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Blood of Saints © 2016 by Maegan Beaumont.
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First e-book edition © 2016
E-book ISBN: 9780738748924
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Editing: Nicole Nugent
Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Beaumont, Maegan, author.
Title: Blood of saints / Maegan Beaumont.
Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2016] |
Series: A Sabrina Vaughn novel ; 4
Identifiers: LCCN 2016008359 | ISBN 9780738748047 (softcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Policewomen—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. |
GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.E2635 B58 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016008359
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For my “other” Aunt Judy and
a magical place called Dos Cuervos.
Thanks for saving my bacon.
“And in her was found the blood of prophets,
and of saints, and of all that were slain upon the earth.”
—Revelation 18:24
one
Yuma, Arizona
December 22, 1998
A miracle.
The girl had been dead and then … she wasn’t. It was a miracle. That was the only explanation for what he’d witnessed. A resurrection worthy of Christ Jesus himself.
Nulo watched, mesmerized, as her chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, exposed to the biting cold of the desert air. Quickening and stalling so those hovering about her became certain each breath she took would be her last. She’d been badly beaten. Her pale skin was awash with cuts and bruises, but beneath the damage he could see she was beautiful. So perfectly beautiful he found it impossible to look away from her. Looking at her bare breasts, his gaze trailed down her torso and a flush crept up his neck.
Father Francisco said something, a whispered plea offered up to Saint Rose, the patron saint to which they prayed. “¿Qué clase de monstruo haría esto?” He looked up, fixing his panicked gaze on the small knot of early-morning worshipers gathered around him as he knelt over the girl on the bench. “Call 911. She needs help—rápidamente.” The last of his words punctuated the thick air around them, a staccato jab meant to prod them into action. The young man nearest the priest managed to break the spell cast by the taboo before them, turning on his heel to run for the gate that guarded the entrance to the small prayer garden in which they stood. There was no phone inside the church—it didn’t even have electricity. From the corner of his eye, Nulo could see the flapping white robe as it disappeared around the building, off to find help.
“Nulo, you found her?” The priest’s dark eyes found him in the crowd, the voice seizing hold of him, jerking his head to the top of his neck.
Nulo nodded, keeping his gaze averted, the pulsing at his temple keeping time with his hammering heart. “Y-yes, Father. As soon as—as soon as I saw her … I-I came for you,” he stammered out.
It had been early. So early, the coyotes still roamed the fields that surrounded the church, unchecked. The moon low and fat in the sky, the stars just beginning to fade. Officially, no one was allowed to sleep in the sanctuary, but Father Francisco was newly appointed and still soft to the poverty of his congregation. At ten o’clock the night before, he’d wandered around the small church, extinguishing lanterns and candles, completely ignoring the dark figures hunkered down on hard wooden pews. It was December and the desert’s temperature often dipped below freezing. They had come in from the fields seeking warmth, and though the dark church had little to offer, it was better than sleeping outside.
The young priest had walked up the center aisle, stopping next to the pew he was curled up on. “Nulo …” He said his name quietly, not wanting to wake the others. “If I you don’t see me by sunrise, come wake me.”
“Yes, Father,” he said, matching Father Francisco’s hushed tone. “Goodnight … and thank you.”
“There is no need to thank me.” The priest’s face turned toward the back of the church, his gaze trained elsewhere. “I just wish there was something more I could do for you.”
Nulo looked in the same direction to see a silhouette sitting in the dark a few rows back. His gut clenched. Perhaps it was his tío, waiting for Father to go to bed so he could drag Nulo back home. There would be a beating, its severity dependent on how much money his uncle been able to drink away. If he was very drunk, there would be more than just a beating …
Father Francisco turned again to offer him a small smile. “You’re a good boy, Nulo. Jesus loves you very much.”
The priest’s words jerked his attention back to his face. Jesus loves you very much. He didn’t believe that. But he didn’t want to make Father Francisco angry, so he didn’t say anything in return.
After a few seconds, the priest gave him a final nod. “Sleep well, my son,” he whispered before retreating.
Nulo listened to his footsteps, starting to drift even as they faded into the priest’s small room behind the church’s altar. As soon as he was gone, Nulo turned back in the direction he’d been looking, but the figure was no longer watching him. No longer waiting.
It was gone.
–––––
He didn’t know what roused him. Maybe the soft creak of the garden gate. Maybe the shuffling of shoes treading through dirt. Whatever it was, he sat up, his breath escaping into the frigid sanctuary in visible huffs.
Someone was outside.
He moved with practiced stealth to the window of the church, stopping just short of the glass, staying in the shadows so he could look out without detection. One look told him hiding wouldn’t be necessary; the man in front of him was nothing to worry about. He was young. White and clean. Good-looking. He’d seen him
before.
The girl he carried was more than good-looking—she was as beautiful as an angel. She was also very much dead.
He could tell by the way her head flopped on the young man’s shoulder. The way her arm dangled, soft and loose. Instead of fear, he felt a sort of fascinated anticipation as he watched the man kneel down to deposit her on the bench under a tree. He touched her face, his own drawn tight with emotions. Regret and pride. Lust and fear. He knew without being told that whatever had happened to the girl, the man who knelt beside her had been the one to do it.
He watched as the man drew something from the front pocket of his pants—something small and silver. He passed it over the girl’s face, close to her eyes, before setting it aside. The man hovered there, looking at her when the blanket slipped down, exposing the girl’s chest and stomach. He could see what had been done, even from inside the dark church. He could see it and it didn’t frighten or disgust him. Not even a little bit.
The man reached out, cupping her breast while the other strayed to the front of his pants to caress himself. He looked as if he were teetering on the edge of something. Then his shoulders straightened, the hand at his crotch going still. No longer fondling her, the man pressed his gloved hand to the girl’s chest and watched her as if he expected her to sit up and speak. He stared at her, rigid and unmoving, hand pressed to the young woman’s breast until the low howl of a coyote cut through the night. Without warning, the man stood and, casting one last look at the girl, he left.
He waited. Counted to one hundred in both Spanish and English before he moved. He was not afraid of the man who left the girl, but something told him he would not be happy if he knew someone had seen him.
As soon as he was sure the man was gone, he exited the church, careful to ease the door shut just enough to stop the draft from entering the sanctuary and waking the others but not enough to lock himself out. Approaching the bench, he felt the sudden rush of fervor. The closer he drew, the heavier the sensation grew, until it was as if he were kneeling before Saint Rose herself.
As soon as he was close enough, he reached out to her, trailing his fingers along her opened palm. His hands were like ice but compared to hers, they felt as if they were on fire and he wondered at it for a moment—how cold she was. How purely empty. Her lids were held at half-mast, one slightly higher than the other. The eyes behind them were flat. Dull. Blood smeared across the delicate skin beneath them like tears. His gaze fell from her face to her breasts and he imagined touching them as the man had. How they would feel in his hands.
Suddenly, the lax palm beneath his jerked—fingers wrapping around his with a speed and strength that surprised him. A smile he didn’t even know he wore was wiped from his face. The girl’s eyes flew open, skewering him with a gaze so blue, so piercing—so alive—that for a moment he was certain she could see into the heart of him. That she knew what he had been thinking. What he’d been wanting.
–––––
“Nulo.”
Father Francisco’s voice was pinched, almost frantic. Nulo knew he shouldn’t stare. That he was making the priest uncomfortable, but he couldn’t stop himself. A grotesque collection of stab wounds littered the woman’s stomach. They’d been grouped together—a warning to every other man who would ever look at her.
MINE
“Nulo,” Father Francisco tried again. His voice reached out and rattled him from his stupor.
“Yes, Father?” a warm flush crept across his neck again, shame curling in his belly. He was looking and he shouldn’t be.
“Was there anyone with her?” Father Francisco said. “Did you see who left her?”
“No, Father.” He shook his head and looked away. It wasn’t strictly true, but much better to tell a lie than the truth of what he saw. “When I found her, she was alone.”
“Good,” the priest said, sounding relieved. Nulo suddenly understood. Father Francisco was afraid one of them had done this. That one of his congregants had committed murder and left their victim on holy ground.
“Go wait with Manuel for the ambulance to arrive,” Father Francisco said. “When it gets here, bring them around back, not through the church. Tell them to hurry.”
Nulo turned away, starting to move even before the priest had finished speaking. Under normal circumstances, it would be considered a sign of disrespect, one he’d be admonished for, but no one noticed. There was nothing normal about this morning.
Sirens screeched in the distance, closer and closer with each revolving wail. Help was coming. The girl would live. She would be taken to the hospital, healed by doctors. And they would confirm what he and the others at Saint Rose already knew.
She was a miracle.
two
Kootenai Canyon, Montana
August 2016
The McMillan TAC-50 fit snuggly into the joint of her shoulder and she settled it in, leaning into the stock just enough to secure it. Michael had modified the assault rifle last week, shaving a few centimeters off to accommodate her slightly shorter arms. Thinking about it made her smile. It was the little things in their relationship that kept the romance alive.
Beside her, Avasa whined softly. “Shhh,” she breathed, touching her cheek to the brace. The dog beside her went quiet, dropping her muzzle on top of her outstretched paws.
Her spotter lowered the field scope and looked at her, doubt plastered all over her face. “Are you sure about this?” she said, her voice thick with apprehension, giving the dog lying between them a commiserating look. “I mean … is it really necessary?”
Sabrina took her eye from the scope and rolled from her belly to her side, lifting herself from where she’d been lying flat in the grass. The TAC stayed where it was, supported by the tripod that secured it.
“Christina, we’ve been over this,” she said quietly, looking at the girl who lay in the grass, a few feet away. “This is completely necessary, and you know it. Remember what happened last winter? How much trouble he caused?”
It’d been their first winter here and while they’d made out okay, it could have been a lot worse if they hadn’t been so well stocked.
The girl’s shoulders slumped beneath the pale yellow T-shirt she wore, but she nodded. “Yes, I remember,” she said, repositioning the field scope to her face. “It just makes me sad is all.”
You and me both.
Refitting the TAC-50’s stock into the groove of her shoulder, it took Sabrina a second to gain her bearings inside the scope. But then the terrain popped into focus in front of her and she found her target. A quarter mile away was a gray wolf—male, by the size of him—loping along the riverbank that snaked its way through the middle of the canyon they called home. This was the only spot in the river slow and shallow enough to make an easy crossing on foot. The only way to get at the cattle they relied on for food. The wolf stopped, dipping its head toward the water before stepping a tentative foot forward, into the river. “Do you trust me?” she said, resting her finger against the TAC’s trigger.
“Yes,” Christina said, sounding more resigned than trusting.
She didn’t answer. Didn’t try to reassure the girl. She just crooked her finger. The rifle rocked backward, gently nudging her shoulder like it was saying hi. Its high-powered report ricocheted around the canyon.
Almost as soon as she took the shot, the bullet found its mark fifteen hundred yards away, slamming into the water mere inches from where the wolf stood. Water rocketed upward into the wolf’s face, startling him. He leapt back, front paws wet and in the air. He landed, sidestepping away from the riverbank even as he scanned the horizon for another assault.
Sabrina slid the bolt back on the TAC-50 to reload even as she prayed the wolf would take the hint. The cattle grazing on the other side of the river were off-limits.
Determined, he took a testing step toward the river, followed by another. She pulled the trigger
again, this time delivering the bullet into the river’s bank. A small explosion of dirt and rock rained down on the wolf and he jack-knifed, falling backward before rolling to find his feet and make good use of them. She slid the bolt back again, watching while the animal took off—unharmed—for safer territory. She didn’t look away until all she could see through the scope was a bushy gray tail, flagging in the distance.
She rolled into a sitting position, taking the rifle with her. Christina was already up, sitting cross-legged in the grass across from her. “Thank you,” she said, her small hand stroking over Avasa’s flank, her face turned downward so Sabrina felt rather than heard the catch in her voice.
“For what?” she said, her tone casual as she laid the TAC across her lap to disengage the bolt. The .50-caliber bullet popped out and she caught it—something Michael had recently taught her how to do.
“You know what.” Now the girl sounded irritated, not with her but with herself. Avasa chuffed softly at the sound. “It’s childish of me,” Christina said, looking up to fix wide brown eyes on her. “They kill our cattle—they’d run rampant if you and Michael let them.”
“That’s why we don’t let them,” she said evenly, scanning the canyon. Their canyon. Just under five hundred acres, surrounded on all sides by towering cliffs. They were slung low in the valley, dug in deep. The only way in or out was a narrow mountain trail, barely wide enough to squeeze a truck through. They were isolated. Alone. Completely cut off from anything even remotely resembling civilization. No phones. No Internet. Electricity provided by the sun and wind. Water fed to their house through a well. This was a different kind of life. One they were all still trying to get used to.
Sabrina detached the scope from the top of the TAC-50 and stored it in the weapon’s case. “Michael and I will do whatever we need to make sure you’re safe and taken care of, even if it means scaring the wits out of some poor wolf.”
The girl smiled as she’d intended but the glint of it didn’t reach her eyes. Thirteen years old, but her eyes often seemed much older. “I’ve seen killing before. I don’t know why it should bother me so much.”
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