“Did someone go to the site of the snake’s murder and hunt for a camera? That was a huge mistake on his part.”
“We’re on it. Let’s profile the last two, and if we get as much information as you did last night, I should be able to start hunting them as early as tomorrow. Lily and Flame are both researching for us, and I can put both of our GhostWalker teams on standby. They’ll all help. Time will be everything.”
“Do you want to go into the kitchen?”
“No. I’ll bring the last two pieces in here. And your gloves. I’ll get Nico’s powder and your pills too.” He set her leg carefully aside as he stood.
He needed to take a breath where she couldn’t see that just the thought of her touching those game pieces made him break into a sweat. He had thought that he could control her, control the situations they were in, but he was finding having a partner meant giving up some of his control.
She sat in the same place, her chin on her drawn-up knee, looking too fragile to go after killers, but he knew she wasn’t; she had a steel rod for a spine and more heart than most. When he handed her the gloves, she tangled her fingers with his.
“Kadan. Kiss me.”
He didn’t hesitate, leaning down to capture her mouth with his, loving her, tasting her fear, her belief in him. He cupped her chin and took his time, savoring her taste, knowing she needed him inside of her the same way he needed her. Then, because he couldn’t resist, he opened a few buttons of the shirt she wore—his shirt—and leaned down to bathe the mark he’d made on her with his tongue before pressing kisses over it. He felt her shuddering breath, and something in him eased.
He carefully buttoned her up again. “Tell me what you’re planning.”
“I’ll find him this time and try to observe, but at some point he’ll spot me. I’m going to let him and see if he makes a mistake.” She rested her forehead against his. “Hang in there with me. I know it will be hard, but just trust me. I’ll need you.”
He had to be honest. “I don’t know if I can, but I’ll try.”
“This time, you hold the piece in your palm, be the table. I’ll cover it with my hands and try to pick up impressions. If I have to, I’ll touch the top of the piece and see what I get. That way, you can remove it the moment it’s necessary.”
Kadan liked the plan. He controlled the situation, and he needed to feel in control when she was putting herself in danger. He nodded and settled himself next to her while she pulled on the gloves.
Tansy took a breath, let it out, and laid her palm over Kadan’s open hand where the ivory scorpion lay, tail poised to sting. Waves of rage poured over and into her, flooding her mind. Anger pulsed through her and with it the desire to strike back, hard and ugly. Hurt something. Someone. She had the impression of a woman cowering on the floor crying. A child in the doorway sobbing.
His head hurt, the pressure unbearable. He didn’t want to hurt them. Not them. What had he done again? He tried not to hear the sounds of their weeping. She would leave him this time. She should leave him. Next time he might kill her, and he never wanted it to be her. He needed to find the others, tell them he had to go next, take a turn out of order if necessary, or move his timetable forward. He couldn’t hurt her ever again.
The others understood him, the terrible voices that drove him. Maybe he would have been okay if he’d stayed in the military, but somehow he’d lost control of his temper. Every day, it just seemed to escalate until he couldn’t stop rampaging. One wrong word and he had to pound something; if he didn’t obey the voices, the pain in his head was unbearable. The satisfaction of feeling his fist slamming into flesh was becoming too short-lived. Now he needed to take it all the way when this happened. He had to find someone to pour his rage into—but not her. Never her.
He gathered her into his arms, rocking her back and forth, trying to comfort her, trying to comfort himself. There was blood on his hands—her blood. He’d gone to three counselors, but nothing helped, certainly not the medicine they’d given him. If he touched her again, he was eating a bullet. He had to find a way to stop the rage that consumed him. His head hurt so bad, vises squeezing until he thought his head would explode. And the voices, whispering all the time, telling him he was nothing. And that one voice that never let up, not for a moment.
Angela, I’m sorry. Take Tommy Jr. and go to your parents. Get the hell away from me until I figure out what’s wrong. He needed to say it out loud. She probably feared leaving him. And he was afraid too. If she left and he got angry, there was no telling what he’d do. He wept silently, terrified for all of them, but the pain in his head was relentless, and he needed to find someone to pound until the hurting stopped . . .
Tansy frowned. The faint whispers in his head held a familiar cadence. Was the puppet master actually taking part in driving this man to murder? He wasn’t like the others she’d tracked. This man was ashamed and scared and filled with remorse. He was desperately fighting to keep from giving in to the madness. He had a wife and child. He didn’t want to harm anyone, but he couldn’t stop himself. The voice and the relentless pressure in his head caused terrible rages. Was the puppet master the voice?
“Don’t,” Kadan cautioned. “Don’t give him any more to track you with.” He watched her eyes, the way he always did. She was moving further away from him, the violet completely taking over the blue and the silver encroaching on the violet, until her eyes shimmered with that strange opaque that signaled she was deep inside the tracking lane.
Tansy didn’t respond, didn’t act as if she heard him. Her mind was completely focused now. He couldn’t follow her, only read her thoughts, and she was on the thread of that voice. It was faint, the strand so thin, but razor-edge sharp, a bite cutting into the walls of Scorpion’s mind, causing pain and enraging him with the relentless pressure. She stayed very quiet, letting her mind travel along the thread, careful not to disturb it until she found the second thread that led directly to her prey interlocking with the first.
Impressions swamped her mind. A shed. Benches and tables with cutting tools. A man sitting, his hands busy shaping the perfect piece. A masterpiece, museum-quality really. Few could ever top his skills in carving. Each detail so precise. He peered at the specimens gathered around him. Drawings. The live one in the glass cage. The dead one pinned to the table. Scorpions of various sizes. He needed this one perfect. It took work and discipline, but he had never minded either, rather he valued the traits.