Devil Without a Cause

by Terri Garey

  Samael took a deep breath, astounded and furious at the depth of Gabriel’s daring. No one had called him to task for thousands of years, save one small slip of a girl who vexed him even now, when she wasn’t here.

  “Ah, well.” Gabe gave a fatalistic sigh, shrugging his shoulders. “Let’s go have a glass of wine and talk about it, shall we? I know a wonderful little restaurant down in the piazza. The olive oil they use in their dishes is extra virgin, just the way you like it.”

  Despite himself, Sammy burst out laughing. The sound echoed within the chapel, rising as Gabriel joined him. It was a commingling of sound not heard for millennia, and for a moment—just a moment—it was as though the past had never been.

  “So you like Italian food, do you?” Sammy asked wryly, when he could trust himself to speak again.

  “I’m often offered food and drink by humans unaware,” Gabe replied, brown eyes twinkling. “But standing on a street corner with my hand out becomes tiresome after a while. I prefer pasta.” He turned his back on Samael and walked toward the door of the chapel. “You can pay.”

  “Pasta will make you fat, much like your head already is.”

  “Touché, my friend, touché.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Sammy followed. “But try to be more original in your insults next time, will you?”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The loud whining of the band saw vied with the voices in Finn’s head, the ones that told him to let Faith and Nathan go home. He could put them on the boat, call up the pilot on the mainland and tell him to ready his private plane, and have them back in Atlanta long before nightfall.

  But then they would be gone, and he would be spending a lonely, sleepless night before the Devil showed up to gloat, and he wanted neither of those things. How and when would the end be for him? he wondered. Suicide, Satan had said; pills would be easier and less messy than a gun. Drowning maybe—Trina would never forgive him if he left a mess in the house.

  The wood beneath his hands was mahogany, almost the exact shade of Faith’s hair. He’d been saving it for something special, and now he knew what it was: a dolphin, riding the crest of a wave. Nate would like it; it would be something to remember him by.

  He’d discovered something about himself in the last twenty-four hours, which was that he truly wasn’t the badass the world—and he—had thought he was. Here he was, actually considering letting them go, accepting his fate and letting the Devil put him out of his misery. His plan to seduce Faith had backfired, because he was the one who’d been seduced . . . the way she’d felt in his lap, naked and gasping, the way the water had swirled around her breasts and shoulders, entangling both of them in her hair.

  The way Nate had laughed up at him on the beach, so small and trusting, his hand in Finn’s, tugging him toward the water.

  Finn turned off the saw and moved toward the bench that held his carving tools. It was then he heard thunder, grumbling and rumbling, quickly followed by the patter of rain on the workshop’s tin roof. Afternoon thunderstorms were common in the islands, so he paid it little heed, focusing instead on how best to bring out the grain of the wood.

  When the door to his workshop flew open, he was so deep into the carving that he narrowly missed slicing his thumb open.

  “Nathan?”

  It was Faith, soaking wet and frantic.

  “Is Nathan in here with you?” She looked around his workshop, wild-eyed. “I’ve looked everywhere—have you seen him?”

  He stared at her, mind working. He had no idea where Nathan was, but he wasn’t worried, not with Trina and John on the job. “Maybe I have,” he said slowly, “and maybe I haven’t.” It was pouring outside, wind whipping through the palm trees.

  Her face paled. “What are you saying?”

  He shrugged, dropping the knife and the partially carved dolphin onto his work bench with a clatter.

  “You took him, didn’t you?” Her expression, so worried, turned furious. “Where is he? What’ve you done with him?”

  “Give me the ring,” he said calmly, “and I’ll tell you.”

  She flew at him, so quickly he barely had time to put up his hands to stop her. Enraged, she tried to claw at his face, but he had her by the wrists. Surprised at her strength, he tried his best to keep her from hurting him without hurting her. “He’s just a little boy,” she cried, and kicked him hard in the shins, while he struggled to get her under control. The workshop was full of sharp knives, saws, and pieces of wood—if she took it in her head to use any of them, he’d end up bloody, he had no doubt.

  “Stop it,” he hissed, grunting as she landed another kick on his shins. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Oh no?” she snarled. “Then what are we doing here? How could you use a child—” her voice broke on a sob, but he hardened himself against her tears, recognizing an opportunity when he saw one. It could still work—if she gave him the ring, if the doctors could help Nate . . . they could both go on living, and maybe she’d come to forgive him.

  Spinning her so her back was to his front, he kept tight hold of her wrists. “Give me the ring,” he said urgently, in her ear. “That’s all I want.”

  “Bastard,” she spat. “You horrible, heartless bastard! Where is he?”

  He said nothing more, letting her struggle until she realized the futility of it. Her head sagged, wet hair covering her face. He could feel her heartbeat against his arm, racing like that of a trapped bird.

  “Please,” she whispered, “don’t do this,” but he forced himself to be made of stone; hard and unyielding. Mercy was no longer a quality he could afford to show, not when Fate had placed her in the palm of his hand, and time was running out. It didn’t matter if her body fit him perfectly, didn’t matter if her hair smelled like flowers and her skin was soft as silk . . .

  His own heart was pounding, the breakfast he hadn’t even touched threatening to rise up and choke him. She’d been ready to believe the worst of him when she’d found Nathan gone; now he’d give her good reason to.

  “I never told you exactly how I got the ring, did I?” he asked, low in her ear.

  She was crying, jagged sobs that made her body shake.

  He held her tighter, thinking of that night so long ago, when Satan had opened the door to Hell, and he’d walked right in. “I got it from a guy named Mike Gilliam—a small-time musician who could play the drums like nobody’s business; he was a madman with the sticks. He was on his way up, part of a band called Dead Man’s Hand.” Her sobs went on, but he refused to listen, casting back in his mind to that long-ago time. “They were playing in some crummy little bar in Ohio, on the verge of being picked up by a major label. I hitched my way there, claimed I was a fan, offered myself as a roadie. No pay, just beer and sandwiches, and maybe somewhere to sleep when they were on the road. I’d set up and take down his drum kit, screen the girls who were always hanging around the backstage door, pick the prettiest ones for him and slip ’em inside.”

  She wasn’t fighting him anymore, and despite her tears, he knew she was listening.

  “Back then, the ring was his—I didn’t know how he got it, and I didn’t care. It was taking him higher and higher, and the band along with him. I could see it happening, right before my eyes. The venues got better, the girls got prettier, and the money was rolling in, hand over fist. One night, after a show, he got so drunk he passed out—wasn’t the first time, and it sure as hell wasn’t the last. I stole the ring right off his finger, even though I knew what was going to happen to him when I did. The Devil told me, you see.”

  She looked up at him through her wet hair, saying nothing.

  “Yes, Faith,” he said gently, “I did the same thing to him you did to me, and guess what?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Two days later he was charged with the assault and rape of a minor; he thought the girl he’d been with that night had stolen it, and beat the crap out of her to get it back. Turned out she was underage, and her parents
had him arrested. His career hit the skids, and he never played another gig. Blew his brains out in an alley behind a bar less than three months later.”

  He smiled a cold smile, hating himself as much now for what he’d done as he had when it happened, using his own self-loathing as a way to convince her of his heartlessness.

  “That’s not going to happen to me,” he told her firmly. “I’m not going to end up like that.”

  “Are you going to beat me up, too?” she spat scathingly. “Is that how this works? Patterns repeating themselves, over and over?”

  He was honestly shocked, glad she couldn’t see his face. “I’ve never hit a woman, and I never will, but you’re going to give me the ring back, one way or another.”

  No, he’d never hit a woman, because he’d seen what it had done to his mom. He had a vague memory of her being kind and loving once, when he was very small, but between the alcohol and the lowlife boyfriends she’d chosen because of it, he also had memories of lying in his bed, listening to her shriek and cry, hearing the thud of fists against flesh.

  It had been his fault that girl had been beaten up, just as it was his fault that Mike had killed himself. No need to tell Faith of the guilt that gnawed at him over it—he’d already revealed enough of his dark side.

  “Where’s my son?” she asked, low and frightened.

  “Where’s the ring?” he returned implacably.

  She bowed her head, and he knew he’d won. “It’s in my pocket,” she whispered, “on the right-hand side. Go ahead and take it.”

  He let her go, stepping back.

  She turned to face him, eyeing him fearfully.

  “You have to give it to me,” he said. “I’m not allowed to take it a second time.”

  A mixture of expressions crossed her face: surprise, a flicker of hope, then, worst of all, a contemptuous sort of understanding that made him want to crawl under a rock.

  “You lied to me last night about your life being over, didn’t you?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. It’s just a matter of how long it will take.”

  “You tried to make me feel sorry for you, so I’d sleep with you, so I’d lo—” She caught herself before she said the word. “So I’d think you were a nice guy, and give you back the ring.”

  Saying nothing, he merely watched her.

  “You never had any intention of calling any clinic in Switzerland, did you?”

  That one caught him by surprise. “No! I mean, yes . . . of course I did! I meant what I said about that.”

  “Save it,” she clipped, repeating the phrase he’d used with her earlier. Her eyes were hard as agates, her mouth bitter. “You’re a liar.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a silvery wad of tinfoil and threw it at him.

  He ducked, but it hit him in the temple, narrowly missing his eye.

  “Take your fucking ring,” she spat, “and give me back my son.”

  Slowly, as though he were an old man, he stood up straight. The wad of tinfoil had rolled to a stop over by the scroll saw; he went over to it and picked it up, peeling it away to reveal the ring within. As though in a daze, he slipped it back onto his finger, feeling none of the triumph he’d felt the first time he’d put it on, so long ago. It was cold, as cold as the place where his heart should’ve been, as cold as the look in her eyes.

  “You’re right,” he told her woodenly. “I’m a liar.” Walking toward the door, he found he couldn’t look at her anymore. “I don’t know where Nathan is,” he admitted, “but we’ll find him, and then I’ll send you home.”

  Her shriek of rage warned him, and he turned just in time to see her snatch up his carving knife and run at him. For an instant, just an instant, he was tempted to let her use it, and that instant cost him a cut on his arm when he raised it to block.

  His hiss of pain brought her up short, her face gone white. She stared at his arm, where blood was already welling, then at the knife in her hand. It fell to the floor with a clatter.

  “Faith—” He reached out to her, heedless of the blood, not even feeling the cut, for it was nothing to the pain in his heart.

  “I could’ve killed you,” she whispered, horrified. Then her face hardened. “And if anything’s happened to my son, I will.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The wind was picking up, and so was the rain, lashing his face like needles. The short dash to the house left him soaked. Faith was right on his heels as he went through the kitchen door, sticking to him like a burr.

  “Trina,” he shouted, not bothering with the intercom system. “John! Larry!”

  Striding through the kitchen door and into the hallway, he heard answering footsteps on the stairs, and looked up to see John hurrying down them, gun drawn.

  “Put that thing away,” he snapped, not wanting Faith any more on edge than she already was. “Where’s Nathan?”

  John reached the bottom step and looked at them, obviously baffled. “I haven’t seen him . . . I thought he was napping.”

  “You were supposed to be watching him,” Finn ground out.

  Slipping his gun back into its shoulder holster, John answered. “He was with his mom. I didn’t think I needed to.”

  Faith made a despairing noise, somewhere between a whimper and a groan.

  “Trina,” Finn shouted again, not wanting to turn around.

  “I’m right here,” she said mildly, coming through the door to the dining room. “What’s all the shouting about?” Her breath caught on a hitch. “You’re bleeding!”

  He looked down to see blood dripping from his arm, splashing on the tile floor. “It’s nothing,” he told her shortly. “Have you seen Nathan?”

  Trina’s eyes went from him to Faith to John, then back again. She shook her head, looking worried. “I was working in the front garden until the rain started . . . Since then I’ve been reading in my room.”

  “Where’s Larry?”

  “In the garage, I think.”

  Not bothering with introductions or anything else, Finn headed for a nearby side door, punched in the alarm code to release the dead bolt, and entered the garage. Larry was on the other side of the SUV, wearing headphones and buffing the hood with polish. John slipped past him, already scanning the place, looking for Nate.

  “What’s up?” Larry saw them, tugging his earphones from his ears. The faint sound of Mick Jagger singing “Sympathy for the Devil” came through into the air.

  “My son,” Faith said urgently, pushing past him into the garage. “Is he in here?”

  Larry shook his head, shooting John a look. “We were both in here most of the morning. John just went into the house a few minutes ago.”

  “Put that down and help me look for him,” his partner growled, checking corners, even under the car.

  “Spread out,” Finn ordered quickly. “Trina, you take the upstairs, Larry the downstairs, and John, you take all the outbuildings. Faith and I will take the gardens and the beach.”

  “The beach?” Her face, already so pale, turned even paler. “But it’s storming out. Surely he wouldn’t go down to the beach!”

  The dolphins. Nate had wanted to swim with the dolphins. Finn’s blood ran cold at the thought, but he didn’t voice it aloud. “Get moving,” he said to his team, and moved to hit the garage door opener. Wind and rain came in with a whoosh, wetting the concrete floor. He didn’t wait for it to open all the way, just ducked beneath it and took off running, knowing Faith would be right behind him.

  Wet palms slapped against him as he ran down a little-used path by the side of the house, scanning the bushes between the trees. “Nathan!” he shouted, wondering if he’d be heard above the storm. It was still building, thunder rumbling overhead, sky the color of lead lit by flashes of lightning. “Nate! Are you out here?”

  “Nathan!” screamed Faith. “Where are you?”

  It was hard to see in the driving rain, but he didn’t let that stop him. Pushing forward, he led Faith through the foliage until th
ey reached the sand dunes behind the house. The beach lay before them, wild and stormy, the waves having grown higher and rougher since this morning. The sandcastle was gone, devoured by the elements and the rising tide.

  “Nathan,” Faith shrieked, but Finn could barely hear her above the crash of the waves, the howling of wind and rain. She ran past him, scanning the beach frantically for any sign of the boy.

  Flotsam and jetsam littered the sand, disturbed by the storm. An oddly shaped piece of it made his heart stop, until he recognized it for what it was: driftwood, dark with age.

  “Faith!” he shouted. “He’s not here! Come back!” but she ran on, soaked and frantic, to check out the driftwood for herself. He followed, but only to draw her back, away from the water’s edge, so they could start searching the junglelike foliage that surrounded the house. When she fell to her knees beside the driftwood he thought she’d stumbled, and as he reached her he saw what she’d seen. Nestled beside the wet log was a sodden stuffed animal—the dog Nathan had clutched in his arms while he’d slept, all the way from Atlanta.

  The keening sound he heard wasn’t coming from the wind or the waves, but from Faith herself as she snatched up the dog and stared at it, limp in her hands.

  Never in his life had he felt so helpless; never had he felt the weight of unbearable, crushing guilt as he felt it now.

  “Nathan!” she shrieked again, rising to search the waves with her eyes, frantically scanning the dark, raging water for any sign of her son. Finn did the same, desperate for a glimpse of a little head, a little body, anything to grab, to reach, or save.

  But there was nothing, just the wind and the waves and the sound of Faith’s sobbing—a sound he’d never forget as long as he lived. Pulling himself together, he took her by the arm. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s go back to the house and call the coast guard.”

  “No,” she screamed, pulling away from him. “I’m not going anywhere until I find him!”