Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2

by J. T. Ellison

  The group spoke in turn. “All hail the Goddess. All hail the God.”

  He kissed the blade of his athamé, the others followed suit. Then they took up their cords, intertwining them, feeding them through each other’s hands until they were bound together. Raven caught each eye, nodding slightly. It was time to call Azræl. Time for their reward.

  They pushed their personal energy into the earth, grounding, then reversed, bringing the earth’s power into their bodies. The force of it made them shiver. With their hands facing into the circle, they directed their power to the center and created an invisible cone, then walked widdershins, counter-clockwise, three times, pushing that energy down, toward their goal, ending back in their original spots. There was great danger in casting a widdershins circle, but Raven had assured them that the best, most direct route to Azræl was through a negative portal, downward, not upward to the light. Besides, they were guarded by the four Watchtowers and the God and Goddess. He was confident they were safe.

  He reached behind him and withdrew a small finger bone from his bag. Death liked bones—it was the soul’s truest form. Death understood that he was a part of all natural life.

  The four of them turned to face the west, and Raven carefully, gently laid the finger bone in the dirt beside their stones. They breathed slowly, modulating their breath to match their partner, calming and balancing their energy. Deeper breaths now, with pauses in between to help them overoxygenate their blood and raise their consciousness. Raven could tell when they were all perfectly attuned, and he began to chant. The others followed a fraction of a second later. Their voices carried through the graveyard.

  Azræl Azræl Az-rah-el.

  Azræl Azræl Az-rah-el.

  Azræl Azræl Azzzz-raaaah-elllll.

  Angel of darkness, come bless us.

  Angel of darkness, come bend us.

  Angel of darkness, bring our true natures to the fore.

  Bring us your power, and a sign of your blessing. We call to you, O ancient one, who dwells beyond the realms.

  You who once reigned in the time before time. Come, hear our call.

  Assist us to open the way, give us the power!

  They repeated the poem three times, building into a tuneless chant.

  Then Raven spoke, his arms spread wide, his head thrown back. “Bless us for finding the strength to rid the world of those who hurt us, who deceived and tortured. Fight our oppressors—punish those who are cruel to us. Allow us to know your divinity, to understand your ways, to find a painless path to keep us from shame. Show us the way, oh, Azræl. Night and need give life to your helping fire. Rectify our darkness, spread your wings of shadow through our souls. Watch over our houses, deflect their ire.”

  At the end, they repeated their nocturnal God’s name over and over and over, turning in circles, winding themselves around each other, sinuous as snakes, then at the moment they felt the energy peak, consecrated their prayers with the Great Act. Raven and Thorn were so attuned to each other that they were able to climax at the same time. Their energy, like their seed, spilled into the earth, sanctifying their pact. The girls kissed, and the boys. They smeared the fluids along each other’s bodies, intricate glowing trails of symbols, then switched partners. The men writhed together while the women brought each other to a wild, breathless climax. They were all so good together, so right. The strongest magick was cast during the Great Act at the moment of shared orgasm.

  Panting in the dust, they allowed their minds to come back. They stood, shakily, and unbound their cords. Raven thanked the corners, bid them hail and farewell. He closed the circle, careful to walk deosil, clockwise, to close their downward portal.

  There was still energy in the air, crisp and crackling, so Raven told his coven to ground again so it wouldn’t drain their essences. Raven shut his eyes and envisioned a long, glowing root leaving his body and securing itself in the land, then let all his extra energy pour down the root. He felt better when he finished, smiled at Fane. They busied themselves with ending their prayers, burying the stone and the finger, blowing out the candles, dressing silently.

  A breeze started, getting stronger until their hair was whipping around their faces. Thunder rumbled in the distance, then again, and lightning flashed, suddenly close. The sharp scent of ozone invaded Raven’s nose. He smiled.

  “I didn’t think it was going to rain tonight,” Fane whispered.

  “It wasn’t. Azræl has blessed our prayers,” Raven said. “We have been blessed. Nothing can stop us now.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nashville

  7:50 p.m.

  Baldwin circled the Vanderwoods’ house until he found a quiet spot in the backyard.

  “Sorry about that, Garrett. Needed to get clear of a situation. What’s up?”

  “Well, I don’t have good news. The crypto boys sent a report in about some things they found on Charlotte Douglas’s computer.”

  Baldwin stood straighter. Charlotte Douglas was a profiler he’d worked with years ago, and again just a few months back, on the Snow White case. She’d ended up embarrassing the Bureau before her untimely demise at the hands of a killer she’d recruited into her life—the same killer who stalked Taylor now. The Pretender was Charlotte’s creation, first an apprentice of the Snow White, then a self-named terror who’d invaded all of their lives.

  Charlotte had brought death to their doors, and now it sounded like the Bureau was resurrecting the past. He held out hope that Charlotte’s records would help identify who the Pretender really was. But when she died, and the Bureau tried accessing her files, they self-destructed using a sophisticated encryption. Their best people had been working for months to resuscitate her work.

  Charlotte was just as dangerous dead as she had been alive.

  “And?”

  “It seems she has some files pertaining to you. To a…relationship the two of you were having. She was rather graphic. And she’s made some other allegations against you.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Yes. Well, we knew parts of this might come back to bite us. Don’t worry, okay?”

  “Garrett, you know that Charlotte—”

  “Baldwin, I know. Trust me, I know. I’m sorry, but this is out of my hands. I’ve been instructed to recall you to Quantico immediately so you can go before the disciplinary board first thing tomorrow morning for a little chat. I caught a shitload of heat when I told them you were in Nashville. So get yourself back up here. I’ve sent the plane for you. It should be ready to collect you shortly.”

  “Is this serious, Garrett?”

  His boss was silent for a few moments. “Yes, I think it is. They haven’t disclosed everything to me. I’ve arranged for Reginald Beauchamp to represent your interests at the hearing, just in case.”

  “Whoa, I need counsel? I thought you said this was just a chat.”

  “Baldwin, I’m not willing to take any chances. I’ve already defended you, told them any charges against you by that woman were ludicrous. But they’re very insistent.”

  “Making an example out of me,” Baldwin grumbled.

  “It’s possible. They have her files now. The focus isn’t on you and Charlotte—it’s gone deeper. They’re especially interested in the Harold Arlen incident. The past is catching up with us.”

  This time Baldwin groaned aloud. “Damn it, that case has been closed for years. I was cleared of all wrongdoing. Why are they bringing it up again?”

  “You know why.”

  Baldwin breathed deeply through his nose, surprised that all he could smell was burned leaves tinged with fresh blood. He’d spent years trying to forget, to move on. To erase the dank scent of basement rot, the vision of shattered lives. The self-fulfilling prophecy that was Charlotte Douglas. God, Taylor couldn’t know. He needed to make sure of that.

  Garrett was speaking again.

  “I need to warn you. Apparently, Charlotte’s files had some extras that weren’t in your original reports. They w
ant…clarification.”

  “Clarifications that include lawyers and hearings. Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?”

  “Yes. Obviously, the phone…”

  Baldwin felt himself shutting down, the rigid professionalism that got him through the most heinous of crime scenes filtering into his system. His detachment was his gift, and he readily employed it now. To think, to speculate about what might be waiting for him in Quantico would surely derail him before they asked the first question. He’d need all his powers of stability to face this issue all over again. The last time it had nearly cost him his life. He had much more to lose now.

  “I’ll be there. Thanks for trying, Garrett. You’ve been carrying this load for a long time. We’re just going to have to take our chances and see how things shake out.”

  Baldwin hung up his cell phone and slumped back against the deck. The woods behind the house were dark and foreboding, alive with crickets and the rustlings of small rodents. He thought he heard thunder roiling in the distance. This was not good news. Two thousand-four had been a horrible year, and reliving it, as he was sure to have to do, wasn’t going to be a good experience. He’d fought hard to clear his name back then, and he’d do it again now. Surely Charlotte’s notes were exaggerations of the truth. That was her forte.

  He could only hope that it didn’t go any deeper.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nashville

  8:00 p.m.

  Taylor shut the door on the Norwoods and leaned back against the frame. She needed to see the last two crime scenes—the second double especially—but she needed a break. She wondered where Baldwin had gone.

  She had just flipped open her cell phone to call him when he rounded the corner of the house, hands in his hair. The ends were sticking up in the back. She stepped off the porch and met him in the yard. He was white, obviously furious.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He look startled for a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing. I’ve just got to go back up to Quantico. Garrett needs me on a case.”

  There was something in his voice, a note of doubt that she immediately seized on. He wasn’t telling her the whole truth. She reached out and touched his chin, turning his face to hers.

  “A case?”

  He gave her a halfhearted grin. “An old case. They need some testimony about it. I’m so sorry to have to run out on you.”

  “We’ll be fine. Are you leaving in the morning?”

  “Now, actually. Garrett sent the plane. I’ll have to review my notes and the hearing starts at 7:00.”

  She could feel his distraction, decided not to force it. One thing she’d learned about Baldwin, he would eventually tell her what was going on. Pushing him when he was still working things out wouldn’t get her anywhere. And she had enough on her hands here.

  “Do you need a ride? I can get a patrol to take you to the airport.”

  He nodded. “That would be great. Thank you.”

  He kissed her, letting his hand linger for a moment around the back of her neck. He felt so…sad. It was coming off him in waves. She wished she could help, knew he’d come to her when he was ready for actual consolation.

  “Honey, can I help?” she asked softly.

  His answering smile was grim. “I wish you could, Taylor. But I have to handle this myself.”

  *

  Taylor watched the patrol car drive away, wondering again what in the world could drag Baldwin to Quantico at this hour. She didn’t have time to worry about it; she had too much work to do. The chill was setting in, the air crisp with cold. She shivered, started to go back inside the Vanderwoods’ when her cell rang.

  It was Marcus, distraught and short.

  “We have another body,” he said. “Female teen, four streets over from Estes, Warfield Lane. Completely off the original path.”

  Jesus. She thought they were in the clear. There’d been no new reports for over an hour. The house-to-house canvass had calmed, people were off the streets and barricaded in their homes. The media was frustrated, being kept away from the crime scenes. Too bad. They’d be able to dine out on this news for weeks anyway.

  “I’ll be right there,” she said.

  Taylor bolted out the front door, ran directly into Sam. She grabbed Sam’s arm for balance, narrowly avoided falling down the front steps.

  “Good grief, cookie, who lit your hair on fire?”

  “Sorry about that, Sam. I’ve got another. Want to hit it with me?”

  “Another? Good God. That makes, what?”

  “Eight. Can we go now? Marcus just called and he’s obviously crushed.”

  “Yeah. I’ll come back and declare this one afterward. Where’s Baldwin?”

  “He got called back to Quantico, some sort of emergency.”

  “Like this isn’t one.”

  “No kidding.”

  They wound their way under the crime-scene tape strung across the road and drove down a few streets to Warfield Lane. This house wasn’t as fancy as those on Estes—just a single-story cottage, but still spacious with a lovely, well-groomed yard. A pumpkin sat on the steps, not yet carved.

  Marcus met them at the door, face pale.

  “She’s in the back room. And just so you know, that’s not the only part of the pattern that’s broken. She’s not a Hillsboro student, she goes to St. Cecilia’s.”

  Taylor took that in. “Hmm. She wasn’t in her bedroom, either?”

  “No, a den. Looks like she was doing her homework. She’s on the floor behind the desk. Her mom said she likes to work in the window seat. The dog is lying next to her. He won’t leave her side.”

  His voice was thick with sorrow. Taylor empathized. They were all going to be taking turns with the department shrink after this was over. Now they were up to eight. Eight teenagers in a single day. The only way it could get worse was if it had happened at school, with more children witnessing the deaths of their classmates.

  A narrow hallway, voices from the kitchen. She caught a glimpse of color—a red blouse, the mother sobbing at the kitchen table—then they were at the entrance to the den. The room was paneled in walnut, small and cozy, with bookshelves lining the walls and a big bay window. Taylor and Sam stepped behind the desk.

  A chocolate lab growled at them, the whites of his eyes showing. He dropped his head on his paws and whined, the hackles raised on the back of his neck.

  “Down, boy. It’s okay.” She turned to Marcus. “What’s his name?”

  “Ranger.”

  “Okay, Ranger. It’s okay.” She inched closer. The dog seemed to sense the inevitable. He bared his teeth and snapped at her, then slowly, as if his bones ached, got to his feet. His back legs hitched as he moved. Hip dysplasia, Taylor noted absently. Poor thing was old.

  “You’ve done your job, Ranger. She’ll be safe with us.” As Taylor spoke, she gently eased her hand around the dog’s neck and got ahold of his collar. She could feel him shaking. “He’s exhausted. Okay, sweet boy. Time to go.”

  The dog sighed, then allowed himself to be led away. Taylor scratched him behind the ears as she handed him off to Marcus, then turned back to the body.

  The girl was petite, blond hair in a disheveled ponytail, strands sneaking out and falling in tendrils around her face. Her lips were blue. She was naked from the waist up, her budding breasts smeared with blood, the top button of her jeans undone. The pentacle carved in the long curves on her flat stomach was oozing blood. Her small body started to shake.

  “Wait a minute,” Sam said. “Son of a bitch. She’s convulsing.” Taylor saw a small bubble of blood form on the girl’s lip. She stared in dull horror for a moment, then both women leaped to the girl’s side. Taylor pushed her fingers into the girl’s neck, felt a tiny, thready pulsing.

  “Get the EMTs! She’s alive.”

  *

  The ambulance screamed away into the night, EMTs pumping hard on the girl’s chest, her mother crying, holding her free hand. Tay
lor stood in the doorway to Brittany Carson’s house. Ranger was cuddled against her legs.

  Sam was behind her. She ripped off her gloves, snapped, “It’s been within the last hour. And it’s definitely drugs—her pupils were fixed and pinpoint. Whatever they’ve taken, it’s some kind of narcotic.”

  Taylor turned back to her best friend. “Do you think that’s why the dog wouldn’t leave her side? Because he knew she was alive?”

  Sam tucked a swoop of bang behind her right ear, then rubbed her hand across her eyes. She suddenly looked older, more harassed. She sighed, then said, “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s probably a moot point. She’s lost a lot of blood, and she was cyanotic. All the other bodies were carved up postmortem. Their hearts weren’t pumping blood. Hers was a steady, slow loss. Depending on what she took…regardless, it’s definitely more recent than the others.”

  Taylor watched her sharply. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m just really tired. Can’t seem to catch up on my sleep these days.” Sam stepped away, started loading her gear back into her scene kit.

  “Sam?”

  “What?”

  “You know the last time you looked tired like this?”

  “No, when?”

  Taylor smiled, crossed her arms. “I don’t know, think back. Maybe…twenty, twenty-one months ago?”

  Sam stopped, still and frozen in time. Her eyes met Taylor’s. “No.”

  “I think that’s the wrong answer, Mommy.”

  Sam sank into a chair, groaning. “No, no, no! I can’t be. Not yet, not now. I refuse. The twins just had their first birthday. Oh, shit. Simon is going to murder me.”

  Taylor laughed at her best friend. “I think he might be thrilled. How far along do you think you are?”

  “Hold on, I’m trying to count.” She grew silent for a moment, then said, “I can’t…oh, yeah.” She exhaled a laugh and blushed, then looked at Taylor. “I can’t be more than six weeks. Simon had that forensics conference in Denver, and I went with him. We got a suite and a sitter and had ourselves a little night out. I’ve been so freakin’ busy I didn’t even realize I missed my period.”