Текст книги "Dark Desire"

Автор книги: Christine Feehan

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Dark Desire

Dark Series – book 2

Christine Feehan

Chapter One

There was blood, a river of it running. There was pain, a sea he was floating in. Would it never end? A thousand cuts, burns, the taunting laughter telling him it would go on for all eternity. He could not believe he was so helpless, could not believe his incredible power and strength had been drained from him, leaving him reduced to such a pitiful state. He sent mental call after call out into the night; none of his kind came to help him. The agony continued, went on relentlessly. Where were they? His kin? His friends? Why wouldn’t they come to him and end this? Had it been a conspiracy? Had they deliberately left him to these butchers who wielded their knives and torches with such delight? It had been someone he knew who had betrayed him, but the memory was curiously fading, obscured by endless pain.

His tormentors had somehow managed to capture him, paralyze him so that he could feel yet not move, not even his vocal cords. He was totally helpless, vulnerable to the puny humans tearing his body apart. He heard their taunts, the endless questions, felt the rage in them when he refused to acknowledge their presence or the pain they inflicted on him. He wanted death, welcomed it, and his eyes, cold as ice, never left their faces, never blinked, the eyes of a predator waiting, watching, promising retaliation. It maddened them, but they refused to administer the finishing blow.

Time no longer meant anything to him, his world had become so narrow, but at some point he felt another’s presence in his mind. The touch was far off, female, young. He had no idea how he had inadvertently connected with her, his mind melded to hers so that she was sharing his torment, every scorching burn, every cut of the knife, draining his blood, his life force from him. He tried to remember who she might be. She had to be close to him if she shared his mind. She was as helpless as he was, enduring the pain with him, sharing his agony. He tried to close himself off from her, the need to protect her paramount in him, yet he was far too weak to block his mental thoughts. His pain poured out of him, a raging torrent, flowing straight to the female sharing his mind.

Her anguish hit him like a powerful blow. He was, after all, a Carpathian male. His first duty was to protect a woman above his own life at all times. That he should falter so added to his despair and sense of failure. He caught brief images of her in his mind, a small, fragile figure huddled in a ball of pain, trying desperately to hang on to her sanity. She seemed a stranger to him, yet he saw her in color, something he had not seen in centuries. He couldn’t send either of them to sleep to save both of them from this agony. He could only catch fragments of her thoughts as she desperately tried to call out for help, tried to decipher what was happening to her.

Droplets of blood began to seep from his pores. Red blood. He clearly saw that his blood was red. It meant something important, yet he was confused, unable to discern why it was significant and what it meant. His mind was becoming hazy, as if a great veil were being drawn over his brain. He couldn’t remember how they had managed to capture him. He struggled to “see” the image of the one of his own kind who had betrayed him, but the picture would not return to his mind. There was only pain. Terrible, endless pain. He could not make a sound, even when his mind shattered into a million fragments and he could no longer remember what, or whom, he was struggling to protect.

Shea O’Halloran lay curled up on her bed, the lamp providing her just enough light to read her medical journal. She covered page after page in mere seconds, committing the material to memory as she had done since she was a child. Now she was completing her residency, the youngest resident on record, and it was an exhausting ordeal. She hurried to finish the text, wanting to get some rest while she could. The pain hit her unexpectedly, slamming into her with such virulence that she was thrown off the bed, her body contorting with the force. She tried to cry out, to crawl blindly toward the phone, but she could only writhe on the floor helplessly. Sweat beaded on her skin; smears of crimson blood seeped through her pores. The pain was like nothing she had ever experienced, as if someone were cutting her flesh with a knife, burning her, torturing her endlessly. It went on and on– hours, days, she didn’t know. No one came to help her, and they wouldn’t; she was alone, so private that she had no real friends. At the end, when the pain ripped through her as if a hole the size of her fist had opened in her chest, she lost consciousness.

When he thought his tormentors were through with him, would end his suffering, give him death, he discovered what true hell really was. Gut-wrenching agony. Evil faces above him. A sharpened stake poised over his heart. A beat of time, a second. It would end now. It had to end. He felt the thick wooden point drive into his flesh, tearing a huge hole through muscle and sinew. The hammer fell hard on the end of the stake, driving it ever deeper. The pain was beyond anything he had ever imagined. The female sharing his mind lost consciousness, a mercy for both of them. He continued to feel every blow, the huge peg separating his flesh, penetrating his insides while blood spurted like a geyser, further weakening him. He felt his life force fading away, his strength so drained now that he was certain he would die. He reached for death. Embraced death. But it wasn’t to be. He was a Carpathian male, an immortal, one not so easily disposed of. One whose will was strong and determined. A will that fought death even when his body begged for an end to his suffering and existence.

His eyes found them, the two humans. They were covered in his blood, red sprays across their clothes. He gathered his strength, the last of it, and captured their gazes with his mesmerizing stare. If he could just hold them long enough to turn their own evil back on them. One cursed suddenly and jerked his companion away. Quickly, they covered his eyes with cloth, no longer able to stand the dark promise in the deep pits of suffering, afraid of his power, although he was so helpless before them. They laughed as they chained him into the coffin and lifted it upright. He heard himself scream with the pain, but the sound was only in his mind, echoing sharply, locked away, mocking him. He forced himself to stop. They couldn’t hear him, but it didn’t matter to him. He had a shred of dignity left. Self-respect. They would not defeat him. He was Carpathian. He heard the dirt hitting the wood as they buried him in the wall of the cellar. Each shovelful. The darkness was complete. The silence took him like a blow.

He was a creature of the night. The dark was his home. Yet now, in his agony, it was his enemy. There was only pain and silence. Always before, he was the one who chose whether to stay in the darkness, in the healing soil. Now he was a prisoner, locked away, with the soil just out of reach. Comfort should have been his, was near, yet always the wood of the coffin prevented his body from touching what would eventually have healed his wounds.

Hunger began to invade his world of agony. Time passed, meant nothing. Only the terrible, relentless hunger that grew until it became his entire world. Agony. Hunger. Nothing else existed for him anymore.

He found, after some time, that he could put himself to sleep. But the return of this gift meant nothing anymore. He remembered nothing. This was his life. Sleep. Wake only when an inquisitive creature strayed too close. The rush of agony consuming him when his heart beat. Conserving as much strength as possible to try to draw food to him. Sources were few and far between. Even insects learned to avoid the place of darkness and the malevolent creature who dwelled there.

In the endless moments that inched past during his waking agony, he would whisper his name to himself. Jacques.He had a name. He was real. He existed. He lived in hell. He lived in darkness. The hours turned into months, then years. He could no longer remember any other way of life, any other existence. There was no hope, no peace, no way out. There was no end. Only the darkness, the pain, the terrible hunger. Time continued to pass, meant nothing in his limited world.

His wrists were manacled so that he had little room to maneuver, but every time a creature came close enough to awaken him, he scratched at the walls of his coffin in a vain attempt to get out. His strength of mind was returning so that he eventually could coax his prey to him, yet only enough to barely survive. There was no way to regain his power and strength without replacing the huge volume of blood he had lost. There was no creature underground big enough to do that. Every time he woke, moved, fresh blood would drip steadily from his wounds. Without the necessary amount of blood to replace his loss, his body could not heal itself. The circle was endless, hideous, an ugly cycle that would last for all eternity.

Then the dreams began to intrude. Waking him when he was starving, without a way to fill the void. A woman. He recognized her, knew she was out there, alive, no manacles, not buried beneath the earth but able to move freely around. She was just out of his mind’s reach, yet he could almost touch her. Why didn’t she come to him? He could summon up no face, no past, only the knowledge that she was out there somewhere. He called to her. Begged. Pleaded. Raged. Where was she? Why wouldn’t she come to him? Why did she allow his agony to continue when even her presence in his mind would ease the terrible sense of isolation? What had he done that was so terrible that he deserved this?

Anger found its way into his world. Hatred, even. In the place of a man a monster grew, deadly, dangerous, grew and thrived on the pain, became a will impossible to crush. Fifty years, a hundred—what did it matter if he traveled to the very gates of hell for revenge? He already resided there, imprisoned in it every waking moment.

She would come to him. He vowed it. He would bend his will to finding her. And once he found her he would become a shadow in her mind until he was familiar enough with her to force his will on her. She would come to him, and he would have his revenge.

Hunger gripped him each time he woke, so that pain and hunger melted together and became the same. Concentrating on finding the path to the woman, however, saved him some agony. His focus was so complete that he could actually block the pain for a short while. First it was only seconds. Then minutes. Each time he woke, he bent his will toward finding her; there was nothing else to do. Months. Years. It didn’t matter to him. She could not escape him forever.

The first time he touched her mind, it was such a shock after all the thousands of fruitless tries that he immediately lost contact. And the rush of elation caused a bright red spray of blood to erupt around the stake buried deep within his body, draining his remaining strength. He slept a long time in an attempt to recover. A week perhaps. A month. There was no need to measure time. He had a direction now, although she was far away from him. The distance was so great, it took his full concentration to focus and reach for her across time and space.

Jacques tried again when he woke. This time he was unprepared for the images in her mind. Blood. A small human chest ripped wide open. A pulsating heart. Her hands were immersed inside the chest cavity, covered in blood. There were others in the room with her, and she was directing their movements with her mind. She seemed unaware that she was doing so. Her focus was completely on her horrendous task. The ease with which she directed the others suggested that she did so often. The vivid pictures were horrible, and he knew she had been part of the betrayal, was part of those torturing him. He nearly lost the contact, but his indomitable will kicked in. She would suffer for this. Really suffer for this. The body she was torturing was so small, it had to be a child.

The operating room was dimly lit, just the way Dr. O’Halloran liked it; only the body on the table had a bright light shining down on it. Her unusually acute hearing picked up voices outside the room: a nurse consoling the patient’s parents. “You’re lucky Dr. O’Halloran is working tonight. She’s the best there is. She has a gift. Really. When there’s no chance at all, she still pulls them out. Your little boy couldn’t be in better hands.”

“But he looked so awful.” That was the terrified, already grieving mother.

“Dr. O’Halloran has been known to work miracles. Truly. Have faith. She just never stops until she saves them. We think she wills them to live.”

Shea O’Halloran couldn’t have any distractions right now, certainly not a nurse promising parents she could save this child with his chest crushed and his internal organs a jigsaw puzzle. Not when she had spent the last forty-eight hours solid doing research, and her body was screaming at her for sleep and nourishment. She blocked out all noises, all voices, and focused completely on the task at hand. She would not lose this little boy. She wouldn’t. It was that simple to her. She never gave herself any other choice, never allowed any other thought into her mind. She had a good team, knew they worked well with her, meshing like a finely tuned machine. She never had to look to see if they were reacting to what she wanted or needed; they were always there for her. If she was able to save her patients, where others couldn’t, it wasn’t by her efforts alone.

She bent closer to the little boy, pushing out everything but her desire for this child to live. As she was reaching to take the instrument her nurse was handing her, something struck at her. Pain gripped her, consumed her, sweeping through her body like a terrible fire. She had felt such agony only one other time, a couple of years earlier. She had never managed to discover what had been wrong with her. The pain had simply disappeared after nearly twenty-four hours. Now, with a child’s life hanging by a thread, depending upon her skills, she did not have the luxury of fainting. Agony gripped her, twisted her insides, and took the breath from her lungs. Shea struggled to control herself; years of forcing her mind to remain under strict discipline stood her in good stead. As she did with every other distraction, she forced the pain out of her mind, took a deep breath, and concentrated on the child.

The nurse closest to her regarded the doctor with complete shock. In all the time she had worked with O’Halloran, admiring her, almost idolizing her, she had never seen the surgeon lose her focus, not even for a second. This time, Shea had stood perfectly still—a few heartbeats, that was all—but the nurse couldn’t help noticing because it was so unusual. Her hands had trembled, and she had broken out in a sweat. Automatically the nurse reached up to wipe the moisture from the doctor’s forehead. To her horror, the cloth came away stained with blood. Droplets were beading up, seeping through her pores. The nurse wiped the surgeon’s forehead a second time, attempting to hide the cloth from the others. She had never seen anything like it.

Then Shea was once more herself snapping instantly back to attention. The nurse swallowed all her questions and returned to work, the images of what Dr. O’Halloran needed coming into her mind so fast, she had no time to think about the strange phenomenon anymore. She had long ago become used to knowing what the doctor needed before she asked for it.

Shea felt an unfamiliar presence in her mind, felt the dark malevolence beating at her for one more heartbeat before she closed it out, then her attention was completely taken up with the child and the shredded jumble that was his chest. He would not die. She would not allow it. You hear me, child? I’m here with you, and I will not let you die he silently vowed. She meant it. She always meant it. It was as if part of her merged with her patients and somehow managed to keep them alive until modern medicine could kick in.

Jacques slept for some time. Itdidn’t matter to him how long it had been. Hunger was waiting. Pain was waiting. Thetreacherous heart and soul of a woman were waiting. He had an eternity to gather what strengthhe could, and she could never escape him now that he knew the mental path to her mind. He slept the sleep of immortals,his lungs and heart stopped as he lay in the earth, his body close to the soil itso desperately needed to aid healing, yet a thin layer of wood away. Whenhe awakened, he scratched at the walls ofhis coffin patiently. He would reach the healing soil someday. He hadmanaged to make a smallhole to coaxhis prey to him. Hecould wait. Shewould never escape him. She washis single-minded purpose.

Hehaunted her. Day or night. It didn’t matter to him. He no longer knew the difference when it had mattered so muchbefore. He lived to try to appeasehis ever-present hunger. He lived for revenge. For retribution. He lived to make her life a living hell duringhis waking hours. He became good at it. Taking possession of her mind for minutes at a time. It was impossible to figure her out. She was so complex. There were thingsin her brain that made littlesense to him, and the few moments he could stay awake without losinghis precious remaining blood did not give him sufficient time to understand her.

There was the time she wasfrightened. He could taste her fear. Feel her heartpounding so thathis own matched the terrible rhythm. Still, her mindremained calmin the center of the storm, receiving quick, brilliant flashes of data sheprocessed so quickly that he nearly missed them. Two strangers were hunting her. Taunting her. He also sawan image of himself,his thick hairhanging in strands aroundhis ravaged face,his body savaged by brutalhands. He clearly saw the stake driven deep withinhis tissueand sinews. Itflashed for a momentin her mind, there was the impression of grief, and thenhe lost contact.

Shea would never forget their faces, their eyes, and the smell of their sweat. One of them, the taller of the two, couldn’t take his eyes from her. “Who are you? “She stared at them, wide-eyed, innocent, totally harmless. Shea knew she looked young and helpless, too small to give them trouble.

“Jeff Smith, “the tall one said gruffly. His eyes devoured her. “This is my partner, Don Wallace. We need you to come with us and answer a few questions.”

“Am I wanted for something? I’m a doctor, gentlemen. I can’t just pick up and go, I’m due in surgery in an hour. Perhaps you could arrange to ask your questions when my shift is over.”

Wallace grinned at her. He thought he looked charming. Shea thought he looked like a shark “We can’t do that, Doc. It isn’t only our questions, there’s an entire committee looking to talk with you. “He laughed softly, a film of perspiration on his forehead. He enjoyed inflicting pain, and Shea was altogether too cool, too haughty.

Shea made certain her desk was solidly between her and the men. Taking great care to move slowly and appear unconcerned, she glanced down at her computer, typed in the command to destroy her data, and hit the enter key. Then she picked up her mother’s diary, and slipped it into her purse. She accomplished everything easily, naturally. “Are you certain you have the right person?”

“Shea O’Halloran, your mother was Margaret ‘Maggie’ O’Halloran from Ireland?” Jeff Smith recited. “You were born in Romania, your father is unknown?” There was a taunting note in his voice.

She turned the full power of her emerald eyes on the man, watched coolly as he squirmed uneasily, as he became consumed with desire for her. Smith was far more susceptible than his partner was. “Is that supposed to upset me, Mr. Smith? I am who I am. My father has nothing to do with it.”

“No? “Wallace stepped closer to the desk “Don’t you need blood? Crave it? Don’t you drink it? “His eyes glowed with hatred.

Shea burst out laughing. Her laughter was soft, sexy, a melody to listen to forever. “Drink blood? Is this some kind of joke? I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

Smith licked his lips. “You don’t drink blood?” His voice held a hopeful note.

Wallace looked at him sharply. “Don’t look into her eyes, “he snarled. “You should know that by now.”

Shea ‘s eyebrows shot up. She laughed again softly, inviting Smith to join her. “I occasionally require a transfusion. It isn’t uncommon. Haven’t you ever heard of hemophilia? Gentlemen, you are wasting my time. “Her voice dropped even lower, a soft seduction of musical notes. “You really should leave.”

Smith scratched his head. “Maybe we’ve got the wrong woman. Look at her. She’s a doctor. She’s nothing like the others. They’re tall and strong and have dark hair. She’s delicate, petite, a redhead. And she goes out in the sunlight.”

“Shut up,” Wallace snapped. “She’s one of them. We should have gagged her. She’s turning you with her voice. “His eyes slid over her, making her flesh crawl. “She’ll talk “He grinned evilly. “Now I’ve scared you. It’s about time. You’ll cooperate, 0’Halloran, the hard way or the easy way. Actually, I prefer the hard way.”

“I’ll bet you do. Just what do you want from me?”

“Proof that you’re a vampire.” Wallace hissed.

“You’ve got to be kidding. Vampires don’t exist. There’s no such thing,” she goaded, needing information and willing to acquire it from any source, even if it meant prompting men as sick as these two.

“No? I’ve met several.” Wallace grinned his evil grin again. “Perhaps a friend or two of yours.” He threw several photographs onto the desk, his eyes daring her to look at them. His excitement was palpable.

Keeping her face blank, Shea picked up the pictures. Her stomach lurched, bile rose, but her training didn’t let her down. The photographs were numbered, eight of them in all. Each of the victims was blindfolded, gagged, manacled, all in various stages of torment. Don Wallace was a butcher. She touched a fingertip to the one tagged with a number two, experiencing a sudden, unexpected wrench. A boy no more than eighteen.

Quickly, before tears could well up, she flipped through the rest of the photographs. Number seven was a man with a mane of jet-black hair– the man haunting her dreams! There was no denying it. No mistake. She knew every angle and plane of his face– the well-cut mouth, the dark, expressive eyes, the long hair. Anguish welled up. For a moment she felt his pain, a sharp agony of mind and body driving out all sane thoughts until there was only room for pain, hatred, and hunger. She brushed the pad of her thumb over the tormented face lightly, almost lovingly. A caress. The pain and hatred only grew stronger. Hunger became all consuming. The emotions were so strong, so alien to her nature, she had a strange feeling that something or someone was sharing her mind. Disoriented for a moment, Shea dropped the photos onto the desk.

“It was you two in Europe a few years back, the ‘vampire’ killings, wasn’t it? You murdered all those innocent people.” Shea made the accusation calmly.

Don Wallace didn’t deny it. “And now I’ve got you.”

“If vampires are such powerful creatures, how did you manage to kill so many of them?” Sarcasm dripped deliberately to egg him on.

“Their males are very competitive.” Wallace laughed harshly. “They don’t like one another. They need women, and they don’t like to share. They turn on each other, place someone into our hands. Still, they are strong. No matter how they suffer, they never talk. Which in some ways is fine, since they can mesmerize with their voices. But you’ll talk, Doc. I’ll have all the time in the world with you. Did you know when a vampire’s in agony, it sweats blood?”

“Surely I would know that if I were a vampire. I’ve never sweated blood in my life. Let’s see if I have this straight. Vampires stalk not only humans but also each other. The males betray one another to you human butchers because they need females. I thought they could just bite women and turn them into vampires.” Sarcastically she was ticking off each item on her fingers. “You want me to believe I’m one of these fictitious creatures, so powerful that my voice alone can enslave this strong man here.” Deliberately she gestured toward Jeff Smith, flashing him a gentle smile. “Gentlemen, I’m a doctor. I save lives every day. I sleep in a bed, not in a coffin. I am not the least bit strong, and I have never sucked anyone’s blood in my life.” She glanced at Don Wallace. “You, however, admittedly have tortured and mutilated men, even murdered them. And evidently you derive great pleasure from this. I don’t believe you two are cops, or officials of any law-abiding agency. I thinkyou are the monsters.” She turned her emerald eyes back to Jeff Smith, her voice low, seductive. “Do you really thinkI’m a danger to you?“

He seemed to be falling forward into her beckoning gaze. He had never wanted a woman more. He blinked, cleared his throat, and stole a slow, calculating look at Wallace. Smith had never noticed that greedy, cold look on his partner’s face before. “No, no, of course you’re not a danger to me or anyone else.”

“Damn it, Jeff, let’s get her and get the hell out of here,” Wallace snarled, the need to teach her who was in charge riding him hard.

Emerald eyes slid over Smith, fastened on his mesmerized gaze. She could feel his desire, and she fed it, fed his fantasies of her welcoming his attentions. She had learned at a very young age that she could get into people’s minds, manipulate their thoughts. Initially it had terrified her to wield that kind of power, but it was a useful tool in the O.K., and it was useful now, when she was threatened.

“Don, why don’t they just turn human women? That would make sense. And why did the vampire just quit helping us? We left the area in a big hurry, and you never did tell me what went wrong,” Smith said suspiciously.

“Are you trying to say one of these male vampires actually helped you in your campaign to kill others and that’s how you were so successful?” Shea asked, a little sneer of disbelief in her voice.

“He was nasty, vengeful. He hated the kid, but he particularly despised this one here.” Smith tapped the photograph of the man with the long black hair. “He wanted him tortured, burned, to feel it.”

“Shut up,” Wallace snapped. “Let’s get it over. She’s worth a hundred thousand dollars to the society. They want to study her.”

Shea laughed softly. “If I truly was one of your mythical vampires, I should be worth far more than that to your ‘research’ committee. I think your partner is holding out on you, Mr. Smith.”

The truth was there to read on Wallace’s face. When Smith turned to confront him, Shea made her move: she leapt out the window, landed on her feet like a cat, and ran for her life. She had no personal items she was concerned about, no favorite memento. Her one regret was the loss of her books.

When he felt her fear, Jacques experienced the need to protect her. The urge was as strong as his desire to revenge himself. Whatever he had done, and he was the first to admit he couldn’t remember, he couldn’t possibly deserve such a horrendous punishment. Once again sleep overtook him, but it was the first time in months he had not filled her body with his pain or possessed her mind for a few seconds, ensuring that she felt his dark anger and promise of retribution. This time he hadn’t punished her. Only he had the right to put fear into her mind, into her fragile, trembling body. She had looked upon his image with a mixture of puzzlement and regret. Did she think he was dead and it was his damned soul haunting her? What went on in the head of a treacherous woman?

Time continued endlessly. Wake when a creature strayed near. Scratch and claw at the decaying wood. Eventually the cloth over his eyes rotted until it fell away from him. He had no idea how long he had been there. It made no difference to him. Dark was dark. Isolation, isolation. His only companion was the woman in his mind. The woman who had betrayed him, forsaken him. At times he called to her, ordered her to come to him. Threatened her. Pleaded. Perverse as it was, he needed her. He was already deranged; he accepted that. But this total isolation was making him completely mad. Without her touch, he would be lost to the world, not even his will keeping him going.

And he had a need to live: retribution. He needed her as much as he loathed and despised her. As twisted as their relationship was, he needed the moments of companionship.

She was physically closer to him now, not an ocean away. She had been so far away from him, he could barely make it across the distance. But now she was much closer. He renewed his efforts, calling her at all hours, striving to keep her from sleep.

When he could manage to get past the pain and hunger and simply remain quiet, a shadow in her mind, she intrigued him. She was obviously intelligent, brilliant even. Her method of thinking was like that of a machine, processing information at incredible speed. She seemed to be able to push aside all emotion; perhaps she wasn’t capable of feeling emotion. He found himself admiring her brain, her thinking patterns, the way she focused wholly on her work. She was researching a disease, seemed obsessed with finding a cure. Perhaps that was why he often found her in the dimly lit room, covered in blood, her hands buried deep within a body. She was conducting experiments. It didn’t excuse the abomination of what she was, but he could admire her single-minded purpose. She was able to put aside her need for sleep, for sustenance, for long periods. He felt her need, but she concentrated so wholly on what she was doing, she didn’t seem to recognize her body’s cries for normal care.

There seemed to be no laughter in her life, no real closeness to anyone. That was odd to him. Jacques was unsure when that began to bother him, but he found it did. She had no one. She concentrated only on what she was doing. Of course, he would not have tolerated another male’s presence in her life; he would have sought to destroy any other that came near her. He told himself it was because whatever male came near her must be in on the conspiracy to make him suffer. He often resented wanting to talk to her, but she had an interesting mind. And she was everything to him. His Savior. His tormentor. Without her presence, without touching her mind, he would have been completely insane, and he knew it. She unwittingly shared her strange life with him, gave him something to concentrate on, a companionship of sorts. In a way it was ironic. She thought him locked underground. She thought herself safe from his vengeance. But she had created the monster, and now she was keeping him going, his strength growing with his every touch to her mind.