Drawn into Darkness Page 2

  “Yes?”

  “Coroner’s ready to take the body to the morgue. Wanna speak with him before he heads out?”

  “Did he set a TOD?”

  “Around six a.m.”

  Drusus nodded. Not a bad guess. He’d choked the life out of the jogger’s pretty green eyes at 6:07. It had been a thoroughly enjoyable experience—almost as enjoyable as seeing the look on MacGregor’s face when he spotted her body. The weeks spent searching for the right shade of red hair had definitely paid off. “Then don’t hold him up. I’ve got enough to go on for now.”

  The investigator glanced at the bushes hugging the water’s edge. “Find anything useful?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. You?”

  “Coupla shoe prints—that’s about it.”

  “Maybe you’ll find something on the body,” Drusus said, hiding a smile. Wouldn’t matter. He’d been wearing the guise of a local homeless man at the time. Any evidence would lead the police to a bewildered derelict who would pointlessly protest his innocence.

  “We can hope, right?”

  The young CSI walked away, and Drusus allowed his gaze to fall to the sword and coat lost beneath the arching branches of coyote brush. They lay twenty feet beyond the official crime scene and hadn’t been noted. As much as he wanted to cause MacGregor grief, the items would provide no viable fingerprints or DNA to the police, so there was no point in disturbing them.

  Besides, there’d be no satisfaction in defeating the immortal warrior if the wretch could claim he’d been less than fully armed. No, this time MacGregor would not escape a proper end. This time he would die the way history had intended—hard.

  Crossing the apartment building’s lobby to the elevators, Rachel glanced at her daughter’s heart-shaped face and flashed back to the image of the waterlogged school bus being pulled from the depths of the lake. She squeezed Em’s hand. It could all have ended so differently. It could have been Em the paramedics laid on a gurney and zipped into a body bag instead of that poor bus driver.

  “I’m fine.” Em shook off Rachel’s hold. “Why are we taking the elevator? It’s only one floor.”

  “Because you’re in shock.”

  “Gimme a break.”

  “You almost died.”

  “Exaggerate much?” She sighed dramatically. “Come on, Mom. The elevator’s too slow, and I’m soaking wet. Can we please just take the stairs?”

  “Fine.”

  Annoyed by how easily guilt chewed into her, Rachel tugged Em to the stairwell. She flung open the steel door and promptly rammed into a warm, solid barrier. A man wearing a dark suit bent over. If she hadn’t steadied herself with a hand on his backside, she might have flipped right over the fellow.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry.”

  He straightened. “My fault. I dropped my cell phone.”

  Rachel blinked. Black suit, plus white collar, equaled … priest. She snatched her hand away. Not just any priest, but the very one the emergency workers had pointed to as her daughter’s saintly rescuer.

  Those two facts alone should have placed him in the untouchable category, but her flustered hormones didn’t seem to care. As she eyed all six-feet-plus of his muscular frame, her heartbeat skittered. Honestly, if more clergymen looked like this, the churches would be full.

  He held her gaze for a brief moment—a strangely palpable moment—then shifted his attention to Emily, who slouched indifferently at her side, black streaks of mascara and eyeliner running down her face. “You okay?”

  Em shrugged.

  “Yes, she is,” Rachel jumped in, embarrassed by her daughter’s attitude-laden response. “Of course she is. Thanks to you. I wanted to come over and say something at the accident scene, but the police and the press had you cornered.”

  Was it a sin to think a priest was a hunk? That classically handsome face, blunted by just a dash of weary experience, made her breath hitch. Even with his black suit wrinkled and stained, and his short brown hair a spiky mess, he looked absolutely amazing.

  His gaze came back to her. Blue-gray eyes, steady and very perceptive. “Glad I was there.”

  Heat rushed into her cheeks. Hugging a stiff-shouldered Em, she said weakly, “Yes. We are, too.”

  She ought to say more, but what? How do you really thank someone for saving your daughter’s life? Words just didn’t seem enough, so she settled on an introduction.

  “I’m Rachel Lewis, and this is Emily.”

  He stared at her extended hand for a moment, then took it in his. “Lachlan MacGregor.”

  The warmth of his lean, square-tipped fingers sent an unexpected tingle up her arm, and Rachel had to focus to produce a level voice. “Are you Scottish, Father MacGregor?” When he didn’t answer right away, she added, “I mean, your name and that slight accent, I just assumed …”

  “I haven’t lived there for many years, but aye, I’m originally from Glen Lyon.” He dropped her hand.

  There was an awkward pause as Rachel debated what to say next. Tell him they were originally from Connecticut? Admit that they didn’t go to church? Invite him to dinner? No, she couldn’t invite him to dinner. What the hell could she possibly say to a priest for an hour?

  “I’ve always wanted to visit Scotland,” she said lamely.

  A faint glimmer of something shone in his eyes. Amusement? “It’s a fine country, well worth the trip. Especially in late August when the heather blooms.”

  His gaze drifted to Em, who stood staring at the floor with her arms folded tight to her chest. Maybe he saw her shiver, because he waved a hand at the stairs. “I believe we could all use a hot shower right about now. After you, Mrs. Lewis.”

  Mrs. Lewis. Ugh. Even when she and Grant had been starry-eyed newlyweds, she’d hated being called that.

  “Rachel, please. I’m divorced.” She flushed, suddenly recalling that most religions tended to frown upon divorce. “Em’s father and I married too young—”

  “No need to explain.”

  His smile was gentle, and her embarrassment receded. At least, it did until she realized her admission to being divorced might be interpreted as a come-on. Biting her lip, she hustled Em up the wide, tiled stairs. Having lascivious thoughts about a priest might not be a sin, but coming on to one … ?

  No doubt about it. She was going to hell.

  * * *

  Lachlan stared at Rachel’s arse. To be fair, it was damned hard not to, climbing the stairs immediately behind her. As sweetly rounded as it was, he’d have to be a saint not to have noticed. And he was definitely not a saint.

  Rachel.

  To this point she’d only been Emily Lewis’s mother, but now that he knew her name, it seemed as if he’d always known it. It suited her—old-fashioned, yet earthy and sensual. A biblical name went well with the long waves of mahogany hair and fine, creamy skin. Maybe less of a match with the bedroom eyes and full lips, but he wasn’t complaining.

  She and Emily paused at the door to the second floor and turned. “Thanks again, Father MacGregor.” Her gaze was warm and genuine. “Really.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Then the door swung shut, and they vanished.

  Lachlan climbed the remaining steps to the second-floor landing and wrapped his palm around the steel doorknob. Faint traces of her warmth still lingered in the metal and her floral perfume hung in the air.

  He breathed deep.

  Amazing. Every inch of him hummed with awareness, just as it had the first time he spied her by the pool, chatting with one of the older tenants. His eyes had been drawn to her by something he couldn’t name, a slightly brighter aura, perhaps. And then she’d smiled—not at him, at her companion—and her face lit up, sparkling with humor. In a blink, that fresh, unbounded grin reached through the layers of his grief and stirred him to life, like rain to the parched desert of his soul.

  Lachlan released the knob.

  But his focus should be on Emily, not Rachel.

  The bus crash was no accident. Th
e driver had purposely rammed the barrier, intending to take herself and her busload of students to a watery grave. Murder-suicides were almost always the result of a demonic lure, but the timing of this one was suspect. Was it a coincidence that he’d been so close to the crash site? Or that Emily had been on that particular bus?

  Lachlan turned and continued up the stairs.

  Un-bloody-likely. Unlocking his third-floor apartment, he entered the cool sanctuary of his private quarters. Claret walls and black trim abounded, even in the kitchen to his right. Only the rich caramel of the hardwood flooring relieved the somber color scheme. His shoulders eased as he descended the steps into the furniture-barren living room and surrounded himself with the medieval weapons scattered about the room.

  Home.

  An angel would arrive soon enough to collect the soul he’d gathered, but for now he was alone. Lachlan shrugged out of his frock coat and tossed it over the windowsill. Thanks to the more newsworthy bus accident, the investigation into the redhead’s death had been contained. When he’d returned to the bridge to collect his belongings, his sword had still been lying in the bushes, waiting patiently for its owner. A lucky break.

  He unsheathed the weapon and returned it to its place of honor, a velvet-backed display above the fireplace. Then, grabbing a Stone Pale Ale from the fridge, he made his way out to the small, sunny balcony that overlooked the garden courtyard … and Rachel Lewis’s apartment.

  Her balcony hung directly below his, and if he leaned over, fragments of her life were visible, teasing him. Every apartment in the complex had a balcony, but Rachel’s was unique.

  Flower boxes hung off all three whitewashed sides, spilling over with a profusion of colorful blooms and leafy green ivy. Inside the six-by-twelve-foot space sat a red wooden deck chair, a small table, several potted bushes, and a fishpond. The pond lay beyond his view, but the soft trickle of a fountain and the occasional ripples of swimming fish conjured up a vivid image.

  A retreat. One she often sought after a long day.

  He didn’t expect to see her there now, not given the disturbing events of the morning, but he could imagine her, and he did. Reclining in her chair with a book in hand … her long bare legs extended, the dark waves of her curly hair spilling over her shoulders.

  Lachlan poured cold beer down his throat, wishing it were something more potent. Hadn’t he stopped doing this? Hadn’t he decided three months ago that spying on her was pointless, that he was behaving little better than a crazed stalker? He had. And giving up the fantasy had been relatively painless—then.

  But everything was different now.

  A simple handshake had upended his world. As his palm lay against hers, as their hearts beat in tandem and their heat mingled, a sense of completion had stolen over him. It was as if his body recognized hers. A crazy notion, perhaps, yet the effect was indisputable. The need to hold her in his arms, to feel every inch of her against him, had escalated to a visceral ache. He craved to be welcomed into her embrace; to experience the closeness, family, and normalcy she offered; to feel eager and hopeful again.

  But he’d forfeited all that. He had no right to ask for a moment in Rachel’s arms. He had ninety-one years of penance left to serve, and then he’d meet his fate—probably in hell.

  Lachlan pivoted and reentered his apartment. Almost blindly, he found his way to the small bedroom that housed his sofa and TV. He sank onto the leather sofa, leaned his head back, and squeezed his eyes shut. The shades were drawn and in the dimness he could almost pretend he didn’t hear the screams anymore. Not the screams of teenagers trapped on a bus, although there was an echo of that, too. No, the screams that haunted him were the pleading cries of his family. The shrill notes of horror, the terrified wails, and the strangled sound of his name upon their lips as they were brutally murdered by the raiders who had entered his keep by the secret water gate.

  The very gate he’d told them about.

  2

  The summons came at noon the next day.

  When the first gloomy notes of the bell tolled through the apartment, Lachlan instinctively stiffened. But he shook off the tension and calmly ate the bacon and tomato sandwich on whole wheat he’d prepared. Then he rinsed his plate in the sink and dried his hands on a kitchen towel. Only when he was confident he’d pushed his luck to the absolute brink did he close his eyes and allow the summons to transport him to Death’s cathedral-like abode in the ice caves of Antarctica.

  His breath frosted as he opened his eyes and slowly took his bearings: vaulted ceilings, a thousand tea lights recessed into the ice, watery-blue walls gilded by the gold of flickering flames, and a soft gray mist that hugged the floors. Eerily beautiful.

  Just like Death herself.

  She sat regally on her high-backed onyx chair, draped in a sleeveless black satin gown, her long white hair piled in artful curls upon her head. Her blue eyes were fiercely alert, her pale skin smooth, and her age impossible to determine.

  “You try my patience, Gatherer.”

  Lachlan offered his liege a scant bow, then strode up the scarlet carpet, halting mere feet from her exalted person. Not one of her six cadaverous bodyguards proved witless enough to block his path. “I do no’ answer to the jangle of bells.”

  “Of course you do. Whether you choose to acknowledge it or not, MacGregor, your soul belongs to me.”

  “I gave you my allegiance,” he agreed. “But I died a laird, no’ a gillie. I serve no one.”

  Death rose, the inky fabric of her gown pooling in a shining puddle at her feet. Her face reflected a pristine emptiness. “Your attitude is dangerously bold of late. Are you hoping that in my anger I’ll slay you and end your term prematurely?”

  Lachlan said nothing.

  “Foolish man. If anything, my wrath would see me extend your term another five hundred years. You are unsurpassed in your extermination of demons, and the angels constantly praise your respectful collection of souls. I’ve nothing to gain by releasing you early”—she descended the three steps to the mist-shrouded floor and swept by him in a cloud of cool, crystalline scent—“even when the temptation to smite you is strong. You violated the Gatherer code, halting time for a living soul.”

  He pivoted, keeping her in view. “Did you no’ ask me to keep her safe?”

  “I did, and despite your illicit effort, you very nearly failed me.” Scooping a handful of dried fruit from the dinghy-sized silver bowl on the ebony sideboard, she picked through it with the elongated white fingernail of her right index finger—the same finger with which she marked her chosen.

  “I can’t be in two places at once.” He watched a piece of pear disappear between her bloodred lips. “If you wish me to play the nursemaid, release me from my gathering duties.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Then prepare for further disappointment.”

  She pinned him with her icy gaze. “Do not caution me. You can do more than you are currently doing, and I demand your all. Get closer to the family. Every moment you are not gathering should be spent watching her.”

  “Why?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You do not need to know why. Just keep her out of Satan’s hands and inform me of any unusual events.”

  “Is Satan aware of her importance?”

  “Did I say she was important?”

  Resisting the urge to snort, he said, “Dragging your finest warrior halfway around the world to babysit says enough.”

  “Finest? Ha! A few months ago, I’d have happily accorded you that distinction, but no longer. You’ve lost your ruthless edge, MacGregor. You’re making me regret my investment in you.”

  An ineffective red herring. For more than four hundred years, he’d buried himself in cold, single-minded purpose, honing his skills without pause and shunning the world to focus on his duties. He let nothing stand in the way of his gathering, and that dedication had lifted him to the pinnacle of the Gatherer world. His reawakening at Rachel’s hands changed nothing … excep
t the pain.

  “I find it curious,” he said, “the lengths to which Death is willing to go to keep a single human child alive.”

  “Curiosity is not a virtue in a Gatherer.”

  The muscles in his sword arm twitched at the heavy note of disdain in her voice. “If I understood her value, I would know better how to protect her.”

  “Ridiculous. It is simply a matter of slaying demons, a task you already perform with great proficiency.”

  “Slaying demons is no longer a simple task, even for a seasoned warrior. The rifts are allowing Satan’s henchmen to break through to the middle plane with increasing regularity. The flimsy portfolio of tools you provide leaves the Gatherers disadvantaged. We’re losing.”

  “Indeed.” Death fingered the ruby necklace at her throat. “A shame. I’ve lost some talented minions.”

  The term minion did not sit well, nor did her casual acceptance of his brethren’s slaughter, but Lachlan held on to his temper. “Then strike back.”

  “Why? The rifts are temporary. They will pass.”

  “So you’ve repeatedly said. But you won’t say what’s causing them, and despite your assurances, the situation continues to worsen—Gatherers continue to perish.”

  Death met his gaze for a moment, then shrugged.

  Goaded, he snarled, “For God’s sake, woman, take charge. Equip your warriors to better battle the demons, or approach the Lord and insist that Satan be reined in.”

  His outburst failed to rattle her. “There’s nothing to be gained by bending God’s ear. Chaos on the middle plane works for all of us.”

  “It doesn’t work for the Gatherers.”

  Adjusting the gauzy black shawl that hung over her thin shoulders, she smiled. “No, I suppose not. But I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to better equip them.”

  “Then reach out to the Romany Council. Use the mages in an organized fashion.”

  “I think not. Insidious troublemakers, the Roma. Every Gatherer who partners with one eventually becomes unmanageable.”