Without Mercy

by Lisa Jackson

  Trent said, “When the detectives get here, I think they’ll want to talk to Shaylee again.”

  “Along with everyone else.”

  Trent nodded slowly, but she read his hesitation and caught on.

  “Wait a minute,” she said, instantly hot. “Don’t tell me you really think my sister is guilty?”

  “She hasn’t been ruled out yet.”

  “Oh, for the love of God. Then what about Lauren Conway? Is Shaylee a suspect in her disappearance, too, even though it happened months before Shay came here?”

  “You’re assuming the events are related, remember?”

  “Aren’t they?” she tossed back, desperate to make him see that Shay was innocent. “Other than a scandal concerning a teacher and a student, this school hasn’t lost any of their students. Ever. Until November. Then, four months later, two other kids are killed!”

  “I’m just saying that Shaylee is going to be looked at. Hard.”

  “Because of her damned hat. That’s ridiculous! Nona had worn it before. As for the cell phone, big deal. She took Nona’s phone. When she was alive! Her biggest crime is petty theft!”

  “Nona’s body was dragged. The abrasions on her back and rump are consistent with being dragged across the hay bales to the spot where she was hoisted over the beams.”

  “She and Drew were making love.”

  “On a sleeping bag, not straw,” he said quietly, “and Shay was the last person to see Nona alive.”

  “Wrong!” Jules was incensed now. “Drew was the last person, and we don’t know that Nona didn’t come into contact with someone between leaving her dorm room and meeting Drew!” Breathing fire, she shoved back her chair, the legs scraping noisily against the hardwood. “I can’t believe you’re buying into this … this easy and ridiculous answer. Especially after what I showed you here,” she said, jabbing a finger at the seared records. “For crying out loud, she’s only seventeen, barely a hundred and twenty pounds.”

  “So you’re saying she would have trouble hauling Nona’s body?”

  “No! She knows the fireman carry. Good Lord, she’s taken all kinds of martial arts and strength-training and …” She let her voice fade away, knowing she was only digging a deeper hole for her sister. “Listen to what you’re saying,” she hissed as he rose to face her. “You’re accusing her of murder. Double homicide at the very least.”

  “No one’s accusing anyone of anything.” He came to her, closing the space between them. “I just think you should be aware of what’s happening.”

  “Forewarned is forearmed?” she said, incensed.

  “Just that you need to be prepared.”

  She nearly slapped him then. Her hand jerked backward, recoiling as if to strike.

  He stared down at her. “I wouldn’t.”

  “Wouldn’t what?” she taunted, blood pumping through her. God, he was close. Too close. She thought of stepping backward but was already as close to the fire as she dared.

  He glanced down at her hand, still poised as if to strike. “Hit me.” His breath was warm against her face. “I might hit back.” His eyes were dark as night. “Or worse.”

  “Worse?”

  His gaze dropped to her lips. “Uh-huh.”

  Her pulse was pounding, her gaze focused on his, every sense aware of the tiniest shifting in the atmosphere. “I think you’re bluffing,” she said.

  One side of his mouth twisted upward in that crooked, self-deprecating smile that had always scraped her soul. “I think you are.”

  She had trouble taking a breath; it was impossible to process anything beyond the warmth coming off his skin or the smell of coffee and a hint of aftershave reaching her nostrils. His sheer presence caused turmoil deep inside her. The back of her legs were warm with heat from the fire, and she felt a flush crawl up her spine.

  “Seems as if we’re at an impasse,” he said.

  “Aren’t we always?”

  “We should be talking about the case.”

  “That’s right. We should,” she said, but right now, all thoughts of their discussion were scattered. She found herself wanting and, for just a tiny bit of time, needing to forget the nightmare that had become their lives, needing to escape to somewhere safe and warm.

  Which was ludicrous.

  “I just think you should consider other suspects,” she forced out.

  “I am.”

  “And the police?”

  “They’ll pursue every suspect, every possibility.” His gaze slid over her face; she felt its warmth. Oh, Lord, she couldn’t go there … wouldn’t!

  “Then give Shaylee a damned break,” she said, her voice lower than she’d intended, the heat between them nearly palpable. “Trust me on this one, Trent. I know I’m right.” Resolve coursed through her; she couldn’t let her sister be railroaded for murders she didn’t commit.

  “For once, Jules, let’s turn this around,” he said, and placed his hands against the mantel on either side of her head, trapping her there. “You trust me.”

  For a heart-stopping moment, she thought he might kiss her. Instead he pinned her with his eyes.

  “I don’t know if I can,” she admitted, her heart pounding wildly.

  “That’s a problem.”

  “Only one?” she asked, the night seeming to thrum around them. Dear God, she’d missed him.

  “You’re right. We’ve got a bigger one.”

  “Which is?”

  “This, damn it.” As quick as a lightning strike, his arms wrapped around her and his lips found hers. He kissed her hard, holding her close, nearly crushing her body to his.

  She didn’t resist. Instead, she slid her arms around his neck, her fingers catching in his hair. Her mouth opened to him, and as the kiss deepened, the years that they’d been apart disintegrated into thin air. Her skin heated, her blood ran wild, and deep inside, in the very center of her, she began to feel a want that had been dormant for five years.

  Sadly, no man had ever touched her the way Cooper Trent had; she’d never let any other man close enough to reach her or to wound her.

  She didn’t protest when he lifted her from her feet and carried her along the short hallway and into his bedroom. He fell with her on the mattress, which squeaked beneath them.

  “This is a big mistake,” he whispered, still holding her close.

  “You’re right.”

  “Oh, hell.” His mouth found hers again, and there was no stopping. His hands slid beneath her sweater, pulling it over her head, while hers worked at the fly of his jeans. He buried his face in the cleft of her breasts, his breath warm, his lips eager as he nibbled at the edge of her bra, then slid the strap from her shoulder. One breast spilled from its cup, and he kissed her nipple, causing the ache deep inside to grow. She moaned, arching to him as he teased and nipped, circling the areola with his tongue, causing her nipple to harden.

  With a moan, she cradled his head to hers as he suckled, and she arched her neck and back.

  “I forgot how beautiful you were,” he said against her skin, the warm air from his mouth ruffling across her flesh.

  “And I forgot how adept you were at bull,” she replied, giggling a little.

  He kissed her belly then, his nose pressing deep into her skin. “You are trouble, Jules.”

  “As are you.” She forced his jeans over his hips, scraping the hard muscles of his butt and thighs, reminding her that he’d once ridden rodeo, that his body was honed by years of hard work. There were scars along his back, old injuries that her fingers skated over after he flung his shirt onto the floor.

  He made short work of her ski pants and snapped her panties off in one deft stroke.

  “You sure about this?” he asked once they were naked and he was levered above her, balanced on one bent arm while his free hand stroked her, fingers exploring her ribs and waist, lingering at her hips.

  “I’m not sure about anything,” she admitted.

  His smile was a slash of white. “Me neithe
r.” He kissed her again and rolled atop her, his weight welcome, his skin warm against hers. She told herself a thousand times that this was a mistake, that she would regret making love to him, but the scent of him was too powerful an aphrodisiac, the feel of his body welcome relief.

  She closed her eyes and gave in to the moment, feeling his hands twine in her hair as he pressed a wet trail of kisses from her nape, across her neck, to the circle of bones at her throat.

  Her body responded, and she kissed him in kind, feeling the stubble of his beard against her lips, tracing her fingers along his spine, cupping his muscular buttocks.

  She moaned as he slid his knees between hers and arched upward when he caressed her with his mouth and tongue, sliding downward, exploring and breathing hot air against flesh already on fire.

  He parted her gently, then touched her in the most intimate of places, creating a swirling pool of need deep within until she cried out. He kissed. He touched. He licked. And she wanted more.

  “Trent,” she whispered, her voice cracking as he slid upward, coming to her, his hardness rubbing gently against her belly. He kissed her and tried to slide between her legs, but she moved lower, intent on pleasuring him as he had her. The bedsheets crumpled beneath her back as she positioned herself, kissing him, feeling his back muscles tense as she offered featherlight touches that made him groan and gasp above her.

  The smell of sex was heavy in the air, beads of perspiration rising on her skin.

  “Jules … Jules …,” he rasped.

  “Mmmm.”

  “I don’t think I can … hold back.”

  “Don’t,” she whispered, but pushed herself upward to find his mouth with hers.

  “Jesus, God, woman!” He pushed himself inside her, and she wrapped her legs around him as he thrust. Once, twice, three times. Faster and faster. Jules clung to him, arching up, her mind spinning crazily.

  She was here.

  With Trent.

  In his bed.

  She felt the first wave wash over her. Hot. Violent. A spasm that caught her in its heated grip.

  He cried out.

  The second wave was stronger still. She bucked upward, holding fast to this man she’d once loved, once trusted. Tears burned at the back of her eyes, but she refused to give in and crumple to fear and doubt. Let the winds howl and whistle, the frozen sting of snow battering the ramshackle cottage, the breath of evil whispering over the school grounds. For this moment, she was riding the storm with Trent, proud and strong, loving and loved. With Trent.

  CHAPTER 38

  God was testing him.

  That was it.

  Finally the Leader understood that God was throwing down his immaculate gauntlet and observing, watching to see if the leader he’d chosen would take up the battle. And he would. Oh, yes, he would.

  “I will not fail you,” he whispered as he moved across the campus through the blizzard, a storm that God had provided, the perfect cover. The Leader realized that now; God was testing him, yes, but aiding him in his ultimate purpose. Everything was becoming clear.

  As always, God’s wisdom was complete.

  Avoiding the pathetic security patrols, he smiled to himself as he hurried behind the rec hall. Weren’t his own people on each and every team appointed to oversee the safety of the academy?

  It was a joke really.

  He was in control.

  God was on his side. The rest of the world would see. She would see, the woman who had so callously cast him aside.

  Surely God would reward him and those who had helped him along the path of his holy mission; those who had misused the word of God, twisting it for their own purposes, would be exposed. Punished. Ultimately face their master for their sins.

  Yes, there were a few bumps in his plan, but they could be smoothed easily, the Leader thought as he slipped into the chapel, the smell of smoke lingering in the air. He hurried to the staircase and flew down the steps, moving without a sound, his heart beating fast, adrenaline fueling his blood.

  Not bothering to switch on a light, he strode quickly along the familiar hallway to the janitorial closet that was rarely used, the equipment within gathering dust.

  Once the door was closed behind him, he flipped on the light, a dim bulb overhead; then, nearly kneeling, he reached behind a long-forgotten bucket and brush on a low shelf. Behind the bucket was a hidden keypad. He quickly pressed in the code, and the shelves popped open, swinging noiselessly toward him on a hinge to reveal stone steps leading downward.

  Single bulbs offered pale light as he descended into what had once been a cave. Sometime after World War II, in the early fifties, the space had been fitted as a fallout shelter, complete with reinforced walls and ceiling, an underground generator, an air-filtration system, and a vented stove. A natural spring provided water. Fortunately, Radnor Stanton, Cora Sue’s dear, deceased father, had been a man with vision, he thought with more than a trace of bitterness. When Stanton, a Cold War survivor, helped with the construction of Blue Rock Academy, he made sure to preserve this perfect sanctuary.

  But Radnor Stanton was long dead, his idiosyncratic underground shelter forgotten over the years. Gone were the ancient canned foods, transistor radio, metal cots, and huge flashlights that had been part of the essentials over half a century earlier. Now the space was filled with an altar, pews, and lanterns, but it was vented as it had been, allowing in fresh air, filtered by the original components.

  There was a locked cabinet as well, an arsenal where rifles, handguns, and walkie-talkies were stored. Cell phones were helpful, but not completely reliable here in the mountains. He did a mental inventory of the ammunition, night-vision goggles, and knives, along with ski masks, armored vests, and extra academy jackets.

  He was ready.

  For Armageddon.

  His followers, carefully selected, were eager and fervent, anxious to put the plan into motion. Already, some had carried out his orders; others were on their way to get their instructions.

  A tingle of anticipation swept through him as he realized that all of his plans, all of his dreams, were about to be realized. There would be ramifications, he was certain, but in the end, he would prevail.

  He had to.

  He had God on his side.

  To calm himself, to show God his humility and reverent dedication, he knelt at the altar and prayed. He asked for guidance, knowing that God would provide him the true path, that he wouldn’t be lured away from his mission.

  He thought of Lauren Conway, a beautiful, seductive Jezebel. How she’d outwitted and outrun him to the banks of the river. Everything he’d worked for had nearly been destroyed.

  There was a reason her body had never been found, would never be. As he stood, he touched his pocket again, reassuring himself that the tiny flash drive he’d taken from her backpack, wrapped in several ziplock bags, was now with him and always would be. He hadn’t destroyed the tiny flash drive with its pictures and data about him, about his mission neatly documented, instead keeping it with him. Always. A reminder of how insidious lust could be.

  Her face came to him. He remembered chasing her down, desperately running after her in the night, determined to stop her. But she’d been more clever than he’d anticipated, and only after an hour of dashing through the moon-washed landscape had he tracked her to the edge of the river. There her footprints in the snow had vanished, and he’d had to assume that she’d been swept away in the frigid, whirling current of the icy river.

  No one could have survived.

  He’d cursed her for eluding him and sent a prayer up for her damaged, traitorous soul.

  At dawn, before a true search had been organized, on one of the rare occasions when he’d been a passenger in the seaplane, he’d stared out the window and caught a bit of the dark blue of her backpack. A small swatch of color on the snowy shores of the river. He’d said nothing, but later had ridden by horseback to the remote canyon and found her body caught in a snag of logs and brush at the riv
er’s edge. Ashen gray and bloated, she lay on the side of the river, washed upon the shore. He’d wanted to spit on her dead body but instead had kissed her blue, blue lips for the last time. It had been a struggle, but he’d loaded her corpse onto Omen’s back and returned to the little, forgotten church where he’d caught her looking through the frosted panes, spying on him.

  Though the earth had been frozen and hard, he’d dug a quick, shallow grave with a pickax. He had dropped her body into it and buried her, replacing the sticks and twigs over the frozen chips of earth, thanking God for the snowfall that would hide the burial plot in a cemetery that no one visited.

  The headstone read:

  LILY CARVER, IN LOVING MEMORY.

  How fitting. A perfect grave. Above the rotted casket and ancient bones of Lily Carver, he’d buried Lauren Conway, her initials the same so that he could always remember where he’d laid her to rest, visit her if he wanted.

  She was a traitor, remember that. Her soul will burn in hell.

  As much as he now hated her, he would never forget the trill of her laughter, the glint of merriment in her eyes, the graceful way she walked away from him, casually looking over her shoulder and winking at their great secret. He’d remember always the sensual lift of those provocative lips; the memory of that smile still caused a reaction in him.

  Julia Farentino could do the same.

  Imagine how the feel of her supple mouth upon your skin would twist you inside out. You could have her—she’s given herself to Cooper Trent after only a few days; you could take his place, strip away her clothes, make her kneel in front of you. You have the power.

  His blood raced. He licked his lips and reminded himself that lust was a sin, that the hardness swelling between his legs was a distraction. Though he would like nothing more than to screw the living hell out of her, he would wait.

  For now.

  He couldn’t risk another mistake.

  And she, like Lauren, would surely only betray him.

  Footsteps alerted him that they were coming. His disciples. Tonight this underground shelter was more war room than church. He waited, not saying a word as they entered in twos and threes, following the orders of the academy to always travel with a partner.