Midnight Crusader

by Nancy Gideon

  She welcomed his first acquainting thrust with a soft cry of wonder, opening to him, body and soul. What was damaged knew a miraculous healing in spirit as he woke her body to the joy nature had intended between a man and a woman. He found in her no passive lover waiting for him to supply her with a release. She pursued each sensation with unabashed urgency, chasing the pleasure he'd promised with an undulating rhythm, until it ran through her in strong, hot pulsations. Her fingertips bit into his shoulders. The bottoms of her feet pushed up and down his legs. Her lips parted with a breathless desire he was helpless to ignore. He fed from her soft, willing mouth as his own passions heated from aggressive rumble to raging howl.

  And when she gripped him with the first of her body's completing tremors, the sensation of hot silk rippling about him urged him to take his own explosive release, emptying into her in scalding wave after wave that which would never take seed except in the needy, fertile ground of her heart and soul.

  As she lay beneath him and he within her, one thought pulsed in time to the exhausted exhilaration he'd felt before only at the end of a glorious battle.

  Finally. Finally. Finally.

  She was his. They were one.

  * * * *

  He could scent the dawn. The danger of it edged out the heavy luxury of emotion weighting down his strength and ambition to ever move from the warm curl of Naomi's arms and legs.

  Just another minute.

  And then she muttered softly and rolled away from him to burrow into her pillow, freeing him to leave.

  But he didn't want to go. This would be the hell of it if they were going to have a life together.

  He came up on his elbow and gently brushed the hair back from her face. As he bent close to press a kiss upon her brow, his attention caught on something that made his tender mood plummet.

  Zanlos’ mark scarred the smooth line of her throat.

  The bite was old, but the significance hadn't lessened. She belonged to Zanlos. She was his to call at any instant. She would do whatever he asked, even if it meant betrayal. Gabriel could take her away, but no matter how far they went, how long they waited, there was no escape from the shackles binding her will to another.

  Unless Zanlos was dead. Or Naomi was.

  No dreams, no hopes, no exchanged vows could change that. She bore the brand of another. She could never be his. How had he conveniently forgotten that bit of knowledge?

  Zanlos would have to die. But in killing him to free Naomi, he would be dooming himself to a life as a fugitive for breaking the laws he protected. He knew Marchand LaValois. He would hunt down a rogue with more determination because he would see it as a betrayal of his trust and of the integrity of his organization. There would be no escape. If Naomi ran with him, she would live every moment in danger because his pursuers would get at him through her. That was the way it was done. How could he take her from one nightmare to another?

  There was no way out. No way for them to have their happily-ever-after.

  The charm of the moment gone, Gabriel slipped from the bed and from the dream Naomi represented. He stood for a long moment, simply absorbing the sight of her so blissfully oblivious upon the bed they'd shared. He should never have touched her, but he could not regret that he'd done so. He would have their night together as another token to wear, this time within his heart. He could make her forget. Perhaps that would be easier for her, but part of him wanted her to have those memories after so many had been stripped unfairly from her. He wanted her to remember him even if for a short time those memories brought her an unhappy pain after he was gone.

  So tangled up in the confusion of his thoughts, he left the little bungalow through the back, his caution at an ebb.

  Until the round circle of a .38 touched behind his ear.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Twenty

  In one fluid shift of substance, Gabriel reversed himself so he was facing his assailant. Marcus Sinclair stood, gun in hand, so startled by the preternatural movement, he made no attempt to stop Gabriel from taking the pistol from his hand. He didn't seem as alarmed by the barrel pressed to his temple as he was by what he'd just witnessed.

  "What the hell are you?"

  Gabriel chose to ignore the question by asking one of his own. “What are you doing here? Isn't this a little after hours and above and beyond the call?"

  "I shot you,” Marcus continued in a daze. “Where's the bullet wound?"

  "I mend fast. And you'd better be a fast talker if you want to get out of this alive. What are you doing here?"

  "Following you."

  "Why?"

  "I'm not off duty. I'm a Las Vegas detective."

  "And I'm the Pope."

  "I've been working the Zanlos case ever since our D.C. office contacted me. I though it was drugs at first, but it's not. I thought you were involved at first, but you're not. At least not with Zanlos. So, what's your story?"

  "I believe the man with the gun doesn't have to answer the questions."

  Gabriel winced as the big bore of a .44 poked his ribs.

  "How about now?” Marcus asked.

  "Still not a standoff.” With a feint to the side, Gabriel was no longer in the line of fire. And the .44 was just as quickly in his possession.

  "Son of a—"

  Marcus stared, flabbergasted, as Gabriel reversed both guns and handed them back butts first.

  "Just so you know I don't have to be cooperative here."

  "I believe you, brother, even though I don't believe for a minute what I just saw. Who and what the hell are you?"

  "I'm a D.C. cop. Or I was. I came out here after Zanlos. And Naomi."

  "Why didn't they tell me you were coming? Professional courtesy and all."

  "Because I didn't tell them. I'm not a cop right now. I'm policing for a different kind of enforcement organization. And we want to know what Zanlos is up to, too."

  "Zanlos isn't the big fish here. He's just the front man. The one we need to go after is the money man, an Alex Cross."

  "And just who is Alex Cross?"

  "Nobody knows. He's a shadow, a question mark. No past. No present. Just a crap load of gold and a real fetish for privacy. Hey, where do you think you're going? We're not done here."

  But the sun was rimming the far mountains, and Gabriel's skin was beginning to feel a size too small.

  "We're done for now.” He nodded toward the side yard. “There's my ride."

  Marcus glanced that way, and when he looked back Gabriel was gone. He stood, a gun in each hand, staring at vacant space.

  "Sonuvabitch."

  * * * *

  Step, clunk. Step, clunk. Step, clunk.

  Closer and closer.

  She drew herself up into a small, tight knot in the bottom of the cupboard, beneath the heavy pile of furs and velvets.

  "No matter what happens. No matter what you hear, do not make a sound. Promise me."

  The urgent tension in her mother's voice prompted her own whispered reply.

  "I won't. My word on it."

  Darkness. Hot, dank and nearly airless. Each breath tasted stale, like the musty odor of her father's hunting hounds after a run in the rain. Despite the smothering heat, she trembled ceaselessly. Until the crash of the chamber door flying open. Then she was cold, cold and silent as death.

  "Where is your daughter, Lady Magdeleen?"

  "She has flown far to where you will never find her. Think that I would allow the likes of you to have her? Not while I yet breathe."

  How strong and unafraid her mother sounded, until the thud of his fist reduced her to a soft moaning.

  She huddled beneath the cloaks, biting back her own cry of protest until her lips bled. Pressing her fists to her ears, she refused to hear any more. If she did, she could not complete her promise. If caught, she could not slip away and ride for assistance from their neighbors. They would believe the truth from no other but the daughter of a slain servant to the king. Only she could see
this treachery repaid.

  But she had to be strong for her mother's sake. And she had to remain still. And she had to endure the awful grunting sounds of the beast taking his pleasure upon her mother's form. The beast who had once been her uncle and supposed protector, until greed exposed his true intentions—to take what would not be offered or easily surrendered. By force, if necessary.

  Then the silence. The silence was the worst and the longest she could ever remember as she hid in the dark, her mind conjuring pictures her eyes could not see.

  Until finally she felt it safe to ease open the door...

  Naomi sat up with a gasp. Daylight flooded her bedroom. Still she shivered in the thrall of terror, yet blinded by the shadows in that blackened room, hearing the tiny rasps of her breathing and feeling the tears of anger and helplessness on her face.

  So real. As if she'd experienced these things herself.

  Perhaps in another life.

  Charmine. She would see Charmine and ask her help in discovering the mystery of this ancient past.

  But first the mystery of her missing clothes. She was naked beneath the sheet she clutched to her chin.

  Then remembrance returned along with a wild exultation.

  She and Gabriel had made love. And it had been ... fabulous.

  She sank back down into her pillows where the scent of him remained. She breathed it in and reveled in the achy overuse of her body. He'd made her feel loved, like a whole woman, not an imperfect fragment with nothing to offer.

  His reward.

  Just as quickly her mood dissolved into chaotic panic. He was leaving. How could she let him go? How could she return to her impersonal routine, where joy and anticipation never touched her? Where nothing touched her.

  Gabriel gave her the courage to go forward instead of fretting about what she'd left behind.

  He'd asked her to go with him.

  Could she? Could she leave her job and the security it provided? Could she take a chance and trust in the feelings that glittered like sunshine all through her?

  Would Zanlos let her go?

  A sudden dip in the mattress forced her from her reverie. Mel sat on the foot of the bed regarding her through eyes aglow with annoyance. Her daydreams could wait until he was fed, that unblinking look told her.

  "Oh don't be such a killjoy,” she grumbled then patted the sheet beside her. The huge hairball considered the offer for a long haughty moment, then waddled up to drop beside her, allowing her the privilege of adoring him.

  And as Naomi stroked the arrogant creature, the frightening clarity of the dream ebbed before the splendid reality of her and Gabriel together.

  She had her answer. Love could overcome fear.

  She was ready to face the truth.

  * * * *

  From the start of the corridor the sound of the drums created an irresistible lure. Echoing the beat of a loud, lusty heart, the increasing tempo hinted at excitement and thrills to come.

  Naomi and Marcus watched the guests for the special preview streaming in. The wealthy and influential of Las Vegas. Some Naomi recognized from the closed door meets upstairs. Most Marcus recognized from their mug shots. The press was conspicuously absent. Under Marcus’ direction, security was tighter, he boasted, than a twelve-year-old girl. Figuratively speaking, he added in anticipation of Naomi's blushes.

  But she wasn't blushing. She was flushed with expectation. This was what she'd worked for and, tonight, she'd know its success or failure. The set was frightening, the girls were luscious. What could go wrong?

  "I'm going to take my seat, Marcus,” she said a bit nervously once the steady parade of invitees slowed down to a trickle of late comers.

  Marcus showed her crossed fingers.

  The interior of the theater was dark and misty. Only the front rows of tables were filled. She waved off the help of an usher dressed in a scanty jungle loincloth and gleaming oil and took a side aisle toward the middle of the auditorium. The touch of a hand to her elbow caused her to flinch. Then she heard a familiar voice.

  "Mind if I watch the show with you?"

  She smiled shyly up at Gabriel. “Of course not. We couldn't have done it without you, after all."

  "No, Naomi. You're the drive and the power behind this event. Any laurels should be on your head."

  Ordinarily her cynical side would have added, "Uneasy is the head that wears the crown." But this wasn't an ordinary night. Nothing could dampen her spirits.

  She smiled, but inside she glowed with pleasure. “It was more like a family effort.” Yes. That notion warmed her. Family. That's what it felt like between her, the girls, Gabriel, Marcus and even the quarrelsome Rita. Each had contributed in his or her own way, even the unlikable Kitty Parsons. And tonight was the payoff.

  It was like sitting down to watch her children perform. Pride bubbled up like the champagne being served up on silver trays to their appreciative guests. They took their seats, and when Gabriel's hand slipped over hers, she hung on gratefully.

  Not even in dress rehearsal had she seen all the elements of the show put together. She was as anxious as the other audience members by the time the first dance number began. The girls looked sexy and strong yet spicy, too. Perfect. Grace's kicks would have done a Rockette proud. The percussion band brought up from Brazil for background beat created its own smoky fire around Marty's sinuous solo. The a cappella singer's bell-like tones hung in the air like an exotic bird in flight, soaring, hovering, diving, fluttering to capture the imagination and soul of another civilization.

  Naomi lost herself in the colorful spectacle, forgetting her own woes and worries as she was absorbed in the tableau of choosing a comely sacrifice. As the dancers quivered on the steps of the temple, one strode forward from among them to face her dramatic fate. Naomi recognized Charmaine with some surprise. She hadn't known their choreographer was going to be part of the show. She glanced at Gabriel, but his attention was on Charmaine, his furrowed brow displaying an equal degree of confusion.

  But Charmaine mesmerized. She climbed the stairs with such regal grace and steady purpose one would believe her to be an ancient queen. Naomi hoped her daughters were here somewhere to see her. They would be so proud.

  "Something's wrong,” Gabriel whispered. His tense tone broke the spell being woven on the stage as the dancers began to sway and slither to the undulating tempo.

  "What do you mean?” Instantly alert to some unforeseen danger to the production, Naomi scanned the set and tried to see to the wings beyond. Everything seemed to be progressing seamlessly. “I don't see any problems."

  But Gabriel didn't look convinced. His handsome face sharpened into strong angles of concentration. Now Naomi was truly alarmed as Charmaine continued her doomed ascension.

  "What is it? Shall I go check backstage?"

  His hand tightened until she winced. “No. Stay with me."

  Something in his voice made her go rigid with fright and caution. What was it?

  Tension brought a familiar ache to pound between her temples. The image of the dancers crawling up the steps after a serenely focused Charmaine blurred and altered colors. Naomi blinked, trying to restore focus, struggling to stay on guard for the danger Gabriel intuited.

  A thickening mist billowed from the top of the tomb. A figure stood in its midst, cloaked in secrecy and suspense. He wore a cape and mask of quill-like feathers. Only the line of his jaw and the glitter of his eyes were visible, but Naomi went suddenly cold with recognition. Over the drums and moaning chants, she heard the familiar step clunk, step clunk. Something in the cruel thinning of his mouth, in the raw fury blazing in his eyes. Nausea churned. A sweat broke on her brow.

  The beat of the drums reached a frenzied tempo. The dancers writhed on the steps with arms stretched upward. Now at the top, Charmaine stood placidly, her expression a beautiful blank.

  "We have to stop this."

  Gabriel stood and signaled to Marcus at the door. The big bouncer also appeared disturb
ed by the scenario playing out on the stage. He started down the center aisle.

  The masked man gathered Charmaine in an embrace. She swooned into it, and for a moment their bodies rocked and swayed in an erotic harmony. The drums thundered wildly as expectation thickened like the rising fog. He bent Charmaine back over his arm, his back blocking their view. Her cry was sudden and terrible. Her arms stiffened and flailed briefly, too briefly.

  Then the ancient god raised his head and turned to face the entranced audience. A unified gasp arose, for he was no man but a monster. A monster with glaring red eyes and almost human features beneath a spiny crown of spikes that were no longer part of a costumed mask. The creature's mouth and chin were stained bright red. Hideous fangs were exposed in an obscene caricature of a triumphant grin before it buried its horrible face against the slack curve of Charmaine's throat. She made no sound, no movement as the mists enveloped the two of them.

  And they were gone.

  Marcus skidded to a stop, looking to Gabriel for direction. He gestured to the wings on the left side of the stage while he hurried right.

  Silence shrouded the auditorium. The mists slowly cleared, revealing the motionless dancers sprawled face down on the steps, steps that darkened ominously as a spill of crimson poured down from the top, covering the supine bodies of the women. A dazzling brightness bloomed from behind the temple, like a purifying sun. The drums began to pulse softly, a delicate flute melody playing about that beat. Then the room plunged into darkness.

  Hesitation, then the applause was deafening.

  Naomi took no time to revel in the show's success. Despite Gabriel's final order for her to stay put, she ran after him, stumbling around the tables until her eyes adjusted and the house lights began to rise.

  Backstage was a bustle of activity, but none of it out of the ordinary. Naomi beelined for the dressing room. The dancers were there, stripping out of their feathered headpieces and discolored costumes. They looked like the aftermath of a massacre with their red-splattered skin and hair. Half of them were giddy and noisy with the adrenalin rush; the others sat quietly washing their faces before the mirror, their stares oddly emotionless.