Ilona Andrews - Dark and Stormy Knights

Skamar hadn’t opened the door to the apartment in days, never mind left it, so when she allowed Zoe in—and even that had taken a few moments of dull, uninterested consideration—her creator winced at the smell, and then in sympathy. It was the latter emotion that made Skamar want to slam the door shut.

Zoe, in yet another pretty if nondescript disguise, perched on the rented sofa’s side. “So, the Tulpa thinks he’s won. That you’ve gone into hiding . . . injured, licking wounds, beaten.”

“I don’t care what he thinks.” Though she did, of course. Thought created reality, and the Tulpa’s mind was a dangerously fertile place. But even the idea of facing him was too much effort right now.

“He’s still after my granddaughter.”

Skamar clenched her jaw, not looking at Zoe. “Well, I don’t know how to kill him. Obviously.”

Zoe repositioned herself in front of Skamar, who—deeming it too difficult and pointless to move—had simply sunk to her knees just inside the door. Grasping those knees, Zoe squeezed. “Just because you’re born for a particular task doesn’t mean you don’t have to work at it, or that it doesn’t come with a price. In fact, if you’re really born to do something, chances are you’ll die doing it, too.”

“Great.” As ruthlessly unemotional as always. This time Skamar didn’t smile.

Zoe reached for her shoulders. “But meanwhile, you have to live .”

“I don’t even know what that means!” Skamar pushed away from Zoe’s touch, even though there was nowhere to go. “You never taught me that, Zoe! All I know is that the first person I opened myself up to in this world is dead because of me. And you know what? They all die! They’re all weak and fragile and . . .”

“Mortal?” Zoe asked quietly.

Skamar clenched her jaw so hard, she thought her teeth would crack. “If that’s life, if this is it . . .” She motioned around at the crappy apartment, but more important, the sorrow stinking up the air, a pain surely even Zoe could scent. If this was life, she continued silently, she wasn’t sure she wanted it. Even for the chance to kill the Tulpa.

“This isn’t life,” Zoe said, taking Skamar’s face in her hand and forcing her gaze. “ This is experience.”

“What’s the difference?” Skamar muttered, trying to shake the touch away.

Zoe held on, her smile bittersweet. “Experience is what happens when you don’t get what you want in life.”

Skamar was mortified when her face crumpled. “It hurts,” she whispered.

For just one moment, only one, she’d given herself over to something good, and look what had happened. She shook her head. “How do you do it?”

Zoe answered with a question of her own. “Would you rather it never happened? That you’d never met a human who made you want to open up? That either he or you hadn’t existed?”

No. Somehow she couldn’t wish that.

“You did the best you could,” Zoe said, then swallowed hard and bit her lip. “How about allowing me to try and do the same?”

Skamar frowned, only belatedly realizing what Zoe was asking. “Let you in again? No.” She shook her head. “My mind is my own now.”

Zoe inclined her head. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean you can’t lean upon others. Let someone else take the reins for a while.”

Give up even more power? Even more control just for the opportunity to share the burden? Depend on someone else to thrive? Open, even a fraction, to love ?

“I don’t want control over you, Skamar,” Zoe said, misinterpreting her silence, though she’d have been right enough only days before. “I want to give you a moment of peace. I feel . . . somehow responsible.”

“For sending me after those girls?” Skamar shook her head, thinking of the families, their tearful reunions . . . the scent of blueberries. No. She knew now that it had been the right thing to do.

“No.” Zoe bowed her head. “For birthing you into a world already waiting to cause you pain. It’s a mother’s shame.”

It was the first time Zoe had ever admitted feelings for her beyond ownership, and Skamar was so shocked that she didn’t pull away when Zoe took her hand. And after another moment, she leaned against Zoe—strong against the weak—and eventually closed her eyes and gave herself over. One moment wouldn’t hurt anything, right?

And then there was the familiar feeling and scent of Zoe moving around in her mind. She relaxed into the meditative rhythm, the reassuring words—affirming, positive, and, when the one-way conversation turned to that of the Tulpa, positively homicidal.

“I’m so proud of you, Skamar,” Zoe said in conclusion. “Now rest, dear.”

Yes, she thought, drifting off as Zoe let herself out. She was going to need all the energy she could get if she was to continue this fight. And while still unwilling to give up her life for others, maybe—just maybe—she could live for them. Giving a fair shot to good people was a worthwhile pastime, right? It was something she could pursue in Vaughn’s honor.

When she wasn’t hunting the Tulpa, of course.

The New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Signs of the Zodiac series, Vicki Pettersson was born and raised in Las Vegas. She still lives in Sin City, where a backyard view of the Strip regularly inspires her to set down her martini and head back to the computer. Check out the latest at www.vickipettersson.com .

“I need to kill my husband.”

Rookwood set the bottle of Scotch on his desk with a precise little click. His teeth were tingling, and he regretted climbing out of bed, not to mention agreeing to meet her so close to dusk. He hadn’t had time for his daily jolt of red stuff. “I think you’ve got the wrong man, lady.”

Rookwood’s rent was due in a week. He was on his last legs as far as funding went. It was foolish to turn away work, even this kind; but when possible, he preferred to err on the side of caution.

She had money, too. Real money. Her shoes—high-end walking numbers—the fashionable gym-toned slimness, French manicure, and the haircut gave away the size of her bank account, but upper-middle-class suburbia was all over her. There was one like her in every minivan in America. This one had nicer breasts than most, big brown eyes, long, glossy brown hair, a pink T-shirt, and jeans. All she needed were 2.5 kids and a golden retriever to finish the picture.

“Not according to Detective Molstein.” She leaned forward a little. That long brown hair fell over her shoulder. She used expensive shampoo. Something with cloves in it.

Damn you, Mole. What did I ever do to you? Rookwood couldn’t settle in the chair behind the desk just yet. Instead, he looked up at the window with its thick iron bars. Rain slapped at the glass, and the night sighed as traffic on Lombard sent splashes of headlight glow through the lattice of blinds. “I don’t care who sent you, lady. You’ve got the wrong man.”

Her lips parted, and the flash of pearly-sharp white in his peripheral vision was all wrong. A burning smell slid across his nose, a tang under her brunette spice.

No wonder the inside of his mouth was tingling. If she smelled like that, there was only one possible explanation. Rookwood’s weight sank onto his right leg, his entire body subtly braced. This is either what I’ve been waiting for or very bad luck.

“You don’t understand, Mr. Rookwood. My husband . . . he’s already dead.” Her shoulders slumped. “Detective Molstein believed me. He said you’d help me.”

He half turned, facing her. Her manicured hand pulled down the scoop neckline of the T-shirt. Her bra was plain and white, the strap cutting into her shoulder, and the deep, glaring red purple bruise on the upper slope of her left breast was as plain as it could be. There were two holes in the middle of the bruising, white and worn-looking.