by Bryn Donovan
He groaned, his amazement and need blossoming out around her, gratifying her. Then he thrust into her, filling her up completely. Val gasped. “All right?” he asked her.
She nodded. He drew back and drove into her again. As close as they were, she could hardly distinguish his feelings from her own. Trouble surrounded them—sorrow and strife behind them, fear and risk dead ahead, and maybe more sorrow beyond that—but they were in a small, sacred space.
He’d called her Eve, which made no sense, but she worshipped the Goddess who was a part of every tree and blade of grass, every star and every flower, and she connected to all of it. The aspect of the Goddess that was love and sensuality and beauty, Venus and Hathor, Freya and Nanaya, shimmered within her own form.
It had always perplexed her that Freya and Nanaya represented war as well as love. On this night, before they hoped to trap an enemy, it made sense to her for the first time.
“I’m glad we’re outside,” she breathed.
His low laugh tickled her ear and then he plunged into her again, making her cry out. “Sometimes we can do what I want.”
“I want to do everything you want— Ahh.” Her pleasure was spiraling upward again.
“Everything I want would take more than one night,” he murmured. His slow rhythm sped up. Val let out another little cry.
“How long?” she managed to ask.
“Years,” he whispered in her ear. The word reverberated into her soul. Then he was taking her fast and hard, a hand covering one of her upturned palms. She gripped his tightly. His muscles flexed, and a choking sound came from the back of his throat when he hit his climax, pumping his seed into her.
The blinding psychic force of his orgasm triggered her answering response. She cried out as her muscles convulsed around him, the intensity sending her veering to the edge of consciousness.
Michael’s head bowed to her shoulder. “Mi reina,” he whispered. My queen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The next evening after the sun had gone down, Michael parked the car on the side of the road behind the church, beneath a tree. It was equidistant from two streetlights and would be difficult to see in the dark. The license plate on the car had never been legit; the numbers wouldn’t come up in any search. He wore one of his baggy polo shirts with cargo pants designed to conceal his weapon and other gear.
Val would be wearing her usual schoolgirl outfit. He was tired of seeing her in it, and she’d been sick of it from day one. Soon, she could put it behind her forever and go back to wearing her usual dresses, with the ruffles and the necklines that showed off her breasts and the random prints of carousel horses or teapots or whatever.
She was meeting Lori at the front door of the church in a half hour. He’d talked to her twenty minutes ago, telling her he loved her and that she’d do well. The peace they’d reached and the amazing night they’d shared had filled his mind and his senses all day. They were gifts with implications large enough to expand his soul, jarringly at odds against the work he had ahead of him. But now they spurred him to pure focus. He would keep her safe.
He touched a button on the phone. “Nic, am I clear?”
“Yeah, we haven’t seen anyone going in or hanging around.”
“Whose satellite did we hack this time?”
“I don’t know. U.S., they said. Go on and head in. Remember, you’re trespassing, so don’t be afraid to skulk.”
“Right.” In some situations, the best cover was to stroll in like he belonged there. This wasn’t one of those situations.
“Let me know when you’re in position and when they arrive.”
As he got out of the car, he consciously assumed the mindset of Mike McClure, weighed down by some nameless guilt. He gave his shoulders that slight hunch again. Approaching the side door, he looked at the convenient hiding places: the bushes, and around the corner of the church.
He pulled out the lock-picking kit from one of the pockets of his utility vest. The hex was in another pocket, and he’d practiced with it a few times to make sure it would work. Still, he didn’t want to use it if he could pick the lock quickly, which wouldn’t betray any signs of entry.
He sprayed lubricant into the lock from its narrow metal tube before inserting the tension wrench. It had been a little while since he’d done this, and as he scrubbed the pins repeatedly with the pick, he regretted not practicing this the old-fashioned way, as well. Two long minutes passed, and he began to sweat. Then he sprang the lock. He smiled and fished the hex out of another pocket.
In the dark, he couldn’t see the buttons—a definite design flaw. Well, it was a prototype; he’d let the designers know. He used his phone to illuminate the buttons so he could avoid accidentally eviscerating himself with a plasma blade. After he’d located the buttons for disabling motion sensors and cameras, he held the hex at the bottom of the door, which had a slight gap, and used both in quick sensation. Then he ventured into the church.
Despite the excuse the school had given for the chapel’s closure, there were no signs whatsoever of renovation: no plastic tarps, ladders, or buckets of paint. It looked ready for a Mass. He imagined himself and Val standing at the altar, about to become husband and wife.
Was he really thinking about that? Right now?
Anyway, it was stupid. She wouldn’t get married in a Catholic church. How did Goddess worshippers even get married? Maybe they just had sex next to a bunch of candles and called it good. He didn’t really think that, and it would’ve annoyed her if he’d said it, but it made him chuckle.
He always did this—started thinking about all kinds of random things, right before a fight or before he saw action. He used to berate himself for not focusing. By now, he’d figured out that it was part of his process, a way to deal with the tension. He went up the three stairs on the right side of the altar to the choir loft. The area was carpeted, including the stairs. Good; it would be easier to move quietly and get the drop on them. He texted to Nic and Val: I’m in.
Then he waited. A couple of minutes after seven, Val texted, I’m outside the front door.
More minutes passed. Michael shifted so he wouldn’t get a foot cramp. Finally, Nic wrote, Val, you still okay?
Lori’s walking up now.
His heart pounded harder. The door creaked, and he heard footsteps. Gingerly, he adjusted his position so he could get a visual.
“Let’s sit in the front pew,” Lori said. “You can say a prayer while you wait for them.”
Them? Val was out of his line of sight, but he could see Lori’s feet. Before the two women reached the front of the church, the door creaked open again.
“Ah, never mind.”
Two men walked down the aisle to join them. He couldn’t see their faces. One wore a priest’s black cassock, and the other wore a navy suit.
“Melody, you might know Mr. Fluekiger—he’s an elder in our secret honor society. And this is Father Alcaraz.”
Michael’s adrenaline kicked in, sparking along his nerves. It wasn’t fear, but the genuine pleasure of anticipation. He was going to kill them, and they had no idea.
If he were a better man, maybe, he’d take no enjoyment in this. But these evil bastards had killed Lucia; they’d preyed on innocent girls and would continue to do so until someone stopped them. They’d rained violence down on his people, turning a blessed time and place into a tragedy and a field of slaughter.
The world would be a cleaner place once Michael executed them, whether he took any pleasure from it or not.
“Hello, Melody,” a male voice said.
“Hi.” Val sounded shy and scared, and she probably was the latter.
“Melody,” Lori interjected. “Since Mr. Fluekiger is an elder, you need to address him as ‘sir.’ Do you understand?”
Presumably Val nodded.
Kevin said, “We’re so glad you want to join our secret honor society. Mrs. Hammons, did you verify her innocence?”
“I…wasn’t able to. I don’t kn
ow why—I think I may be tired.”
Holy hell. Lori had tried to Read Val, and Val had used her shields to keep the woman out. Val had to have been frightened out of her mind. Would the men get suspicious? He hadn’t been afraid before, but now true terror froze his heart. He was ready to move in a millisecond if he heard or saw anything go wrong. His heart beat so hard in the silence that he thought they might hear it.
“I see innocence in her eyes,” Kevin said. Thank God. The man was arrogant enough to think he could identify a virgin on sight. “Thank you, Mrs. Hammons. You may leave.”
Shit. He couldn’t stop the woman from leaving without giving himself away.
“Of course,” she said. “Good night, sir.”
Father Alcazar moved out of his line of sight. Michael didn’t dare to shift again; every movement was a risk that might cause the pews to creak. “Kneel and begin your confession.”
“Uh. In front of…?”
“Mr. Fluekiger needs to know that you’ve made yourself clean.”
Revulsion roiled in Michael’s gut. But there was one good thing about this confession—it would likely leave Val a wide-open window to Read Fluekiger and Alcazar both.
With every second, he regretted her being in this situation. But it’d been in no way his doing or in his power to prevent it, and there was no one who could’ve taken advantage of the present situation as well as she could. She’d loot their psyches for a treasure of information, and he’d get her out of there. It wouldn’t be any time at all until he’d gotten her to safety, and she’d never be in a situation like this again.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Val said. “It’s been four weeks since my last confession.”
Then a long moment of silence stretched. She was probably wading into Kevin Fluediger’s dirty psyche now. That kept his urge to punish in hard check: if Fluediger died when she was in his psyche, she died too.
“Continue,” Fluediger said sharply.
Val began speaking of jealousy of classmates, touching herself, losing her temper with her godfather…basically confessing that she was a normal teenager. When she finished, the priest called them to a few moments of silent prayer. Good. Now she could Read him.
The priest spoke a few more words, saying she was forgiven, and said Amen.
“Thank you, Father.” Val’s voice was high and clear, for all the world like an innocent teenager’s. “So are you a part of the honor society too?”
Time stopped for Michael. They were both Tribunal. He could kill them both.
He stood up. Val dove to the ground. Carefully, he aimed at Kevin Fluediger and squeezed the trigger.
Blood bloomed on the man’s head and he staggered, but he didn’t go down. The priest reached into his cassock. Michael’s next bullet hit the priest’s chest, and he fell to his knees. Fluediger raised his gun, and Michael ducked behind the pew, but the shot went wide. No surprise; blood was streaming down the man’s face, and there was no way he could see. Michael aimed at his heart and even as he squeezed the trigger, he could feel it was a kill shot. Fluediger fell.
The priest had pulled his weapon. Michael aimed for the head, missed as the priest answered fire, and heat seared across Michael’s thigh. Fuck! He tried again and the shot was true, straight through the priest’s skull, blood and gore spattering on the pulpit behind him.
The silence rang in his ears. He glanced down at his leg. Bleeding, but not serious. Gun still in hand, sucking deep breaths into his lungs, he rushed over to Val’s supine form. Had she somehow… “Get up! You can get up,” he shouted to her, and to his relief, she rose, sitting back on her heels. He holstered his gun and kneeled to take her by the shoulders. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, wide-eyed.
“Don’t look at them. Hang on.” He dug out his phone and hit a button. “Nic, we’re all clear. We’re getting the stone now.”
“Perfect. Move fast.”
Michael hung up and said to Val, “Let’s find the vestibule.” He stood and gave her a hand up. She followed him behind the altar, where he kneeled and felt around on the carpet for a seam.
She gave a little cry of shock. “They shot you?”
“Grazed. It’s nothing.” He wasn’t even feeling it; adrenaline, maybe. She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes round with alarm. “Angel, I promise, I’m fine.” His fingers found the seam in the carpet, almost invisible. “Here it is,” he said. He wedged the tension wrench from his lock pick kit in the crack and flipped the door open, revealing narrow, dusty stairs. He jogged down the revealed staircase to the basement level, again using his phone for a light.
Following behind him, Val said, “They’re religious people.” Her voice quavered. “How can they think what they’re doing to these girls is okay?”
“They think of everyone else as enemies. That’s what Hadiza says.” They reached a huge wooden cabinet, with upper compartments that looked like kitchen cupboards and rows of narrow drawers. As he opened a cupboard door and then another, he said, “There’s a passage in Deuteronomy that says you may enjoy the spoils of your enemies, or something like that. Women, children, and livestock.’” He didn’t know the verse himself, but plenty of verses were taken out of context, and some of them had surely been messed up in translation.
He opened more cupboards while Val opened drawers. He half expected to find something horrifying. A few held folded robes; one was empty. Another wooden cabinet sat in the corner, dusty with peeling paint. He opened it and found a safe. “Yes! Hold this up for me.” He gave Val the phone and tried the hex on the safe. It promptly shone the four-number combination on the door. He spun the lock a few times to clear it and tried the numbers.
The door opened, revealing a stack of papers…and the crystal, sitting on the shelf. With a little gasp, Val reached out and grabbed it.
“Give it to me. I’ll put it in a pocket,” he said. She hesitated before handing it over. No doubt felt good to her to touch it again. This whole mission had gone so smoothly. He allowed himself to feel a moment of relief and triumph.
After securing the stone in a zippered pocket, he grabbed one of the robes on a whim and shrugged into it. It would throw off anyone who happened to see him exit the church.
They went up the stairs again. As Michael closed the trap door, sirens wailed outside. Val froze.
Not surprising—someone had heard the gunfire and called the police. He grabbed her hand and hustled out the side door.
They hurried across the darkened lawn. No other cars along the road. They were practically in the clear. A good thing, since his wounded leg was now starting to throb. He rounded the car to the driver’s side, keeping an eye on the patrol cars pulling up to the lot in front.
Pain exploded across the back of his skull, and it all went black.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Cold. Val sucked in a loud breath and thrashed as she surfaced into consciousness. Searing pain near her hipbone. Something icy around her neck. Choking her—no. Emotions were overwhelming her, a miasma of guilt and wild grief.
She was sitting on a concrete floor, naked. A steel band encircled her neck, attached to a chain that rested on her shoulder.
No! They’ve got me… They’ve got both of us.
Michael also sat on the floor, also naked, facing her but out of reach. Iron cuffs around his wrists, on short chains attached to the metal wall, spread his arms like a muscular Christ on the cross. His head was lowered. Dead? Her own heart missed a beat.
No, he was alive. The guilt and sorrow, making it even harder to breathe and to think—that was him, though she hadn’t even recognized it at first as his emotional signature. It was nothing like anything she’d felt from him before: overpowering, shattering.
He was conscious, agonizingly so, and pretending not to be.
And the burning pain at her hip… She looked down. A patch bandage, adhered with surgical tape, over her Manus Sancti tattoo.
Realization hit her. Crushed her. I
t’s gone.
The tattoo had been abraded or burned off, or maybe the skin had been removed entirely. While she’d been unconscious. Was Michael’s gone too? She peered at him. The angle of his legs made it hard to tell…
She could see the corner of a white bandage on his hip, just like her own.
Nic had no way of finding them, wherever they were. Nobody did.
Where are we? Far away from the school? How long had she been unconscious?
It was a warehouse, mostly empty, some trash and broken ceiling tiles on the floor, a rusting scaffold, a few windows blacked out with paint, a bright bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. They would’ve removed the tattoos before bringing them here, if they knew what they were doing. And they must, or they wouldn’t have known to remove them at all.
Not only was the GPS gone, but so was their kill switch. They couldn’t speak a drop code and exit the world. They could be tortured as long as an inquisitor could manage. Maybe for years.
She hadn’t had interrogation training. She’d do anything, literally anything, rather than betray Manus Sancti. Was there another way to end her life? There had to be. A way to use the chain, maybe? Maybe Michael could do something…
The horror of her own thoughts, the necessity of them, stunned her.
She had to talk to Michael.
They seemed to be alone, but there might be cameras—anyone could be watching, listening. She squeezed her eyes shut. Compressing the time frame, reminding her brain to listen to the outside world for noise, she slipped into his psyche.
The street was empty and dark, as though someone had snuffed out every light and left only the barest sharp sliver of moon. Michael grabbed her hands. She could still see him clearly in the terrible night, as if he was lit from within. His mouth was parted and his eyes were filled with torment. He fell on his knees, pressing one of her hands to her forehead.