slacken. Felt confusion course through her. Where a moment before he had seemed as deadly as a rabid snake, now he projected total harmlessness. Her nerves burned, but she couldn't stop herself from relaxing, dammit…
Nigel chuckled delightedly, as if sharing a wonderful jest. 'For a moment there-' He slid sideways, and his left arm flickered out faster than a blink. The ball of his thumb dug into the nerve plexus at the base of her ear. Pain erupted, sudden and unbelievably severe. What defence? Kick? Elbow? Knee?
But all of her lovely defense techniques had been learned in a state of clarity. A mind screaming with pain cannot think. A body denied balance and breath cannot respond.
His right thumb dug for a nerve cluster at the elbow. Attacked by two entirely separate sources of pain, Sharon's body spasmed and froze. She couldn't even speak.
Bishop brought his face into her line of sight. It seemed carved from black ice, all bone and muscle and terrible, animalistic fury. 'An application of aiki-jutsu, you faithless bitch.' She couldn't understand the venom, the sheer murderous hatred in his words.
'It isn't as if I trusted you, whore. But if you didn't care about your word, or your life, you might have given a shit about your child.' He screamed the word, and she cringed, expecting a blow that didn't come.
'I should have known,' he said, and increased the torque, intensifying the level of pain until her face turned pasty. Then he released it a little, letting her breathe.
She gulped air. Maybe if she explained. 'I just wanted some insurance…' His face had become impassive, except for those animal eyes. The eyes promised death. All hope drained from her, and with it, much of the fear. 'Who are you?' she asked dully. 'What do you really want?'
'Surcease of sorrow.' He ground his thumb against the nerve again. Then he mashed the cartoid artery. She twitched hard, shivering, locked between pain and oxygen starvation, and then went limp. Sharon Crayne slid bonelessly to the floor.
'Tsk,' he said.
He could see no flaw in the featureless cubicle's walls… ceiling… rim of the pool? Nothing, and seconds were becoming minutes. On a hunch he dialed Eden again, then changed the setting. A castle and moat. A wilderness of ice, a seal hole exposing black water
… what was that, an insect? A lifeless beach beneath a vast sun made of red-hot fog, and the same lone insect hanging in the air.
It was a flaw in the liquid crystal display that sheathed the walls. His thumbnail scraped aside white plaster and revealed Sharon Crayne's tiny scanner.
His body was shaking, and he realized with a start that he was afraid. Everything could come apart, right now, unless he thought clearly.
Why had she bugged the room? And why the hell hadn't he put the sunglasses on before letting her know he had seen it? No mere Gamer had Bishop's level of technology. It took very special connections. The kind that could pierce an
Embryadopt screen…
And now Sharon knew. And that eliminated his options.
Nigel Bishop slipped a knife blade from the tip of his belt, slid it under the liquid-crystal wallpaper, and peeled the paper back.
He was still trembling as he lifted out a video-audio recording device no bigger than his thumbnail. Probably stored an hour of image in bubble memory. With this in her hands, she'd thought to hold him captive, to threaten exposure to the IFGS.
Stupid bitch. Bishop fought with his breathing, using his hardwon muscle control to quell his shakes. It took twenty seconds, but finally his stomach unclenched.
Perhaps Crayne had thought to prevent future blackmail. Stupid. 'I keep my bargains, Sharon.'
A quick search of the room revealed no more nasty surprises. Did she have an accomplice? Unlikely. Was there a device in another room? Unlikely. The sensory cubicles had input but no output-part of the privacy guaranteed by Mate 'N' Switch's exorbitant prices.
In all probability, this was the only nasty she had.
What to do?
Bishop closed his eyes, ran a dozen possibilities past his closed lids in as many seconds. When he found his answer, his eyes opened again, blinked once, and then regarded Sharon without emotion.
He peeled her out of her clothes with impersonal efficiency. He hoisted her onto the bed as if she were a rag doll. He rubbed her hair into the pillow. Rubbed her shoulders into the blanket.
He sniffed where her skin had touched sheets, vaguely recognizing the scent as Aperitif by Chanel.
Slip bug in pocket.
Ready.
He ran his fingers over Sharon's arm, found the pain hold that he wanted, and then checked his watch. Three o'clock. He heard nothing outside. The Mate 'N' Switch was silent, clients either sleeping or humping feverishly away in fantasyland.
Adrenaline boiled in his veins. He clamped his mind back down on the fear. There was still much to do, and not much time in which to do it.
He slung her over his shoulder and carried her to the sunken tub. When the illusion was on, this would be the lagoon, hot springs, alien sea, Trevi Fountain, whatever. Bar soap was hidden in a recessed shelf at the edge. He dipped a new bar into the water and then squeezed it out of the wrapper. He balled the paper up and pocketed it.
Now. Very carefully, he set her heel down on the wet bar, let her weight mash it and skid her sideways. He let her fall, changing grips at the last moment to add the drive of his palm to her forehead so that it smashed hard against the tiled edge. She slid down, the white enamel now dappled with blood.
The water slid up into her nose. Her eyes fluttered open weakly. Dazed and almost helpless, Sharon Crayne fought for her life like a sick kitten. A thread of blood drifted out of her nose. She pushed feebly at his hand.
A few bubbles flowed out of her mouth.
And then she was still.
Bishop stood, wiping his palms against his pants with genuine distaste. 'It wasn't in the game plan,' he said flatly. 'It isn't elegant. Bad call, Miss Crayne.'
Moving swiftly, he checked the entire room again, minutely, remembering everything that he had touched, wiping every object and surface clean. He popped the wrapper into a disposal unit, then the child's picture, and watched them flash to flame. Good.
He stepped into the elevator capsule. Ran his actions back through his mind. When he had done this three times and found no flaw, he touched the pod at his belt. The illusion sprang to life once again.
Palm trees swayed in a gentle, fragrant wind. Somewhere distant, a lute played sadly.
And Sharon Crayne floated sideways in a blue lagoon.
The elevator door closed.
Acacia went from deep, druglike sleep to wakefulness in a slow beat. 'Nigel?'
He didn't say anything, just pressed himself against her. His skin felt cold.
He was shaking. He pulled himself close to her, then closer still. In the room's dim light, she turned to look at him, touching his face and hair, surprised at his vulnerability.
'Nigel?' She felt sudden alarm, but he shushed her. With strong thin fingers he rolled her onto her back. He parted the veil of her nightgown, ran cold fingers along her warm flesh.
'Shhh.' His lips brushed hers. Only his upper body, his cheeks, felt cold. His legs and thighs, his crotch, were feverhot. 'Shhh…'
She gasped, inhaling harshly as his weight came down on her.
'Nigel?'
'Not a word, darling,' he said. He began to move rhythmically, and despite all of her will, questions and speculations began to dissolve in sensation.
'Everything,' he said hoarsely, 'is just fine.'
