building, but every instinct as well as the waves of heat at her back told her there simply wasn't time to wait.
Hollis shifted her weapon to a steady two-handed grip and sent Dani and Marc a quick look. 'Ready?'
Dani didn't spare the energy to wonder how anyone on earth could ever be ready for this. Instead, she just nodded.
Marc squeezed her hand, then released it and took a half step closer to Hollis, saying to Dani, 'Stay behind me. You're the only one of us without a gun.'
'She doesn't need a gun,' Hollis said.
'I still want her behind me,' Marc said in a tone that not many would have argued with. 'Let's go if we're going.'
Hollis had only taken one step when a thunderous crash sounded behind them and a new wave of almost intolerable heat threatened to shove them bodily into the stairwell.
The roof was falling in.
They exchanged glances and then, without emotion, Hollis said, 'Close the door behind us.'
Dani gathered all the courage she could find, and if her response wasn't as emotionless as the other woman's, at least it was steady.
'Right,' she said, and closed the door behind them as they began their descent into hell.
Dani sat up in bed with a jerk, unable to breathe for a moment, feeling that her lungs were still clogged with smoke. But that feeling passed quickly, and she was left staring around the pleasant guest bedroom of Paris 's house, familiar to her even in the postmidnight darkness.
That was what he'd said. Before he had really known anything about what they faced, that's what he'd told her.
To come get him and bring him into her dream.
'But I didn't,' Dani heard herself murmur in the quiet of the room. 'I didn't take him with me. He was there. When it happens, in the future. He's part of it now.'
What had she done?
Chapter Seven
THE PREPARATIONS were as enjoyable as anything that followed, he had discovered.
Maybe the most enjoyable, in fact.
The first time, he had made the mistake of leaving her conscious, which had caused him all sorts of problems, not the least of which had been the mess.
The second time, he had drugged her so completely that she was deadweight quite difficult to manage and, worse, her eyes had remained closed.
It wasn't nearly as satisfying if she couldn't see him.
This time, he was experimenting with a certain drug, one very similar to the infamous 'date rape' drug. The version he was using, if administered properly, kept the patient in a sort of biddable twilight state, able to move and follow directions but with virtually no physical strength.
His one reservation had been that there was no way to tell how her mind would be affected, not until he actually used it.
He really didn't want her to be dopey and unaware of what was happening to her.
That would take all the enjoyment out of it.
'Can you hear me, sweetheart?' he almost crooned.
She blinked sleepy eyes, a little puzzled, and she sounded rather like she'd just returned from a trip to the dentist when she murmured, 'I hear you. Where ith-is-thth place?'
'This is my secret laboratory, and I'm Doctor Frankenstein.' He laughed. 'No, sweetheart, this is home. My home. And now your home. I've been working hard to get it ready for you.'
Her brow furrowed. 'Real-really?'
'Of course.'
She tried to move, and the first hint of panic showed in her widening eyes. 'I-I can't-'
'You have to be still for me, sweetheart.' He checked the carefully padded leather restraints on her wrists and ankles, then returned to the head of the table.
And her head.
He frowned down at her and carefully adjusted the curved block at the base of her neck, then repositioned the basin in the sink underneath the cascading long blond hair.
Her hair was too long. Much too long.
'You should have had this cut months ago,' he scolded her, picking up the scissors from the utility cart beside him.
'I-I don't-'
'Oh, it's all right. I realize you didn't have me there to remind you. But that's all changed now.' A hit gingerly, fighting his dislike of the sensations, he gathered up a handful of her hair and began cutting.
'Oh-oh, don't-'
'Don't be ridiculous, sweetheart. You know I have always preferred your hair short.'
Tears were leaking from the corners of her eyes, and he paused a moment to enjoy the way they sparkled in the glare of the spotlight high above her.
Then he went back to cutting her long hair short, saying cheerfully, 'You know, I had no idea there were so many shades of dark brown. And I couldn't really remember which one I preferred. So I bought half a dozen. We'll find just the right one.'
'Oh, God,' she whispered.
'Just the right one. You'll see.'
He continued with his work, and long blond hair began to fill the basin underneath her changing head.
Bishop sat up in bed with a jerk, his heart pounding, breath rasping as though he'd run miles. There was a leaden queasiness in the pit of his stomach, and for a few moments he thought the only way to rid himself of the poison was the literal one.
But no.
That wouldn't work. Not this time.
He finally slid from the bed and went into the bathroom, without turning on a light. He rinsed the sour taste from his mouth, splashed cool water on his face.
He didn't look into the mirror even to see the darkness.
When he returned to the bedroom, it was to go to the window, standing to one side out of habit as he pulled the edge of the heavy curtains aside far enough to look out.
Nothing moved out in the motel's parking lot. Or beyond. And Bishop had the odd sense that it was more than the usual middle-of-the-night stillness. That it was something unnatural, a threat beyond his ability to sense it.
His wife's voice in his mind, as natural and familiar as his own thoughts and far more soothing.
