The Collector, Page 52

  wolves. Add the evil tyrant seeking to steal the magic dragon’s egg and usurp the throne, the dark sorceress who did his bidding—she could have something.

  A couple pages in, she backtracked, began a new opening. She realized she could write a novella instead of a short story. And she realized she’d gone from a character sketch to short story to novella in about twenty minutes.

  “Give me an hour, I’ll start thinking novel. And, hey, maybe.”

  Considering just that, she decided to go down, get a tall glass of lemon water, take a few minutes to think it through.

  “Just a few rough pages,” she promised herself. “I have to focus on the book, but a few rough pages—for fun.”

  She started out, imagining a battle—the clang of swords and ax, and the morning mists rising from the blood-soaked ground.

  She smiled as she heard the front door open. “Did I lose track of the time? I was just—”

  She broke off, froze at the top of the steps as Jai shut the door behind her.

  Purpling bruises marred her extraordinary face under her right eye, along her jawline. The tailored black shirt showed a rip in the shoulder seam.

  Baring her teeth, she drew a gun from the waistband at the small of her back, said, “Bitch.”

  Lila ran, choking out a scream when she heard the slap of a bullet hit the wall. She flew into the bedroom, slammed the door, fumbled with the lock.

  Call the police, she ordered herself, then clearly saw her phone sitting beside her keyboard in the little bedroom.

  No way to call for help. She bolted toward the window, wasted time trying to shove it open before remembering the lock, and heard the solid kick hit the door.

  She needed a weapon.

  She grabbed her purse, dumped everything out, pawed through it.

  “Think, think, think!” she chanted as she heard wood splinter.

  She grabbed the can of pepper spray, sent by her mother a year before and never used. Prayed it worked. She closed her fist around her Leatherman—a solid weight in her fist. Hearing the door give, she ran, put her back to the wall beside it.

  Be strong, be smart, be fast, she told herself, repeating it over and over like a mantra as the door crashed open. Biting back a fresh scream as a swath of bullets swept through the doorway.

  She held her breath, shifted and aimed for the eyes as Jai stepped in. The scream ripped like a scalpel. Thinking only of escape, Lila punched out with her weighted hand, glanced a blow off Jai’s shoulder, followed it with a shove. With Jai firing blindly, Lila ran.

  Get down, get out.

  She was nearly halfway down when she heard running footsteps. She glanced back, braced for a bullet, saw the blur of Jai leaping.

  The force knocked her off her feet, stole even the thought of breath. As the world spun, pain shot into her shoulder, her hip, her head as they fell down the steps, rolling like dice from a shaken cup.

  She tasted blood, watched streaks of light spear across her vision. She kicked weakly, tried to crawl as nausea churned up from belly to throat. Her own scream tore free as hands dragged her back. Pulling on her strength, she kicked again, felt the blow land. She gained her hands and knees, sucked in a breath to shove to her feet, and tumbled back, the streaks bursting into stars when the fist caught the side of her jaw.

  Then Jai was on her, a hand clamped around her throat.

  No beauty now. Eyes red, leaking, face splotched, bruised, bloodied. But the hand cutting off Lila’s air weighed like iron.

  “Do you know how many I’ve killed? You’re nothing. You’re just the next. And when your man comes back, biao zi, I’ll gut him and watch him bleed out. You’re nothing, and I’ll make you less.”

  No breath, a red mist crawling over her eyes.

  She saw Ash at his easel, saw him eating waffles, laughing into her eyes at a sun-washed café.

  She saw him—them—traveling together, being home together, living their lives together.

  The future in her hands.

  Ash. She’d kill Ash.

  Adrenaline surged, an electric jolt. She bucked, but the grip on her throat only tightened. She struck out, saw Jai’s lips peel back in a terrible smile.

  Weight in her hand, she realized. She still had the tool; she hadn’t dropped the tool. Frantic, she fought to open it one-handed.

  “Egg.” She croaked it out.

  “You think I care about the fucking egg?”

  “Here. Egg. Here.”

  The vicious grip loosened a fraction. Air seared Lila’s throat as she gulped it in.

  “Where?”

  “I’ll give it to you. To you. Please.”

  “Tell me where it is.”

  “Please.”

  “Tell me or die.”

  “In . . .” She garbled the rest on a fit of coughing that had tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Jai slapped her. “Where. Is. The. Egg,” she demanded, slapping Lila between each word.

  “In the . . .” she whispered, hoarse, breathless. And Jai leaned closer.

  In her head, she screamed, but her abused throat only released a screeching wheeze as she plunged the knife into Jai’s cheek. Weight shifted off her chest, for just an instant. She bucked, kicked, stabbed out again. Pain radiated down her arm as Jai twisted her wrist, pulled the knife from her.

  “My face! My face! I’m going to carve you up.”

  Spent, defeated, Lila prepared to die.

  Ash carried Chinese takeout, a small bakery box and a bouquet of gerbera daisies bright as candy.

  They’d make her smile.

  He imagined them opening a bottle of wine, sharing the meal, sharing the bed. Keeping each other distracted until the call finally came, and they knew it was over, it was finished.

  Then they’d get on with the business of their lives.

  He thought of her reaction to his proposal by the side of the road. He hadn’t meant to ask her then and there, but it had been the moment for him. The way she’d looked, the way she was—the way they’d read each other’s every cue during the charade with Vasin.

  What they had together was a rare thing. He knew it. Now he had to make her believe it.

  They could travel wherever she wanted as long as she wanted. The where didn’t matter to him. They could use the loft as a base until she was ready to put down roots.

  And she would be, he thought, once she really believed, once she trusted what they had together.

  As far as he was concerned, they had all the time in the world.

  He shifted bags to pull out his keys as he started up the steps.

  He noticed that the lights on the alarm, on the camera he’d had installed, were off. They’d been on, hadn’t they, when he left? Had he checked?

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose when he saw the scratches on the locks, the slight gap in the way the door fit.

  He’d already dropped the bags when he heard the scream.

  He charged the door. It creaked, groaned, but held. Rearing back, he threw his body, his rage against it.

  It crashed open, showed him his worst nightmare.

  He didn’t know if she was dead or alive, all he saw was the blood—her blood, her limp body and glassy eyes. And Maddok straddling her, the knife poised to strike.

  Fury snapped through him, a lightning charge that boiled the blood, burned the bones. He rushed her, never slowing as she sprang up, never feeling the bite of the knife as she sliced it down.

  He simply picked her up bodily, heaved her aside. He stood between her and Lila, not daring to look down, bracing instead to attack, to defend.

  She didn’t spring to her feet this time but heaved herself up to a crouch from the rubble of what had been his grandmother’s Pembroke table. Blood ran down her cheek in a river, leaked out of her nose. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if that’s why she wept. Her eyes were red, swollen, running with tears.

  He charged her again, would have rammed her like a bull, but she managed
a staggering dance aside, a shaky pivot, and an underhand strike with the knife that missed by a whisper.

  He grabbed her knife hand by the wrist, twisted, imagined snapping the bone like a dry twig. In panic and pain, she swept a leg out, nearly took him down, but he held on, used the momentum to take her back, around.

  And he saw Lila swaying like a drunk, her face fierce, and a lamp in her hands like a bat or a sword. Relief and rage churned together. “Run,” he ordered, but she kept coming.

  Jai fought against his hold. Blood-slick skin nearly allowed her to slip free. He tore his gaze from Lila, looked into Jai’s eyes.

  And for the first time in his life, he balled his fist and punched a woman in the face. Not once, but twice.

  The knife fell to the floor with a single hard bang. When Jai’s knees buckled he let her drop. He scooped up the bloodied tool, managed to get an arm around Lila as she pitched forward.

  “Is she dead? Is she dead?”

  “No. How bad are you hurt? Let me see.”

  “I don’t know. You’re bleeding. Your arm is bleeding.”

  “It’s okay. I’m going to call the police. Can you go in the kitchen, in the utility closet. There’s some cord.”

  “Cord. We have to tie her up.”

  “I can’t leave you alone with her and get it myself. Can you get it?”

  “Yes.” She handed him the lamp. “I broke the plug when I pulled it out of the wall. I’ll fix it. I’ll get the cord first. And the first aid kit. Your arm’s bleeding.”

  He knew he shouldn’t take the time, but he couldn’t stop himself. He set the lamp aside, then he pulled her to him, gently, gently. “I thought you were dead.”

  “So did I. But we’re not.” She moved her hands over his face as if memorizing the shape. “We’re not. Don’t let her wake up. You have to hit her again if she starts to wake up. I’ll be right back.”

  He took out his phone, watched his hand shake as he called the police.

  It took hours, and felt like days. Uniformed police, paramedics, Fine and Waterstone, the FBI. People in and out, in and out. Then a doctor, shining lights in her eyes, poking, prodding, asking her who was president. Even through the glaze of shock she wondered at a doctor making an emergency house call.

  “What kind of a doctor are you?” she asked him.

  “A good one.”

  “I mean what kind of doctor makes house calls?”

  “A really good one. And I’m a friend of Ash’s.”

  “She stabbed him—or it looked like more of a slice. I just fell down the stairs.”

  “You’re a lucky woman. You took some hard knocks, but nothing’s broken. Throat’s pretty sore, I bet.”

  “It feels like I’ve been drinking glass chips. Ash needs to go to the hospital for that arm. So much blood . . .”

  “I can stitch him up.”

  “Here?”

  “It’s what I do. Do you remember my name?”

  “Jud.”

  “Good. You’ve got a mild concussion, some heroic bruising—that’s a medical term,” he added, and made her smile. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to spend the night in the hospital, just for observation.”

  “I’d rather just have a shower. Can I just take a shower? She’s all over me.”

  “Not by yourself.”

  “I really don’t think I’m up to sex in the shower just now.”

  He laughed, gave her hand a squeeze. “Your friend’s here—Julie? How about if she helps you out?”

  “That’d be great.”

  “I’ll go down and get her. You wait, okay? Bathrooms are minefields.”

  “You’re a good friend. I . . . Oh, I remember now. I met you at Oliver’s funeral. Dr. Judson Donnelly—concierge medicine. Like the guy on TV.”

  “That’s a good sign your brain’s not overly scrambled—another fancy medical term. I’m going to leave written instructions on the medication, and I’ll swing by tomorrow to take a look at both of you. Meanwhile, rest, use the cold packs on the bruises and skip the shower sex for the next twenty-four hours.”

  “I can do that.”

  He packed up his bag, then paused on his way out to look back at her. “Ash said you were an amazing woman. He’s not wrong.”

  Her eyes welled up, but she fought the tears back. She wouldn’t break down, just couldn’t. She feared if she did, even for a moment, she’d never stop.

  So she had what passed for a smile when Julie rushed in.

  “Oh, Lila.”

  “Not looking my best, and it’s worse under what’s left of this dress. But I have some very nice pills, courtesy of Jud, so I really do feel better than I look. How’s Ash?”

  Sitting on the side of the bed, Julie took her hand. “He was talking to some of the crime scene people, but the doctor dragged him off to take care of him. Luke’s with him. Luke’s going to stay with him.”

  “Good. Luke’s really good in a crisis. I really like Luke.”

  “You scared the crap out of us.”

  “Join the team. Are you up for standing by while I take a shower? I need to . . . I have to . . .”

  The pressure dropped into her chest, stealing her breath.

  Hands around her throat, squeezing, squeezing.

  “She ruined my dress.” She felt herself gasping, couldn’t stop. “It was Prada.”

  “I know, sweetie.” Julie just gathered her up when she broke, rocked her like a baby when she sobbed.

  After the shower, after the pain pill kicked in, it didn’t take much for Julie to persuade her to lie down. When she woke, the light was on low, and her head was pillowed on Ash’s shoulder.

  She sat up—and the twinges woke her fully. “Ash.”

  “Right here. Do you need another pill? It’s about time.”

  “Yes. No. Yes. What time is it? It’s after midnight. Your arm.”

  “It’s okay.”

  But despite the twinges, she reached over to turn up the light, see for herself. The bandage ran from shoulder to elbow.

  “It’s okay,” he repeated at her sound of distress.

  “Don’t say it’s just a scratch.”

  “It’s not just a scratch, but Jud claims he sews as exquisitely as a Breton nun. I’ll get your pill, and you can get some more rest.”

  “Not yet. I need to go downstairs. I need to see— God, you’re so tired.” She laid her hands on his cheeks, looked into his exhausted eyes. “I need to see it, go through it, settle it.”

  “Okay.”

  She winced as she got out of bed. “Wow, the cliché about run over by a truck is real. Believe me, I won’t be shy about the drugs. I just want to see, clear head, clear eyes. Then we’ll both take drugs and zone out.”

  “That’s a deal. Julie and Luke wouldn’t leave,” he told her as they walked each other out. “They’re in the guest room.”

  “Good friends are better than diamonds. I cried all over Julie—I’m going to confess that. I may cry all over you at some point, but I’m pretty steady right now.”