Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  “That’s the way.” She was a pleasure to look at, he thought, with her face all flushed from the ovens, and the white bib apron over her jeans and shirt. She didn’t look old enough to have a grown boy, but Mick figured she’d got herself knocked up at a young age and made a go of it. “How’s your boy?” he asked as he pocketed his change.

  “Fine.”

  “Graduating next week?”

  She nodded. “It’s hard to believe.”

  “Take it easy.”

  “You, too.”

  Graduating, she thought, and took a deep breath of air laced with the scents of spices and sauce and sharp cheeses. Her little boy. How often she wished she could go back five years, ten, and find the moment when she had made the wrong turn.

  But that wasn’t right, she assured herself. Ernie was his own person, and that was how it was supposed to be. She watched, with some envy, as little Teresa Hobbs hugged her father’s knees and giggled. Maybe Ernie wasn’t outwardly affectionate or full of jokes and good humor, but he kept out of trouble. His grades were steady if not spectacular. He never came home drunk or stoned—as she had certainly done before marriage focused her. He was just, well, deep, she supposed. Always thinking. She wished she knew what he was thinking.

  He was waiting. Ernie knew he was early, but he’d been too psyched to sit at home. His adrenaline was pumping so hard and fast he thought he might explode. But he didn’t know he was scared because the fear was so deep, so cold in his bones.

  The moon was full. It silvered the trees and sprinkled the fields. He could just make out the Dopper farmhouse in the distance. Close by, cattle lowed.

  He was reminded of the last time he had come here. He’d climbed the fence then, the rope and knives he carried in a laundry bag. There hadn’t been so much moonlight then, and the breeze had carried a chill.

  He hadn’t had any trouble cornering the two calves or tying their legs, just the way he’d seen in the movies he watched in ninth grade when he was stuck in agriculture class. He’d hated every minute of ag, but he’d remembered the movies of brandings and birthings and butcherings.

  Still, he hadn’t known, he really hadn’t known, there would be so much blood. Or the sounds they would make. Or that their eyes would roll.

  He’d been sick at first and left the carcasses to run into the woods until his grinding stomach was empty. But he’d done it. He’d gone back and finished. He’d proven he was worthy.

  Killing wasn’t as easy to do as it was to read about. Having blood in a little vial in the drawer was different, much different, than having it splash warm from a vein onto your hands.

  It would be easier next time.

  He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. It had to be easier next time.

  He heard the rustle of leaves and turned to look, unaware that there was fear in his eyes—the same kind of rolling fear he’d seen in the calves’ eyes. His hand closed over the key in the ignition. For a moment, just one moment, his mind screamed at him to turn it, to throw the truck into reverse and drive away fast. Run away, while there was still time.

  But they came out of the woods. Like spirits or dreams. Or devils.

  There were four of them, robed and masked. Ernie’s throat clicked on a swallow as one of them reached out and opened the door of the truck.

  “I came,” he said.

  “You were sent,” he was answered. “There will be no going back.”

  Ernie shook his head. “I want to learn. I want to belong.”

  “Drink this.”

  He was offered a cup. Unsteadily, he climbed out of the truck to take it, to raise it to his lips, to drink with his eyes on the eyes behind the mask of Baphomet. Come.

  One of the men got into the truck and drove it up a logging trail until it was hidden from the road. They turned, Ernie in the center, and went back into the woods.

  They didn’t speak again. He could only think they looked magnificent, powerful, walking in the shadowed light, layers of dead leaves rustling beneath the hems of the robes. Like music, he thought and smiled. As the hallucinogen cruised through his system, he felt he was floating. They were all floating, around the trees, even through them. Air parted like water. Water like air.

  The moonlight was crimson, and through its haze he saw brilliant colors, magical shapes. The crunching of leaves underfoot was a drumbeat in his blood. And he was marching toward destiny.

  Baphomet turned to him, and his face was huge, bigger than the moon’s and brighter. Ernie smiled and thought that his own features changed. Into a wolf’s, a young wolf’s, hungry and handsome and shrewd.

  He didn’t know how long they walked. He didn’t care. He would have walked with them into the pit of Hell. Flames couldn’t touch him. He was one of them. He felt it, the power, the glory, swelling inside of him.

  When they came to the circle, the others were waiting. Baphomet turned to him. “Do you believe in the might of the Dark Lord?”

  “Yes.” Ernie’s eyes were glassy with the drug and harmless. Not hungry, not handsome, not shrewd, his face was slack and vulnerable. “I’ve worshiped Him. I’ve sacrificed for Him. I’ve waited for Him.”

  “Tonight, you will meet Him. Take off your clothes.”

  Obediently, Ernie pulled off his Nikes, his Levi’s. He stripped off his Black Sabbath T-shirt until he wore only the pentagram. A robe was slipped over him.

  “You will not have a mask. Later, when you are one of the few, you will choose your own.”

  The voice came to Ernie’s ears, low and stately, like a funeral march or a record played on the wrong speed. “I’ve studied,” he said. “I understand.”

  “You have more to learn.”

  Baphomet stepped into the circle. The others closed around it. When Ernie took his place, he saw the woman. She was beautiful, draped in a red robe, her hair loose and glossy. She was smiling at him. Even as he hardened beneath his own robe, he recognized her.

  Sarah Hewitt had participated in the ceremonies before. For two hundred dollars, all she had to do was lie naked on a slab of wood and wait until a few nut cases went through their ridiculous routine. There was a lot of chanting and calling up the devil. The devil, for Christ’s sake. It was all an excuse to ball her. For two hundred, she didn’t care if they wanted to wear masks and shake their naked butts at each other. ’Course, sacrificing goats was pretty sick, but boys would be boys. In any case, tonight looked like a special treat. She’d recognized Ernie and figured he might add something to the night’s entertainment.

  The kid was stoned, she thought, and would probably pop off before they got to the good part. But she could bring him around again. She was good at it.

  And she had been relieved to be told to come tonight. She’d made a mistake talking to Cam. Sarah was well aware that people paid for mistakes.

  The bell was rung, the candles were lit, and the flame was set in the pit. Sarah slid a hand down the center of her robe and let it slither from her shoulders. She held the pose a moment, knowing eyes were on her. In the spotlight of the moon, she walked over to spread herself on the slab.

  The high priest raised his arms. “In the name of Satan, king and ruler, I command the Dark Forces to bestow their infernal power upon me. Open wide the gates of Hell and grant me all I ask. We rejoice in the life of the flesh. We seek and demand its pleasures. Hear the names!”

  Ernie shuddered as the names were called. He knew them, had studied them. Had prayed to them. But for the first time, he wasn’t alone. And his blood was hot, melting the lingering fear in his bones, as he repeated them with the coven.

  The cup was passed. Ernie wet his dry mouth with the tainted wine. The flames from the pit seemed to tower, alive, snapping greedily. His flesh burned.

  He watched the high priest. The image of the sculpture Clare had created imposed itself over the reality. She knew, he thought, and yearned for her. She knew.

  The sword was taken up to call out the four Princes of Hell.

&nbs
p; The power was like a shaft of ice speared into him. The heat and cold vacillated like a sexual dance. He shook with it as he joined in the chant.

  “We bring a new brother to You tonight, Master. We offer You his heart, his soul, his loins. Youth is blessed. Youth is strong. His blood will mix with ours in Your glory.”

  “Ave, Satan.”

  He held out a hand, gesturing Ernie into the circle. “Do you come to this place of your own will?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you embrace the Dark Lord as your Master?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you give your oath now, to hold sacred this place? To give yourself over to the Law?”

  “I swear it.”

  Ernie barely felt the prick on the index finger of his left hand. Dreamily, he set it against the parchment held in front of him. And signed his name in blood.

  “Now you have sworn. Now you have added your name to the few. If you speak of what you have seen this night, your tongue will turn black and fall from your mouth. Your heart will shrivel in your breast to a stone and stop your breath. Tonight, you accept His wrath and His pleasures.”

  “I accept them.”

  The priest set hands on Ernie’s shoulders and flung back his head. “We ride a sweeping wind, to the bright place of our desires. The joys of life are ours to take. A life of lust is ours to bear. We are men.”

  “Blessed be.”

  “I am a thrusting rod with the head of iron. Women crave me.”

  “We are men.”

  “I am filled with carnal joy. My blood is hot. My sex aflame.”

  “We are men.”

  “All demons dwell within me.” He lowered his eyes and his gaze bored into Ernie’s. “I am a pantheon of flesh.”

  “Hail, Satan.”

  A figure stepped forward, offering the priest a small bone. Taking it, he moved to the altar, leaving Ernie swaying. The bone was placed upright between the altar’s thighs. He took the cup from between her breasts and upended it so that the wine spilled over her flesh.

  “The Earth is my mother, the moist and fertile whore.” He moved his hands over the altar, squeezing, scraping. “Hear us now, Great Satan, for we invoke Your blessing in the pleasures of the flesh.”

  “Sustain us, Master.”

  “Desiring all.”

  “Sustain us, Master.”

  “Taking what we will.”

  “Ave, Satan.”

  The goat was brought out, the knife drawn. With the drug and the chants spinning in his head, Ernie fell to his knees. He prayed, to the God he had just forsworn, that he wouldn’t be sick.

  He was pulled to his feet and his robe stripped from him. The priest put out a hand, dripping with blood, and smeared it over Ernie’s chest.

  “You are marked with the sacrificial blood. Invoke the Name.”

  Ernie swayed, mesmerized by the eyes that burned into his. “Sabatan.”

  “Sabatan!”

  The priest moved back to the altar, repeating the exaltation. He took up the bone and turned so that the rest of the coven could pass before her.

  “Flesh without sin,” he said.

  Robes were cast aside, and the chanting grew louder. Ernie could hear nothing else as he was pulled to the altar. He shook his head, struggling to clear it. She cupped her hands around his rigid penis, manipulating it roughly until he shuddered. Beneath the chanting, he could hear her laugh, low and mocking.

  “Come on, little boy. Don’t you want to show these old farts what you can do?”

  And the rage filled him, and the sickness, and the need. He rammed himself into her, driving hard until he saw the mockery fade and pleasure flicker.

  He knew they were watching but didn’t care. Her hot breath washed over his face. His muscles trembled. Tears came to his eyes as the chanting rolled over him. He belonged.

  And when he was finished, he watched others and grew hard again. They took turns with her, greedy, pushing themselves into her, slurping at her flesh. They no longer looked powerful, but pathetic, emptying themselves into the same vessel, showing their flab and flaws in the moonlight.

  Some of them were old, he realized. Old and fat, wheezing as they climaxed and collapsed. And his watching became more cynical as the drug wore off and excitement drained. Some masturbated onto the ground, too impatient to wait. They howled, drunk on sex and blood.

  Ernie’s eyes skimmed over them derisively and met another’s. He wore the mask, the head of Mendes. His naked form was trim and pale, and the heavy silver pendant rested against his chest. He didn’t dance around the fire, or call to the moon, or fall drooling on the woman. He only stood and watched.

  There was power, Ernie realized. In this man it was centered. He knew, he understood. When he moved toward Ernie, the boy trembled at what he might have guessed.

  “You have begun.”

  “Yes. The rite—it was different from what I’ve read and studied.”

  “We take what we need. We add what we choose. Do you disapprove?”

  Ernie looked back at the altar and the men who climbed over her. “No.” That was what he wanted, the freedom, the glory. “But lust is only one way.”

  Behind the mask was a smile. “You will have others. But this night is done for you.”

  “But I want to—”

  “You will be taken back and will wait to be called. If what you have seen and done is spoken of outside this place, you will die. And your family will die.” He turned and went back to the head of the altar.

  Ernie was given his clothes and told to dress. Flanked by two robed men, he was escorted back to his truck. He drove for about a half mile before pulling over, turning off the ignition, and jogging back.

  He would take what he wanted, he told himself. The rite had not been closed. If he was to join, he was entitled to see it all.

  He belonged.

  His head throbbed, and his mouth felt sandy and dry. Aftereffects of the drug, he supposed. He would take care not to drink again, but only to pretend. He didn’t need his senses clouded, but cleared. Drugs were for fools and cowards.

  Though he feared once or twice that he would lose his way, he kept walking. He was certain he had recognized some of the men there tonight, and he intended to make a list in secret. They had seen his face. He was entitled to know theirs. He would not be treated like a child again, not here. He would belong in full, and one day, one day, he would stand in the center of the circle with the goat’s head. He would be the one to call up the power.

  He could smell the smoke, stenched with the carcass of the goat. Quickly, he crossed the stream where years before Junior Dopper had meet his own devil. The sound of chanting came hollowly through the trees. Ernie slowed his steps, crouched and moved forward. There—in the same place a little girl had once hidden, though he did not know it—he watched the rite continue.

  They had not donned their robes again, but stood naked. The altar lay limp, sated and sleepy with the glitter of moonlight on her skin.

  “Our lust is quenched. Our bodies are pure. Our minds are clear. Our secret thoughts have been channeled into the movements of our flesh. We are one with our Master.”

  “Hail, Satan.”

  The priest stood, legs spread, arms outstretched in the center of the circle. His head thrown back, he shouted out an imprecation. Latin? Ernie wondered, licking his lips. Whatever language, it sounded more passionate, more powerful than English.

  “Beelzebub, come forth and fill me with Your wrath. Woe to the Earth, for her iniquity was great.” He whirled toward the altar. Lazily, Sarah pushed herself up on her elbows.

  She knew him, knew his appetites and his secrets.

  “You didn’t take your turn,” she said and shook back her tumbled hair. “Better get in while you can. Your two hours are almost up.”

  He brought a hand hard across her face. Her head snapped onto the slab. “You will not speak.”

  She lifted her fingers and rubbed them over her lips where blood s
purted. Hate filled her eyes, but she knew if she disobeyed, he would hit her again. Instead, she lay still and waited. She would have her day, she thought. By God, she would. And he would pay a hell of a lot more than two hundred for the slap.

  “Behold the whore,” he said. “Like Eve she will seduce, then betray. Between her spread thighs lies our pleasure. But before lust, there is the Law. I am the Sayer of the Law. None escape.”

  “None escape.”

  “Cruel are the punishments of the Law. None escape.”

  “None escape.”

  “The weak are cursed. She who speaks what is secret is damned. That is the Law.”

  “Hail, Satan.”

  Even as they crowded around her, Sarah scrambled up. Her arms and legs were grabbed and borne down to the wood.

  “I didn’t say anything. I didn’t. I never—”

  She was silenced by another blow.

  “The gods of the pit demand vengeance. They hunger. They thirst. Their mighty voices smash the stillness of the air.” Turning, he threw something into the pit that caused the flames to leap and roar.

  And the chanting began, a murmuring chorus behind his shouted words.

  “I am the instrument of annihilation. I am the messenger of doom. The agony of the betrayer will sustain me. Her blood will slake my thirst.”

  “Please.” Writhing, terrified, Sarah looked at the men who surrounded her. It couldn’t happen. She knew them, all of them, had served them beer and sex. “I’ll do anything you want. Anything. For God’s sake—”

  “There is no god but Satan.”

  When her hands and feet were bound, the coven fell back. From his place in the bush, Ernie began to sweat.

  “Behold the vengeance of the Master.” The priest picked up the sacrificial knife, still dampened with blood. He stepped forward.

  Sarah began to scream.

  She screamed for a long time. Ernie pushed his hands against his ears to block it out, but the sound reeked, like a scent in the air. Even when he closed his eyes, he could see what was being done to her.

  Not a sacrifice. Not an offering. But a mutilation.

  With his hands over his mouth, he ran blindly through the woods. But her screams chased after him.