Chapter 3 3

Clinton Collier stood in the doorway of his suite, the crystal tumbler in his hand threatening to shatter under the pressure of his grip.

His head was splitting open.

It wasn't just a headache. It was the Collier Curse. Neuro-degenerative mania. It felt like someone had driven a railroad spike into his left temple and was slowly twisting it. The pain made the light from the hallway look jagged. It made the sound of his own breathing agonizing.

He had come to the door because of the noise. Scuffling. Shouting. On his private deck.

He looked down at the mess on his floor.

A woman in a white doctor's coat lay face down on his Persian runner. Her hair was a tangled mess of sweat and grime. One shoe was missing.

Behind her stood Huston Lyons, the pig from the Bilge, holding a stun baton.

"Mr. Collier," Huston stammered, his face pale. He lowered the baton, trying to hide it behind his leg. "I... apologies. We had a containment breach. This woman is dangerous."

Clinton didn't answer. The sound of Huston's voice was like sandpaper on raw nerves. He wanted to kill him just to stop the noise.

He looked down at the woman again. He raised his foot to step over her, to retreat into his suite and call security to have the trash taken out.

His pant leg brushed against her neck.

It happened in a microsecond.

A scent rose from her skin. Not perfume. Not sweat. Something biological. Something distinct.

A cool, ghostly scent of wild orchids.

Clinton froze.

He inhaled sharply. The scent hit his olfactory nerve and went straight to the limbic system.

The railroad spike in his head didn't vanish, but it was suddenly encased in ice. The screaming agony was muffled, pushed down beneath a heavy, suffocating blanket of cold silence. It wasn't a cure; it was a ceasefire. The red haze of mania receded just enough for him to think, to breathe without flinching.

He dropped to a crouch.

He ignored Huston. He reached out and grabbed the woman's hair, pulling her head back to expose her neck. He leaned in, his nose inches from her skin, inhaling deeply.

There it was. The anchor. The silencer.

The woman moaned in her unconscious state. Her skin was burning hot against his hand. She shifted, her cheek pressing against his palm as if seeking the coldness of his skin.

The contact sent a jolt through Clinton that was better than heroin. Better than power.

"Mr. Collier?" Huston took a step forward. "She killed a Fed. She's high on something. I need to take her down to-"

Clinton stood up.

The movement was fluid, graceful, and terrifying.

He stepped between the woman and Huston. He looked at the foreman, really looked at him, with eyes that were now clear and sharp as diamonds.

"This is my deck," Clinton said. His voice was low, a velvet rumble that carried more threat than a scream. "Who authorized you to bring weapons up here?"

Huston blinked, sweat beading on his forehead. "Sir, it was an emergency pursuit. She's a murderer."

"Is she?" Clinton glanced down at the woman. Then he looked back at Huston. "She looks like a doctor who stumbled into the wrong place."

"She killed Agent Best!" Huston insisted, his courage bolstered by desperation. "Jairo Brady is going to want answers."

Clinton's eyes narrowed.

He moved.

He snatched the stun baton from Huston's hand before the man could even twitch. With a flick of his wrist, he reversed it and drove the handle into Huston's solar plexus.

Huston doubled over, wheezing, dropping to his knees.

Clinton tossed the baton down the hallway. It clattered loudly.

He pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his hand, as if touching Huston's weapon had soiled him.

"Get out," Clinton said softly.

"But Jairo-" Huston gasped.

"Tell Jairo to come talk to me himself," Clinton cut him off. "If he wants her, he asks me. If you step foot on this deck again without an invitation, I will have you thrown into the propellers."

Huston looked up, saw the death in Clinton's eyes, and scrambled backward. He grabbed his side, stumbled to his feet, and ran for the stairwell.

The heavy fire door slammed shut.

Clinton was alone.

He turned back to the woman.

He knelt again, sliding his arms under her. She was limp, dead weight, but burning up with fever. Her head lolled against his chest.

The orchid scent enveloped him. His mind felt sharper than it had in years. The mania, the rage, the noise-all gone.

He lifted her easily.

He carried her into the suite, kicking the heavy double doors shut behind him with his heel. The lock engaged with a decisive thud.

He walked past the living room, past the bar, straight to the master bedroom. He dropped her onto the black leather sofa at the foot of his bed.

She writhed, her hands clawing at her throat.

"Hot," she mumbled, her eyes squeezing shut. "Burning."

Clinton stood over her, watching. He saw the dilated pupils when her eyelids fluttered. He saw the tremors.

She had been dosed. Heavily.

He reached for the phone on the side table to call Dr. Guthrie. His hand hovered over the receiver.

If Guthrie came, he would treat her. He would neutralize the drugs.

But Clinton paused.

Was the scent... was the cure dependent on her current state? Was it the adrenaline? The drug interaction? If he cured her, would the scent fade? Would the pain return?

He couldn't risk it. Not yet.

He pulled his hand back from the phone.

He looked at the woman, suffering on his sofa, and felt nothing but a possessive curiosity.

"No," he whispered to the empty room. "I need to test the efficacy."

He walked over to the sofa and stared down at her. She was burning alive, her body fighting a chemical war. He needed to cool her down, but he also needed to keep her close.

"Let's see what you really are," he murmured, reaching down to grab her by the collar of her lab coat.