by Nora Roberts
She didn’t kneel at her father’s grave. She hadn’t brought flowers. She didn’t weep. Instead she stood, reading his headstone over and over, trying to find some sense of him there. But there was nothing but granite and grass.
As he stood beside his mother, Cam watched Clare. The sun turned her hair to copper. Bright and brilliant. Alive. His fingers flexed as he realized just how much he needed to touch life. Each time he put a hand on his mother’s arm, her shoulder, her back, he was met with a cold wall. She had nothing for him, not even need.
Yet he couldn’t leave her, couldn’t turn away as he wanted to and go to Clare, put a hand on that bright, brilliant hair, absorb that life, that need.
He hated cemeteries, he thought, and remembered staring down into the empty grave of a child.
When Clare walked away, returned to her car, drove away, he knew what it was to be utterly alone.
* * *
Clare worked furiously for the rest of the day. Driven. Her second metal sculpture was almost done. When it was time to let the steel cool, she would turn off her torch, strip off her skullcap, and take up the clay model of Ernie’s arm.
She couldn’t bear to rest.
With knives and hands and wooden pallets, she carved and smoothed and formed. She could feel the defiance as she shaped the fist. The restlessness as she detailed the taut muscles of the forearm. Patiently, she carved away minute scraps of clay with thin wire, then smoothed and textured with a damp brush.
The music blared on her radio—the edgiest, grittiest rock she could find on the dial. Sparked with energy, she washed the clay from her hands, but she didn’t rest. Couldn’t. At another worktable sat a slab of cherry wood with much of its center already carved away. She took up her tools, mallet, chisels, calipers, and poured that nervous energy into her work.
She stopped only when the sun lowered enough to force her to switch on lights, then to turn the music from rock to classical, just as passionate, just as driving. Cars cruised by unheard. The phone rang, but she ignored it.
Her other projects faded completely from her mind. She was part of the wood now, part of its possibilities. And the wood absorbed her emotions. Cleansed them. She had no sketch, no model. Only memories and needs.
For the fine carving, her fingers were deft and sure. Her eyes burned, but she rubbed the back of her wrist over them and kept going. The fire in her, rather than banking, grew and grew.
Stars came out. The moon started its rise.
Cam saw her bent over her work, a wood file flashing in her hand. Overhead the bright, naked bulbs burned, drawing pale, wide-winged moths to their death dance. Music soared, all slashing strings and crashing bass.
There was a glow of triumph on her face, in her eyes. Every few moments, she would stroke her fingers over the curve of wood in a form of communication he recognized but couldn’t understand.
There was something raw and powerful in the shape. It swept down, forming an open profile. As he stepped inside the garage, he could see that it was a face, eerily masculine, a head lifted back and up as if toward the sun.
He didn’t speak and lost track of the time as he watched her. But he could feel the passion trembling out of her. It reached him and clashed almost painfully with his own.
Clare set the tools aside. Slowly, she slid from the stool to step back. Her breath was coming fast, so fast she instinctively pressed a hand to her heart. Pain mixed with pleasure as she studied what she had been driven to create.
Her father. As she remembered him. As she had loved him. Dynamic, energized, loving. Alive. Most of all alive. Tonight, finally, she had found a way to celebrate his life.
She turned and looked at Cam.
She didn’t stop to wonder why she wasn’t surprised to see him there. She didn’t pause to ask herself if this new surge of excitement was dangerous or if she was ready for the needs she read in his eyes.
He reached up to pull the garage door down. Metal banged against concrete. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, but waited with every nerve in her body humming taut.
He crossed to her. The music was trapped with them, blasting from walls, ceiling, floor.
Then his hands were on her face, his rough palms shaping her, his thumbs rubbing across her lips, then her cheekbones, before his fingers dug into her hair. Her breath caught as he dragged her head back, as his body slammed into hers. But it wasn’t fear that made her shudder. And the sound in her throat as his lips crushed to hers was one of triumph.
He’d never needed anyone more than he needed her at that moment. All the misery, all the pain, all the bitterness he had carried with him that day faded at the first hot taste of her. She was pure energy in his arms, snapping and pulsing with life. Starving, he dived deeper into her mouth while her heart pounded against his.
His hands moved down to grip her hips, then her thighs. If it had been possible, he would have pulled her inside him, so great was his need to possess. On an oath, he dragged her with him, stumbling blindly into the kitchen.
He thought of bed, of sinking with her onto the mattress. Of sinking into her.
Impatient, he tugged at her shirt, yanking it over her head and letting it fly. They rammed into a wall as he filled his hands with her breasts.
She laughed and reached for him, but could only moan when he bent low and suckled. Fisting her hands in his hair, she held on.
He seemed to be feasting on her. There was a wildness in him, a greed, a violence that staggered her. Her body arched, offering more. Straining for more. The prick of his teeth against her sensitive skin had her blood beating hotter. She could feel it, almost hear it, the primitive drumbeat rhythm just under her skin. She’d forgotten that she could feel passion like this for a man. This hunger that could only be sated by rough and frenzied joining. She wanted him to take her now, as they stood. Quickly, even viciously.
Then he was pulling her jeans down over her hips, and his clever, dangerous mouth was roaming lower.
He slid his tongue over the quivering skin of her torso. Her nails dug into his shoulders as her body rocked. She was naked beneath the denim, and his groan of pleasure shivered against her flesh. He could hear her quick, breathy murmurs but didn’t know what she was asking. Didn’t care. He caught her hips when her legs buckled, and his hands were rough. His mouth was demanding and greedy as it closed over her.
She was dying. She had to be dying. She couldn’t be alive and feel so much. Her body was bombarded by sensation after sensation. His hands, those long, urgent fingers. And his mouth. God, his mouth. Lights seemed to dance behind her eyes. With each gasping breath, she gulped in hot, thick air until her system was too full and fighting for release. She cried out, dragging at him, pulling him back up to her, unable to bear what was happening to her. Frantic for more.
His breath was as ragged as hers as he hit the light switch beside her head. His hands were on her face again, holding her back against the wall.
“Look at me.” He would have sworn the floor swayed under his feet. “Damn it, I want you to look at me.”
She opened her eyes and stared into his. She was trapped there, she thought with a flash of panic. Imprisoned in him. Her lips trembled open, but there were no words, nothing that could describe what she was feeling.
“I want to watch you.” His mouth came down on hers again, devouring. “I want to see you.”
She was falling. Endlessly. Helplessly. And he was there, his body shockingly hot over hers, the tiles icy cold against her own heated back.
Driven by her own needs, she pulled at his shirt, popping buttons in her rush to feel his flesh against hers. Out of control, she thought. She was out of control and glorying in it. As desperate as he, she ran her hands over his damp skin and fought to strip off the rest of the barrier.
He fought with her boots, cursing until she began to laugh. Rearing up, she hooked her arms around him, taking little nibbling bites along his throat and chest.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, was all she co
uld think as they pulled and tugged and yanked.
Then they were rolling over the kitchen floor, the music crashing around them. He kicked clothing aside and sent a chair toppling. Her mouth was fused to his as they reversed positions once more. As she lay on top of him, he gripped her hips, lifting her up.
Now, she thought. Thank God. Now.
Arching back, she took him into her. Her body shuddered, shuddered, as he filled her, as she opened herself and took more of him.
With her head flung back, her long, slender body curved, she began to rock. Slowly, then faster, still faster, driving him past reason with an ever quickening rhythm. He gripped her hands with his as he watched her ride above him.
Fearless. It was the only word his frantic mind found for her. She looked fearless, rising above him, joined to him, filled with him.
He felt her tighten around him as she reached her peak. His own release left him gasping.
She slid down to him, soft, boneless, and damp. His hand stroked lazily down her back as they caught their breath. He’d been waiting for this, he realized as he turned his head to kiss her hair, for a long time.
“I came by to ask you if you wanted a beer,” he murmured.
She sighed, yawned, then settled. “No, thanks.”
“You look so damn sexy when you’re working.”
She smiled. “Yeah?”
“Christ, yeah. I could have eaten you alive.”
“I thought you had.” She drummed up enough energy to brace a palm on the floor and look down at him. “I liked it.”
“That’s good because I’ve been wanting to get your clothes off ever since you tackled me in the upstairs hallway.” He reached up to cup her breast, his thumb cruising over the nipple that was still pebble-hard and damp. “You sure grew up nice, Slim.” He shifted so that he was sitting up with her across his lap. “You’ve still got a sock on.”
She looked down and flexed her feet, one bare and the other covered with a thick purple sock. There might have been a moment in her life when she had felt better, but she couldn’t remember it.
“Next time, maybe we should take off the boots before we get started.” She leaned her head against his shoulder and thought, with some regret, that they would have to move eventually. “I guess the floor’s getting hard.”
“It started out hard.” But he didn’t feel like getting up just yet. She felt exactly right in his arms—something he’d hoped for but hadn’t expected. “I saw you at the funeral. You looked tired.”
“I need a bed.”
“Mine’s available.”
She laughed but wondered if they were moving a bit too quickly. “How much do you want for it?”
He put a hand under her chin and turned her head. “I want you to come home with me, Clare.”
“Cam—”
He shook his head and took a firmer grip. “I’d better make myself clear straight off. I don’t share.”
She felt the same skip of panic as she had when she’d looked in his eyes and saw her image trapped there. “It’s not as if there’s someone else—” she began.
“Good.”
“But I don’t want to take such a big jump that I end up on my face. What happened just now was—”
“What?”
When she looked into his eyes, she could see that he was smiling again. It made it easy to smile back. “Great. Absolutely great.”
He figured he could handle a case of the jitters. Slowly, he skimmed his hand over her hip, up to her rib cage, and watched her eyes darken. Bending his head, he made love to her mouth with his until she was all but purring.
“I want you to come home with me, for tonight.” Watching her, he caught her bottom lip between his teeth, nibbled, then released. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
Ernie watched them come out of the house through the front door. Because his window was open, he heard Clare’s laugh ripple up the quiet street. Their hands were linked as they walked to Cam’s car. They stopped and kissed, long and slow and deep. She let him touch her, Ernie thought, while a fire began to burn in his belly.
He watched as they got into the car, then drove away.
While the rage was on him, he rose quietly to lock his door and to light the black candles.
In the woods the coven met. They did not stand in the magic circle. The ritual would wait. There were many among them who knew fear. The altar where one of the group had been executed stood before them. A reminder and a warning.
They had been called here tonight, hours after the burial, to prove their continued allegiance. During the rite to come, each would drink of blood-tainted wine.
“My brothers, one of our number lies tonight in the dirt.” The priest spoke softly, but all the muted conversations ended instantly. “The Law was broken, and the weak one has been punished. Know that any who defy the Law, any who stray from the path will be struck down. The dead are dead.”
He paused, turning his head slowly. “Are there any questions?”
No one would have dared. And he was pleased.
“Now we have need of another to fill out our number. Names will be considered and offered to the Master.”
The men began to talk among themselves again, often arguing over choices like politicos over a favorite son. The priest let them ramble. He already had a candidate. Mindful of his timing, he walked into the circle and raised his hands.
Silence followed him.
“We require youth, strength, and loyalty. We require a mind still open for the possibilities, a body still strong enough to carry the burden of duty. Our Master craves the young, the lonely, the angry. I know of one who is already prepared, already seeking. He wants only direction and discipline. He will begin a new generation for the Dark Lord.”
So the name was written on parchment to be offered to the four Princes of Hell.
Chapter 12
On Saturdays Ernie worked the eight-to-four-thirty shift at the Amoco. And that was fine with him. It meant he was up and out of the house before his parents stumbled out of bed. They’d be busy making pizza at Rocco’s when he came home. He could do as he pleased from the time he clocked out until his one o’clock curfew.
Tonight he planned to lure Sally Simmons up to his room, lock the door, turn on some AC/DC, and fuck her brains out.
He’d chosen to move on Sally with less concern than he felt when choosing what shirt to wear in the morning. She was at worst a substitute, at best a symbol of his real desire. The image of Clare rolling around between the sheets with Cameron Rafferty had haunted Ernie through the night. She had betrayed him and their joint destiny.
He would find a way to punish her, but in the meantime, he could vent his frustration with Sally.
He gassed up a milk truck. As the pump clicked off the dollars and gallons behind him, he looked vacantly around town. There was old Mr. Finch, his knobby white knees poking out below plaid Bermuda shorts, walking his two prissy Yorkshire terriers.
Finch was wearing an Orioles fielder’s cap, mirrored sunglasses, and a T-shirt that said MARYLAND IS FOR CRABS. He clucked and crooned to the Yorkies as though they were a pair of toddlers. He would, Ernie knew, walk down Main, cut across the Amoco lot, and go inside for a doughnut and a piss. As he did every Saturday morning of his life.
“How’s it going, young fella?” Finch asked as he asked every Saturday.
“All right.”
“Got to get my girls some exercise.”
Less Gladhill breezed in, late as usual. He carried the pasty, sulky look that said hangover in progress. With barely a grunt for Ernie, he went into the garage to change the plugs on a ’75 Mustang.
Matt Dopper rumbled through in his aged Ford pickup, his three dogs riding in the back. He bitched about the price of gas, picked up a pack of Bull Durham from the cigarette counter inside, and headed off to the feed and grain.
Doc Crampton, looking sleepy-eyed, pulled in to fill up his Buick, bought a book of raffle tickets, and commiserate
d with Finch about the man’s bursitis.
Before ten, it seemed half the town had come through. Ernie moved from pump to pump, gassing up carloads of giggling teenage girls on their way to the mall. Young mothers and cranky toddlers, old men who blocked the pumps as they shouted to each other from car windows.
When he went in for his first break and a Coke, Skunk Haggerty, who ran the station, was sitting behind the counter, munching on a doughnut and flirting with Reva Williamson, the skinny, long-nosed waitress from Martha’s.
“Well, I was planning on washing my hair and giving myself a facial tonight.” Reva rolled strawberry-flavored bubble gum around her tongue and grinned.
“Your face looks just fine to me.” Skunk came by his name honestly. No amount of soap, deodorant, or cologne could disguise the faint gym sock aroma that seeped through his pores. But he was single. And Reva was twice divorced and on the prowl.
She giggled, a sound that made Ernie roll his eyes. He could hear them continue their tease and shuffle as he walked into the back to relieve his bladder. The dispenser was out of paper towels. It was his job to keep the rest rooms stocked. Grumbling a bit, he wiped his hands on his jeans on the way to the storeroom. Reva let out a squealing laugh.
“Oh, Skunk, you are a case, you are.”
“Shit,” Ernie mumbled, and pulled down a box of paper towels. He saw the book, standing face out in the space behind the cardboard box. Licking his lips, Ernie reached for it.
The Magical Diaries of Aleister Crowley. As he flipped the pages, a single sheet of paper fell out. He scooped it up, glancing quickly over his shoulder.
Read. Believe. Belong.
His hands shook as he stuffed the note in his pocket. There was no doubt in his mind that it had been left for him. At last the invitation had come. He had seen things through his telescope. And he had suspected more. Seeing and suspecting, he had kept his silence and waited. Now he was being rewarded, being offered a place.
His young, lonely heart swelled as he slipped the book under his shirt. On impulse he pulled the pentagram out, letting it dangle free and in full view. That would be his sign, he thought. They would see that he had understood and was waiting.