Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1)
Page 40
The following is a preview of the sequel to Scottish Rite
BLOOD RITE
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1. Heir Apparent
He had no idea what was happening.
The year-old boy slept peacefully within his magnificent, solid mahogany crib, his opulent cotton sheets enveloping him in illusory protection. While across the impeccably decorated nursery, through the elegantly dressed window, silver moonlight streamed in over the child's angelic face. Indeed, so sound was the baby's slumber that he didn't stir at all as the watery light spilling across his soft features was blocked by the cloaked figure who stepped silently to the edge of that magnificent, solid mahogany crib.
A woman's strong, fine hands reached down and gently lifted the infant from his cotton womb, trading him his flannel sheets for the equally luxurious warmth of a waiting silk blanket. The boy cooed contentedly as he nestled against his kidnapper's breast and returned to whatever happy images fill a yearling's dreams.
Several silent moments passed. Then the happy images were sliced violently away. A muffled yelp, followed by a smothered wail, rebounded dully off the walls of the nursery; and a woman's fine, strong hand hurried to paint the words in blood on the wall above the crib:
'I AM RETURNED TO FULFILL THE PROPHECY'
And then, with even more haste, the same hand scrawled out another bloody phrase, this time on the polished wood floorboards next to the bleeding child:
'A THÁINMHNE NA DOHRGHATAS, SLÁINAICH AN LÁINABH A'SIO.'
'Forces of Darkness, Heal this Child.'
2. The First Hours
Inspector Robert Cameron stood motionless, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his crumpled blue suit, and stared down at the bloody pattern etched at his feet. Again.
He was a large man, six foot three with broad shoulders and thick muscles beneath his fifty-something skin, and he towered incongruously within the infant's nursery. Closely cut, snowy-white hair retreated sharply from either side of his furrowed scalp to an increasingly large bald spot at the back of his head. His tired blue suit dated from the Thatcher administration; his frayed red tie, hanging limply between his unbuttoned coat sides, from the one before. Intelligent blue eyes shone out from their recessed sockets as he stood in the middle of both the nursery and the cacophony which had seized the residence.
Officer MacGregor was sliding the diminutive baby furniture away from the walls for Officer Richards to peer behind. Flashbulbs from Officer MacAllister's camera lit the room repeatedly while Officer Henderson began to dust both the crib and the windowsill for fingerprints. From down the hall Cameron could hear the soft, choked sobbing of the nanny, being both half-consoled and half-interrogated by Officer Wilkins; he'd have to make sure Wilkins printed her before he let her leave. And Sergeant Willis was downstairs, undoubtedly failing utterly to prevent the lord of the house from leaving.
Cameron raised his gaze and stared several moments at the bloody phrase above the crib, drying brown, its drips extending almost to the floor. He was of the opinion that the gory script was just for show—to make the kidnappers appear to be more than just that, and to ensure the ransom would be paid quickly and without questions. After all, it was almost certainly not the boy's blood. Cameron doubted the body of a one year old even held enough blood to spell out the shocking graffiti on wall above the crib. But he had to concede that the lad's blood could well have been the source of the enigmatic phrase drying sticky to the priceless wood floor next to his own dull, worn black shoes.
Cameron rubbed a hand over his head and chewed his cheek contemplatively. Then he pulled his pipe from his coat pocket and lit the bowl, still packed with last night's tobacco.
He told himself it was just another kidnapping.
He told himself they'd get the ransom note within the hour.
He smacked disappointedly at his pipe and told himself to be sure to put some fresh tobacco in it once he was back at the station.
And then he told himself to wait until the end of the day for the ransom note not to come before calling her in on the case.
* * *
BLOOD RITE
About the Author
Stephen Penner is an author and artist living in the Seattle area. He writes a broad variety of fiction, including thrillers, science fiction, and children's books. In addition, he enjoys drawing and painting.
For information on his latest books, visit his website: http://www.stephenpenner.com