FORTY-FOUR

Payton landed on hands and knees beside the bed, pain ricocheting from ear to ear. The second blow glanced off the nape of her neck. She rolled. The third blow jammed her right wrist; her shoulder exploded out of the socket and she collapsed. Stay down, part of her said. The other part that controlled the lust for self-preservation said, get up and fight.

The air was heavy with his presence. In the shadows near the closet.

Her mind scanned the surroundings and fabricated only one possible weapon, the adored imported crystal lamp on the table, four feet to the right. She lunged, toes digging for traction, fingers groping. She missed the lamp, lost her footing and fell, fingers hooking the lace doily and jerking it from the table. She landed on her dislocated arm. Payton never knew a human could feel such pain and still live.

He came at her again. She saw him, not as a shape, but a darker spot in the dense shadows. Where was the lamp? She’d heard it fall when the doily pulled away. Her fingers groped along the floor.

He took another step and became outlined in the meager moonlight from the French door; he was shorter than Payton, but beefy and thick, probably outweighing her by seventy-five pounds. When he bypassed the opportunity to escape out the door, Payton knew with unqualified certainty that his objective wasn’t burglary. It was murder.

“Who are you?” She backed two steps, her right arm dangling uselessly at her side, pain screeching into her fingers. “What do you want?”

No reply.

Another step back.

“If you go away now, I promise I won’t call Vaughn.”

Still nothing.

The hallway was an endless five feet away. As if reading her thoughts, he lunged, one arm high overhead. Something glinted in his hand.

Payton spun and ran. She tripped and fell against the wall. She didn’t lose consciousness but wished she had. Through the wall of agony a silhouette loomed above. The panther statuette—given to her by Cameron—was about to smash down on her head.

How dare he use her own possession as a murder weapon? Payton drove her left shoulder into his midsection, embracing his thick hips with her good arm. She dug her toes in the carpet and thrust all her weight forward. His muscles clenched as he fought to maintain balance. She pushed again, toes digging in. He staggered; should fall.

The cat statue—a precious third anniversary gift—drove into the middle of Payton’s spine. Rather than debilitate, the pain spawned rage. Adrenaline bred strength. She squeezed her arm around him, used the rug as a launching pad and thrust forward. The heavy body tumbled against the dresser amid a torrent of obscenities. Payton fell atop him but quickly regained her feet.

So did he. Fury etched his silhouette.

Something cold lay against her right foot. Mercury couldn’t have flowed smoother than Payton as she bent, picked up the lamp and wrenched the cord from the wall.

And aimed for his head.

He ducked. The lamp struck his right arm. Bones broke. The sound was like nothing she’d ever heard. He gave a low, agonized howl.

This time the statue caught Payton on the side of the head. Her vision swam. Became four assailants. Then ten.

She slashed the lamp in a wide, sweeping arc. He came at her anyway, statue held like a gun. A spark of moonlight illuminated its ruby eyes. This must be how it had been for Cameron, at the mercy of those wretched men who’d pummeled him with her kitchen utensils.

Payton stabbed the lamp at a spot that should be groin. The ensuing wail said she struck home. She crashed the lamp down. Once, twice. The bulb burst and they were showered with glass. She swung again. Each time she made contact with flesh and bone, yet still he remained upright.

He lunged. She swung. Lamp and cat collided. The lamp shattered in her hand. He took a step forward. She took two backward. Each bore an arm dangling at their side. Each breathed hard, though his was raspy and liquid. In an absurd dance they edged toward the door.

He prepared to strike again. Payton prepared to defend. There was a sudden, ragged intake of breath, and he collapsed at her feet. Not dead, she knew, because he was breathing in thick, mucousy gurgles.

She leaped over him. And started to run.

Fingers clutched her ankle and yanked. She kicked out, making contact with something rough. Her attacker grunted. The hand let go and she darted for the door.

He’d gotten upright again.

What did it take to bring this monster down?

This time he didn’t charge. Didn’t swing the statue. He raced from the room, taking the stairs two at a time. Payton sprinted after him, doing likewise. At the bottom, he suffered a moment’s hesitation then raced to the back of the house dodging furniture and statuary.

He wrenched open the sliding door and slithered outside. Moments ago, she’d been willing to let him leave without impediment. Now, feeling all-encompassing outrage borne of invasion, betrayal and attempted murder, she dove at him. This time he dropped like a stone. The scent of rosemary surged around them as they tumbled into the herb bed, Payton on top. She thrashed him in the face, nose and ears. Over and over she pounded, feeling a rush as his blood gushed over her.

He planted his good hand on her left breast and shoved. She went airborne; her head thumped back onto the brick patio. Now he was atop her chest, his weight forcing her shoulders into the bricks, expelling a new battery of pain. Five fingers went around Payton’s throat.

This time she would not heed Death’s call.

She folded her legs, arched her back and hammered her knees into his spine. Unable to brace himself, he fell forward. Their faces touched. Breaths mingled. A scent. No, not a scent, because she couldn’t breathe; it was more a perception, a familiarity. She arched her back and kicked again, but added a twist to the side that dislodged the hands and broke the bond of recognition.

Payton flew to her knees, gasping, sucking in lungfuls of precious air, helpless and impotent. She put out a hand in a gesture of supplication: like a child’s time out. It wouldn’t stop him, but it was all she had left. Breathe. In. Out.

Movement behind her attacker—a shadow, an apparition, or maybe an angel—Payton didn’t know, or care. It moved with the speed of electricity, wrapping an arm around the attacker’s neck and slamming him to the ground. There was a sound of intense thrashing and grunting. Payton lifted her head; maybe Aden needed help. But it was over, Aden was on his feet, brushing dirt off his hands.

She inhaled. That cool fresh air was the best thing she’d ever felt. Better even than any sex. Payton fell back on her haunches, breathing, just breathing.

“Are you all right?”

That’s when she realized she was crying; if her squeaks and rasps could be called crying. Gentle fingers touched her elbow, helped her up. Strong arms wrapped her safely in their embrace and lifted. Her shoulder jostled against his and she screamed. It was a croak but there was no mistaking its meaning.

Aden guided her down into the lounge chair. He knelt, peering anxiously into her face. “I’m going to get the phone and some towels. Will you be okay for a minute?”

She stretched to peer over his shoulder.

“Don’t worry about him right now.”

Aden was only gone a moment. He returned with a phone against one ear and a bundle of kitchen towels in his free hand. “…lot of blood,” he was saying. “Hurry.” He gave Payton’s address then flipped the phone shut and dropped it in his shirt pocket. He knelt again, shaking the folds from a yellow plaid towel. “There’s blood all over you. Where are you hurt?”

“Everywhere.”

He gave a grim smile, lifted her right hand and turned it. Her palm was covered in blood. A fresh flow ran from the middle of her lifeline. He swabbed it, but a fresh bubble burst up. He grunted and wound the towel tight around her hand. Behind him a black hulk grew out of the shadows.

“Aden! Look out!”

Seemingly in the same motion Aden leaped up and spun around. The hulk approached, entered the circle of light from the sliding doors. Vaughn’s face appeared, came closer.

“Aden! Watch out!” She flinched back in the chair. It went off balance and tipped over. The scream that ensued probably woke the rest of the neighborhood.

When she came to, both Aden and Vaughn hovered over her, Aden’s mouth in a straight line, Vaughn smiling. “So, you thought I was the bad guy, huh?” He tilted his head and pursed his lips. “If I wasn’t so worried, I might be insulted.”

“I’m sorry.”

He patted her thigh. She peered over his shoulder. “Aden, something’s wrong. Tell me what it is.”

Aden finished fastening another towel around the back of her neck, then said, “Sorry honey. He got away.”

“What!” She tried to sit up but fell back in pain. “How?”

“He probably skirted the shadows behind the properties,” Vaughn said.

“It’s not a he, it’s a she,” Payton said.

“What?” both men exclaimed at the same time.

The wail of an ambulance stopped further questions.