Picking up my handy-dandy pipe and, clutching it close like a magic talisman, I turn and hurry into the tunnel.
That’s when I heard the lid screek—metal against metal—and then drop like an anvil to the floor behind me…
12
THE SOUND of the sarcophagus’s lid hitting the cement floor sends a spear of primitive terror up my spine. I don’t want to turn around, but I know I have to. I have no choice. Whatever happens, I have to face it head-on.
Something whispers along the back of my neck, making me shiver as I spin around. I expect to see her right behind me, breathing on my neck, but she’s actually standing beside the sarcophagus about ten feet away.
She isn’t as tall as she was in my dream—not quite nine feet—but she is wearing the same long, tight-fitting white dress with the slit up the side. She’s just not wearing the gold headdress. Her black hair hangs down behind her to her elbows, and her eyes are fiery bright, but dark. More human. No blood leaks from them. She looks younger than in my dream, closer to my own age. Honestly, she’s probably the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on.
Her fire-red lips curl up in a smile and her eyes squint in welcome. She holds out her large brown hands to me. It’s the same as in my dream. I feel safe and warm and loved in her presence. I feel like she would never hurt me. That she would rather die than do that.
Little flower, she says, and this time I know she’s saying it only in my head.
I want to go to her. I want that so much. I feel like we could be sisters. Lovers. But something holds me back. I remember the fire and the bones. The city burning to the ground around us. I remember her look of disappointment when I rejected her.
Her eyes narrow and I feel paralyzed by my fears. Suddenly, I can feel her in my head. It’s as if someone went into the library of my mind and started grabbing books off a shelf, flipping them open, and then discarding them on the floor before moving to the next. She does this very fast, flying through my mind’s library in a matter of seconds as she searches for something. Some of the books she finds vaguely interesting. Most she does not. She likes the ones where I hurt someone—where I cause harm to others.
She sees it all—all my dirty little secrets.
Mr. Greeley…falling down a long flight of steps after yelling whore at me…
A girl who was gossiping about me at school slipping and falling in the girl’s bathroom…
Mitchell…burning to death in the apartment building after calling me a bitch…
Nick trying to grab me, only to jerk his away when he sees my arm is on fire…
She likes the fear, I realize. She enjoys the pain. She likes that people are afraid of me…
I jerk backward, almost falling against the wall, but it’s worth it because it mentally unhooks me from her psychic claws and I’m able to slam the door of the library of my life in her fucking face.
That makes her angry, and I see a drop of blood race from the corner of her eye and down her cheek like a fiery tear. She bares her teeth, but it’s more of a smile than a sneer. Little flower of pain, you belong to me, I hear her say as she reaches out to me.
I don’t wait to see what happens next. I spin around on my heels and race heedlessly through the door and down the long corridor. I run as fast as I can around the bendy corners of the Prohibition tunnel, the fear of her—the horror of her—breathing down the back of my neck. I can feel her light touch in my scalp and the shivery small of my back. I can still hear her words echoing in my head as if from a great distance. The light bulbs pop out as I pass beneath them, throwing more darkness at me. The sudden, swirling shadows only push me on. I run faster and faster still, gasping and almost crying out when I spy the door only a hundred feet away...
I sprint toward my escape as the last light bulb pops out, casting the whole tunnel in absolute darkness. But I can still feel her on me like a dirty film. I feel she’s right behind me. I raise the pipe over my head—it’s my only defense—but as I pass through the door and swing around, ready to stave in her beautiful and ugly face, I see it isn’t her behind me.
It’s Detective McCall.
But the pipe is still falling toward his surprised face.
13
“MS. SUMMERS!”
Detective McCall catches my wrists in both hands, halting the pipe before it can crash into his face. His hands are large and strong and heavily corded. He stops me easily and, with a cop’s training and instincts, twists my hands to one side, forcing me to drop the pipe with a heavy clang—but not so roughly that he actually hurts me.
“Detective McCall,” I say, ashamed of the fact that I almost bashed his lovely, handsome face in.
I expect him to be irate, to spit curses at me, but he surprises me. He looks concerned, but not angry. “Are you all right?” he asks, glancing past me.
I feel a chill and it takes me a moment to wind up the courage to look down the tunnel, but when I do, I see the corridor into darkness is empty. She has not followed me. “I…I…” I can still feel her inside my head, running her fingers through my memories. She’s been doing it this whole time.
Turning back, I see McCall’s face. He looks even more concerned now than when I first ran into him. “Ms. Summers, are you…?”
That’s all I hear before the whole room tilts sideways and fades to black.
14
I WAKE up in the backseat of an unfamiliar car. I’m lying under an unfamiliar men’s jacket. I sit up, dislodging the jacket, and see the car is parked in the lot outside the church. Detective McCall is talking to Sister Marie on the steps of the church. She nods, looks over at me with pity, then turns back to him and says something I can’t hear from here.
The car is hot. The windows are rolled up, and when I try to open the door, I find it’s locked from the outside.
McCall nods a thanks to Sister Marie and starts down the steps.
I shrink back in my seat as he approaches the back door and opens it from the outside. “Awake?” he asks. His voice is firm, the way I’ve anticipated.
“Yeah.” I rub my head. My hair is all crazy curls. It’s come out of its ponytail.
“Want to come around to the front?”
I slide cautiously out of the car, conscious of how he’s watching me, and make my way around to the passenger side door. He appears beside me and opens the door for me. I suppose I can run, but what purpose would that serve? He’d just hunt me down and drag me back to the station. With a soft sigh of resignation, I slide into the bucket set.
He slams the door and goes around to the other side and gets in. He doesn’t start it, though. Instead, he picks up the police radio and calls in, telling dispatch he took care of the disturbance.
After he hangs up the radio, I say, “How did you know?”
He points to a small sign I missed on the front lawn that has the name of a surveillance company on it. “We have you breaking in on video. Want to see the footage?”
So much for me being a brilliant investigator. “No,” I groan, snuggling down into his jacket, which smells of his cologne—a light vanilla fragrance. My hands are flexing and my nails cutting into my palms. I’m such an idiot.
“So, you’re a chocolatier by day and a safecracker by night?”
“Candymaker. My partner is the chocolatier,” I correct him.
He gives me a serious look. “Well, then. I’ll have to tell Sister Marie to take better care with her security with all these safecracking candymakers around.”
I don’t laugh at that. I do finally look up at him. “Am I under arrest?”
“That depends,” he says. His deep voice reverberates around the car. “Was there something you wanted from the church?”
“I…” I look down again and pick at the polish on my nails. “I just wanted to go inside,” I say as a lie suddenly forms in my head and rolls off my tongue. “The priest there was really nice to me the other day. I’d hoped he was there tonight.”
“Crisis of faith, huh?�
�
“Something like that.”
He starts the car and pulls onto the street. I start running names through my head, trying to decide who I can call from the station to bail my sorry ass out. Josh would definitely want to help me out, but he’s back in Blackwater, and he wouldn’t be able to get a bus out till morning. I don’t think Nick will help—and even if he did, his wisecracking would just make the situation worse. I’ll need to call Sebastian and hope to hell he isn’t passed out in an alley somewhere.
After a short, silent drive, McCall pulls onto Broad Street and then into the delivery alley behind the shop. He parks near the rear entrance and shuts the car off and gets out. I stare at him mutely through the windshield as he comes around to my side and opens the door. He indicates with a toss of his head that I should get out.
I follow him meekly to the back entrance. “No handcuffs?” I say in only half-jest. I’m still in shock that he’s not arresting me.
“Why? Do you like handcuffs?” he asks, and I suddenly sense a change in the mood between us.
I smile as I get my key out and unlock the door. I’m elated to not be under arrest. I’ve had my share of cops and cells, thank you very much. Seconds later, I’m standing inside, holding the door open and looking at him. I know he wants to come inside.
I can tell just by his intensity and the way he’s hesitating that he wants to come inside me, as well.
Tell him goodnight. Tell him to go home to his wife.
Sound advice. Wise advice.
I want to be a good person. A good girl.
But I’m not a girl. I’m the devil’s only begotten daughter, and I’m not sure if that qualifies me as a person.
15
I OFFER to make Detective McCall tea. The prep room is dim and luminescent and humming with appliances. We make some coy small talk. He’s brave enough to approach the hive and study my bees before turning his full attention on me.
“You’re not afraid?” he inquires.
“No. They’re my bees.”
“Your bees?” he says as he approaches me. He does so with his head down slightly and his eyes turned up. It’s an especially predatory look on him, and I wonder if he even knows he’s doing it. “How are they your bees?”
“They listen to me. They belong to me. I’m their mistress.”
I should be afraid, but my bees are telling me he’s no danger to me. At least, not in the traditional sense.
He pushes me back so hard my ass hits the edge of a prep table, then picks me up with no effort at all and sets me down atop it. I’m small, so that puts us at eye level. He strokes the side of my face with his thumbs like he’s calming me. His warmth and the sweetness of his cologne made me melt against the hard, muscular wall of his body. He says things, then, asking me if I want him the way he wants me.
I nod but say nothing. My heart is thudding so hard, I wonder if he can hear it. I have to clench my hands on the edge of the stainless steel table until it feels like my nails are going to snap off to keep from reaching for him. I can smell my own excitement, my body betraying me at every turn, and I think he can, too.
He grabs my hair, hard, and drags me forward to kiss me. He’s harsh and possessive. Overpowering. In another life, I might have been afraid, but the bees are singing to me in my head, telling me to trust him. The press of his chest against the tips of my oversensitive breasts makes me shiver, and my entire body feels like it’s burning from the inside out.
He licks my lips lasciviously before saying, “You are so fucking beautiful.” His eyes rake over me before narrowing. “I’ve dreamed of you. Fucking waited for you.”
But he hasn’t, I think as he draws two fingers down the sweating hollow between my breasts. His wedding ring flashes.
“Detective McCall…”
“Mac…call me Mac.”
I want to say we shouldn’t, but the truth is, I want him. To claim anything else is a bald-faced lie. I don’t care that he has a wife and a family. I don’t care that I’m invading his marriage bed and possibly dragging him away from his children. I know that makes me a bad person. I just wish I cared that I didn’t care.
“Mistress,” he whispers sweetly in my ear. I can tell he’s enjoying this. That his mind and body crave it. He says the name again. His voice is deep and chocolaty and so incredibly sexy. “Tell me what you want, Mistress. Tell me how to pleasure you.”
I whisper it in his ear.
He groans in response as he spreads my legs and leans forward to lick over the places where his fingers have just touched me. Dipping his head, he closes his mouth over the hard tip of my breast through the fabric of my T-shirt, giving it a firm little tug like a dog playing with a toy. The sensation makes me arch against him. He moans in response. He increases his play and that drags a cry of pleasure from my throat. He issues a low growl of pleasure as he wets first one nipple, and then the other.
“Anything you want, Mistress.” His voice is sly and whispery.
He presses his fingers against the seam of my jeans, making me cry out with unspeakable need. We start working on the barriers between us—his clothes and mine. It takes seconds if that. Then he’s slowly and forcibly pushing his way inside my body. I’m pretty tight, but he’s strong and relentless and eager. He hits me in just the right places. I whimper and thrash, but he holds me down and drives those inarticulate spikes of pleasure deep inside me until I feel my eyes rolling up into the back of my head.
A sudden burst of shuddering pleasure rockets through my body, making me cry out so loudly I’m terrified Sebastian might come down from upstairs to find out what’s going on. Then that fear dissolves as my body arches up as far as it can go for him. I’m thankful his face is buried in the side of my neck as he ruts so fiercely with me because I can feel that my hair is on fire and my hands, clutching his ass, look like they have wisps of smoke pouring off them.
I quickly shut my eyes. Stop…please stop…no more!
Mac groans as we finish together. When I dare to open my eyes, I see the ripple of a cool blue flame dancing across all my exposed skin. I fall back on the table, panting and trembling in the aftershocks of our rut. I can feel the heat in my face. I can feel it racing down over my quivering breasts.
His eyes are wide and dark. He sucks in a deep breath, and, for a moment I’m afraid he’ll bolt in horror at the sight of me burning beneath him.
“What…what are you?” he asks, his voice hoarse from effort.
I slowly sit up on the prep bench, closing my legs demurely for him. I lift my hands, watching the blue flames dance over my fingertips like sprites. Our eyes meet and I’m left breathless for several seconds. It takes me that long to find my voice.
“I…I’m…” I mean to be honest and say, “a witch.” But I can’t find it in me and, coward that I am, it comes out, “…a psychic.”
It takes him a moment to digest that.”A real psychic.”
“Yes.” The fire dims and finally goes out, leaving a swirl of smoke twisting around us.
Mac steps back and then stops when he realizes his pants are open. He quickly fixes himself before looking back up. He looks dazed and confused, but not afraid. I consider that a small victory.
I don’t know what to say, so I put words to the first thing that comes to mind, “More things in heaven and earth…you know.” I shrug.
He laughs nervously at that. It takes him a moment more to compose himself, but then he says, “A real psychic.”
“The police use them all the time. I can even help you find that man’s murderer if you want.” I don’t know why I added that last. I’m babbling. I just need to say something to help cut the tension between us.
He shakes his head. “That would be useful, considering what he’s done.”
I lean forward and try to arrange my clothing properly. “What do you mean?”
He looks sorry that he’s said anything, so I press, “Tell me. Maybe I can help.”
Mac thinks about that a long moment
. Then he seems to make up his mind. He steps closer to me and grabs my hair and kisses me again. His tongue is quick and rough and oh so hot, and the roughness of his whiskers makes me shudder. I let him kiss me a long moment before pushing him back. His eyes are shining with rawboned lust and his lips look swollen.
“Tell me, Mac,” I demand. Maybe I push him in some psychic way. I’m not sure. But he starts telling me about the murders. There’s been more than one, all of them similar. The bodies of known criminals flayed of skin and redressed in their clothes and left in dark corners throughout the city. He thinks it’s a ritual killer, someone trying to send a message. Maybe even a vigilante.
“All of them had criminal records,” he concludes with a nod. “Assault…rape…nobody the city will miss. Frankly, I’m glad the bastards got what they deserve, but the law don’t see it that way…”
That explains why I’m hearing about this for the first time. There’s been little to no coverage in the media because it’s all underworld thugs being hit. The FBI and DEA don’t know what to make of it all and are burying the cases.
Don’t get involved, a small voice whispers in my head. This is connected to her somehow…
I know that makes sense, but that’s exactly why I need to learn more. If these murders are connected to Sister Marie and the mysterious woman, I need to know what part I’m being asked to play in them. I get down off the prep table and find a pad and pen in one of the drawers. I write down my phone number and give it to him. “If there is anything I can do…you know, psychic-wise…just call.”
“‘Psychic-wise.’” He looks reluctant, but ultimately takes the sheet of paper, folds it in half, and slips it under his coat. He never takes his eyes off me. I know he wants me. I know we could do this all night. But he smoothes my hair with his hands and pinches my chin in his fingers, laying a maddeningly chaste kiss upon my lips.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Mistress. I might abuse it.”
To the Devil a Daughter (A Vivian Summers Investigation Book 1) Page 7
