He began to undress her. Lifting her shoulders off the table, he worked her slackened arms out of her skimpy tank top. The lace of her bra scraped against his bare chest while he worked the closure open and pulled the straps off her shoulders, exposing her breasts. To avoid staring at them he concentrated on unbuttoning the front of her shorts, pulling them down her slender waist, along the flare of her provocatively rounded hips.
Nothing covered her now, save for the delicate swatch of lace that sat low across her pelvis, nestled into the junction of her thighs. His hands shook as he peeled them down the length of her smooth, beautifully shaped legs.
It was a test. A trial, set forth to lure him into betrayal of his beloved Calliope. He would not falter in his devotion to her. He would not be tempted. He would not fail.
The Fates re-doubled their efforts to entice him, to prove him unworthy, pushing Calliope from his mind until all he could think of, all he could see was the lovely form in front of him.
Clio.
He wanted to touch her. Taste her. His sex grew hot between the cool skin of his thighs, pushed itself from his hips, stiff with need. He could see himself moving between her thighs; feel the silk of her close around him. The unbearable friction as he worked himself…
He squeezed his eyes shut against the sight of her and the images her naked body ignited. No. He would hold fast against the lust that suddenly gripped him. He would remain faithful. He would prove himself worthy.
Raising his forearm to his mouth he sank his teeth into the crook of his elbow until the salty sweet taste of blood hit his tongue. Pain shot up his arm, hitting his inner ear with a low thump that almost set him off balance. Sharp and honeyed, insulating his brain in a calming fog that dulled the throbbing at his hips. He was worthy of this gift The Fates had bestowed upon him. And he would prove it.
He took deep breaths through his nose, each pull of air settling his teeth a bit deeper into his arm, each release like a saw blade chewing into its meat.
He would have to be properly punished for allowing himself to entertain such base thoughts, but the pain was enough to curb his desires—for now. He retracted his teeth, sucking at the wound for a few moments before pulling away to examine the mark. It was raised; the ovular–shaped ring of bruising already beginning to form. Blood broke the surface of the wound and began to leak down his arm and he turned away from where Clio lay stretched out to tend to it.
At the sink, he flipped the faucet knob with his elbow, passing his arm under the stream until the water ran clear. Pulling a clean, white linen from the stack on the work table next to the sink, he wound it around his arm, using his teeth to help tie the strip in place. Spots of blood began to seep through the cloth but they were small and sluggish, the pressure from the bandage staunching its flow.
A faint rustling sounded behind him and he turned to see Clio stir. He picked up a syringe off the table and approached the altar where she lay. He gazed down at her, the lust that had run rampant through his veins only minutes before had cooled—replaced with the reverence and devotion that befit a true disciple of The Fates.
She blinked at him, her hazel eyes owlish with confusion. “What… where am I?” she said to him, as if trying to make sense of what she was seeing, how she’d come to be where she was.
“Nihilest, quod timere ego dilectomeo ... requiem,” he said quietly.
“What? What’s happening?” She tried to sit up but was pulled back by the restraints at her wrists and ankles. “Where are my clothes? Is this… sorority rush? Where are the other pledges?” Her voice was slurred from the drugs but it was as sweet and soft as birdsong to his ears.
He smiled down at her, liked the way her eyes felt on his bare skin. That feeling of powerful superiority doubled. Of all the mortals they could’ve chosen, The Fates had chosen him. And he’d chosen her to be his first. She should know what an honor he’d bestowed on her, how special she was. It would please her beyond measure.
“Clio.” He said her name, his voice barely above a whisper, the sanctity of what he was about to do weighing heavy on his chest.
“Clio? No… my name is… Beth. I’m Beth.” Her voice had gained in strength and clarity. She was still incapacitated—but it was a state that wouldn’t last much longer. He had to act quickly. “Where is everyone?” She tried to push herself up again, this time attempting to swing her legs over the table but she was stopped again by the restraints. He smoothed a hand over her hair, allowed himself the pleasure of rubbing the silken strands between his fingers.
“Per quem tibi finem primo fatorum sacrificium,” he said to her, pressing her shoulders back onto the altar.
“What? I don’t understand… wait. I know you. What’s going on? Why can’t I—.” Her eyes, struggling to adjust to the low light of the chamber, flared wide. “Are you naked? Why are you naked?” She jerked her head away from him, across the dark silk of the altar, pulling the stands free from his fingers. “Oh, God… please,” Clio said, her tone telling him that she read his thoughts. She knew the desires that plagued him and began to cry in earnest, great screaming sobs that drown out all other sound. It mattered little. No one could hear her.
The perfumed water in the stone basin beside the altar was clean and cool and he used the snow-white linens he’d prepared to cleanse her for her journey. She continued to cry, her words running together, swept away in the torrent of tears, until it sounded like singing to him.
Her body jerked each time he brought the cloth to her, twisting and writhing upon the altar, throwing deep, seductive shadows into the candlelight. The Fates revisited their efforts to tempt him. Lust took hold; a fine sheen of sweat broke out across his chest and neck.
The Fated Sisters began to whisper to him, urging him again and again to cleanse her firm, round breasts. The flat, supple planes of her belly. The gentle flare of hips, tapering into the long, lean lines of her thighs… the fragrant flower nestled between them. Touching her so intimately was more than he could bear, he was nearly delirious in his arousal, but he understood and he tried to explain to her, comfort her.
“Fatigo non, Clio. Fata me tentatis sum dignus. Ego contaminare non vos,” he said into the din of her cries, his words delivered on short pants as he tried to breathe through the throbbing at his hips.
With each pass of the cloth, he pushed his sex into the side of the altar, grinding it between the marble slab and his pubic bone. Pain bit and chewed into his groin until his knees threatened to unhinge but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Each pass of the cloth was a sacrilege. Each a violation, atoned for with the punishment. His lungs moved in sharp gasps, the pain at his groin stealing every breath. He purified her, again and again, the satin covered stone gnawing into his sex with each buck of his hips. His movements grew desperate—short and fast—his free hand fisting in the dark satin against his sex, the other doing as The Fates commanded.
His seed spilled free, a hot jettison against his own abused flesh. The need left him and his hands fell free as he sagged against the altar. He allowed a few moments to collect himself, his breathing gradually returning to normal, the biting pain at his groin fading away into a dull hum that was almost pleasant. He’d proved himself. Weathered the storm. He was worthy of all The Fates had planned for him. He was a deity in the making—The Sisters had chosen him.
And they’d chosen well.
His transformation required tribute—the sacrifice of his beloved muses. The Fates were unyielding in this, but not cruel. They allowed for the sparing of one—the muse he chose as his very own. He’d known from the moment he saw her that Sabrina Vaughn was his Calliope. That she was meant for him. Once his tributes were paid, he would have the power necessary to complete his metamorphosis. To become a god.
“Ego sum Deus Apollo reincarnate—liberabit vos, ab hac mortali fata testam,” he said to her, his chest swelling with pride.
Clio continued to sob quietly, her mouth moving rapidly, though no words real were spoken.
/> He administered the shot—a paralytic that would hold her still while he worked. It took effect almost instantly, her sounds and movements shuddering to a stop. She was completely still. Nothing moved, save for the tears that rolled silently down her face to pool in her hair. They glistened like diamonds against the gold silk of it.
He reached toward the fire, pulled free the brand he’d placed there. Its iron curves glowed a bright orange, brighter than the candles that surrounded them. “Vos sunt praenotati, dilectus meus, Clio.Dico te priore.”
He pressed it into Clio’s shoulder without hesitation. He had to move quickly now—there was no time to waste. The brand sizzled against the pale stretch of skin beneath it, the smell of burnt flesh rising in the air.
He set the brand aside and plucked the scalpel from the table and showed it to her. He had little time, only minutes before the drugs in her system seized her lungs completely and they filled with fluid. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was calm. Prepared. Ready to claim his destiny… and his mate.
“Immolo vobis, musa, sicut fata imperio. Calliope cor tuum et dabo ei,” he said to her, pressing the scalpel against her breast, watched as it separated the flesh, bringing forth a deep well of bright red.
I sacrifice you, muse, as The Fates command. I give Calliope my heart and I take yours in return.
11
Sabrina knocked on the door and waited. She had no idea why she was here—just knew she couldn’t be at home. The front curtain twitched seconds before the porch light snapped on. She took a buffering step backward and held onto her bag—nothing more than the change of clothes and extra toothbrush she carried into work in case of emergencies. The door opened and she smiled, pulling her jacket closed on impulse. She didn’t want the gun on her hip deterring the old lady from letting her inside.
“Can I help you, dear?” Miss Ettie said, the perplexed smile on her face diffused by the screen door that still stood between them.
She smiled back. “Hi, do you remember me?” This was stupid. She shouldn’t have come here. But where else could she go?
Before she had a chance to change her mind, Miss Ettie laughed and unlatched the screen door, pushing it open. “Of course I do, dear. You’re Michael’s friend. Come in,” she said, holding the door for her.
Crossing the threshold, she stood, waiting awkwardly for Miss Ettie to close the door and lock it. The layout of the house was similar to hers, the large foyer breaking off into a front parlor to one side and a formal dining room to the other. The main staircase wound its way upward between the two, leading toward guest rooms. Like with her own home, the kitchen was in the back with another set of smaller stairs leading to the second floor.
It sounded quiet. Like there was no one else here. The feeling that this was a bad idea intensified. “You know, I probably shouldn’t have—”
“Nonsense, dear—now, tell me what brings you,” Miss Ettie gave her a smile that was all at once familiar and heartbreaking. For a moment, Sabrina was a little girl again, clamoring for her grandmother’s love and attention. Thinking of Lucy, she felt the heavy weight of grief settle in her chest.
She cleared her throat and forced a smile, hoping it looked natural and not at all like she was crazy. “I was hoping you had a room available.” That was it. No explanation, no excuse. She didn’t have one. What was there to say—I ran away from home, can you hide me?
“Oh, I have a whole house available… no one’s due for another week or so,” Miss Ettie said. She produced a silver key from the pocket of her paisley housedress and used it to open a cabinet mounted to the wall. Inside were a number of keys, all hanging in a neat row from tiny brass hooks. She chose one and re-locked the cabinet. “Here you go, dear.” She pressed the key into Sabrina’s hand. “Are you hungry? Can I make you something to eat?” Miss Ettie let her gaze drift down her frame, a slight frown adding to the multitude of wrinkles on her face.
“No. No—I’m fine. I’d just like to go to sleep,” she said. The lie was second nature now, one she told people when she wanted to be left alone.
If she knew she was being lied to, Miss Ettie didn’t seem to mind. “Well, if you’re sure… I’m going back to my program but if you want something later, there’s chicken and dumplings in the refrigerator,” she said, patting her knobby fingers against the back of Sabrina’s hand. “I put you in his room. There are clean towels under the sink.”
She waited for Miss Ettie to disappear into the kitchen before she glanced down at the key in her hand. The keychain attached to it had the number five engraved into it.
His room.
She didn’t even have to ask. Miss Ettie was talking about Michael. Sabrina turned toward the stairs and started the climb. She opened the door to number five and let herself in, locking it behind her. Leaning against the door, she let her eyes adjust to the dark.
Same large, four-poster bed across from the window. Same leather chair tucked into the corner, next to the fireplace. Same dresser beside the bathroom door. She’d only been here once, but she remembered it like it was yesterday. Sitting in that chair, watching Michael take off his shirt, listening to him catalog every scar she saw.
Her hand found her stomach, her fingertips playing across the smattering of scars that marred it.
He stabbed me fourteen times. They spell out the word mine.
She could still see the look on his face when she’d ran his fingers across it. It’d gone quiet, the soft gray of his eyes looking nearly black in the dim light of the bedside lamp. Even then, she’d recognized that look for what it was. Rage. He hadn’t felt sorry for her or pitied her. He’d been enraged over what had been done to her. To the girl she’d once been.
That had been it. The precise moment she’d fallen in love with Michael, and it’d been a pit she’d been trying to claw her way out of ever since.
Her phone buzzed in her back pocket and she pulled it out to glance at the screen, prepared to send the call to voicemail. It was Liam.
“Hello,” she said, already regretting her decision to answer the call.
“Hi,” he said. “I know I’m pushing it with twice in one night… I just wanted to make sure you got home okay. When you left the station it kinda looked like someone was following you.”
Her mind immediately went to the card stuffed in her pocket and the word written on it. Soon.
“Sabrina? Is everything okay?” Liam said when she didn’t answer him right away.
She shook her head to clear out some of the cobwebs but they were sticky, clinging to everything they touched. “Yeah, I’m fine. Probably just a reporter… matter of fact there was one waiting for me when I got home.” It was a plausible explanation… only it couldn’t have been Croft who’d followed her home. He’d been too busy carrying groceries and eating cake to follow her anywhere. Still, he wasn’t the only reporter out there who had their nose in her business.
“Oh… okay. I just wanted to make sure.” He sounded lost, like he had something else to say but didn’t know how to make the jump.
“Was there something else?” she said, taking pity on him.
“I’d like to take you to dinner tomorrow night,”he said in a rush. “No ambush this time.”
She thought about Nickels, sent in to babysit her and Michael who no longer seemed to care. “Yeah, okay. Sounds good—pick me up at eight?”
Liam sat quiet for a second before he blew out what she recognized as a relieved sigh. “Great. Eight o’clock… I’ll see you then. Good night, Sabrina.”
“G’night,” she said into the phone before ending the call. She took off her jacket; tossing it on the chair as she crossed the room. Pulling her SIG off her hip, she laid it on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed.
Reaching for her back pocket, she pulled out the note card, turned it over in her hands. The blood red of it looked almost black, the outline of the name, Calliope, all but disappearing into the dark. It didn’t even have her name on it, so how
did it end up in the bag in Mathews’ office? How did the desk sergeant even know it was supposed to go to her? No address. No postmark. It must’ve been hand delivered… like the roses.
She stood and made her way to the window. Looking out she could see faint shadows dancing around the back of her house, just the hint of movement from room to room. She imagined Val washing the dinner dishes. Riley talking on the phone. Jason working on the science project she’d promised to help him with. Guilt, her most constant companion, started to put the squeeze on her but she pushed it away. Focused instead on the puzzle at hand. Returning to the bed, she sat on its edge.
The voice on the phone came back to her. Nothing had been said that couldn’t have been read in one of Croft’s infuriatingly intrusive articles but there had been something about it—a note of familiarity. Like he knew her… but they all thought they knew her. That she understood them. Shared a bond with her that no one else did. She’d killed Wade, only to have him replaced by a hundred more…
Ever wonder what it is about you that attracted me to you in the first place?
Wade’s voice filled her head. For a second, Sabrina was suddenly sure that if she looked, she’d see him sitting in the chair across from her. She made herself look, feeling crazy that she’d been compelled to check the room for her dead half-brother. What’s next? Looking under the bed and jamming the desk chair under the closet knob like when she’d been a kid? It was her imagination. She was tired, hungry. The only thing she’d put in her stomach all day besides coffee were a couple saltines and a few bites of pizza. She needed sleep. Food could wait until morning.
It was your eyes. Not the color so much, but what was behind them. A knowing, like you saw what I really was and didn’t mind.
Val was right. Things were worse than before. After she’d killed Wade, there’d been a lull. A quiet that made her think her nightmare was over. That she was finally free. In a way it was over. She was no longer afraid but it wasn’t fear that ate at her—kept her awake at night, pushing her to her physical and emotional limits.
The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 1 Page 34
