Forbidden Passion

by Rita Herron

He glanced through the front window. The house was dark, the heavy drapes drawn in the back, yet the sound of dogs barking ferociously echoed through the walls. He tried the doorbell again and tapped his foot while he waited, but still no answer.

  The cold seeped through him, and he heard fragile

  limbs breaking with the force of the wind and weight of the snow.

  Dante moved quietly around to the backyard, pulled on gloves, then jimmied the back door. Two Dobermans pounced immediately, teeth gnashing, charging at him, threatening attack.

  He didn’t like to hurt animals, but he wouldn’t be their dinner either, so he reached out and pressed one hot finger to each of their necks. Just enough to send a slight burning sensation through them and to make them back off. The dogs whimpered, then ducked their heads and allowed him to pass as they settled into a corner.

  He strode through the house, his eyes easily adjusting to the dimly lit rooms with their thick velvet drapes and dark wood paneling. No one was inside. No pictures of family, a wife, or children. No collectibles. A portrait of the judge hung above a stone fireplace behind a huge, polished cherry desk. It was immaculate, with matching desk paraphernalia, and as he would have guessed, there was a safe, securely locked and camouflaged by a portrait of hunters.

  A gun cabinet held what appeared to be a collection of shotguns and rifles, and another glass case displayed a collection of coins dating back centuries.

  He stalked through the rest of the house and found the man’s bedroom. More masculine furniture and drab colors, yet no sign of anything to indicate an obsession or fetish.

  He was missing something.

  If the judge was a sexual deviant, into kinky stuff and S&M, he would probably have a secret chamber where he engaged in his twisted sexual activities, one that wouldn’t be visible to any visitor.

  Dante checked the bedroom again, searching the closet to see if there was a private door, but found nothing.

  Years ago, many of the houses had been built above the underground tunnels. If Brannigan’s had, he could have followed the tunnels and discovered the Dungeon.

  Determined to find the judge’s fantasy room, Dante returned to the man’s office and searched the bookcases for a key or secret door, but again found nothing. Damn. Was he wrong?

  No. . . it had to be here.

  Dante strode into the kitchen, then checked the walk-in pantry and discovered a second door in the back of the closet. He searched the pantry shelves for a key, but didn’t find one. The judge probably kept it with him. Then he had another idea. Maybe he’d missed it.

  He dropped to his knees and felt along the bottom of the lower shelf.

  Adrenaline churned through him as he grabbed the key and unlocked the door. The stairs were pitch-black, the scent of smoke, linseed oil, and blood wafting up toward him. He braced himself in case the judge was downstairs hiding and slowly inched his way down the staircase. When he reached the landing, he paused, listening.

  Again, the scent of blood and smoke assaulted him, stronger this time, and he found a low lamp and turned it on. He had to blink at the sudden light, then saw the bed in the corner, the ropes and harnesses, the dog collars, whips, and chains.

  The judge’s chair, as if he held court here.

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and the sound of pinging made him turn in a wide arc. His lungs tightened at the sight of blood dripping onto the floor.

  The judge had been strung up with his own S&M straps, a wooden gavel crammed in his mouth, his naked body charred, the imprint of the Satanic S burning on the bare soles of his bloody feet.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Dante fisted his hands by his sides. He couldn’t touch anything in the judge’s ‘private sex chamber. CSI would have to process the scene, and the last thing he wanted was for his prints to be mixed with the killer’s. He also wanted them to open that safe—maybe he’d find more information on the experiments inside.

  But he studied the Satanic S and knew its significance. The killer was a Satan worshipper. He’d made a deal with the devil.

  Whether he was human, one of Sneed’s bloodborn demons, Sneed himself, or a true demon was the question.

  He had to locate Sneed.

  The upstairs door had been locked, meaning whoever had killed the judge had returned upstairs to lock the door and replace the key. But there had been no blood upstairs, no signs of a cleanup, suggesting the killer had escaped through the underground tunnels.

  The tunnels where the demons thrived.

  Where Zion would find willing soldiers.

  He searched the dank room and located the door into the underground. It was unlocked but closed, a partial handprint marring the surface. He knelt and examined it, then sniffed the faint scent of sulfur and charred ashes.

  Assuming the judge had kept recordings of his sexual escapades, he glanced around and noted the cameras on the walls, the CDs arranged in a shelf above the computer. They were labeled by date, and he popped one in and grimaced. A woman was tied to the same S&M ropes from which the judge now hung, and the judge raised a whip to strike her.

  The woman was Prudence Puckett.

  So the judge had fucked her before he’d killed her. What about Jordie, Brenda, and Ruthie Mae?

  He removed the CD, stored it in its place, then checked the row again, searching for others. He discovered one for Ruthie Mae but not one for Brenda or one for Jordie. He checked the camera and computer, hoping the murder might have been caught on tape, but they were empty.

  Damn.

  Leaving the evidence intact for forensics to analyze, he glanced at the judge’s torched skeleton once again, then quickly climbed the stairs. He phoned Hobbs, explained his findings, and requested a CSI team.

  “Don’t let this get out to the press yet,” he said. “Not until we find Sneed and have a chance to interrogate him.”

  Hobbs agreed and Dante slithered through the darkness back to his vehicle.

  Time was critical.

  He had to find Sneed before he came after Marlena. If he was cleaning up after himself and thought that Marlena was on to him, he’d go after her next.

  Marlena tried to wrap her mind around the fact that Dr. Sneed might be a murderer.

  It just didn’t fit with what she knew about the man. He had seemed so young, almost naïve in personal relationships, and gentle.

  And although he was severely allergic to bees, once she’d seen him use a jar to capture a bee and carry it outside instead of killing it when it could easily have sent him to his death.

  Besides, his motives in assisting her research were pure and altruistic, not evil.

  Several documents appeared on the display, and she narrowed her eye&, trying to decide where to start. The project Sneed called Project X.

  She clicked on the icon to open it and noted a spreadsheet of various blood samples and tests he’d run on the subjects, subjects he’d labeled with numbers, not names. Tests for diseases, various blood disorders, immunities, white blood cell counts, red blood cell counts, genetic markers, and so on.

  Markers indicating the propensity toward violence.

  Edmund rapped his knuckles on the counter. “At first, I didn’t know if I could decipher his code,” Edmund said, “but he’s not as smart as you thought.”

  She opened a second file and realized it held another spreadsheet, this one chronicling more detailed behavior and changes in the various subjects. Behavior that the subjects reported had changed since they received the treatments. Behavior and thoughts indicated an escalating pattern of violence, aberrant thoughts, and increased sexual deviancy.

  All of which fit their theory about the blood altering the subjects’ behavior. “I still don’t understand why Dr. Sneed would do this,” Marlena said. “He doesn’t fit the profile.”

  “What you knew about him was obviously a lie,” Edmund said.

  Marlena’s gaze met his. “Was it?”

  Edmund’s eye twitched. “He was a narcissis
t,” Edmund said. “He wanted attention, for everyone to think he was this super-genius kid. And you had your theory, so he decided to steal your research to make a name for himself.”

  Marlena pinched the bridge of her nose. “I suppose it’s possible that he fooled me. But that would mean he’s a true sociopath, that he’s a charmer who fits in easily, and that wasn’t true.”

  “Why do you continually defend him?” Edmund said with a bitter edge to his voice.

  Marlena tensed. “I’m not,” she said. “But I just can’t believe I was so wrong about him.”

  “Maybe you had your head in the sand while you were busy with that sheriff.”

  The animosity lacing Edmund’s voice caught Marlena by surprise. “I’ve been trying to help him find this serial killer,” she said. “In case you’ve forgotten, the murderer sent me trophies from the first victims.”

  Edmund folded his lean arms, his eye twitching more violently. “Why do you think he chose you?”

  Marlena contemplated his question. “To get my attention,” she said. “Because he wanted me to know who he was. He wanted to be stopped.”

  “Or maybe he wanted to impress you?” He moved closer, then reached out and touched her hand. “Maybe he wanted you to finally notice him.”

  “I always paid attention to Dr. Sneed’s work,” Marlena said, but an iciness she’d never noticed before lined Edmund’s face. Suddenly an odd feeling nagged at her. She sensed they weren’t talking about Sneed now.

  And something about Edmund looked different. His eyes. . . they were almost wild, his pupils dilated...

  Dante raced toward Sneed’s condo, his anxiety mounting with every passing second. Everyone on the list of subjects in the experiment was dead now.

  Sneed would want to cover his tracks and kill anyone who might be able to expose him. He’d sent Marlena presents, souvenirs, from the victims to taunt her because he obviously wanted her to know what he’d done.

  That he’d proven violence could be related to genetics, markers carried in a person’s blood.

  And if he killed Marlena, he could take full credit for the research.

  The wind rocked the SUV, and he slowed to avoid a patch of black ice, the blizzard so thick the haze obliterated his view. Tree branches snapped and cracked, the wind hurling them across the road, the roar so loud that it echoed off the mountain ridges. Was it another tornado?

  He swerved, barely missed a limb flying at his windshield, then swung the SUV to the right and veered into the parking lot of the condo complex where Sneed lived. The steel and concrete high-rise looked out of place next to the mountain, and most locals viewed it as an eyesore, standing in opposition to the history of the small town and the wild ruggedness of the mountains.

  He threw the SUV into Park, pulled his jacket around him, battling the heavy winds and icy patches as he jogged to the entrance. A security guard stood at the front, and he waved his ID, then caught the elevator to the third floor. When the doors whizzed open, he strode to the last unit on the end and punched the bell. Impatience gnawed at him as he waited, but no one answered.

  Adrenaline surged through him. He raised his fist and knocked, then pounded on the door. Inside he thought he heard a sound, maybe a clatter? No, a moan...

  His pulse clamored, and he jerked his gun from its holster, then picked the lock and eased open the door.

  “Sneed, it’s the sheriff.” He inched into the foyer, quickly scanning the cold room, the lack of furnishings, searching for the young doctor. Scuffmarks marred the tiles, and the scent of blood and death seeped toward him.

  Demon blood?

  No...

  Human.

  Easing forward, he spotted the kitchen—living room combination, the sound of the TV echoing through the empty room. He glanced at the patio; the door was closed, the sheer curtains drawn. A bedroom sat to the right, and he stepped onto the plush white carpet, then spotted Sneed slumped in a desk chair in the corner, blood streaming from his neck, dotting the white carpet.

  Dante inhaled the scent and fought his bloodlust, then inched forward and spotted the computer screen. The words “I’m sorry” blipped across the screen repeatedly.

  A suicide note?

  Dante reached out and pressed two fingers to the man’s wrist to make sure he was dead, but a low moan, almost indiscernible, sounded, and he felt a pulse. Low but thready.

  Sneed was alive.

  He lowered his gun and considered calling 911, but if Sneed had killed all those people, he deserved to die. He wanted to hear that confession.

  He spun the chair around, then lifted the man’s face and forced him to look at him. “Sneed, Sneed.. .“ The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, his breathing so low Dante knew he might lose him any minute.

  “Sneed, stay with me. Did you kill those people?”

  Sneed moaned and his eyes flicked open slightly, but he looked dazed and disoriented. “What?” he said in a hoarse whisper. -‘

  “Did you kill those women? Were you conducting blood experiments on them?”

  Sneed slowly shook his head and groaned.

  Dante gripped his face firmly. “Don’t lie to me now. You injected those people with blood, with genetic markers, to see if it changed their behavior, and it did.”

  ‘‘No . .

  “Then you realized they were turning violent and you killed them to stop the transition.”

  “No.. . not me,” Sneed ground out.

  Blood was still flowing down the man’s neck, his face gray and chalky, sweat beading his skin. He choked, blood spurting from his nose.

  Dante gripped him tighter. “Tell me the truth, you coward.”

  Sneed shook his head, his eyes rolling back again. “Not me. . . Raysen. . . obsessed with Marlena..

  Dante’s blood ran cold. Raysen was obsessed with Marlena. Raysen had known about her work, had conducted the experiment to impress her, had pretended the flash drive belonged to Sneed to frame him.

  Panic and terror seized him.

  Marlena had trusted Raysen.

  Holy fuck. Raysen had tricked both of them by framing Sneed.

  And he had left Marlena with the sick man.

  Marlena scraped back her chair and stood. “Edmund, what’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”

  Edmund raked his fingers over his chin. “You think you know everything about human behavior, yet you can’t see what’s in front of your eyes. You believe Sneed was some god but you never noticed me.”

  “That’s not true,” Marlena said, his harsh tone making her inch backward. “I’ve always admired your work, Edmund?’

  “My work?” He growled. “What about me? I tried to befriend you, but Sneed came along and snowed you. And then that sheriff did, too.”

  “Dante is just doing his job,” Marlena said.

  Edmund growled an obscenity. “His job was to screw you?”

  Shocked at his boldness, Marlena took another step back. “What? That’s none’ of your business.”

  Edmund smirked. “You were fooled by Sneed. You have no idea.” He poked her in the chest. “I know who Dante Zertlav really is. He’s a demon, Marlena, the son of Satan.”

  “What?” Her heart clenched. “Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to hurt me, Edmund?”

  “Because it’s true,” Edmund shouted. “You slept with a demon and now you’re going to have his demonic baby.”

  “How did you know I was pregnant?” Marlena gasped and inched toward the door. She had to get away from him, had to talk to Dante. Edmund’s tone was crazed, his eyes wild—dangerous.

  “I told you I know more than you think.” He grabbed her wrist, his nails digging into her skin. “Dante is not only a demon, but he grew up with the demons who killed your family. He was sent there that day to kill you.”

  “No..?’ Nausea rolled through Marlena and she tried to pull away. But he suddenly jabbed a needle into her arm. “What are you doing, Edmund?”

  “I wanted you, Marlena, b
ut you chose the demon over me. Now I have to destroy the demon child.”

  Her head begin to spin in a drunken rush as reality dawned. Edmund was the Torcher. He had made that flash drive and framed Sneed to trick her. He had killed the women,~ set the fire, and killed Gerald. . . “No, Edmund, stop, we’re friends, you can’t do this..?’

  “It’s too late,” he said in an ominous tone. “I made a deal with the leader of the underworld, and you and your child have to die.”

  Zion extended his hands and waved them across the top of the mountain. He was the all-powerful..

  “The future lies in the palm of my hands,” he said with a boom of laughter.

  He leaned over the ridge, blew his fiery breath across the land and watched as the heat began to melt the thick snow banks and run down the mountain. Soon the river and creeks would swell and flood, overflowing into the streets and rising in the town to destroy homes, and businesses, and lives.

  Hypnos was primed and ready to plant paranoia in the minds of the humans, to create panic, fear, and chaos so that they turned upon one another in anger and rage.

  Soon the evil would wash away any remnants of the good left behind and nothing his sons could do would stop the anarchy.

  Chapter Thirty

  Marlena winced as Edmund dragged her through the delivery exit, pushing her behind a doorway to hide from the security guard until he passed, then down to the basement and into the tunnels below.

  She didn’t know what kind of drug he’d given her, but it had paralyzed her arms and legs, her throat had grown thick, and when she’d tried to scream, no sound had come out, as if her vocal cords had frozen shut.

  She wanted to fight Edmund and run, but she was too weak to do anything but let him lead her through the darkness like a puppet on a string.

  Soon the drug would have to wear off, she consoled herself. Then she’d find her chance and escape. She had to in order to save her child.

  Edmund was deranged now, completely out of his mind, and he was going to kill her.