Storm Warning

by Toni Anderson

  It was black inside. No lights shone, no TV. The streetlight was hidden behind closed curtains. She never closed the curtains.

  “Run. Run. Run,” voices screamed.

  One palm pressed against her ear trying to block out the sound, she hovered on the front step, feeling irrational and terrified.

  She heard it then, a tiny moan of animal distress. She held her breath. Was it her or someone else making that sound? Or had her father’s ghost finally followed her to their old home?

  Again the sound of muffled pain.

  “Carolyn?” she called.

  The darkness studied her. She heard the catch of someone’s breath. Made herself stretch her hand along the wall besides the door as the evil crouched closer.

  Oh, God.

  Terror reared up like a shadow. Her fingers scrabbled and found the switch. But the relief lasted only until she’d flicked it down and nothing happened.

  Bloody hell.

  The air was thick with malevolence, its essence so strong she wanted to back away through the door and into the street.

  While someone wept.

  “Carolyn?” she called again. What was going on? Why didn’t anybody answer? Had she had an accident?

  Sorcha dug for courage, took a step forward and reached for the lamp that sat on a table beside the door. A blow hit her on the shoulder. She stumbled forward, dropping to her knees. Another smack caught her on the base of her skull, pain ricocheting through her mind as she sprawled to the floor.

  Twisting onto her back, she threw one arm over her face, the other outstretched to protect herself. Something trickled down her neck.

  Blood.

  Oh, jeez.

  A menacing figure stood over her. Darkness from head to toe—no features, not even eyes. It was a man. She knew that, but nothing else. He grabbed her outstretched hand with a gloved one, knelt on it, pinning it to her body with his weight. The bones in her fingers strained from pressure as his knee dug in.

  “Ow!” She grabbed at his clothes with her free hand, encountered a coarse sweater, inhaling the strong sour odor of sweat. He tried to catch her arm, only she was quick and it was dark. Aiming for the spot where his head should be, she landed a punch.

  His growls turned to snarls and his hatred bore down on her with the force of a physical blow. His weight was suffocating, crushing her hand, squeezing her ribs and the breath right out of her chest.

  Laughter echoed in the street and her assailant froze above her.

  The front door was still ajar.

  “Help!” Sorcha started to scream, bucking her body and wrenching her hands free, trying to connect with flesh. “Help!”

  Her brain jolted as he punched her on the chin. Pain detonated behind her eyes and her jaw went numb. Anger rushed through her and she roared at her attacker. She sank her teeth into his thigh, through thick denim, locking onto the flesh as hard as she could, until he ripped away.

  Her breath came in ragged bursts, grabbing oxygen. She couldn’t think, couldn’t see, couldn’t move. Then she felt the insidious presence slide through the house. Heard the slip of the catch as the kitchen door opened and closed.

  For a second she lay there, too stunned by her lucky escape to do anything except listen to the drumming of her heart as her pulse jerked around her body.

  Then she heard a moan.

  Staggering to her feet, she searched along the lower wall, finally found the lamp and turned it on.

  Carolyn lay on the rug before the unlit fire. Sorcha ran across the room. Gently touched the girl’s shoulder and eased her onto her back. Blood covered most of her face. It dripped in rivulets onto the rug. Horrified, Sorcha sat back on her heels.

  “Dear God.” Sorcha took in the tangled clothes, the shock in Carolyn’s gaze. Scratches covered her torso. Her skirt was hiked up around her waist, pantyhose shredded. Tears streaked her face, diluting the crimson blood.

  Sorcha grabbed the phone, dialed 999, got through to emergency services and requested police and ambulance. Snatching the throw off the sofa, she draped it over the other girl.

  “Who was it? Did you recognize him?” Sorcha carefully tucked a strand of hair from Carolyn’s forehead. It was sticky with blood. “What did he do to you?”

  Carolyn squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face into the carpet.

  Horror and guilt sliced Sorcha. Was this meant for me? Had her friend stumbled into the mire of hatred that once again surfaced against her? She looked around. The living room was trashed. Books pulled off shelves, CDs scattered.

  Or was it just a simple burglary?

  The abalone shells she’d collected in New Zealand were smashed against the hearth. She reached over and picked one up, fingered the jagged nacre. Rage built, fed by the sobs of the girl who lay curled up on the floor.

  She turned on every light as she dashed into the garden. “You sonofabitch!” She yelled so loud her throat hurt. But the waves stole most of the sound, so she yelled again, even louder. “Come back here you sonofa—”

  “What the hell?” Dressed in black, Ben Foley materialized through the sea wall like Mephistopheles.

  Sorcha backed up, the soles of her shoes scraping the stone slabs beneath her as though she was backpedaling in slow-motion. Suddenly she knew how foolish she was. It could be twenty minutes before the police and ambulance arrived, if she was lucky.

  Adrenaline blasted through her veins. She whirled but her long coat slowed her as she ran. He caught her in the kitchen. She didn’t even hear him move. He pressed a cold hand over her mouth when she started to scream, clamping her jaw shut.

  Terror squeezed her throat as she realized how little she knew about this man. She struggled, kicked his shins, but couldn’t work up any momentum with the cupboards so close behind her. He kept her pinioned against a body that felt like rock, bending her back so far her spine hurt. The danger she’d sensed in him was out in the open now, in the coldness of his gaze and the severity of his mouth.

  She bit his fingers.

  “Fuck!” He released her mouth and shook his hand. “Dammit, Sorcha, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Like you don’t know!” Angry tears blinded her.

  Straightening up to his full height, he glared at her. “You’re bleeding.” He reached out a hand, but she flinched away.

  Hours ago, she’d wanted to kiss him. Now his eyes were nitrogen cold and scared her to death. Lord. She felt sick.

  Carolyn sobbed loudly from the other room, and Ben pushed past her. In the doorway he swore, his voice low and soft with feeling.

  Sorcha watched him narrow-eyed as he strode into the room and squatted beside Carolyn, running his fingers gently over her skull.

  “She’s in shock. Make her something hot and sweet to drink,” Ben ordered, “but don’t touch anything else.”

  “Can you sit up?” he asked. To her surprise Carolyn nodded and gingerly tried to climb to her feet. Ben helped her and then pulled her into his lap, where she burst into tears.

  Ben held Sorcha’s gaze over Carolyn’s head, and mouthed, “I don’t hit women.” His lips pressed together as if he were disappointed with her for even thinking it.

  Disappointment was a sentiment she understood only too well.

  “D-did you see anyone?” She tried and failed to control the tremors in her voice. “He ran out the back when I came home.”

  “There wasn’t anyone there when I came by—and what the hell were you planning to do anyway? Tie another fucking knot in a hanky?”

  Bowing her head, she screwed up her eyes and backed away. She slumped over the kitchen counter, repeatedly swallowed the saliva that pooled in her mouth. She’d made a mistake, but when he’d appeared out of nowhere like that, he’d scared her to death.

  She put the kettle on, grabbed cups, wondering at the same time why she was suddenly following orders when just seconds ago, she’d thought he was a potential murderer.

  It didn’t take long for the kettle to boil and, clutch
ing three mugs of tea, she walked into the lounge and knelt on the floor beside them. She passed a cup to Carolyn and put Ben’s on the floor. Their eyes collided, his, cold, angry, and dark enough to see her reflection in.

  She didn’t know what she’d done wrong but disgust blazed in his eyes.

  Carolyn smiled through the blood, grimaced as she took a sip of the sweet brew. “Ouch. Thanks.” Carolyn was always polite, but right now it seemed absurd.

  Hot tears burned in Sorcha’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, Caro.” She wiped her face on her sleeve, but couldn’t stop them spilling over.

  Carolyn held out her hand and Sorcha took it, gripping hard. “It’s not your fault.”

  “I should have been here.”

  Ben stopped them both with a firm reprimand. “Stop it. Some bastard attacks a woman, it’s his fault.” He stared hard at Carolyn. “Don’t get into the blame game. Those scumbags love to mess with people’s heads.”

  Carolyn nodded, but her eyes were downcast and she didn’t look convinced. Neither was Sorcha. Too many bad things had happened for her to think this was just another coincidence.

  “Did you recognize him?” Ben’s voice was tentative, like that first step on a frozen lake.

  Carolyn shook her head, wiped her nose with a tissue and started to cry all over again. “But it wasn’t anyone I know.” She hiccupped and frowned. “At least I don’t think it was. He smelled dreadful.” She shuddered.

  Sorcha recalled the same thing and nodded in agreement, but Ben wasn’t looking at her.

  “What did he look like? What was he wearing?” Ben asked.

  Sorcha touched his arm to make him stop. He was pumping Carolyn with questions like a policeman, or a vengeful boyfriend. God knew what Kevin would make of this.

  Carolyn shook her head. “I don’t know. It was so dark. I came home early and I couldn’t get the light to work.” Her expression was pinched, clearly in pain. “I came inside and someone hit me on the head.” She fingered a gash on her temple. Winced. “When I woke up he was trying to—to…” She started sobbing all over again and couldn’t finish.

  Blood matted the fine strands of Carolyn’s hair, but Ben cradled her, rocked her tenderly against his chest. Sorcha met his gaze over the other girl’s head.

  “It looks like he was robbing the place,” Sorcha said. As if they had anything worth stealing. Christ, he could take the lot. It wasn’t worth the damage he’d done to Carolyn, whose face was starting to swell.

  “Where were you?” Ben asked.

  His question was accusatory, making the guilt she felt intensify. She felt physically ill as blood trickled down the other girl’s face.

  “At a discussion group. I left early.” Not early enough. “The bus was late and I only just got home.” The distress she felt overwhelmed her. The violence of the attack made her insides churn. She reached out. “I’m so sorry, Caro.”

  Carolyn held her hand and squeezed Sorcha’s fingers. “You saved me.”

  “Where are the damn paramedics?” Ben asked abruptly.

  Drawing back, Sorcha checked her watch. “They should be here soon, and the police.”

  Ben eased Carolyn off his lap and helped her onto the sofa. He picked up the mugs and took them through to the kitchen, dumped them in the sink. Sorcha followed, caught him staring out the backdoor, frustration ripe in the set of his mouth.

  “Did you see anybody on the beach?” She walked up to him, close enough to smell the fresh scent of soap on his skin. He didn’t smell like the intruder had and there hadn’t been time for him to shower. She touched his arm in mute apology. Wanted to wrap her arms around him for a much-needed hug, but didn’t dare after what they’d been through tonight.

  He shook his head and turned to look at her, fury radiating from him in waves. Wary, she withdrew her hand.

  “You thought I did that?”

  A lump formed in Sorcha’s throat. She tried to swallow it, but the harder she tried, the bigger the obstacle became. She turned away, unwilling for him to see her distress.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, holding the counter for balance. “But I don’t really know you very well, do I?”

  “I’d hoped you knew me better than that.” His voice was velvet soft, his eyes demanding answers, but she didn’t have any. Shock and pain made her woozy. What the hell did he want from her?

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, and right now, it was all she could manage.

  ***

  He ripped off his balaclava in the shadow of the ancient sea wall. Fury pounded through his veins. Hotness surging through blood vessels and throbbing like a bitch in heat. Seething hatred made him want to kill and smash and maim everyone inside that little cottage. He’d wanted to pound the girl’s face until there was nothing left but ugliness. Grind it into the floor and fuck her senseless.

  Joy from her pain had nearly made him come even before he’d got between her legs. The power of taking what he wanted, of grabbing hold and forcing her to submit, made him hard just thinking about it. And the power of life and death…

  The ultimate rush. Better than drugs. Better than the mind games he’d been playing for years. But the rush had made him forget the journals and forget his mission. The thrill of anticipation had distracted him from his focus.

  If Sorcha hadn’t come home, he’d have done the brunette and dragged her body down to the surf, just like he’d done with little Evie.

  Would anybody have even noticed?

  But Sorcha—bitch—had walked in and he’d wanted to kill her on the spot. He’d almost done it, but he had other plans.

  He ached.

  Sweat dried on his face and his skin itched. Easing his frustration, he stroked himself through the denim of his jeans. Forensics didn’t faze him. The sea destroyed most evidence and by the time tests were finished, he’d be long gone.

  Everything was in place.

  He let the forbidden thrill of touching himself trickle through his mind. Delicious warmth spread through him. Breath caught in his throat as he ground his teeth together and held back a cry. Screams of release bit at his control as semen hit the rocks with a savage slap. Outwardly he was silent. Inside he screamed until babies squealed and dogs howled.

  Chapter Nine

  Ben forced his eyes wide, opened the window and let a blast of freezing air wash over his face. There was no traffic on the road at 3:00 a.m. Sorcha was slumped against the passenger door of his rental car as they drove back from Ninewells hospital in Dundee. Her eyes were closed and, judging from the regularity of her breathing, she was fast asleep.

  She’d been determined to go with Carolyn in the ambulance, only her uncle had insisted she stay and answer his questions first. She’d been pissed, and then she’d looked as if she might faint.

  So he’d driven Sorcha to the hospital. No buses ran at this time of night and she’d needed to be checked out by the docs anyway. It gave him the perfect opportunity to stick close to his suspect.

  He glanced over at Sleeping Beauty. The dashboard lights trimmed her features with an icy glow. Her lips were soft and full, slightly parted. Bruises of exhaustion shadowed her lashes and there was something fragile about her. Even in sleep she looked as though she might shatter.

  He closed the window.

  Drug trafficking was a bitch.

  She had a cut on the back of her scalp that had been taped, but no broken bones or concussion.

  She was lucky.

  Had the attack on Carolyn been a case of mistaken identity? Had the real attack been meant for Sorcha?

  The doctors said Carolyn was okay, though they were keeping her in for observation. They’d run a rape kit, though she’d sworn the lowlife hadn’t actually got that far when Sorcha scared him off. Thank God. He’d just beaten the crap out of her.

  Ben’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel as his foot pressed the Renault’s gas pedal to the floor. The attack had been planned. The main light bulb had been removed from the fitting in the livin
g room and placed on a side table. The cottage had been searched, not burgled. Ben knew the difference.

  And so did Sergeant Davy Logan.

  The attacker had stayed long enough to have a little extracurricular fun. Ben struck his fist against the steering wheel. He hadn’t been the only one contemplating a little B&E, but while he’d been cleaning up, someone else had ransacked the joint. And attacked a lone woman.

  If I’d been five minutes earlier…

  But he knew from experience self-recrimination did no good.

  Had the intruder found what he was looking for? Sorcha swore nothing was missing, but would she tell him if there was? Cocaine for example? Or money? She’d been distraught when he’d found her, genuinely believing he might have been the attacker. No way in hell she’d faked that visceral response.

  He didn’t know what to think. And the timing stank. Ben didn’t believe in coincidence. So why today?

  Was it linked to Sorcha’s trip out to the Isle of May and her supposed argument with the warden—who was more likely her accomplice? Or was it something to do with that goon she’d run into in the bar last night? He didn’t think this was some random stranger attack. According to his sources, there were no unsolved sexual assaults in the area, although a local prostitute had been reported missing.

  Something told him Sorcha was way out of her league, and while he might want her in prison, he didn’t want to see her hurt.

  Driving past St. Andrews’s spookily lit ruins of a twelfth-century cathedral, he slowed. The roads were curved and dangerous, but right now he needed a release for the pent-up energy that prowled his insides and screwed up his head. The engine roared as he shifted down gear to go over a narrow bridge.

  Was it really this crazy witch vendetta she was obsessed with? Or a drug deal gone bad? Had she double-crossed the wrong person, pissed off another criminal enough to try and take her out of the equation?

  Questions whirled and his brain ached from lack of solid evidence and deficit of sleep. He rubbed his eyes, saw the blink of the lighthouse as he crested a hill and accelerated down the long straight toward Anstruther.