Consumed by Fire (33 page)

“So we’re at a standstill?” James said in an even voice.

“You could look at it that way. I might suggest a truce. You let me go and I’ll let the bitch live. For now.”

“Now you had to go and ruin a perfectly acceptable compromise. Not that I would ever have believed you, but you could have at least made the effort.” James’s voice was lightly mocking.

“Ah, you never would have believed me. I will tell you one thing. You leave me the girl and I won’t kill you. I’ll even promise to make it fast and painless for her. You know I can do that, don’t you? I’m a far better killer than you ever were.”

“But you know I’d come after you, and for you I wouldn’t make it fast and painless. There’s only one acceptable outcome to all this.”

Thunder rumbled overhead, and the rain was lashing around them, plastering their clothes against their bodies. “Acceptable to you, perhaps. I think my best choice is to disappear for a while. Whether I show up to finish the job is anybody’s guess.”

“I can’t let you . . .” Before James could finish the sentence, Claude had vanished into the storm. James shoved Evangeline away and dove after him, not pausing when she went sprawling in the mud. She didn’t try to get up—she simply lay in the mud and the cold in misery. The two men had disappeared into the darkness, and she could hear the rushing of the water all around them. The formerly calm creek had risen, moving across the land, and she could see it inching toward her. She’d have to find the resources to get to her feet one more time, to stagger toward the house if she could even guess what direction it was in. Her chances of finding James were almost nil—she could hear nothing over the roar of the storm, and she knew she’d only prove a liability.

She had to find some way to move. She felt the cold water touch her toes, and it should have been enough to galvanize her, but she lay still. She tried to push back with her bound hands, but she couldn’t summon enough energy to get to her feet without something to push against. She was shaking too badly, was weak and disoriented, and couldn’t move.

She almost didn’t recognize the sound in the distance. It was the sound of a dog barking, and she almost wept with relief. Merlin was alive. He sounded strange, probably the result of the drugs Claude had given him, but he was alive.

She didn’t know how long it took him to find her. The water had reached her knees, and she’d made a desultory effort to inch herself forward, away from the encroaching river, but her energy had failed her, and she was content to lie where she was. Either James would come back and get her or Claude would win, in which case she’d rather drown than let him get his hands on her.

Merlin’s hot breath was all around her, snuffling, whining, pawing at the ground. “Good boy,” she said in a croak. “Go find Bishop.”

But Merlin wasn’t moving. Maybe he didn’t know who Bishop was—who knew what name Merlin’s dog brain had given to his original trainer, and Evangeline couldn’t be bothered to figure it out. Merlin had gone from whining to barking, and she tried to push herself forward, away from the water, but with her hands and ankles bound, she could barely move.

She felt his huge jaws close around her neck, so gently that she could have been a helpless puppy. His teeth dug in, just a bit, and he began to drag her, slowly, carefully, out of the water, well onto dry land, before releasing her, licking her neck with his huge tongue to soothe any pain he might have caused her.

And then he was gone into the darkness, heading after Bishop, and she realized he didn’t need to be told. He would know there was trouble, and all the drugs in the world wouldn’t keep his sense of smell from telling him where to find it.

She heard the scream from a distance, the sound of a gun being fired, and the thunder shook the earth once more. When the rumbling had died away, there was nothing but the sound of the rain and the rising river.

She closed her eyes and prayed.

Chapter Seventeen

Bishop had to rely on the intermittent flashes of lightning to follow Claude’s desperate race through the rain—the sound of the wind and weather drowned out any noise he might have made. He’d left Merlin’s body on the porch, hoping the cold rain might counteract the drugs in his system enough that he’d be able to come after them, but Bishop couldn’t hear a thing. He had to take it on faith that Evangeline was safe for the moment, despite the rising water. If he didn’t finish Claude here and now, Evangeline would never be safe again.

Before he realized it, he’d made it to the edge of the river, which was much higher than it had been before, and he almost turned back. The remnants of an old bridge hung suspended across the water, the rickety structure barely strong enough to support a man.

But in the next flash of lightning he could see the outline of someone on the decaying surface, and he knew he’d found his quarry.

A moment later everything was plunged into darkness again, and he hadn’t been able to see well enough to know if the bridge reached the opposite side of the rising river. He was an excellent shot, but no one could hit a blind target, and he crouched down, aiming, while he waited for the next flash of lightning to give him some clue where Claude might be. He wouldn’t have long to find his target and make his shot, and every second counted.

It seemed to take forever for the next flash of light, and to Bishop’s fury there was no sign of Claude on the bridge, no sign of him anywhere. Cursing, he rose, moving forward, when he heard the muffled sound of heavy breathing, close, too close, and he spun around just as Claude leapt at him.

They went down in a tangle. Neither of them let go of their weapons, but they were well matched: Claude couldn’t get his blade close enough to cut, nor could Bishop manage to fire his gun. They rolled and grappled, cursing each other, and Bishop tried to control the murderous rage that filled him. Emotion weakened him—he need to be cold and calm to get the better of a sociopath like the person currently wearing the persona of Claude, but he couldn’t fight the fury and the man at the same time.

Claude was experienced enough to take full advantage of that, and even though Bishop was bigger and stronger, he found himself on his back, Claude straddling him, one knee pinning Bishop’s gun hand to the muddy ground. “Always a mistake to fall in love, Bishop,” Claude panted. “Didn’t I warn you about that five years ago?”

He wanted to deny it, but there was the very real possibility that he was going to be dead in the next few moments, and there was no need to make his last words a lie. Instead he said, “Fuck you, Claude.”

Claude laughed. “You know that’s not my style.” He raised the knife, ready to plunge it into Bishop’s throat, when something huge flew at them out of the darkness, knocking Claude off him, and a moment later Bishop was back on his feet, his gun in hand, watching the shadowy forms of Merlin and Claude as the dog wrestled with him, his huge jaws clamped over Claude’s right hand.

The knife fell, and normally Merlin would have backed off, but the dog’s rage was equal to Bishop’s. Claude was screaming, shoving at him, and a moment later he tore himself away, starting back across the bridge to safety, another flash of lightning illuminating his mangled hand.

Bishop took aim and fired three times, hitting him right in the center of his back, and Claude froze for a moment, turning. Then he collapsed over the side of the ruined bridge, into the churning river, while Bishop watched him being carried down the raging torrent. Claude didn’t scream again—with three bullets center mass he still wasn’t dead—and he was trying to hold his mangled hand over his head as he struggled against the current. He went under, surfaced again, and lightning lit the sky, turning everything to daylight for a brief, endless moment. He could see Claude’s eyes clearly—Claudia’s eyes, mad with fury—see the hand that Merlin had savaged, and then Claude went under as everything darkened once more, followed by ground-shaking thunder.

He didn’t surface again, and Bishop couldn’t waste time watching for him any longer. Merlin was dancing around, clearly wanting to dive into the river after him, but he’d already done his job. If Claude could survive the raging waters with one useful hand and a body riddled with bullets, then he was superhuman, and Bishop had learned long ago that no one was superhuman. A moment later the last of the bridge collapsed into the raging torrent, following Claude’s body into oblivion.

“He’s gone. Good job,” he said, but Merlin was still dancing, heading away from him, then circling around and coming back, whining.
Evangeline.

He found her lying in a crumpled heap, the overflowing river almost at her feet. Her wrists and ankles were bound, but he didn’t bother loosening her. More lightning, and the distant lights of the house went out. He cursed beneath his breath as he knelt down and hoisted her into his arms. Even the best of security systems and generators were no proof against a direct hit by lightning, and it looked as if they were stuck in darkness.

She cried out in pain. “Just hold on,” he said grimly, his voice barely audible over the thunder. “I’ll cut you free as soon as we get back to the house.”

Her teeth were chattering, and she was shaking. “M . . . M . . . Merlin?”

“He’s with us. He’s fine. Claude’s dead.”

She asked no more questions. Her body was stiff with tension and pain, but she put her face against his shoulder to block out the rain, and he took off in a run.

The old farmhouse loomed up sooner than he expected, and he felt an uncharacteristic sense of relief. He kicked the back door open, shouldering her in, with Merlin at his side in perfect formation despite the worried sounds he made. The house was in complete darkness, but he knew enough about the infrastructure that he was reasonably certain the gravity-fed pump and huge hot water tank would provide enough bathwater to warm her.

He carried her into the bathroom and set her down on the commode, ignoring her cry of pain as he turned to start filling the large tub. The air-conditioning was already dissipating, the hot Texas night infiltrating the house, but Evangeline was shivering.

He knelt down beside her, his knife out. “This is going to hurt,” he said gently.

Her only response was a shattered laugh, as he cut through the thin, vicious rope binding her wrists and ankles. There was blood around both, and it felt like a blow to his stomach.

He knelt in front of her and for the first time in his life he didn’t know what he could do. “It’ll be better in a moment. A hot bath will do the rest. The lightning must have hit the generator, and once I get you settled, I’ll see if there’s a backup, but in the meantime we need to get you into a hot bath or you’ll go into shock.”

“I’m . . . n . . . n . . . not that b . . . b . . . big a pussy,” she managed to protest in a mere shadow of her usual fierce voice.

He found he could laugh. As long as she could fight back, she’d be fine. Merlin was sitting on his haunches, his head in her lap, and Bishop was about to order him away when Evangeline lifted her hand and caressed his head. “Good baby,” she whispered.

“Baby,” he echoed in mock distress. “My poor dog.”

“My dog.”

He rose, checking the huge bathtub. It was already filled with steaming water. He turned off the tap, then went back to her. She was still wearing the dress, though it was ripped and covered with mud, and her face was just as bad. He didn’t bother with searching for buttons or zippers—he simply took the knife and sliced through the shoulders of the thing, then ripped it down the front. The wet fabric only resisted for a moment—at that point his adrenaline was still pumping enough that he could have torn through steel to free her from her clothes.

She didn’t make any effort to cover herself—maybe she thought it was too dark for him to see anything. She was wrong. He could see her pale skin, her sweetly rounded breasts, the healing wounds from Clement’s knife. “Did he hurt you?” he demanded, trying to ignore the heat that was filling him. Filling his cock. He was a pig, and he was going to ignore his desperate need to fuck her, hard, claim her, ride her until they were both too shattered to think or move.

She shook her head, her hair hanging down in limp strands around her face. She was lying—he’d seen the bruise on the side of her face—or maybe shock was setting in and she really didn’t know what he had or hadn’t done.

She hadn’t been raped—Claude/Claudia’s affectations didn’t include sexual desire of any sort, unless he had to establish an alibi, which was some blessing. He had no idea how long Claude had her—from the time she’d left him at his computers to the time he finally realized something was wrong could have been anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours.

And what the hell had happened to his usually infallible instincts? He’d never missed danger when it was lurking—he had a sixth sense for it, finely honed.

But he knew the answer. It was Evangeline. She threw everything off. He spent so much time worrying about her that he could no longer trust his instincts, and so he’d ignored them.

He slid his arms around her and scooped her up quite easily. She hadn’t been eating enough—she was lighter than she had been in Italy, lighter than she’d been a few days ago. He was going to have to feed her. Fortunately New Orleans had the best food in the world.

“This might hurt,” he said, and once more she gave that rusty laugh as he set her into tub, the steaming water coming just up to her breasts. She was still shivering, and he realized it wasn’t the cold that was the problem, and all the heat in the world wouldn’t fix it.

It took him less than a moment to slip out of his clothes, and he doubted she was even aware of it, aware of anything until he slipped into the tub behind her and pulled her against him. He expected her to struggle, to complain, to lash out, but she sank back against his chest as if it was where she belonged, resting her head against his shoulder as he put his arms around her. For the first time he felt some of his own tension begin to drain away, felt his heartbeat slow, his adrenaline sinking back to normal levels, and he slid down in the tub, taking her with him, leaning his head back against the porcelain edge. He could feel when her trembling slowed, stopped, when her icy skin warmed. He knew when she became aware of his hard dick pressing against her backside, and he expected her to sit up, to push away from him in disgust. She didn’t move.