Dying Dreams (Book 1 of Dying Dreams Trilogy) (6 page)

Liza woke up in twisted sheets, sweaty and panicky. Tears streamed down her face and she was still mentally begging,
Please let me go. Please, I don’t want to die. Please let me go back to my sisters
. She kicked her way out of the sheets and raced to the bathroom, where she fell to her knees, feeling like she might throw up. She managed to keep her dinner down, but she couldn’t stop the tears. She leaned back against the tub and cried for Louella until she regained control of herself. She stood and leaned over to turn on the shower. The water ran without electricity, but their apartment building didn’t link their hot water heaters to solar panels, so she’d be having a cold shower. With the government curbs of carbon output, there came electricity rations. In Liza’s neighborhood, hot showers were only possible in the evenings.

“You okay?”

She turned to see Ellison standing in the doorway. He was watching her with that little crinkle between his brows, which meant he was seriously worried. He must have heard her crying and waited until she was done to show his face. If Ellison had kryptonite, it was sobbing girls. She wanted to tell him what was going on, but she didn’t have the energy. Her stomach still roiled and she hadn’t quite managed to smother the ball of panic in her gut telling her to fight, or the overwhelming despair at the knowledge that she was beyond fighting. She’d dreamed many deaths before, but none had been as vivid as that dream and she’d never had a recurrent death dream. Something was wrong, something was seriously wrong. “No, I just had a bad dream. It was silly of me to cry about it. I think I might be coming down with something.” She wanted to tell him the truth, but she wasn’t ready to say it aloud. Not yet.

Ellison nodded, but he didn’t look at all convinced. “Sure. You want me to stay home today? Take care of you?”

“No. Go to work. I’ll be fine,” she said, trying to convince herself as much as him. She stepped out of her pajamas and into the shower to end the conversation. She and Ellison had seen each other naked often enough that she didn’t think it’d affect him.

He cleared his throat and the floorboards shifted under his creaking weight. “You should know that Marcy and I are done.”

She stuck her sudsy head out of the shower and stared at him, mouth hanging open. “What happened?”

He looked at the floor and shrugged. “It just isn’t going to work out.” He turned and started away. “If you aren’t going to tell me what’s really going on with you, I’m going to work.”

“This isn’t done!” She called after him. “Marcy is perfect for you.” He didn’t answer, so she left it for later. She’d corner him and grill him when they were both home for the night. Maybe she’d check in with Marcy, too. She rinsed her hair and tried not to think about her dream, but she just couldn’t shake the feeling that she was going to die, and she needed to understand what Louella had seen. What was a giant drill doing in the middle of the ocean?

Once she was out of the shower and dressed, she dialed Fulsom’s office number, but there was no answer. She hesitated to try his cell, since she didn’t want him to think she was taking him up on his offer of a drink, but she needed to talk to someone about what she’d dreamed. And if anything she’d seen could help that girl… That decided, she dialed Fulsom before she could give it any more thought.

“Hello?” Fulsom sounded groggy, like he’d just woken up.

“Hi, this is Liza Simmons.”

“Who?”

“I’m sorry. We’ve met twice now on the beach. The first was over the dead body of a woman.”

“Oh, of course, Liza.” Fulsom cleared his throat. “Have you decided to take me up on that drink? I have to say I don’t usually drink before 10, but for you–”

“No,” she said, a bit more firmly than she’d intended. “I need to talk to you about a dream I had.”

“I do tend to have that effect on the ladies. You might not take to me right away, but–”

She groaned mentally. She was doing this all wrong. “No, I… when I touch someone who’s died I dream about their death, and I had a dream about the dead woman, Louella. I saw who killed her, and I saw a huge metal drill, and it was making the most hideous noise.” As she started to describe what she’d seen, the dream came back to her and she realized it had changed. In her first dream, the man had electrocuted her from behind and she’d been fleeing, not looking for something. “Actually, I–”

“How did you know that name?” All flirting and teasing were gone from Fulsom’s tone.

“What?”

“Did you follow me last night?”

“What? No. I told you. I had a dream.”

There was a long pause and then Fulsom came back, his voice odd. “Of course you did, and I want to hear all about it. Can I take you out for coffee?”

“Actually, I was just on my way in to work. Could I meet you later?”

“That won’t be possible today. How about I bring you coffee and walk you to work? What’s your address?”

Liza didn’t make a habit of giving her address to strange men, but she wanted to tell him what she’d seen and get it out of her head. It made her feel more comfortable that he’d taken a business-like tone. “Okay, sure. It’s 324 East Aspen Dr, Apt 34B. But I have to leave soon, so–”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Less than three minutes later, there was a knock at her door.

Liza grabbed her bag, opened the door, and almost ran smack into Marcy who barreled inside.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” Marcy asked. Her eyes were red-rimmed and damp. “He won’t call me, won’t answer my calls, and isn’t even coming out with the group any more. Was I really that bad in bed?”

Liza dropped her bag on the floor and sighed. That conversation with Marcy couldn’t be short, and she didn’t have time for it. Liza closed the door and sat down on the couch next to Marcy. “Sweetie, I really want to talk about this, but I’m meeting someone and I have to get to work.”

Marcy’s eyes widened in horror. “That’s it, isn’t it? I’m horrible in bed. He’s been flirting with me for months. Months, Liza, and I finally give in and he disappears. Ellison never disappears. He’s the only guy in the world who gets more serious than the girl.”

“I know.” Liza sighed. “I don’t think you were bad in bed. He hasn’t said anything to me, but I’m going to talk to him and then I’ll talk to you, okay? I’ll tell you exactly what he says.” There was probably some friend code that said Liza shouldn’t reveal Ellison’s secrets to Marcy, but she didn’t care. She liked Marcy.

Marcy sniffed and nodded. “The thing is, Liza. I think I fell in love with him without even realizing it and now he wants nothing to do with me.” Her sobs started in earnest then. Liza pulled Marcy against her shoulder and stroked her hair, but another knock interrupted them.

“Sweetie, I’m so, so sorry, but I really have to go. I’ll talk to Ellison. Everything will be okay, I promise.” She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth, but she didn’t have time to feel too bad before a deep, masculine voice roared through the door. “Homeland Security. We know you’re in there. Open the door.”

The roar hadn’t sounded like Fulsom. Liza’s heart began to race and she wondered if she hadn’t made a huge mistake. Liza leaned over and gave Marcy one last hug. “I hate to ask you this, but if you don’t hear from me in an hour, could you call Ellison to come spring me from Homeland Security, whatever that is?”

Marcy nodded, her mouth open, and Liza opened the door. Before her stood Agent Rice. He was dressed in a tailored suit, his hair was slicked back, and seeing him in the full light of day made Liza’s breath catch. He had the face of an old timey movie star, all soft edges and charm and the body of Arnold Schwarzenegger. He was Cary Grant on steroids. His only perceivable flaw was a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken once or twice. She took a deep breath and tried to remind herself that his over-worked body likely indicated both vanity and a narrowness of focus that meant he’d be the most boring of dates, but she couldn’t make her body listen to reason. She was pretty sure she was staring at him with wide doe eyes and a dreamy look. Even Marcy, in love with Ellison, gasped. Liza swallowed and forced her eyes to stop roaming his body. She lifted her gaze to his face and found him staring at her like there might be something wrong with her. Just once she’d like to scope out a gorgeous guy and find him scoping her out back. Just once.

“Can I help you?” She said in a snippy tone, just because he’d pissed her off. She was an attractive woman damn it. Her attention was flattering.

“Fulsom called me and said you had some information about the…” He glanced at Marcy and winced. “The incident on the beach the other night. I’d like you to come to our office to discuss it.”

“No.” Seriously who the hell did this guy think he was? “I told Fulsom he could buy me coffee and walk me to work and that’s all I’ll do. I’m already going to be late and–” She looked at her watch to confirm what she suspected. “I’m already late. Marcy can you lock up when you leave?”

Marcy nodded and Liza took a step forward, expecting Sloane to move, and walked straight into him. Her body was pressed up against his for a moment and the feel of him made her forget she was mad. He took her by the shoulders and moved her back into the apartment like she was a toy doll version of Liza. “I’m afraid you’ll have to miss work this morning, Miss Simmons. You have information about an ongoing investigation and we need you to share that information.” He met her gaze and pleaded with those stormy grey eyes. “Lives are at stake.”

“Okay, fine, just let me call my boss.” It was the lives at stake that got her, not the eyes. Definitely not the eyes.

*SLOANE*

Sloane watched Liza through the two way glass and wondered how he’d missed how gorgeous she was the other night. It had been dark and there’d been a dead body, but it was his job to notice his surroundings, to be aware of the people around him, and she’d barely shown up on his radar. Sure, he’d noticed enough to get a bit protective, maybe appreciate a rearview, but he hadn’t realized how wide and soft her brown eyes were, or how shiny and full her brown hair was. He hadn’t appreciated the fullness of her lips or clearness of her skin. That night, he hadn’t felt what he’d felt standing on her doorstep, an undeniable desire to touch her, to pull her against him and hold on. He watched Liza lean forward to rest her head in her hands and her tank top dipped to reveal the creamy tops of what appeared to be perfect, round breasts. Desire racked his body so hard, he almost groaned aloud. Then she looked up at the glass like she knew he was watching her. Her hair was a bit mussed from her hands being in it, like it might be when she woke up in the morning, and her intense, brown eyes bored through the glass as her pink, full lips twisted into a grimace. A grimace that tugged at a spot deep in his chest and made him want to rush in there and fix whatever was bothering her. Shit, he was so screwed. He had to focus, dammit. She was a fucking suspect.

“Tell me again what she said.” He turned to Fulsom and caught him watching Liza just as eagerly as he’d been. He wanted to punch his partner in the nose and tell him to stay away from Liza, like some barbarian, like he had any right to claim her or ever would after he’d shown up on her doorstep and dragged her to headquarters like a criminal. Instead, he straightened his cuffs and waited for Fulsom to tune back in to him.

“Said she dreams about dead people, dreams how they died. Said she saw how the mermaid on the beach died, but the name she called her was Louella. How could she know that name? She’s got to be in this somehow.” Fulsom’s voice lacked conviction. Sloane might let Liza’s face and body convince him she couldn’t be a killer, but Fulsom’s strength was reading people no matter how perfect their lies or how delicious their attributes. If Fulsom doubted she was involved, then she probably wasn’t involved.

“We got anything on this phenomena? Dreaming of the dead?”

Fulsom shook his head and looked like he hated himself. “Sure. Banshees, who are extinct, could dream of the dead. But only the most powerful, full-blooded Banshees. Sara’s looking to see if she can find mention of it anywhere else.”

“Fuck.” Sloane’s anger, fueled by the night he’d had and a workout cut short that morning, overwhelmed him. He banged a fist on the glass and saw Liza jump and then glare at the mirror. “Does the boss know?”

Fulsom shook his head. “But we gotta tell her. Whether she’s a suspect or not, we can’t slip this one past her.”

Sloane took a deep breath, but he didn’t feel any calmer. If Liza was found to have any fae blood, she’d be registered as fae and would be expected to work for and with the government as they saw fit. He didn’t know her and he probably never would, but for some reason he didn’t want to see her pulled into the government fae registry. He knew that murderers could hide under a lot of guises, but his gut and Fulsom’s skill were telling him that woman wasn’t a murderer or even an accessory to murder. He seriously doubted she knew more than what she’d told Fulsom. If she was telling the truth, she’d put her life on hold because she’d had a dream about a dead woman she’d never met and there were precious few people in the world who would do that. He liked her for it and he didn’t want to have to be the one to ruin her life.

If he hadn’t been in such a bad mood that morning, distracted by a pleading call from Frankie, he might have asked more questions when Fulsom called and told him he needed to go pick up a suspect. He might have handled things differently if he’d paid more attention to Liza on the beach that night. And he might be wrong, he reminded himself. She could be a great actress and guilty as hell, or he could be letting his attraction and hormones see something in her that wasn’t there.

Fulsom watched him like he knew what he was thinking. “Want me to talk to her? I’m the one who fucked this up. If I’d known about the banshee thing sooner…”

Sloane shook his head. “No, we’ll play this like we always do. I’ll go in and be an asshole and you go in and pick up the pieces.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. I’m damn good at being an asshole.”