Touch of Evil (4 page)

professional or even demure. But underneath the good looks were a mind and a body capable of unimaginable evil. Her enemies tend to scream a lot and then die very, very slowly. So far, I've been the lone exception.

Hello, Kathleen. She spoke directly into my mind, her voice deceptively pleasant. I hate that she can slide so casually into my thoughts. I raised myself stiffly to a sitting position while trying to increase my mental shields. It was a struggle. Her force of will pushed at my body enough to make my muscles ache. My God! I hadn't seen her for a couple of years, but I didn't remember her being this powerful. The scent of her expensive perfume made me sneeze, sending a shooting pain through my skull. Oddly, it helped. By concentrating on the pain I was able to push her mind aside just enough to throw up a stronger shield and not be

overwhelmed. She hissed. It was a very inhuman sound that seemed even more evil coming from those perfectly painted lips.

"What do you want, Monica?" I forced the words through a throat that didn't want to work. Her smile was dazzling. Her laugh was bright but cold, and words again appeared like magic in my head. Want? Why, what I've always wanted, darling. I want you dead. But not quite yet. We have other plans for you first.

The last syllable was followed by a surge of pure power that seared my brain. I gasped and brought my hands up against my temples, but white spots and flowers threatened to eat away reality. When I could force my eyes open past a slit, I saw the nurse taking the cap off a syringe. Monica's eyes glinted with wicked pleasure. We'll go somewhere less . . . crowded, and we'll chat. Won't that be fun?

No, it wouldn't. And we wouldn't. Not so long as I had an ounce of fight left in my body. I tensed body and mind to fight. I cast my eyes around the waiting room, looking for something, anything I could use as a weapon. Nothing. But I did see a familiar face walking in the hallway beyond Monica. So, Monica didn't have enough power to do the whole hospital. It was only the people in this room who were enthralled. As liquid leapt from the needle in a broad arc to clear the air, I called in the loudest voice I could manage.

"DR. MACDOUGAL!"

The man turned to my voice and he saw Monica. He knew her. He sees a lot of people who she's chatted with. But only for a few seconds before the face is covered and the body is taken downstairs. He ran and grabbed the arms of two burly

attendants. Monica bared her fangs and hissed at me.

The blonde was still moving steadily toward me, needle extended and thumb on the plunger.

I couldn't stand. I knew that. Monica's power was too strong. But I knew that if she enthralled the doctor and the attendants, she'd lose her hold over the room, or me. In any case, she was undone. Or so I thought.

The first attendant grabbed the nurse. He had to struggle to hold onto a woman that couldn't have weighed more than ninety-eight pounds. He was winning, but only barely.

The other attendant reached for Monica. Big mistake. One slender arm shot out and the man was suddenly in the air, held effortlessly by her superhuman strength. A flash of movement later, he was on the ground, his throat ripped into shreds by her perfectly manicured nails. Blood spurted from his torn arteries. I grimaced as she licked the blood from her fingers while he lay thrashing.

This isn't over, Katie.

Both women disappeared. That's the best I can describe it. I lay still on the floor for a second, stunned and grateful. I'd been lucky. She could've killed me in those seconds when she'd clouded our minds to leave. Why hadn't she? What in the hell was going on?

With Monica's departure, the waiting room came alive again. The mother looked down at her bloodcovered arm with a start. The boy had been bleeding steadily the whole time, and she hadn't noticed.

"Kate!"

I turned to see Dr. MacDougal, a slender

middle-aged man with thinning black hair and a bushy moustache. He was still dressed in a lab coat. He was on one knee next to his fallen employee. I watched as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves taken from his pocket. I could tell the man was badly wounded, but he'd probably live. He was lucky. Monica seldom leaves survivors. A gurney arrived with a contingent of doctors and nurses and the unconscious man disappeared down the hallway in a rush of voices and motion. I would've expected him to follow along, but he stayed, giving me a long, intense stare that carried the weight of his displeasure.

"Hi, Dr. MacDougal," I replied wearily. I was truly sorry about the guard—and confused as hell.

"What happened here, Kathleen?" He removed the gloves and dropped them into the biowaste container hanging on the wall.

His guess was as good as mine. I couldn't fathom why Monica would suddenly appear. She'd left me alone for years. I reviewed her words in my mind.

"We have other plans for you first." We had to be the hive. But what other plans? I didn't have a clue. My pulse began racing with fear. One of the benefits of being Not Prey was that they were supposed to challenge me one on one, not hunt me like an animal. Somehow the rules had changed. My body started to shake, and it wasn't just a physical reaction.

"I had a near miss on I-70 and promised the police that I'd get checked out by a doctor. I checked in. Monica was waiting for me. I don't know how or why." My stomach tightened into a tense knot. There were too many questions, not the least of which was why my free pass had abruptly expired. I needed to find out, just as soon as I could get my feet back under me and enough rest for my brain to start working again. But I was just too tired, too hungry, and my head hurt too badly to do anything but deal with the immediate crisis. The anger faded from MacDougal's eyes and his face fell into professional lines. He opened his mouth to begin asking the usual series of questions for accident patients.

I warded off the words by holding up my hands.

"I just spun out when someone forced me off the road. I'm fine. The truck's fine. But the cop on the scene wouldn't believe I didn't hit my head." I snorted and shook my head, which brought on a brief wave of nausea. "Doesn't matter much now, since the check-in nurse cracked me with a brick." I used gentle fingers to probe the growing lump. It hurt. A lot. But I wasn't dizzy, or nauseous—both good signs. "I'm probably fine. Really." MacDougal scowled at me. He crossed his arms over his chest and raised his brows. " I'll let you know if you're fine." He grasped my chin in one strong hand, gazing carefully at my pupils. He let out a little snort of air that could've meant anything or nothing.

I heaved a sigh. I wanted out of here, and now. But I knew that tone of voice. I wouldn't be going anywhere until the doctor got a good look at me. If I tried, he'd call reinforcements—possibly in the form of my older brother.

He released my chin. "Come with me. We can take care of this in my office." He gestured for me to follow and I fell into step beside him. I knew where the lab was.

I'm always amazed by Dr. MacDougal's office. Researchers seem to run to two extremes. Some are so involved with their projects that everything else suffers. Unless they are fortunate enough to employ a competent assistant, their office, lab and life are in constant chaos. Dr. MacDougal is the other flip of the coin. His office is meticulously clean—dirt is the enemy. His lab is a model of order and efficiency.

He left the light off, but sufficient sunlight found its way through the blinds.

As I performed a heel-to-toe, straight line walk that reminded me of a roadside DUI test, I asked,

"Have you ever finished off that bottle of The Macallan?"

He shook his head. "Nope. I keep it in my desk for special occasions. It was eighteen years old when you gave it to me, and will probably make it another eighteen before I finish it. Every sip is bottled joy, so I refuse to waste it." He motioned for me to stop walking and stepped forward with a small pen-light.

He flicked the light into my eyes as I stared straight ahead. "So, have you learned anything new about the Thrall that you can share?" I wasn't surprised at the subject of conversation. Research into the effects of the Thrall parasite is both his job and his passion. I know he likes me as a person, but even that is overshadowed by his endless curiosity about my "link" to the creatures he spends his life studying.

"Nope. I've tried to avoid them." He stopped in mid-flick and stared at me very seriously. "That's stupid, Kate. You should always know your enemy."

Part of me knew MacDougal was right. I should have spent these years learning as much as I could about them. But the other part had wanted to pretend that if I ignored them, they'd go away. Denial is more than de river in Egypt. I took a deep breath and thought about the call from Dylan and the look on Monica's face. I shook my head. It hurt. A lot. Damn it.

"Okay, okay. So enlighten me with your wealth of knowledge." The words sounded cranky, but MacDougal ignored the tone. He moved behind me and began to lecture as he checked the range of motion of my head.

"Well, as you know, the Thrall have existed since the dawn of time. They've evolved over the

millennia from the equivalent of a tapeworm to become a highly intelligent parasitic species with a unique culture and language. Does this hurt?" he asked, pressing firmly on my abdomen where the seat belt had crossed me. I shook my head no so he continued. He knows Edna doesn't have

shoulder belts so he didn't bother to check there.

"We've learned since last time we talked that they are extremely sensitive to damage to the Host. This is apparently because the primary ganglia actually fuses to the Host's spinal cord." Hey, that was new. "So a gunshot or knife wound to the Host's back will hurt the Thrall?" Dr. MacDougal nodded. "And damage to the Thrall, such as an injury to a feeding tube in the mouth or a blow to the nesting site at the base of the skull will stun the Host into a comatose-like state.

I pursed my lips. "Is that why all the attempts to operate and remove the parasite have killed the Host?"

"Precisely. It's the same with drugs. Anything sufficient to kill the Thrall will kill the Host. It's only recently that we've learned that the Thrall's body actually merges with and replaces human brain tissue. When the parasite grows too big, the hypothalamus is destroyed and the Host dies. The usual life span seems to be about three to four years. Your friend Monica is a notable exception." He reached up and ran cool fingers over my

forehead, searching for lumps or swelling. His probing at the back of my head produced a quick flash of pain. He saw my reaction and then carefully moved to my jaw. I reached up and felt the sore spot. It wasn't much of a lump, but it was certainly tender. There was a clicking sound as he moved the jaw back and forth.

"Make an appointment with your dentist," he commented. "You're a little out of alignment. Could give you headaches and change your bite pattern."

"Anything else new on the research front?" I changed the subject away from a possible dental visit. Not my favorite place.

He ignored the question, stepped away and dug in his pocket for a moment. He withdrew a ring of keys and selected one. "I've got something here that will take care of the swelling and concussion." The key opened a cabinet on the wall and he removed a large white plastic bottle. "Take two now and one tonight with food, and again for the next two days. I'll write up a prescription that you can fill at your normal pharmacy."

I glanced at the pair of red and white capsules he dropped in my hand, and raised a leery brow.

"They have drugs to get rid of a concussion now?" He smiled and handed me a plastic bottle of water from the little refrigerator on the countertop and I popped the pills. "That's the nice thing about the best minds in the world researching the effects of the Thrall. We've learned a lot about head injuries since you played ball." My stomach took that moment to comment on the word "food." He glanced down at the sharp rumble.

"And I mean with food, Kate. You don't eat nearly as often as you should. Go to see your old chiropractor if he's still practicing, too. This looks about the same as the knock you took in your last game, so your back's probably out of place. I'll file a report with the police. But I want you to take the usual precautions."

He handed me a printed leaflet from the counter that discussed head injuries. While I read what I already knew, he scribbled on a pad. "If you experience any dizziness, increased thirst or if you still have a headache in twenty-four hours, give Joe a call."

I sniffed in amusement. "Calling my brother gives me a headache."

"And you him." MacDougal chuckled for a moment, handed me the square of paper with an unreadable scrawl that I presumed would mean something to the pharmacist, and then changed the subject back to his personal obsession.

"You asked about my research. I think I've found out something very valuable that would be of interest to you. Someday it could help Bryan." That caught my attention. I moved to sit down on the couch.

"Just by accident, I've discovered that EKG

patterns of drug zombies like Bryan are identical to those of Hosts."

I gave him what must have been a quizzical look.

"What does that mean? That the Thrall are somehow responsible for the zombies?"

"Not at all. But it may mean that improperly prepared Eden, which causes the zombie-like state in its junkies, is similar in composition to the yolk of the Thrall egg which enslaves the Hosts. It's just a theory, but I'm putting together a grant application to study it."

Interesting as the conversation was, my stomach took the opportunity to remind me, again, how hungry I was. The rumble was loud enough that MacDougal let out a low growl. I shrugged but blushed.

"Sorry. I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday." He nodded and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Like I said earlier, take the pills with food. Go—eat."

I grinned. "Yep. Food and then bed. That's second on the short list."

He shook his head and gave me a stern look.

"Not with that head injury. You need to call someone to sit with you—or at least set the alarm and wake up every hour until the medication kicks in." I stepped out into the hallway through the door he held open for me. I immediately felt the familiar tickle and buzzing in my head. It was almost dawn. Normally the hive activity would be winding down. The fact that they weren't meant something was going on. It was a forcible reminder that