Mercy Burns

I didn’t answer immediately, concentrating on the chocolaty goodness instead. “You’re a smart man, so you can probably guess my response to that particular suggestion.”

He leaned back in his chair, his expression so cold the chill of it ran down my spine. Scary didn’t even begin to describe his countenance right now. “You really don’t have any common sense, do you?”

Anger swirled again—a firestorm that rippled across my skin, making the shadows in which we sat briefly flame to life.

His gaze flickered to my arms then swept past me, studying the half-empty restaurant.

“Careful,” he murmured. “We don’t need to be attracting attention right now.”

“I realize that,” I snapped, drawing the heat back in, letting it burn deep in my soul instead. “I’m not stupid, no matter what you might think.”

“I didn’t—”

“No, you just figure I’m a silly little reporter who has no idea what she’s really getting into.”

“And do you?”

“I’ve seen the towns and I’ve talked to Angus. I know.” My voice burned with a fury that wasn’t particularly aimed at him, but at fate itself. Just this once, I’d have liked to break through one of those damn walls between me and any useful information. Just once, I’d have liked to learn something rather than ending up empty-handed again. Damn it, I didn’t have the time to be running around in useless circles. “I’m not going to let you browbeat me into walking away, Damon. I can’t.”

He studied me for a moment, then said softly, “Because you need to save someone.”

I looked away, fighting the sting of tears. “Yes.”

“And is saving this person really worth the possible cost?”

I briefly closed my eyes. “Yes.”

“Then you must really love them.”

“I do.” I took a deep, somewhat shuddery breath and met his dark gaze. It was compassion and steel combined, and it was almost my undoing. “They killed her three days ago, Damon. I’m all she had, which means I’m the only one who can save her soul. And no matter what it takes, I will find and kill the bastards responsible for her death. No matter what you—or anyone else—says or does.”

The steel in his expression faded. He leaned forward and gathered my hands in his, his touch so warm, so comforting, that the tears spilled down my cheeks. God, it felt good to have someone to talk to. Someone who seemed to understand exactly what I was going through.

“How did she die?” he asked softly.

I closed my eyes against the rush of memories—the force of the impact that sent us flying, the crunch of metal, the high-pitched scream of the tires that was almost drowned out by our own, the bitter taste of fear as we realized there was nothing we could do to save ourselves. I’d relived those moments over and over in the hospital and would no doubt catch them in my dreams for years to come. While I doubted time would make them any easier to take, I hoped it would at least make the pain fade.

I took a deep breath, and said, “We were looking for clues in Nevada, but a phone call had us heading back to San Francisco. A truck ran us off the road before we got anywhere near here, and Rainey … went through the windshield.” I paused, swallowing heavily. “It was no accident.”

He shifted his grip so that his fingers were laced through mine. It was comforting and yet, at the same time, very intimate. The heat of his flesh chased the chill from mine and made me feel safer than I had ever thought possible.

“What makes you think it wasn’t an accident?”

“The truck accelerated as it came toward us. The driver never applied his brakes and, in fact, gunned the engine to hit us a second time. The police found the truck abandoned—and wiped of prints—two hours later.”

“Did you see the driver at all?”

I shook my head. “We were too busy trying to get out of his way.”

“Maybe the driver simply panicked—”

“No.” I raised my gaze to his. “They killed her, and they tried to kill me. I need to know why.” I needed answers if I was to have any hope of saving Rainey.

I breathed deep, trying to control the turmoil within me, trying to keep calm. It didn’t work. The tears continued to trickle down my cheeks regardless.

“The worst of it is, no one prayed for her, Damon. They ran us off the road and left us to die in the night and the cold, and I wasn’t aware enough to pray for her soul at sunrise.”

And that was the worst of it. I wasn’t there for her when she needed me the most.

“Her death was not your fault.”

“But if I don’t get my answers and claim my vengeance, then her soul will be forced to roam this earth forever. And that will be my fault.”

He didn’t say anything, just continued to hold my hands, and it offered more comfort than mere words ever could. Yet I could sense the conflict in him—the need for information warring with the need to be sympathetic. “Say it,” I said quietly.

He gave me a lopsided smile that warmed me more than his touch. “You must have found something to make them nervous.”

“We made a ton of notes, but I can’t remember anything that specifically points a finger at anyone.” I hesitated, then added, “But the man who gave us the tip … His voice was familiar.”

“You can’t place it?”

“No.” I hesitated again. “I have a friend doing a check on the whereabouts of a Seth Knightly, although the voice was too elegant to be his.”

“Then why do you suspect him?”

“Because he made a reference to something that happened to me in the past—something that only a few people were aware of. And running us off the road like that, and then leaving us to die, is the sort of thing he’d do.”

He frowned slightly. “And there was nothing in the town that you were investigating before the accident?”

“Nothing at all.” I hesitated. “Though I did wonder how they got my cell number.”

He frowned. “Cell phones are digital and hard to pick up on scanners, although that doesn’t mean it can’t have happened. But it’s more than likely someone would have given them your number.”

“I’ve only got a couple of friends who have my number, and none of them would have given it out without telling me.”

“What about your mother?”

“It’s possible, if the king ordered it.” But that man didn’t even know I existed, so I couldn’t imagine he was the source. “I’d like to think she didn’t, though.”

If only because that would mean they knew altogether too much about me.

Damon’s frown deepened. “Did you phone anyone unusual in the few days before the accident?”

“No.” I hesitated. “Well, I did phone the council about the cleansed towns, but they, of course, could not have cared less. I can’t imagine they’d attempt to destroy us when they didn’t even give a damn about two towns that had been destroyed.”

He didn’t comment on that, but I felt his quick flash of interest anyway. “You think someone on the council is working with the people behind the cleansings?”

I shrugged. “Right now, I think anything is possible.”

“It’s a shame those notes all burned along with your apartment. They might have been useful.”

“They’re not much more than a listing of what we’ve found, who we know is missing, stuff like that.”

“Which may not mean a lot to you, but could be the difference between me finding these people and not.”

“Meaning, of course, that you do know a whole lot more than you’re admitting.”

“I’m a muerte. I always know more than I admit.”