Divine Evil

by Nora Roberts

  “Ave, Satan.”

  He held out a hand, gesturing Ernie into the circle. “Do you come to this place of your own will?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you embrace the Dark Lord as your Master?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you give your oath now, to hold sacred this place? To give yourself over to the Law?”

  “I swear it.”

  Ernie barely felt the prick on the index finger of his left hand. Dreamily, he set it against the parchment held in front of him. And signed his name in blood.

  “Now you have sworn. Now you have added your name to the few. If you speak of what you have seen this night, your tongue will turn black and fall from your mouth. Your heart will shrivel in your breast to a stone and stop your breath. Tonight, you accept His wrath and His pleasures.”

  “I accept them.”

  The priest set hands on Ernie's shoulders and flung back his head. “We ride a sweeping wind, to the bright place of our desires. The joys of life are ours to take. A life of lust is ours to bear. We are men.”

  “Blessed be.”

  “I am a thrusting rod with the head of iron. Women crave me.”

  “We are men.”

  “I am filled with carnal joy. My blood is hot. My sex aflame.”

  “We are men.”

  “All demons dwell within me.” He lowered his eyes and his gaze bored into Ernie's. “I am a pantheon of flesh.”

  “Hail, Satan.”

  A figure stepped forward, offering the priest a small bone. Taking it, he moved to the altar, leaving Ernie swaying. The bone was placed upright between the altar's thighs. He took the cup from between her breasts and upended it so that the wine spilled over her flesh.

  “The Earth is my mother, the moist and fertile whore.” He moved his hands over the altar, squeezing, scraping. “Hear us now, Great Satan, for we invoke Your blessing in the pleasures of the flesh.”

  “Sustain us, Master.”

  “Desiring all.”

  “Sustain us, Master.”

  “Taking what we will.”

  “Ave, Satan.”

  The goat was brought out, the knife drawn. With the drug and the chants spinning in his head, Ernie fell to his knees. He prayed, to the God he had just forsworn, that he wouldn't be sick.

  He was pulled to his feet and his robe stripped from him. The priest put out a hand, dripping with blood, and smeared it over Ernie's chest.

  “You are marked with the sacrificial blood. Invoke the Name.”

  Ernie swayed, mesmerized by the eyes that burned into his. “Sabatan.”

  “Sabatan!”

  The priest moved back to the altar, repeating the exaltation. He took up the bone and turned so that the rest of the coven could pass before her.

  “Flesh without sin,” he said.

  Robes were cast aside, and the chanting grew louder. Ernie could hear nothing else as he was pulled to the altar. He shook his head, struggling to clear it. She cupped her hands around his rigid penis, manipulating it roughly until he shuddered. Beneath the chanting, he could hear her laugh, low and mocking.

  “Come on, little boy. Don't you want to show these old farts what you can do?”

  And the rage filled him, and the sickness, and the need. He rammed himself into her, driving hard until he saw the mockery fade and pleasure flicker.

  He knew they were watching but didn't care. Her hot breath washed over his face. His muscles trembled. Tears came to his eyes as the chanting rolled over him. He belonged.

  And when he was finished, he watched others and grew hard again. They took turns with her, greedy, pushing themselves into her, slurping at her flesh. They no longer looked powerful, but pathetic, emptying themselves into the same vessel, showing their flab and flaws in the moonlight.

  Some of them were old, he realized. Old and fat, wheezing as they climaxed and collapsed. And his watching became more cynical as the drug wore off and excitement drained. Some masturbated onto the ground, too impatient to wait. They howled, drunk on sex and blood.

  Ernie's eyes skimmed over them derisively and met another's. He wore the mask, the head of Mendes. His naked form was trim and pale, and the heavy silver pendant rested against his chest. He didn't dance around the fire, or call to the moon, or fall drooling on the woman. He only stood and watched.

  There was power, Ernie realized. In this man it was centered. He knew, he understood. When he moved toward Ernie, the boy trembled at what he might have guessed.

  “You have begun.”

  “Yes. The rite—it was different from what I've read and studied.”

  “We take what we need. We add what we choose. Do you disapprove?”

  Ernie looked back at the altar and the men who climbed over her. “No.” That was what he wanted, the freedom, the glory. “But lust is only one way.”

  Behind the mask was a smile. “You will have others. But this night is done for you.”

  “But I want to—”

  “You will be taken back and will wait to be called. If what you have seen and done is spoken of outside this place, you will die. And your family will die.” He turned and went back to the head of the altar.

  Ernie was given his clothes and told to dress. Flanked by two robed men, he was escorted back to his truck. He drove for about a half mile before pulling over, turning off the ignition, and jogging back.

  He would take what he wanted, he told himself. The rite had not been closed. If he was to join, he was entitled to see it all.

  He belonged.

  His head throbbed, and his mouth felt sandy and dry. Aftereffects of the drug, he supposed. He would take care not to drink again, but only to pretend. He didn't need his senses clouded, but cleared. Drugs were for fools and cowards.

  Though he feared once or twice that he would lose his way, he kept walking. He was certain he had recognized some of the men there tonight, and he intended to make a list in secret. They had seen his face. He was entitled to know theirs. He would not be treated like a child again, not here. He would belong in full, and one day, one day, he would stand in the center of the circle with the goat's head. He would be the one to call up the power.

  He could smell the smoke, stenched with the carcass of the goat. Quickly, he crossed the stream where years before Junior Dopper had meet his own devil. The sound of chanting came hollowly through the trees. Ernie slowed his steps, crouched and moved forward. There—in the same place a little girl had once hidden, though he did not know it—he watched the rite continue.

  They had not donned their robes again, but stood naked. The altar lay limp, sated and sleepy with the glitter of moonlight on her skin.

  “Our lust is quenched. Our bodies are pure. Our minds are clear. Our secret thoughts have been channeled into the movements of our flesh. We are one with our Master.”

  “Hail, Satan.”

  The priest stood, legs spread, arms outstretched in the center of the circle. His head thrown back, he shouted out an imprecation. Latin? Ernie wondered, licking his lips. Whatever language, it sounded more passionate, more powerful than English.

  “Beelzebub, come forth and fill me with Your wrath. Woe to the Earth, for her iniquity was great.” He whirled toward the altar. Lazily, Sarah pushed herself up on her elbows.

  She knew him, knew his appetites and his secrets.

  “You didn't take your turn,” she said and shook back her tumbled hair. “Better get in while you can. Your two hours are almost up.”

  He brought a hand hard across her face. Her head snapped onto the slab. “You will not speak.”

  She lifted her fingers and rubbed them over her lips where blood spurted. Hate filled her eyes, but she knew if she disobeyed, he would hit her again. Instead, she lay still and waited. She would have her day, she thought. By God, she would. And he would pay a hell of a lot more than two hundred for the slap.

  “Behold the whore,” he said. “Like Eve she will seduce, then betray. Between her spread thighs lies ou
r pleasure. But before lust, there is the Law. I am the Sayer of the Law. None escape.”

  “None escape.”

  “Cruel are the punishments of the Law. None escape.”

  “None escape.”

  “The weak are cursed. She who speaks what is secret is damned. That is the Law.”

  “Hail, Satan.”

  Even as they crowded around her, Sarah scrambled up. Her arms and legs were grabbed and borne down to the wood.

  “I didn't say anything. I didn't. I never—”

  She was silenced by another blow.

  “The gods of the pit demand vengeance. They hunger. They thirst. Their mighty voices smash the stillness of the air.” Turning, he threw something into the pit that caused the flames to leap and roar.

  And the chanting began, a murmuring chorus behind his shouted words.

  “I am the instrument of annihilation. I am the messenger of doom. The agony of the betrayer will sustain me. Her blood will slake my thirst.”

  “Please.” Writhing, terrified, Sarah looked at the men who surrounded her. It couldn't happen. She knew them, all of them, had served them beer and sex. “I'll do anything you want. Anything. For God's sake—”

  “There is no god but Satan.”

  When her hands and feet were bound, the coven fell back. From his place in the bush, Ernie began to sweat.

  “Behold the vengeance of the Master.” The priest picked up the sacrificial knife, still dampened with blood. He stepped forward.

  Sarah began to scream.

  She screamed for a long time. Ernie pushed his hands against his ears to block it out, but the sound reeked, like a scent in the air. Even when he closed his eyes, he could see what was being done to her.

  Not a sacrifice. Not an offering. But a mutilation.

  With his hands over his mouth, he ran blindly through the woods. But her screams chased after him.

  But there was another who did not run. There was one who crouched, animallike on haunches, eyes bright and a little mad. This one watched, this one waited, with the heart pounding and flesh sweating fervor of the damned.

  Even when the screams died, their echoing shuddered the stillness. There was one who rocked back and forth, back and forth in an obscene parody of the sex act, hot tears leaking, body quivering. For it was good, so good to witness the Master's work.

  The one who watched sniffed greedily at the air, a wolf scenting blood. Soon, the clearing would be empty again, but the blood would remain. For now the woods smelled wild, full of death and smoke and spent sex. And the shadows hid the form hunched in the brush. Whatever gods might have guarded that small clearing had been banished by death and damnation.

  “Clare. Baby, come on.” Cam pulled her against him and stroked her hair. She was trembling violently. Disoriented, he fumbled with the sheet as he tried to wrap it around her.

  “I'm okay.” She drew in long, steadying breaths. “I'm okay. It was just a dream.”

  “That's supposed to be my line.” He turned her face into the moonlight and studied it. It was pale as water. “Must have been a pretty bad one.”

  “Yeah.” She ran both unsteady hands through her hair.

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  How could she? How could she tell anyone? “No. No, it's okay, really.”

  “You look like you could use a brandy.” He touched his lips to her brow. “Wish I had some.”

  “I'd rather have a hug.” She settled into his arms. “What time is it?”

  “About two.”

  “I'm sorry I woke you.”

  “Don't worry about it. I've had my share of nightmares.” He settled back against the pillows, cradling her in the crook of his arms. “Want some water?”

  “No.”

  “Warm milk?”

  “Hot sex?”

  She laughed a little and looked up at him. “Maybe in a minute. I liked waking up and finding you here.” She sighed and snuggled against his shoulder. The nightmare was no more than a smear on her mind now. Cam was a reality.

  “It's a pretty night,” she murmured.

  Like Clare, he watched the moonlight through the window. “Great night for camping. Maybe next full moon, you and I could pitch a tent.”

  “A tent?”

  “Sure. We could go down to the river and camp overnight, make love under the stars.”

  “We could just pull the mattress out on your deck.”

  “Where's your sense of adventure?”

  “It's firmly attached to things like indoor plumbing.” She slid onto him. “And box springs.” Nipped his bottom lip. “Percale sheets.”

  “Ever made love in a sleeping bag?”

  “Nope.”

  “Allow me to simulate.” He rolled her over and tucked the sheets tight around them. “This way, I hardly have to move to—oh, shit.”

  Echoing the sentiment, Clare scowled at the ringing phone. She gasped when Cam shifted.

  Sorry

  “No, no, anytime.”

  “Rafferty,” he said into the phone. Then, “What?”

  “They're killing her,” Ernie repeated in a desperate whisper.

  “Who?” Hitting the light, Cam struggled out of the sheet.

  “She's screaming. She just keeps screaming and screaming.”

  “Take it easy. Tell me who this is.”

  He swore as the phone disconnected. Banging down the receiver, he rose.

  “What is it?”

  “Damned if I know. Probably a crank.” But he'd recognized true terror in the voice. “Claimed somebody was getting killed, but he wouldn't say who or where.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Cam was already reaching for his pants. “There's not much I can do. I'm going to drive into town, look around.”

  “I'll go with you.”

  He started to refuse, then stopped himself. What if the call had been a trick to get him out of the house. To get Clare alone. Paranoid, Rafferty, he thought. But it was better to take no chances.

  “Okay. But it's probably a waste of time.”

  He wasted a full hour of it before heading back home. The town had been silent as a tomb.

  “Sorry to drag you out.”

  “I don't mind. Actually, it's a nice night for a drive.” She turned to him. “I wish you weren't so worried.”