Crimson Sins

by Madeline Pryce

  “Really?” Xavier looked back and forth between them.

  Bastian knew Morgan well enough to recognize the tight, forced smile for what it was. While she could lie with her face, the fire in her eyes gave her away. She fitted her hands into her back pockets and rocked back on her heels. “I don’t live here, live here. I’m just…”

  “She lives here,” Bastian said for her.

  “Right.” Looking uncomfortable, she hooked a thumb in the direction of the hall. “I’m gonna go jump in the shower and then head to bed. We’ve been up all night.”

  As if proving how tired she was, a yawn stretched her mouth, cracked her jaw. She tried to smother it with the back of her hand, failed, and laughed. Bastian knew he was in trouble when his heart did that funny pulsating thing again.

  “You don’t have to go,” he offered.

  “Really.” A tender, private smile softened her features as she inched back to the bedroom. “I’m tired; it’s okay.” She called out to Xavier, “It was nice to meet you, Father.”

  The old man nodded and held up a wrinkled hand covered in dark age spots. “You as well.”

  Bastian watched her retreat down the hall. The burning need to gather her in his arms and touch her staggered him. Never in his life had he wanted anything as badly as he wanted Morgan. His need wasn’t for sex, although he could admit he wanted to sink inside her, to hear her cry out his name. He wanted the comfort of another living soul, the warmth of her skin, and the cold bite of her magic.

  He stared at the door Morgan opened and then closed behind her. Bastian jumped when Xavier spoke from just behind him. “I’ve never seen you look at a woman like that before.”

  Bastian sat on the couch and focused his attention on his guest. “What can I do for you?”

  “Ah, right to business.” Xavier took a seat next to him. “I’m afraid I’ve got a rather nasty ghoul infestation at the parish cemetery. Two gatekeepers have gone missing. I went to investigate, and there were several desecrated graves, the remains devoured. There was a chill about the air, whispered of evil. Would you mind setting things to rest the way you normally do?”

  “Of course. I’ll take care of it.” Bastian looked his guest in the eyes. “You could have told me this over the phone. Should we talk about why you’re really here?”

  Xavier nodded. “Am I that transparent?”

  “I’ve been studying people for two hundred years.”

  “I saw the newscast this morning. I was concerned. It’s Ronan, isn’t it?”

  Bastian rose from the couch and ran a hand through his hair. He paced in front of Xavier. “He wants Morgan.”

  “Keep her and your brothers safe, Bastian. Danger is coming. I can feel it in my bones. Keep those you care about close at hand.” When Xavier tried to struggle into a standing position, Bastian took his arm and helped him to his feet. “As usual, thank you for humoring an old man. I won’t keep you from your young lady any longer. Go to her. I think you two may need each other.”

  “Old is a relative term,” Bastian said and decided not to get into his feelings for Morgan. Later, when he was alone, he could decide how best to proceed without hurting her. Not groping her in the living room was a start. “Do you need somewhere to stay? It’s a long drive back to the parish, and I’m happy to give you the couch.”

  Xavier hobbled to the door. “Thank you for the offer, but I won’t intrude. New love needs privacy. And I promised my niece I would spend some time with her while I was in town. I believe she said something about fresh-baked cinnamon rolls.”

  New love? Bastian shook the thought away. He had no frame of reference for caring about anyone other than his brothers. Did he love Morgan? He certainly felt drawn to her, couldn’t look away from her, never wanted to stop touching her. But love? It was too soon to tell. Did Morgan love him? She couldn’t. Exchanging good-byes, Bastian shut the door behind Xavier and clicked the deadbolt in place.

  He looked to his bedroom with longing. He wanted to go to Morgan more than he wanted oxygen. For that very reason, he kicked his boots to the floor, discarded his jeans in a heap, and lay down on the couch. Maybe he should take Xavier’s interruption as divine intervention. Not today, and probably not next week, but one day, he was bound to break Morgan’s heart. Bastian knew shit about relationships aside from Nolan and Rory’s failed attempts. For her sake, he should stay away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The melancholy bass baritone drifting from Haven’s jukebox downgraded Morgan’s raging headache from a category five hurricane to a tropical storm. Normally she wouldn’t have chosen any type of music that blended country, rock and roll, and folk. Yet something about Johnny Cash’s deep, resonating voice soothed her frazzled nerves.

  She forced herself to sit at the table across from Rory and enjoy the moment. Hard to enjoy anything when your life was a shambling mess. While Ronan hadn’t come for her directly in the past week, he’d made damn sure none of them could forget he waited nearby.

  Four times in the last week, complete strangers had come up to her in the bar and shoved familiar black and silver filigree wrapped boxes into her hand with a “You Morgan? Some guy asked me to give this to you. Said to tell you, ‘soon.’”

  Morgan shuddered at the memories, the sweet scent of death, and the resulting fury on Bastian’s face when she handed him the still-sealed boxes. Psychological torture, she’d been told by Nolan, was one of Ronan’s specialties.

  The mounting agitation left her on edge. If Bastian’s account of Ronan’s predilections was true, there was no end in sight. Any moment she expected Ronan to find some way to breach the wards painstakingly erected around the building. In between training sessions, they searched sewers, graveyards, and abandoned churches in and outside the city limits for any trace of Ronan’s magic.

  Nothing.

  The only sign of Ronan was his sticky, horrific, dismembered webs. A half-dozen mutilated corpses sent the once-quiet city of Dentry into full-blown panic. The headlines read, RITUALISTIC MURDERS RIP CITY APART; THE DEVIL TAKES ANOTHER SOUL; DENTRY SERIAL KILLER MUTILATES CORPSES, KEEPS BODY PARTS AS SOUVENIRS; WITCHCRAFT IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY. Bastian had indeed had sexual relations with all the woman they’d found, and was kept off the cases.

  Forcing Ronan, dead bodies, and the impending doom from her mind, Morgan mouthed the words to the song currently playing. She used her fingers to tap out an offbeat rendition of the tune against the table. Have fun. Relax. Think of anything except torture and the fact that Bastian was avoiding her.

  His absence made everything worse.

  Ever since he’d stuck his hand down her panties last week, he’d made sure he wasn’t alone with her. His evasion left her with a barrage of unwanted feelings she didn’t know what to do with. So she’d done the only thing she knew how to do. She threw herself into work. Her new role as barmaid kicked ass.

  Morgan looked up from the high-gloss cards in her hand. As she’d done a million times that night and the nights before, her gaze zeroed in on the broad outline of Bastian’s back and shoulders where he sat at the bar. A sick feeling coiled inside her belly.

  The big-breasted brunette who’d been nursing a beer in the corner booth ambled across the bar on five-inch heels. She slid onto the stool next to Bastian and pressed her abundance of cleavage against his arm to whisper something in his ear. Bastian’s back stiffened. Morgan waited for him to send her on her way like he’d done with all the other barflies. Five seconds ticked by. Then another ten. He wasn’t sending the woman away.

  Morgan’s heart twisted into a bleeding mess.

  She forced herself to look away from the train wreck and glanced around the bar. At twenty till two on a Monday morning, the place was nearly deserted. Without the hustle and bustle of conversation, rock music, and clinking bottles she’d grown accustomed to, the place felt like a ghost town. Funny choice of words considering there wasn’t a single spirit pestering her, thanks to the wards.

  She glanced
at James, her lone middle-aged customer who refused to leave the bar until bodily escorted. He sat with his chin in his palms two tables down from her. The pathetic “notice me” expression on his face went into overdrive when her gaze neared. He sat up and gave her a toothy grin. If he’d been a dog, his tail would have thumped against his chair.

  She waved him off, and like a good pup he slumped back into his seat. Morgan would never admit it, but she rather liked the guy. He had a gentle soul and a kind, honest smile. Maybe she should date a guy like James and not some asshole cop who preferred gigantic fake tits.

  Morgan shifted her aching feet on a nearby chair. She thought about kicking off her boots and really getting comfortable. Across the table, Rory’s narrowed gaze ran over her face and then flicked to where she still tapped the table. They were almost an hour into their poker game. Some of Rory’s ever-present charm had waned.

  This was the third night in a row she’d beaten the ever-loving pants off him. His pride more than his money was at stake. She leaned forward and stared Rory down, silently daring him to make his move.

  “Come on, Morgan! I’m dry over here,” James whined over the music.

  Gaze never leaving Rory, she called out, “Shut up, James. Can’t you see I’m busy? Go put more money in the jukebox.”

  Rory chewed on his lower lip and ran a hand through his spiked, black-tipped hair. He looked just like Bastian. Why couldn’t it be him sitting across from her with a sexy little half smile? Tears pricked her eyes. No way was she going to cry. Not in front of Rory at least.

  Bastian wasn’t the one sitting across from her because “Noble Bastian” wouldn’t get within three feet of her. Her gaze strayed to him, and her heart stopped. The jerk-face, womanizing asshole got up from the bar. Feeling like someone shoved a knife into her chest, she watched him lead his brunette conquest through the employees-only entrance in the back. Morgan now knew how it felt to have her heart ripped out.

  She forced back a fresh wave of tears and decided to concentrate on handing Rory his ass. The dimple on his right cheek deepened, vanished, deepened. He was bluffing. She sat back and forced a smile she didn’t feel. Almost frantically, Rory looked from his cards to her face. This was her favorite part—watching him squirm. Her enjoyment only lasted a few seconds before his panic subsided, and he relaxed.

  He rapped his knuckles against the table. “Oh. I get it.”

  He nodded and smiled to himself as if he’d figured out the secret of life, as if his brother wasn’t the biggest asshole on the planet. He scratched his chest, and some of the faded yellow lettering flaked from his god-awful Rob Zombie shirt.

  “You’re bluffing.” Reaching into his wallet, he fished out two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and threw them onto the pile of cash between them. “Double or nothing.”

  James whistled and strained his neck in an attempt to see the cards she brought close to her chest. Man, playing poker with Rory was like taking candy from a baby. She should feel bad, would have if this nightly ritual wasn’t becoming the most quasi fun she’d had in, well, years.

  “It’s your money,” she warned.

  Rory flashed a charming grin, one that dimmed only marginally when she stared blankly at him.

  “How about this—you show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.” He walked his fingers up the front of her boot to her knee and waggled his eyebrows. Slowly, he traced the short hem of her black-and-red-plaid skirt.

  “If you’re trying to flirt with me, don’t bother.” One by one, she laid her cards faceup on the table. Three jacks and a pair of black aces shone in the overhead lights.

  Rory cursed and smacked the table. “Goddamn it, woman. Every fucking time!” In the commotion of his outburst, he subtly tried to slide his cards off the table and into the waiting deck. “I really thought I had you this time. I was sure of it.”

  “Not so fast.” She held out her hand for his cards. “I showed you mine. Now let’s see yours.”

  “Morgan,” James moaned. “It’s almost two! You know I get kicked out if I don’t have a drink when the bar closes. You have to let me stay and finish it if it’s opened.”

  She ignored him, and the fact Bastian was off doing God knew what with his bimbo. Grumbling under his breath, Rory flipped over his cards to reveal a mismatched jumble of crap. It was the fourth time in a row he’d tried to bluff her.

  “Sucker.” She gloated and slid the cash from the table to the pocket of her apron. Another night like this and she’d have enough to pay him back for the clothes.

  “What’s your secret?” Rory asked as he mixed the two halves of the deck together in a loose, rhythmic shuffle.

  She gave him a sweet smile. “Do you think I’m stupid? I’m not telling you shit, not when I just scored four hundred bucks.” Her gaze strayed to the clock, the ominous hand of time inching ever closer to the two. How long had Bastian been gone? Five minutes? Forget it. Forget him. She looked back to Rory. “You know I’m just getting you back for these damn boots you bought. You couldn’t have, I don’t know, gotten me sneakers?”

  “Sneakers aren’t sexy. Those boots are sexy, so get over it.”

  “Now can I have another beer?” James cut in.

  Morgan looked at the man who’d shown up every night and sat himself in her section despite the lousy service. Chestnut hair, obviously dyed, combed over to cover the shiny bald spot in the middle of his round head. He stuck out his lower lip in a pathetic sulk and blinked his owllike eyes at her. Grown men shouldn’t pout.

  She leaned back in her chair and eyed him. “I don’t know, James; can you?”

  “Hell yes.” He slammed his empty bottle on the table and got an honest laugh out of her, which considering Bastian had practically ripped out her heart, was a feat.

  “All right, all right, fine.” She slid out of her chair and winced at the pain in her feet when she stood.

  At the bar, she reached across the counter and grabbed a couple of beers. It took a considerable amount of effort not to spit in the lone glass of bourbon next to her elbow. Without wanting to, her gaze lifted and she stared through the open kitchen window in the direction of Nolan’s office. According to Rory, the boys normally used the closed-off room to take care of their “business.”

  Fuck it. Why did she care anyway? Bastian wasn’t hers; they’d barely even gotten to third base. He could do whatever he wanted with whomever he wanted. She strode back to the only occupied table and slammed two longnecks down with a little too much enthusiasm. Rory, who’d changed tables to keep James company, lifted an eyebrow and grabbed one of the beers.

  “He won’t fuck her, you know.”

  She glared at Rory and ignored the look James was giving her. “I didn’t say he was. Besides, even if he did, it’s none of my business who he screws. I’m not his anything. He made that clear tonight.”

  Dropping into a vacant chair, she kicked her legs up on the seat next to James. He made a move to stroke her boot, and she shot him a steely look. He placed his hand in his lap, and he glanced away as if he hadn’t been about to touch her.

  “If you don’t care”—Rory paused to take a long swig of his beer—“then why do you look like you’re about to cry? Your nose is red, and your forehead is all splotchy. You think I didn’t notice the moment Bastian left that you got this look on your face like someone stole your puppy and skinned it.”

  “I’m not going to cry.” She swiped at her cheeks just in case. “And skinned puppies? Really? That’s just wrong.”

  Rory motioned to the bandage wrapped tight around her hand. “How’s the hand? Need a rabies shot?”

  She looked at the wound in question as if she’d never seen it before. It said a lot about the state of her life that she’d been stabbed with a steak knife and hardly remembered. Jodi had sworn it was an accident, that she didn’t “mean to do it.” The three-inch gash on the top of Morgan’s hand told another story.

  “She did it on purpose, you know,” Morgan said.


  Rory threw his head back and laughed. “Sure as shit she did.”

  The swoosh of the employees-only door drew Morgan’s full attention. Hair disheveled, Bastian stalked back to the bar and sat in front of his waiting bourbon. His tightly clenched jaw radiated agitation. Shouldn’t he look more relaxed after a quickie in his brother’s office? The brunette walked out a few moments later with tears clinging to her lashes. She made a huge show of fixing her immaculate hair, realigning her tank top, and adjusting her short skirt as she walked straight for the exit.

  “I think I hate him,” Morgan announced.

  James took a sip of his beer and then offered her the bottle. What the hell. She took the beer, wiped the rim on the sleeve of her shirt, and took a long guzzle. Maybe the alcohol would dampen her anger. Too bad James didn’t drink whiskey.

  Rory’s fingers tugged at the ends of her hair like an annoying gnat buzzing in her face. She slapped his hand away. Two seconds later he was back to twirling. If she’d ever wanted a brother growing up, Rory was proof they were nothing but pests.

  “He’s into you, baby girl,” Rory said in a soft tone she’d never heard before.

  “He’s so into me he drags other women back to an office that you guys use to screw women. I’m flattered.”

  “Do you see this?” He pointed to his face.

  “How ugly you are? Yes, I see that.”

  “Ouch. I was talking about the bruise on my cheekbone.”

  She huffed and looked closer. The perfection of Rory’s face was in fact marred by some slight, and she meant slight, discoloring. “That’s hardly a bruise.”

  “It is too! I told Bastian I was going to take you on a date, and he punched me in the face. He’s into you; he’s just being stupid about it. Bastian isn’t in touch with his feelings. Or reality for that matter. You’re gonna have to cut him some slack.” Rory turned and clapped James on the shoulder. “All right, you pathetic groupie, it’s time for you to go. This seat is hurting my ass.”