The Sweet Thief

by Temple Madison

  “But, Senator, everything has to be perfect. I don’t want to lose just because my wife’s not right.”

  “Well, you sure as hell ain’t gonna win with the kind of trash you run around with.”

  “Yeah... well... I don’t know,” Griff said stubbornly as he continued to stare at the naughty redhead.

  “Don’t know?” the senator barked, then turned to look at Griff. “What in hell do you mean, you don’t know? It’s a no-brainer, for god’s sake. Your first priority here is getting into the White House, and there’s only one way to do it. Griff, she’s the sweetheart of Capitol Hill. Do you know she calls every senator and congressman by their first name?”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn what she calls them, she could still ruin me.”

  “Bunk! The only one that could ruin you is you.” The lips of the good senator curled up. “Have you forgotten where you came from? I’ve forgiven you for that single drop of Yankee poison you got roamin’ around inside you, but if my gran’ pappy knew I was tryin’ to put anybody but a died-in-the-wool Southern boy into the White House, why he’d come up outta that grave and kick my ass sure as hell has fire.”

  “But, sir,” Griff said, insulted. “I’ve lived all my life in the south. I’m as Southern as you are, and twice as proud.”

  The senator pushed his face close to Griff’s and glared at him. “I ought to run you off my property, you Yankee devil. Just one drop of Northern blood dropped into Southern is enough to start the Civil War all over again.” He lifted his forefinger and his voice trembled. “The Bliss family has an ancestry that for generations has stuck to Southern tradition and would have never... I repeat, never tolerated one drop of Yankee blood anywhere near one of our delicate, Southern-bred, genteel daughters.”

  He paused as his gaze raked critically over Griff. “But... well... times change, I reckon.” A haze of smoke surrounded him while he punched the air with his cigar. “You just keep one thing in mind, boy. If you want my support, you’ll go all the way up that ladder with my little Lorelei on your arm. She’s a true-blue Southern belle and just what you need. And—” He stopped abruptly, apparently having trouble saying the words. “If you have children, and I’m convinced they’re not the devil incarnate, I’ll love ’em.”

  Looking at the redheaded ball-and-chain with anger, Griff slumped on the couch. “What the hell am I gonna do? When my girlfriend...”

  The senator leaned over him, still punching the air with his lit cigar. “I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna loose yo’self from every relationship you have and concentrate on my Lorelei. Is that clear? You just remember that I’m payin’ for all of this, as well as the campaign when the time comes, and I won’t tolerate any hanky-panky. You’re to keep yo’self squeaky clean at all times. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Griff sighed in defeat.

  The senator, evidently satisfied that the matter was settled, looked at his daughter. “Lorelei, it’s bedtime. Big day tomorrow.”

  “But, Daddy,” she whimpered childishly.

  “Don’t argue, young lady. I have spoken.”

  Her focus shifted to Griff, and her gaze turned bold and lusty. “Can Griff walk me to my room?”

  “Sure, darlin’,” he said, and with a pleased look, he turned his eyes toward Griff. “Go on, son. Get to know my daughter. After all, you’ll be spendin’ the rest of yo’ life with her.”

  Griff hated the idea, but with the senator watching, he had no choice but to do as he suggested. The only way he could get through this was to pretend he was an actor on stage, so while they walked toward the staircase, he managed to give her his best smile, extend his arm like a true Southern gentleman, and gaze into her eyes like a lovesick fool.

  The rest of his life? Griff smiled down at Lorelei. How the hell was he going to spend the rest of his life with this—this—redhead?

  * * * *

  The senator looked on with a satisfied smile, watching proudly as the large, sprawling steps of his grand mansion magically turned to concrete, the walls disappearing into marching bands, waving flags, and red, white, and blue balloons. And in its midst were his two favorite young people—ascending the steps of the White House.

  Chapter Three

  Ten Years Later—

  The years had matured Griff.

  Gone was the innocent, frowning, argumentative boy of his youth, and in his place was a conniving bastard who would use anyone he could to get what he wanted. His years of study, his years spent in the political arena had paid off. He appeared to others as a confident, well-groomed man who knew exactly where he was going, but somewhere along the way, something else had matured—Griff’s cunning, his wicked charm, his dynamic charisma, his determination to get ahead any way he could. They all knew he had what it took, and only part of it was his good looks. His sharp, piercing eyes radiated a stormy fire that glittered with blue lightning, and his brows seemed to fairly leap into deep arches. Yes, he would have what he wanted, even if he had to lie, steal, or kill—even if he had to take every politician in Washington and turn his or her spines to jelly.

  But now—today—Griff felt rather stiff and out of place as he stood waiting at the altar. When the music began, his gaze, along with everyone else’s, lifted and settled on the bride. She appeared like a vision out of a dream.

  Dear God, when did she become so beautiful?

  It seemed only yesterday that she was still sucking her thumb. Now she was positively regal, carrying herself with grace and poise.

  But her hair—even covered with a veil—was blazing in the moonlight.

  No, not the moonlight, he corrected himself. It’s the sunlight filtering through the stained glass.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t get the picture of the slut sitting on the back seat of his dad’s car out of his mind. She’d had a beautiful body, too—they all did. That was part of their allure. The girls in those—those—magazines. And now, Lorelei—she’s—god, she’s a redhead. What kind of joke was god playing on him? And in a church, for god’s sake, and on the day he was getting married. That brought to mind the wedding night. She would expect—but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. After tonight—when he refused to touch Lorelei—the senator would demand to know the truth, and he would have to tell him—tell them both. He would have to tell them about his problem with redheads and about how he had cruelly used the two of them to get what he wanted. The senator would probably withdraw. Then, like a flash of light, he knew the answer. Why the hell did he have to tell them anything? After all, he didn’t care about them. In this city, the ruthless devoured the weak, and he wasn’t going to miss his chance to become the leader of this country just because of some... redhead.

  * * * *

  As she walked down the aisle, Lorelei looked longingly at the man who was about to become her husband.

  So handsome. Like a prince.

  Even after all these years, Griff hadn’t warmed up to her. She could feel something between them—some strange, unseen thing that kept them apart, but she had no idea what it was. She had tried to penetrate it, knock it down, destroy it, but she couldn’t. Now, tears filled her eyes, threatening to fall, but she didn’t care.

  Let them fall. It’s my wedding day. Everyone will think they’re tears of joy.

  Her eyes shifted to the foreboding figure of Christ as He hung from His cross. She felt uncomfortable with His eyes boring painfully into hers, accusing her of perpetuating a lie.

  He seems so alive.

  His penetrating stare was like a bright light revealing the dark places, exposing her sins, her secrets.

  Thou shalt not bear false witness, a voice echoed, ringing down from the cross.

  Hearing the words being repeated over and over again, loud and soft at the same time, sent a chill down her spine. Ringing from the rafters and sung from the choir loft, they seemed to assail her.

  But, God, I love him, and my love is not a lie, she pleaded with the statue. I love him. Plea
se let him love me.

  Suddenly, the statue fell silent and the sound of the music filled her ears. She felt her hopes crumble when she realized His blood was only paint, His body nothing but shiny plaster. Had her prayer been heard? Could a cold statue hear her prayer and answer it? She had been taught that when god was silent, that meant He was considering your request, and that you must wait—however long it took.

  I will wait, she resolved. However long it takes.

  As she continued to move down the aisle, her gaze shifted to those around her. She wasn’t the liar—they were. Those with the pasted-on smiles, the glycerin tears, and the perfect teeth. They were like mannequins. A room full of movie extras with smiles plastered on their faces, crying at just the right moment. She could see it now—their perfect expressions of awe practiced in front of a mirror day and night as they prepared for a role, this role.

  She wondered if her father had hired them like he did every time he needed a favor. Hadn’t he hired Griff? Hadn’t he bought off the whole city of Washington, including the highest seat in government? She thought of the lifetime of dreams she’d had about a wedding like this, with Griff as her groom. But in her dreams, he loved her. In her dreams, the people were real—not actors who would be handed money at the close of the scene.

  Fresh tears crept down her cheeks.

  * * * *

  Three weeks later—

  On the day that Griff and Lorelei returned from their honeymoon, the senator presented them with a beautiful, sprawling house in Georgetown. The property was set back from the street, dotted with beautiful, stately trees and a winding circular driveway. In the back was a pond with ducks and a gazebo. He had even hired a house full of servants who had everything perfect for them when they arrived. He was proud of his gift, with its shining hardwood floors, windows from floor to ceiling, and a cozy fireplace in every room.

  “Just a little wedding gift for you,” the senator said as he watched them look the house over.

  “What’s the matter,” Griff asked. “Afraid we were going to crash at your place?”

  “Something like that,” the senator said. “I just figured you might be having some little ones soon and... well, you’d need your own place.”

  The remark seemed to make Griff uncomfortable. He mumbled something the senator didn’t understand and walked away. The senator quickly looked over at Lorelei who met his gaze with sadness, and then looked quickly away. The wise old senator knew something was up, but stayed silent for the time being.

  * * * *

  The next few days were a blur of moving in, unpacking, putting away, and getting comfortable in their new home. It didn’t take long for the word to get out that Griff and Lorelei were back, and the invitations began pouring in. Before they knew what was happening, they found themselves in the middle of Washington’s social whirl. They were the most attractive, charismatic young couple in the city, and everyone knew that Griff was going to make a bid for the White House. There were charity luncheons, teas, garden parties, speeches, and balls where they could be seen posing for picture after picture in glamorous, expensive clothes with all the right people. This went on for weeks, and then the whirlwind ended when it was time to go on that all-important swoop across the country shaking hands, kissing babies, telling lies and making promises—better known as the campaign trail.

  It was fun at first—exciting—but after every hand had been shook and the speeches made, Griff’s fatigued body was telling him he had stayed too long at the fair. His staff climbed inside the big bus, and he quickly scanned over the tired faces that looked back at him expectantly. Like him, they were exhausted to the bone and not in the mood for some long, drawn-out speech, so he cut the speech short and they pulled out.

  Once they made it home and everyone had settled back down into the political swing of things, it was time for the primaries. After much consideration, they were successful in targeting Griff’s most challenging subjects, and steered clear of topics that he had little experience with. After that, they went to work scheduling debates, TV commercials, appearances, speeches, and luncheons—anywhere they could get Griff in the public eye.

  Before he started on the circuit, they gave him a list of buzzwords to work into conversations, pumped him full of information, and then quizzed him far into the night. Many had a problem with Griff’s youth as well as his new-age appearance, targeting his Italian suits, long hair, and that annoying hint of a beard and sideburns. In front of this critical group of men, he felt undressed while they ripped him apart from head to toe. Was he putting on pounds? Wasn’t his hair just a bit too long? And what about that light stubble? It’ll have to go.

  Tired of being pulled, prodded, and poked, Griff lashed out at them. “You want me to be attractive to women? Then leave my hair, beard, and sideburns alone.”

  “Griff, it’s not only that. You dress too well. Poor people will resent you.”

  “Then what would you have me do, go out there in rags? And what about farmers, mechanics, and school teachers? Don’t they count? One day greasy overalls, the next, a cap and gown with a set of books and a ruler in my hand? Don’t you see what I’m saying? There’s no way we can please everyone. Give me credit for knowing something, for god’s sake. These people need to be able to look up to someone. If I’m presented to them looking as poor and defeated as they are, what do they have to gain with me? They need someone better than themselves. Someone young and prosperous with ideas for a better world. A world with hope for the future. What you see before you has been working so far, and if you take anything away, people will notice. What they need is a steadfast leader, not a freak that changes like a cheap magician’s trick right before their eyes. It’ll represent a shaky foundation at best, you mark my words.”

  “The boy is right,” the senator said, surprising Griff. “It’s too far into the campaign to change anything. This should have been decided from the beginning. His image will have to stay as is.”

  Griff breathed a little easier when nothing more was said. As usual, the senator’s words held weight and automatically called the meeting to a close. As the men rose to leave, Griff knew by the furtive glances they cast at each other that they were sure he was ruining his chances of being elected, but Griff was beyond caring what they thought. He stood at a mirror looking himself over, smoothed back the sides of his hair with the palms of his hands, tossed them an arrogant look, and walked out.

  Election day had arrived.

  Democrats and Republicans stayed riveted to their TV sets second upon second, minute upon minute, and hour upon hour, until at last the votes were being counted. Then as the long, tense evening drew to a close, only the Democrats stood up and shouted, because in spite of his long hair, Italian silk suits, and his bold, brash, irreverent manner, Griff Nyle had won.

  Chapter Four

  State Hospital for the Criminally Insane

  Terrell, Texas

  Lost in her own world, Gabrielle sat in the day room in a prayerful position, communing with her sisters.

  I bow before you, my sisters, ready for the task at hand. You have chosen well. With my blonde hair and blue eyes I can do my job flawlessly. I’ve always been a siren—a sprite—a fairy—a misplaced soul that flits from one lifetime to another. My weapon of choice is a blade, with which the damned and the innocent die brutal, ghastly deaths. I listen only to the music of my soul—the cries of my victims. I live for one purpose, and one purpose alone, and that is to lead men to their doom. No, not just any men, but men of authority, men who once sat high in government or royalty. In my earlier lives, I knew men like Adolph Hitler, Genghis Khan, Prince Vlad the Impaler, or even the Marquis de Sade. The evil of these men made others tremble, and all had women who stayed in the shadows—women who willingly engaged in hellish sexual acts. And even though these men were triumphant on the battlefield, they were defeated in their beds—by a woman. A woman like me.

  In this world my name is Gabrielle, but my real name is Lilith.
A name that burns wild and beautiful in the fires of hell and is listed among you, my sisters—Circe, Delilah, Mata Hari, Lilith, Salome, Lucretia Borgia, Eva Braun, Mina Harker. Like you, I’m sexually insatiable—a femme fatale—a vamp—a witch—a mystery to all. I hold men in the palm of my hand and will stop at nothing to capture a man and hold him in my silken web of sensual pleasures. I can make him surrender without him even knowing it. And when I tire of those I’ve chosen, they must die brutal, ghastly, excruciating deaths. If I fall in love with any one of them, it will mean the end of my reign—and death.

  “Go to the TV room.”

  Although it was only an echoing whisper, she could hear the urgency of the message loud and clear. Not wasting a moment, she rose quickly and hurried out through the dingy, colorless door and into the hall. She rushed through miles of darkened corridors, rode slow moving elevators, and sank into stairwells filled with mysterious hanging shadows and pools of darkness. The moment she walked into the room, she looked down at the TV screen and gasped at the image on the screen. She immediately knew why she had been summoned to this room. The man on the screen—the tall, gorgeous, handsome god—was to be her next victim.