NATHAN CROSS STRIKE BACK..

Chapter 22

Vivienne was still lurching forward, her body rigid, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Her face was twisted in an expression of pain — not the same unbearable, all-consuming agony she had been experiencing before, but something sharp and intense nonetheless.

Like her body was fighting.

Like whatever Nathan had done had triggered some kind of internal war, and her system was violently purging everything that did not belong.

She looked like she was in pain.

Terrible pain.

Maybe even worse pain than before.

Claire's mind went blank for a moment.

Then it filled with fury.

"What the hell have you done to her?!" Claire's voice exploded across the space, sharp and accusing. "What the hell have you done to her?!"

She took a step toward Nathan, her entire body trembling with rage.

"She has never vomited before!" Claire continued, her voice rising with each word. "Never! Not once! Ever since those doctors started treating her, she has never vomited before! What the hell have you done to her?! What the hell is going on?!"

She gestured wildly at Vivienne, who was still convulsing slightly, still bent forward, still clearly in pain.

"Why does it look like she is in pain?!" Claire demanded. "What the hell is this?! What the hell have you done to her?!"

Before Nathan could respond — before he could even open his mouth to explain — two of the bodyguards moved.

Then three.

They closed in on Nathan from different angles, moving with the practiced efficiency of professionals who had done this kind of thing many times before.

One grabbed his right arm.

Another grabbed his left.

A third moved behind him, ready to restrain him if he tried to resist.

And then they started dragging him away from Vivienne.

Not gently.

Not carefully.

But with force, pulling him backward, away from the woman he had just been treating, away from the scene of whatever they thought he had just done.

Nathan did not fight them.

There was no point.

Three trained bodyguards against one exhausted man who had just spent thirty-four minutes channeling spiritual energy — it was not a fight he could win even if he wanted to.

But he kept his eyes on Vivienne, watching her body convulse, watching her vomit up more of that blackish substance, and he felt a strange mixture of concern and satisfaction.

*It is working,* he thought. *This is supposed to happen.*

"Just pray," Claire's voice cut through the chaos, cold and deadly serious. "Just pray that she survives this. Otherwise, you are going to die."

She took a step closer to Nathan, her eyes blazing with fury.

"There is nothing in this world," Claire continued slowly, deliberately, "nothing on this earth that is going to save you. You will die. You are going to die for this."

Nathan looked at her calmly.

"You just have to let her be," he said, his voice steady despite being held by three bodyguards. "This is just the confirmation that it worked. What I did worked."

Claire's face went red.

"Would you keep your mouth shut?!" she shouted, taking another step forward until she was almost nose-to-nose with Nathan. "What you did *worked*, and she is still in pain?! Still in pain, and you say what you did worked?! How dare you?! Do you think I am some kind of fool or what?!"

Her hands were shaking with rage.

Her jaw was clenched so tightly Nathan thought she might crack a tooth.

She looked like she wanted to hit him.

Or worse.

But before Claire could say anything else, Vivienne screamed.

Not loudly.

She did not have the breath for loud.

But it was a sharp, pained cry that cut through the air like a knife and made everyone freeze.

Claire's head snapped toward her employer.

Vivienne was bent forward even more now, her body curled in on itself, her fists clenched so tightly against her stomach that her knuckles had gone completely white.

Her face was twisted in agony.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

She looked like she was being torn apart from the inside.

And then she vomited again.

This time, the substance that came out was different.

Not black.

White.

A thick, whitish substance that poured from her mouth in a rush, splattering onto the pavement next to the blackish vomit from before.

It looked almost like milk that had gone bad.

Or pus from an infected wound.

Thick and viscous and deeply, profoundly wrong.

Claire stared at it in horror.

Then she looked at Nathan, and her expression was pure murder.

But before she could say anything, Vivienne vomited up more of the whitish substance.