Drawn into Darkness Page 6

  He followed her up the stairs, flinching as he narrowly avoided bumping his shoulder on a large wooden crucifix on the wall. The scent of lemons was harsh now, burning his nostrils, clawing at his skin, but he pushed on. Everything worth having demanded a high price. And he was close to his prize; he could sense the faint undercurrent of the relic’s power.

  The old nun smiled shyly at him as she waved him into the sparsely furnished bedroom at the end of the hall. Feeling magnanimous, he returned her smile.

  Then he faced the priest.

  Like the other Protectors he’d encountered over the years, this one recognized him immediately, despite the intricate human veneer he’d adopted for the occasion. Something in the eyes, perhaps. No matter, it simplified his task. He shut the door.

  “Let’s get to the point, shall we? The Linen, if you will.”

  “You’re too late,” the priest responded. “It’s gone.”

  The words snatched the breath from his lungs, their meaning instantly clear: Although there’d been nothing but confusion in his eyes last night, at some point MacGregor had experienced an epiphany. He’d stolen the Linen. Again. “When did he come?”

  The rosary in the priest’s hands slid from one bead to the next as he prayed, silently weaving a powerful shield. “Just after lunch.”

  Six hours. Six miserable hours wasted knocking on the doors of other churches. Six hours of enduring the burning air of consecrated ground, fighting for every breath, feeling his flesh crawl under the ghostly touch of holy spirits. All of it made bearable by the knowledge that he was closing in on his long-sought-after prize.

  Only to have it stolen from beneath his nose.

  “Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terrae …” the monsignor began firmly.

  The Apostles’ Creed. In Latin.

  Red-hot rage sluiced through his veins at the familiar words, words that would focus the priest’s faith and imbue him with incredible power. Every blessed object in this room would become a weapon. But even a Protector was breakable. He’d proven that himself, several times. Neither God nor all the faith in the world would save this miserable wretch now. He’d live just long enough to regret giving the Linen to MacGregor.

  “Et in lesum Christum, Filium Eius unicum, Dominum nostrum …”

  The scent of lemons thickened, every molecule of air now a droplet of acid. Drusus glanced at his hands. The skin was peeling away, leaving his flesh red and raw. On second thought, spilling the blood of a single holy man wouldn’t be satisfying. Not this time.

  “A pity MacGregor chose to desert you,” he murmured, as orange flames sprouted from his ravaged fingertips. He’d kill all five of the pious souls living here. Slowly. Singe by painful singe, sear by screaming sear. Using just enough heat to roast the flesh from their bones, he would drag the event out for several hours and truly savor the experience. He’d do the old nun last, so he could watch the light dim in her cowlike eyes. “He’s going to miss one hell of a party.”

  He tossed the first fireball.

  There’d be plenty of time to deal with MacGregor.

  Later.

  “Goddamn it.”

  Rachel threw her stylus onto the desk, shoved her chair back, and stood. The blank white screen of her computer illustration program danced in front of her face, mocking her with its vacancy.

  Most days, her job was awesome. There was nothing in the world like getting paid to do what she would willingly do for free. But at moments like this, she wished she had more control over the process, that her creativity could turn on and off when needed, like a light switch, instead of being stifled by her worries.

  She glanced down the hall.

  A classic example of why she had focus problems, right there. The sign on her daughter’s bedroom door still read EMILY’S ROOM—KEEP OUT, but at some point the teenage banner of independence had gotten a makeover. Bats with fangs had consumed the cute little daisies, and the simple black lettering now had a heavy, bloodred outline, complete with gory drips.

  What the hell was she going to do about Em?

  She’d called the police again and told them about the rendezvous at the fairgrounds, but other than a promise to check the gates regularly to ensure they were locked, the officer she’d spoken to had little to offer.

  The microwave beeped and Rachel padded barefoot into the kitchen. Doing her best to ignore the digital clock that glowed 12:12 a.m., she opened the door. Nuked coffee. Yum, just what the doctor ordered. She took a couple of sips from the steaming mug, deriving a primitive comfort from the warmth it left in her belly. Then, just like a rubberneck drawn to a grisly accident scene, she swiveled toward the dining room table.

  Crumpled sketches, a sea of eraser dust, and a handful of HB pencils littered the dark blue tablecloth. Her leather portfolio lay open at one end of the table, the plastic sleeves glaringly empty. Several balls of discarded paper had escaped onto the floor, hiding their shame behind the curved table legs.

  Her work wasn’t giving an inch.

  She’d have to spend a big chunk of the weekend at her computer, doing her utmost to catch up. Celia had rewarded her presentation with more work: a whole series to do on her own. The assignment made her five thirty departure from the office almost criminal—the rest of her colleagues had ordered dinner in, expecting to burn the midnight oil. Lots of high-tech companies allowed their employees to work from home, but Celia was a stickler for coming into the office. She insisted that a designer’s creativity needed the spur of other creative minds, and honestly, Rachel agreed.

  If she weren’t a single mom—a single mom with a teenage daughter who currently needed to be bed checked every half hour—she would have stayed.

  There was a sharp rap on the apartment door, and Rachel jumped, spilling her coffee down the front of her baggy DKNY nightshirt. Visitors during the day were strange enough, but in the middle of the night … ?

  Heart thumping, she approached the door and peered through the peephole—and immediately eased.

  Lachlan MacGregor.

  Rachel grimaced at her very unattractive sleepwear, now adorned with an even more unattractive coffee stain. The shirt covered her well enough, coming almost to her knees, but it was old and shapeless, and hardly what she wanted to entertain a hunky guy in.

  Then again, Lachlan wasn’t a hunky guy; he was a priest—off-limits. Maybe it was better this way—to eliminate all hope of an admiring glance.

  She tugged open the door.

  And sucked in a short breath.

  Seeing him in person had an unexpected, forceful impact. He wore his usual clerical suit, but his short hair looked as if a tornado had ripped through it, and the shadow of a beard darkened his chin. He still had that aura of supreme confidence, but tonight it was mixed with something else, something that swirled in his stormy blue eyes and hinted at … vulnerability?

  Whatever it was, it was devastating. The shiver that ran through her was so keen, the surface of her coffee rippled.

  “I apologize for the late hour,” he said, his gaze flickering to her bare legs and back up. The storm in his eyes gathered intensity, which cranked up her internal thermostat and spawned all sorts of naughty imaginings. “But I noticed your light was still on and took a chance.”

  Rachel forced herself to admire the burnished, beaten-silver cross he wore around his neck. Priest, remember?

  “May I come in?” he prompted gently.

  She flushed, and widened the door. “Of course, sorry.”

  The moment he entered, however, she regretted the decision. He dominated the small foyer in a way most men could only dream of. When he raked a hand through the tangled waves of his hair and shot her a rueful look, Rachel almost melted on the spot.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” he said gruffly.

  She blinked. About what? Being a priest?

  “About helping Emily.”

  Heat rushed into Rachel’s cheeks, and she plopped her mug down on the hall table,
her arm suddenly incapable of holding it. “Oh.”

  “If you still want me to, I’ll talk to her, try to get her to break it off with”—he paused, his gaze dropping to the hardwood floor—“with the motorcycle lad.”

  The implications of what he offered suddenly sank in. This was it, her answer. He was giving her a chance to reach Em, convince her to see reason, without destroying what little mother-daughter rapport they had left. “Really?”

  He nodded.

  “Really?”

  At the excited pitch in her voice, his lips twitched. “Aye, really.”

  “Oh my God, thank you.” Unable to hold back, Rachel launched herself at Lachlan, flinging her arms around his rock-solid, divinely scented warmth. “You have no idea how much this means—”

  He froze.

  She leapt back. “Sorry, that was totally off base. It’s just that—”

  “No.” He took a slow, deep breath, then quirked a smile. “No’ off base, just a surprise.”

  His words implied all was forgiven, but his eyes didn’t quite meet hers, and Rachel read between the lines: Hugging a priest was a giant no-no.

  Given her wildly erratic heartbeat and damp palms, she’d have to agree. “Anyway, that was meant to convey huge thanks. You’re a lifesaver. I was completely out of ideas.”

  She took another step back.

  Lachlan forced his gaze up, heart thumping. He fought for composure, but it was a lost cause—the vivid memory of her soft body mashed against his just wouldn’t let go. Curvy. Braless. Perfect. His hands remained at his sides, but he couldn’t stem a flare of his nostrils as he tried to capture a lingering wisp of her sweetly feminine fragrance.

  And the struggle didn’t end with controlling his body.

  The harder task was controlling the sense of satisfaction he got from making the furrows of worry on her brow disappear, even for a second. He could ease her burdens. He could lift a portion of the weight that bowed her shoulders. Look how simple it was. All he had to do was play the knight, behave just as his instincts told him to—protect her and care for her. All he had to do was risk the pain of becoming attached and then watching her die while he stood helplessly by.

  No problem.

  “I should go,” he choked out.

  Rachel bit her lower lip. “But I never offered you a drink or anything.”

  “It’s late.”

  “No biggie. I’m pulling an all-nighter.”

  “An all-nighter?”

  She waved a hand at the computer desk jammed into one corner of the cluttered dining room. “We’re behind on a project at work and my boss has cracked the whip. I’ve got to produce a whole new graphic series by Monday, or else I’m in deep shit.”

  As the last word trailed off, the worry lines crept back onto her face. “And here I thought my boss was tough,” he said dryly, determined to banish the lines once more.

  Rachel’s hazel eyes danced. “I think you’ve got me beat. Mine can’t summon a flood to wipe all the sinners from the earth, though I’d bet she sure wishes she could.”

  That wasn’t the boss he’d been thinking about, but the result was the same, so he smiled.

  “Seriously,” Rachel said, coaxing, “I can make a fresh pot of coffee. I really don’t mind. Reheated caffeine wasn’t quite doing the trick, anyway.”

  He glanced at her Daffy Duck mug. Looking at the cup was a lot wiser than continuing to stare at the enticing mounds of her breasts as they swayed under that loose shirt. “Is that what you’re drinking? Reheated coffee?”

  “Yes. Nothing like a little homemade turpentine.”

  “I’ll stay only if you let me make the coffee.”

  After a brief attempt to convince him that she was the hostess and he was the guest, she yielded him the kitchen and returned to her desk. He watched her as he filled the coffeemaker and set it to brew. Curious. If this was the way most artists worked, it was a miracle they created anything—the entire time the coffee dripped into the pot, she just stared at a box of software sitting on the desk and chewed on the end of her pencil.

  “Seeking inspiration?” he asked, handing her a fresh cup.

  She nodded. “Unfortunately, it’s sadly lacking.” She took a sip, then glanced at him, startled. “How did you know what I take in my coffee?”

  “I tasted the turpentine.”

  “Smart man. Very analytical.” Cocking her head, she considered him. “Maybe you could help me.”

  “How so?”

  “What do you see when you look at this box?”

  He reluctantly turned his gaze from the dusting of freckles on her nose to the package she held out. Mostly white, it had a large collage of imagery at the top and a bold, shimmery blue product name splashed across the bottom: MaskWeave. “Water.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly, tapping the mangled pencil against her bottom lip. “Anything else strike you? What would you guess this product does?”

  “Something technical.” He pointed to one side of the collage. “These lines look like architectural drawings.”

  “Any particular feelings surface when you look at this?”

  “You’re asking a man to describe feelings?”

  “Just go with it.”

  Lachlan examined the picture in more detail, absorbing the colors of sea and sky, the sandy tones, and the dichotomy of flat and fully formed graphics. It reminded him of the beach. “Uh, peace? Freedom?”

  “Freedom.” Rachel jumped up. “Oh, that’s good.”

  She snatched her sketchpad from the dining room table and began rapidly drawing. Lost in translating whatever was in her brain to paper, she hunched over the pad. Her mahogany hair fell forward, partially covering her face, and her toes curled around the stainless steel chair legs. Her fingers skimmed over the paper, the strokes sometimes airy, sometimes firm.

  A series of images took shape on the paper—all elements of nature shaded into three dimensions with an inspired balance of light and dark. Fascinating. But not nearly as entrancing as the expressions that flickered over her face as she drew, permitting him a brief insight into her thoughts.

  She lived to draw.

  The truth was written all over her. Graphic design wasn’t just her job; it was her calling. And the radiance of her creativity seduced him, urging him to capture a tiny bit of it, to touch … and to taste.

  Lachlan closed his eyes. What was he doing? He had to focus. Not on Rachel, as appealing as that was, but on the bastard who had ripped his life apart—on Drusus.

  “Thanks for the coffee, but I should get going,” he said, his voice crisper than he intended. “I’ll drop by tomorrow to talk to Emily.”

  She lifted her head. Those tiny worry lines between her brows returned. “Okay. Come for dinner at six thirty and you can talk to her then.”

  He swallowed. An intimate dinner with Rachel and her daughter … sitting at her table, exchanging smiles and teasing comments … flirting like the lover he could never be. God, no. “I’m afraid I’ve other plans. Unless you object, I’ll speak with her after school.”

  Her face lost its glow. “No, I don’t object.”

  He looked away. “Good night, then.”

  “Good night.”

  Lachlan drank in one last, lingering picture of her in that clingy cotton jersey, then escaped the apartment. With more than four hundred years as a Gatherer under his belt, he’d been confident he’d already endured the worst of what purgatory had to offer.

  He’d been wrong.

  Despite a sleepless night spent reliving his visit with Rachel, Lachlan rose early. He quickly showered and drove out to Stefan Wahlberg’s house, fourteen miles south of San Jose.

  The Romany mage displayed no surprise when Lachlan parked his Audi in the dusty yard. Indeed, he handed him a six-foot-long wooden box the moment he alit from the vehicle and acted as though they’d had an appointment.

  “Come in, come in,” he said, waving him into the sweltering three-walled smithy. With curly black
hair falling over his eyes, a large belly, and his habitual ensemble of heavy twill overalls and rubber boots, the mage presented a friendly and innocuous image. But Lachlan knew better. Hidden behind that affable smile was the most powerful mage he’d ever had the good fortune to meet … and a very shady history. The two previous Gatherers Stefan had worked with had died—inexplicably.

  He studied the brass-hinged mahogany case, but didn’t open it. “What’s this?”

  Donning thick leather gloves, Stefan shrugged. He thrust a long piece of hammered steel in the hottest part of the fire. “A gift.”

  Lachlan placed the box on a nearby workbench. “Thank you, but I don’t accept gifts.” Especially unexpected gifts from mystics with rumored dark connections.

  “Shame. It’s custom-made for your height and weight, so if you don’t take it, I’ll have to scrap it.”

  A seed of curiosity sprouted in Lachlan’s mind, but he ruthlessly trampled it. “I need you to forge me a half-dozen new blades. Basic arming swords.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m training some of the other Gatherers.”

  The blacksmith glanced up. “Death is finally agreeable?”

  “No’ exactly.”

  Stefan arched a brow, but didn’t delve further. “I assume you want the usual shield-pierce and demon blood-enhancement spells? And baldrics warding them from human perception?”

  Lachlan nodded.

  “Easy enough. I’ll have them ready by Friday night.”

  Digging ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills from his wallet, Lachlan tossed them on the table. Then he turned on his heel. He hadn’t gone two paces when Stefan called him back.

  “Take the sword, MacGregor. If you must, you can pay me for it. But you’ll need it.”

  Lachlan spun around. “Why?”

  The mage pulled the red-hot steel from the fire with a pair of tongs and picked up his hammer. “Murder-suicides and mob-mentality crimes are way up; church attendance is way down. Isn’t it obvious?”

  “No.”

  Stefan said nothing for a while, hammering at the steel strip with precise, powerful blows. When he had returned the cooled steel to the fire, he pushed his safety glasses up on his forehead and looked at Lachlan.