by Terri Garey
“What do you think you’re doing, Samael?”
Sammy whirled, shocked to hear another voice. He’d been coming to this island for millennia, and never seen another soul save that of the Weaver’s.
His old friend Gabriel stood at the head of the path, emanating light, radiating disapproval.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Samael snapped, not at all pleased to see him.
“I’m here to speak with you,” Gabe said, taking a step forward. “Without your army of darkness behind you, hiding in the shadows.”
Sammy drew in a breath, reining his temper. “How did you find me?” he demanded.
“You’re not the only one who knows of this place—we found it together, remember?”
He remembered. They’d circled it, eons ago, he and Gabriel, on a beautiful day just like this one, sea winds holding them aloft, the sun warm on their wings. The skies surrounding them had been cloudless, but a gray fog had clung to the island, shrouding it, marking it as different. It had appeared so barren, yet so alive; its sinister aspect had drawn him like a lodestone. Gabriel hadn’t wanted to explore, but Samael had been unable to resist. He’d come back one day, alone, and it had been then that he’d met the old woman who lived in the cavern, and learned for the first time that he and his brothers were not the only immortal creatures in the universe.
“What do you want, Gabriel?” he asked shortly.
“I want to know what you’re doing to Faith McFarland,” Gabe answered grimly. “You were supposed to help her, to look out for her—instead, you’ve turned her into a thief.”
Sammy felt his temper rising—he answered to no one. “And a whore,” he agreed, flatly. “I made her into a whore, too. Don’t forget that part.”
Gabriel’s eyes flashed, for even angels were capable of anger, particularly when it was on someone else’s behalf. He was dressed as he’d been in the temple, khaki pants and chambray shirt.
“You were supposed to stay out of it, mind your own business, remember?” Sammy ignored Gabriel’s anger, and brushed past him to the head of the path, following it downward to the sea. “She’s unharmed, and the boy is in remission. More importantly, we agreed to do things my way.”
“You could heal the boy in an instant,” Gabriel stated, stopping him in his tracks.
“True,” he agreed, eyeing Gabriel over his shoulder. “Is that what guardian angels are supposed to do? Remove every trial from life and grant every wish as though they were someone’s fairy godmother?”
Gabriel made an exasperated noise, and Sammy knew he’d made his point. He turned and started again down the path. A moment later he heard the clatter of stone as his former comrade followed.
They made their way in silence, single-file down a narrow track through the rocks. Soon the scent of the sea surrounded them, clean and sharp, and their ears became filled with the rumble of crashing waves, growing louder until they reached the end of the path, which opened onto an empty beach.
There Sammy stopped, feeling the wind whip through his hair, watching and listening to the thundering waves.
The wind and the waves did only as they pleased.
Nature had no need of a conscience, and neither did he.
It was several minutes before Gabriel, who watched the waves in silence beside him, finally spoke.
“What are you up to, brother?”
His anger had passed, or Sammy might’ve struck him for using the word. As it was, he merely shrugged, still watching the waves, and stated, “I’m helping her. Her son is home from the hospital, isn’t he?”
“You’re using the child to get something you want. That was never part of the bargain.”
“Speak to me not of bargains,” Sammy said, not realizing how he’d fallen into a much older speech pattern, “for you know nothing of them. Everything you have has been given to you with an open hand.” He demonstrated, opening a hand to the cool touch of the wind, though his eyes stayed on the waves. “Beloved of the One, the universe your playground,” he added, without heat. “You know nothing of struggle, of pain, or of loss.”
“That’s not true,” Gabriel said firmly, but Sammy chose not to hear him, listening only to the crash and boom of the sea, pounding stubbornly against the rocks that surrounded the island.
“I told you I would do this thing my way,” Samael repeated, keeping his eyes on the ocean. “Go back where you belong, Gabriel, and don’t come here again.”
Gabriel’s laughter took him by surprise. “I’m not one of your servants, Samael.” He shook his head, apparently amazed by his old friend’s arrogance. “You do not command me. You reign within your hidden temple, and you play at evil among the shades of dead while you torment the living, but mostly you just hide—you hide from the One and you hide from yourself.” The angel took a step back, unfurling his wings. The sea winds caught them, buffeting the edge of his feathers, bearing him aloft, where he drifted. “We are brothers still, born of the same womb, that of the infinite universe. You hate me now for what I am, as I hate what you have become, but our fates will always be entwined.” The winds bore him higher, out of reach. “For that reason, and that reason alone, I give sway here today. Do what you will with Faith McFarland, at least for now, but do not disappoint me, my brother.”
Then he dissolved in a burst of light that made Sammy shield his eyes, despite the Ray-Bans.
“Showoff,” Sammy muttered beneath his breath, then turned back to the waves, letting them soothe the jealousy that had speared his veins at the sight of Gabe’s feathers, fluttering in the wind. The wind taunted him by bringing one of them to rest in the sand near his feet, where without hesitation, he crushed it beneath his heel.
Chapter Twelve
What, in the name of Hell, was she supposed to do?
It had been almost two hours since she’d left Finn locked on the roof of the hotel, and Faith’s nerves were shredded. She’d driven home in a state of near panic, anxious to get somewhere safe, knowing there was no such place. Now she paced the floor of her living room by the harsh light of morning, impatient, wired.
She needed to get rid of the ring, now.
Finn knew her name and her phone number—he’d be sure to go to the police. They’d find the ring in the backyard where she’d buried it, and put her in jail. She’d have no chance to re-create the conjuring spell, no chance to fulfill her end of the bargain. Nathan had a doctor’s appointment in two days. She’d be a criminal . . . they could take her little boy from her, put him in foster care . . .
Faith put her head in her hands, and forced herself to stop pacing. Taking a deep breath, she moved to the window, eyeing the street through the blinds. A bird trilled from the tree in her front yard, and Mrs. Dawson, her neighbor, was outside watering her roses.
She was a thief, who’d used her body to get what she wanted.
She needed to focus on dealing with the Devil, yet the face that kept forming in her mind was not one of cold blue eyes and lean cruelty, but Finn’s, green-eyed and soft, the way it looked this morning before she’d lied and told him she had a boyfriend. Before she’d thrown flour and salt in his face and locked him on the roof.
Whatever deal he’s offered you, it’s not worth it, he’d said. How did he know so much about what she’d been doing on the roof?
Bring me the ring by Monday, Satan had said, and Nathan’s tumor will be gone forever.
Closing her eyes against the morning’s glare, Faith drew a deep breath, unable to stop reliving every nightmarish moment of the morning just past. The fire alarm, the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach when she’d thought herself caught, the even more sickening feeling when she had been. That moment when she’d seen Finn standing there, so angry . . .
She’d lied to him, tricked him, and treated him badly when he’d been nothing but good to her—it was wrong, and she was ashamed.
A lump rose in her throat, but she refused to give in to tears again—not yet.
Faith rubbe
d her eyes and sighed. She’d always known that getting caught had been a possibility, she’d known she’d feel guilty no matter what happened, but she’d never expected the time she’d spent with Finn to be so . . . earth-shattering.
She had to put those memories away for now, lock them up and bring them out later, when things calmed down. As to the theft, her only defense at this point: deny, deny, deny. Maybe Finn had filed a complaint with hotel management; if she was caught with the ring she’d lose her job . . .
“Mommy?”
Nathan was in the doorway, looking sleepy and cute and totally, one-hundred-percent adorable. She swept him up, banishing all bad thoughts to the corner of her mind where she’d trained them to hide. “Good morning, Superboy,” she told him, kissing the curls on top of his head. A big patch of hair on the back of his head had been shaved for surgery, but was already growing in. “Were you good for Auntie Dina last night?”
“Mm-hm,” Nathan confirmed sleepily, squeezing her neck. “We played cars.”
Faith smiled, knowing how crazy Nathan was about cars. Dina would’ve probably preferred just one car—one with a good-looking guy behind the wheel—but she was a good sport when it came to playing with Nathan.
“For hours,” Dina added with a yawn, shuffling in wearing a pink robe and pajamas. “We played cars for hours. Any coffee?”
“I’ll make it.” Faith gave Nathan a final hug, then put him down. “Thanks so much for staying last night, Dina.”
Her friend waved a hand in dismissal, still yawning. “No problem. We watched a VH1 marathon of Michael Jackson videos, didn’t we, baby?”
“I can moonwalk, Mommy! Watch me!” Nathan immediately became animated, executing a clumsy backward maneuver that made Faith laugh. He laughed, too, and her heart swelled to bursting at the sound.
That’s what they needed around here . . . more laughter.
Unable to resist another kiss, she cupped his little face in her hands and planted one on him. “I’ll get you some juice.”
“Okay.” He returned her kiss, then darted away while she moved into the kitchen to get the juice and make coffee. “Can I watch TV?” He climbed on the couch, scooping up his favorite stuffed dog as he got settled.
“Go ahead. It’s Saturday, cartoons are on. I’ll make us some breakfast.”
“What about you?” Dina asked. She took the TV remote from Nathan and turned the channel to cartoons. “How was your evening?” She came into the kitchen, giving Faith a sleepy once-over. “You got lucky, didn’t you?” she whispered, shooting Nathan a glance to make sure he wasn’t listening. “Who is he?”
“Nobody special,” Faith lied, willing her hands not to shake as she poured Nathan’s juice. She didn’t want to talk about Finn right now.
Dina, of course, didn’t buy it. “You all right? What happened?”
“It was a long night,” Faith answered, with a sigh. She was so tired—the last twenty-four hours had been a maelstrom of anxiety, ecstasy, guilt, and panic. She had no idea what was going to happen next—all she could do was wait until dark when she could once again try to call up the Devil, and hope he got there before Finn—or the police—did.
“There was a lot of craziness, most of which you wouldn’t believe if I told you.” She wanted to tell Dina everything, but believed—for her friend’s sake—the less she knew the better.
“Good, wouldn’t believe you, or bad, wouldn’t believe you?” Dina asked, obviously anxious to hear more.
Faith held the coffeepot under the faucet, letting it fill. “Both,” she answered, unable to help thinking about the good part of the evening, being held in Finn’s arms, so close she could feel his heartbeat as he moved against her, inside her, lips searing her skin . . .
“Ooeee,” said Dina, stepping in to take the coffeepot, now about to overflow, from Faith’s hands. “You got it bad. I can see it all over your face. Now who is he?”
“Oh, Dina,” she groaned. “I’m in such trouble.”
Dina put down the pot and held out her arms. “C’mere, baby,” she said, as though Faith were Nathan’s age.
Faith went into them without hesitation, wishing she was Nathan’s age, when life had seemed so simple—Cheerios or Cap’n Crunch? Barbie, or My Little Pony?
“Tell me,” Dina urged, but Faith was afraid to. How could she tell her closest friend and next-door neighbor that she’d made a deal with the Devil, and that the police could show up at any moment? How could she tell Dina that she was a thief, and that she’d slept with a total stranger last night with only one goal in mind, which was to steal from him?
And what about when she said, Oh, by the way, he’s a rock star; her friend would think she’d finally cracked—lost it over the strain of Nathan’s illness, gone off the deep end.
Burying her nose against Dina’s neck, she wondered again if maybe she had cracked; her heart certainly felt full of jagged edges.
“Faith McFarland, twenty-seven, lives at 1421 Magnolia Trace, Marietta, Georgia.”
Finn wrote the address down on a pad. “Marietta? Not Atlanta?”
“Marietta is just north of Atlanta,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “Easy commute.” Bert Kudlow was the brother-in-law of his housekeeper, and had proven his worth last summer when he’d upgraded the security system for Finn’s island house. He did background checks and private investigations on the side. “Never been married, drives a dark blue 1995 Volvo. Some credit card debt, but her rating is good; pays her bills on time.”
Finn couldn’t care less about her credit rating or what kind of car she drove—he just needed to get to her before she did something stupid, like conjure up Satan. “How far from the Atlanta Ritz-Carlton?” he asked.
“About forty minutes,” Bert said. “At this time of morning you should be okay traffic-wise; everyone’s coming into the city while you’ll be going out.”
“Thanks, Bert. Stick close to your computer in case I need you again.”
“Sure thing.”
Hanging up, Finn tore the paper with Faith’s address from the pad and handed it to John, who’d been watching TV and scarfing down room service while they’d waited for the background check. “Here’s the address. Let’s get moving.”
“You should let me do this myself,” John said, rising from the couch, “in case it gets ugly.”
“Sorry,” Finn answered shortly, “but no way. This is personal.”
“I ain’t gonna hurt her,” he argued, “but I’m in a better position to pressure her than you are, man. No emotional attachment. No guilt. I’ll be real nice at first, and if she doesn’t cooperate I’ll threaten her with the police. I’ll have her crying like a baby . . . she’ll give me the ring to avoid any trouble.”
Finn somehow doubted that. “John, if I wanted the police, I’d call the police. This can still be handled privately, and that’s how I want to do it.”
John sighed, giving up. They left the suite and rode the elevator down in silence.
Larry was waiting for them in the lobby, having coffee and reading the newspaper. “No sign of her,” he reported.
“We’ve got her address,” Finn told him. “Have the valet bring up the car.”
There were more people in the lobby than there had been earlier, some checking in, some checking out, others on their way to breakfast or business meetings.
“That’s Finn Payne,” said a woman’s voice, and heads began to turn.
“Are you sure?” asked the guy with her, craning his neck to see. He caught sight of them quickly, hefting a camera onto his shoulder.
“It is him,” the woman exclaimed, for everyone in the lobby to hear.
John moved to position himself between his boss and the two reporters, but it was too late.
“Excuse me,” called the woman, teetering rapidly toward them on high heels. She was wearing far too much makeup for this hour of the morning, a crisp blue suit and clunky jewelry. “Excuse me! I’m Katie Binford, Channel 8 News! May we sp
eak with you for a moment, Mr. Payne?”
Finn sighed, wishing he’d remembered to slip on his sunglasses before leaving the elevator.
“Sorry, no interviews. We’re in a hurry,” John growled, but Katie was having none of it, ignoring the big man as she would a gnat.
“Mr. Payne, may we speak with you a moment?” she repeated, thrusting a microphone close to Finn’s face and giving him the charming, practiced smile of a consummate media mannequin. “Please? Surely you won’t deny your fans a moment of your time?”
Finn stopped, though he didn’t want to. He made it a point to always be polite with the media, and friendly to his fans—they were the ones who made it all possible, after all.
Them, and the ring, which he didn’t have anymore.
He had a brief image of this same reporter cheerfully doing a story on his untimely death. Rock star Finn Payne was found dead this morning . . . A surge of panic at the thought made his heart pound, but he gave the woman a lazy smile. “Sure,” he said, “but I’m in a bit of a hurry, so . . .”
Katie got right to the point, blindsiding him in the process. “Channel 8 received a tip about a supposed ‘black magic’ ritual held on the roof of the Ritz-Carlton this morning, and rumor is that you were found alone at the scene.” The cameraman stepped back, panning out to include Katie and Finn together in his shot. “We’ve already got film coverage of the site itself . . . a pentagram, candles, melted wax. Is this rumor true? Do you know anything about this . . . this devil worship ceremony?”
The way she said “devil worship” reminded Finn that he was in Atlanta, Georgia, the heart of the Southern Bible Belt. A scandalizing tale about rock stars and devil worship would make for a great story for the local yokels.
Luckily he’d had plenty of practice dealing with the press, and kept his face impassive, slipping on his sunglasses. “That’s quite a rumor,” he said mildly. Larry and John shot each other a glance, then looked as one toward the front desk, where Herve Morales was nervously watching. As soon as the weasel saw them looking at him, he slid down the counter and out of sight.
