Insatiable Desire (18 page)
Then everything turned hazy. Her heart raced with fear.
She’d tried to cry for help but couldn’t move.
Struggling to free herself from his spell, she squinted through the blinding sun.
Then his face slid into focus. No, not a face.
A hulking black monster with yellow eyes.
She tried to move, to scream again, but her limbs were paralyzed, and terror seized her.
She was going to die alone on the mountain, and no one would hear her cries.
V
incent walked at the right hand of darkness, the black-faced demon he accompanied leading the way through the mountains.
Where was he going? To the graveyard, where he would count his kills?
The vile smell of another human’s fear swirled around him, and he saw the source. The woman the black shadow held in his clutches.
She couldn’t be more than twenty years old. Wavy blond hair. Amber eyes. Lips parted in terror as if a scream had died in her throat.
Frozen at the edge of the precipice as if in bondage, but she was free of any visible ropes or bindings.
She was literally frozen, he realized. Frozen in fear.
“She is afraid of heights,” the demon said in a hazy whisper that sounded like sandpaper, less than human.
Yet here they stood at the top of one of the tallest ridges in the Smokies, overlooking a canyon that fell to the ground miles away. Excitement slithered through his blood at the images that played out in his mind. The woman falling over the edge, spiraling out of control, hands and arms flailing for a lifeline yet grasping empty air. Would they hear her scream as she fell? Or would it fade in the endless chasm between her and the waiting ground?
Would she feel the splat of her body, blood splattering in a million directions? Would she hear her own bones crunch, jagged ends knifing into her organs, before she drew her final breath?
The demon lifted his shapeless black hand, held it suspended for time that seemed to stand still. She moved her mouth, her throat muscles working to form a cry for help, for mercy, but no sound emerged, only air whistling through her teeth.
Bleeding through his enthralled state, the truth registered.
This was the demon he chased. One touch and the demon knew the woman’s deepest fear, then used it to kill her.
Vincent should destroy him. Instead, he’d followed along to watch.
Even as he ordered himself to move, to stop the demon and vanquish him, his limbs refused to function, as if he, too, had been hypnotized by the demon’s spell.
He was trapped in the blackness. Powerless to stop the scene before him as the faceless monster created a surge of wind that caught the woman and spun her above the ground, then flung her over the ledge.
He tried to shout for the demon to stop, but his voice choked, emotions pummeling him as the girl fell to her death.
Her hair floated around her as she spiraled through the air. Finally the scream came, distant and hollow, boomeranging off the mountain walls, mingling with the sound of the demon’s laughter.
Vincent bellowed in rage, his body trembling with the force. He’d seen death before, had caused it himself. But the young girl wasn’t a criminal . . . she was just a child.
Self-hate made him nauseous as he flexed his hands. He halfway expected to see fire shooting from his fingers, but none came. Only guilt and self-condemnation . . .
And the realization that he was weak. Had lost to the demon.
And with his supplication, his powers would grow, his hands more dangerous, his mind a sieve to mastermind plots to take lives and offer the helpless souls to Satan.
No . . . The scream ripped from him. He couldn’t relent.
Mindless with pain, the black hole swirled around him. He saw the future, saw himself walking through the graveyard of lost souls, looking at the burial plots for the ones whose lives he would steal. Hearing their screams as they realized they’d traded their souls for a hell that would never end.
Fire seared his skin and fingers, yet a cold gray blanket of despair washed over him as he stopped to stare at his next conquest. The woman who would assure his place as a master of the darkness.
The name etched on the granite tombstone was Clarissa’s.
Stunned, he finally jerked himself free from the demon’s trance.
Terror spiked Clarissa’s heart rate as she searched the foothills and mountains. Where was Vincent? Was he all right?
Had the demon gone after him?
Was he coming for her next?
Her grandmother’s predictions disturbed her even more, as did the stories about the Black Forest. What other kinds of creatures lived within those miles of rolling hills?
Who had this demon disguised himself as?
A scream tore down from the mountain, resounding off the jagged ridges, and a chill clutched her as the dead girls’ skeletal faces floated in front of her, their haunted eyes etched with horror.
“He has another . . .”
“He’s killed again . . .”
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
A feeling of helplessness made her legs buckle, and she ran outside, then screamed into the mountains, anger and frustration ringing through her cries.
“Why hide your face and kill innocent girls? Why don’t you show yourself to me, you coward?”
A cold wind rustled the trees, whistling through the leaves, the sound shrill. Yet a low, haunting voice rode on its tail.
“Don’t worry, I’m coming for you, Clarissa.” Laughter rumbled from the hills. “Soon you will be mine.”
Vincent stirred from the depths of the black hole, clawing his way back to reality. Had he just dreamed about the demon, or had he really walked along beside him?
The whisper of death brushed his neck, and he opened his eyes, the muted gray shades of light and shadows flickering through the trees, igniting fingers of tension coiling inside him. Above him a black hawk soared, and somewhere in the distance a coyote wailed while the vicious sound of gnashing teeth—a predator tearing into his meal—sliced the silence.
He rubbed his temple where it throbbed, then glanced around and found himself lying at the edge of the precipice where he’d stood and watched the girl fall to her death.
Nausea gripped him, but he swallowed the bile, holding his breath as he forced himself to look down into the canyon.
Hell and damnation. His head swam as he zeroed in on a body.
He hadn’t been dreaming.
He had truly walked with the black-faced demon, and he hadn’t prevented the kill.
Which made him just as responsible.
Balling his hands into fists, he raced down the mountain. His boots skidded over rock, and he pushed branches aside, ignoring the ones that slapped his face and tore at his back. He had to get to the girl. Find out if she was the one he’d seen die at the demon’s hands.
Then he had to call the sheriff and report the death. But what could he say?
That a black-faced, shadowlike demon killed the woman? That he pushed her over the edge without touching her? That he was working for the devil?
That Vincent had witnessed the murder and had done nothing to save her?
Guilt and self-hate nearly immobilized him, but he jogged faster, weaving between the trees, grimacing at the dead animals along the path. Had the demon killed them, or had he?
Fury balled in his gut, and he flung his hands out, literally snapping branches from the trees to clear his path and sending small rocks flying.
Cold fear made his heart pound. He’d seen Clarissa’s name on her tombstone. The killer was coming after her.
He’d die before he’d let the demon have her.
Denial stabbed at Clarissa’s nerves as she ran back inside, making her cold and achy. She banished the cries of the dead, begging them to leave her alone. And Vincent was fine. He was tough and could take care of himself.
Meanwhile, she had to get dressed for Tracy’s funeral.
But there would be more lost spirits at the graveyard, more voices crying out to her . . .
She swallowed back a sob. She had to be strong, couldn’t break down like her mother.
Sucking in her courage, she climbed in the shower, closed her eyes, and let the water warm her.
The demon wouldn’t get her. Vincent would protect her, as he’d protected her from his father years ago.
He wasn’t evil.
Still shaken, she dried off, blew dry her hair, and dressed in a long turquoise skirt and white blouse for Tracy’s funeral. But the heat plastered her clothes to her skin as she headed to her car and drove to the chapel.
Trying to drown out the cries of all who lay buried in the cemetery, she entered the church, her heart clenching as she spotted Ronnie and Eloise Canton huddled together on the front pew. Friends filled the rows, the sound of the organ drummed an old gospel song. She slid onto a rear seat, searching the faces.
Deputy Bluster sat near the front, but she didn’t see Vincent or Sheriff Waller. Bo Bennett loped in and claimed a back pew, and the bartender from Six Feet Under took a seat near the middle.
Hadley Crane stood in the back in that gray pinstripe he always wore for funerals, his movements jerky as his gaze shifted across the crowded church.
The preacher began his eulogy, and Clarissa knotted her hands together, struggling to focus, but the cries of Tracy’s friends and family blended with the spirits’, making her head swim and throb.
She massaged her temple, time blurring as the funeral continued. Finally the last prayer was said, and the pallbearers carried Tracy’s casket down the aisle. The somber crowd rose to follow, sniffles echoing all around. A few offered their condolences at the church, while others strolled outside, braving the heat to join the family at the graveside services.
Skeletal ghosts roamed the grounds, rising from the dirt, floating above the tombstones, and screaming, their agonized screeches assaulting Clarissa.
She walked down the path, noting the way some graves were well tended while others lay neglected, flowerless, with weeds marring the surface. Mourners gathered outside the tent situated by the burial plot while the family and closest friends filled in the metal chairs beneath it, and dozens of flower arrangements and wreaths surrounded the tent. Clarissa stood to the side to make herself available for the Cantons, but supportive friends surrounded them.
The reverend murmured another prayer, yet Tracy’s spirit lingered beside the freshly turned earth, her pale face somber as she watched her family grieving. Then her gaze met Clarissa’s, and Clarissa silently relayed assurances that they would find her killer.
Hadley appeared near Clarissa, and she tensed.
“Death is not the end,” Hadley murmured to her.
Clarissa inhaled sharply.
“You know it, Clarissa. You’re not afraid of it, are you?”
A shudder rippled up her spine, then Hadley left to join the pallbearers.
Tim Bluster stepped up beside her. “Are you okay, Clarissa?”
She twisted her hands together, unsure how to answer. She hadn’t thought Hadley dangerous before, but his cryptic comment raised her doubts. He definitely sounded menacing and deranged.
Still, she hated to point the finger without knowing more. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just sad for the Cantons.”
Sheriff Waller strode up to her and gestured at his phone.
“That was Valtrez. He just found another victim in the mountains.”
Clarissa clenched her hands, desperation mushrooming inside her.
Pan reveled in the tortured expression on Clarissa’s face. She was beginning to break, the cries of the dead wearing on her. He could see the strain on her face, the pain in her eyes, the fear in the way she shivered as she tried desperately to hold herself together.
The sweet taste of victory burned his tongue. Another kill, another soul teetering on the edge, on the verge of succumbing. Yes, the Gimmerson girl was weak. So young that she had silently begged for another chance at life. And of course, he had offered it to her.
He was winning Vincent, as well. Forcing him into the black hole and making him walk by his side to the kill had been genius.
Tonight Sadie Sue would fill his sexual needs and bring him another step closer to his fall.
And while she was working her charms on Vincent, Pan would continue to torture Clarissa.
Torture her until she hanged herself like her mother.
When Vincent realized she had died as an offering to his father, he would face Zion.
Then the two would reconnect and battle.
And evil would thrive as it was meant to do.
N
ot wanting to contaminate the crime scene, Vincent forced his hands by his sides. Although he doubted forensics would find trace evidence.
Unless the girl had torn skin or blood from the body the demon had possessed.
But if he told the sheriff he’d seen a demon, Waller would think he was crazy. And he couldn’t identify a human face, just a black shadow.
Frustration knotted his insides. The girl lay facedown, was barely recognizable. Her bones had crunched and shattered, her face was distorted, her nose smashed, cheekbones jutting through skin, arms and legs twisted at odd angles.
Had she suffered a heart attack before she’d hit the ground? He hoped so, or she would have felt horrendous pain. For a second the canyon swirled around him, trees racing past, time suspended, and he felt himself slipping back into that black hole where he enjoyed the pain.
No . . . He latched on to the last vestiges of his morality and fought to resist the pull.
The screech of a siren alerted him to the sheriff’s arrival. Vincent fisted his hands by his sides as he and the deputy pushed through the trees to the clearing.
“Holy mother of God.” Waller’s complexion turned a pasty green, and he halted and swiped at his forehead with the back of his arm.
The deputy took one look at the body, then glanced at the ridge above and whistled. “Hell of a fall.” He twisted to stare at Vincent with narrowed eyes. “How exactly did you find her?”
Vincent dredged up every ounce of his restraint to maintain a detached face. “I was searching the mountains and discovered several dead animals in the woods—looks like they’d been mutilated. Then I heard shuffling, and screams. By the time I ran through the woods, she had plunged below.”
