The Evil Inside (Krewe of Hunters)

by Heather Graham

  He’d headed off toward one of the rooms to the right side of the stairway. Jenna walked into the foyer and stood uncomfortably, then turned and locked the front door.

  Had she come in peace?

  Not really.

  Why had she come?

  She didn’t have to answer her inner turmoil; he reappeared, the gun now gone. Her heart was fluttering and she couldn’t seem to breathe correctly, and worst of all, it felt as if there were a burning sensation that stirred in the center of her core and shot down her thighs.

  Disgraceful, good God! Sex, desire, they were all human instincts, and all kept under control in a civilized society, and…

  “So, what do you want?” he asked flatly.

  What do I want?

  The dead blunt question took her by surprise. She was disappointed that she couldn’t quite lay it on the line.

  You.

  “You’re a jerk,” she said.

  Good beginning.

  “This couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  She walked over to him and shoved him on the chest. “No, it can’t. You almost put your arm down my throat to make sure that I didn’t speak this afternoon. What? You were afraid that I would just sit there and blurt out to the repressed New England cop that I see and speak to ghosts and that I can also relive certain experiences sometimes by being somewhere?”

  “Were you?” he asked.

  She laid her hand against her own breast. “I am a Federal officer, Sam Hall, with all the rights that go with that title, and I did all the running, jumping, history, science and arms training that went along with becoming official. I worked hard, and I’m real.”

  “You just see ghosts,” he said.

  “Hasn’t anything in your life been anything other than a Jaguar? Oh, probably a tailored suit!” she mocked. “Guess what? You can’t take them with you. You, me, everyone dies, Sam. And sometimes there’s a pain, a loss, something that can’t quite let you go. And you know what? Those left behind are here because of their hearts and their souls, things you can’t see in the living. Good God, I’d never expect you to see them in the dead! You see nothing that isn’t completely tangible, nothing that makes the rest of us human! And, for your information, Mr. High-and-Mighty bring-in-the-big-money Hall, I’ve done a hell of a lot more toward finding out the truth in this case than you have. And—” she came toward him again, poking a single finger at his chest “—you mark my words, the killer was wearing a horned god costume!”

  He caught her by the shoulders then, his hands not rough, but something of force about him as he backed her against the wall. “You listen! You came to me to defend a kid covered in a blood—the kind of evidence that leaves the prosecution dancing in the streets. You can’t begin to imagine all the motions that had to be filed, and you still can’t imagine what it’s going to be like to find the right jury, and most of all, how dare you? I don’t speak to the dead—dead is dead and gone, and therefore, no! They don’t answer questions for me, not in a court of law. I believe the last time that was tried innocent people were killed for ‘witchcraft.’ And if you’re so brilliant and precious and understand the psyche of everyone living and dead, why the hell haven’t you just asked Abraham Smith who the hell it was who murdered him?”

  She stared back at him, speechless for a minute.

  “Yeah, right,” he said softly.

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t work like that. It’s not dial-a-ghost and connect to the right spirit. No, no…but we’re close to the truth and I know it. I know what I have seen, I know what I’ve learned, and it all has to do with that damned costume, and the fact that people still don’t understand their neighbors, after all these years. We still don’t see each other clearly. We can’t tolerate, we can’t forgive strangeness…but it’s there, and we are close and…”

  “And we’re just about going to have to pray that someone runs into the middle of the common and screams, ‘Hey, I’m guilty!’”

  “Sam—” Jenna began.

  “Shut up!” he cried. “What?”

  “Shut up!”

  “You shut up!”

  “I’m trying to!” he shouted.

  She stared at him, stunned. And then she noted the look in his eyes, and he was suddenly close against her and she could feel the damp fire of the length of him, and she opened her mouth to speak but she couldn’t.

  “I didn’t want you to try to explain anything to John tonight, that’s true. But I was behind you. Whether I believe or understand or not, I was behind you. And you’re not really angry with me.”

  “The hell I’m not.”

  “That’s not why you’re here.”

  “Why am I here?”

  He lowered his head and found her mouth. His lips captured hers, and his kiss was firm and coercive, his mouth forming over hers with a liquid fire, desire seeming to burn in the very way that he touched her. She felt the incredible vitality and supple strength of the length of him as he pressed her there against the wall, and she was grateful for the wall, thinking that, for her, it had been far too long since she had let herself even begin to feel such sensation.

  His tongue moved into her mouth, again strong and coercive and seductive, and she was even more grateful that he pinned her there. This was what she had wanted, yes, but she hadn’t imagined that she would feel so deliriously weak, and so at a disadvantage. He was a good lover, she thought, because he was a practiced lover; she had seen from the beginning that he moved with a confidence and ease that meant he would hold everything an alpha male held, power unto himself, the physical arrogance that was undeniably attractive. She felt like an inexperienced teen again, unsure and uncertain, and afraid she was far out of her league.

  His lips broke from hers, and his mouth remained just inches away, but she could see his eyes again, and she was stunned that they seemed to be a clear gray, hiding nothing, offering something that might have been honesty and even humility.

  “Is this why you came?” he asked hoarsely. “Because, dear Lord, I think I might have simply burned to a cinder, longing for you and not knowing how to even begin to ask.”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice, and felt the brush of the back of his fingers on her cheek. She was astonished to see that his fingers trembled.

  She moved against him, burying her face against his chest, then lifting her head and finding his mouth again. She felt his arms around her, lifting her more tightly against him, and through clothing and terry, she could feel the rise of his sex, he was so instantly aroused. She slipped her hands beneath the terry of the robe, fumbled at the belt, and drew more flush against him. He backed away, and together they pulled off her sweater, and she realized then that his clothing was strewn about. She looked at him, puzzled for a moment.

  “Cold shower when you left me!” he told her.

  And she found that she could laugh, and crashed into his arms again. It seemed that they couldn’t kiss enough at first, delirious wet kisses that seemed both too much and somehow necessary between them, and then he began to half lead and half carry her into the bedroom on the side of the house, and they fell together onto the large canopy bed there. Jenna got one boot off before he pulled her back down, and she let the other go. Their mouths met again, and his lips trailed to her throat and her shoulders while his fingers eased around to her bra strap. She ran her hands down the length of his naked back, trembling and hungry and yet wanting every minute, every sensation that led to the pent-up desire she’d been so eager to suppress. His hands and mouth covered her flesh, and he was amazingly giving in all that he did, as if he were fascinated beyond measure by every aspect of her skin, every inch….

  She touched him as he touched her, running her hands down his midriff, taking it farther, wrapping her fingers around his erection and bringing a gasp from his lips. “Not fair, I was half-naked already,” he whispered, rising above her. For a moment she caught the silver-gray glint of his eyes in the shadows cast
into the darkened room by the hallway light, and she was mesmerized by the dusky shade of the room that seemed to envelop them in some kind of ridiculously magical realm. Could she be so abandoned in bright light? She didn’t know, but she reached out, taking him to her when he moved down to kiss her lips again and then inch down the length of her body, kissing, caressing and stroking while he found the waistband to her jeans and shimmied the denim down her body and, at last, rid her of her last boot, the last vestige of clothing.

  And then he rose above her, looking down at her again. He lowered himself, lacing his fingers with hers, and eased himself into her, pausing, and then moving, and moving again, more deeply and deeply, until it seemed that his trust shot through to her heart, and her body—core and limbs—became electric in themselves. She moved against him, arms around him, legs entwined around his back, and she marveled at the miracle of sensation and sensuality and sex, because it was magic, and she’d left the world behind, wanting nothing but the touch, scent and taste of him, and the writhing, undulating, wet, slick movement between them.

  She climaxed with a desperation that left her body drained. She felt him expulse, felt his arms around her tighten, and she felt his weight, and then the way he eased down beside her, and brought her back into his arms again. The drumbeat of their hearts seemed ridiculously loud in the room, and the bed’s comforter seemed cool, and still her body seemed to be on fire.

  And for a moment, she winced inwardly. It was sex, just sex.

  But she liked him so much; she didn’t want to…

  She did. She was fascinated by the way he moved, and the way he thought, and the tone of his voice, and his little idiosyncrasies, the way he paced and put his hands in his pockets, thought out his words and didn’t think out his words….

  For a moment, she must have eased away.

  He pulled her back, his voice husky. “Come here, Red.”

  “Oh, please! Don’t call me Red.”

  “Okay, come here, Irish.”

  “Don’t call me Irish.”

  “Is it bad to be Irish?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then…?”

  “Okay, you come on over here, Puritan!”

  “Ouch, ooh. That one does hurt!”

  “Well?”

  He rolled up on an elbow to look at her. “Jenna. Come here, please, Jenna. Please, don’t think about leaving me yet. I’m begging you.”

  She eased back against him. “I wasn’t leaving,” she said. “Not now.”

  “You should just stay. I can call Jamie—”

  She rose out of his arms onto her elbow and stared down at him. “You’re going to call my uncle and tell him that I’m staying the night?”

  “Better than have him worry.”

  “He was almost a priest!”

  “Exactly. Almost a priest. The key word there is almost.”

  “But—”

  “Jamie is human, Jenna.”

  She laughed and lay back down by him. He pulled her against him. “He’s my uncle,” she said.

  “And I’m sure he knows that you grew up.”

  “Still…”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll take you home. He’ll think we’re assuming that he’s either stupid or entirely blind himself.”

  “That won’t work,” Jenna told him.

  He laughed.

  “I really can’t stay long. Of course, we could be discussing the case, should be discussing the case—”

  “No, definitely not. Not now, not here!” he whispered, and pulled her against him again.

  This time, he was achingly, deliciously slow, teasing and tormenting, and she struggled to do so in return. When they were spent at last, she collapsed next him, ridiculously glad to know him so well and so thoroughly. She wasn’t sure where it could lead, and she couldn’t allow herself to care. It was now, and it was still magic, and she’d never regret having come here, because somehow, on this night, no matter what aspects of philosophy and life divided them, they were one for those few hours.

  They lay there entwined as seconds ticked by. Then, rather than Jenna, it was Sam who rose, and after a minute, he returned to stand in the doorway. She couldn’t help thinking that he was something like an indifferent Adonis, unaware of himself. She wondered if he had any idea of just how perfect he might be; in his world, his tailored clothing was his mask.

  “We’re all set,” he said.

  “What?” She leaped out of the bed. “All set for what?”

  “I called Jamie—”

  “And you asked him if I could stay the night?”

  “No, I said you were here, safe, with me, and I was about to walk you back, and he said that we should both just get some sleep and he’d see us in the morning.”

  “Just like that?” Jenna asked.

  “I swear, God as my witness,” he said.

  “I’m not sure you believe in God,” she said.

  He stood there a moment. “I do believe in…something. A greater power. I believe in life, and all that goes with it. I even believe in people, and that love itself is one of the greatest powers on the earth. The things I’ve seen done when love is real are remarkable. And, anyway, on all that, I swear, it was Jamie’s idea that you stay.”

  He walked to her, taking her into his arms.

  “I’m hungry,” he told her.

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  “No, I mean, I’m really starving, although, of course…all my creature desires seem to be calling to me at once.”

  She laughed and stepped away. “Got another robe?”

  There wasn’t much in the house despite their attempts to concoct something substantial from the meager pickings. Sam found a takeout menu from a pizza restaurant that delivered as late as two in the morning, so they sent out for pizzas. There was enough for a salad, which they had just managed to finish putting together when the pizza arrived. They sat at the kitchen table with a bottle of sauvignon and their food, and Jenna found that she couldn’t help but bring up the case again.

  “I feel we have the answer, as if we’re looking right at it,” she said.

  “So far, we know that a number of people like to dress up as the horned god, and that they probably do so because the teaching facilities use that likeness to show why the Puritans were easily led to believe that Celtic religions and paganism did have a devil. And since the Puritans were busy getting rid of Calvinism—by any means necessary—and were supposed to be the most amazing fundamentalists, they could be convinced easily enough that there was a devil, and, at first, that those who weren’t good churchgoers might easily dance with the devil. Midwives and healers were always the first suspects.”

  Jenna drummed her fingers on the table. “Yes, but Rebecca Nurse was accused by the girls, and she did hang, and she was an extremely noble woman.”

  “Ah!” he said, waving his fork at her. “There were two main families who held the money in the town at the time—they didn’t seem to be against money. It was the Porters and the Putnam family. Okay, they were a little messed up and inbred by then, but it seemed that each section of the families had to side with one of the families. The Putnams were throwing out the accusations—Rebecca Nurse was on the Porter side.

  “It all started with Tituba, the slave from Barbados, telling tales. Tituba was different.”

  “As Malachi is different.”

  “Yes, but I guarantee you, John Alden—and many other fine people in this city—are not going to let people run around crying, Witch!”

  Jenna shook her head. “No, but we saw tonight that children listen to their parents. Okay, maybe not when the parents want them to, but they definitely listen to adult conversation. The Smith family was disliked. Many people felt sorry for Malachi—they hated his father. But the family itself was hated. So, that made Malachi different. Then there was the incident with David Yates. Okay, logically—and yes, I believe this— David was afraid in his own mind and hit himself in the head. Sam, that was like the girls
twitching and crawling around the floor and speaking in so-called tongues. They were afraid. Tituba told the girls stories. David had been cruel to Malachi, and he’d heard that the family was fanatical.”

  “I agree. It’s a sound correlation. But here’s the thing. I believe, and if you’re right about the murderer wearing a costume, the murders were well planned, as well. And if that’s the case, they were well planned to make it look like Malachi was the murderer. That doesn’t go along with hysteria,” Sam said.

  “Maybe it’s all a combination of both,” Jenna suggested.

  “And the past,” Sam said thoughtfully. He smiled at Jenna across the table. “Somebody wanted something, so they were using prejudices that were already there to accomplish what they wanted.”

  “But who—and what do they want?” Jenna asked thoughtfully.

  “The diamond answer,” Sam said. He looked at her. “Somehow, now, you have to get to see David Yates, and I have to find a way to talk to Joshua Abbott. We have to get them apart.”

  “All right. Oh! Oh!”

  “What? What?”

  Jenna grinned. “I’m sorry—I forgot to tell you. I went and had my tarot cards read yesterday.”

  “Okay?”

  “I went by A Little Bit of Magic. I spoke to Ivy and Cecilia, and saw another old friend, now known as Merlin. Anyway, they said he had competition— Madam Sam. Who is Samantha Yeager.”

  “She gave you a reading?”

  “Yes, but she already knew who I was.”

  “Really—why bother with the reading? And what did she say?”

  “She said that she didn’t kill anybody over a house, basically. She’s interesting. And she had an alibi—as far as killing the Smith family, anyway. The clerk verified that she had been giving tarot readings when they were killed.”

  “I should meet her,” Sam said.

  “Yes, you should. She’s interesting. I mean, very theatrical. But she admits it’s all an act. I think she’s entirely different when she’s not being Madam Sam.”

  “Well, then, I’ll go and have a tarot card reading.” He paused a moment, looking at her before speaking softly. “Then I think that we have to go back to the murder house again.”