Angel Eyes.

by Jaycee Clark.

I have to thank my family for always believing in me. I dedicate this book to the eccentric souls of the world.

Prologue.

Her eyes, those pale eyes, the purest blue of folded snow watched him. Her mouth moved, or tried to, behind the tape. He wondered what she wanted to tell him. Probably beg, plead. They all did. It was rather boring at times.

But then, he loved it. Boring or not, aggravating or not, it was what he waited for. What he longed for. The pleading, the begging, the hope.

"Do you know how much fun we're going to have?" He leaned down and softly kissed her cheek. She moaned.

Her long body was stretched out for him, hands and feet bound at different posts on the stripped bed. A naked sacrifice.

An angel.

Just for him.

The classical strings of Beethoven strained against the air, just as the woman did against her bonds. For some reason, the music annoyed him. He should have chosen a different piece, a different disc. But, it was too late for that. His schedule would be thrown off if he stopped just to select different music. This one loved Beethoven, so it only seemed fitting she should get to listen to it.

Besides, the music was moody, impressionable.

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, to run down into her red hairline.

She knew better than to shut her eyes when he was with her. He taught her that the first day.

He leaned over and grazed his finger over her right top eyelid, which was now missing several eyelashes. "The tape is never pleasant is it?" He'd taped her eyes open when she refused to watch him. They always learned after the tape. He no longer had that problem with the bitch.

He breathed deep and let the moment flow into him, around him, become him.

He laughed. "I want to show you something." He walked over the concrete floor, his shoes, the scrub booties he had over the tops, whispering along the cement. "You're not the first you know."

He stopped in front of an armoire, its cherry doors slightly scarred and scuffed. "Do you want to know what is in here?" He watched her, waited.

She shook her head from side to side.

"Oh come. You know you want to know. Just a bit curious?"

This time she merely stared at him, again, her chin moving, but no intelligible sounds came from behind the tape.

"Well, I'll show you anyway. Makes what's to come so much more..." He opened the armoire to allow her to see, "Enjoyable," he finished, watching her.

For a minute, she frowned. He glanced back over his shoulder and smiled. "Oh, I forgot. Sorry." He loved toying with them. He flicked the switch that brightened the interior of the armoire. Light reflected down on glass jars. He watched her carefully and knew the moment she knew what she saw.

Her eyes widened, then slowly turned to him with terror in the pale depths.

"I know, isn't it wonderful? All the angels here with me. All these pretties to watch over me." He motioned to the jars, which contained the eyeballs of those before her.

He tapped an empty space. "Right here is where you'll be. Do you like the spot?"

Now the fun began.

One.

She shook her head.

Two.

She blinked and tried to say something again.

Three.

She struggled against the silk ropes that bound her.

So much fun.

"You can't get away, Angel Eyes. No one ever does."

Her moans and whimpers filled the small space of the converted basement. His heartbeat thrummed, pounding the blood in his ears as he slowly stripped down. "Isn't it interesting?"

When he was naked, he strode to the bed. "Shhh," he told her, caressing her hair back from her face. He leaned down and climbed onto the bed, whispering in her ear. "You know what my favorite part is?"

Her head shook from side to side and still she struggled, moaning behind the tape.

"My favorite part is when you try so hard to get away, even when I'm inside you. The moment you die, when all the muscles in your body clench..." He sighed, slipped on a condom and smiled. "I love that part."

Just as he surged inside her tight, resisting body, she screamed.

Chapter One.

She awoke with the scream still trapped in her throat. Cora gasped for breath, cold with sweat and trembling.

God, not another one. She hated dreams like that, dreams so real she could all but taste the terror, thick and dark, swirling around the air, bitter and elusive.

Cora tried to erase the images from her head even as she knew it was useless. Useless and empty, but still she tried.

That poor woman. Cora stood, not surprised when her legs threatened to give out on her.

A knock on her door made her jump. Her heart slammed against her ribs, blood pounding in her ears with the fist on her door.

"Cora!"

She watched as the doorknob rattled.

"Cora!"

Taking a deep breath, she stumbled to the door and unlocked it. It swung open from a force on the other side and she fell back against the wall.

Kyle stood, glaring at her. "What the hell, woman?"

She blinked.

His green eyes narrowed. "What? Hey, whoa. You're not about to pass out on me are you?" He quickly wrapped an arm around her and led her to her bed. "You screamed to wake the dead. I haven't jolted like that since Mrs. Kovoski down the hall decided to take aim at Old Man Hollerman when he made a pass at her." He glanced around her room. "No boogie men are there? I'm just really not into those, you know."

She smiled and managed to shake her head. She sank back on her bed and closed her eyes, exhaling.

Kyle huffed. "I swear, you don't take care of yourself. I keep telling you, you really must eat better. I shudder at half the stuff you put into your system and that's just what I know about. Hanson makes the best breakfast. It's a good thing he's here tonight. You're eating in the morning, or rather later this morning."

At the mention of her roommate's long time boyfriend, she glanced to the doorway to see Hanson staring at her with narrowed eyes. He had on a pair of jeans and his muscular torso and arms were the stuff of many a woman's fantasy. Not to mention the dark blond hair and the heavy lidded brown eyes. He had that Italian model look to him and she could never quite figure out if she thought him too damn handsome for words, or too pretty for her peace of mind. Damn shame the man was gay, but he and Kyle were happy.

She wasn't happy, but that was hardly here or there.

Hanson left the doorway and she heard him in the bathroom, the faucet turn on, the clink of a glass. He returned with a wet cloth and a glass of water. "You look like you could use this."

Hanson's voice was deep timbered, very male and one of the things she knew Kyle found sexy about his significant other.

Cora closed her eyes and exhaled, sipping the water and running the rag over her face.

In her mind, she kept seeing those jars, all those jars lined on the shelf. Eyes staring out, pale blue suspended and floating in liquid.

She shuddered. "Oh God."

Kyle sat beside her and brushed her hair back. "That bad was it? Want to talk about it?"

She and Kyle had been best friends since childhood. They'd roomed together in college and continued rooming together until she moved away and started her own life. When she moved here two years ago, she looked him up for dinner. He'd wanted a roommate to supplement the income. So here she was.

Instead of answering him, she patted his leg. "Thanks for coming to wake me."

"You and your nightmares." He sighed. "I wish there was more I could do." You always had nightmares that left the hair standing up." She knew her nightmares bothered Kyle. She still remembered how she freaked him out when they were in college and several girls went missing. The memory was not one she wanted to dwell on. That incident, though, had forced her to confide in Kyle that sometimes she saw things. And now thanks to Hollywood everyone expected her to say she saw dead people.

She didn't see dead people. No, just their floating eyes, saw the women being killed.

She fisted her hands, feeling drained. "I'm sorry I woke you."

He sighed, gave her a quick squeeze and stood. "Well that means good night and you're not going to talk about it." Almost to the door, he said, "Stubborn woman." He paused and looked back at her. His short black hair and green eyes made him handsome, though the smile on his face always made him charming. Now, however, no dimples peeked at her, only concern furrowed his brow. "You will eat in the morning. I'll ask Hanson to fix up his omelets."

The thought of food made her nauseous, but she smiled. As he closed the door, she reached over and flipped off the light. Light or dark, it didn't really matter. For her the fear was in her mind, from people she couldn't always see, but felt. For her terror was in sleep.

She stared at the ceiling, watching the play of light and shadows.

Angel Eyes.

The woman had pale blue eyes.

Cora O'Donnell didn't need to look in the mirror to see her own eyes. She knew the color.

Angel blue, her grandmother had called it.

Angel blue...

Chapter Two.

Rogan Duran stared down into his beer and felt sorry for himself. That pissed him off. He made it a point to never feel sorry for himself, but it was the truth, his life was shit.

Once he'd been a war hero, following orders that were never reported, because technically the missions under several joint special ops forces, had never happened. There were no records.

But that was all before. Before the mission gone wrong, which had landed him in the infirmary, followed by his reassignment to the Army's Criminal Investigative Unit.

Before Ginger, before the nightmare, before the investigation.

He sat and listened to the activity happening in the bar. Leo's, a cop hang out, was in Maryland on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. The air was thick with squawking radios, men and women rehashing the day's events and cursing the turn around of the justice system. The dark wood interior, scarred tables and green vinyl had probably never been changed. And it was all as normal to him as breathing, as familiar as the smell of grilling burgers and beer.

He sighed and took another sip of his dark ale. He must be getting old. Anymore, beer left a bad taste in his mouth. He motioned to the waitress and ordered a cup of coffee while he waited to meet his friend, Detective Clayton Whitesell. He'd met the man two years ago after he'd been discharged. They'd hit it off, in this very bar and had been friends of sorts ever since.

Clayton worked in the homicide unit and Rogan freelanced and worked for the Washington Post. He covered the military stories.

To be perfectly honest, he was bored out of his mind. His heart wasn't in it and he half ass did the job. He was simply used to more.

He wanted more.

He needed more.

But that wasn't to be. At least not at present.

"Man, I gave up a date for this?" A hand slapped him on the shoulder.

Rogan looked up and shrugged his friend's hand off.