by Terri Garey
She pulled away, turning to go as if she couldn’t get out of there fast enough. “I’m sorry,” she said again, over her shoulder, “it was fun, but I have a boyfriend.”
And then she was gone, leaving him with two grown men who—if they didn’t stop smirking—were about to be unemployed.
He glared at Larry, whose smirk died, and then turned to John, who shrugged and turned away as if seeing his rock-star boss dissed at the door was an everyday occurrence. “Hey, man”—Larry shook his head, making light of an awkward moment—“you win some, you lose some.”
Right, Finn thought, darkly. Except I always win.
Not bothering to speak, he went into the bedroom and shut the door very quietly, leaving them to stay or go as they chose. The room seemed bigger, and emptier, than it had earlier. He stretched out on the bed, fully clothed, and stared moodily up at the ceiling, which looked exactly like thousands of other ceilings he’d stared at over the years.
Too many ceilings.
Too many girls.
How could he possibly have imagined this one might be different?
He rolled over, staring at the glittering skyline, and caught the faint scent of her on the pillow. He’d bought so easily into her good-girl routine. Should’ve known when she proved to be so hot in bed that she was no innocent.
The sheets were bunched in his fist, and Finn forced his hand to relax. She was no one, and nothing. It was then, as his palm lay flat, that he noticed his bare finger—the Ring of Chaos was gone.
Ice-cold fear gripped him, but not for long. He leapt from the bed and searched through the sheets, throwing the pillows aside in his haste. Finding nothing, he stripped the bed and shook the bedding out thoroughly, piece by piece, then got down on his hands and knees and checked under the bed.
“John!” he shouted. “Larry!”
He’d never taken the ring off, ever. The one time he’d tried—years ago, in a fit of drunken anger—it had refused to budge, sticking to his finger as though part of him.
“What is it?” John came bursting into the room, Larry hot on his heels. “What’s going on?”
“My ring,” Finn said, flat on his belly now, sweeping his arm beneath the bed. “It’s missing. I can’t find it.”
There was a silence. He looked up to see his security team sharing a puzzled glance. “It’s a black and silver ring,” he snapped, “round, with a starburst of arrows.”
“You’ve got lots of rings, man,” Larry said, with a shrug.
“This one I never take it off,” he insisted. “My father gave it to me.” That was a lie, of course, one he’d used before. His father had never given him anything but an unhappy childhood, then left before he could ask him why.
“Oh.”
“So help me find it!” Finn hated to admit to himself how close he was to panic. “Check the living room, the couch, the minibar.” Since he rarely raised his voice except onstage, John and Larry got the message, and jumped to do just that.
Together they began to slowly and methodically search every inch of the suite, including the carpet. Finn took charge of the bedroom, checking both side tables, the dresser, the entertainment armoire, all the drawers and cabinets, then went into the bathroom and did the same.
Ten minutes later, the entire suite had been thoroughly searched, and none of them had found the ring. Finn sank down on the arm of the couch, mind reeling.
“You’re sure you didn’t take it off?” Larry asked, for the third time.
Finn sent him a dark look in reply, not trusting himself to speak. What if he didn’t find it? What if it was all over, here, now, tonight . . .
“Okay, so you never take it off,” John said, repeating what Finn had told them earlier, “but what if it slipped off? It could be in the limo, or back at the auditorium.”
“I had it on when I went to bed,” Finn said tightly, thinking furiously. Had the Devil figured out a way to double-cross him after all these years? That unpleasant visit in the back of the limo earlier could not have been a coincidence.
He sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
“What about the girl?” John said. “Maybe she took it as a souvenir or something.”
Finn shook his head, impatient. “No,” he said shortly, but then thought about it—she’d mentioned the ring, asked him to take it off. He remembered, because he’d been surprised at her claim that it hurt her; the ring had no sharp edges.
Unlike the girl, who’d gone from hot to cold in an instant.
He got up from the couch, heading toward the door.
“Where you going?” Larry asked.
“To find the girl.”
“Think she stole it?”
“Maybe,” Finn said, shooting him a look, “but we won’t know until we ask her, now will we?” His hand looked strangely bare on the doorknob. “Let’s go talk to someone at the front desk, find out how to reach her.”
Reaching Amy Smith, however, proved easier said than done.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Payne,” the prim little man behind the desk said. He wore a name tag that read “Herve Morales.” “We have no one working here by the name of Amy Smith, and even if we did, we don’t give out personal information regarding our employees.”
“We just want to talk to her,” John growled, backing Finn up. “What’s the problem?”
The little man regarded John coldly. “As I said, we have no one working here by the name of Amy Smith,” he repeated.
John sighed, reaching into his pocket. “Okay, man, how much?”
Herve looked insulted, his nose rising a shade higher.
“Look,” Finn said, impatient with the delay. “One of your female staff members saw me to my room last night—young, pretty, reddish-brown hair.”
“Was there a problem with your service, sir?” Herve asked, arching a brow.
“No,” he said shortly. “I just need to talk to her.”
“Enough of this bullshit.” Larry stepped up, flanking Finn. “Do you know who this is? This is Finn-Fucking-Payne, man! If he wants your girl’s number, you give him your girl’s number!”
Herve Morales, however, was not to be intimidated. “This is the Ritz-Carlton, sir, not a dating service.”
Finn held up a hand, signaling Larry to tone down the tough-guy routine. It was John and Larry’s usual method; good cop, bad cop.
He’d met people like Herve Morales before, and recognized a petty dictator when he saw one. As eager as he was to track down Amy and find his ring, he wasn’t out to get her fired just yet.
Single mom to a four-year-old boy.
He had no proof she’d stolen the ring, and even more importantly, he didn’t like bullies.
“There was no problem with the service, and I’m not looking for a date,” he told the man smoothly. “She dropped something in the hallway outside my suite, and I was just hoping to give it to her.”
The little creep behind the desk knew he was lying. “I’m not entirely certain which of our employees escorted you to your room last night, Mr. Payne, but I’ll be happy to find out. In the meantime, if you have something you’d like returned to one of our staff members, please feel free to leave it with me.” Herve gave him an oily smile. “I’ll be sure she gets it.”
I’ll bet you will, you little weasel.
Over the weasel’s shoulder, one of the other desk clerks was doing his best to unobtrusively get their attention. As soon as Finn made eye contact, the guy gave a subtle tip of his head toward the end of the counter. He left the counter and headed toward the elevators, glancing over his shoulder to see if they followed.
“Never mind,” Finn said to the weasel. “Sorry we bothered you. It wasn’t important.”
Larry and John followed him through the lobby and around a corner, where the second desk clerk had just disappeared. The man was waiting for them there, out of sight of the front desk.
“You want to know about the girl who showed you to your room last night?” he asked Finn, no
t mincing any words. “A hundred bucks.”
“A hundred bucks?” John’s jaw dropped, even though the man wasn’t talking to him.
“Done,” Finn said promptly. “Pay the man, John.” Finn rarely carried cash, but John would be reimbursed, and he knew it.
Sighing heavily, John did as he was told, digging out his wallet and handing over a wad of twenties.
“Her name is Faith McFarland,” the desk clerk said, pocketing the money in one swift motion. “She usually works the day shift, but a few days ago, she asked if we could swap shifts. I figured it had something to do with that kid of hers, so I said sure.”
Faith McFarland, not Amy Smith.
Lying bitch.
Just to be sure, he asked, “Auburn hair, late twenties, pretty?”
The guy confirmed his description with a nod, looking nervously over Finn’s shoulder, obviously aware his manager could appear at any second.
“How do I get in touch with her?” Finn tamped down his anger to focus on more practical concerns.
“You want her phone number? That’ll cost you another hundred.”
“For a chick’s phone number?” Larry was now officially outraged. “You’ve gotta be kidding!”
“Done,” said Finn, shooting Larry a warning glare.
Sourly but silently, John handed over another hundred bucks.
The desk clerk, whose name tag read “Farouk Jones,” pulled out his cell phone and started scrolling through numbers. “Here it is,” he finally said, and showed it to Finn.
Finn got out his own phone and added the number to his contact list.
“Her car is still in the parking lot,” Farouk offered, clearly eager to be of further service. “I saw it just now when I came in—she hasn’t checked out on the schedule yet, either. My guess is she’s still somewhere in the hotel.”
That bit of information definitely got Finn’s attention, giving him a flicker of hope. “Thank you,” he told the man. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Farouk said, beaming. “Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you during your stay at the Ritz-Carlton.”
Finn turned and walked away, wanting only privacy. John and Larry trailed him at a distance, following him back into the lobby, which was deserted this early in the morning. Finn found a secluded corner and punched SEND.
She answered on the third ring, voice tense. “Hello?” There was some kind of rumbling noise in the background, low and steady, and he wondered where she was—a laundry room, maybe?
“Hello,” he said tightly. “It’s Finn Payne.”
For a long moment he heard nothing but the hum of machinery, and feared she was going to hang up. Then she asked, “How’d you get this number?”
“It wasn’t hard, particularly once I found out your real name. Faith McFarland suits you much better than Amy Smith, by the way.” He was surprised how much that particular lie bothered him. When he made love to someone, he at least wanted to know her name, dammit. “Getting your number wasn’t hard at all—I just wish I’d gotten it sooner.” She couldn’t fail to miss the sarcasm.
“What do you want?”
“Where are you? Are you still in the hotel?”
“That’s none of your business,” she answered coolly, “and I’m very busy at the moment.”
“I’m missing a ring,” he said, getting right to the point. “Did you take it?”
“No.” Her denial came a second too late. “I didn’t take your ring . . . you must’ve lost it or something.”
“I didn’t lose it,” he said flatly. “I was wearing it when I went to bed—when we went to bed—and when I woke up it was gone.”
“Are you accusing me of stealing something from you?”
You did steal something from me, he thought. A really nice memory. “I’m not accusing you of anything,” he said. “I’m just asking.”
“No,” she repeated emphatically. “I didn’t take your ring.”
He didn’t believe her. There was more to this story than met the eye—why the lie about her name and the sudden switch from hot to cold after the night they’d shared? It was as though she really was two different people: one, sweet and tender; the other, an ice queen. Which one was she, and why?
“I need it back,” he stated grimly, not bothering to call her a liar. “Give it back, and there will be no hard feelings, no questions asked, no problems.”
“I didn’t take your ring,” she insisted, but her voice shook, just a little. “Lose this number, and don’t call me again, ever.” Then she hung up on him.
Finn stared at the phone, thinking hard. He should probably call the police—right now, this instant. He had to get the ring back.
That noise in the background; where had she been? If she hadn’t left the hotel . . .
A quick glance toward the lobby windows revealed the faintest hint of gray. Dawn was just beginning to break in the city of Atlanta, and suddenly he had a sinking suspicion of where she might be.
“No, no, no,” he mumbled beneath his breath, pocketing his phone and heading for the elevators as fast as he could.
“Where you goin’, man?” Larry and John fell in beside him.
Curiously reluctant to put his suspicions into words, Finn said merely, “The roof.”
“The roof?” John’s eyebrows shot up. “What the hell would she be doing up on the roof?”
Calling up an old friend, he thought, praying he was wrong.
Chapter Ten
She shouldn’t have answered the phone.
She almost hadn’t, particularly since the number had been unfamiliar, except she had to be available in case anything ever happened with Nathan—that’s what you did when you were the mom of a sick child. Now, despite worries of Nate, she turned the phone off, turning her attention back to what she’d been doing.
The wind was picking up, making the candles flicker. Good thing she’d found this secluded spot in between three huge air-conditioning units, or they’d never stay lit. The hum from the AC units was soothing, its noise drowning out all other sounds, and helping her to concentrate as she stepped back inside the circle she’d drawn in flour on the concrete roof.
Everything was ready: the candles, the pentagram, the inner circle, the bread, the salt, the incense. Sammy Divine had oh-so-thoughtfully provided everything she needed in a leather bag he’d left at the desk. According to the instructions in the book, she was supposed to take the items to a high place, arrange them precisely, and use them in the hour between dark and dawn. She’d set everything up hours ago, before she’d met Finn in the parking garage. Thinking of Finn wasn’t helping, however, so she picked up the small metal dish that held burning cones of pine and cedar, and waved the fragrant smoke into all five corners of the pentagram, never leaving the inner circle.
She’d broken the circle to reach the phone, and the book had said to never break the circle.
There was no help for it, she’d just have to start again, and hope for the best.
“I sanctify this space,” she said aloud. “I purify it with the elements of air and earth.” Her hand was shaking, but she refused to acknowledge her fear, putting the incense down and kneeling to rip apart a loaf of round, unleavened bread. What if she’d ruined everything? She barely knew what she was doing as it was—never in her wildest dreams had she ever pictured herself on a rooftop at dawn, calling up the High Prince of Darkness.
Putting the bread on the ground, she picked up a bottle of sea salt and sprinkled it over both halves, then sprinkled it liberally over the surrounding area until the bottle was empty.
Then, with a shaking hand, she pulled out the little black book and began to read aloud, grateful the ceremony was short.
“This place is protected, prepared, and sanctified for the presence of the One Most High, the Lord of Night, Son of Perdition.” How she hated most of the titles she was forced to speak. “Samael the Serpent, Samael the Black, Belial the A
ccuser.” Closing her eyes against the first rays of sunlight, gleaming through the skyscrapers. Had she waited too long? “I invoke thee, O Wicked One, O Dragon of Darkness, Lucifer, Father of Lies.”
The wind freshened, blowing cool against her overheated cheeks, but she kept her eyes closed. She was going to Hell when she died; that was what she was assuring herself of with every second that passed. An eternity in agony, burning in a lake of fire, in exchange for the life of one small, brown-haired boy. Keeping her eyes closed, she searched the darkness beneath her lids for any hope of doing otherwise, for any chance—no matter how slim—to have everything she wanted without giving up her soul, and found nothing but darkness.
The hum of the air-conditioning units kept her grounded. “I invoke thee, Ruler of the Abyss, by this seal of sun and stars, by the power of moon and sky, to come forth.”
Nothing seemed to happen, and after a moment she risked a peek to see that the rooftop was much lighter now, morning having nearly arrived.
Had she done something wrong? She’d done as the book instructed; where the hell was he? The ring was burning a hole in her pocket, and she wanted it gone.
Taking a deep breath, Faith struggled not to give in to despair. She’d merely forgotten something, that’s all, some step to the ritual. What else had the book said? Oh yes . . . the final step, the one she’d hoped to avoid.
She turned it to the last page, and winced as she read the instructions inscribed there. Open yourself to the Darkness, the book said, embrace it within the very depths of your soul, and acknowledge Satan’s power. Only then will his glory surround you.
Stupid book. Stupid life, stupid roof, stupid fucking ritual. Closing her eyes once more, Faith prepared to surrender herself to the evil that had seeped its way into her world.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” came a man’s voice, and her eyes snapped open in horror. There was Finn, glowering at her just outside the topmost tip of the pentacle.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he asked, fixing her with a grim stare. “This hour of the morning is completely wrong for a conjuring spell.”
She was pale as milk, the expression on her face a mixture of shock and fear. Clutching the book to her chest, she snapped, “What the hell are you doing here? Go away!”