Enlightened [Sexual Magic 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (26 page)

The welcome buzz of dial tone echoed in her ear, and she reached for the buttons then stopped.

“Fuck,” she said viciously. She didn’t know their number off hand. It was in her phone and that was in the living room.

She closed her eyes, saw the mutilated body of a woman stare back at her, and gagged.

“There’s no one here,” she assured herself. “They checked. Thoroughly.”

She rose, yanked open the bedroom door, and hurtled into the living room. She snatched her purse from the entryway table and dug out her phone.

Within seconds, Mason’s phone rang in her ear.

“Hello, little one.”

“Someone was here,” she whispered, as if the intruder could hear her.

“What do you mean?” his voice grew sharp.

“Someone was in my apartment. I can’t stay here. But I need the cops.”

“Whoa, slow down, darlin’. Why do you need the cops? Shit, he’s not there now, is he?”

“No, I’m alone. God, this is going to sound crazy, but I think it might be the Snapshot Killer.” Just giving voice to her concern made her stomach roil. She punched the mute button and retched into the trash can just in the nick of time. With a shaky hand, she wiped her mouth. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I have my car back. Can I come over?”

“Listen, Griff is at the Council right now. Stay right where you are. I’ll come to you. If you’re right…Fuck, Emma.” The curse was filled with tension. “Call Joel and Ryan, they’ll get the cops there. I’m on my way.”

The line clicked dead, and she shivered.

She hesitated on Joel’s phone number. Should she call 911 instead?

“And tell them what? Someone broke into my house and rearranged my art collection?” Granted, those pictures did have dead bodies in them, but she would feel better if Ryan decided to call them in instead.

Unfortunately, when she finally connected with Joel, it was to learn that Ryan was out on another case.

“Em.” He stopped, voice fret filled. “Listen, hon, I didn’t want to tell you this, but he’s on the Snapshot Killer task force.”

She swallowed hard. “Well, that makes this easier then.”

“What do you mean? Are you okay?” His tone rose three octaves past soprano.

“Mostly. I’m fine physically,” she hurried to reassure him. “But mentally I’m damned unstable right now.” She explained what she’d come home to and that Mason was on his way to pick her up.

Told him how she’d wanted them to come over before she called the cops.

“He’ll definitely want to see this. You haven’t touched anything, have you?”

“No. I couldn’t.” Her mind balked at the last image. The possibility. “Joel, you said he was called out? Does that mean they found another body?”

The silence grated on her nerves like a fork on metal, and she gritted her teeth against another round of puking. “Joel?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “In Standing Stone Park, near the obelisks.”

She stuffed her fist against her mouth and tried to stifle a sob. “Her picture is here,” she whispered.

“Shit,” he said. “Okay, stay right there. I’ll call Ryan then come over.”

She did not want to stay until the cops arrived. She wanted Mason to take her away, keep her safe.

“Do I have to be here?”

“’Fraid so, Em. They’ll want to interview you.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Em, take a deep breath for me, okay? Turn on some music or a movie, try to stay calm. We’ll be there in less than fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes sounded like a damn lifetime, but she nodded, wiped away a tear, and closed her eyes to prevent more from spilling. “Hurry,” she said softly then hung up.

Emma took Joel’s advice and put on her favorite musical soundtrack. She tried to let the peppy tunes keep her mood from crashing into the dark fear which beckoned her. As she dashed around the room, she threw jeans, T-shirts, underwear, and socks into a large suitcase. The overnight bag just wouldn’t do.

And if she was right about the identity of the woman in the obelisk picture…

She whimpered again, turned up the music, and prayed Mason hurried.

* * * *

“She sounded scared out of her mind, Griff. What do you expect? That bastard was in her house. Touching her things.” Mason slammed his hand against the steering wheel as he drove. “How long will you be at the Council?”

“I’ll leave in a few minutes. I want Noah and Madelyn to come with me.”

His skin tightened in panic. “Why?”

“Noah’s healing talent can help ease her mind, that’s all. And I figure she could use a woman to talk to, as well.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Mason.” Griff’s voice went all Dom on him, and he straightened instinctively.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Rein in your emotions. I don’t want Emma being buffeted by them when you get to her place. You both need to remain as calm as possible. When we get her home we can let loose, okay?”

Mason tried to regulate his breathing, his racing heart. He knew Griff was right. Such high-flying emotion was not going to do any good. And if it got out of hand, it could actually harm her.

Psychic backwash, Clarissa called it.

If he projected too much, he ran the risk of overloading her brain and causing her to black out. No one was really certain what other long-term effects could be wrought by the backwash, but he wasn’t about to find out with Emma.

His heartbeat settled to a more even thump, and the constriction eased a bit. “You’re right, of course. I’m under control now. I had planned on grabbing her and going, but I don’t think the cops are just gonna let us walk.”

Griff cursed on the other end. “Good point. Okay, we’ll meet you at her apartment.”

Mason disconnected, checked the speedometer, and eased off the accelerator. Last thing he needed was to be pulled over for speeding.

He pulled into her parking lot moments later and bolted from the car and up the stairs even as he strived for the image of calm.

He rapped on her door. “Emma?”

“Who is it?”

“Mason.”

“Thank God.” Locks tumbled as she opened them. The chain rattled. The knob turned.

Behind him, a rush of pure rage blinded him for a second, and he spun around.

All he saw was a dark figure, arm raised, and the subtle glint of a gun as the butt crashed down on his head.

He groaned and dropped to a knee.

Emma screamed, and her hands pulled on his shoulders.

Then a stronger pair gripped him hard, shoved him backward. He landed on his back against her hardwood floor and the air whooshed from him.

His head swam as he watched the man step inside and shove his legs out of the way. A pulse of pain shuttered his eyes for a moment, and when he pried them open again, the stranger had locked the door and pointed the gun straight at him.

Why did he look familiar? Mason was sure he’d never met this man before.

“Hello, Emma. I see you’ve turned into quite a slut.”

Her fear vibrated through Mason, and he tried to sit up, to comfort her. Reassure her. But the man shoved him back with a booted foot on his chest.

“Stop it,” she yelled and dropped behind him. Her arms reached around him protectively. Beneath her terror he caught a rising fury.

“Easy, Emma,” he murmured.

She squeezed him. “I’m so sorry you got tangled up in this,” she said. She hiccupped lightly.

“Shut up, Emma,” the man snapped. “You brought this on yourself.”

“How?” she demanded.

“You are mine.” The lean face, topped with blond hair and penetrating eyes, twisted into an insane snarl. “You’ve always been mine.”

Recognition clicked, even as she said his name.

“You’re crazy, Charles.”

“Noah, Madelyn, you ready?” Griff stood in the doorway of Clarissa’s office and shifted impatiently. More than thirty minutes had passed since he talked to Mason.

Now, neither he nor Emma were answering their phones.

A ball of icy dread hovered in his chest. He needed to be with them. He needed to hold and touch them.

Why weren’t they picking up?

“Yeah, let’s go.”

“Griffin,” Clarissa called his name as she rose from her desk. Worry creased her forehead, and for the first time he could remember, she looked frail. More than that, Clarissa appeared old and afraid.

“What?”

“Be careful.” She swallowed and waved a hand toward the phone. “Call me if you need anything. When you find something out.”

He nodded and left.

The trio silently piled into his car and headed for Emma’s apartment. Griff concentrated on both his driving and breathing. Control, rationality, and calmness—all blew out of the water when he pulled into her complex and found the place swarming with cops, yellow tape, and an ambulance.

He slammed on the brakes and leapt from the car to lope across the yard toward her unit. He spotted Joel sitting on the hood of her car.

“What’s happened?” he demanded when he reached the other man.

Joel looked like hell. His eyes were red rimmed, thin face devoid of color.

“They’re gone,” he said.

“What the fuck do you mean?”

Joel bristled. “I didn’t stutter, Griff. They. Are. Gone.” A shuddering sob worked its way up from his chest and exploded from his mouth in a violent burst. “The Snapshot Killer has them. The fucker has them.”

“What’s going on?” Madelyn asked. Her hand slid into his, and she squeezed in silent comfort.

Griff pulled away. “He’s got them.”

The stark words fell into the cacophony of shouts and radio squawks as cops trampled over the area. He placed his hand on Joel’s shoulder.

“How do you know it’s the Snapshot Killer?”

Joel rose and pointed at a clump of men in dress shirts and slacks. They stood at the doorway. One poked at the broken speaker box. The metal face plate dangled precariously by a few wires. “Ryan is one of the detectives on the scene. He couldn’t tell me much, but he said the bastard left a note.”

His eyes widened suddenly. “I’m supposed to tell Ryan you’re here.”

The new purpose seemed to vitalize him, and he darted across the lawn and hung over the flapping yellow crime-scene tape.

Griff shook and clenched his fists. His brain swirled and fogged, left him unable to focus or concentrate. Fear polarized him.

“Relax,” Madelyn’s soft musical voice sounded in his ear. Her hands rubbed his back. “They need you calm and alert, not a total wreck.”

Easy to say when you’re heart wasn’t frozen with worry.

He couldn’t lose them. He loved them.

A tall, muscular man bent under the tape and sauntered over to them.

“Griffin King?”

“Yes.”

The man held out his hand. “Ryan Miller. I’m sorry about this, but I need to ask you some questions.” His brown eyes sized up Madelyn and Noah, and his brow lifted in silent question.

Griff made the introductions and waited while the detective took their information.

“Can I go inside?” he demanded.

“Not yet. We need to talk first.”

Griff looked up at the apartment. He saw the people, her neighbors, poking their heads from their curtains and watching.

Where were they when this happened? Did they try to help?

“Mr. King, I understand Emma spent most of the week and all of the weekend with you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“There was an incident with her car.” He flicked a glance at Joel. “You heard, right?”

“Yeah.”

Sympathy flared in Ryan’s eyes, followed by pure anger. Oddly enough, seeing the cop pissed help calm his own emotions. Griff finally was able to tamp the unstoppable fear and focus on right now and finding a way to help bring them safely back to him.

“Anyway, we took her home with us. Brought her back this evening.” Griff raked his hand through his hair. “Damn it, we checked her apartment. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.”

“No sign of break-in? Nothing disturbed?”

“No. Obviously we didn’t look closely enough.”

“Nah, I’ve been in her place a dozen times. Looked at those pictures every time. They look just the same.”

“Pictures?”

Ryan sighed and flipped his notebook closed. “I’m going to take you upstairs.” He looked at the others. “You guys have to stay here.”

“But, Ryan,” Joel protested.

His boyfriend remained implacable. “Protocol, Joel.”

He turned to Griff. “Ready?”

Hell no. “Yeah.”

They trudged up the stairs. Ryan waved away an overzealous uniform from her door. He put a hand on Griff’s arm before they went inside.

“There is some blood. Not a lot, but some.”

His throat swelled. “Fuck. Whose?”

“Don’t know yet.” Ryan led him into the apartment.

It looked exactly as it had a few hours ago—save the splotch of dark red that marred the cream carpet in the living room.

The stain looked like someone spilled a glass of wine and didn’t clean it up. He swallowed hard.

“That’s not a lot?”

“No.”

He decided to take the detective’s word for it.

“Come down here and I’ll show you what I was talking about.”

They moved into the hallway, dodging a couple of people in blue overalls who were processing the scene. They carried evidence bags, dusting powder, and UV wands—all the implements from the popular television shows.

They didn’t belong in Emma’s apartment.

“There are four,” Ryan said and pointed at a trio of pictures.

Griff remembered the shots from his first visit, but they hadn’t looked like this. The macabre distortions of Emma’s work made him gag.

“Who are they?”

“Four of the five victims of the Snapshot Killer.” Ryan’s finger moved toward the picture on the left. “We’ve identified all of them, but what makes this so fucking scary is her. That’s Lucy Goodson. She worked with Emma at Graphix.”

Griff sucked in a breath. “Shit. She ran into her at the steakhouse near Branford College earlier in the week.”

Ryan’s gaze sharpened, and he yanked out his notebook. “What time? Where? I need an exact address. Who was she with?”

“On Tuesday. Emma said she met her in the bathroom and they talked. Lucy said she was on a blind date.”

Ryan scribbled furiously.