difficult to believe.”
But she had sensed the unwholesome excitement of the killers when she had looked deeply into the mirrors, she thought. She had witnessed that terrible thrill through the eyes of the victims. Owen was right, there were those who savored the act of murder.
“Some with talents similar to ours revel in violent energy to such a degree that they become addicted to it,” Owen said. “In order to satisfy their craving they do not merely seek out murder scenes, they create them.”
“They kill.”
“Again and again. With their talents.” He looked at her. “Those are the ultimate predators.”
Comprehension flashed through her. “Those are the killers you hunt.”
“Yes.”
“It is the desire for justice that drives you.”
The faint curve of his mouth held no trace of humor. “I cannot claim any such noble excuse, Virginia. I do not understand the need within me. I only know that I cannot escape it.” He paused. “It is an addiction of another kind.”
She knew then that he was not seeking absolution. He was telling her a truth about himself, waiting to see if she could accept it.
“I think,” she said, choosing her words with great care, “that we can turn to Mr. Darwin and the theory of evolution for guidance here.”
Owen looked first startled and then he frowned, his eyes narrowing. “What in blazes does evolution have to do with this?”
“Well, it occurs to me that nature has a way of keeping things in balance, and so does society. We have criminals among us, so it follows that there are those who are drawn to stop them. Such people perhaps become policemen or detectives, or they choose to study the criminal mind.”
“I am not a policeman,” Owen said in a voice of stone.
“If human predators with strong psychical powers have evolved, which is clearly the case, then it is also logical that there are those like you who have evolved to hunt them,” she concluded.
Owen said nothing. He just watched her with his hunter’s eyes.
She cleared her throat. “It is the way of the natural world.”
“That is an interesting theory.”
“I certainly thought so.”
“Why are you bothering to search for a scientific explanation for the existence of a man like me?”
She finished her brandy and set the glass on the mantel, alongside the one he had placed there.
“I suppose it is because I would like to find a similar rational explanation for my own talent and the compulsion I experience whenever I am summoned to the scene of a violent death,” she said quietly.
“We are not two of a kind, Virginia. I can kill with my talent, and I have done so.”
She stared at him. “Truly?”
“Yes. Do you think that makes me one of the monsters?”
She took a breath, very certain now. “No. You are a dangerous man, Owen Sweetwater, but you are not one of the monsters.”
“You are sure of that?”
She met his eyes in the mirror. “You would not have risked your own life to rescue Becky as well as me the other night at the Hollister mansion if you were a monster.”
Owen drew her into his arms. She caught a fleeting glimpse of their reflections in the mirror and was quite certain that she saw lightning flash deep within the looking glass.
“Virginia,” Owen whispered.
Her name sounded as though it had been dragged from the very core of his being. His kiss held the same raw power. It ignited the fires of passion that flared between them. Whatever came tomorrow, she would never forget, never regret, this night.
With a soft, muffled cry she wrapped her arms around his neck, abandoning herself to the storm that swirled in the room. He kissed her long and hard, drinking deep.
When she was breathless and shivering with need, he started to undress her. He undid the hooks that fastened the bodice of her gown with fingers that trembled with the force of his own desire. Knowing that he wanted her as badly as she wanted him filled her with a rush of soaring, feminine
But she had sensed the unwholesome excitement of the killers when she had looked deeply into the mirrors, she thought. She had witnessed that terrible thrill through the eyes of the victims. Owen was right, there were those who savored the act of murder.
“Some with talents similar to ours revel in violent energy to such a degree that they become addicted to it,” Owen said. “In order to satisfy their craving they do not merely seek out murder scenes, they create them.”
“They kill.”
“Again and again. With their talents.” He looked at her. “Those are the ultimate predators.”
Comprehension flashed through her. “Those are the killers you hunt.”
“Yes.”
“It is the desire for justice that drives you.”
The faint curve of his mouth held no trace of humor. “I cannot claim any such noble excuse, Virginia. I do not understand the need within me. I only know that I cannot escape it.” He paused. “It is an addiction of another kind.”
She knew then that he was not seeking absolution. He was telling her a truth about himself, waiting to see if she could accept it.
“I think,” she said, choosing her words with great care, “that we can turn to Mr. Darwin and the theory of evolution for guidance here.”
Owen looked first startled and then he frowned, his eyes narrowing. “What in blazes does evolution have to do with this?”
“Well, it occurs to me that nature has a way of keeping things in balance, and so does society. We have criminals among us, so it follows that there are those who are drawn to stop them. Such people perhaps become policemen or detectives, or they choose to study the criminal mind.”
“I am not a policeman,” Owen said in a voice of stone.
“If human predators with strong psychical powers have evolved, which is clearly the case, then it is also logical that there are those like you who have evolved to hunt them,” she concluded.
Owen said nothing. He just watched her with his hunter’s eyes.
She cleared her throat. “It is the way of the natural world.”
“That is an interesting theory.”
“I certainly thought so.”
“Why are you bothering to search for a scientific explanation for the existence of a man like me?”
She finished her brandy and set the glass on the mantel, alongside the one he had placed there.
“I suppose it is because I would like to find a similar rational explanation for my own talent and the compulsion I experience whenever I am summoned to the scene of a violent death,” she said quietly.
“We are not two of a kind, Virginia. I can kill with my talent, and I have done so.”
She stared at him. “Truly?”
“Yes. Do you think that makes me one of the monsters?”
She took a breath, very certain now. “No. You are a dangerous man, Owen Sweetwater, but you are not one of the monsters.”
“You are sure of that?”
She met his eyes in the mirror. “You would not have risked your own life to rescue Becky as well as me the other night at the Hollister mansion if you were a monster.”
Owen drew her into his arms. She caught a fleeting glimpse of their reflections in the mirror and was quite certain that she saw lightning flash deep within the looking glass.
“Virginia,” Owen whispered.
Her name sounded as though it had been dragged from the very core of his being. His kiss held the same raw power. It ignited the fires of passion that flared between them. Whatever came tomorrow, she would never forget, never regret, this night.
With a soft, muffled cry she wrapped her arms around his neck, abandoning herself to the storm that swirled in the room. He kissed her long and hard, drinking deep.
When she was breathless and shivering with need, he started to undress her. He undid the hooks that fastened the bodice of her gown with fingers that trembled with the force of his own desire. Knowing that he wanted her as badly as she wanted him filled her with a rush of soaring, feminine
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