Lenina sat on the floor gazing at her hands. She felt sick and dizzy.
Saar expanded within her, testing the limits of his captivity. His motions brought to mind a cat stretching after a long nap. Or a daisy unfurling its petals to meet the sun. Both analogies were too tame for what she felt: a bulging sensation, like her body held another physical entity.
‘Stop. You’ve done enough.’
Though alone, she heard laughter in the room around her. Saar’s voice filled her ears, a soft caress laced with power and hunger. It soothed her, comforted her, frightened her.
The ancient god-touched soldier extended the hand of peace and friendship. Companionship. Co-operation. But Lenina knew better. She heard his words and forced herself to feel nothing. She knew his offers were nothing more than veiled threats; the delicate brush of silk over a bed of deadly razor blades.
‘Leave me alone. I need to think.’
‘Shut up!’
A loud crash at the front door made her look up. It was joined by another and the shuffle of urgent footsteps, at least three sets. Lenina leapt to her feet, cramming her hands into her mouth. She glanced at Tristen’s bleeding body and then at Thorne’s feet, just visible on the other side of the sofa.
Another crash. Shaking her head, Lenina backed up. She met the wall and pressed her palms to the textured wallpaper, as if to feel something real and solid would steady her nerves.
Crash.
Splintering wood. She held her breath.
Lenina ran. She reached the hallway just as the front door flew inward, admitting three police officers. They stopped when they saw her, their uniforms and hair dotted with diamond droplets of rain.
‘Lenina Miller?’ The first of the three officers was a thin, wiry Asian man with a dimpled chin and a long, narrow nose.
She nodded, not daring to move.
‘Can you speak? Are you hurt?’
For the first time she realised how she must look. ‘I—’
‘Where’s Tristen Blake?’
Her knees buckled. ‘Back there, I— I’m so sorry.’
The first officer grunted and shouldered past her, into the room beyond. After him went the second officer, removing her hat and shaking rain from her glasses as she went. Only the third officer remained, a tall black man with dreadlocks, caught back in a thick band. He entered slowly, watching her as if she were a skittish horse.
‘It’s okay, Miss Miller. I’m PC Shawn Jackson. We’re here to help.’
A loud curse came from the back room.
Deep inside, Saar uttered something like a battle cry and surged forward again, claiming control of her legs. He used her body like a familiar tool, driving Lenina back into the living room with her hands balled into fists. She skidded to a stop in the doorway, sliding on a patch of sand. Nausea roiled through her stomach and she pulled her toes out of Jason’s remains.
The two officers stood near the sofa, gazing at Brad Thorne’s battered body. The first of them spoke into the radio clipped to his shoulder, reeling off the address in a voice that now held an edge of panic.
Lenina’s gaze wandered across the overturned chairs and slicks of blood. The pile of smelly clothes by the door. The empty space beside the dining table.
Saar growled and the sound slid through her lips.
Scuffling from somewhere behind made Lenina spin around, guided by Saar’s reflexes. Her hand lashed out, fingers pressed together, thumb tucked in, a chopping motion at nose height. PC Jackson avoided injury by slipping on the same patch of sand and landing on his backside at her feet. Lenina’s hand struck the door frame, denting the soft wood.
The officer stood slowly, grasping the base of his spine. He seemed not to notice his close shave. Snatching control of her limbs, Lenina turned back to the two officers standing over Thorne.
The female officer gave her a sharp look, one hand drifting towards the speedcuffs clipped to her belt. ‘Miss Miller, where’s Detective Tristen Blake?’
Looking again at the empty patch of floor beside the dining table, Lenina shook her head and told the absolute truth.
‘I don’t know.’