Divine Evil (19 page)

Then he was pulling her jeans down over her hips, and his clever, dangerous mouth was roaming lower.

He slid his tongue over the quivering skin of her torso. Her nails dug into his shoulders as her body rocked. She was naked beneath the denim, and his groan of pleasure shivered against her flesh. He could hear her quick, breathy murmurs but didn't know what she was asking. Didn't care. He caught her hips when her legs buckled, and his hands were rough. His mouth was demanding and greedy as it closed over her.

She was dying. She had to be dying. She couldn't be alive and feel so much. Her body was bombarded by sensation after sensation. His hands, those long, urgent fingers. And his mouth. God, his mouth. Lights seemed to dance behind her eyes. With each gasping breath, she gulped in hot, thick air until her system was too full and fighting for release. She cried out, dragging at him, pulling him back up to her, unable to bear what was happening to her. Frantic for more.

His breath was as ragged as hers as he hit the light switch beside her head. His hands were on her face again, holding her back against the wall.

“Look at me.” He would have sworn the floor swayed under his feet. “Damn it, I want you to look at me.”

She opened her eyes and stared into his. She was trapped there, she thought with a flash of panic. Imprisoned in him. Her lips trembled open, but there were no words, nothing that could describe what she was feeling.

“I want to watch you.” His mouth came down on hers again, devouring. “I want to see you.”

She was falling. Endlessly. Helplessly. And he was there, his body shockingly hot over hers, the tiles icy cold against her own heated back.

Driven by her own needs, she pulled at his shirt,
popping buttons in her rush to feel his flesh against hers. Out of control, she thought. She was out of control and glorying in it. As desperate as he, she ran her hands over his damp skin and fought to strip off the rest of the barrier.

He fought with her boots, cursing until she began to laugh. Rearing up, she hooked her arms around him, taking little nibbling bites along his throat and chest.

Hurry, hurry, hurry, was all she could think as they pulled and tugged and yanked.

Then they were rolling over the kitchen floor, the music crashing around them. He kicked clothing aside and sent a chair toppling. Her mouth was fused to his as they reversed positions once more. As she lay on top of him, he gripped her hips, lifting her up.

Now, she thought. Thank God. Now.

Arching back, she took him into her. Her body shuddered, shuddered, as he filled her, as she opened herself and took more of him.

With her head flung back, her long, slender body curved, she began to rock. Slowly, then faster, still faster, driving him past reason with an ever quickening rhythm. He gripped her hands with his as he watched her ride above him.

Fearless. It was the only word his frantic mind found for her. She looked fearless, rising above him, joined to him, filled with him.

He felt her tighten around him as she reached her peak. His own release left him gasping.

She slid down to him, soft, boneless, and damp. His hand stroked lazily down her back as they caught their breath. He'd been waiting for this, he realized as he turned his head to kiss her hair, for a long time.

“I came by to ask you if you wanted a beer,” he murmured.

She sighed, yawned, then settled. “No, thanks.” “You look so damn sexy when you're working.” She smiled. “Yeah?”

“Christ, yeah. I could have eaten you alive.” “I thought you had.” She drummed up enough energy to brace a palm on the floor and look down at him. “I liked it.”

“That's good because I've been wanting to get your clothes off ever since you tackled me in the upstairs hallway.” He reached up to cup her breast, his thumb cruising over the nipple that was still pebble-hard and damp. “You sure grew up nice, Slim.” He shifted so that he was sitting up with her across his lap. “You've still got a sock on.”

She looked down and flexed her feet, one bare and the other covered with a thick purple sock. There might have been a moment in her life when she had felt better, but she couldn't remember it.

“Next time, maybe we should take off the boots before we get started.” She leaned her head against his shoulder and thought, with some regret, that they would have to move eventually. “I guess the floor's getting hard.”

“It started out hard.” But he didn't feel like getting up just yet. She felt exactly right in his arms-something he'd hoped for but hadn't expected. “I saw you at the funeral. You looked tired.”

“I need a bed.”

“Mine's available.”

She laughed but wondered if they were moving a bit too quickly. “How much do you want for it?”

He put a hand under her chin and turned her head. “I want you to come home with me, Clare.”

“Cam-”

He shook his head and took a firmer grip. “I'd better make myself clear straight off. I don't share.”

She felt the same skip of panic as she had when she'd looked in his eyes and saw her image trapped there. “It's not as if there's someone else-” she began.

“Good.”

“But I don't want to take such a big jump that I end up on my face. What happened just now was-”

“What?”

When she looked into his eyes, she could see that he was smiling again. It made it easy to smile back. “Great. Absolutely great.”

He figured he could handle a case of the jitters. Slowly, he skimmed his hand over her hip, up to her rib cage, and watched her eyes darken. Bending his head, he made love to her mouth with his until she was all but purring.

“I want you to come home with me, for tonight.” Watching her, he caught her bottom lip between his teeth, nibbled, then released. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

Ernie watched them come out of the house through the front door. Because his window was open, he heard Clare's laugh ripple up the quiet street. Their hands were linked as they walked to Cam's car. They stopped and kissed, long and slow and deep. She let him touch her, Ernie thought, while a fire began to burn in his belly.

He watched as they got into the car, then drove away.

While the rage was on him, he rose quietly to lock his door and to light the black candles.

In the woods the coven met. They did not stand in the magic circle. The ritual would wait. There were many among them who knew fear. The altar where one of the
group had been executed stood before them. A reminder and a warning.

They had been called here tonight, hours after the burial, to prove their continued allegiance. During the rite to come, each would drink of blood-tainted wine.

“My brothers, one of our number lies tonight in the dirt.” The priest spoke softly, but all the muted conversations ended instantly. “The Law was broken, and the weak one has been punished. Know that any who defy the Law, any who stray from the path will be struck down. The dead are dead.”

He paused, turning his head slowly. “Are there any questions?”

No one would have dared. And he was pleased.

“Now we have need of another to fill out our number. Names will be considered and offered to the Master.”

The men began to talk among themselves again, often arguing over choices like politicos over a favorite son. The priest let them ramble. He already had a candidate. Mindful of his timing, he walked into the circle and raised his hands.

Silence followed him.

“We require youth, strength, and loyalty. We require a mind still open for the possibilities, a body still strong enough to carry the burden of duty. Our Master craves the young, the lonely, the angry. I know of one who is already prepared, already seeking. He wants only direction and discipline. He will begin a new generation for the Dark Lord.”

So the name was written on parchment to be offered to the four Princes of Hell.

O
N SATURDAYS ERNIE WORKED
the eight-to-four-thirty shift at the Amoco. And that was fine with him. It meant he was up and out of the house before his parents stumbled out of bed. They'd be busy making pizza at Rocco's when he came home. He could do as he pleased from the time he clocked out until his one o'clock curfew.

Tonight he planned to lure Sally Simmons up to his room, lock the door, turn on some AC/DC, and fuck her brains out.

He'd chosen to move on Sally with less concern than he felt when choosing what shirt to wear in the morning. She was at worst a substitute, at best a symbol of his real desire. The image of Clare rolling around between the sheets with Cameron Rafferty had haunted Ernie through the night. She had betrayed him and their joint destiny.

He would find a way to punish her, but in the meantime, he could vent his frustration with Sally.

He gassed up a milk truck. As the pump clicked off the dollars and gallons behind him, he looked vacantly around town. There was old Mr. Finch, his knobby white
knees poking out below plaid Bermuda shorts, walking his two prissy Yorkshire terriers.

Finch was wearing an Orioles fielder's cap, mirrored sunglasses, and a T-shirt that said MARYLAND IS FOR CRABS. He clucked and crooned to the Yorkies as though they were a pair of toddlers. He would, Ernie knew, walk down Main, cut across the Amoco lot, and go inside for a doughnut and a piss. As he did every Saturday morning of his life.

“How's it going, young fella?” Finch asked as he asked every Saturday.

“All right.”

“Got to get my girls some exercise.”

Less Gladhill breezed in, late as usual. He carried the pasty, sulky look that said hangover in progress. With barely a grunt for Ernie, he went into the garage to change the plugs on a ’75 Mustang.

Matt Dopper rumbled through in his aged Ford pickup, his three dogs riding in the back. He bitched about the price of gas, picked up a pack of Bull Durham from the cigarette counter inside, and headed off to the feed and grain.

Doc Crampton, looking sleepy-eyed, pulled in to fill up his Buick, bought a book of raffle tickets, and commiserated with Finch about the man's bursitis.

Before ten, it seemed half the town had come through. Ernie moved from pump to pump, gassing up carloads of giggling teenage girls on their way to the mall. Young mothers and cranky toddlers, old men who blocked the pumps as they shouted to each other from car windows.

When he went in for his first break and a Coke, Skunk Haggerty, who ran the station, was sitting behind the counter, munching on a doughnut and flirting with Reva Williamson, the skinny, long-nosed waitress from Martha's.

“Well, I was planning on washing my hair and giving myself a facial tonight.” Reva rolled strawberry-flavored bubble gum around her tongue and grinned.

“Your face looks just fine to me.” Skunk came by his name honestly. No amount of soap, deodorant, or cologne could disguise the faint gym sock aroma that seeped through his pores. But he was single. And Reva was twice divorced and on the prowl.

She giggled, a sound that made Ernie roll his eyes. He could hear them continue their tease and shuffle as he walked into the back to relieve his bladder. The dispenser was out of paper towels. It was his job to keep the rest rooms stocked. Grumbling a bit, he wiped his hands on his jeans on the way to the storeroom. Reva let out a squealing laugh.

“Oh, Skunk, you are a case, you are.”

“Shit,” Ernie mumbled, and pulled down a box of paper towels. He saw the book, standing face out in the space behind the cardboard box. Licking his lips, Ernie reached for it.

The Magical Diaries of Aleister Crowley.
As he flipped the pages, a single sheet of paper fell out. He scooped it up, glancing quickly over his shoulder.

Read. Believe. Belong.

His hands shook as he stuffed the note in his pocket. There was no doubt in his mind that it had been left for him. At last the invitation had come. He had seen things through his telescope. And he had suspected more. Seeing and suspecting, he had kept his silence and waited. Now he was being rewarded, being offered a place.

His young, lonely heart swelled as he slipped the book under his shirt. On impulse he pulled the pentagram out, letting it dangle free and in full view. That would be his
sign, he thought. They would see that he had understood and was waiting.

Clare let the shower beat down on her head. Her body felt sore and weary and wonderful. Her eyes closed, she hummed and soaped her skin. It smelled like Cam, she thought, and caught herself grinning foolishly. God, what a night.

Slowly, sinuously, she ran her hand over her body, remembering. She'd been certain she'd had her share of romantic encounters, but nothing had come close to what happened between them last night.

He'd made her feel like the sexiest woman alive. And the hungriest, the neediest. In one night they had given each other more than she and Rob had managed in…

Oops. She shook her head. No comparisons, she warned herself. Especially to ex-husbands.

She slicked her hair back and reminded herself she still had a long way to go. Wasn't she in the shower right now because she'd awakened beside Cam and wanted, too much, to snuggle up against him and cuddle? Even after the storm of lovemaking-or maybe because of it-the need just to be held and stroked had embarrassed her.

This was just sex, she told herself. Really great sex, but just sex. Letting her emotions run rampant would only mess things up. It always did.

So she would wallow in hot water and soap, rub herself dry and pink. Then she'd go in and jump all over his bones. Even as she started to smile at the idea, she opened her eyes and screamed.

Cam had his face plastered against the glass shower wall. His roar of laughter had her swearing at him as he pulled the door open and stepped under the spray with her.

Scare you?

“Jesus, you're an idiot. My heart stopped.”

“Let me check.” He put a hand between her breasts and grinned. “Nope, still ticking. Why aren't you in bed?”

“Because I'm in here.” She tossed her hair out of her eyes.

His gaze slid down from the top of her head to her toes, then back again. She could feel her blood begin to pump even before his fingers spread and roamed. “You look good wet, Slim.” He lowered his mouth to her slickened shoulder. “Taste good, too.” He worked his way up her throat to her lips. “You dropped the soap.”

“Mmmm. Most accidents in the home happen in the bathroom.”

“They're death traps.”

“I guess I'd better get it.” She slid down his body, closing her hand over the soap, and her mouth over him. The hiss of his breath merged with the hiss of the shower.

He thought he'd emptied himself during the night, that the needs that had raged and clawed and torn at him had been put to rest. But they were only more desperate now, more violent. He dragged her up, pressed her back against the wet tiles. Her eyes were like melted gold. And he watched them as he plunged himself into her.

“Hungry?” Cam asked as Clare stood by the bedroom window finger-drying her hair.

“Starving,” she said without turning around. As far as she could see, there were woods, dark and deep and green. He'd surrounded himself with them, hidden himself behind them. Distant, faintly purple, were the mountains in the west. She imagined what it would look like as the sun sank below them, showering the sky with color.

“Where did you find this place?”

“My grandmother.” He finished buttoning his shirt and came to stand behind her. “It's been Rafferty land for a hundred years. She hung on to it, then left it to me.”

“It's beautiful. I didn't really see it last night.” She smiled. “I guess I didn't see much of anything last night. I just got the impression of this house on a hill.”

Then he'd tossed her over his shoulder, making her laugh as he hauled her inside, upstairs, and into his bed.

“When I came back, I decided I wanted a place where I could get away from town. I think part of Parker's problem was that he lived in that apartment over the liquor store and never got away from it.”

“A badge hangs heavy on a man,” Clare said somberly and earned a twisted ear. “You said something about food.”

“I usually eat at Martha's on Saturday mornings.” He checked his watch. “And I'm running behind. We could probably scare up something here.”

It sounded much better to Clare. The gossip mills would start turning-there was no way to stop them. But for a morning, at least, they could be held at bay.

“Do I get a tour?”

So far all she'd seen had been the bedroom with his big platform bed, the random-width wooden floor, and ceiling. And the bathroom, she thought. The deep tiled bath with jets, the roomy glass-and-tile shower. She'd been pleased with his taste so far, the fact that he wasn't afraid to use color, but she wanted to see the rest.

Despite the events of the last twelve hours, she knew that man did not live by bed alone.

He took her hand and led her out.

“There are a couple of other bedrooms up here.”

“Three bedrooms?” She cocked a brow. “Planning ahead?”

“You could say that.”

He let her poke through the second floor, watching her nod and comment. She approved the skylights and the hardwood floors, the big windows and atrium doors that led to the wraparound deck.

“You're awfully neat,” she said as they started down.

“One person doesn't make very much mess.”

She could only laugh and kiss him.

At the base of the steps, she stopped to take in the living area with its lofty ceilings, beams of sunlight, and Indian rugs. One wall was fashioned from river rock with a generous fireplace carved into it. The sofa was low and cushy, perfect for napping.

“Well, this is-” She stepped off the stairs, turned, and saw the sculpture. He had it set beside the open stairwell, positioned so that the sun would stream through the skylight above and pour onto it. So that anyone walking in the front door or standing in the living room would see it.

It was almost four feet high, a curving twist of brass and copper. It was an unmistakably sensual piece-a woman's form, tall, slender, naked. Her arms were lifted high, her copper hair streaming back. Clare had called it
Womanhood
and had sought to reproduce all the power, the wonder, and the magic.

At first she was flustered at finding one of her pieces in his home. Her hands fumbled into her pockets.

“I, ah-you said you thought I painted.”

“I lied.” He smiled at her. “It was fun getting you riled up and insulted.”

She only frowned at that. “I guess you've had it for some time.”

“A couple of years.” He tucked her hair behind her ear.

“I went into this gallery in D.C. They had some of your work, and I ended up walking out with this.”

“Why?”

She was uncomfortable, he noted. Embarrassed. He slid his hand from her hair to cup her chin. “I didn't intend to buy it and could hardly afford to at that point. But I looked at it and knew it was mine. Just the way I walked into your garage last night and looked at you.”

She moved back a little too quickly. “I'm not a piece of sculpture, Cam.”

“No, you're not.” Narrowing his eyes, he studied her. “You're upset because I saw this and recognized you. Because I understood you. You'd rather I didn't.”

“I have a psychiatrist on call if I want analysis, thanks.”

“You can get pissed off, Clare. It doesn't change anything.”

“I'm not pissed off,” she said between her teeth.

“Sure you are. We can stand here and yell at each other, I can haul your ass back upstairs to bed, or we can go in the kitchen and have coffee. I'll leave it to you.”

It was a moment before she could close her mouth and speak. “Why, you arrogant sonofabitch.”

“Looks like we yell.”

“I'm not yelling,” she shouted at him. “But I will make a point. You don't haul my ass anywhere. Understood, Rafferty? If I go to bed with you, it's my own choice. Maybe it's bypassed your snug little world, but we're into the nineties here. I don't need to be seduced, cajoled, or forced. Between responsible, unencumbered adults, sex is a matter of free choice.”

“That's fine.” He took her by the shirtfront and yanked her against him. Temper glittered in his eyes. “But what happened between you and me was more than sex. You're going to have to admit that.”

“I don't have to do anything.” She braced herself when he lowered his head. She was expecting a hard, angry kiss, one ripe with frustration and demand. Instead, his mouth was whisper soft. The sudden and surprising tenderness left her reeling.

“Feel anything, Slim?”

Her eyes were too heavy to open. “Yes.”

He brushed her mouth with his again. “Scared?”

She nodded, then sighed as he lowered his brow to hers.

“That makes two of us. Are you finished yelling?”

“I guess so.”

He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Let's get that coffee.”

When he dropped her off an hour later, Clare's phone was ringing. She considered ignoring it and diving right back to work while her emotions were still heightened. But as it continued to shrill, she gave up and pulled the receiver from the kitchen hook.

“Hello.”

“Jesus Christ, Clare.” Angie's aggrieved voice stung Clare's ears. “Where have you been? I've been trying to get through to you since yesterday.”

“I've been busy.” Clare reached into a bag of cookies. “Working, and things.”

“Do you realize that if I hadn't gotten in touch with you by noon, I was going to start down there?”

“Angie, I told you I'm fine. Nothing ever happens here.” She thought of Biff Stokey. “Hardly ever. You know I rarely answer the phone when I'm working.”

“And you were working at three this morning?”

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I was certainly busy at three this morning. What's going on?”

“I've got news for you, girl. Big news.” Clare put down the cookie and reached for a cigarette. “How big?”

“Major. The Betadyne Institute in Chicago is building a new wing to be dedicated to women in the arts. They want to acquire three of your pieces for permanent display. And,” she added as Clare let out a whistling breath, “there's more.”