Ritual Sins (7 page)

He didn’t move, didn’t bother to open his eyes as Catherine knelt down by his head. She was a smart old lady; there were times when he wondered just how much she knew, or guessed, about the secret workings of the Foundation of Being. She reminded him of Granny Sue, the old woman who’d taken him in when he first arrived in Chicago, a tough-talking, chain-smoking ex-hooker who’d taught her daughters how to turn tricks by the time they were fourteen. There was a similar ruthlessness about the two of them, though Catherine, with her blue blood and her perfect manners, hid it better than most. She was more than a match for some of the worst cons he’d known. More than a match for Calvin.

She waited in respectful silence, and he held it long enough for her to get restless before he opened his eyes. “Blessings, Catherine,” he said. Rachel didn’t move, still lost in a deep, dreaming sleep.

“You’re going to have to do something about Calvin,” Catherine said. “He’s become unstable.”

“I thought it was Angel McGuiness who was unstable,” he murmured.

“She’s no longer an issue. Calvin, on the other hand, is becoming more of a problem. You don’t
deny he’s responsible for this? That he deliberately endangered Rachel?”

“I don’t deny it. I’m just not certain why he did it.”

“He must think she’s some sort of threat. Which is ridiculous, of course. We have nothing to worry about, no secrets to hide. Rachel is a severely troubled young woman, looking for meaning in life. We can help her find the answers she needs. If Calvin would keep his murderous tendencies to himself.”

“Calvin can be a bit … overenthusiastic where I’m concerned,” Luke said. “I hadn’t realized he was worried about her presence here. I’ve spoken to him. He expressed the proper shame and repentance.”

“So it won’t happen again?” Catherine persisted, forgetting, as she often did, that she was in the presence of her spiritual master. Generations of old Philadelphia money made subservience difficult.

It was easy enough to remind her, with the touch of his cool hand on her dry, aging flesh. She jumped, startled, suddenly contrite.

“Forgive me, Luke,” she murmured. “I’m just an old woman who worries too much. Of course you’ve got things well in hand. I’m just concerned about the girl—she’s a sweet thing, despite her anger.”

He controlled his amusement at the notion of Rachel’s alleged sweetness. “Of course she is, Catherine. And I know that we can all help her basic goodness and gentleness come through.”
As long as Calvin doesn’t try to off her again
, he added to himself.
And assuming there’s any goodness and gentleness there to be brought out.

“You’ll show her the way,” Catherine murmured.

“I’ll try,” he said, wondering just how drugged Rachel was. He wanted to look at her. Touch her. Let his bare skin rest against her. He wanted to fuck her, but having sex with a comatose woman wasn’t particularly appealing, even if it was the only way he could have her for now.

“I’ll leave you,” Catherine said. “She’s already looking better—I think her color’s improved. Shall I make arrangements for her to be brought back to her room? Or do you want her in the infirmary?”

“Later,” he said. “Take the healers with you. I want to concentrate on her without any distractions.”

“You’re too good,” Catherine said in a husky voice, rising with surprising grace given her age. Within moments they were gone, all of them, and he was alone in the murky, cavernous room with Rachel Connery, so deep in sleep that she’d never remember a thing.

No one would dare interrupt him. Only Calvin, and in his current disgrace he wouldn’t show his face until tomorrow at the very earliest. Luke had hours to himself, and a surprisingly sensual woman to play with.

It was a good thing he was such an amoral bastard, he thought, propping himself up on one elbow and surveying her. Other men might have qualms, scruples, all those strange, crippling moral dilemmas that had never bothered Luke Bardell. Other men would be shocked at the very notion of taking advantage of a drugged woman who’d just gone through the kind of ordeal Rachel had.

Fortunately Luke wasn’t other men. Never had been. He reached out and began to untie the knot that held the loose tunic top closed over her breasts.

His hand shook slightly, which surprised him. He must be hornier than he thought. It hadn’t been that long, but there was something about the night, and the woman, that made him feel dangerous.

Her skin was a pale white-gold in the darkness, and she seemed almost peaceful. He knew it was an illusion. She was driven, determined, Stella had told him, on one of the rare occasions she’d talked about anything but herself.

He knew what was driving her now. Her determination to destroy him. The very thought
amused him as he pushed the jacket off her shoulders. Narrow shoulders, oddly defenseless-looking. People had tried to destroy him since before he was born, starting with his grandparents’ attempt to make his mother abort him, his so-called father, on through the gangs in prison, the cadres of lawyers, the angry young woman who lay motionless, sleeping, beneath his impassive gaze.

And no one could. He had a gift for survival, for escape when things threatened to get too bad.

But there was no need for escape right now. For the next few hours he could enjoy himself with his new toy. And if she remembered anything the next day, it would all seem like an erotic dream, one she’d be ashamed to admit she’d had.

He let his fingers skim down her flat stomach to the drawstring of her pants. Smooth skin, silky.

And he leaned down to taste it.

R
achel dreamed again, a shifting mélange of blood and violence. Of an angel, screaming in her face as she wrapped strong fingers around her throat, closing off her breath, her life, and somewhere in the distance was the faint sound of the flute.

Her eyes refused to open, no matter how hard she struggled against the heavy veils of sleep. And the murderous creature straddling her, strangling her, the long hair falling in Rachel’s face, was now a fallen angel, a creature of light and darkness. Even as she recognized the threat, the hands no longer punished, they caressed her throat, her neck. And everywhere they touched, healing followed.

The fallen angel was a man, Lucifer, kicked out of heaven for wanting too much power. He would rather reign in hell than serve in heaven. But was she in hell now, or floating somewhere in between?

He touched her with his mouth, and she shivered in the darkness, resistant, aching. Her hands were by her sides, held down by someone far stronger as he leaned over her, blotting out what little light there was. She was hot, burning up, and he was cool, and sweet, a calm bastion of healing and serenity. He was what she wanted, what she needed so desperately.

He would give her love. He would give her peace. And total, eventual destruction.

Bobby Ray Shatney lit a cigarette, cupping it in his hand to keep the wind away from the match. It was late, pitch-dark outside, and if anyone bothered to look out a window they’d see the glow of his cigarette, and they’d go running to Luke like self-righteous little snitches.

He didn’t think Luke would be surprised. He knew everything. All he had to do was turn his eyes on Bobby Ray, and his soul was naked before him. Luke knew his weaknesses, for cigarettes and pussy, for pain and for redemption. He knew Bobby Ray would die for him. Would kill for him.

It was a special bond.

He didn’t even need Luke’s words—there was a magical thread of communication between the two of them. Bobby Ray knew when Luke wanted him to punish someone, for the sake of the community. Everything Bobby Ray did was for Luke. Every drag on his cigarette, every woman he
fucked, every person he killed, he did it for Luke, on Luke’s unspoken orders. And in return he had Luke’s unspoken gratitude and approval. Which was reward enough for Bobby Ray.

That new one, though. He wasn’t sure what Luke wanted done with her. That little gnome Calvin had almost gotten her killed, a stupid move, but then, what could you expect from a midget ex-con? If he’d been trying to anticipate Luke’s needs he’d blown it, for all of them.

She was a complication, a danger, and had been since Alfred had finished with Stella. Stella had hated her own child, something Bobby Ray understood only too well. Bringing her here, luring her here, was the least he could do. He did what he was told, to a point, and Catherine had told him to do this, for Stella, and for Luke.

Rachel reminded him of his older sister Melanie, with her spoiled mouth and her attitude. He’d killed Melanie first, before the others got home, taking his time with her.

He sucked the smoke deep in his lungs, then blew it out, peering through it with half-closed eyes. It danced in front of him, shifting and drifting, taking form slowly. He watched it, waiting for a sign. Which way should he go?

The smoke dispersed, drifting into the New Mexico night, and there were no answers. Bobby
Ray cursed, stubbing out his cigarette. He’d have to wait for a sign, and he didn’t like waiting.

Maybe she’d know the answer. She could guide him. He pushed away from the stucco wall and headed for the west wing of the rehabilitation center. He knew he’d find her there.

Luke waited until she opened her eyes, watching as she frowned, trying to focus, trying to remember where the hell she was, and how she’d got there.

It would be interesting if she remembered what happened afterward, Luke thought wryly, leaning back and watching her, his legs crossed. She already hated him with an almost murderous passion—if she remembered what he’d done to her restless, responsive body her rage would know no bounds.

She turned her head, her eyes narrowing as they focused on him. He was half in the shadows, but she wouldn’t mistake him for anyone else. With a sudden nervous gesture she clutched at her chest, but the tunic was neatly fastened once more, covering her securely.

“What am I doing here?” she demanded, her voice still scratchy.

“Being healed.”

“Bullshit.”

“A couple of hours ago your throat was so
bruised you couldn’t speak. Bruising doesn’t heal that fast without special help.”

“Bullshit,” she said again.

“I wonder if we can reverse the process,” he murmured, half to himself. “I think I liked you better mute.”

“I’m sure you did.” She rolled onto her side, gingerly, and he could see she was still stiff and sore. “You like all your women silent and obedient.”

“All my women? Are you one of my women?” he taunted softly.

She sat up at that, as he knew she would, trying to stifle a groan of pain. “I thought you were celibate.”

He watched her, deliberating how best to handle her. His casual taunts were keeping her off balance—if the others heard him they’d be shocked by their saintly messiah.

But he was tired of being a saint. And he liked the way she jumped every time he poked at her.

Besides, the brief, wicked taste of her body had only whetted his appetite. He wasn’t going to be satisfied with a moral and spiritual seduction, as he was with the rest of his followers. He needed total capitulation in her case, and nothing less would do.

“You don’t really believe that, do you, Rachel?” he said.

Her reaction was priceless, her eyes widening. “You’re admitting you aren’t the saint everyone here thinks you are?”

“No one is a saint, particularly those who think they are. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a con artist who preys on neurotic people and rips them off. I think you seduced my mother, got her to leave all her money to you, and then …” Something, some vestige of restraint, stopped her.

“And then?” he prodded. “What did I do then? Have her killed?”

“Did you?”

He laughed, knowing the sound would irritate her. “You’ve got a hell of an imagination, Rachel.”

“I thought the Foundation of Being disapproved of profanity,” she shot back.

“Rules don’t apply to me.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what? Seduce your mother? You must not have known Stella very well if you think she needed seduction. Part of her therapy was to confess her character defects, and sexual voraciousness was one of her major ones. She wasn’t the kind to wait for a man to make a move.”

“So she seduced you?”

“Why are you so passionately obsessed with my sex life, Rachel?” he asked softly. “Don’t you have one of your own to keep you busy?”

“We’re not talking about me,” she said. “We’re talking about your sins.”

“Not a concept we agree on, remember?”

“You’re not going to deny you’re a con man?”

“I’m not going to deny anything.”

“Including that you cheated my mother out of her money?”

“Your mother’s dead, Rachel. She has no need of money where she’s going.”

“Then you cheated
me
out of her money!” She was up on her knees, moving closer. All he had to do was sit there, legs outstretched, and lure her closer. It was child’s play. He liked her awake, alive, furious. He wanted to taste her angry mouth when she could fight back. She would, he knew it. But she’d eventually surrender, making it all the sweeter.

“Why do you think you deserve it?” he asked. “You couldn’t have been very close. She never talked about you. You’d think if there was any warmth or affection between the two of you she would have at least asked for you on her deathbed.”

“And you’re telling me she didn’t?”

He could hear the pain in her voice. He’d learned to soothe pain, to heal it, through lies and half lies and even, occasionally, truths. Healing her pain would avail him nothing. Hurting her
more would throw her off balance, make her more vulnerable. Vulnerable to him.

“Not a word. You must have let her down very badly in this life.”

For a moment he wondered whether he might have gone too far. He had known Stella Connery very well. He knew the deep, ingrained selfishness that had ruled her life, and he had little doubt that if, in truth, anyone had been abandoned in that tiny, dysfunctional family, it had been the angry young woman staring at him with hurt and denial in her eyes.