by Anne Stuart
Whose blood, she thought, glancing once again at that flat boulder.
"You recognize the place, don't you, Hecate? Your sisters danced here one hundred years ago. They put a curse on our town that has lasted to this day. And their master, Ethan Winslowe, is the culmination of that curse. But we're going to put a stop to it. By blood and by fire, we'll cleanse this town of its evil."
Megan didn't move. She couldn't. She was afraid she was going to throw up, and then she'd doubtless choke to death with that gag in her mouth. She simply stared at Lincoln, too frightened to show her fear. She stared and he took a step backward, holding up his hands as if to ward off the evil eye.
"Unclean!" he screamed. "But we have your punishment. Not the rock. Not the ways of your ancestors. But the ways of ours. You'll be cleansed by the fire."
And then she saw it. A sturdy piece of wood driven deep in the ground, looking like a foreshortened telephone pole. At its base was a well-laid pile of twigs, branches and logs, with an ominous gas can nearby. And she knew then what they'd planned for her.
She tried to run, but the ropes around her ankles sent her sprawling. They half carried, half dragged her over to one of the oak trees, tying her there as she struggled.
"Doc, you and Ferdy watch her while we go back for Winslowe. It's not quite three hours till midnight. These things have got to be done right."
Megan glared at them, at the drunken doctor who was swaying slightly, at the spry, evil figure of the man who'd filled her gas tank when she'd first arrived at this misbegotten town so long ago. "Don't let her trick you, boys. Keep her tied up, and when midnight comes, she'll be ready."
For a moment, Megan simply stared: at the pastor, with his robes and saintly demeanor, at the crowd of men behind him, normal enough looking, with their after-shave and their flannel shirts and their sweaty faces. This couldn't be real, couldn't be happening. But it was.
She closed her eyes, sinking her face against the rough bark of the oak tree.
"That's it. In a couple of hours, you'll be meeting your master. I hope for your sake it's your eternal savior and not the one who's bought your soul."
And moments later, she was alone on the hilltop, alone with a drunken doctor and an evil old man. Alone with the stake and the firewood carefully prepared, all set for her punishment, waiting only for a match. And a victim. Alone.
Chapter Sixteen
* * *
Sal had taken the Mercedes, Ethan realized with a frantic curse. Of course he had, he'd had no choice. The Blazer's battery had run down after Megan left it in a ditch. Sal was thorough in all matters—the battery would be somewhere in the garages being recharged. But where the hell it was and whether Ethan, who'd done very little driving in his reclusive life, would be able to reconnect it was a moot point.
That left the huge black '57 Thunderbird that had been his mother's pride and joy, complete with spiky tail fins and enough shiny chrome to dazzle a blind man. It would have a full tank, of course, and start right up, but whether it could navigate the rain-washed back roads was another matter. And whether it would make it up the rough construction road to the old oak grove was even more questionable.
What wasn't questionable was where they'd taken her. Even if Joseph hadn't broken his silence and told Ethan, the answer was obvious. He'd chosen the site for the research center with malicious care, planning to set it on the very spot where the ancestors of the people of Oak Grove used to hold their witches' sabbath. The sin-obsessed parishioners of Pastor Lincoln would choose that spot for their revenge.
Lightning spit and crackled overhead, slicing the darkening sky, and the wind whipped his long hair into his face. Ethan could see the knoll from the distance, but it was too far away to tell whether anyone was up there. He cursed as he started the huge old car. He cursed his mother for her addiction to flash and prettiness and her resounding rejection of her tarnished son. He cursed his father for his vacillating weakness. He cursed Pastor Lincoln for his evil and the townspeople for their hidebound stupidity. He cursed Megan for leaving her room, he cursed her for coming there in the first place and upsetting his careful, vengeful plans. But most of all, he cursed himself, slowly, savagely, as he spun the wheels and tore off into the night, a deformed knight in tarnished armor, the Thunderbird instead of a white charger beneath him. The woman he loved might very well die because of his single-minded quest for revenge.
He had to stop them. He had to get to her before they hurt her. He had to put an end, once and for all, to the madness that infected this town, that was out of place, out of time. Or die trying.
His eyes, so accustomed to darkness, saw the faint glimmer of the headlights from miles away, far enough for him to jerk the wheel, slide the huge old car into a stand of woods and kill the engine. He sat there, his strong hands clenched around the steering wheel, waiting, listening.
He knew Pastor Lincoln's old school bus by sound. When it finally pulled into view, he could see that it was covered with men, sitting on the top, hanging out the windows, some even clinging to the hood as it bounced and jounced down the road. Back toward his house. The convoy of ancient pickup trucks followed, each one filled with townspeople. Not just the men. Some of the women were there, too, the hatchet-faced, sour-spirited matrons of Oak Grove. The ones whose children left as soon as they were old enough to come to Ethan and ask for bus fare out of there. All the faces looked alike. Blank, almost hypnotized, no sign of life at all in their expressions. Except for the gleaming hatred in their eyes.
He waited until they passed. Megan wasn't with them; he knew that even without seeing. They must have left her up on the hillside when they went after him.
They wouldn't find him. He was going after her. He'd find her, get her safely away from this place, and they'd never come back. He didn't even spare a thought for the house he'd lived in, hidden in, for most of his thirty-four years. It had been in his family for almost a century and he could leave it without a twinge, watch its certain destruction without a qualm. As long as Megan was safe.
He turned the key in the ignition again, and nothing happened. The first real tendrils of panic began to filter through as he turned the key again and again and again. There was no answering rumble at all from the old engine. The car was dead and he was stuck in the middle of nowhere, Megan on one side, a murdering horde of maniacs on the other.
He had never in his life run anywhere but on the small indoor track he had built in the east wing of the house. Never had he run outside, where people might see him, with the cool night air in his face. He did so now, uncertain how good his stamina was, how long he could last. He was strong, very strong, from swimming, from the various machines Sal had bought and installed in that same wing. But whether he could run the eight or so miles up to the knoll in time to get Megan away from there was a question he couldn't answer. All he could do was try.
He'd always loved the night, the thick black darkness that covered him. Not now. Not anymore. The darkness hid evil, it covered the foul deeds of Lincoln and his followers. As long as the night lasted, Megan was in danger. Once the sun rose, she'd be safe. From the crazed people of Oak Grove. And from him.
He ran down the rutted, rain-slick road, the lightning snaking down around him, the wind whipping past him. He ran, pacing himself, trying to force to manageable levels the fear that filled his heart. He ran, knowing he had to save her. Knowing he had to set her free. He ran, feeling the sweat run down his face. And he knew that it wasn't sweat. It was tears.
The odd thing was, Megan wasn't afraid. Her wrists were tied too tightly, bound together, her ankles throbbed, the bark of the old oak tree was rough against her face, and yet, she wasn't afraid. Alone on a hilltop, the thunder and lightning all around her, a hideous fate awaiting her at the hands of a mob, and yet she wasn't frightened.
At least she'd managed to spit out the foul-tasting gag. Neither of her two guards had paid any attention—they knew her screams wouldn't be heard. She felt sick and dizzy from
the drug, and her head ached abominably. And she knew that that was the least of her worries.
The doctor was mumbling. Sitting on the other side of the clearing, propped against an incongruous yellow bulldozer, he had his flask in his hand, and she could tell by the angle that it was almost empty. The old man from the filling station, Ferdy, was stalking around, practically prancing with ghoulish glee, and she knew he was just looking for an excuse to tighten her bonds. To touch her again. She wouldn't give him that excuse.
Closing her eyes, she breathed in the earthy, rich smell of the bark still damp from the last rainfall, and she considered her odd, abstracted state of mind. Maybe she simply accepted death. Maybe she knew there was no escape, not with a town of crazies yapping at her heels, and that the more she struggled and panicked, the worse it would be.
Maybe she simply didn't believe it. Death was unreal to her—someone strong and young and healthy didn't have her life ripped away from her without warning. This was all something out of a Gothic nightmare—terribly melodramatic and all that, but surely just a little too overblown.
She opened her eyes a crack to see Ferdy taking a deep swig of Doc's flask. She could smell the keroseney odor of the torches, and she could see the silhouette of the stake in the shadowy night. And she knew it was no joke.
She shut her eyes again, letting the cool, damp breeze of the approaching storm wash over her. It had been a night like this when she'd gone to Ethan's bed. Outside, the world had crashed and burned. Inside, their lives had exploded with a passion that managed to distract and weaken her even in her current situation.
She smiled wryly against the trunk of the tree. She was in a sorry state when erotic memories could make her forget that she was going to die a hideous death in a few hours. Still, what better thing to think about? A fate that she wasn't sure she could escape? Or Ethan's beautiful, long-limbed body, his wicked, knowing hands and mouth, his beautiful marked face...
"What are you smiling about?" Ferdy demanded in an angry screech. He'd moved over there on his spry little feet. Doc was leaning against the bulldozer, eyes closed, snoring slightly, peacefully passed out. Not that he would have been any protection from Ferdy.
She simply looked up at him, keeping her expression carefully blank, and Ferdy's rage exploded. "Don't look at me out of those witch's eyes! I know your kind. Wicked, godless strumpets, leading men to their doom, ripping away their holiness, making them burn." He grabbed a stick from the ground, a long, pointed one, and held it in the flame of one of those torches. "I can put out those eyes. I can stop you from watching, from seducing. It won't matter to Pastor Lincoln. He'll praise me. Yes, he'll praise me for seeing the devil and blinding her. Yes," Ferdy mumbled, drooling slightly as he advanced on her. "Yes," he said. "He'll praise me—"
And then he stopped. The flaming brand was in one upraised hand, and his twisted expression of malevolent determination suddenly altered.
She'd watched his approach with that same, detached curiosity, knowing her danger and yet not feeling it. Even as she felt the heat in that flaming stick, she didn't whimper or panic. She just waited, very still, watching him out of expressionless eyes.
He dropped the stick to the ground with a pain-filled moan of his own. "No!" he said in a hushed whisper, sheer horror filling his voice. "No." But this time it was a strangled scream as he stumbled backward, not looking where he was going.
She couldn't say anything. She watched it happen with that same remote curiosity, knowing that in a few more steps, he was going to go over the edge of the cliff. She had no idea how far down it was, whether it was simply a short, gentle slope or a murderous drop-off. It wouldn't matter. She opened her mouth to speak, to warn him, but no sound came out. He was looking past her in terror, and the noises from his ancient throat were garbled, unintelligible sounds of panic.
He tripped backward, over the carefully-laid bonfire. And then he disappeared over the side of the hill. Without a sound. Just the silent dropping away from sight, and Ferdy was gone. Leaving her alone in the darkness with only the comatose doctor for company.
She began to struggle at her bonds then, knowing that she'd somehow been granted a reprieve. She didn't know how long she'd have—whether Ferdy would manage to struggle back up from his precipitous drop, Whether Doc would reemerge from his drunken stupor, whether Pastor Lincoln and his brigade would return from their mission. Were they going to bring Ethan back? Or destroy him where he stood?
But the ropes that bound her wrists were tighter than she'd realized, and the more she struggled, the tighter they got, rubbing her wrists until she thought she could see blood in the wavering torchlight. The wind was howling, whipping the light into strange, dangerous shadows, and the threatening thunder rumbled overhead, a ghostly counterpoint to the darkness.
And yet for some reason, the night didn't close down into inky blackness. There was a glow to the north, a bright glow, enough to be a good sized town. And then she smelled fire in the air, and she knew they were burning Ethan's house.
And then she knew why she hadn't been frightened. Somehow, deep inside, she'd been sure that Ethan would come, Ethan would rescue her in time. Now that certainty had vanished, doubt for the first time creeping in and terrifying her. He was probably deep in the center of the huge octopus of a building, deep within, not hearing anything. He probably still assumed she was safely locked in that bedroom, that Sal was on patrol, that everything was all right. He wouldn't know until he smelled the smoke, and then it would be too late.
She had to get back to him. Had to warn him. Except the glow in the sky told her it was already too late. The house was burning, filling the sky with an unearthly light. And Ethan might be dead already, caught in the conflagration, his beautiful flesh in torment—
The hand holding hers was solid, cool, and strong. Flowing through that hand were courage and hope, flooding her once more, so that she raised her head, her tear-drenched face, and looked into nothingness.
There was no one there. Someone was holding her hand in a firm, reassuring grip, and there was no one there.
She tightened her fingers and the unseen comforter tightened back, and reassurance flowed through her. She waited, patient, unmoving. And there was Joseph, sitting cross-legged in the dirt beside her, holding her hand.
"Did they hurt him... ?"
Joseph shook his head. "He'd already left. He's coming to get you, Megan. He's coming to get you away from here."
"But the others..."
"They can't hurt you. No one will hurt you," Joseph said with infinite gentleness.
She glanced uneasily over her shoulder. "Ferdy..."
"He's dead. That's a sixty-foot drop onto rocks below. A hundred years ago, when a group of bored and lonely women came out here and played harmless games, the other townspeople rose up against them, led by Pastor Lincoln's grandfather. They came and they drove those poor women over the cliff. The two who survived wished they hadn't."
Megan shivered, cold on this hot, stormy night. "Can you untie me, Joseph?"
"No," he said, with great regret.
She looked down at their clasped hands. She only saw hers. He sat distant and apart, his ancient face creased in sorrow, and she knew.
It wasn't a conscious knowledge. It wasn't something she wanted to think about, to understand. Instead, she simply accepted what was unbelievable, letting her hand rest in his reassuring, unseen grip while she waited for Ethan.
She might have, unbelievably, slept. Or merely let her mind drift, overloaded by the danger and terror that surrounded her. At one point, Doc stumbled to his feet, wandered over to the edge of the cliff and relieved himself. Whether he noticed Ferdy's body beneath didn't make any difference at that point. And then he went back to his spot by the bulldozer.
The flask was empty by then, and he flung it away in disgust. He glanced over at Megan with no more than casual interest, and then he froze.
She'd seen that expression before. On Ferdy's face, just before he
died trying to escape from whatever had . frightened him.
Doc didn't move. He couldn't. He sat there, his face pale in the storm-whipped night, his mouth moving and not a word coming out. And Megan knew it wasn't her who had frightened him. It was Joseph.
She glanced back at her distant companion and comforter to see what was so frightening about him. He looked the same, old and harmless and slightly wavering in the night air. Nothing to terrify two old men.
Doc rose again on unsteady feet, coming marginally closer, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. "You're dead," he said flatly.
For a moment, Megan thought he meant her, and the notion was chilling. And then Joseph spoke, and his unseen hand still gripped hers tightly.
"Yes," he said in that peaceful voice of his. "You did your part in killing me."
Doc swayed slightly, and his eyes were bulging. And then a shiver went through his body like a massive electric current, and he collapsed, almost at Megan's feet, his hand outstretched, clutching the hypodermic needle he'd been holding broken in the dirt.
"Tried to.. .make it easier for.. .you," he gasped, "Can't stop Lincoln. Can only make it... less..." And then he stopped. His breathing was loud, tortured in the moonlight, but his eyes were staring blindly, his mouth moving without a sound issuing forth.
She looked down at the broken needle. "What was it?" she asked in a hushed voice.
"Some kind of narcotic, I suppose," Joseph murmured. "Something to make you oblivious to Lincoln's plans." He didn't bother looking at Doc's comatose body. Instead, he glanced skyward at the roiling clouds. "Storm's getting closer."
"Yes," she said.
"So's the mob."
"Yes," she said again, clinging tightly. Waiting. Waiting for death. Or waiting for Ethan. She had no choice. Doc's breathing grew more erratic as he struggled and gasped, like a fish out of water, flopping slightly on the damp ground. And then Megan realized he wasn't making any noise at all. He lay there, still and cold, and his breathing had stopped.