Burning Darkness Read Free Page B

spelling of the names he’d written down. “Just before the fire that destroyed the house there was another fire that killed one of Darkwell’s contractors.”
    A gasp escaped her throat. “Jerryl Evrard,” she whispered. Say it without emotion. The horror had spliced her open and let her deepest fears and feelings bleed out. “Eric Aruda psychically set Jerryl on fire.”
    While we were making love.
    Those horrible moments came roaring back: Jerryl’s scream, the eruption of flames, the ungodly smell of burning flesh. She had been right there, dammit, and couldn’t help him. She tried to smother the flames with a blanket, but it had done nothing. She still had nightmares, still heard his screams of agony, and worse, the silence of death. She had lived, and he had died.
    Even that didn’t shock Westerfield. He took it in as though she’d told him about a summer storm, impassively jotting something down. “There was a prisoner at the estate named Sayre Andrus. What do you know about him?”
    “I knew there was some guy locked in the attic, under guard, but that’s about all. He might have died in the fire. I heard they found two bodies in the rubble.”
    He gauged her every word, her expression, or at least it seemed that way. She felt that power of being important again.
    The chair wobbled as he shifted, and he planted his foot to steady it. “You were not at the estate when the fire broke out?”
    “Darkwell told me to go home, that he suspected there might be trouble from the Rogues.” She’d been angry that he didn’t think she could handle it or help. Maybe she could have taken out one of them. Maybe she could have killed Eric.
    “What did Darkwell tell you about your abilities? About how you came to have them?”
    “He said I inherited my ability from my mother.”
    “That’s all he told you?”
    “What else is there to know?”
    He stood. “Thank you, Ms. Raine. I don’t have to tell you that this subject remains highly classified and should not be discussed with anyone. I trust you haven’t.”
    She shook her head, coming to her feet, too, gripping the switchblade behind her back. “Who would believe me?”
    His mouth betrayed a trace of a smile. “True.”
    “Do you believe me?”
    “We’ll be in touch.”
    She watched him walk to a black sedan parked out at the curb and get in, though the car remained in its spot for several minutes. Did she want to work for the government again? She couldn’t think about that right now. She couldn’t think of anything but her mission. Revenge kept her going, a gnawing hunger that filled her being. She was afraid that after Eric was dead, she would have a big, gaping hole inside her. Maybe a new top-secret mission would fill that hole.
    Her phone rang. She walked over to the red acrylic telephone stand but let the machine pick up.
    “Hey . . . hon. It’s your dad. I see your stuff is gone, so I’m figuring you went home. That’s okay,” he hurried on to say. “Could you give me a call and let me know you’re all right?” A pause, then a nervous laugh. “I guess I got a taste of how it was living with me all those years . . . like living with a zombie. One day I’d like to . . . well, I can’t make it up to you. But I’d like to try. Funny how it’s easier to say this to a machine than it would have been when you were here.” Another pause. “Okay, I’ll talk to you soon.”
    Her fingers gripped the phone but she couldn’t pick it up. She had never said a thing about why she’d shown up at his house with a duffel bag and a request to stay for a few days, which ended up being a few weeks. He’d never asked.
    “As long as Connie’s in the picture, you’ll never make it up to me,” she said to the phone. “She’ll be out of jail soon, and you’ll go back to using. I can’t lose my dad again. I’ve lost too much already.”
    The man posing as John Westerfield closed the car door and dialed his brother. He knew Malcolm would