She opened, and he filled. Warmth enclosed in warmth. They moved together in the seamless dark, beat for sustained beat, while pleasure bloomed and ripened.
His lips brushed at her tears, and the taste of them was lovely. In the dark, his hands found hers, linked.
“You’re all there is.”
She heard him say it, tenderly. And as the wave rose to sweep them both, it was soft as silk.
In the dark, she slept away the rest of the night in his arms. Without dreams.
Morning had tocome. She was prepared for it. There were steps to be taken, and she would take them without hesitation and, she promised herself, without regret.
She slipped out of the house early. She took one last glance at Mac, how he looked sleeping peacefully in her bed. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what might have been.
Then she closed the door and didn’t look back.
She could hear Nell, already up and singing in the kitchen, and knew her brother would be up and starting the day soon. She needed to get a jump on it.
She left by the front door, heading for the village and the station house at a brisk jog.
The wind and rain had died in the night. Under clear skies, the air had turned bitter again.
She could hear the pounding of the sea. The surf would still be high and wild, and the beach littered with whatever the water had cast out.
But there would be no long, freeing run for her that morning.
The village was as still as a painting, captured under a crystalline coating of ice. She imagined it waking, yawning, stretching, and cracking that thin sheath like an eggshell.
Determined that her home, and everyone on it, would wake safe, she unlocked the door of the station house.
It was chilly inside and warned her they were running on emergency power. Lost power during the night, and the generator kicked on. She imagined that she and Zack would be busy later, dealing with any of the residents who didn’t have backup power.
But that was later.
With a check of the time, she booted up the computer. She could run it off the battery long enough to get what she needed.
Jonathan Q. Harding. She rolled her shoulders and began her search.
The basic police work steadied her. It was routine, it was second nature. Her stop at the hotel had garnered her his home address—or the address he’d given, she reminded herself.
Now, she would see just who the hell he was. And with that, begin to piece together the puzzle of what part he played in her personal drama.
She scanned the data as it scrolled on-screen. Harding, Jonathan Quincy. Age forty-eight. Divorced. No children. Los Angeles.
“L.A.,” she repeated, and felt the little quiver she’d experienced when she’d gotten his city of residence from the hotel registration.
Evan Remington was from Los Angeles. So were a lot of other people, she reminded herself, as she had the day before. But there wasn’t as much conviction in it this time around.
She read his employment information. A magazine writer. Reporter. Son of a bitch.
“Looking for a hot story, Harding? Well, it’s not going to happen. You just try getting through me to Nell and . . .”
She broke off, blew out a breath, and deliberately, consciously, tamped down on the instinctive anger.
There had been other reporters, she reminded herself. Gawkers, parasites, and the curious. They’d handled it without any real trouble. They would handle this one the same way.
She went back to the data, noting that Harding had no criminal record. Not even an outstanding parking violation. So he was, by all appearances, a law-abiding sort.
She sat back, considered.
If she were a reporter from L.A. looking for a story, where would she start? Remington’s family was a good bet. His sister, then some friends, some associates. Research the key players, who included Nell. From there? Police reports, probably. Interviews with people who had known both Remington and Nell.
But that was all background, wasn’t it? You couldn’t get to the meat until you’d talked directly to the main characters.
She snatched up the phone, intending to contact the facility where Remington was being held. And heard the line crackle and die. First the power, she thought, now the phones. Muttering complaints, she yanked out her cell phone, hit Power. And ground her teeth when the display announced that her battery was dead.
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“Damn it. Goddamn it!” Pushing herself out of the chair, she paced. There was an urgency in her now. Whether it was the cop, the woman, or the witch pushing didn’t seem to matter. Shehad to know if Harding had met with Remington.
“All right, then.” She steadied herself again. It was imperative to stay calm and controlled.
It had been a long time since she’d attempted a flight. She had no tools with her to help focus her energy. And though she wished, just once, for Mia, she accepted that in this she was on her own.
Struggling not to rush, she cast the circle, and in its center cleared her mind, and opened.
“I call to all who hold the power, unto me your help endower. Rise up the wind to aid my flight, open your eyes to aid my sight. My body remains, but my spirit flies free. As I will, so mote it be.”
It was like a drawing up, a tingling that flowed gently through the body. Then a lifting out of what she was from the shell that held it.
She glanced down at her own form—the Ripley who stood, head lifted, eyes closed, in the circle.
Knowing the risks of lingering, of becoming too charmed by the sensation of flight, she centered her thoughts on her target. And let herself soar.
The stream of the wind, the sea beneath. There was such joy in it—and that, she knew, was a dangerous seduction. Before she could be lulled into the glorious silence and motion, she let sounds fill her head.
Voices humming—the thoughts and the speech of an entire city were alive within her. Worries, joys, tempers, passions mixed together in such a wonderfully human music.
As she traveled, sliding downward, she separated them and found what she needed.
“There was no change overnight.” One nurse handed a chart to another. Their thoughts sent up a mild interference.
Complaints, fatigue, a remembered fight with a spouse, and one gnawing desire for ice cream.
“Well, he’s less trouble in a coma. Strange, though, the way he dropped just a couple of hours after that reporter left. He’d been alert, stable, responsive for days, then this complete turnaround.”
As the nurses moved down the corridor, one of them shivered slightly as Ripley passed.
“Wow. Got a chill.”
She moved through the closed door and into the room where Remington lay. Machines monitored his vital signs, cameras watched him.
Ripley hovered, studying him. Comatose, restrained, behind lock and key. What harm could he do now?
Even as she thought it, his eyes opened and grinned into hers.
She felt a stab in the heart, the pain unbelievably sharp and completely real. The power in her, around her, wavered. And she felt herself falling.
His thoughts beat at her mind. Bloody, vicious fists that spoke of vengeance, death, destruction. They pinched at her, greedy fingers that were somehow, hideously, arousing. Tempting her to surrender.