Nightwind (11 page)

you tell him I want him to come into the office for a few questions.”

“If I hear from him,” Lauren snapped. She was taken back when the Sheriff paused on the threshold and

looked back at her with a sly smirk.

“Oh, it’s my guess you’ll be hearing from him, Miss Fowler. I don’t know how you did it, but you done

caught his attention good, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You tell him to call me,” demanded Jackson. He tipped his hat impudently and walked off the porch,

ducking his head under the light patter of rain as he ran to his car.

Neither he nor Lauren saw the black-clad figure hidden under the camouflaging branches of the

spreading live oak tree across the street next to the Atherton’s. Nor did either of them see the bloodlust

that turned the dark umber eyes to red pinpoints of pure hate.

Wiley Jackson wasa good driver. He always had been. Therefore it was quite a shock to everyone who

knew him when he careened out of control on the way out to the truck stop in the east part of town and

crashed into a gas tanker truck that had broken down along the side of the road. Investigators at the

scene later that morning couldn’t figure out why there were no skid marks on the highway.

“Didn’t even look like he tried to stop,” one of the deputies remarked.

Nor could they explain why Jackson’s car, according to the driver of the tanker who was setting out

flares at the back of the truck, had suddenly picked up speed before slamming into the rear of the semi.

“It was almost like he just aimed for my truck. I barely had time to run across the highway ‘fore he hit

me,” the driver had said. “One minute that car was angling ‘cross the road and the next it was under the

back of my trailer.” He shivered. “Then the tank ruptured and that ammonia oxide went all over the

damned place.”

Sheriff Wiley James Jackson, age fifty-nine and the father of four girls and five boys, was pronounced

dead on arrival at the Santa Rosa Hospital.

Lauren listened inshocked silence as Angeline Hellstrom’s chauffeur told her about the grizzly death of

Wiley Jackson. She managed to nod at him as he tipped his black cap to her before taking his leave.

Turning her back to the gray, rainy day that still lingered beyond the plate glass window of the shop,

Lauren leaned against the counter, her hands clutching the brass rim of the Formica.

What evil had come to the little Panhandle town of Milton, Florida, she wondered? What primordial

force of bad luck had come visiting? She shivered, the chill of foreboding going down her spine like

lightning to a tall pine.

The bell over the door chimed and she turned.

He stood there, his face glistening with rain, his gaze steady on her: worried, cautious, betraying a depth

of emotion she could easily see. He seemed to be awaiting the decision that was warring inside her. He

made no move toward her, was not willing to make any kind of demand, afraid to scare her off.

She felt his warmth, his eagerness to help her, to be with her, and her, alone. She sensed his concern for

her state of mind as his worried gaze roamed her face.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low and soft.

She nodded, her lower lip trembling. Her eyes locked on his. “Would you hold me?” she asked in a tiny,

quivering voice.

He opened his arms to her.

Lauren walked to him and stepped into his embrace, pressed her cheek against the cold dampness of his

black windbreaker, folding her arms against his rock-hard chest. As his strong arms closed around her,

she leaned into his strength.

“It’ll be all right, Lauren,” he crooned to her, his breath fanning the wisps of hair at her temple as his

hand moved lovingly up to cradle her head. “I’ll make things right for you. That’s what I’m here to do.”

“I need you,” she whispered. “I need you so much.”

She did not see the dark brown flash of triumph as he stared past her lowered head.

“Was he there?”

Delbert Merrill nodded. “I saw him as I pulled away from Miss Lauren’s house.” He held the chair for

his mistress. “He followed us to the shop.”

“Do you think he noticed you?”

Del shook his head. “He wasn’t looking at me, Miss Angeline.”

Angeline Hellstrom nodded. “She seems to be the major force occupying his mind of late.” She let a

harsh sigh escape her ruby-red lips. “I’m afraid this latest escapade of his has become a bit of a problem,

Del. I did not give him permission to kill a male.”

“I reckon he thinks Wiley deserved it.” The black man shook his head. “I’ve never known Cree to

become so attached to one of his causes before.” Delbert waited for his mistress to finish the note she

was writing.

“Neither have I, and frankly it worries me.” She penned the flowing calligraphic script upon the

expensive parchment page, stuffed it into a matching envelope and reached for her personal seal. Del

handed her the black candle glowing on her desk and she applied a thick glob of wax to the flap of the

envelope then pressed the intricate seal into the center of the wax. She handed the note to her servant.

“Make it clear to him that this is not a request, Delbert,” she told the tall black man. “This is a

command.”

Delbert nodded, placed the envelope inside the pocket of his black wool uniform jacket, and turned to

go. Her sultry voice made his pause and look back over his shoulder.

“Don’t return without him, Delbert. He won’t want to come. Use force if you have to.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Angeline sat at her desk for a long time, her attention steady on the glittering flame of the black candle in

its golden holder. In the glow of the warm light, her face shone as though it were lit from within.

She looked forward to her confrontation with Syntian Cree.

And to punishing him.

“Aren’t youhungry?” she asked him after she’d ordered.

He shook his head. “I had a late breakfast.”

She put her hands on the red check tablecloth and twined her fingers. “I appreciate you staying with me

at the store this morning.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t have anything all that pressing that I needed to take care of this afternoon. I

thought you might like some company.”

Lauren nodded. “I did.”

“Then I’m happy I could help,” he laughed. Something seemed to catch his eye and he looked past her.

The smile slipped from his lips.

“Syntian?” she asked.

He started at the sound of his name and seemed to pull himself back from some revelry into that he’d

fallen. “Aye, milady?”

“Is something wrong?” she asked, watching his gaze slide past her again. She turned in her seat and saw

Angeline Hellstrom’s driver walking past the sandwich shop’s window. She looked back at Syntian.

“Have you met Mrs. Hellstrom?”

He flinched. “Ah, yes. At the party the other night.” He looked down at his watch then up at her. “I

really need to get going. I just remembered I have an afternoon appointment over in Warrington to look

at an office.” He scooted his chair back. “Will you be all right, now?”

Her puzzled, hurt look drove straight through him. “Sure.”

He reached down and laid a gentle hand on hers. “I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

She felt wistful, dreamy, looking up into his handsome face. “Promise?”

He removed his hand. “Promise. You’ll be careful?”

She nodded.

Every female in the place watched him leave.

Angeline Hellstrompaced the luxurious confines of her boudoir. Pale golden candlelight cast the only

illumination within the peach moiré walls, but did little in banishing the myriad of mysterious shadows that

lurked about the room. Outside, it was raining fiercely again and the diamond-shaped windowpanes of

the Tudor-style house rattled in their oaken frames. A particularly savage gust pelted the side of the

house and the sky outside seemed to grow darker still, sucking what remained of the natural light from

the room.

She glanced down at her watch and frowned, her pretty mouth twisting into a grimace of annoyance. It

was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon and he was not here. Damn him, she thought then a wry twitter

of amusement burst from her throat. The man was already damned; had been for nearly as long as there

had been counted time.

“My lady,” one of the young servant girls called out, poking her cap of auburn curls around the door.

“They’re here.”

Angeline nodded. She walked to the mirror over her vanity and checked her appearance. Satisfied with

what she saw looking back at her, she sat down on the velvet loveseat that flanked the white marble

fireplace along the north wall of her boudoir and waited.

Delbert Merrillhanded his cap to the downstairs maid and rolled his eyes at the girl. The dark man with

him was already stalking up the stairs, his anger and his power so visible the room had turned chill.

“He didn’t want to come,” Delbert told the girl.

The maid shrugged. “He never does.”

Syntian Cree felt a vein throbbing in his forehead as he took the stairs to the upper floor two at a time.

He wished himself as far away from this silk-lined prison as he could get, but the command that had

come for him, and in the light of day at that, was one that could not be ignored. The knowledge of that

cutting obligation caused his mobile mouth to harden with towering rage. With Angeline, he was not his

own man and the thought of him not being so drove him nearly insane with fury.

She heard his angry foot falls on the stairs, smiled as that hard tread came purposefully to her own door,

stopped—she knew he was trying to get his fury under tight control before he came into her room—then

slammed her door back on its hinges. She watched him standing on the threshold, his fists doubled at his

side, glaring at her as though he could, if it were possible, consign her to the nether regions of hell.

“I am not amused, Angeline,” he bit out, his eyes boring into her own with hot fury.

Angeline pulled her legs up on the loveseat and tucked them beneath her. Her lashes lowered demurely

over cool speculation then lifted in wide-eyed innocence. “Did you not sign a pact with me to come when

I called you, Syntian?” she asked in a sweet voice.

He reached behind him and slammed the door shut so hard he put a crack in the lintel. Stalking to her,

he stopped at her feet, put his hands on his hips and glared down at her. “What the hell do you want?”

Her smile was a slow, sardonic command, but she did not speak. One perfectly arched brow lifted in

challenge.

His glare narrowed dangerously. “No!” he shouted at her, turning on his heel.

“I command you, Syntian,” she called out to him.

He had reached the door, put his hand on the French handle. Her voice stopped him cold in his tracks.

His breathing was rapid, ragged, and raging as he turned back to glower at her. She saw him trembling

beneath the force of his anger.

Angeline lifted her hand and crooked her finger at him. “Come, demon!” she ordered.

He knew he had no choice in the matter. He was blood-bound to do her bidding, but even as the

reminder of that hell-wrought pact flashed across his fevered brain, his hands itched to wrap themselves

around her slender neck and squeeze until there was no life, human or occult, left in her buxom body.

“Don’t make me call you twice.”

He dropped his hand from the door handle and walked to her. His handsome face was filled with hatred.

Angeline stretched, lifting her slender arms over her head. The movement thrust her breasts into

prominent relief beneath the silk of her wrapper. She looked up at him for a long moment, a smile playing

across her lips.

“What is it you want?”

She pointed to the floor at her feet, saw his face blaze in warning, and shook her head. “You are mine to

command, Syntian.” Her voice became cold. “Do as you are told.”

His jaw set, muscle twitching in his cheek, he knelt before her, going to his knees in one fluid motion.

She heard his angry expulsion of breath as he spread his legs apart, bracing himself more comfortably in

the awkward position into which he had been forced. He glared at her.

“There are two reasons I sent for you today, Syntian.” Her gaze locked with his. “The first is not that

important, but it is a command I insist you obey.”

He didn’t speak. His look was dangerously cold, infinitely bored as he watched her. The hands on has

thighs were balled into fists.

“There will be no more killing.”

“That is not a decision you may make!”

Angeline bent toward him, not surprised when he turned his face away from hers. Her voice was a soft,

quiet threat. “This is my domain into which you have inadvertently chosen to play your latest little game,

Syntian. These are my subjects with whom you are toying. When I tell you there will be no more killings,

I mean just that. Do I make myself clear?”

He turned his head back and his lips twisted into a sneer. “As long as I serve you—”

“The key word here is serve, Syntian,” she reminded him in a stern voice. “And in serving me, you are

blood-contractually bound to do as I tell you, are you not?” When he stubbornly refused to answer her,

she reached out and gripped his chin, her lids flaring wide as he put up a hand to knock hers away. She

beamed with victory when he slowly lowered his hand. Her grip tightened on his chin. “Are you not

blood-bound to do as I command you, Syntian?”

“Aye,” he spat, his lips drawn back over his white teeth. He snatched his chin from her grasp.