Page 49 of Light

But appropriate or not, I’ve returned to a repeat performance of my runaway senses on the very first night I ever laid eyes on the Bolt of Los Angeles, when gawking at the news channel footage from over Neeta’s shoulder. Just like then, I’m breathless with apprehension but tingling with awareness. The man in the leathers, facing an unknown danger, will never stop turning me into a puddle of enthralled mush.

But unlike then, I can’t just slump against my credenza and then count out Zen mantras until I’m clearheaded again.

He needs me coherent. Now.

Lucid. Now.

Focused. Really right now.

As the elevator shaft keeps tremoring.

As the lights inside it intensify.

As Reece looks back for one fervent second and commands, “Stand back!” before extending his hands and directing a narrow pulse at the split in the carved lift doors.

They begin to part. And then open wider. And at last, they succumb to the pressure of my husband’s incredible power.

When they slam all the way open, the alcove is bathed in rays of surreal light. Davidson cusses as he hurries backward. The profanity doesn’t last long, replaced by his barked orders into his radio. “This is Battalion Chief Davidson. All units stand by! Possible detonation of incendiary device at the Rendezvous Court elevators. Possible multiple devices. Over!”

“Copy your request, Davidson. This is Battalion Chief Garza, Battalion Fifteen, and we’re moving into position. ETA two minutes. We’ll be standing by with your men at the Olive Street entrance, awaiting further instruction. Over.”

As that exchange happens, I read my husband’s body language. Reece is resolute, not shirking from his promise to learn the truth about what’s happening here. We still have no way of knowing if the lightshow in the elevator shaft is related to the voices in the walls, but it’s the best we’ve got to go on.

But that also means somebody’s got to be the first to look.

And my stud husband, with his awe-inspiring cajones, has volunteered for the mission.

He leans over, his ruggedly beautiful profile bathed in a mix of sky and ocean blues, sucking the air out of my system once more.

In spite of my dorky fangirl reaction, I force myself to inch toward him. “What is it?” I prompt. “Zeus? What’s going on?”

Reece shakes his head as if my query is nothing but a breeze on the air. He crunches in his eyebrows. Tightens his lips. The bold angle of his jaw juts against his taut skin. “Davidson!” he bellows.

“What? What is it?” The fire chief jogs over but halts a few feet back. His face is set with the grim resignation of a man who’s done this before. His career is comprised of running toward crisis instead of away, even with the knowledge that he may not emerge alive. So yeah, no wonder he was a little grumpy about seeking us out for help—but over the last three years, the man I love has emerged from behind his mask in more ways than one. Reece has a right to be here. He’s shattered the world’s labels and expectations and proven they don’t define the man—the hero—he was born to be.

Even when that means peering down an elevator shaft that’s gone completely Old Faithful with torrents of blinding light.

“How far down does this shaft go?”

And gone totally creepy movie with its distant, urgent creaks and crashes.

“The basement under us, and then one, maybe two below that for city infrastructure access. Why, Richards? What’ve you got?”

And now, even its streams of disembodied voices.

Disconcerting shouts—that soon become disturbing screeches.

And desperate wails.

And frightening outcries.

In an incoherent language.

“Might be a better question for you.” Reece stretches his arms out, bracing his grip on either side of the shaft’s opening, while cocking his head around. “What have I got, Davidson—since this thing is coming up from a hole a hell of a lot deeper than that?”

“The hell?” The chief sprints forward before either of us can warn him back. But in truth—holding him back from what? His demand is valid, as is the follow-up query as soon as he has a chance to peer down the shaft, and whatever else Reece has discovered in it, for himself. “What the living, fucking hell?”

Reece yanks Davidson back up just before the fireman leans past the point of no return. “Good to know I’m not hallucinating.”