Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,120
her hair and ground her face into the ground. She coughed and spat dirt—and a few obscenities.
He leaned over her. “I want to talk to Hope.”
“Who the hell do you think you’re—?”
His fist tightened in her hair, jerking her head back. “I want to talk to Hope.”
She bucked and flipped fast, the demon power-boosting her strength. Her feet flew up, scissoring around his waist and throwing him to the side with a deftness that left her blinking.
He fell face-first. As he pushed up, Hope pounced, landing on his back, knees digging into his spine as her hands twisted wildly, trying to break the strap cuffs. She felt the tie slide over wet skin, and glanced over her shoulder to see her wrists bloodied.
The surprise of seeing blood was enough to make her pause. When Rhys bucked, she fell back. He shot up and lunged for her. She scrambled to her feet and kicked. When her foot didn’t make contact, she swung off balance, shoulder-checking the fence with a crack.
Rhys grabbed her shoulders and whammed her face-first into the fence. A splinter drove into her cheek and the demon screamed, as outraged as if she’d been stabbed. Fresh adrenaline pumped through her and she flailed, writhing and kicking.
Rhys slammed her against the fence hard enough to knock her wind out again, and this time her body said to hell with what the demon wanted, it had had enough, and she leaned against the wood, panting, sweat dripping into her open mouth, eyelids fluttering, legs trembling with exhaustion.
“Good,” Rhys said. “Now let me talk to Hope.”
“What the hell are you? An exorcist?”
A humor-free chuckle. “If I have to be.”
He flipped her around to face him, pinned her by the shoulders, then leaned down toward her face.
“I know you can hear me, Hope.”
“Of course I can. You’re spitting in my face.”
He inched back and lifted his chin before continuing. “I know it feels good, letting the demon take over. But I need you to take control. You’re getting hurt—”
“Because you keep throwing me around. Hello? I’m in control. No head spinning, see? I could manage projectile vomiting, though, if it’d make you feel better.”
“So you’re back?”
“I never went anywhere. I control her; she doesn’t control me.”
“Her?”
Hope flashed the image of Karl for the demon. Karl in trouble. It was like being seven again, telling her mom about the riding instructor who liked to caress her rear as he boosted her onto the horse. Like her mom, the demon went wild, protective instinct kicking in full steam. The snarling, teeth-gnashing dervish returned, thrashing until the bite of the handcuff strap knocked her sober.
“There.” She flicked her head to toss sweat-sodden hair out of her eyes. “If you’d like a better demonstration, just undo this strap.” She flashed her teeth then, a warning smile, pure Karl, another lesson assimilated and never used until now.
Rhys blinked and eased back. “So it can be controlled.” His lips moved. It took a moment for her to recognize the expression as a smile. “I was right.”
“Yes, apparently—” Hope nailed him in the shin with a satisfying crack. “—you were.”
He staggered back, wincing.
“Now cut this strap and walk away or—”
“I’m on your side, Hope.”
Another classic fight line. Her laugh came harsh. “Of course, you are. That Cabal SWAT team attack? Total misunderstanding.”
“Yes, it was the Cabal. Which means, I had nothing to do with it.”
“Because you couldn’t possibly be working for the Nasts.” She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. “You set us up. Friday night, when we went by to check out Irving Nast’s place, you were there. You followed us, then you set Grant Gilchrist on our trail. You were trying to find Adele for Irving and didn’t want us getting to her first.”
Hope expected him to say he’d been at Irving’s place for the same reason they’d been—scoping it out. An equally plausible excuse. But after a moment, he scooped up his ball cap, pulled it on and said, “Yes, that’s how I found you were involved and, yes, I was hired by Irving Nast to find Adele. But I’m not a Cabal employee. I’m an independent contractor.”
“A mercenary.”
“Not the word I’d choose.”
“You don’t like it? Well, I don’t like being tied up. So how about you let me go and I’ll promise never to call you that again.”
“Yes, Irving Nast hired me. He thought that was clever—getting one clairvoyant to find another. I was making sure he didn’t get her. A Cabal rips the soul from