Loyalty in Death

His mouth moved softly over hers, to soothe and to promise. When she laid her head against his heart, he drew her closer and simply held her.

"I'll get your bag." He brushed his lips over her hair. "And we'll go away from here."

"Yes." She looked up at him, smiled. "Yes, we'll go away from here. Hurry, Zeke."

"Get your coat. It's cold."

He walked out, up the steps. Now his heart began to pound. She was going with him. She loved him. And it was a miracle. He found the suitcase on the bed, saw the envelope addressed to her husband propped on the pillow.

That had taken courage, he thought. One day she'd understand how much courage she had inside her.

He was halfway down the steps again when he heard her scream.

– =O=-***-=O=-

Propped in a corner of the elevator, mostly naked, Peabody struggled for air. McNab had his face buried against her throat with his breath whistling like her mother's old teakettle.

They'd pulled, tugged, and torn at each other's clothes, bit, groped, and bruised each other's flesh. Then had finished the job exactly where they stood.

It had been, Peabody admitted as her brain began to engage again, the most incredible experience of her life.

"Jesus." His lips formed the word against her throat and had her pulse picking up speed again. "Jesus, Peabody."

He didn't think he could move if she'd stuck a stu

She had her arms locked around him. Couldn't quite make herself let go. Just as she couldn't quite remember what they'd done or how they'd managed it. The last ten minutes were a whirling blur, a sexual haze. A quick walk through insanity.

"We've got to get out of here."

"Yeah." But he nuzzled at her neck another moment in a gesture she found scary and sweet. Then he stepped back, blinked, and stared at her. His gaze skimmed down, up, then made the trip again. "God, you look great."

She knew it was ridiculous. Her bra was hanging off one shoulder by one strap. She still had one uniform sock and shoe on, with her trousers caught on the ankle. She wasn't sure where her panties were, but thought they'd probably been torn to pieces.

And the two dozen ab crunches she suffered through every day still hadn't flattened her belly.

Despite it, she felt the sly feminine thrill slide up her spine at the approval in his voice and the heat in his eyes. "You look okay, too."

He was thin, she could nearly count his ribs, and his stomach was flat as a board. Normally, that would have a

He gri

"Good. Neither am I."

– =O=-***-=O=-

Zeke raced down the stairs with Clarissa's suitcase tumbling after him. He burst into the parlor to see her sprawled on the floor, one hand holding her cheek. Through her splayed fingers an ugly red mark stood out against her skin.

B, Donald Branson stood over her, swaying, eyes glazed and furious.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" He snatched her coat from the floor, swung at her with it. "I didn't tell you to leave the house. You think you can sneak out while I'm away, you bitch?"

"Stay away from her." Though fury was bubbling in his gut, Zeke's voice was calm.

"Well, well." Branson turned, stumbled a little, and Zeke caught the stink of whiskey. "Isn't this cozy. The whore and the handyman." He shoved Zeke in the chest. "Get the hell out of my house."

"I intend to. With Clarissa."

"Zeke, don't. He doesn't mean anything, B. D." She pushed herself to her knees like a woman praying. "I was…just going out for a walk. That's all."

"Lying bitch. So you were going to help yourself to what's mine, were you?" He shoved Zeke again. "Did she tell you how many others she's whored with?"

"That's not true." Clarissa's voice broke on a sob. "I never – " She broke off, cringing when Branson swung back to her.

"Shut the fuck up, I'm not talking to you. Thought you'd put in a little overtime while I was out of town?" He sneered at Zeke. "Too bad I canceled the trip, but maybe you shoved your dick into her already. No." He laughed, knocking Zeke back a step. "If you'd had her, you'd know she's lousy in bed. Beautiful and a waste. But she's mine."

"Not anymore."

"Zeke, don't. I want you to go now." Her teeth were chattering. "I'll be fine. Just go now."

"We'll go." Zeke said it calmly as he bent down to pick up her coat. He didn't see Branson's fist fly out. He never expected violence. But it co

"Don't hurt him. Please, don't hurt him. B. D., I won't go. I swear I – " Then she screamed again when he grabbed her up by the hair.

It happened fast, in a kind of red mist. Zeke jumped forward, striking out with one hand, grabbing for Clarissa with the other. Branson fell back, feet sliding on the polished floor. He went down hard, and there was a sharp crack as his skull rapped onto the marble hearth.

Frozen, Zeke stood, one arm locked around Clarissa to support her, and stared horrified at the blood that began to seep and pool from Branson's head.

"Sweet God. Sit down, here, sit down." He all but carried her to a chair, leaving her huddled as he rushed over to Branson. His fingers trembled as he pressed them against Branson's throat.

"There's no pulse." He drew in air sharply, ripped open Branson's shirt, and began to pump the heart. "Call for an ambulance, Clarissa."

But he knew it was too late. Open eyes stared up at him, the blood was streaming. When he forced himself to look, he could see no aura.

"He's dead. He's dead, isn't he?" She began to shake, her eyes huge on Zeke's, the pupils contracted to needlepoints of shock. "What will we do, what will we do?"

Nausea churned in Zeke's stomach as he rose. He'd killed a man. He'd left behind every belief and had taken a life. "We have to call an ambulance. The police."

"The police. No, no, no." She began to rock then, her face white and strained. "They'll lock me away. They'll send me to prison."

"Clarissa." He made himself crouch in front of her, take her hands, though his felt soiled and evil. "You didn't do anything. I killed him."

"You – you – " Suddenly, she threw her arms around him. "Because of me. It's all because of me."

"No, because of him. You need to be strong now."

"Strong. Yes." Still shaking, she leaned back and her eyes never left his face. "I will be strong. I will. I need to think. I know, I… But… I feel ill. I – Could you get me some water?"

"We need to call the police."

"Yes, yes, I will. We will. But I need a minute first, please. Could you get me some water?"

"All right. Stay right here."

His legs felt like rubber, but he made them move. His skin felt as slicked with ice as the streets outside.

He had killed.

The two servants in the kitchen barely glanced at him when he came in. He had to stand a moment, his hand braced against the door. He couldn't remember why he'd come in, but he could hear, as if it was happening again, the sickening crack of Branson's skull hitting the hearth.

"Water." He managed to get the word out. He could smell meat roasting, sauce simmering. Sickness reared up into his throat. "Mrs. Branson asked me to get her some water."

Without a word, one of the uniformed droids moved to the refrigerator. Zeke watched with a dull fascination as she poured bottled water into a heavy glass, sliced a fresh lemon, added it and ice.