So Tempting

by Jean Brashear

  In a minute, she heard his car start, tires crunching on the gravel.

  Running the fingers of one hand through her hair, Jace sighed, squatted on the floor and picked up scattered buttons. She carried them across the room to place them on the bar that separated the small living room from her kitchen, then adjusted her bra and tied her blouse together beneath her breasts.

  "Come on in, Jimmy."

  Jimmy entered, whistling. "Well, well..."

  "Shut it," Jace growled.

  "Now, Sis, nothing to be ashamed of, just 'cause you're doing the nasty barely inside the front door." He lifted his palms. "No complaints here. Nice to see you acting human."

  She recovered the groceries she'd dropped and headed for the kitchen. He looked like seven kinds of hell, yet here he was with a smirk on his face. His eyes didn't match his mouth, though. "What kind of trouble are you in this time?"

  He recoiled as if she'd slapped him. "I don't need this shit."

  "What exactly do you need?" Memories of Sam Sunshine prodded at her. "Where have you been this time?"

  "None of your business," he muttered, face flushing.

  "Unless you're ready for a handout or a free bed or someone to take care of you until you get the urge to skip out again, that is."

  Looking tired and worn and lost, Jimmy shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  Jace wrestled her temper under control. Concentrated on putting away the groceries. "When's the last time you had a decent meal?"

  "What do you care?" Then his long, angular body settled into resignation. "It's been awhile."

  "Come on." She squeezed his arm. "Put your pack in the spare room and wash up. I'll fix you something to eat. Just let me change first."

  "No, Jace. I'm not staying here."

  Her head shot up. "Where else would you stay?" Jimmy had never remained in Santa Fe long enough to make friends.

  An odd glow lit his gaze. "I've found a place to belong, people who understand. It's what I've been searching for." His voice was uncharacteristically determined. "For so long I've searched for answers—why Dad died, why Mom's a drunk and doesn't give a shit about us."

  Jace was astonished; he'd never given a sign that he cared about more than the next party or drug, the next easy money.

  "I want to make my life mean something, and I've found others on the same path."

  She blinked. What was he saying? "You mean, like a church?"

  "Better than that. A new way of being, a different universe where the ways of the ancient gods have been recaptured." His eyes glittered, almost feverish.

  Oh, hell. Now he'd gone woo-woo on her. "What do you mean?" She kept her voice neutral.

  "There's no way to explain how it feels. I wish you would..." He shook his head. "Never mind. I just came to say goodbye."

  "Goodbye? Why?"

  "The Magos knows that to fully bond, we must first bid goodbye to the past, to break the chains of everything that's holding us back from realizing our full potential." His body all but vibrated with his fervor as he spoke words obviously not his.

  "Wait just a damn minute." Jace held up her hand. "What's a Magos? What the hell have you gotten yourself into?"

  He visibly withered. "I'd hoped you'd understand and be happy for me."

  "Happy? When you're renouncing the world and joining some Satanic cult?"

  "It's not a cult."

  "Give me a break—what is it that they want you to do? Give all your worldly goods to the group? Panhandle in airports?"

  His face told her she'd lost him already. Jace forced herself to speak more calmly. "I'm sorry, Jimmy. I'm not making fun of your...friends. I just don't understand." Placing a hand on his arm, she looked straight into his eyes. "Can't you see how this sounds? I've never heard of this group. What's its name?"

  "It's sacred and cannot be spoken." The insult he felt bled through his tone. "And for your information, this is no Satanic cult. Satan is a part of Judeo-Christian folklore. The Magos is a leader, nothing more." He leaned toward her, his expression intent. "There's nothing evil about this, Jace. Mankind has given up its ancient powers in this modern world. It doesn't have to be that way. We just have to open ourselves up to reclaim what's rightfully ours. If we love ourselves, the world will be better for it."

  What bullshit, but he'd really fallen for it. "Jimmy..."

  A shadow passed over his features. "Can't you just be happy for me that I've found something solid?"

  "Have you? Or is someone taking you for a ride again?"

  "You can't believe in anything you can't touch or taste or see, can you?" His bitter laugh stung her heart. "Jace knows best. Ms. Cop-to-the-Bone can always see the evil that's at the heart of everyone's soul."

  Jace stiffened. "I don't think everyone is evil."

  "Oh, yeah? When's the last time you really trusted anyone? When did you ever open up your heart and quit looking for the sucker punch?"

  Anger ripped into her again. "Who else was going to take care of things, huh? When Mom was passed out on the couch, who made sure you had food in your belly and the rent was paid?" Her voice sharpened; she couldn't stop it. Wouldn't. "I never had time to be trusting and tender, for your information. I was all that stood between you and a foster home."

  "Oh, yeah? Well, maybe it wouldn't have been so bad, ever think of that? Maybe I didn't want to have you riding my back over every little thing. Mom would have taken care of us if you'd given her half a chance."

  The pain staggered her. "You ungrateful little shit! She had lots of chances, and what did she do? Stole the money I'd saved to buy myself a prom dress and spent it on liquor. Took grocery money, hell, what I'd put away for your birthday and used it to drink away her sorrows." Chest heaving, she poked him in the sternum. "If I didn't hand the rent money direct to the landlord, she'd spend that, too. I had to work weekends for that sleazy bastard so we wouldn't be out on the street until I could make up the three months' worth of rent she threw away on liquor and lottery tickets. Don't you talk about what you don't know. All you could do was whine because you couldn't have every toy you wanted."

  His eyes were bleak and tortured. "Yeah, I'm a fuck-up, all right. Next to St. Justine, I could never measure up. And you won't ever let me forget it, will you?"

  Was that what he thought, that she took pleasure in his eternal refusal to grow up? Her hand covered a mouth that tasted of ashes. It was her fault that he couldn't get his act together?

  Jimmy gave her one last, long look ripe with pity. "I'd better go before this gets any uglier." He opened the door.

  "Wait! Don't leave." She grabbed his arm.

  He shook her off. "Have a nice life, Jace. We're supposed to make peace with our families before we leave to join with the Priestess." Hazel eyes stared at her as though she was the one in need of help. "I guess peace was too much to expect."

  Before she could stop him, he vanished into the darkness.

  Jace hovered on the porch, her stomach hollow, her heart aching. Would he ever get his act together?

  A memory danced before her, a little redheaded boy in footed pajamas, broken toy truck in his hand and tears in his eyes. It's broken, Justine. Can you fix it?

  Exhaustion swept over her. Of course she had; she always would. No matter that he'd go right back out and break something else. He and she were inextricably entwined, Jimmy as much her son as her brother.

  He'd come back. When he was too tired, too sick, too broke, he always returned to Jace to repair his mistakes.

  She walked back into the cabin, feeling the darkness as never before.

  * * *

  The dark corners of the abandoned warehouse roared with life, the stinging whip-ends of trance-techno music lashing the girl's hearing. Beneath the space-age high notes, a steady bass throbbed, arousing ancient rhythms in the blood.

  The young girl had never felt like this before, as though the night's magic had been absorbed into her skin, warming her body from the core out. She swayed to
the music, head thrown back, eyes closed, hips grinding. Hunger sharpened as consciousness dimmed.

  Hands clasped her hips. A man glued himself to her back and she writhed. Desire bit. Clawed. She slid her arms around his neck, offered her throat. "Please..."

  Fingers pinched tender breasts. Sparks shot straight down to her belly. More hands...more...she was desperate to fill the void that threatened to eat her alive.

  Instead, they retreated.

  "Please...I'll do anything...just make it stop."

  Her eyes would not open, her ears buzzed. Music writhed inside her, melting in her blood, buzzing down her nerve paths. Heat surrounded her, glowed from within. She was burning alive. Had to have relief.

  Jerking her hands free with strength she didn't recognize, she yanked her blouse off. Held her breasts in her palms, hips gyrating. Pleading.

  Soft, wet lips on one nipple. She sighed.

  More on the other.

  She whimpered.

  Suddenly, she was swept from the floor, suspended by hands braced along her back. Stronger fingers clamped on her thighs. Spread her open.

  A delicious shudder rocked her. "More," she gasped.

  A low voice laughed. "Another drink, baby?"

  For one trembling second, her consciousness shivered. Her mind struggled to comprehend what had come over her.

  Her jaw was shoved open. Cool liquid slid down her throat, spilled past the corners of her mouth. She swallowed. Coughed. "What—"

  Brutal music pounded. With the little strength left, she shoved at the heads bent over her. Struggled to regain her feet.

  "Easy, baby, sh-h, here's what you need..." A low voice soothed.

  The buzz became an angry hive. Hunger slapped. Sparks flared and stung.

  Hands gripped her buttocks. Hot, hard flesh filled her.

  She screamed with ecstasy.

  The darkness rolled her under.

  A grateful soughing of breath.

  Then...surrender.

  SWITZERLAND

  Twenty-five years ago

  In the quadrangle of the exclusive Swiss boarding school to which his father had sent him, thirteen-year-old Dante endured his mother's stroking hand and the teasing that would result if anyone saw them. He understood that she was lonely and that kept him still. He didn't want to be at this school, but his mother had placed so much store in it that he couldn't disappoint her when life had already dealt her such blows.

  There was one other reason he had come without complaint. His father's other son was here—Markos Petrakis, nearly a year older and the legal heir. Dante had wanted to get a look at this son whose existence meant that Dante and his mother would forever be relegated to the background, the forgotten mistress and the bastard son.

  Throughout his lonely childhood, ever since he'd known of his brother, a tiny seed had sprouted, a forbidden longing to know this other son. Within Dante's heart had grown a treacherous yearning. Perhaps his brother would love him, and then Dante could live in his father's world.

  Too bad none of that had happened. Instead, his brother had taken an instant dislike to Dante though they'd scarcely exchanged a word, and every success of Dante's had only fueled the hatred more.

  "Are you sure you're happy here, my son?"

  Happy? He stifled the honest response. He'd been happy when he could still believe that his father loved him, when he'd gathered herbs and continued to mix the potions and pastes that were part of his heritage, bastard or not. For a long time, he'd tried to live according to their shared secrets, handed down for generations. He was magos, descendent of the Star People, men who healed, who cast spells, who were charged with protection of the amulet that held the power to turn death to life. Now, however, only barely could he remember hearing the Song of the Soul Star, how it had made his heart race, sent power sizzling through him, blood and bone. He was older now and stronger, but his father's promise had been forgotten. He would never be the Protector.

  But if Dante had never found the magic elixir to conjure the family of his longings, still he had plied his skills as he could. He'd bartered plants with the old women of his village, asked incessant questions. His own reputation had grown as he performed minor cures here and there.

  He couldn't do any of that here at school, and daily he drifted further from what he and his father had once shared, the part of them that had been one heart, one mind. One proud lineage.

  "Dante?"

  "I'm fine, Mother."

  Her eyes turned sad. She smoothed the front of his shirt. "You've never really had the chance to be a child." Her eyes glistened as tears pooled on her lashes. "I should say I'm sorry. It is my sin that created you," she whispered, "but, God forgive me, I cannot regret anything but that you have paid such a price." One lone tear descended, marking its passage with a slender silvery trail. "I am sorry that I never provided you with a proper father. Your own has not been fair to you."

  "It doesn't matter."

  Dark eyes snapped. "It matters. He's here today, but he hasn't bothered to see you."

  "He is?" Hope rose in his chest. "Maybe he doesn't know."

  His mother glanced away.

  With a dull thud, hope foundered. "He does."

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure approaching. He took a step back, summoning nonchalance though his throat pinched tight. "Never mind. I don't care."

  "I do." Her voice rose. "He can't—"

  Then he realized who was nearing. His brother, the crown prince. His father's only acknowledged son.

  He had to get her out of here. "I'll walk you to your car, Mother."

  "But—"

  "I don't want you on the roads after dark."

  Pleasure and pride painted her glorious features. Even if Dante had been blind, the reactions of others would tell him of his mother's remarkable beauty. She smiled fondly and patted his cheek again. "You're such a good son."

  One quick glance told him his brother was watching.

  Dante escorted his mother to the car and endured the hugs and tears of her leaving. As he watched her drive away, the loneliness that was his constant companion edged back, but this time it was worse, knowing that for reasons he would never understand, his father was lost to him. That the years he had labored to be a son good enough to be acknowledged had all been a waste.

  Despair wrapped him like a shroud. He couldn't forget the feel of the amulet, the ancient silver alive in his hand, the sense of belonging, of connection so intimate it was bone and blood. A deep, unholy anger stirred, and suddenly Dante wanted to strike out at something, anything, to take away the bitter knowledge that his father didn't want him. That he never would.

  Within the bubbling cauldron of fury and hurt, Dante never saw his brother step into his path until he'd bumped the older boy's shoulder.

  Markos shoved him hard. Dante shoved back. A second blow from his brother knocked him to the ground. Though a year younger, Dante was nearly the same height, but there was little meat on him. It took no effort for his brother to shove him back down as he tried to rise.

  "Who is she?" his brother demanded.

  "Who?"

  "That woman. That black-haired whore. I saw her with my father earlier."

  Dante sprang upward, ramming his head into his brother's chest, knocking him off-balance. "Don't you call my mother a whore!" He slugged Markos in the gut, and the older boy doubled over.

  "She is," his brother wheezed. Suddenly, his fist shot out and slammed into Dante's chin. "You tell her to stay away from my father, do you hear me?" He struck again, and Dante went down.

  But he didn't stay. The long months of wondering what he'd done wrong, the years of watching his mother grow more bitter, the sting of knowing that Papa had been there today and hadn't cared enough to see him—all gave him new strength. "She has as much right to see him as anyone," he shouted, throwing blows and never realizing that his face was wet with tears. "Just because you and your mother have his name doesn't mean anything, you h
ear me? You're not everything to him," Dante shouted, wishing he could believe that as he once had.

  The older boy tripped him, then threw him to the ground. He rose to a crouch over Dante, a smear of dirt on his face and a terrible sick fury on his features. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice cracking. "What the hell are you saying?"

  Dante understood then that he'd gone too far, that his brother didn't know. He felt a moment when the earth shifted beneath him, a premonition that everything would change if he spoke another word. Visceral dread seized him. He shook his head and began to rise.

  Markos put a knee in his chest to pin him. The animal cunning that often rode his face sharpened now, laced with a cruelty that was frightening. "Tell me, you little shit. Tell me or I'll break your arm." He grasped Dante's arm and twisted it savagely.

  Dante bit back a cry, frantically trying to figure out how to unbalance the bigger boy, but instead a slow buzzing filled his brain as his brother increased the pressure.

  The crack was audible to them both.

  Oddly, the pain diminished when the bone gave way. He smiled as his head grew light and fuzzy, watching his brother study him, confusion in his eyes.

  Fighting to stay conscious, Dante knew the moment his brother realized the truth. With savage satisfaction, he nodded and smiled while darkness narrowed his vision to a pinpoint. He licked his lips and summoned the breath to speak.

  "Hello, brother."

  With a roar, Markos grasped the shattered bone in both his fists, squeezing hard.

  The last thing Dante heard was the cry he could no longer stifle...drowned out by the chilling sound of his brother's unearthly howl.

  Chapter Three

  Markos Petrakis surveyed the crowd filling his restored Spanish colonial in downtown Santa Fe, a glittering gathering of life at the top. Diamonds and leather fringe, cowboy boots and sequins, the crème de la crème of Santa Fe gathered to honor the cause of Native American art.

  At his side, his wife Marcella constantly scanned the rooms for any sign that the service was less than perfect. "He's not here," she murmured.