Quiet. Was that footsteps? No, probably his imagination—his ears were ringing from the shots. Using the flashlight, he scanned the far reaches of the tunnel. Arlen was down, his back to him. He must have been running away when Baldwin or Geroux’s shots hit him. Baldwin kicked the gun out of his hand and knelt to feel for a pulse. He was gone.
There was shouting and screaming now, calls to ambulances, the Fairfax County guys making themselves useful. He felt numb, couldn’t feel his hand. It took both hands to reholster his weapon. He struggled to get his breathing under control. He finally held his breath to stop the ragged jags of air forcing their way into his lungs, and his heart slowed a bit.
That’s when he heard the crying, quiet and faint.
He stumbled past Arlen’s body in the dark, used the small beam of the flashlight to guide him, deeper and deeper. He turned a corner and saw Gretchen on the floor, in a nightgown. Her legs were broken, but she was very much alive.
He gathered the girl in his arms, felt her forehead press into his neck. She was sobbing. He realized he didn’t know whose tears were landing on the front of his shirt—hers, or his.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Nashville
10:00 p.m.
Ariadne had made it her business to know where the various covens met. When she was part of the ruling council, it was her right, and her duty. As wonderful as Wicca was, there were always abusers, those who sought power over their coven members. There was a very specific code of ethics that governed coven work—taking money was forbidden, as was insisting on a physical culmination of the Great Act to be accepted into the coven. In ceremonies, the Great Act was symbolic—athamé plunging into chalice, chalice opening to athamé—instead of actual sex. Priests and priestesses couldn’t insist that members worship skyclad—there were any number of rules in place to assure freedom, free will and comfort were always present during ceremonies.
But the ways of man included the sin of power-seeking. Ariadne was the higher authority to whom those abused by the power in their coven appealed. She had a solid working knowledge of where most of the covens in the area practiced, and an even greater antenna for spiritual portals, spots in the wilderness that were especially close to the Goddess.
She’d recognized the place from her dreams as holy ground, both secular and Wicca, a tract of land that had seen the good and the bad, and as such had been imbued with powerful spirits. It was in a private graveyard, on the western edge of Davidson County, down a cow path that led to a clearing off a small two-lane road called McCrory Lane.
Her home was downtown, off Sixteenth Avenue South, just up the street from the area of town known as Music Row. She’d done all the backbreaking restoration herself—tearing out a 1960s avocado-green kitchen, a flimsily paneled den—instead filling the house with white marble and period wainscoting. The walls were painted in rich Easter-egg pastels, edged in white crown molding; the six-paneled doors had crystal doorknobs. The parlor had an original frieze of a chariot race in ancient Rome that she’d restored. She trailed her hand along the chair rail in the hallway as she left, glad that her people didn’t see pride as a sin.
The trip to the graveyard took twenty minutes. Through the Village, past the holiday carnage in Green Hills to Old Hickory. To her right, the open expanse of the Steeplechase fields glowed black in the night. She turned left on Highway 100, the shadowy road winding through the surrounding landscape, rolling hills and protected forests and horse farms, breaking open into civilization at Ensworth High School. She drove through the intersection of Highway 100 and Old Harding, dismayed to see stores of modern convenience squatting on newly shriven land, then the road grew dark again.
The turn was up here, just past the Loveless Café and the Shell station. She turned and the friendly lights disappeared, the road plunged into gloom.
There, on the right.
She slowed the car, pulling into the grass on the shoulder. The land was flat here, but joined the woods one hundred yards in. The cow path ran through there, deep into the forest, and exited into a small glade, the headstones of the dead poking up from the forest floor like mushrooms.
She draped her cloak around her shoulders and pulled it tight, warding off the chill. The crescent moon gave a bare light. She could see a few steps in front of her, enough to keep her from tripping. It was quiet tonight, the birds and squirrels were silent as the grave. Someone was near.
Heart beating in her throat, she moved faster, then stumbled into an unseen hole a few feet from the car, twisting her ankle painfully. She bit her lip to stifle her cry. Cursing quietly under her breath, she headed back to the Subaru for a flashlight.
The solid, artificial yellow beam at least allowed her to miss the mole holes. She started off again, slower this time, training the light downward so the boy, if he was here, couldn’t see her coming. The trees loomed ahead, black trunks reaching for the sky, limbs raised in supplication.
She was no stranger to the emptiness of the night, the darkened earth breathing around her, summoning, questioning. Alive. All the tiny sighs of brush and grass were heightened in the gloom, and a small bank of fog had gathered in the brush. She could smell rain on the horizon, saw the shadow of a cloud cross under the tip of the moon.
The night was her world, and she its concubine.
Step by step, she inched closer. Forty yards, twenty, ten. She smelled a fire burning, oak and poplar and leaves and twigs being licked by the flames, and slowed to a creep, edging her way closer still. She drew energy from the earth and shielded herself, protecting her fragility with an invisible psychic barrier.
She could see him clearly, lying on his side, a lump under a blanket. His back was to her, she didn’t think he could see her. The flickering fire crackled, covering her small sounds. She eased the flashlight off, just in case. The fog curled around him like a lover, keeping him hidden in its dense embrace.
He was asleep. She couldn’t read him. Deep breaths mingled with the shurring rush of the wind.
She debated for a few moments, dithering, then moved away from the glade, back toward the car. She shouldn’t be afraid of this boy, but she was. Her hands were shaking. She would call the lieutenant, let her come and take him.
She stepped on a twig, the crack of the dry wood a loud retort in the quiet air. She froze.
By the fire, Raven opened his eyes.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Nashville
10:05 p.m.
Taylor tossed her cell phone down into her lap in disgust. “Where is that bloody woman?” she asked for the fifth time.
“I don’t know,” McKenzie answered, soothing her with his voice. She was damn tired, and wired, and frustrated. How a boy of seventeen could elude them at each step was beyond her. They knew who he was, where he lived, what he drove, yet he was as transparent as a ghost.
“Why don’t we go by her house, see if she’s just got her phone off?” McKenzie suggested.
Taylor tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, the drumming helping her think. Rush off half-cocked after a woman who claimed to be a witch, or join the search for the teenage killer? Though if she were honest with herself, she had to admit that Ariadne had helped, had cut their investigation time down by days with her prescient perceptions and drawings. That didn’t make her a witch, just observant.
“Okay. You have the address?”
“Yes. She’s off Music Row.”
“Close, at least.” Taylor put the car in gear and drove.
It only took five minutes to slip into the quiet streets of Music Row. Taylor pulled the Lumina to the curb in front of a three-story Victorian—eerily reminiscent of the home of the vampire king, Keith Barent Johnson. This house was fully restored, gaily painted a soft sage-green with sparkling white trim. The walk was cement, two steps up in the middle, then five to the wraparound porch. The porch lights were on, but it was easy to see that the lights inside were off; the front door was stained glass with strong steel bars embedded in
the pattern. The soft, glowing red eye of a motion detector alarm system peeked out from behind a coat rack. Smart—an alarm system. This was a safe area, but any intelligent woman living alone would have herself reinforced. Though if Ariadne was a witch, Taylor bet she’d cast all sorts of protective spells around her home.
Not that she believed anything like that could possibly work to prevent a crime.
A white wicker swing with green, yellow and white pin-stripe cushions hung from the ceiling of the porch. Taylor could imagine Ariadne sitting in it on warm nights, feet tucked under her like a cat, that glossy black hair streaming in contrast over the white wood.
“She’s not here,” Taylor said, but rang the bell anyway. A deep chime rang out, no one answered the door.
Taylor turned to McKenzie. “Now what?”
He was staring at the front door, distracted, and didn’t answer.
Taylor paced along the porch, glanced around the side of the house. More padded white wicker, a conversational grouping around a large, ceramic chiminea. Exactly squat that would help find Ariadne.
“We have to try something else. We can—”
She stopped, her cell was ringing. The caller ID read unknown name, unknown number. She felt her heart leap into her throat. The last time she’d seen that particular combination on her cell, it was the Pretender, calling to warn her he was coming for her. She signaled to McKenzie, then slowly brought the phone to her ear.
“Jackson.”
The scared voice of the witch rang out into the quiet night.
“Oh, thank the Goddess you answered, Lieutenant. This is Ariadne. I found him. I found the warlock.”
*
Taylor was already striding to the car, her keys in her left hand. “We’ve been calling you all night. Where are you?” she asked.
Ariadne was whispering, the harshness of her voice amplified by the phone’s speaker.
“I’m out in western Davidson County. Do you know McCrory Lane?”
“Yes.” Understatement, she and Baldwin lived not far from there.
“There’s an old deserted graveyard out here—dates back over two hundred years. It’s a holy place. I saw him, in a dream.”
Taylor stopped short, leaned against the hood of her car. Son of a bitch.
“So you mean you saw him in a dream, is that it, Ariadne? For God’s sake—”
“No, no, listen. Don’t hang up. I dreamed about it, yes, but I came out here to see, and he’s there. He was asleep by the fire. But I think he heard me. I need to get out of here.”
Taylor butted the phone against her forehead. God save me from people who think they can investigate crimes.
“Yes, you do. Leave immediately. Drive to the Shell station at the intersection of Highway 100 and McCrory Lane, go inside, tell them to lock the doors. I’ll get a patrol there as soon as possible. The boy is armed, and he’s dangerous. We’ll meet you there. It’s going to take a little bit—we’re at your place now.”
“Lieutenant?”
Taylor turned the car over and pulled out onto the street.
“Yes?”
“Hurry.”
“Don’t hang up!” Taylor yelled, but Ariadne was already gone. She cursed, then pulled the flasher out and attached it to the roof. They couldn’t waste any time. The revolving light gave her a headache, but she wanted people out of her way.
“Where is she?” McKenzie asked.
“McCrory Lane.” She keyed her radio, called Dispatch. “Lieutenant Jackson, E, 10-82, 10-13, 10-54. Suspect located, I need backup, 8 to the Shell station at McCrory Lane and Highway 100.”
She heard the affirmatives—she’d called for backup for their suspect, let the troops know he had a weapon and coded him very dangerous—the patrol officers in the area would scramble.
The trick would be to get all the personnel in place and take Schuyler Merritt Junior into custody before the press arrived. The media, local and national, had a vested interest in this case now.
The radio crackled. A patrol was rolling from Highway 70 South, ETA three minutes. Taylor breathed a sigh of relief. Ariadne would be fine.
“What in the name of hell does that woman think she’s doing?”
“She thinks she’s helping, LT.”
“I never asked for help. Like I need Miss Marple for the occult set to solve my case?”
“Well, I never did see Miss Marple in a corset and cloak, but I get your drift.”
She smiled at him. “She could give Morticia lessons, that’s for sure. Damn stupid, silly woman, running off after a killer like that. I have half a mind to charge her with obstruction. She should have called me. If this goes south…”
He was white-faced beside her, but said, “It’s not going to go south.”
They were on Old Hickory now, the red light strobing off the fine brick homes, the woods taking on a momentary bloody glow as they flew past. They disturbed a gang of turkeys, feeding too close to the road in the rough off the eighth hole of Harpeth Hills. They fled away from the lights, disappearing off into the brush, tail feathers gleaming white in her peripheral vision.
The radio was crackling—the first patrols had arrived at the Shell station.
Dispatch popped into the fray. “Please advise, Lieutenant Jackson.”
“You’re looking for a pale woman with black hair named Ariadne. She should be locked inside.”
“Negative, LT. No one here like that.”
She heard the words, negative, from three different voices. Beads of sweat popped out on her brow, she put her foot to the floor. The Lumina launched itself down Highway 100. She wrestled her gaze from the blacktop just long enough to shoot a searing I-told-you-so look at McKenzie.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Nashville
11:00 p.m.
Raven had felt her, the weight of her presence, long before she stepped on the twig. He didn’t know who she was, other than she wasn’t a friend. She was strong, this one, but still no match for him. There was strength, and then there was the immutable power of steel and brass, a reality that couldn’t be argued with.
She’d fled quickly once she’d known he was awake. He stood, stretched, slipped the pistol from his waistband. A friend at reform school had taught him the right way to handle the weapon; he’d been an eager student. The cold steel warmed to his palm. He held it lightly in his grasp, finger alongside the trigger, gun pointing down the length of his thigh. He wouldn’t raise it until he was ready to use it. It was a small caliber weapon, so in order for it to be effective, he’d need to be close.
Like his parents.
Blood flooded his groin at the thought of the two of them, cowering in the living room like rats being sold to a lab. That day, the longest of his life, would never retreat from the recesses of his mind.
His bitch of a mother had walked in on him and Fane and freaked out. They’d known, of course—that’s why they’d split them up, sent him away.
“It’s not natural,” his father had spit at him, the disgust ripe in his throat.
“Natural enough for you,” he’d shouted. “You’ve been fucking Fane since she was four.”
“I have never laid a hand on that girl, and you damn well know it.”
“Sky, how could you say such a thing?” His mother, her eyes pleading, lost in a world they didn’t want to understand.
“Ask, Mom. Ask Fane. She’ll tell you. I had to sleep in her room, blocking the door some nights, to keep him off of her. But what we have is different. We were made for each other. We’re in love. You can’t stop us.”
The arguments had gone on and on and on, but in the end, his parents shipped him away. They divorced, his mother silently applying for a dissolution of the marriage for irreconcilable differences; his father signing the paperwork, face pinched white. They’d never spoken after that night, using e-mail to correspond about their family. His mother had always known, he was sure about that. Faced with the undeniable truth, the reality of letting her baby dau
ghter be violated by her loving father for all those years, she just wanted to get away.
It had worked for Jackie Merritt. She quickly found a new man, a good man in her eyes, a soldier, one bred for violence and mayhem who was as gentle as a lamb with her. She remarried. Fane acted out, but Jackie could turn the other cheek, knowing that she was safe from both her Schuylers. Seeing what she wanted to see was Jackie’s greatest asset.
Until the night three weeks ago, when Raven had come home. Jackie had entered Fane’s room without knocking, the smile fading to horror as she watched her two children bucking together on the bed. Raven, fed up with the constant haranguing about a love that was as natural as it was fulfilling, called a family meeting, insisted that they come. Sat them down in the living room of his father’s house, took Fane in his arms and explained that they’d been married. It was handfasting, yes, but that was as legal as a priest and a church in the eyes of their religion.
Their parents hadn’t taken it well.
Raven had been standing a few feet away, the gun in his waistband, watching them fight with bemusement. Like it mattered? He caught Fane’s eyes and rolled his own. She nodded, it was time. It was amazingly simple—his father first, so he couldn’t fight, from behind and to the left, then his mother. They collapsed together, mouths open in remonstration.
The sudden silence was breathtaking.
It only took thirty minutes to dig the pit; the basement was old, the concrete cracked and worn. Dump the bodies, snip off the fingers they needed for their spells, mix up some quick-set, and they were free.
Sweating, tired and jubilant, they had sex in the living room, on the couch, mingling their fluids with the blood of their parents. No one could keep them apart anymore.
That first taste was enough to convince him that it was time to deal with all the rest of the people who’d shunned and abused him. The Immortals would not be stopped.
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2 Page 63
