted, lowering himself to the edge of the bed, scissors resting on his thigh. “I’m supposed to help you, Eden. You walked into my motel, and I knew it was a sign.” His gaze met mine. “Do you believe in signs?”

“Only the ones that give me directions.”

He laughed. Loud and long, the sound raking along my spine. “Oh, signs all give directions. Mine told me that you needed help. They kicked you out, didn’t they? Those people who stole you from Todd and Pam. They kicked you out, and now you’re all alone. That’s why you had to come to a cheap motel like this. You don’t have any money. I do.” He pulled a thick wad from his pocket.

“I don’t need—”

“I know you do. I bet you need information, too. About them. Your parents. I know all about them and their lives and what they did. I’ll give you that, and I’ll give you money. I just want one thing.”

He rose, gaze fixed on me, eyes glittering. I inched away.

“No, not that,” he said. “I respect your parents too much for that. I just want to touch you. That’s all.”

He moved closer, hands on the bed, scissors loose under one. His breath came harsh, pupils dilated.

“You can leave your panties on. I won’t touch you anywhere you don’t want me to. I just want to touch—”

I grabbed the scissors before he could get a firm grip on them. He lunged across me. I swung the scissors with everything I had and buried the blades in his side. He howled. I yanked them out and stabbed him again. Blood sprayed across the white sheets, across him, across me.

I wrenched the scissors free and cut the cord. He lurched for me again. I stabbed him in the thigh. He let out a wail and dropped to the bed, clutching his leg, scissors still embedded in it. I leapt out of bed, grabbed my glasses, purse, and briefcase.

He was stretched across the bed, yowling and holding his thigh. Blood streamed between his fingers. I hesitated. Then I ran to the phone and yanked it over onto the bed, within reach.

I started for the door again. Stopped again. Looked at the wad of money fanning across the carpet. Reached down, scooped it up, and raced out the door.

He listened to her footsteps pound down the hallway. Then he rose, wincing as pain shot through his leg. He grimaced as he looked down at the damage. His favorite jeans, too. Shit.

Another wince as he pulled the scissors from his thigh. Fresh blood gushed and he grabbed a pillow to staunch the flow. Then he looked over to where the money had fallen.

It was gone.

He lifted the bedspread and looked under it. No, she’d definitely taken the money. He smiled. Good. Now he could just hope this little scare would send her exactly where she belonged: Cainsville.

Fate could be as capricious as a drunken piskie , and she certainly seemed to have been amusing herself with Eden Larsen. But occasionally the fickle wench settled down, straightened the road, and posted the appropriate signs. As for what would happen when Eden arrived in Cainsville, that wasn’t his concern. He’d played his role. Now he’d bow off the stage and return to its shadowy wings.

He pulled the pillow from his thigh. The blood flow had stopped. When he stretched back the ripped denim, he could see the edges of the wound, already knitting together. If only it was as easy to fix his jeans. He sighed, collected the bloodied pillow and scissors, and left the room.

I ran from the motel. Kept running until I reached the street, where I slowed to a jog. Two blocks away, I went into an all-night drugstore, where I bought a bottle of Dr Pepper and a Snickers bar. I still had fourteen hundred dollars stashed away, some in my bag and some in my purse, but I didn’t use that. I pulled out a twenty from my pocket—the money I’d stolen—and slapped it onto the counter. Then I went out front, under the store lights, guzzled the Dr Pepper, and wolfed down the candy bar.

Blood still flecked my shirt, hidden under the jacket I’d pulled on before going in the store. I should have been emptying my stomach, not filling it. I should be shivering in an alley as I retched onto the gravel. But I didn’t feel sick. I felt hungry. Starving. The syrupy soda and cheap chocolate tasted better than any gourmet meal.

My whole body still trembled. But there was no fear there. No voice screaming that it was four in the morning, and I was alone in the street and had to get somewhere safe.

No, I was safe. That trembling in my arms and legs wasn’t fear. It was victory.

Did I feel bad about stabbing him? No. I’d left the phone. He’d be fine. Same went for taking the money. No guilt. For all I knew, it was his life savings. Too bad. I needed it, and he deserved to lose it.

As the pop and the candy bar settled into my stomach, the adrenaline ebbed and I sobered. Okay, I’d won a round. Good for me. But I might not be so lucky next time. Apparently, I had more to worry about than bloodthirsty reporters and the grief-crazed relatives of the Larsens’ victims. There were some serious nut jobs out there, and the next one might want more than a lock of hair.

I opened my purse and pulled out the folded note the old man had given me. Cainsville. If it was outside Chicago, people might be less likely to recognize me. After what just happened, that had become my main priority.