Twilight Illusions

CHAPTER SEVEN

The final test. It would be definitive. After this there would be no question as to Damien's fondness for the delicate mortal woman.
Anthar had allowed himself no contact with her. He'd kept his mind utterly isolated from her, just as he knew his nemesis had wished to do. It would never do for Anthar to develop a soft spot for her. She was a pawn. Her purpose was to mete out punishment, and nothing more. Anthar felt no hint of the instinctive urge to protect her. And if he had, he'd have ignored it. The fuel that powered his actions was more powerful than anything else could be. The need for vengeance. He'd been obsessed with the downfall of this onetime king for too long to allow anything to interfere.
And the test he'd devised this time would tell him all he needed to know. He'd use an element that could spell destruction for any immortal. Damien the Eternal would have to risk more than the passing pain of a bullet to save his mortal pet. He'd risk his very existence this time, or watch her die. If he should try and fail to save her, well, that would only add to his torment. If he should not try at all, then Anthar would know he hadn't cared.
It was all so simple to arrange. But not now--dawn was too close. Tonight, with the first layer of darkness on the autumn sky. He'd begin by making her sleep... very soundly.
* * * * *
The story was riveting.
She hadn't wanted interruption. She'd turned on the answering machine and refused to answer the door, even when the man thumping impatiently on the other side had most likely been an angry CIA Spock by the name of Bachman. She had no idea why he didn't just break in. Maybe he really believed she wasn't here.
Didn't matter. She had no time to talk to him. No. She needed to spend today trying to decide whether Damien Namtar could possibly, in her wildest dreams, be a cold-blooded murderer. Or maybe he was just completely insane. Multiple personalities, perhaps, and maybe one of those personalities was a vampire.
After he'd left, she'd tried to sleep, couldn't. Countless scenarios popped into her mind, and kept her tossing and turning well into the morning. The result being that when she finally did sleep, she hadn't awoken until noon. She was beginning to keep some pretty vampiric hours herself.
When she did finally rouse herself, he was on her mind again, from the second she opened her eyes. The only conclusion she'd reached was that she just didn't know enough about the man to make a judgment call. And she'd decided then and there to read this book, cover to cover. To try to see what was in here that moved him so deeply, and maybe find a clue to what made him tick.
And now she knew, and it moved her, too.
Sad, tragic story. All about a great king and the man who became his closest friend--more than a friend, really. Gilgamesh had been a bit of a tyrant at first. A strong man, fierce in combat, abundant in wisdom. So much so he was thought of as half man, half god. But he'd forgotten how to feel compassion for his people.
Enkidu was raised on the steppe, among the wild things. People thought of him as half man, half animal. But he came into the ancient city of Uruk one day and deliberately stood right in Gilgamesh's path. A public challenge. The two fought, and the description of the battle was more poetic than anything Shannon thought she'd ever read:
They fell like wolves
at each other's throats,
like bulls bellowing,
and horses gasping for breath...
crushing the gate they fell against.
The dry dust billowed in the marketplace
and people shrieked. The dogs raced
in and out between their legs.
A child screamed at their feet
that danced the dance of life
which hovers close to death.
And quiet suddenly fell on them
when Gilgamesh stood still
exhausted. He turned to Enkidu, who leaned
against his shoulder and looked into his eyes
And saw himself in the other, just as Enkidu saw
himself in Gilgamesh.
In the silence of the people they began to laugh
And clutched each other in their breathless exaltation.
A lump formed in her throat as she read on. The two had been inseparable from then on, and the book told of their adventures together, how they were two parts of a single whole. And how, finally, Enkidu had slowly died as his friend looked on, helpless to save him.
The verse narrative was moving, and that surprised her. She hadn't expected writers from something earlier than 4000 B.C. to be so expressive. She blinked back tears as she read another passage, aloud, just to savor the beauty of it as it described Gilgamesh's crippling grief.
"The word Enkidu
roamed through every thought
like a hungry animal through empty lairs
in search of food. The only nourishment
he knew was grief, endless in its hidden source.
Shannon stood very still, knowing exactly how the man had felt. She'd felt that kind of grief when Tawny had died. She still felt it. She had to wait a few minutes before she could read further. Her tears blurred her vision, but she had to finish.
Engrossed, she read on. Gilgamesh, no longer a great ruler but an ordinary man who'd lost his way, wandered in the desert, perhaps a little insane, in search of the secret to eternal life. He became obsessed with the idea of becoming immortal and of carrying that secret home with him, to bring Enkidu back to life. A mission that was doomed to fail.
By the time Shannon closed the book, there were small, spasmodic sobs pulling at her breastbone. She brushed her eyes dry, shook her head and tried to focus on her reason for reading this heartbreaking tale in the first place. To understand Damien.
Of course. He said he'd lost his best friend. God, he'd even described their closeness in a way that mirrored the closeness of Gilgamesh and Enkidu in the ancient tale. No wonder he identified with it. And with her. It was as though some triangle of endless mourning connected the three of them.
But what did that mean to her?
She set the book down, absently caressing the cover, and paced the length of her living room, then back again. Could Damien be a killer? A man who was moved to tears by a story thousands of years old? A man who obviously felt things more deeply than any man she'd ever met? He couldn't even let her kill a little field mouse, for God's sake.
All her life she'd been taught, over and over again, not to trust anyone. Not anyone. So why did she so stubbornly persist in wan ting to trust him?
All right, maybe it was time she took a good long look at her motivations here. She did just that, over a long steamy soak in a scented bath.
She'd never been with a man, had never wanted to be.
Until lately. Lately, she'd caught herself thinking about it more than once. Wondering if there was a chance it could actually be as wonderful as Tawny used to always tell her it could be. And she had to be brutally honest and admit that it was Damien who was inspiring these kinds of thoughts. No wonder, really. He was such a sexual creature.
It was getting dark outside. He'd be here soon, to stand guard over her for the night. She really ought to get out of the water and dress. What would he do, she wondered, if she kissed him?
Didn't matter. She wasn't going to find out.
Was she?
She felt a peculiar lethargy stealing over her body as she soaked. An unnatural kind of exhaustion, as if she'd popped a sleeping pill or something. She sponged her skin and fought it.
She thought maybe she'd like to find out after all. Hell, she had nothing to lose, and why not experience everything she was curious about before her life ended?
God, she was tired. Her eyes drooped and her body sank a little lower in the water. She dragged herself out of the tub and pulled on a robe. Was it this damned illness making her so sleepy? She'd already dozed half the day. Whatever, it was irresistible. She shuffled to bed, wet hair and all.
It wasn't the smoke that woke her it was the alarm. Shrieking at her, breaking the night with its whistling pitch. She was half-dressed before she smelled the smoke, creeping in and surrounding her senses, little by little, so she wasn't certain for a moment. It might be her imagination. The alarm might be malfunctioning, and...
She pulled on the jeans she'd left on the floor, since they were within reach. She was hopping into the living room as she tugged them up, snapped them, yanked on the zipper. She was headed for the door, but stopped in her tracks when she saw the wispy gray fingers reaching toward her from beneath it.
They grew longer, floating upward, spreading. She took another step and felt a deep terror twist to life in her soul. She pressed her palms to the door, only to suck air through her teeth and yank them away from the heat.
"God! Oh, God!" Panic beat a message across her heart. She fought it, tried to use her mind. She whirled in a circle, then dashed across the room, yanking a blanket from the back of the sofa, heading for the bathroom. She jerked at the tub's faucet and dumped the blanket in. She jumped in on top of it, stomping on it up and down until it was soaked, then hauled it out, dripping and cold, and carried it back to the door.
The smoke seeped steadily beneath it now, and she dumped the wet blanket to the floor, kicking it tight to the crack under the door. Then she watched. The smoke stopped.
A sigh of relief that she knew wasn't called for escaped her lips anyway. She ran to the phone, picked it up and jiggled the cutoff. Dead. Her throat went dry. She licked her lips, standing in the room's center, turning slowly in a full circle. What could she do? She was twenty-three stories up and her only way out was through a door she knew better than to open. What in the name of God could she possibly do?
She went to the bedroom to stare out the window. Flames lit the night. She saw their orange glow dancing upward from the stories below her. She saw the flashing lights of rescue vehicles bathing the crowd that had gathered below. She saw people in their nightclothes, wandering like bugs. God, how had she slept through all of this? And she saw the huge gap where the fire escape ought to be. She would be down there soon, being led around by those fire fighters like the bug people were. Just as soon as they put the fire out and came for her. She would. She only needed to keep her head.
She went to the closet, opened it and picked up her worn-out baseball bat. She hurried back to the bedroom, and the window shattered with the first impact. She hoped the people below were far enough away to avoid the flying glass. She imagined they were. They'd expect windows to be smashed by the ones still trapped.
Trapped.
She bit her lip, and tore her gaze away from the people below and the flame's color on the night sky. She went back to the living room and glanced longingly at the balcony. But red tongues of flame leapt up around it, attacking from the one below. She couldn't go out there. No haven there.
She returned to the bathroom, stoppered the tub and let more water rush into it. Cool water. And then she filled a dishpan, carried it into the living room and hurled the water at the hot door. The paint on the inside was blistering now. The smoke was finding its way around the blanket. The next dishpanful hit, spattered, splashed back on her face.
She threw another blanket into the water, this one to wrap herself in should she need it.
What else? What else?
Her heartbeat escalated when she realized she was sweating. The temperature of the room was increasing. The floors. God, the bottoms of her bare feet felt the heat seeping up through the floors.
Calm. Calm, don't panic. Go to the window again. Let them know you're here. A signal.
She tied several sheets together, taking her time, trying to keep her hands from shaking so hard, knowing there was nothing to do but wait. When she glanced up, she saw a layer of smoke suspended at waist level, and she got down from the bed to sit on the hot floor. She tied the end of her sheet banner to the bedpost and tossed the rest out the window.
They'd see the white flag in the night. They'd come for her.
Her eyes burned. The inside of her nose stung. Her chest hurt.
It's the smoke. The smoke is the enemy. Have to stop breathing so much of it.
She went to the bathroom again, to the overflowing tub, but she didn't turn the water off. She took a clean washcloth, wet it and held it to her face. She swiped at her burning eyes, but when she opened them again, it was dark.
The power had gone. The tub spluttered to a stop. She held the cloth over her nose and mouth to filter the air, but she choked anyway. She pawed for the tub, dragged the wet blanket from it. That thick, acrid stench coated her mouth and tongue. She dropped to her knees and crawled from the bathroom, pulling the sodden weight behind her.
The explosion came from nowhere and from everywhere. Burning brands rained on her like shrapnel, and a blinding wall of flame stood where the door used to be. She crawled faster, on knees only, coughing, clutching the washcloth to her face with one hand and pulling the soaked blanket with the other. She found her way to the bedroom door by the light of the inferno spreading like a pool through her apartment. She hurled herself through, then closed it and pushed the blanket to the bottom.
The coughing racked her now, and with each bout she spasmodically inhaled more of the smoke that was choking her. Killing her. She sat on the floor, turning herself slowly, blinking her watering eyes in pitch-darkness to get her bearings. The window--she wanted to get back to the window. She ; choked again, dragging in more of the acrid stench. Her finger screamed in white-hot pain, and she suddenly realized the ring she wore was burning a brand into it. She yanked it off, threw it away. Her hair was soaked in sweat, her skin sizzling with the heat.
And then she found the window. She found it by the glow of the sheets she'd hung out, which were burning now, like everything else. Flames climbed the sheet like a rope and leapt the windowsill to invade. She lurched to her feet, to the bed. She fumbled with the knot she'd made, but a fit of choking caught her, held her in a merciless grip. She had to stand long enough to undo the knot on the bedpost. When she finally got it free, and sent the sheets sailing to the ground below, she dropped to the floor again.
Only this time it wasn't volitional, and she didn't get up.
* * * * *
He had never intended to use the power of the psychic bond between her kind and his. But he was increasingly glad he'd begun to relearn the ways of doing it. As soon as dusk fell and he came fully awake, he homed in on Shannon. He'd go to her, take up his nightly vigil, just as soon as he'd showered and dressed. And until then he'd keep track of her with his mind.
He ignored the cravings of his body. He shouldn't feel such an urgent need yet. It hadn't been that long. And the damned hunger that kept dancing in his mind shouldn't be wearing Shannon's face. Damn, what was happening to him?
He tried distracting himself from this irrational need for her by thinking of new and amazing feats to perform for the crowds while he took a record-fast shower. He thought about escape tricks, and reminded himself to go through that book on Houdini that he'd bought last month, while he threw on his clothes. But all the time, in one corner of his mind, he was feeling her thoughts, experiencing what she did, smelling and tasting and hearing along with her. The old talent had come back to him with a little practice, more powerful than he'd remembered it.
She'd been silent, so deeply asleep she hadn't even dreamed.
Then there was an abrupt shift. Every one of her senses went rigidly alert. Damien smelled smoke, felt it, thick and stinging, clawing at his nostrils, scratching his eyes. Heat like a lead blanket tried to smother him. He felt her fear. Stark terror. All so fast, it had happened.
Fire. And he knew, dammit, that his skin would go up like gasoline if he touched the flame.
Didn't matter, though. He had to get her out. If not, he'd have to experience her death. Feel the gradual ebb of her life force, see what she saw in her mind as she battled the final enemy. Anyone but her, he thought in sudden panic, and the real possibility of it hit him. She couldn't die, not Shannon. It would kill him this time.
He'd done it, then, hadn't he? He'd let himself start caring about her.
Damien stepped out of his house, lifted his arms. Seconds later he soared, a shadow in the night sky, a streak of darkness there and gone so suddenly no mortal eye would see him. He soared toward her, and he felt her heartbeat slow.
Damn you, you won't win. Not this time!
He sped through the starry sky, piercing clouds like an arrow. He felt the cool, crisp air on his skin, and then the searing heat on Shannon's. He smelled the biting autumn air and then the stench of smoke. And then he was there. The conflagration raged like a tower of pure hell, and he dove, swooping through the broken glass of her bedroom window.
He thudded to the floor of a smoke-filled room, and even with his night vision, he could barely see. The heat was intense, and here and there tongues of vicious flame broke the inky blackness. He avoided them, focusing only on Shannon, and he found her, dropped to his knees beside her just as her labored, raspy struggles for breath stopped altogether.
She lay still, eyes closed, a limp angel. He scooped her into his arms, cupping her head with one hand and held her face to his. He blew his breath into her lungs. Once, twice, again.
She coughed, drew a strangled breath, only filling her lungs with more smoke. Her arms came weakly around his neck, and her face pressed to his throat. She choked his name before she lost consciousness again.
Cradling her to his chest, a burden so light he barely noticed the added weight, he leapt through the window again, speeding through the night too rapidly to be seen, like one more wisp of sooty smoke that appeared, then vanished in the blink of an eye.
He came down away from the lights and the crowd, in a darkened alley between the next two buildings. The street just beyond was a chaos of sirens. Red and white flashes bathed Shannon with color. Vehicles moved back and forth, horns blasting, voices shouting.
She stirred in his arms, drew a wheezing breath and then exploded in a seizure of coughing that he thought would tear her body apart. He held her to his chest until the paroxysm passed, then searched her soot-streaked face. "Shannon?"
She blinked him into focus with red eyes, frowned, then glanced beyond him to the burning hulk. Red-orange tongues of fire lapped at the night sky, as if they'd consume it, as well. "How--"
Her question was cut off by her coughing. He carried her out of the shadows, into the crowd. He shoved his way through until he reached an ambulance, then snatched the oxygen mask from its hook on a tank.
"Hold on, mister. I'll handle it." The young man turned a valve, held the mask to Shannon's face and waved an arm toward the ground. "Lay her down here."
"A stretcher." He bit the two words out and glared at the man in white.
"Sorry, but they're all in use. Just give her to me--" As the medic spoke he reached for Shannon, but a sweep of Damien's arm sent him stumbling aside. "Hey--" Damien shut him up with one glance before he looked for a soft place where she could rest. He spotted an empty police car and carried her toward it. The man swore under his breath, but came along, carrying the oxygen tank. Damien yanked open the rear door of the cruiser and lay her down across the back seat. She was coughing again, pushing the mask away, trying to sit up.
"Damien--"
"It's all right. Shannon. You'll be fine now."
"You got--"A fit of coughing took her and she was weak when it let her go. She sat up anyway, her arm along the back of the seat to brace her. She held the clear plastic mask to her face, head bowed as she sucked a few breaths of oxygen, but her eyes never left his. Her head came up, slowly, as if it weighed too much for her neck to support. "You got me out."
He nodded. "Rest. You need to--"
"How?"
He said nothing, just watched her. She turned her head to stare at the blazing building. She drew two more breaths, then moved the mask aside. "You went in there, didn't you? You walked into that..." Her brows drew together and she returned to her scrutiny of his face. She coughed again, drew herself straighter, searching his eyes.
An ambulance pulled up beside the police car. Two paramedics jumped out, yanked a gurney from the back and rolled it to a stop behind Damien. The one with the oxygen tank tapped the roof. "We've got an ambulance available now. We can transport her."
She shook her head. "No, I'm fine."
"We're taking you to a hospital, miss. You inhaled a lot of smoke--"
"I said I'm fine." She got her feet to the pavement again, shoving Damien aside so she could stand up, then closing a hand on his shoulder for support. She glanced just once more at the building, then met Damien's eyes, her own shooting sparks that were just a bit duller than usual. "Why?"
He wasn't sure just then that the smoke she'd inhaled hadn't damaged her brain. "You need see a doctor. Shannon. Lie down on this gurney and--"
"Stop talking to me like I'm two years old and spill it, Damien." She paused to cough, wheeze, gasp, pressing the palm of one hand to her chest, bending almost double. The young man held the mask she'd discarded to her face. She took one gulp of oxygen and pushed it aside, lifting her head with an obvious effort. "Why did you risk your neck for me like that? Again? You have a death wish or what?"
He frowned at her. "You know you and your lousy attitude are beginning to get to me. I went to a lot of trouble to snatch you, kicking and screaming as usual, from death's door. I don't expect a thank-you at this point, but you'd better believe you are going to see a doctor if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you there myself."
She sucked at the oxygen, eyes narrowing on his face.
He cocked his eyebrows. "Don't get that suspicious look, Shannon Mallory. This wasn't a plot to get you to stop suspecting me of heinous crimes. If that was all I wanted to accomplish I could have left you in there."
The mask moved away. "I never said--"
Her glare faltered, and she began coughing hard enough to tear her lungs to shreds, he thought.
He picked her up. "I'm tired of arguing with you, dammit." He held her hard and climbed into the back of the ambulance. He sat on a seat, with her on his lap, and sent the attendant a nod.
The youth clambered in with them, bringing the oxygen along, bending over to affix the mask once more to Shannon's face. Damien could see the medic wanted to suggest Damien follow in a car, meet them at the hospital. He even opened his mouth to do it, but he changed his mind. The other man closed the double rear doors and went around to the front. The vehicle lurched, jarring her against his chest. Her arms encircled Damien's shoulders and she let her head relax against him. He closed his eyes. In seconds they were under way, siren blasting.
They hadn't gone far, when she lifted her head, reached up to yank the mask from her face, but Damien caught her hand in his, held it, stared down into her eyes. He could will her to be still. But he found himself wan ting to convince her instead. He liked her spirit, irritating though it was.
"Shannon, there is nothing in this for me. That's what you're wondering about, isn't it? What my angle is, what I'm after? Nothing at all."
She twisted her hand from his and yanked the mask away. "I didn't ask for you to jump into the middle of my life." She drew a slow, careful breath. "I don't need a hero."
"I didn't claim to be one."
"Ha! You ran into that burning building like some kind of comic-book superstar! There was no earthly reason for you to--" Her accusatory comment was cut off by another bout of coughing, and Damien pressed the mask to her face again.
When she'd calmed and faced him again, he lifted the mask. She looked at him in silence for a long time. Her gaze fell to somewhere in the vicinity of his chin. "There was no reason for you to risk your life like that." She spoke more softly, he thought, so she wouldn't instigate a return of her choking and gasping.
"There was every reason," he told her. He pushed her hair away from her face.
Her eyes narrowed, shooting amber sparks at him. He wiped some of the soot from her face. She tried to sit up, and he let her. She slid from his lap to settle on the edge of the gurney. She didn't look him in the eye. She stared downward, and her golden hair fell over one side of her face. "I thought... I really thought it was all over, in there."
"I'm glad you were wrong."
She nodded. "I owe you, Damien... again." The ambulance turned and slowed. Then came to a stop. The rear doors opened, and she got to the ground by herself, refusing his help as well as the medics'. The young man reached out to take Shannon's arm, but she jerked it away. "I can walk perfectly well by myself. God, you'd think I was... was..." She stood, wavering slightly, glanced at Damien, blinked. She lifted one hand toward him.
He caught her when she began sinking. Stubborn woman! He carried her through the double Emergency Room doors that opened on their own at his approach. He walked into chrome- and-white chaos, the smell of Lysol, the squeak of rubber soles on spotless floor tiles and the clatter of wobbling wheels on gurneys as they were pushed along. She muttered that she was fine and didn't need to be carried. He was ushered to an examining room, where he laid her carefully down on a table that was covered in immaculate white paper. She smudged it with soot.
* * * * *
Damien evaporated as soon as the first nurse appeared with a stack of forms to be filled out. Shannon sat on the edge of the bed and filled in the blanks, wondering if they handed this same stack to cardiac-arrest victims before administering CPR.
A nurse came in with a soft, damp cloth and a basin of warm water and proceeded to wipe the soot from Shannon's face. Okay, she thought. They were sweethearts. She was just thinking bitchy thoughts because she was in a bitchy mood. Damn, she'd lost just about everything she had.
"The doctor will be right in, Ms...." The blond woman glanced at the forms. "Mallory. You just relax and let me get your vitals, okay?"
Shannon nodded as a thermometer was popped into her mouth.
As it turned out, that nurse spent a good half hour with her. The doc was in and out in five minutes flat, pronouncing her well enough to go home, and then the nurse was back, wondering what she was going to wear.
Shannon hadn't thought of that. And when she did, she thought of other things, things she'd never see again. Her Sting CDs, her brown suede jacket...
Her eyes flew wide, she clutched her middle and groaned in real pain. The nurse grabbed her shoulder. Damien burst into the room. "What's wrong? What's happening?"
Shannon moaned again, louder. It really hurt. "My car. Oh, my car, my car, my car." She covered her face with her hands when Damien and the nurse exchanged looks. "After those thugs tried to steal it, I parked it in that damned sinkhole they call an underground garage. Oh, damn, don't you get it? My car..." She groaned. They didn't understand. They couldn't. "Just get out and leave me alone," she muttered into her hands.
She heard the door close, thought she might be by herself, looked up. Damien set a big shopping bag on the floor and came toward her. "You're crying." His magic fingers rose and wiped the tears from her cheeks.
"You think it's stupid, crying for a car." She sniffed and tried to stop, but more tears flowed. She gave up, closed her eyes and let them come.
His hands slipped over her shoulders, around to her back. He pulled her head to his chest, and he rocked her slightly back and forth. "I don't think it's stupid."
"Tawny... used to collect them."
"Cars?"
She sniffed and nodded, pushing her face closer to his chest. That white shirt of his still held the smell of smoke, but his scent was there, too, and it crept into her brain and rubbed her sore spots with a healing touch. "Matchbox cars," she told him. "The Corvette was her favorite. But it was my favorite, too. We'd always fight over that one. Little, candy-apple red Stingray with the doors that really opened and closed. She'd put it on her dresser, and I'd snatch it and put it on mine. We were too old for toys, but hell, we didn't have much to call our own in those days." She cried a little harder, ashamed of herself, but needing to do it. "And... and my birthday came, with no party or presents, just like always. And she--she wrapped that stupid little car up in a page of comics and gave it to me. It was her favorite, and she gave it to me. She swore someday we'd have a real one, and we'd ride around together...."
His arms tightened around her. "So that's why your car means so much to you, hmm?"
She nodded again.
"It might be okay, you know. They have the fire pretty much contained, according to the radio, and it didn't look to me like the lower floors were too badly damaged."
She lifted her head, gazing wide-eyed at his face. "You think?"
"It's possible. I'll check on it for you just as soon as we get you settled in."
She felt her brows draw together. "Settled i--"
"I went to a department store a few blocks away while you were being examined, picked you up a few necessities."
"You--"
"You're coming home with me. Shannon. And I don't want to hear any arguments about it." He stood in front of her, searched her face.
She was quiet for a long time, searching his right back. His dark eyes, his raven hair, the face that made her want to trace each strong feature with her fingertips. He'd saved her life... twice now. He certainly wasn't going to hurt her.
"Damien..." She hesitated, hating to voice her fears, but forcing herself to go on. "Do you think the fire--"
"They're saying it looks like arson, but they won't be certain for a day or two."
She gnawed her lips. "It's all connected, isn't it? Someone doesn't want me digging into Tawny's murder."
"There's no proof--"
"It might even have been Bachman. He said he could make me disappear." She eyed Damien, wishing she knew the truth. "I just don't know. It might have been an attempt on your life. It might have been a coincidence. Either way, you'll be safer with me. I don't want you alone anymore. Shannon."
She didn't want to be alone anymore, either. She simply nodded. "Okay."