Lure of the Wicked Part 25

In flowing green silk.

Gasping for breath as she resurfaced, Naomi pushed and shoved Abigail's limp body to the edge of the pool. Every nerve shuddered, violent antic.i.p.ation, but Naomi forced herself to move. To seize the unresponsive woman by her hair, her clothes, her lifeless limbs, anything that put her over the edge.

It took every ounce of strength she had to do it. Her hair streamed into her eyes, the chlorine stung, but swearing, heaving, Naomi ducked under the surface, visions of charred death by voltage dancing in her mind's eye, and jammed her shoulder under Abigail's back.

The woman rolled. Threatened to topple the wrong way. Naomi's straining breath turned into a scream, and Abigail's limp body hit the tile.

She wasn't moving. Dear G.o.d, she wasn't moving, she wasn't breathing, Naomi couldn't tell if- Out. She had to get out.

Summoning every iota of willpower, she grabbed the edge of the pool and wrenched herself out. She struggled as the water seemed to wrap around her hips, her legs, her sodden clothes. Swearing, cursing, gasping for breath, she crawled over the tile, over Abigail's inert body.

Blood ran from a gash at the woman's cheek. It painted the woman's beautiful face in a cruel mask of crimson, of running mascara.

"Ambulance," Naomi gasped. She needed, oh, G.o.d, she needed an ambulance. She needed help. She needed anyone, d.a.m.n it, she needed Phin. "Help me!" she screamed, even as adrenaline surged through her flagging limbs. She wrenched Abigail into her arms, terror thick and acrid in her throat. Her heart.

Somehow, she didn't know how, she got to her feet. Somehow she carried her mother away from the coiling, sparking cable. Away from the water that hissed and sizzled as the cable thrashed itself into the pool. The power surged around her as the water sucked out every last current of power; the ceiling lights shattered out in an explosion of gla.s.s and sparking electricity.

Somehow Naomi made it to the double doors. Shoved out of them. Staggered.

Warm arms wrapped around hers. Caught her, caught Abigail before they buckled. Phin's voice. His orders.

His strength.

People moved around her, ants to the anthill under attack, and Naomi let Phin take Abigail from her. He carried her like the woman weighed nothing, an easy, comforting strength as he stood in the middle of chaos and calmly ordered that a gurney be brought, that emergency maintenance be called, that staff see to guests.

The ambulance was coming.

Slowly, effortlessly, Phin restored order.

And she couldn't watch. Couldn't watch him stand in the middle of everything and look so cool, so calm in his dress s.h.i.+rt and slacks and newly washed hair. So patient and compa.s.sionate and strong.

Cradling the woman who had abandoned her.

The woman Naomi couldn't allow herself to return the favor to.

Shaking, s.h.i.+vering with cold, with delayed shock, Naomi withdrew from the madness. She withdrew from the bubble of calm that beckoned her, lured her like that moth to a flame more insidious than anything she'd ever known.

Coward.

Naomi fled.

"Go." Lillian pushed Phin away from the flurry of activity around Abigail's gurney. "I know a problem when I see one, go."

Though it went against every executive bone in his body, Phin obeyed his mother; heard and obeyed the urgency in her voice.

He felt the same gnawing worry in his gut.

One minute Naomi had been right there. When he looked up next, she was gone. Getting into trouble, doing something stupid, chasing whatever ghost her Church had demanded she find, he didn't know.

He dialed security. "Get me Naomi Is.h.i.+kawa's location," he said as the comm clicked over.

Barker cut off his own greeting with a clipped "Yes, sir." It only took a minute, but every second slammed into Phin like a dagger of apprehension.

Something was very wrong.

"She's on the athletic floor," Baker reported. "In the gym."

"Who's with her?"

"No one, it's clear."

"Good." Phin hurried across the courtyard. "Put out the word. We're closing for the duration. I want every man on your team on this."

"Yes, sir, we're already scouring the floors."

"Bring in extra help, I don't care who you have to strong-arm, but get them in here. Escort the temporaries to a safe location-safe, do you hear me?-and release the staff to go home as soon as everyone is out."

"Yes, sir. Mr. Clarke, about Vaughn-"

"Later." Phin let out an explosive breath as he cut the line. He sprinted through the double doors, following the line of gla.s.s panels to the gym.

He heard her before he saw her.

Reminiscent of the first time he'd watched her, she stood in front of a heavy bag, its chains creaking as it swung wildly with every furious blow, every punch, every kick.

But it was different this time. She was different. Not nearly so controlled. She hadn't changed her clothes, and there was something wildly incongruous about a woman beating the s.h.i.+t out of a punching bag in jeans, soggy sweater, and high-heeled boots, but she moved as if she was used to fighting in those heels.

As if she didn't give a flying f.u.c.k what anyone else thought.

She moved like a missionary.

And he was the sucker who harbored witches.

G.o.d d.a.m.n it. It didn't matter. He rounded the gla.s.s. "Naomi."

Her bare fist slammed into the bag. Too hard. It swung, but she did it again, expelling a ragged sound of thinly restrained fury with every strike. And again. A left hook, an uppercut that made him cringe. Red gleamed wetly against the vinyl casing. Her wet hair tumbled in stringy knots around her shoulders while her sodden clothes dripped onto the sealed wood floors.

"Naomi," he said again. He caught her shoulders. The ruined wool knotted and stretched beneath his fingers. "Stop, sweetheart, don't hurt-"

She rounded on him, seizing the front of his s.h.i.+rt in one abraded, bleeding fist. "Back off," she snarled. Her face was so close, her eyes so haunted, that Phin couldn't, wouldn't be cowed.

Not by her. Not by the woman he had already fallen for.

He ignored her fist. Ignored her anger and slid his fingers over her cheek. "It's okay," he said softly.

The sound she made shouldn't have been possible from a human throat. Like a wounded animal, a caged beast, it ripped out of her, tore free from her chest as she wrenched away.

Phin staggered, but caught himself and took another step toward her as she faced the swinging bag, her shoulders heaving. "It's okay," he said again, as gently as if he were coaxing a wounded kitten. A scared child.

"Stop it."

He shook his head. "It's going to be okay."

"You have no idea," she bit out, and stiffened as he laid his palms over her shoulders.

Braced for her anger, ready in case she lashed out in whatever pain rode her now, he slid his fingers down her arms. Her body jerked, but he stepped into her s.p.a.ce anyway. "Hey," he murmured against her cold, wet hair. "It's okay."

She sucked in a breath, and he felt it break. Some kind of leashed tension, an emotional dam crumbling in his arms. Quickly, more easily than he'd expected, he spun her around, gathered her into his embrace and only held her as she trembled.

Sometime in the near future he'd have to tell her. He'd have to explain about the people Timeless had helped, try to get her to understand that he hadn't meant to lie to her. Try to undercut the missionary he knew she was.

Someday he'd have to convince her to trust him, but for now he only held her. Braced her as she fell against him and gave him her weight. She was tall, but he didn't spend every other day in this gym for nothing. She wrapped her legs around his waist and buried her face into his shoulder, her arms tight around his neck.

Wordless, everything inside him aching with her, for her, he navigated them into the women's locker room. He cupped the back of her head and turned on the shower inside a stall. It blasted against them both, soaked through his clothes, a stream of soothing warmth and steady sound. It would m.u.f.fle the tears he knew she needed to shed.

But she'd die before she did it by herself.

His fragile witch hunter.

He braced her against the wall, leaning back to thread his fingers through her hair and watch her face. Her eyes swam, vivid pools of too much emotion. Grief, fear, resentment.

Haunted.

Tipping her face up, he angled her beneath the spray. It beat over her shoulders, her chest; washed away the lingering aroma of sodden wool and chlorine and the acrid stench of ozone from the electrical current that had nearly killed her.

"Look at me," he demanded.

Because she was Naomi, she did. A hard, direct challenge. Phin's heart swelled. Overflowed. His Naomi. "I don't need-" She sucked in a breath as he flattened his palm against her breast, just over her heart.

"Listen to me," he said softly. "It's going to be okay."

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it-"

"It's going to be okay," he said again, watching her eyes flinch. Her breath shuddered, jarred on the tears he knew were in there. She needed them out.

When was the last time she had cried?

Did the Church let its hunters feel? Did it care?

She struggled to get out of his arms, but he held on. He twined his hands into the back of her sweater, angling his weight to lock her against the tile. Fury etched itself into her features, twisted her mouth into a teeth-baring grimace.

It was a start.

"You risked your life- Naomi, don't," he said roughly as she lashed out. Her elbow crashed into the tile. Her fist slammed past his ear, spiked sharply into the wall over his shoulder.

Her knuckles cracked and he swore.

"No." Her voice echoed in the tiled acoustics. "Don't you dare-"

His heart breaking with every violent denial, he shook her hard enough to snap her teeth together on the words he saw forming in the red-rimmed defiance of her eyes. "You risked your life to save a woman you don't even like," he said flatly. "Don't tell me you don't care."

"What do you know?" she hissed. Anger couldn't fill the shock-white pallor of her skin. It couldn't fill the void he saw behind her eyes, behind the twisted, bared teeth of her grimace.

"I know that she's under your skin."

"f.u.c.k you."

"I know that she hurt you," Phin continued, undeterred. He seized her wrists, pinned them over her head, and knew it was because she let him. He'd seen her fight, seen her roll with a bullet.

But she didn't shake him off.

Somewhere inside that rage, she needed him.

"I know that you-"

"She left me." It broke on a sob, a wild cry that sounded to Phin as much grief as wounded woman and, somewhere in there, a tormented little girl. She thrashed, slammed her head back into the tile. Shocked to the bone, Phin jerked her away from the wall and slipped. They hit the shower floor in a tangle of sodden limbs, but she didn't stop. She swore viciously as she tried to get away.

From him. From the memory.

He didn't know, but she wouldn't win this one.

She couldn't afford to.

He pinned her legs, dragged her back over the tile to wrap himself around her. He strained to hold her to the ground until her stream of violent, screaming curses turned into gasping silence. Beneath his shaking hands, the straining, rigid tension of her body melted into exhaustion.

The shower beating the tile around them was all the sound that filled the wrenching quiet.

Panting, Phin loosened his grip. A fraction.

She curled into the tile. Her hair pooled toward the drain, a streaming current of black, but he couldn't see her face. She'd turned away from him, toward the purple and white tile.

"Sweetheart," he whispered. It was all he could say.

Her shoulders jerked. "I was five years old." Her voice s.h.i.+mmered with pain, anger m.u.f.fled against the floor.

Phin let her go.

She moved. Like a d.a.m.n cat, liquid sleek and too fast, but she didn't try to get away this time. Twisting, scooting back into the corner, she shoved her hair from her face and the water from her eyes.

No, not water.

Oh, Christ, tears. Despite the knowledge that he'd wanted this reaction, knowing she needed it, Phin fought back the need to reach for her again, to gather her into his arms and soothe those tears away.

That wouldn't help her, either.

So he sat back on his heels. It took everything he had to strive for calm as he observed, "Young to remember."

Naomi sniffed hard, expelling the breath on a sharp, short sound of disgust. "She left the day before my fifth birthday. One day she'd been planning a party with the house staff, and the next she'd packed up her clothes and jewelry and took off."