Drawn into Darkness Page 8

  “Go,” he insisted. “And stay late if you want. I’ll pick up Emily from school and keep her with me until you return.”

  She frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Go.”

  “Okay.” She leapt from the stool and gave him a smile that didn’t quite erase the rejection in her eyes. “Thanks.”

  The door clicked shut, and Lachlan closed his eyes. It took a solid minute to talk his legs out of chasing after her. Then he dropped his arse to the hearthstones and fisted his hands in his hair.

  Drusus. By God, he hated that wretched bastard. It was becoming increasingly clear his involvement with Emily was no ordinary lure. There was a definite element of taunting in his actions—all aimed at Lachlan. The red-haired rape victim, the bus crash, and now this brazen visit to Rachel. He was begging Lachlan to pursue him.

  And the demon was going to get his wish.

  A blue spark arced across the room.

  The familiar crackle, followed by the resounding crash of one of the practice swords hitting the hardwood floor, drove Lachlan to his feet. The pleasant tang of lemons floated in the air, and then a sudden pop produced an eightysomething, wiry little man. Little more than five feet tall, the fellow stood in the middle of his living room, dressed in a brown tweed suit with a bright yellow vest.

  “Ah, there you are,” the elder said, smiling.

  “You’re late,” Lachlan grumbled. He was not in the mood for niceties. “Again.”

  “I am?” The angel blinked.

  “Are there no clocks in heaven? I gathered the soul more than three hours ago.”

  The tweed-clad man scratched his nose. “Really?”

  “Aye.”

  Pulling a tiny spiral-bound notebook out of his satin vest pocket, the angel flipped through the pages until he came to the one that interested him. “Jeffrey Walsh? Died in the Good Samaritan Hospital? Of congestive heart failure?”

  “Aye,” Lachlan confirmed, exasperated.

  “Three hours ago, you say?”

  “Oh, for chrissake.” God’s messengers had always been a little out of step with time on the middle plane, but this was unbearable. “Are you aware that a Gatherer cannot eat while holding a soul?”

  “I am.”

  “And you know that while I carry this soul, I can’t collect another unless it’s headed to the same final resting place?”

  “I am.”

  “Then what in blazes keeps you away?”

  “I come as soon as I’m able.”

  Right. Without a thought to the Gatherer who perishes while he takes his sweet bloody time. After all, what’s the loss of one dishonorable man in purgatory? “Never mind, just take the soul and be gone. I’ve other things to deal with.”

  The angel’s brows soared. “More important things than seeing a worthy soul into heaven? Surely not.”

  “No’ more important, perhaps,” Lachlan said, frowning at the hint of disparagement. “But clearly more urgent.”

  “Fine,” the old man said, himself a little crusty. “Let’s get to it, then. Hand or heart?”

  Lachlan debated. Both options were effective, but shaking hands took longer. “Heart.”

  The angel advanced without further comment, reached up, and placed his wizened hand over Lachlan’s heart.

  Gentle warmth leached into his chest. Then his entire body tingled with a sensation he could only compare to the feeling of joy: sweet and cool, airy and divine. But in a heartbeat the transfer was over, leaving him feeling bereft.

  The angel stepped back. “A shame.”

  Lachlan glanced at him. “What?”

  “Were it not for the manner in which you died, you might have walked through the pearly gates and joined us in the upper plane.”

  “Unlikely. I’m guilty of greed, as well.”

  “Hmmm.” The old man tilted his head and studied Lachlan for a moment. “There’s an excess of anger in you and an abundance of self-deprecation. But also great courage and self-control.”

  “I trust you have a point?”

  “Why, yes. Those finer qualities could help others. Becoming a mentor to a middle-plane soul would please the Lord and improve your chances of redemption. Do you know anyone who suffers the same flaws as you?”

  An image of Emily’s sullen face popped into Lachlan’s mind, but he dismissed it. Helping one teenage girl could never outweigh his past sins. Redemption was impossible. “No.”

  “Keep it in mind.” The angel consulted his notebook again. “How many souls have you gathered in your term with Death?”

  “I’m no’ certain. More than two hundred thousand.”

  “Really? That’s quite remarkable.”

  Lachlan shrugged. Wasn’t much more than one per day.

  “And is it true that you’ve never given up a heaven-bound soul to a demon thief?”

  “Aye.”

  “Hmmm.” The angel scratched his nose again. “A fine record. Fine record indeed.”

  Frustration returned, searing Lachlan’s blood. His time was better spent searching for Drusus, not engaging in meaningless conversations about records. No wonder angels were always late. “When you return to heaven, tell God I’m growing impatient at these needless delays.”

  Mild rebuke again shadowed the angel’s eyes. “Do you not trust him to do what must be done?”

  “No’ when my brethren suffer for his lack of effort, no. The situation is dire and I would see him intervene before more good men are lost. Impress upon him the necessity for action.”

  “Assuredly, I will.” Once again, the old man flipped through the pages of his notebook. “But first, I’m supposed to be in—no, I did that one already. Ah, yes—in Beijing.”

  Unable to help himself, Lachlan rolled his eyes.

  The angel failed to note the gesture, however, as his tweed-clad figure had already vanished in a flash of brilliant blue light. Hopefully, on his way to China, and hopefully before the Gatherer at the other end was swamped by demons.

  Really, given the quality of the hired help upstairs, it was a miracle any souls made it to heaven at all.

  Lachlan flicked the switch that lowered the passenger-side window. “Emily, may I offer you a lift home?”

  The two girls halted beside the car and peered in the window. Both wore the ruthlessly black attire of Goth queens and had graffiti-covered knapsacks slung over their shoulders. Emily tossed him a wary frown, then glanced at her friend.

  He recognized the other girl from the fairgrounds—a rather chunky lass with short black hair and three silver rings in her lip.

  “It’ll be faster than the bus,” he pointed out, adding weight to his offer. “And I have air-conditioning.”

  After a brief, wordless consultation with her friend, Emily returned her gaze to him. “Can Sheila come along?”

  Daily school attendance pretty much ruled out the possibility Sheila was a demon, but it wouldn’t hurt to observe her on the drive home. “Sure,” he agreed.

  “Cool.”

  The girls clambered in, Emily in the front seat, Sheila in the back. Their knapsacks were tossed without a care for where they landed, and Lachlan winced as something metallic hit the window glass.

  “Nice car,” Sheila said, smoothing her hand over the gray leather bench seat. “Is it fast?”

  “Faster than I’ll ever need it to be,” he acknowledged, winking at her through the rearview mirror. Her black-rimmed eyes held no sign of guile, just awe. “I drive mostly in the city.”

  “You should drag it. There’s races on Cooper Street every Saturday night.”

  “Perhaps no’,” he said dryly, running a finger under his white collar. “Don’t think the bishop would approve.”

  Both girls laughed.

  Dredging up his rusty social skills, he kept them amused until he pulled up in front of the seventies-era, biscuit-colored bungalow where Sheila lived. The grass hadn’t been cut in several weeks and children’s toys littered the yard. A tight expressi
on replaced the humor on Sheila’s face as she eyed the off-kilter screen door. Then she crawled out of the car, dragging her bag with her. “See ya Monday, Em.”

  Em nodded. “IM me.”

  Lachlan watched as the young girl approached the house. Before his eyes, her shoulders curled and her chin dropped to her chest. If she was a demon, she must have been an actress in her former life. “Is everything all right with Sheila?”

  Emily’s face was carefully neutral. “Her dad’s a drunk.”

  A spark of anger flared. “Does he beat her?”

  “Not usually. But she has to do everything, including make dinner, and her baby brothers are a pain in the ass. Her dad just sleeps in front of the TV.”

  Although reluctant to leave Sheila to whatever fate lay in store for her, Lachlan put the car in drive and swung back onto the road. “What about your dad? What’s he like?”

  Her eyes softened. “My dad’s great. He’s funny and a hoot to be with. We get along really well.”

  A description at odds with Rachel’s feedback. He’d gotten the impression the fellow had little interest in playing the father. “See him much?”

  “Not since my mom moved us to San Jose,” she groused. “When we lived in San Diego, I saw him all the time.”

  “Does he drive up to see you from time to time?”

  “My mom doesn’t want him to. She hates him.”

  “Has she said that?” he asked, curious.

  “She doesn’t have to. You should see the look on her face when he calls.”

  “I see.” The tension in Emily was palpable and Lachlan decided to take it down a notch. He pointed to a sign just past the next light. “Can I interest you in an ice-cream sundae?”

  Emily rolled her eyes to suggest she was far too mature to be bought with a sundae. But to his surprise, she said, “Okay.” Unable to resist one last dig at her mom, she added, “But you’ll have to explain to Mr. Wyatt why I’m late, ’cause I’m grounded.”

  “Actually, I mentioned to your mom that I’d be picking you up from school. There’s no Mr. Wyatt tonight.”

  She skewed him a suspicious stare. “Huh.”

  “Is that okay?”

  Arms crossed over her chest, she sat back. “I guess so.”

  Despite that inauspicious start, the ice cream break was a success. He treated her to a plain vanilla cone—her choice—and for the next half hour he was reminded that despite her tough attitude and inch-thick eyeliner, Emily was still a kid. She licked the drips running down her cone with unrestrained glee, laughed when Lachlan got whipped cream on his nose, and blushed twelve shades of pink when she asked for his cherry.

  Lachlan stifled a grin as he handed her the maraschino.

  She popped it into her mouth and chewed. Once the blush had receded, she looked him in the eye and asked, “Are priests allowed to get married?”

  “Some,” he hedged. “Depends on the church they belong to.”

  “Are you?”

  “Technically, yes.” Technically, he wasn’t a priest, so it was a moot point. “But I’ve made a choice no’ to wed.”

  “Why?”

  Getting Emily to open up would require giving a little of himself, uncomfortable as that might be. “I was married once, when I was younger, and my wife died.”

  “Oh.”

  She seemed a bit disturbed by his response, so he bypassed the moment with a few questions of his own. “What about you? What’s your take on marriage?”

  “I plan on getting married someday,” Em admitted. “Not until I’m, like, twenty-five or something, though.”

  He smiled. “So Drew’s no’ the one?”

  Her painted eyelids dropped to cover her thoughts. “I dunno, maybe.” Then her shoulders stiffened and her gaze lifted. “Did my mom tell you I was seeing him?”

  “Aye.”

  “Did she also tell you she read my diary?” Emily leaned across the table, suddenly alive with righteous anger. Her black-tipped fingers twisted her napkin into a pretzel. “I mean, jeez, that’s like a priest blabbing everything he heard in confession. You just don’t do that.”

  “She’s worried about you.”

  “Bullsh—” She blushed again. “I mean, no, she’s not. She’s just freaked-out that I’ve got my own life. She’s never liked Sheila, she hates the way I dress, and of course, she’s dissing Drew—he drives a motorcycle.”

  Lachlan squelched the urge to leap to Rachel’s defense. He was walking a fine line between earning Emily’s trust and alienating her. She wouldn’t believe he was sincere if he didn’t display the expected opinions of an adult, but she’d stop talking if he came down too solidly in Rachel’s camp.

  “I think it’s his age that has her freaked-out, no’ the motorcycle,” he said with a faint smile.

  She shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Obviously he possesses some redeeming qualities, or else you wouldn’t have given him the time of day. What’s the appeal?”

  “He’s cute.”

  “That’s it? So, you’ll date any good-looking lad who comes along?” he teased.

  She grinned. “Of course not. I have standards.”

  “Which are?”

  “Smart, but not a geek. Funny, but not a goof. Cute, but not a prep.”

  “And Drew meets all those requirements?”

  She nodded. “He thinks I’m hot, and he listens to me. Really listens. You have no idea how many people talk right over you, so full of their own shit they can’t hear a word you say.” She blushed again as she realized she’d cussed, then threw him a quick smile. “You don’t.”

  “That’s a relief. Being a snoring bore is no’ a good trait in a priest.”

  Emily laughed.

  But Lachlan barely heard her. He was remembering the early days of his relationship with Drusus. How he had stumbled across the lad, badly beaten and near death in the moors. How he’d opened up his home, arranged for a healer to tend his wounds, and treated him as a comrade. How as the weeks passed and Drusus mended, they’d grown as close as brothers.

  “It’s no’ just how kind he is that appeals to you,” he said softly. “It’s the wild, untamed part as well, isn’t it?”

  Her eyes met his. “He’s fun,” she said, a tad defensively.

  “I know.”

  “And he’s different. He’s not just some jerk pretending to be a badass to impress the chicks, you know? He’s deeper than that.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know, exactly.” Then she suddenly brightened. “Okay, like, he wears this cool thing around his neck. Not your typical cross or medallion, but a hollow tube of glass with these rockin’ symbols etched on it. He calls it a relic or something, and says it contains the souls of these four people from ancient Scotland. A mother and three children.”

  Lachlan froze. He had difficulty forming the words, but managed to ask, “He wears a reliquary?”

  “Yeah, a reliquary. That’s what he calls it.” Emily caught his expression. “I know, sounds gross, right? But it’s not like it’s real. I mean, come on, it can’t be. But the whole idea is just neat, you know? Keeping someone’s soul next to your heart?”

  A spike of dread tapped deep into his chest. “Did he say why he wears it?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Not really. He says he’s planning a family reunion, but I don’t know what that means.”

  Lachlan forced himself to breathe.

  He understood. Perfectly. Drusus wore a reliquary around his neck containing the souls of Elspeth, Cormac, Mairi, and Jamie, four souls destined for heaven, but cruelly snatched and imprisoned in an amulet. If he failed to destroy Drusus, if he proved too weak for the task, the consequences would not be limited to the loss of Emily or the Linen—the souls of Lachlan’s family would be lost forever to the depths of hell.

  His family.

  The anger that had been building inside him since he first spotted Drusus at the fairgrounds suddenly broke free. Fury surged through his body wi
th such force that the metal sundae spoon clutched in his hand bent in half.

  Jamming the warped utensil into his pocket, he stood.

  “Drew sounds like quite an interesting guy. Can’t wait to meet him.”

  6

  Rachel fooled everyone.

  She answered the phone, whipped up two new sample files, squeezed in an emergency banner for tomorrow’s employee blood donor drive, and coached a colleague on the fine art of object modeling. But her mind wasn’t on her work at all. Nope. She was stuck in a loop, replaying that breathless moment when Lachlan’s hand had cupped her cheek, when she’d looked into his eyes and saw desire.

  No, take that back. Desire was too mild a word to describe what she’d seen. It was more like lust.

  For her.

  Even though single motherhood had left little time for a social life since her marriage fell apart, she recognized the signs. Taut, eager muscles. Heat radiating from him in waves. An added edge to his rich, masculine smell. Oh yeah. He wanted her, all right. And the feeling was mutual. One look into those smoky eyes and her bones had melted like baked Brie. There was nothing more erotic than being thoroughly, desperately wanted.

  The priest thing was a bit of a sticky issue, though.

  Not for her, for him. From the start, she’d had trouble seeing him as a sexless clergyman, and as time passed, that white collar was becoming less and less of an impediment. But for him, it must be a pretty big deal. Priestly vows were not the kind you made in haste and then repented at leisure. Priests studied for years before taking the plunge. And yet here she was, leaning into him, encouraging him, hoping that he’d bust down the wall between them and just kiss her.

  Did that make her immoral?

  If he hadn’t reminded her about work, she was convinced they would have ended up on the floor, wrapped around each other and oblivious to everything but finding satisfaction. There was no doubt in her mind that the kiss would have been spectacular. Hell, if she closed her eyes, she could almost taste it.

  “I must say I’m very impressed.”

  Rachel’s eyes popped open.

  Nigel, looking remarkably fresh and crisp in a periwinkle blue shirt, stood next to her desk, one hand slung over her cubicle wall, the other propping his glasses on his forehead. Fortunately, his owl eyes were on her computer screen, and not on the rising heat in her cheeks.