Devil Without a Cause

by Terri Garey

  “A Book of Shadows,” he said matter-of-factly. “A very old Book of Shadows.”

  She stopped walking, forcing him to stop, too. “I don’t understand.”

  He faced her, knowing it best to speak plainly. “A book of spells and incantations, one of which was how to call forth a specific demon, and force it to reveal the hiding place of the Ring of Chaos.”

  She stared at him, but he couldn’t see the expression in her eyes in the moonlight, and didn’t really want to. “The Ring of Chaos,” she repeated skeptically. “Are you a Tolkien fan, because that sounds very Lord of the Rings–ish to me.”

  He smiled, an ironic smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Where do you think Tolkien got the idea? The story is an old one, far older than his. The Ring of Chaos is one of several magical objects supposedly owned by King Solomon, hidden away among his treasures, a secret for thousands of years.”

  “King Solomon. As in the King Solomon.” Her tone had turned sour. “The biblical king from the Old Testament.”

  “That’s right.” He made no apologies for the fantastical nature of the story. “Didn’t you know that good old Sol could constrain demons and force them to perform magical feats? That how the Temple of Solomon was rumored to have been built, on the backs of demons and devils—it was his way of evening the scores between good and evil, forcing those who’d made the mistake of defying God into working for His glory.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Solomon was also rumored to have written a treatise on demonic rituals—an ancient, obscure text called the Key of Solomon, which holds the secrets of demons and magic.”

  She was shaking her head, pushing windswept hair behind her ears.

  “I didn’t have the Key, of course, but there were bits and pieces of it within the journal. It took me six months, but I eventually figured out the summoning spell. I spent a lot of time at the library, putting the pieces together, doing my research.” The library had always been a refuge—no matter what town they lived in when he was growing up, there’d always been a library. “I thought it was cool . . . a game, a challenge, and when it turned out to be true”—he turned away from her, looking out over the waves—“when it actually worked, I could hardly believe it.”

  The boom of the surf receded as he remembered that night, so long ago, in the basement of an abandoned warehouse where he’d been sleeping. He’d been living rough for about a year at that point, having run away from the dumpy old trailer where his mom and her latest husband lived. There’d been no room for him anyway, and they hadn’t seemed to care—no one had come looking for him.

  “The Ring of Chaos is possessed by a dark spirit,” he stated frankly, repeating what he’d tried to tell her earlier, back in Atlanta. “A spirit who longs for expression, but is trapped inside an inanimate object. As long as the person who wears it provides an outlet—whether it be art, music, poetry—it will conform itself to its owner’s deepest desires, and endow them with a talent, a genius, far beyond what they would’ve had otherwise.” He sighed, staring out over the waves. “As long as Chaos is allowed to express itself, the partnership works, but ultimately, the muse of Chaos is very hard to control. It’s overwhelming, all-consuming—and why so many creative types come to a bad end. Van Gogh, Nietzsche, Edgar Allan Poe . . .”

  “Wait a minute. You’re claiming they wore the ring?”

  He shrugged. “There’s a fine line between genius and madness, and the ring is very old. Who’s to know how many people have worn it?”

  There was a silence between them, and he let it go on, giving her time to absorb what he’d said. He waited, staring at the surf, mesmerized by how the waves crested into themselves, spilling and tumbling onto the sand, over and over again. “I knew the risks but I didn’t care.” He hadn’t cared about anything except becoming famous, regardless of the cost. “Eventually, I figured out the spell, and called forth the demon of Chaos.” How incredibly stupid he’d been. “There was no fanfare, no thunder or lightning, no scaly-limbed creatures from Hell. Just a man who stepped from the shadows as though he was made from them.” An involuntary shudder ran down his spine at the memory. Those ice blue eyes, so cold. “He said he knew where to find the ring, but if I wanted it, I’d have to give him something in return.”

  Finn no longer heard the crash of the ocean, didn’t even see it.

  “I—”

  “Don’t say anything,” Finn cut her off sharply. “Let me finish.”

  It was surprisingly cathartic, for he’d never told the story to anyone. “I promised him my soul in return for the ring. I suppose he hoped I’d break under the pressure as so many others had, go crazy at an early age, drink myself to death, but as long as I wore the ring, my soul was my own.” He glanced at her. “By sending you to steal it from me, he’s changed the rules of the bargain. Apparently he’s no longer willing to wait for my soul.” He turned his head, eyeing her speculatively. “And he certainly seems eager to corrupt yours.”

  She winced, saying nothing.

  His story was almost done, and he didn’t feel the least bit bad about finishing with a half truth, or minor misconception. “Bottom line, I have until Monday morning to get the ring back, or my life is over.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Over?”

  The ring lay like a stone in the pocket of her jeans, and suddenly, Faith wished nothing more than to take it out and toss it as far out to sea as she possibly could. He was right, it was evil, and the longer she had it the worse the evil became. Her mind reeled at the story he’d just told her, and if she hadn’t seen the very face of evil—on two different occasions—she wouldn’t have believed him. How could she live with this man’s death on her conscience?

  She shook her head mutely, horrified by the weight she was expected to carry. The moon shone high over the water, so cold and distant, just like the stars, meaningless glitter in a vast void of darkness. She searched them in vain, desperate for help she knew wasn’t going to come. She’d never asked for any of this—she’d just wanted to raise her son, live her life, maybe meet somebody nice to share it with one day.

  But there would be no fairy-tale ending for her, because her life would be forever marred by blood on her hands. Finn, or Nathan? She bowed her head, understanding, for the first time, the lure of oblivion, for there were no decisions to be made when you were dead.

  The crash of the waves, the buffeting wind—all become one with the pounding turmoil within her heart as Faith put her face in her hands, and let the tears come.

  “Hey, now.” Finn slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Don’t cry.” She hadn’t the strength to refuse comfort, and leaned into him, sobbing. His heartbeat was against her cheek, vital, and alive. His arms went around her, firm and strong. She cried harder, envisioning Nathan, ill and silent in the hospital, too weak to lift his head. What was she going to do?

  “Shhhh,” he murmured, holding her close. He rested his cheek on top of her head and rocked her gently, saying nothing more, while the wind and the waves went on about their never-ending, uncaring business.

  It was then she admitted, in her secret heart, to the feelings she’d tried so hard to keep at bay. She’d fallen in love with him last night, when he’d teased her over dinner about playing footsies under the table, when he’d kissed her and touched her and drawn from her emotions and feelings she’d forgotten existed. Finn was the one who’d been wronged. She’d lied to him and used him, put his life at risk and driven him to extremes, yet he was comforting her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she wept against his chest. He moved his hands to her shoulders, but she wouldn’t let him pull away, winding her arms around his waist and keeping her cheek pressed against his shirt. “I never meant to hurt anyone, I never . . .”

  His hand slipped beneath her chin, forcing her face upward. “Shh,” he said again, gently, and bent his lips to hers.

  She could taste the salt of her own tears, thick with guilt. She could feel her breasts
against his ribs, the thump of his heartbeat. She opened herself fully to the kiss, knowing she shouldn’t but helpless against his tenderness, his strength—the feel of him in her arms. He’d bared his soul, and asked for its return, but she had nothing to give him in that moment except herself.

  Within seconds, tenderness was replaced by heat; his mouth slanted over hers, hot, demanding, devouring. She lost herself in an erotic exchange of lips and tongue, moaning deep in her throat at something she’d thought she’d never feel again. Desire unfurled, deep within her belly, blending with the crash of the ocean and the sharp, salty scent of the sea.

  She pressed herself hard against him, stroking and touching the lean muscles of his back and waist. The bulge in his jeans was obvious, and she thrilled to the feel of it. More than anything, she ached to take him in her hand, hot and heavy, the way she’d done last night.

  She tore her mouth from his long enough to whisper, “Please,” not even sure what she pleaded for.

  “Please what?” he whispered, breath rasping in her ear.

  “Please . . .”

  He stopped her reply with his lips, exploring her mouth more leisurely this time, rasping his tongue alongside hers in an erotic duel that would end only in surrender. She gave it, and it was then he pulled back, eyes glittering in the moonlight, and took her by the hand.

  “Come with me,” he murmured.

  She nodded, numb yet burning, and let him lead her back toward the house, thinking only of how strong his fingers felt, wrapped around her own, and how the memories they made this night must last a lifetime.

  The night wind cooled her heated cheeks, and whether the heat was from shame or desire, she couldn’t tell.

  She only knew that no matter what happened tonight, whatever ecstasy they shared, she could never give up the ring, not if there was a chance it could save Nathan.

  But in the meantime, she’d show him with her body all the things in her heart, and try her best not to think about tomorrow.

  He led her to a side door near the room where Nathan slept, which opened to reveal a beautifully tiled chamber in shades of blue and green, filled with potted plants: tall palms and delicate orchids, exotic bromeliads. Two of the four walls were carved from solid rock, creating a breathtakingly beautiful private grotto, overlooking the sea. A sunken spa steamed and bubbled in the center of the room, and a row of floor-to-ceiling windows, open to the roar of the surf, faced the beach.

  “Wow.” Dashing the last of her tears from her cheeks, Faith took a good look around and noticed an abundance of candles, already burning. On the tiled edge of the spa sat a tray holding a bucket of champagne and two glasses.

  “Pretty sure of yourself, weren’t you?” she asked, slanting him a glance. “What if I’d said no?”

  He grinned, and gave her a shrug. “My housekeeper knows I like to come here and unwind after I’ve been on the road, that’s all.”

  She shook her head at the shameless transparency of the lie, but found she didn’t mind it. The night had taken on a dreamlike, fantasy aspect in which nothing surprised her. Her fears about Nathan’s immediate safety had receded; she believed Finn’s claim that no one would hurt him. He’d always been a very sound sleeper, and she doubted he’d wake until morning. That gave her a few hours to spend here, in this private paradise, with Finn.

  “You should know”—he leaned in, lips brushing the tip of her ear—“I never use a bathing suit.”

  She smiled, enjoying the image he conjured. “Of course you don’t.” Her fingers brushed the front of his jeans, deliberately, and he surged against her hand. “You seem to have a real problem with constraint.”

  He laughed, and the sound of it made her feel bold, daring, almost happy. Not wanting to think, wanting only to feel, Faith drew back, grabbed the hem of her shirt, and pulled it over her head. Grinning, he did the same, and in moments they’d both toed off their shoes and shucked off their jeans.

  “Last one in is a rotten egg,” he said teasingly, and strode toward the water, giving her a mere glimpse of his cock, jutting from its nest of dark curls.

  Denied that glorious sight, she admired the tight roundness of his ass as he walked away. Hesitating only a moment over whether to remove her bra and panties, she did, having no idea whether she’d have any dry clothes to wear in their place.

  Finn lowered himself into the spa until the water was above his waist, then ducked his head beneath the surface. He came up on the other side of the pool just as she reached the steps, wiping the water from his eyes and face. His dark hair, already short, looked just as good wet. “You’re beautiful,” he said with a warm smile.

  Suddenly shy, she held tightly to the metal stair rail as she lowered herself into the warm, bubbling water. It swirled against her knees, her legs, the juncture of her thighs, the curve of her belly. “Mmmm.” She dipped her knees so the water reached her chin. “This feels so good.” Warm silk against her bare skin, soothing and caressing every hypersensitive inch of it.

  “It’s one of the main reasons I bought this place.” He didn’t rush her, staying on his side of the tub, swirling his arms easily through the water. He glided toward the tray and took up the champagne bottle, opening it with a pop. “You should see it in the daytime—the view is spectacular.”

  It sure is, she thought, admiring his back and shoulders. His angel-wing tattoo looked darker when it was wet. Seeing him in this steamy, tropical setting called to mind the Greek god Pan, with his love of music and his naughty penchant for seducing hapless maidens. All he needed was a pair of horns. A giggle escaped her as she realized that for once, she was happy to play the role of hapless maiden.

  Hearing her giggle, he turned toward her smiling, glass of champagne in hand.

  She caught her breath at the picture he presented, wet, naked . . . temptation itself. She’d become a shameless wanton, and she didn’t care.

  Besides, it wasn’t she, it was he, and a woman would have to be dead not to feel wanton in this situation.

  She moved toward him, taking the champagne.

  “Wait,” he said, raising a finger. He picked up the second glass and offered a toast. “To tonight,” he said, looking directly into her eyes. “No more talk of bargains or promises, no pressure.” His voice lowered to a more intimate level. “Just you”—they clinked glasses—“and me.”

  Faith rolled the champagne on her tongue before swallowing, wanting to savor each drop and every moment. His eyes, dark green and slumberous, remained on hers over the rim of his flute.

  “Do you like my private Eden?” he asked huskily, watching her closely.

  “It’s magnificent,” she acknowledged, but she wasn’t talking about the room. She was talking about him, and the paradise she knew she could find in his arms.

  He smiled again; she was lost. Completely, utterly lost.

  Another sip of champagne, and then another, and then her glass was empty. She didn’t protest when he took it from her, setting it beside his on the rim of the spa. She didn’t pretend coyness when he took her hand, drawing her to the side of the pool where a tiled bench ran beneath the surface. He sat, pulling her onto his lap, and she gasped at the rough rasp of his thighs beneath her bare bottom.

  “I like the way you smell,” he murmured, warm mouth to her ear. Easing her back to his chest, he cupped her breasts in his hands, while his cock, hot and hard, pressed against the small of her back. “Like flowers. So fresh and pretty.”

  She closed her eyes, putting her hands over his, willing herself to think of nothing but the here and now. His body felt so good. The champagne went straight to her head, while blood rushed to her nipples, making them hard.

  He squeezed them gently between his knuckles, eliciting a gasp. One hand slid downward, over her belly, smoothing itself over the curls between her legs. She laid her head back against his shoulder and moaned as his fingers brushed the hard little bud he found there. Everywhere her skin touched his she seemed to prickle, forcing her to writ
he and twist in his arms, but it was a mock battle, never meant to be won. His breath came hot on her neck as he moved his fingers over her delicate folds, rubbing, stroking, and touching. Catching the lobe of her ear in his teeth, he nipped it gently. Her hair was damp, clinging to her shoulders as she lost herself in sensation.

  Finn’s hand was doing something to her that was indescribable, and she raised her hands to the back of his head, holding on to him like a lifeline. His rock-hard maleness nudged her between the thighs, and she shifted to allow him easier access, unable to help it.

  He slid into her, and then there was no outside world, only bliss. She exploded, her body spasming in intense pleasure. Speared, overwhelmed, and overloaded, she gasped and shuddered, while her mind whirled and spun.

  Drowning, she was drowning, and she never wanted it to end.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Canyons of Despair were well named, for it was a place of emptiness and desolation. Wind-scoured rocks the color of rust, deeply scored with dry gullies, several yards wide and hundreds of feet deep. No life, no movement, only the howl of wind, rising and falling like the moans of a thousand souls, lost in misery and anguish.

  Even Sammy, standing on a cliff top looking down over the canyons, felt the hopelessness the sound of the wind evoked. How to find one small boy—or the remains of one—in such a place?

  He hadn’t let himself think about why he even bothered. If he cared to delve deep enough into his own psyche—which he didn’t—he knew it had something to do with the anger he felt over his own fate. The Heavenly Father who had supposedly known and loved him had turned his back and left him to make his own way in the wilderness, and he would not do the same to his own son, even though he’d never laid eyes on him, for to do that would make him no better than the One. There was nothing sentimental or maudlin about his decision; a human would probably be grieving the loss of what might have been, but he was neither human nor divine, and made his own rules.