Midnight's Master. Cynthia Eden

all wanted to keep her there in the lovely confines of Reed In-firmary for a much longer stay.

      But, other than the bleeding, the bruises, and the general fury that she had going on, she was fine and did not need to stay overnight in a hospital.

      His blue eyes wide, he began, “Babe, there is no way you can go on the air looking—”

      She growled and Ben very wisely decided to shut up.

      Holly pointed to the production assistant who was staring at her ripped skirt. “You.” His eyes bulged. “Hook me up with a microphone.” She glanced back at Ben. “Because I’m going live.”

      “No, Mac said Susan’s doing the story about the restaurant food poisoning—”

      Another growl. Then she stormed past him. She caught the eye of the cameraman working the evening news show. The assistant hurried behind her, struggling to attach a microphone.

      Holly didn’t bother sitting at the second “desk”—the backup that waited just beyond the main anchors. She stood, wanting the camera to catch all of her.

      In the background, she heard Mac talking, heard the clear order of “switch to Holly in five, four…”

      “What the hell?” Susan Patrick’s snarl. The blonde shoved her way toward the camera, glaring at Holly. “I’m on the air—”

      “Hold your story, Sue. The burgers can wait.” Mac pointed to Holly. “She’s our lead.”

      Mac always knew when a good story was close. When a reporter had dried blood on her clothes, it meant a very good story was close.

      “…three, two, one…”

      The camera lens fixed on her. Holly lifted her bruised chin. She could still taste her own blood on her tongue. “I’m Holly Storm, coming to you live tonight with a plea for your help.”

      Niol stilled in front of the television. The glass of water he’d been lifting to his mouth froze.

      Holly stared back at him. A long, angry red scratch slid down her cheek. The camera slowly pulled back, and Niol caught sight of her full body. The ripped clothes. The blood.

      A slow fury began to burn within him.

      “Earlier today, I was the victim of a hit-and-run.”

      The glass shattered.

      “A white van, no plates, hit me on Biltmore Street just before twelve today.”

      Niol shook his hand, sending water and glass shards flying.

      “If anyone out there has information about this crime, call the police station—”

      Niol grabbed the remote. Muted the sound. Stared at Holly.

      So weak.

      Biltmore Street. Home of hookers, drug dealers, and gang-bangers. What the hell had Holly been doing there?

      And what would he have done if she’d died there?

      Fuck.

      He reached across his desk. Picked up his phone. His call was answered on the second ring.

      “I want protection.” He didn’t bother identifying himself. Not necessary.

      A swift inhalation of air. “For yourself, sir?”

      He almost laughed. Almost, but he could still see the bruises on Holly’s skin. “For Holly Storm.”

      Niol had said that he’d leave her, that she’d be on her own.

      It looked like Holly wasn’t the only liar in town.

      Someone would fucking pay for hurting her.

      Sam Miters had been clean for exactly four weeks, two days, and sixteen hours.

      At first, he’d been counting the minutes. When little Holly Storm had held his hand in that shithole and watched him vomit his guts out, he’d counted the minutes then.

      The early days were a blur. He remembered coming to a few times and seeing her. Looking like some kind of avenging angel—an angel with the fires of hell around her head. Beautiful Holly Storm.

      She’d seen him through hell, all right. Offered him a second chance.

      But she didn’t know what his life was like. Didn’t understand.

      His gift…such as it was…let him see the darkness in humans. Only the darkness. He heard their painful dreams in whispers. Heard them long to kill. To torture.

      He never heard the whispers from the good people in the world. He’d never so much as caught a hint of Holly’s thoughts.

      It was the killers. The twisted souls lost long ago—they spoke to him.

      And they would never fucking shut up.

      Being clean just made their voices louder.

      One voice, one deep voice, had slipped into his head a few days ago and the damn voice had kept him awake since then, shuddering with disgust.

      The things the voice wanted—Sam choked, tasting bile. No, he couldn’t think of them. He’d tried to pretend the voice didn’t exist, that someone wasn’t out there, hunting—

      Then that kid had turned up dead.

      He rapped the back of his head into the brick wall of the alley. No, no, he couldn’t do this anymore, couldn’t—

      “I can make it stop.”

      His breath caught. Because, this time, the voice hadn’t come from inside him. He looked up, body shaking, and met the stare of a stranger.

      The man smiled. “Chased any dragons lately, friend?”

      Chasing the white dragon. Sam’s breath caught. Meth. Sweet white beauty. He shook his head even as his heart seemed to jump into his throat. He swallowed, trying to ease a mouth gone bone dry. He’d been so good. Stayed clean.

      For what? So that a fucking psycho could crawl into his head and he couldn’t get the bastard out?

      He kept hearing the words, over and over.

      Cut them. Slice them. Blood on the ground. The impure will die.

      Cut them. Slice them. Blood on the ground.

      “I’ve got something you might like. Something that will make you feel real good.”

      He never felt good. Not even when the meth pumped in his blood.

      But the voices quieted with the drug’s help. Such beautiful silence. “Wh-where is it?”

      The man shook his head. “Ah, now that’s not the way it works. First, you’ve got to pay.”

      Cut them.

      Sam’s whole body trembled.

      The man bent, reached into a black bag at his feet, and pulled out a glass pipe. A whimper slipped past Sam’s lips. He liked to use the pipe. Liked to grip the cold glass in his hands and inhale his bitch of a lady.

      His gaze locked helplessly on the pipe. He licked his lips. Just once. He could take a hit this one time, stop the voice—

      Slice them.

      And he’d be fine. He wouldn’t get trapped by the meth again. It would just be one time.

      One time.

      He took a step forward, hands already up to reach for the pipe. “I-I don’t have much cash…”

      Another smile, one that seemed too cold. The man’s eyes glinted like chips of ice. “I don’t want your money.”

      He needed that pipe. “What?”

      The pipe was shoved back into the bag. “Information. All I want from you, Sam, is information.”