by Anne Stuart
It had backfired when Carey had been despicable enough to sacrifice his daughter, instead. And Ethan had fallen in love with that daughter, despite his best efforts. Megan Carey was everything her father wasn’t. Brave, honest, compassionate and loyal. She also looked at him without flinching. No, it was even worse than that. She looked at him with love.
He had no defense against that love. His experience with Jean Marshall, with Ruth, with various carefully made professional arrangements had left him unprepared for the magnitude of falling in love for the first time in his life. And for the last, he realized. Life was no longer as he chose to make it. It had fled from him, leaving him an angry, struggling victim.
And who was he to wreak vengeance on a town so small and poor and miserable and inbred that its inhabitants no longer knew right from wrong? Who was he to sit in judgment? He’d chosen to stay here knowing his presence filled their superstitious souls with fear and torment, and when that wasn’t revenge enough for the death of his father, he’d upped the ante, turning most of their barren little town over to what they’d consider Satan himself. And he’d done so with malicious relish.
But he’d pushed them beyond their limited lease on sanity. And they hadn’t hurt him. They’d hurt Sal. They’d hurt Ruth. And he knew that if they could, they’d hurt Megan.
He didn’t want to let it go. He didn’t want to take Megan and turn his back on them, letting them off scot-free for their escalating violence. He wanted to punish them, destroy them, squash them into the ground like malevolent bugs. And much as he loved Megan, he couldn’t give up the one thing that had kept him going through the long, dark years. That hatred had kept him alive—it was as important to him as his love for Megan.
But he couldn’t have both. He didn’t need an ultimatum from Megan to know that. He’d made his own ultimatum. The damnable thing was he couldn’t decide.
Deep in the center of the house, it was too dark to tell the time, but his internal clock told him it was late, and still Sal hadn’t returned. Megan would be locked in her room. Probably ravenously hungry and mad as hell. He was sorry he’d been gentlemanly enough to disconnect the video monitors. He’d done it for his sake as well as hers. He’d known, subconsciously if not otherwise, that he was going to join her in that room, take her on that wide white bed. And he didn’t even want the computer watching.
Maybe he should have taped it. Maybe once she left, he could sit and watch the tape, watch their bodies join, over and over and over again. But he didn’t need that. He’d watch the tape in his mind, endlessly, a helpless voyeur to his own pain.
It sliced through him with a sudden, shocking savagery. She screamed for him. Megan’s voice, Megan’s soul, calling out for him in panic. He’d heard her call before, and had answered that call, but never had he heard such bone-shattering terror.
He knocked over his thronelike chair as he went, not bothering with lights when he was so accustomed to the thick blackness that surrounded him. There were secret passageways and tunnels, shortcuts through the maze of hallways and ramps. Within minutes, he was outside the door of the white room. The room that was locked, the key back in his basement lair.
He smashed through the door, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. The room was deserted, the white muslin curtains billowing in the fierce breeze, and he raced into the garden, dreading what he’d find.
It was empty. The rose-covered trellis had been pulled from the wall, signifying her escape route. For a moment, he didn’t move, wondering if she’d simply made up her mind to leave him after all.
And then he knew, with no doubt at all, that she hadn’t been running away from him. She’d been running to him.
He was over the garden wall in two seconds flat, dropping down lightly into the Zen garden. The wind was whipping the sand up, stinging his eyes, and still his heart was racing, his blood throbbing through him, feeling her panic, her need.
The door in the north wall was standing open. The door ahead of him was still locked. It made no sense that she would have gone straight ahead, but he hesitated, torn.
It had been years since he’d seen Joseph. He’d thought that he never would again—he’d given up hoping or even caring. But suddenly, he was there, standing in front of the closed door, beckoning to Ethan.
Beckoning to his son.
Ethan didn’t bother with the wall this time. His shoulder could stand up to more punishment, and besides, that door was flimsy. It splintered beneath him, and he stumbled out into the maze.
He let out a groan of anguish. The house and gardens were so convoluted that even he forgot which part adjoined which. He knew the way through the maze, but there was always the chance that Megan and her enemies—his enemies—were lost somewhere in one of the blind turns.
“Megan!” he called, and the wind took his voice and hurled it up into the bending trees. No answer at all, not a sound beyond the violence of nature.
There was no sign of her in the maze, no sound at all, and no sign of any intruder. When he came through the other side, he saw the open door and allowed himself a moment of relief. Maybe she’d simply gotten lost in the maze and been frightened. Maybe Joseph had shown her the way to safety and even now she was lying curled up in his bed, waiting for him.
And then he stumbled over it. Bending down, he picked up the shoe, holding it in his big hand. It wasn’t one of her silly high heels, the ones he found ridiculously erotic. It was her bright red running shoe, lying in the dirt. He could smell the pitchy scent of torches mixed with kerosene, and he knew they’d taken her.
A darkness closed over him. Not the warm, beneficent darkness that cradled and protected him. This was a darkness of murderous rage so intense that it seemed it would never lift. He sank to his knees in the dirt, cursing, as he held her shoe like a talisman.
And then he looked up. Joseph was there, distant, indistinct, remote as he’d been since the day Ethan was born.
“The grove,” he said, his faint voice fading on the wind. “They took her to the old grove.” He started to fade.
“How long?” Ethan demanded, pulling him back. “How long ago?”
Joseph simply shook his head, growing ever fainter.
“Wait!” Ethan called, but Joseph had already disappeared into the stormy evening air.
WHEN THEY’D CARRIED HER away, Megan couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, could scarcely breathe. She guessed that they’d thrown her in the back of a battered pickup truck, one without springs. That, or it was Pastor Lincoln’s old school bus with the Repent or Perish slogan on the back.
The smell of kerosene lingered in the air, mingling with the smell of stale sweat and cheap after-shave. What kind of person wore after-shave to a mob scene, she wondered dizzily.
She had no sense of time. She could have been unconscious for minutes or hours before she came to, trapped in that rattling vehicle. She could hear the sizzle and crackle of lightning, the angry roar of the thunder. Could she hear Ethan? Would he find her in time? Would he save her?
Maybe she didn’t need to be so frightened. Maybe they were just going to lecture her, throw her in a ducking pond, maybe make her confess her sins. But she didn’t think so. The fanaticism of the people of Oak Grove was deep and twisted. A simple repentance wouldn’t sate their warped, hungry souls.
The vehicle came to an abrupt stop, and she was flung forward against a tangle of legs. She heard the nervous laughter, felt the hands pull her upright, lingering on her breasts, her buttocks, and then she was pushed out into the darkness and the blindfold was taken from her eyes.
Night had fallen, a dark, dangerous night. Lightning sizzled all around them. The wind was whipping her hair into her face as she tried to focus on the place they’d taken her.
It was an oak grove, presumably the place from which the town had taken its name. High on a hilltop, it overlooked the rolling Arkansas landscape, and the trees huddled in a circle looked oddly like Stonehenge. In the center of that circle was a broad, flat boulder, jus
t the perfect spot for a picnic, she thought dizzily. Or a sacrifice.
She could see the huddled shapes of construction equipment in the distance. This was where Ethan planned his spite house, his psychic-research center. It was no wonder they’d brought her here. What better place to leave Ethan Winslowe a message?
Pastor Lincoln came up to her. They’d tied her wrists together with leather thongs, had bound her ankles, too. She’d lost one of her Reeboks in the battle, and she thought, idiotically, of Cinderella. Would Ethan find the glass slipper?
She was punchy from panic and whatever filthy drug they’d given her. It took all her self-control to look calmly at Pastor Lincoln and wish she wasn’t gagged. So that she could spit in his face.
“Are you ready to repent, sister?” he screamed into the rising wind. “We’ve brought you to the godless place to heal the sickness that’s invaded our community. We’ve brought you to the place of witches so that you may join your evil horde or else be washed clean by the blood.”
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 sinobsessed 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, sourspirited 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 da
rkness 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.