Ghostwalker 03 - Night Game

locks on the pull-down double door and the smaller, single entrance. Flame circled closer, wary of the entire setup.

    She knew better than to get in a hurry. She cased the place first, checking on the enemy, determining how much room she’d have for escape, how long it would take her, and mentally mapping out several routes if she ran into trouble.

    Flame knew she could be walking into a trap, but she wasn’t leaving her bike behind. First rule: Never treasure anything so much you can’t leave it behind on a moment’s no- lice. “Damn you to hell, Whitney. I won’t live like that. You can’t rule my life.” But he did. He would always rule her life until he had her killed. He played her like a puppet. She knew not to go into the garage. Whitney had taught her that. And he knew her inside and out, knew she detested his authority. Refused his authority.

    The ground beneath her feet shifted and the trees swayed ominously. The dogs in the kennel whined. Flame leaned against the broad base of a tree and forced air through her lungs. Her head was killing her. She’d used too much psychic energy tonight and she was already paying for it. That was a bad sign. And she absolutely had to stay under control.

    Gritting her teeth, she approached the garage. It wasn’t all that difficult to dispense with the locks and there wasn’t an alarm anywhere, so she gained entrance quickly. No motorcycle. Her precious baby was being held prisoner somewhere else.

    Without hesitation, Flame made for the house. The stairs creaked under her weight and she moved off of them immediately, circling the deep porch to find a way to the roof. She was always more comfortable in high places. She went up the side of the house, using the porch railing and roof to gain the second story with ease. She crept onto the small balcony and found the French doors unlocked.

    Easing the door open just enough to slide inside, Flame went in low, close to the wall, shutting the door without a sound. She stayed motionless, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the difference in lighting. The room smelled of gardenias and lavender. A rose-colored sheet covered a gray-haired woman sleeping in the four-poster bed. She looked especially fragile and Flame frowned, wondering why Whitney’s hunter had led her to civilians—
    unless he’d stolen the Jeep.

    Flame moved with care, not wanting the floorboards to creak as she moved across the room to the door. There was a vanity with an old-fashioned brush and mirror set and several pictures just to the left of the door. Flame glanced at the pictures, trying to make out the faces in the dark. This was a home. It had the bayou trappings, but smacked of money. Somewhere along the line the family had come into money. She wondered if the money had come from Whitney, a bribe for Gator to hunt her down and bring her back.

    Had Gator gone after Dahlia? Poor Dahlia. Flame remembered all of the other girls, every single one of them. Whitney hadn’t been any fonder of Dahlia than he had been of Flame. He’d locked Dahlia up in a sanitarium and kept her from the world, kept her from a home and family—just as he’d done with most of the others one way or the other. Dr.
    Whitney had experimented on infants, continued the experiments on them as toddlers, teens, and even into their adult lives. He was never going to let them go and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the world discover what he’d done.

    She looked around her, shocked that Whitney could get anyone to leave such a beautiful home to work for him. The structure had probably started out as a more traditional frame house one and a half stories, with a covered porch or galerie raised on pillars to keep the sill from the soggy ground. The Fontenot farm had a frontage on the bayou to ensure travel on the waterways as well as harvesting the waters. They had plenty of woods for hunting and harvesting trees as well as fields for growing what they needed to survive.
    From the looks of the house, they’d done well.

    She crept down the hall to the long staircase, studying the layout below her as she went.
    How had Whitney lured someone like Gator Fontenot into his world of deceit and treachery? This was a home filled with love. She could tell by the pictures of laughing faces. Someone, most likely the woman asleep in the upstairs bedroom, quilted and wove cotton for material. There were beautiful home-crafted items throughout the house, items fashioned with care to