Fractured by Deceit Read online

  Fractured by Deceit

  A PSY-IV Team Novel

  Jami Gray

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Shadow’s Edge

  Lying in Ruins

  Also by Jami Gray

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Donna Jo, who will always be my shining example of a kick-ass woman.

  Prologue

  How long does it take for a mind to break?

  Since time had long since lost meaning, I wasn’t sure, but I had a feeling I might be close to discovering the answer. Too bad I wouldn’t be in any shape to appreciate it.

  “My name is Megan Rouser. I have a brother, Dev, and a sister, Keelie, and my parents…” I faltered under the smothering weight of despair. Do they even know I’m still alive? Is anyone even looking for me anymore?

  Ice stroked a bitter finger along my spine, and I pressed my forehead against my drawn-up knees, squeezing my eyes tight as I rocked. My heart beat a frantic fist in my chest, making it hard to breathe. The cold finger became a claw piercing my neck. Its nails slowly sank into my mind. Agony seared me as if every nerve ending had been dipped in fire.

  I threw my head back and opened my eyes to a gray fog, blind to everything but pain as my muscles seized in protest. The vicious claw tore through my brain in unrelenting demand. The pain rose to a new excruciating level. A scream tore from my raw throat and bounced off the walls until the sound encompassed my entire world. A hellish agony-infested inferno turned the blinding gray to ash.

  “Give me what I want.” That sibilant voice weaved its way through the pain.

  “No.” My answer never changed, because under my agony lived a deepening rage that refused to die. I no longer had any idea what the interrogator wanted or who it was. Once upon a time, before the days had blurred into one horrific endurance test after another, I had a clue, but not anymore. Now it was nothing more than a brutal entity asking the same damn question on an endless loop.

  Something warm dripped over my lip as the cracks in my mind widened and stretched. The pressure on my head increased until blackness edged my mind. I reached for it, knowing the oblivion would be temporary. Still, it was better than this, anything was better than this. The never-ending nightmare didn’t leave me many options. It was getting harder to resist slipping into the dark and the final exit it offered. What would it matter if I never woke again? It wasn’t like I was going to be missed.

  Hold on, Megan. The whispered demand chained me in place as a flickering outline cut through the encroaching darkness. Recognition came, but the belief that normally followed my personal talisman of hope didn’t because I no longer had faith in it. I’d been here too long, and this thing—hallucination? Apparition?—could not sustain my faith that help was coming. Not anymore.

  “I'm sorry.” Why I apologized even as my heart ached, I didn’t know. Some small still-sane part of me knew my illusionary guardian wasn’t real, no matter how many times it had saved me in the past. It was nothing more than my desperate hope given form, but even that wasn’t enough anymore.

  The pressure on my mind snapped away so fast that the back of my head knocked against the hard wall behind me. Freezing at the unexpected reprieve, I blinked my vision clear. My prison remained unchanged, which was no surprise since it was self-made, an attempt to stay safe—well, as safe as I could get, anyway.

  Gray stone walls, like those found in a castle, surrounded me. Ragged pages filled with my rough, manic jumble of sketches of demonic eyes and faces covered the stone. Some were marred with heavy black lines as if a child had tried to scratch them out of existence. Some shifted, following my movement, much like the fantastical drawings from one of my favorite stories of a boy wizard. An unseen wind riffled through the paper layers, revealing older images—a flash of the indistinct figure serving as my imaginary savior—but before it came into focus, the nightmarish images fluttered back into place, hiding it.

  No door broke the stone-and-paper-covered walls. Other than an occasional visit from the figment of my damaged mind and fractured hope, I was the sole occupant. It took five steps to cross the room. I knew because I’d counted. Hazy light filtered through a narrow window high above me and forever out of reach.

  Warm wetness touched my sore, swollen lips. Unlocking my arms, I raised a shaking hand to brush it away. Bright-red smears stained my dirt-encrusted fingertips. Another nosebleed. I wiped my fingers against my dusty, dirty pants, adding another crimson mark to the fabric.

  Concentrating on sucking air in and letting it out, I tried to make my mind blank, waiting to see if the monster who’d been playing with me for what seemed like forever would come back for another round. I was met with silence. Instead of easing my tension, this sent dread crawling under my skin, leaving me chilled. Imagination was a dangerous thing when fueled by fear, and I had no shortage of that.

  A harsh, bitter laugh sliced through the unsettling quiet, leaving me on edge. It took a second for me to realize that the horrible sound was coming from me. I stuffed my scraped fist against my mouth, choking back my rising screams. My body shook as the last piece of me shattered into unrecognizable pieces—such an ironic end, considering how often I’d been accused of living in my mind. Now that I really was living in my mind, all I wanted was to get off the damn stage.

  A muted roll of thunder drifted from the window above. Dust rained down, and my prison shook for the first time in… ever. Scrambling to my feet, I tried to figure out what was happening. Considering that this was a mental construct built deep in my own subconscious, this disruption was unexpected and unusual. Maybe it was a reflection of my mental collapse.

  Another rumble sent me stumbling to the center of the room, and I craned my neck back, focusing on that narrow strip of light and watching it darken. The thunder gained strength until it reverberated in my bones. Wind slipped through the window slit, riffling the sketches with ghostly fingers, the soft rustling filling my ears until they were stuffed full of white noise. Under my dread, a numbing fatal acceptance rose.

  The end was coming.

  Stuck in my self-made prison, I had two choices—I could either wait it out or dare to step outside my crumbling protections and brave the storm. I stared at the walls, the sketches rising and falling in a strange dance. Hmm, die now or later?

  A door wavered into existence, proof that my choice had already been made. Like a woman walking to her execution, I shuffled across the floor and lifted my hand until it hovered above the newly exposed doorknob. Swallowing against a dry throat, I let my hand drop until the solid fixture was cool against my palm. Closing my eyes, I turned the handle.

  Something hot and solid cupped my face, chasing back the cold that seemed to be my new normal. “Megan, can you hear me?”

  Deep and resonating, it was nothing like the monster’s voice. My pulse kicked in because there was a hint of familiarity to it. Unfortunately, I wasn’t all that trusting of my own perceptions.

  “Megan,
come on. Open your eyes. Show me you’re still here.”

  It’s not real. It’s not real. My mental mantra didn’t do jack to stop the sickening mix of hope and fear crawling through me. I didn’t want to open my eyes to another cruel game because I was pretty sure I wouldn’t survive it. I’d been tricked too many times before when the monster wore the mask of someone I loved. But this voice tugged at something buried deep. It belonged to… I tried to place it but failed.

  “Megan, open your eyes.”

  With no way to escape the command, I opened my eyes—which felt as if they weighed a ton—and stared into a rich, velvety darkness with hints of gold.

  “That’s it. Good girl.”

  Not liking the term, I frowned and licked dry lips. “Not a girl.” The denial came out rough and didn’t sound like me.

  “No, you’re definitely not.” Humor lightened those eyes, and the one eyebrow marred by a scar lifted. “Sorry.”

  A faint muffled explosion of pops made me jerk my head out of his hands, and I scrambled back until my spine hit something hard. A yank on my leg and the harsh sound of metal scraping concrete followed. My attention snapped to my feet, where a chain was locked around my ankle. I stared, blinking, as it hit me. I looked back at the man kneeling in front of me. “This is real?”

  His earlier humor disappeared, replaced by a grim wariness. He nodded, his gaze anchoring mine.

  Please don’t let this be another game. Needing physical proof, I reached out, unsurprised to find my hand shaking.

  His nostrils flared, and those eyes darkened into velvet, but he leaned in until my fingers could brush the strong line of his jaw. Heated skin, slightly rough with the beginnings of stubble, rasped against my fingers. His hand covered mine, pressing it close.

  Heat, flesh, bone—it was all there under my hand. Real. He’s real. Hot tears rose, the first in a long time, and slipped down my face. “You’re real.”

  “I’m real, Megan.” He tilted his head and frowned. The hand lifted from mine and touched his ear. “Copy, asset retrieved. Rendezvous in three.”

  Without him holding it in place, I pulled my hand back, curling it into a fist to hold onto the remnants of that touch. It took a moment to realize the asset he was talking about was me.

  My sluggish brain ground into gear, and I finally took in the rest of him—the patterned cargo pants and dark shirt, the weapon strapped across his chest, the other ones at his waist, the ear piece and mic partially hidden by his dark hair. Soldier. Rescue team. They finally found me.

  Before I could appreciate the wonder of that, another volley of muted shots drifted to where we sat. The dull thump of a muted explosion followed on its heels, barely earning a glance from him but making me jump. Right, okay. So we need to get out of here. Bracing my hand against the wall, I tried to stand, only to be mocked by the rattling scrape of the chain and the legs that wouldn’t support me.

  “Hold up.” His hand landed on my shoulder, holding me in place. “We need to get that off your ankle first.”

  “Hurry.” I managed to get that one word out from between clenched teeth. As I stared at the metal cuff, anxiety and the need to get it off tore my shaky composure to shreds. Desperate not to buckle under the circling madness, I focused on the soldier’s deft movements as he used a lock pick on the manacle.

  The teasing sense of familiarity hit again, but I couldn’t pin it down. It was too hard, and my head pounded. Needing a distraction to avoid spiraling into the pit at the edge of my mind, I asked, “What’s your name?”

  He shot me a quick look, his lips curving slightly. “Bishop.” He handed me a canteen. “Small sips.”

  The name rang a bell. I heeded his advice, taking a small sip. Then I frowned, trying to remember something I’d spent way too long avoiding. The effort almost hurt. “The colonel’s Bishop?”

  “The one and only.”

  A tremble—whether of fear or relief, I didn’t know or care—moved through me. The next question was harder to get out. “How long?”

  He lifted his head and shot me a narrow-eyed glance before going back to work on the lock. Fortunately, he didn’t pretend to misunderstand my question. “Six months.”

  Shock ricocheted through me, leaving another layer of numbness in its wake. Six months? The canteen shook, sending a splash of water over my hand. My stomach knotted.

  Bishop looked up, took the canteen, and stowed it away before going back to work on the metal cuff. I heard a dull click, and then the pressure on my ankle disappeared, revealing a pale band of skin surrounded by dirt and bruises and old cuts. His warm, firm arm wrapped around my waist, hauling me up. “Time to go.”

  Reeling at the rapid change of position, I braced one hand against his hard chest. The other went to the arm holding me, my nails digging in as I turned my head to blink at my rescuer.

  Whatever he saw in my face left his jaw tight and his eyes hard. “Time to move, Megan.”

  Biting my lip, I looked down and tried to take a step, only to find that my legs still refused to work. Choking back a sob of frustration, I admitted, “I don’t think I can walk.”

  “Hang on.”

  It was my only warning before he shifted his hold and swung me up into his arms. I looped my arm around his broad shoulders as he straightened, somehow managing to avoid the weapon strapped to his back.

  As he headed out of the cell, a sense of foreboding wrapped me in a suffocating fog. An evil voice whispered a warning. If he takes me out of this hell, it will follow and swallow us both whole. The chilling grip of dread clung tight, leaving me fighting the terrifying urge to demand that he leave me behind. Closing my eyes, I buried my face in his neck, biting my lip to hold the words back. Still, a mortifying whimper escaped.

  The arms holding me tightened. “Just hang in there, Megan.”

  His words were an eerie echo of the ones my imaginary protector used. They managed to finish what six months of captivity had started, and with freedom only steps away, I finally broke, falling into the darkness.

  Chapter One

  Four Weeks Later

  “Honey, I don’t think you being alone is a good thing right now.”

  “Mom, look, I’m fine.” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I stared at the laminated countertop as if it contained advice on how to deal with overprotective parental units. I used to do that with ease, but now it seemed to take every bit of energy I possessed.

  “No, you’re not.” Underneath the love was a depth of worry that four weeks of having me back couldn’t erase. “You’ve only been out of the hospital a couple of weeks, and Keelie says you’re not sleeping well.”

  “Keelie called you.” Shifting the phone against my ear, I tried to tone down my frustration at having my every move reported by my baby sister.

  Mom’s tone softened. “Of course she did. She wouldn’t head out of town and not let us know. She’s worried about you.” Her unspoken, We all are, came through loud and clear.

  “I know.”

  Her concern was typical of my close-knit family and something I’d yearned for while I was locked away with the faceless monster I still couldn’t seem to escape. But now that I had them back, I didn’t find their concern comforting. It was more like a smothering weight. Doesn’t that make me the worst daughter ever?

  “How about this: I will be fine.”

  Her quiet sigh signaled her surrender. “I know you will be, baby, but…”

  I dropped my hand to trace random patterns on the counter. “Mama, I’ll be okay. It’s just going to take time.” Hearing myself repeat my therapist’s favorite phrase made me wince as I watched the sunlight spilling through the glass patio door. “Keelie needed to get back to work, and she’ll only be gone a week.”

  “I’d feel better if you had a friend stay with you.”

  I managed not to snort. For that, I’d need to actually have a friend. Being MIA for six months had done a hack job to my social life. Not to mention I had a new aversion to socializin
g. “I’m fine.” Since that came out sharper than I wanted, I added, “I promise to call or text you every day, okay?”

  “Every day, Megan.”

  With the end of the discussion in sight, I agreed. Again. “Yes, Mom.”

  “I love you, sweetheart.”

  The swath of sunlight blurred, and my throat tightened. “I love you too, mom.”

  We exchanged goodbyes, and I disconnected my phone and set it facedown on the counter. My eyes burned, and I tried to blame it on another sleepless night, but I knew better. After Keelie had left the previous afternoon, I spent most of the day wondering when my mom would finally break down and call. She managed to make it twenty-four hours before calling me, which was better than I’d expected, especially since this was the first time I was truly alone since my rescue four weeks before.

  Bracing my hands against the counter’s cool surface, I spread my fingers wide, pressing in. The scrapes and cuts that had once marked my skin were healing. Unfortunately, I was now the bearer of thin white scars that encircled my wrists, thanks to the wire restraints used to bind me to the chair during my question-and-answer sessions. A familiar dread crept in, dimming the sunlight until Keelie’s apartment wavered into a terrifying grayness. I pushed harder against the counter, concentrating on how it warmed under my palms even as a line of cold sweat broke out along my spine.

  This is real. I am real.

  “I’m okay.” The sound of my own voice eased back the nightmare, just as my therapist had told me it would. I wasn’t sure if I was pissed or annoyed by that fact. I was going to stick with annoyed since that seem to be my theme for the day. As this was my first go-around with the whole therapy thing, I had no idea if that was the correct response or not. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I gave a damn. Then again, I was finding it hard to give a damn about much of anything lately.