Flame's Dawn (7 page)

Her lashes fluttered then she peeked up at him from under them. She glanced up and down the hallways. Empty.

“In this room is a VIP: the wife of Tim Thompson. You've heard of him, right?”

Barnaby nodded.

The woman pressed a bony hand to her chest. “He's amazing, you know, how he can cut through the layers of people and reveal the truth.” The woman's eyes turned glassy. “No one understands the world like Mr. Thompson. If we follow his teachings, we'll all ascend to a higher plane of existence one day.”

Barnaby might have been born over four centuries ago, but he'd heard enough news and local gossip to know Tim Thompson ran a huge organization called the People's Palace. A cult, maybe doing illegal drugs, but no one could pin anything down. The guy was like a slippery eel. Sure convenient that he had a devotee running the psych ward.

Then it hit him.

The zaps of his sixth sense all but grabbed his head and wrenched it back toward the emaciated figure on the bed. With effort, he kept his eyes on the nurse.

Jane? Thompson's wife?

Never let it be said that Barnaby would ever steal a man's wife.

But Jane as Thompson's wife? Lying here in the psych ward? Looking as sick as she did?

Something was dead wrong here. The air burned in his lungs.

Forming words had become difficult. His mind churned. “When is he visiting? I'll make sure this floor is sparkling.” He'd rather ram the mop handle up the man's arse instead. The wood protested, and he relaxed his hands to keep from splintering the cleaning implement.

“In about an hour, actually. Oh gosh! I'd better get ready.” The disappointment in her eyes was replaced by avid fanaticism. “I'm hoping he'll reward my good work.” She fanned herself. “He's simply amazing.”

I just bet
.

As the nurse whirled and hurried to the end of the hall, Barnaby chanced another glance into Jane's room. She rolled her head from side to side.

Maybe she was the man's wife. Maybe she'd had a nervous breakdown. Who was he to judge?

Her skeletal face turned back toward the door, and one ocean-blue eye cracked open.

He caught the barest whiff of a subtle floral scent, like the yellow apricot flowers in Saigon. Or maybe it was his imagination.

But the very real voice that reached out to him through the door hobbled him like a hammer to the knees.

“Help me.”

In her dreams, Jane saw Barnaby. Of course that was impossible, but for a few seconds, the vision of his handsome face took away the pieces of her hell-filled memory.

No more pain, no more drugs, no more undercover mission, no more of Thompson's sweaty face bouncing while he ... God, she couldn't even process it all. The relentless medication meant she didn't have to figure everything out right now. Couldn't.

As the fog retook her consciousness, her last image was of familiar blue eyes and handsome brows and grimly set mouth.

For the first time in ... no idea ... she relaxed.

Time and space blended and shifted.

Bright light shone over her head. Voices drifted by.

“
Herr Gud,
Barnaby, what happened?” A voice with a strange accent came from somewhere near her feet.

“I don't know. But it will never happen again.” That voice, unusually hard and tight—she'd never expected to hear it again and almost wept at the comfort it brought.

When she tried to open an eye, the light blinded her. Then a shadow displaced the light.

“You're going to be fine, Jane.” Sound drifted from the backlit figure. “I swear it. I'm taking you out of here.”

Air blew across her face, like the door opened and closed. Damp, cool lines formed on both temples. Tears?

“Oh, dear, what did they do to you?”

Working her jaw, she could only manage an unladylike grunt.

The gown getting pulled down over her legs was followed by a rancid expletive.

Embarrassment flooded her. If she could move her hands, she'd hide herself from view. Even though her wrists were now free of the restraints, she still couldn't move the numb limbs.

Then she floated above the hated bed, suspended by two warm, strong arms.

Now out of the light, she studied the hard line of his handsome jaw, the worried expression on his face. His blue eyes searched her as if she might disappear if he looked away. As she watched, his eyes turned black.

She shook her head. Must be the drugs making her see things.

“Bring the gurney, Dante,” he growled.

Footsteps and the rumbling of wheels sounded like hope right about now.

“This shit is bad juju, dude. What are we going to do?” the accented voice called out.

“My friend, you are going to use your charm to try to get her patient file. If you can figure out which medications she requires, obtain them. And anything else you believe she needs.”

The warm supports slid out from under her as she landed on another bed. A crisp sheet slid over her body and tucked under her neck. The men, one at each end of the gurney, rolled her out of the hated room. Sound warped when the bed passed through the door into the hallway. Each bump made her cramping abdomen clench again, but she didn't care as long as the journey took her to freedom.

“What about you, Barnaby?” the big blond man asked.

“I'm going back to my place. You still know the address?”

“Yeah. The hospital going to know where you live?”

“Of course not,” Barnaby snapped.

“Good.”

A booming voice outside the opposite end of the hall echoed over the walls.

She knew that voice. Knew it far too well.

She twisted to her side and curled into a ball, trying to cover her face with a still-numb hand.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

“Dante, buy us some time.” Barnaby's voice carried an edge she'd never heard before.

“Will do, man, get going. Catch you on the flip side.” Footsteps pounded away from them.

A warm pressure soothed her cheek. Barnaby's palm. His hand felt like heaven and freedom. How had he found her?

Who cared?

The bed picked up speed as the doors of rooms flew by her. Flick, flick, flick. Lifeless, hard metal doors, all the same, sped past. With each door, her chest unclenched. With each door, she was getting closer to her deliverance from this hell. But not free yet.

Right as they passed through a set of metal doors, Thompson called from the far end of the hall. “Get out of my way, jerkoff!”

“My apologies,” came Dante's voice.

And the doors to the psych ward clunked closed behind her.

Barnaby pushed her down another hall; then there was a ding and a whoosh.

Just as the elevator doors closed, the roar of a pissed-off Tim Thompson curdled her blood. “Find her!”

Every muscle jumped as Barnaby stroked hair off her forehead. “If you want, he'll never touch you again. I swear it.”

This time she would get the words out. “Thank. You,” she whispered.

“Of course. Now, my dear, please hold perfectly still. We are going to get the hell out of here.”

Why was he helping her?

Didn't matter. Barnaby was here. That's all she needed to know.

When the doors opened, the scent of gasoline and echoes of traffic matched the dim glints of vehicles. Parking garage. Twilight.

Out of the hospital. Freedom. Not yet, but close.

The sounds of engines and people on the nearby street made her gulp big lungfuls of air. She didn't care that it was polluted. She just needed to breathe not-hospital air.

Alarms exploded around them. Sirens screamed and lights flashed.

Barnaby cursed. She bounced hard as the gurney flew across the concrete. He braked so hard that she would have slid off the end of the bed if he hadn't grabbed under her arm to stop the momentum.

Her vision and brain fog cleared further. Stark reality of the situation filtered in, with all the ramifications of what they were doing. Tremors racked her body.

Still wrapped in the sheet, she was lifted into his arms. With a massive kick, he sent the bed flying to the opposite side of the garage where it crashed into a vehicle at the end of the ramp.

“Shite,” he mumbled as they ducked between two cars. He cradled her on his lap as he crouched in front of a rusted truck grill.

A few moments later, footsteps flew by them.

Voices turned to shouts. The searchers had found the bed.

Twilight backlit Barnaby's face into a hard, grim profile.

The muscles in his arms and thighs bunched as he balanced her weight. With a slow, grinding twist, he removed a headlight from a vehicle.

Pounding steps and Thompson's loud voice reverberated through the garage. She pressed her lips tightly together to keep from letting out a terrified cry.

If Thompson got his hands on her again—man, she couldn't even imagine. She'd never walk away from a second meeting.

She shivered. If she could stand on her own two feet, Jane would run from this place and never stop. But little in her weakened body worked right now, and that ticked her off almost as much as the awful situation.

Dependent on someone for help, all she could do was pray that Barnaby knew what he was doing.

His voice blew over her brow like hope and promises.

“I've got an idea,” he whispered.

Her shiver had nothing to do with the cool evening temperature and everything to do with the vibrations of his voice rolling over her.

She'd placed her life in his hands once before, and he hadn't failed.

All those muscles bunched, like a tiger about to pounce. Instead of crouching to spring, he curled himself around her body, holding her so tightly it hurt.

Damned if she'd complain.

Footsteps came closer and stopped two cars away.

Sweat rolled down her neck.

“Someone back here?” a disembodied voice said.

With a burst of movement, Barnaby flung the headlight into the far recesses of the garage, where it shattered, drawing the searcher away.

Shouts echoed off the concrete as many sets of feet faded toward the location of the noise.

Barnaby ran, staying in front of cars, until they reached the end of the garage. Were they at ground level?

He stood up, and she peeked over the wall down a good fifty feet. Her stomach churned. Not ground level.

“Jane,” a nasty voice grated.

Barnaby froze.

Thompson's boots thunked concrete as he walked out of the shadows. “Come back with me, baby. You're sick. I can take care of you, like always. We'll make more babies. Strong ones. Babies to carry on important work.”

Hot stomach acid burned its way up her throat.

Barnaby frowned and glanced down at her, a silent question written on his face.

“Please, no, Barnaby. He's lying.”

His curt nod gave her hope. When he studied Thompson for several seconds, Barnaby's eyebrows shot up.

“Minion? God's teeth, no,” he whispered.

“What?” Jane didn't like how Barnaby had gone deathly still. Something had happened between the two men, but darned if she knew what.

Thompson grinned.

Barnaby tensed.

How would they get out of this mess?

“Let go of my wife, asshole, or I'll have you thrown in jail.”

“Throw yourself in jail, Thompson,” she spat. “How many crimes are enough? How much pain and suffering do you have to inflict?”

His eyes darted over his shoulder up the parking ramp. “You don't know what you're talking about, sugar. It's the drugs, of course. Look, pal, she's sick. Let me take her back for more treatment.” His nice-guy act rang like a note out of tune.

A muscle jumped in Barnaby's jaw as his eyes blackened. “You will not touch her, spawn of Satan.”

Thompson's expression shifted, like a curtain drawn back from his angry face to reveal pure evil beneath. By some trick of the dim light, he looked much bigger. More menacing. “You have no say in this, slave.” He barked out what passed for a laugh. “You just signed her death warrant.”

“Barnaby? What's he talking about?” she asked.

Barnaby glanced at the edge of the wall and then back to Jane. “He's a very bad creature. And he's lying about you being his wife.”

“Yes. Every last bit of it.”

He kept one eye on Thompson. “Good enough for me.” Flicking a glance at Jane, he asked, “Do you trust me?”

Did she trust him? It didn't matter. Jane had just run out of choices.

“I do right now.”

Several other searchers pounded concrete as they sprinted up to Thompson. The cult leader glanced at them with an uneasy expression that clouded over into one of pure hatred. His imposing frame seemed to shrink back to a normal size.

She shook her head. Must be the drugs.

Barnaby's arms tensed.

With a spring too fast to register, Barnaby vaulted the wall, and her stomach left her as they fell through air. The impact with the ground jarred her as he grunted, rolled forward onto his knees, and absorbed most of the force of the fall.

It took a minute to breathe again. “How did—?”

A roar of male anger amplified by something else nameless and evil came from three stories up.

“Shush,” he said. “Let's go.”

With her cradled in his arms, he ran, faster than anything she'd ever known was possible. He dodged cars, leapt benches, and ducked into an alley until they had traveled away from the garage and behind the hospital in mere seconds. They stopped near a black hearse.

How fitting.

“How—?” she asked when he stopped to study his surroundings.

As he dropped a light kiss onto her cheek, his thick brown hair brushed over her forehead. “You have your secrets. I have mine.”

“But—”

“Did I fail you in Saigon?”

“No.”

“I won't fail you now.”

She swallowed. “Okay.”