Insatiable Desire (16 page)

Her gaze held his, the underlying meaning hanging between them.

“The bouncer told me that J. J. Pirkle likes to get rough with girls. Waller’s going to talk to him.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said, then hated herself for asking. Did she really want to know if he’d slept with Sadie Sue or one of the other girls? His sex life was none of her business.

He arched his brow. “She gave me a lap dance, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Irrational jealousy plucked at her. “I’m sure you enjoyed it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “It was nothing personal, Clarissa.”

“Nothing personal? No, I guess it wouldn’t be with you. But it is with me.” She released him and headed inside, heat scalding her cheeks, embarrassed that she cared what he did when he obviously didn’t care about her.

Except she felt the chemistry between them. Felt it when her fingers had clutched his arms. Felt it in the way his eyes raked over her. In the way he’d just murmured her name.

The screen door screeched open as he followed her in. “What the hell was that about?”

Anger, the shock of the night, frustration . . . a dozen emotions bombarded her. “These girls’ deaths
are
personal to me. So is the heat between us, Vincent. But you pretend not to feel anything, not to notice it when we’re together.” Her gaze latched on to his powerful, sternly set face, and her senses spiraled out of control. She wanted to touch him so badly she ached.

But touching him would be foolish, because she couldn’t stand it if he pushed her away again.

Vincent snapped. The night had been hell for both of them, yet in spite of the fact that another girl had died, or maybe because of it, he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman.

He’d tried to ignore the heat between them, but the attraction simmered like a raging fire, intensifying each time he saw her or heard her sultry voice. And when he’d held her earlier . . .

He dragged her into his arms, had to hold her again. Had to taste her just one time.

Once would have to be enough.

His lips fused with hers, savagely, almost punishing, and he nipped at her lips, plunged his tongue into the recesses of her mouth, and kissed her thoroughly. He hated that he wanted her, hated that he hadn’t walked away.

Hated that he couldn’t have her because he knew he’d want more.

Hated even more that she was right about the heat between them, just as he sensed she was right about the evil in the town.

He was part of that evil, carried it inside him all the time.

Bad blood, bad blood
. . . he was just like his father, born a demon.

She parted her lips for him and moaned in invitation, then clasped his face between her hands as if she didn’t want to let go, and he shunned the voice ordering him to stop. With a groan torn from deep in his gut, he explored her, tasted the sweetness of her desire, the frenzied depth of her need as she urged him on.

His heart hammered against his ribs, and he trailed his tongue down her neck, savoring the saltiness of her skin as she clung to his arms. Heat suffused him, and blood pooled in his cock as it hardened and begged to be inside her.

He wanted her on her knees naked and opening for him. Wanted to take her in the most primal way, outside on the porch against the wall with the crickets chirping and tree frogs croaking in the distance.

What in the hell was he thinking?

A woman had just been murdered and strung up in the tree in her yard.

He tore himself away, pushed at her hands as she clawed for him to hold her again.

“Please, Vincent, I want you tonight.”

“You don’t want me, Clarissa. You’ve just suffered a terrible shock, finding your friend in your yard. You’re running on adrenaline and fear.”

She grabbed his hand, placed it over her left breast. Her chest heaved for air, her nipples stiff peaks that he wanted to wrap his lips around and feed on.

“Stop it, Clarissa.” He yanked his hand away, a brutal edge to his voice.

Her eyes were half closed, her lips parted, bruised from his mouth, and she reached down and stroked his erection. “You want me, Vincent. I can feel it.”

She had that right. But he couldn’t continue this game, couldn’t lose control and take her now or he’d crave her even more.

It was too dangerous for her, and for him. Wanting, needing someone would make him vulnerable. And if he let down his guard, allowed himself to
feel,
then turned into his father as he feared he one day would, he’d hurt anyone who cared about him.

Then the evil would win.

“It’s late, Clarissa,” he growled. “Go to bed and get some rest.”

“What are you going to do?” Anger flared in her eyes. “Go back to Sadie Sue? Let her finish what we started?”

The idea of having Sadie Sue after Clarissa’s kiss held no appeal. “I’m not going to fuck Sadie Sue,” he said crudely. “What I started to tell you earlier was that I think you’re right about the evil here.”

“That there are supernatural forces at work?”

“Yes.”

She bit her lip. “What happened to make you change your mind?”

“Sadie Sue’s eyes turned this strange yellowish-red tonight, as if they glowed in the dark.” He hesitated, might as well tell her about his father. That would surely scare her off. “And I remembered things about my past, about the night my father murdered my mother.”

Her eyes softened in sympathy. “What happened, Vincent?”

“He burned her at the stake, Clarissa.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, emotions churning in his chest. “In a cave of black rock in the Black Forest. I still don’t know how I got out of there afterward.”

“Maybe you repressed those memories because you saw demons in the woods.”

He shrugged.

“It sounds as if Sadie Sue sold her soul to the devil,” Clarissa murmured.

“I know,” he said between gritted teeth. “So did my father. He turned into a monster that night. When I saw Sadie Sue’s eyes, I remembered my father’s looked the same way.”

He gripped her arms with such force she winced. “I inherited his blood, Clarissa. So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your distance from me.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

C
larissa couldn’t stop trembling. So part of the rumors were true. Vincent had witnessed his father killing his mother.

Was Vincent’s father inhuman? A demon?

Was Vincent?

No . . . he wouldn’t hurt her.

Would he?

Vincent straightened. “Lock the door. I’m going to question Hadley Crane. See where he was tonight.”

She nodded, although fear crawled through her. If they were dealing with demons, a locked door couldn’t keep them out.

She’d been frightened of the spirits when the dead had first visited her as a child. And she’d been terrified and distraught the night her mother had died.

But she’d never had such a cold chill sweep though her, such deep-rooted terror crowding her chest as she did now.

Vincent closed the door behind him, and she sagged against the wall.

Her grandmother’s warning echoed in her ears. Was that the reason her grandmother had warned her to stay away from the Valtrez family? Had she known that Vincent’s father was demonic?

No wonder Vincent had been secretive, had repressed memories—he’d been tortured by what he’d seen his father do.

Walking on wobbly legs, she climbed the steps to the attic. A full-length mirror occupied one corner, several older pieces of furniture were crammed into another, and assorted dishes and knickknacks filled a shelf to the right. The trunk was covered in hatboxes, but she laid them aside and brought out the candles she used when she wanted to summon her grandmother. The attic was dark, so she placed the crystals, then the candles in a circle, knelt and lit them, then closed her eyes and recited the chant her grandmother had taught her years ago.

“To the present

From the past,

Bring this spirit

To speak at last.”

Seconds later, the sound of tinkling filled the humid air, particles of light flickered against the shadows, then a shimmering white glow appeared—her grandmother.

“You called me, dear?”

Clarissa nodded. “Grandmother, you were right about evil rising.” She explained about the snakes, hearing Sadie Sue scream, then Vincent’s recollection. “Tell me, am I crazy? Did something happen to Sadie Sue?”

“Yes,” her grandmother said gravely. “According to the legend, when a person trades his soul to defy death, he becomes one of the Walking Dead.”

“You mean Sadie Sue died and came back to life?”

“Yes. But to become a true servant for Satan and gain immortality, the Walking Dead must take another’s life.”

She shuddered, knowing Vincent was in danger. “So Sadie Sue has to kill someone to gain immortality.”

Her grandmother nodded, then continued, “Legend has it that Satan’s followers will leave pieces of black rock in their wake to symbolize their purpose. The legend can be traced back to Greek mythology. It was believed that Hades’ palace was built of black rock.

“Locals claim that such a palace can be found deep in the midst of the Black Forest. But beware of entering it without protection, for the evil within swallows humans alive.”

“And Vincent?” Clarissa asked. “Was his father a demon?”

A heartbeat stretched between them before her grandmother answered. “Yes. He was demonborn, and now the other demons will come after him.”

Clarissa clenched her hands together. Would the demons win Vincent, or would he be strong enough to fight them off?

Vincent had to find this killer and leave Eerie before he lost control. Before he took Clarissa into his bed.

Before his father won.

The temptations here were too strong. He smelled the evil in the air, felt his father pulling at him to follow in his footsteps.

Felt Clarissa drawing him the opposite way. Making him want things he couldn’t have.

Hardening himself, he parked at the Cranes’ house, a trailer on the side of the mountain that had seen its better days. At one point, the family had added a front porch, but weather had aged the wood and it was sagging and rotting.

He kicked dirt off his boots as he climbed the creaking stairs, noting the overgrown yard, the rusted lawn mower that obviously hadn’t been used in months, the broken plastic chair in the yard.

Clarissa speculated that this demon could possess another body—had he borrowed Sadie Sue’s?

No . . . according to the profile, their killer was probably a man.

He knocked, tapping his boot as he waited. Shuffling came from inside, then the door screeched open, and a stooped, elderly woman wearing a faded housecoat and bifocals peered up at him. “Yeah?”

He flashed his ID. “Mrs. Crane, my name is Special Agent Valtrez. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

She worked her mouth sideways. “What about?”

“About your son, Hadley. Is he here now?”

“Yeah.” She gestured over her shoulder, her snuff-stained teeth black as she spoke. “In the bath. Came home all dirty just like he always does.”

Vincent nodded. “May I come in?”

“I reckon.” She stepped aside and waved him in, and he stepped over magazines and catalogues piled on the floor. The room was dark, yet pictures of Jesus and religious plaques covered the walls. A Bible sat on the rickety coffee table along with a half-full coffee mug.

She hobbled toward the hall and pounded on the bathroom door. “Hadley, you got someone here wants to talk to you.”

“What?”

“Some agent from the government! Get your ass out here.”

“I’m coming!” he shouted.

“Mrs. Crane, where was your son tonight?”

“Working, I guess.” She hobbled to the rocking chair and collapsed into it, her arthritic hands gripping the wooden arms. “He had to dig another grave. All them girls dying, he’s been busy.”

“Have you noticed him acting strange lately?”

She wrinkled her nose. “As a matter of fact, yeah. I asked him if he was taking his pills, and he got mad. Said he was, but I ain’t so sure.”

“Has Hadley ever shown violent tendencies?”

She shrugged and drew an afghan over her bony legs. “He’s got a temper but ain’t never laid a hand on me.” A laugh escaped her. “’Course he knows if he did, I’d beat the snot out of him.”

The bathroom door opened and Hadley lumbered out, wearing baggy jeans and a plaid shirt. He was an awkward, gangly guy, almost six feet, with calloused hands and a big head. His eyes were a little too close together, and he tilted his head at an odd angle.

Vincent tried to imagine how a woman would see him—as mentally challenged and needy, or dangerous?

Vincent introduced himself. “Crane, where were you tonight?”

His eyes shifted back and forth as if he couldn’t focus. “Tending the cemetery like usual.”

“What time did you arrive and leave?”

He checked his watch. “Don’t know what time I went.” He dug his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans. “And I just got home and took a bath. Mama don’t like me bringing in the graveyard dirt.”

“Can anyone verify that you were at work?” Vincent asked.

Crane shrugged. “Don’t know. Angus was there part of the time.”

“Angus?”

The rocker creaked as Crane’s mother shifted. “Shut up talking about your daddy. You know he’s been dead for years.”

“I know, but I talk to him,” Crane said in a heated tone. “And he tells me he’s proud of me. Not like you.”

Vincent fisted his hands by his side. Crane obviously had psychological problems.

And he didn’t seem smart enough to pull off these murders without anyone seeing him.

So who was their UNSUB?

Fear for Clarissa rose in his gut. He had to get back to her. If she was right and the killer had left Daisy’s body in the Devil’s Tree as a warning, he didn’t want to leave her alone too long.

If the killer returned for her, Vincent wanted to be there so he could destroy him.

Wrath had its vengeance. Pan’s anger toward Cla-rissa King turned his hands and eyes into weapons.

He snapped the tree branches off the tree above him with a flick of his hand and chuckled as they popped and crackled, disintegrating into dust. Another wave of his fingertips and pine needles and twigs whipped across the forest, hurtling through the air as if a tornado had picked them up in its eye.