Drawn into Darkness Page 16

  “Go away,” she said tightly. “Go away and leave us alone.”

  “Mom!”

  At Em’s strangled cry, a hint of a smile returned to Drew’s face, and Rachel’s heart tripped and fell into a rabbit hole. She’d played right into his hand. He’d been hoping that she’d spurn his efforts, counting on her to run roughshod over his impassioned pleas. Everything he’d said was all part of the show, and the show was all for Em.

  He didn’t bother to respond, just stood quietly and let Rachel’s own words do his work for him.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Em snapped, pitching her load of groceries onto the sidewalk at her feet, uncaring of the glass-shattering impact. “Drew’s done everything humanly possible to please you and it’s still not enough. What does he have to do to make you happy?”

  “He’s not what you think he is, Em. He’s a monster. He and his friends mugged Father MacGregor last night and cut him up very badly. Why don’t you ask him about that?”

  Em halted her tirade, eyes blinking in confusion. Her gaze swiveled to Drew.

  “Em, please.” Drew threw Em a shocked glance and took a defensive step back. His sudden paleness, widened eyes, and apparent confusion seemed authentic. “I swear I don’t know what she’s talking about. I don’t even know this Father Macwhatever guy. I sure as hell didn’t cut anybody up.”

  Even the desperate timbre of his voice rang true. If Rachel hadn’t heard the other side of the story—and if Drew hadn’t already admitted to knowing Lachlan—she probably would have bought his act.

  “He says you did,” she said coldly. “And frankly, I believe him over you.”

  “Well, maybe your faith in this priest guy is misplaced, because I’m telling you I never mugged him, never mugged anyone. My friends and I like to act tough, but all we do is dress like badasses and ride around on our bikes. Sure, we drink the odd beer and smoke some weed, but we’re not criminals. Are you sure this Father MacGregor is telling you the truth?”

  He was good. Very, very good.

  Even though she knew he was using the huge unknowns about Lachlan to his advantage, she was swayed—just a little. Was she sure? Was she truly convinced that Lachlan had told her the truth about the attack?

  No, she wasn’t sure.

  Not about Lachlan.

  But she was sure about Drew. Maybe it was a mother’s innate ability to sense danger, but she was certain this suave, good-looking young man couldn’t be trusted, no matter how convincing his words were.

  “I’m very sure,” she replied. Snatching the two paper bags back from Drew, she briskly added, “Em, pick up the groceries. We’re going inside. Tonight, you can hear Father MacGregor’s version of this ugly little story. Then you can decide what the truth really is.”

  Em hesitated.

  “Go ahead, Em,” Drew said quietly. “Talk to this guy; it can’t hurt. Just remember I love you. I’d never do anything to hurt you, or anyone else.”

  The burn in Rachel’s chest subsided—a bit.

  He was backing off, but he didn’t seem at all concerned about Em speaking with Lachlan. In fact, he encouraged her to do it. Why would he do that when he knew a brief chat with Lachlan would prove him a liar?

  Em’s face still held traces of animosity, but she gathered the spilled groceries at her feet and stood, her arm cradling the now-soggy paper bag.

  With safety only a few feet away, Rachel jogged up the stairs to the double glass doors, tugged one open, and stepped aside to let Em pass through. Her daughter entered the cool, blue lobby, and immediately Rachel’s heartbeat calmed. But it didn’t completely settle. It was almost too easy, this escape, as if they were a pair of mice making a mad dash for freedom, unable to see that the cat had them cornered.

  Before she followed Em inside, Rachel pitched a parting look at Drew.

  He stood exactly where she’d left him, watching her. When her gaze met his, he offered her a slow, lazy smile, implying that everything had gone exactly the way he’d planned.

  Then he spun on his black-booted heel and departed.

  Lachlan sat back on the hard wooden stool. Rolling his shoulders, he attempted to relieve the tightness that had developed at the base of his neck.

  Despite the vast number of candles dripping wax onto the stone floor, the light in the room was annoyingly dim. How sweetly he’d been seduced by modern technology. He could barely believe he’d once accepted this flickering murk as the norm. Add in medieval gall ink faded by time and endless pages of yellowed parchment, and it was no wonder his eyes protested at the abuse, demanding he shut them.

  But he couldn’t rest.

  There was too much to learn. He hadn’t yet cracked the spine on either of the two grimoires perched on the corner of the table, but the book of ancient lore he was currently perusing had already turned his known world on its ear.

  The gods were not what he thought.

  To hear Death talk, one would think her supremely capable and infinitely powerful. In fact, she was weak. While God and Satan were consummate deities imbued with an extensive range of powers, Death was not. She was a lesser deity, a demigod, and as such she had only limited abilities. The Gatherers suffered with a poor portfolio of primals, not because she deigned it so, but because it was all she could provide.

  The book was quite fascinating. Indeed, the moment he’d turned the first crinkly page, he’d been enthralled.

  He glanced at his watch.

  And frowned.

  The silver hands on the black face insisted the time was two twenty, but that couldn’t be right. That would suggest he’d been lost in the tome for twelve hours. Unlikely.

  “Stefan,” he hollered.

  A moment passed. Then the mage stuck his head around the purple curtain. He was munching on a chunk of crusty bun slathered with butter. “What?”

  A tantalizing waft of spicy spaghetti entered the room with him, and Lachlan’s stomach growled.

  “What time is it?”

  “Seven thirty.”

  “Bloody hell.” Not quite as bad as losing twelve hours, but still a shock. “My watch has stopped working.”

  “Oh,” Stefan said, wrinkling his nose. “Did I forget to mention that? In here, none of your modern gadgets work.”

  “Where is here, exactly?”

  The mage stood taller, sweeping the room with a proud, fatherly look. “Castle Rakimczyk, Hungary, fifteenth century.”

  “A real castle, in the real fifteenth century?”

  Stefan beamed. “Yes.”

  “Impressive. A family inheritance?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  Lachlan glanced at the darkened arch to the left, the one with a circular stone staircase leading up. “Can someone from this time walk in on us?”

  “Not without a lot of heavy digging. The castle above has been burned to the ground. The locals weren’t too happy with my ancestors. Blamed them for every milkless cow and festering boil.”

  “Why work here? Couldn’t you find a more pleasant spot?”

  “No choice. The books are spellbound to this room and this time. Can’t be moved. If I want to use them, I have to use them here.”

  “Vexing.”

  “To say the least. Keeps them safe, though.”

  Lachlan’s nostrils flared as he caught another whiff of spaghetti off the mage’s clothes. “Food passes over the threshold with no problem?” he asked as he watched the last of the bread roll disappear inside Stefan’s mouth.

  “Yes. Clothes, too, as you can see. Seems to mostly affect the electronic stuff.” His gaze glimmered with faint amusement. “Hungry?”

  “Aye.”

  “Come out and join us, then. Dika made enough pasta to feed an army, and she’d be pleased to fill a plate for you.”

  Although the opportunity to dig into Stefan’s mysterious life intrigued him, he’d already spent more hours here than he ought to have. For the first time in more than a week, he hadn’t trailed Emily ho
me from school, and although he suspected Drusus was lying low after last night’s attack, that nagged at him. Luck hadn’t exactly been running in his favor lately.

  “Thank you for the offer, but I’d best head home.”

  “Your loss.” Stefan shrugged and retreated back behind the curtain. “Dika makes the best spaghetti this side of Italy.”

  Lachlan slid a dry quill between the pages to mark his spot and glanced at the heading of the next chapter: “The Trinity Soul.” According to the first few lines, it was an ancient myth about a rare soul who, in a time of dark conflict among the deities, would be born upon the earth, summoned by God to help him save the world. A bit of useless fiction.

  He was about to shift the quill to the next chapter, when his eyes drifted over the sketch at the bottom of the page, and he halted, feather in the air. It was a very simple image—three equal-sized black dots, two on top and one centered below—a motif that probably occurred frequently, naturally, in any multitude of places. Still, the hairs on his neck lifted. He’d seen that exact pattern just this afternoon. Ran his fingers over it, kissed it—a tiny grouping of moles on Rachel’s right hip.

  With his heart pumping chilly unease through his veins, he peered at the worn inscription below the sketch: Mother of the Trinity Soul.

  Lachlan stiffened.

  He’d never put much stake in coincidence. Yet Emily was the focal point of a large number of coincidences: Death’s fascination with a human child; the assignment of her best Gatherer to watch over her; the bizarre request to keep the girl alive that flew in the face of Death’s own raison d’être; Satan’s interest in that same human child; the assignment of one of his lure demons to sway her; the ever-increasing threat of demon attacks.

  Was it possible? Were those three tiny moles on Rachel’s hip what they seemed to be? Was Emily this unique Trinity Soul?

  And what exactly was a Trinity Soul?

  Almost afraid of the answer, he bent over the book and read on.

  “He’s home. Let’s go.”

  Her daughter looked up. She sat at the desk, hunched over her laptop computer, several MSN chat windows and a pinball game open at the same time. A glass of milk and a pilfered box of chocolate chip cookies balanced precariously atop various piles of junk.

  “I don’t really need to go,” Em said, spiritlessly. “I believe you, okay?”

  “No. I’m tired of having Drew imply that I’m lying, that I’m just saying all this stuff to make him look bad. I want you to hear the whole sordid mess direct from Father MacGregor’s mouth and see the cuts for yourself. Let’s go.”

  Em huffed an exaggerated sigh, typed brb into all her open windows, then rolled off the chair. “Fine, but I’m not staying long. I’ve got things to do.”

  “Homework, I hope?”

  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not planning to stay long, either.”

  In all honesty, Rachel wasn’t sure how eager Lachlan would be to see them on his doorstep, not after her last visit. Although neither one of them had said words to that effect, it had felt an awful lot like good-bye when they parted.

  They trod up the tiled stairs to the third floor and paused before a white colonial door identical to theirs, except for the shiny brass numbers, 309. The smoky strains of Michael Bublé’s latest hit single floated into the carpeted hallway, and Rachel smiled. A modern take on old-fashioned songs. Yes, that suited him.

  She rapped on the door.

  A moment later, Lachlan stood before them in all his six-foot-plus glory, and Rachel’s vow to remain cool and objective flew right out the window. The fantasy-inhibiting clerical outfit was gone, replaced by coal black jeans that hugged his muscular thighs and a pearl gray oxford shirt, the sleeves rolled up and several buttons undone at the throat.

  Relaxed. Casual. And unbelievably sexy.

  He blinked at her as if she were the last person he expected to see, which was probably true.

  “We need to talk to you,” she said, scrambling to repair her businesslike facade. “We had a visit from Drew today.”

  His gaze slammed into hers, no longer politely distant, but intimate and concerned. He searched her face, then quickly checked her body. With her well-being confirmed, his shoulders noticeably eased and his gaze moved on to Em. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I tried. You didn’t answer your phone.”

  “But I had it—” He halted, rubbed his forehead, and sighed. “What happened?”

  “Nothing, he backed off. But he insisted you were lying about last night’s attack, and I needed Em to see and hear the truth. From you.”

  “The truth?”

  Rachel nodded. “Can we come in, please?”

  “Rachel, I—”

  “This will only take a second,” she assured him, barreling over his protest and pushing past him to enter the apartment, hoping to forestall any mention of her last visit. “Em and I can’t stay long.”

  He closed the door and trailed them slowly into the open space of the living room, the room that was becoming as familiar as her own. So much so, in fact, that she instinctively adjusted the ornately framed beveled mirror hanging slightly askew on the wall.

  Under the soft light of the chandelier, his face looked just as it had the first time she met him—classically handsome—no hint of the bruise around his eye remaining. He descended the steps from the entranceway without a limp—an amazing recovery.

  For some reason, her heart was beating a little fast when she said, “Just show her the cuts on your chest and tell her what happened last night. Then we’ll be out of your hair.”

  Lachlan stood very still, his eyes on her face. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  Em was listening to the exchange with far more interest than she’d shown about coming up here. She’d stopped fidgeting and removed her earphones.

  “It’s no’ possible.”

  “Not possible? You showed them to me. Why can’t you show them to her?”

  “Rachel, this is—”

  “You don’t get it,” she said, her shoulders sagging. “She half believes him. He’s very convincing. Let her see what he did to you so she can understand what kind of monster he is.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Do you want her to believe him?”

  “Of course no’.” He turned to Em. “Emily, Drew truly did attack me last night. I saw his face quite clearly.”

  Em frowned. “But you’re way bigger and stronger than he is. How could he beat you?”

  “Because they attacked him in a group, that’s how,” Rachel answered in an angry rush, envisioning the swarming in her mind. “Drew and his whole gang.”

  “Actually,” Lachlan said, with a quick glance at Rachel, “that’s no’ true. He attacked me alone. Smaller doesn’t always mean weaker, Emily. He’s a very skilled fighter, and he had weapons I didn’t possess.”

  “Why would he do that? Attack you, I mean? Why would he want to hurt a priest?”

  “He knows me. He knows I’m committed to protecting you, and he knows I won’t back away easily.”

  “You knew each other before you came here?”

  “Aye.”

  Em tilted her head. “Did he have anything to do with the death of your wife?”

  Rachel’s breath caught. Wife? What wife?

  Lachlan’s blue-gray eyes darkened. “Aye.”

  Em folded her arms over her black leather vest. “You talk a pretty good story, Father MacGregor, and I really want to trust you. But you don’t look hurt. If Drew attacked you like you say he did, wouldn’t you have bruises or stitches or something?”

  Lachlan was silent.

  “None of it really happened, did it?”

  “Of course it happened,” said Rachel, still flummoxed by the news that Lachlan had a wife. “I saw his injuries myself.”

  “Maybe you’re just going along with the game.” Em’s heavily made-up eyes turned to her, narrowing
. “Maybe this is all part of your big plan to get me to split up with Drew.”

  “Why would I haul you all the way up here if this was just a game?” Rachel retorted. Now more determined than ever to prove her story—and Lachlan’s—she reached for the buttons on Lachlan’s shirt.

  “No, Rachel.” He grabbed her hand and held it tight.

  She wrenched her fingers free. “Just show her, damn it.”

  “I can’t.”

  Em slowly shook her head. “He can’t show us the cuts because they don’t exist. Isn’t that right, Father MacGregor?”

  “Em, you’re being ridiculous.”

  “Isn’t that right, Father MacGregor?” Em repeated, her voice firm and sure.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

  Rachel slapped away Lachlan’s hands and began unbuttoning his shirt. Lower and lower, until the shirt was completely unfastened, until his magnificent chest was bared. Rachel froze. There was no sign of the long, narrow cuts that had decorated his flesh a few hours ago. Not a scratch or scab remained.

  She lifted her gaze to Lachlan’s face, confused.

  “How is that possible?”

  “Because they were fake, Mom. It was all a big hoax.”

  Rachel shook her head, remembering the oozing blood, the parted layers of skin, how pale he’d been. “No, I saw them. They were bleeding.”

  He grabbed her shaking hands, tugging them close to his heart. His eyes were soft gray clouds. “Rachel …”

  His heart pumped strong and steady beneath her fingers, clearly healthy, clearly uninjured. His bare skin was warm and smooth and, except for a few old white scars, impossibly unblemished.

  She jerked away, backing toward Em. Betrayal swirled in her belly like a bitter medicine, and hot tears pricked behind her eyelids. She had trusted this man, believed in him. She’d let him make love to her. God, she was such a sucker for a handsome face. “A hoax? You did all this to fool me?”

  “It wasn’t a hoax.”

  “Then explain it,” she begged. “Where did those cuts go?”

  “They healed.”

  “In less than a day? I don’t think so.”

  “I heal very fast.”