by Rita Herron
She hurried downstairs and found Vincent on the back porch with a mug of coffee, his body rigid as he stared into the dense woods. The mountains seemed eerily quiet this morning, like the calm before a terrible storm.
“Vincent?”
“I questioned Hadley Crane last night. Something’s not adding up with him.”
Clarissa pressed her hand to her throat. “You think he’s the killer?”
He exhaled. “I don’t know. He said he was at work after three. I talked to the coroner while you were sleeping, and Daisy Wilson died before noon. When I phoned Crane to check his alibi, his mother said he took off this morning like he does every morning. She hasn’t heard from him since. She thinks he goes into the woods.”
“I still don’t think he’s methodical enough to pull off these crimes,” Clarissa asked.
He nodded. “I agree. And there’s not enough for a search warrant, either.” Vincent’s jaw tightened. “The air is different now,” he said in an oddly low voice. “I smell blood in the forest. Death.”
A painful breath lodged against her breastbone. “You think the killer struck again?”
“It’s not a human’s blood,” Vincent said. “But animals, yes. And more than one.”
She leaned against the porch rail for support.
His heels clicked as he pivoted toward her, the pain and emptiness in his eyes making her heart clench. Dark beard stubble shaded his jaw, and the memory of his arms around her sent a tingle of need through her.
His gaze fell to her breasts, and her nipples hardened beneath her thin cotton gown. With the sun pouring down on her, he could probably see through the transparent material. She should walk away, run, but she couldn’t tear herself from him. She wanted him to look, to touch, to feel.
His jaw tensed, the hunger that fired his eyes so primal that her mouth watered and moisture pooled between her thighs.
“Get dressed, Clarissa.”
Remembering his arms holding her during her nightmares, his strong body pressed close to hers, the heady odor of his skin, she reached for him, wanting Vincent to hold her again. Wanting him to touch her with his hands the way he had with those eyes.
“I warned you to stay away from me, Clarissa.”
“I’m not afraid of you, Vincent.”
“You should be. I told you I’m dangerous, just like my father was.”
But his gaze lingered on her breasts, his breathing growing labored. She touched his hand, and hunger flared in his eyes. Clarissa momentarily forgot about the danger. She wanted him desperately, had wanted him since the first minute she’d seen him at the police station. And last night, lying next to him, having him hold her had taken their relationship to a different level. She’d sensed a tender side of him that lay buried beneath the rubble of his pain, buried so deeply she doubted he knew it existed.
Aching to ease his suffering, she reached for him. He threw up his hands and backed away from her. “Don’t.”
“Why not? You want me. I want you. And in the midst of all this death and evil, making love with you is the only thing that makes sense to me right now.”
“I don’t make love to anyone,” he said gruffly. With a scowl, he stalked down the steps.
“Where are you going?”
“To hunt for that cave of black rock. I think it’s the place where the killer takes his victims.”
She hurried down the steps and grabbed his arm. “Let me go with you.”
He jerked away from her touch. “No. It’s too dangerous.”
Then he disappeared into the wooded mountains, leaving her alone and aching for his return.
The metallic taste of blood nearly overpowered Vincent as he jogged into the wooded mountains, although the taste of Clarissa’s lips from that heated kiss warmed him, helping to stifle his urge for a kill and replacing it with raw desire for her.
Hell. His body throbbed incessantly, driving him insane. It was almost as if sex fed his body, was the only thing that kept him alive, that kept him from killing.
Disgust filled him. He wanted her. No doubt about that. In fact, even as he’d backed away, all he’d been able to do was stare at her breasts. Her nipples had stiffened and made his head swim with desire. Beneath that see-through gown lay the softest, sweetest heat. His primal instincts told him it begged for his cock.
Dammit, he could practically taste her damp juices on his tongue.
Shocking that she could talk to the dead but hadn’t run from him like she should. She probably thought she could save his soul like she did the spirits hanging in limbo.
Wanting her was becoming an obsession, the need shattering his concentration. The next time she asked him, he might accept her offer. Get her out of his system once and for all.
Show her what a heartless bastard he was beneath. A bastard like his father.
Other memories followed. His father whipping him with a leather strap. Teaching him how to hunt, to sniff out the prey. How to gut an animal with a pocketknife and drink blood from its wounds.
The razor blade cuts on his back where he’d tortured him in the name of proving he was a man. The way his father had thrown out his hands and tossed fire into the woods. The animals scurrying for safety.
Too late. Their bones crunched between his father’s brutal hands.
He paused and flexed his fingers in front of him, studying them. Could he start fires with his hands?
He closed his eyes to concentrate, then opened them and flung them outward, but no fire erupted. Yet a tree in front of him cracked and splintered. He tried again and rocks went crumbling. Another thrust and two small trees exploded.
He did possess a supernatural power, not as a firestarter, but he could make things explode. He shook with the realization. Could no longer deny that he had demon blood running through his veins.
Suddenly the air swirled around him, hot and filled with the scent of blood. He spotted a rabbit that had been ripped apart, its insides strewn across a rock. The work of an animal or sadistic man?
Or maybe a demon, like his father.
Another few yards down, he found several dead squirrels and rabbits, their bodies also shattered, guts strewn on the parched ground. The stench of larger animals filled the humid air, robbing his breath.
Following the blood trail, he spent the day tracking other kills, each time his stomach clenching at the brutality.
An old mine drew his eyes, and he checked it out but found no one inside. Just bats, their eyes piercing the darkness.
Ominous gray clouds cluttered the sky, the heat oppressive and accentuating the vile stench of death. Slowly the blackness crept over him, sucking him into its abyss. He tried to fight the sadistic, seductive lure, but the pull was too strong.
He was going to black out. Lose time.
Lapse into one of the black holes.
He staggered, clawed for control, tried to fight it. His head swam, and the trees twirled and blurred, the jagged stone of the mountains reaching for him like giant monster’s arms.
The heavy pull of evil begged him to succumb, his father’s voice echoing off the hills. He closed his eyes, time slipping away as the darkness engulfed him.
Then he heard the whisper of a voice, low and lethal, telling him that Clarissa might be dead before he returned.
And that her blood would be on his hands.
Cary Gimmerson tried to scream as she looked down at the steep ridges below, but her vocal cords refused to work. How had she wound up in the mountains on this ridge?
Slowly, through the fog of her confused mind, the past hour rolled back. She’d brought her dog to the park for a walk and he’d run off, then she’d chased him and gotten lost.
Then what? She’d fallen . . . collapsed . . . someone had struck her from behind?
When she’d roused to consciousness, the sun had completely blinded her. But a man’s voice had soothed her, and he’d lifted her in his arms and carried her up the hill, up the ridge.
Then everything
turned hazy. Her heart raced with fear.
She’d tried to cry for help but couldn’t move.
Struggling to free herself from his spell, she squinted through the blinding sun.
Then his face slid into focus. No, not a face.
A hulking black monster with yellow eyes.
She tried to move, to scream again, but her limbs were paralyzed, and terror seized her.
She was going to die alone on the mountain, and no one would hear her cries.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Vincent walked at the right hand of darkness, the black-faced demon he accompanied leading the way through the mountains.
Where was he going? To the graveyard, where he would count his kills?
The vile smell of another human’s fear swirled around him, and he saw the source. The woman the black shadow held in his clutches.
She couldn’t be more than twenty years old. Wavy blond hair. Amber eyes. Lips parted in terror as if a scream had died in her throat.
Frozen at the edge of the precipice as if in bondage, but she was free of any visible ropes or bindings.
She was literally frozen, he realized. Frozen in fear.
“She is afraid of heights,” the demon said in a hazy whisper that sounded like sandpaper, less than human.
Yet here they stood at the top of one of the tallest ridges in the Smokies, overlooking a canyon that fell to the ground miles away. Excitement slithered through his blood at the images that played out in his mind. The woman falling over the edge, spiraling out of control, hands and arms flailing for a lifeline yet grasping empty air. Would they hear her scream as she fell? Or would it fade in the endless chasm between her and the waiting ground?
Would she feel the splat of her body, blood splattering in a million directions? Would she hear her own bones crunch, jagged ends knifing into her organs, before she drew her final breath?
The demon lifted his shapeless black hand, held it suspended for time that seemed to stand still. She moved her mouth, her throat muscles working to form a cry for help, for mercy, but no sound emerged, only air whistling through her teeth.
Bleeding through his enthralled state, the truth registered.
This was the demon he chased. One touch and the demon knew the woman’s deepest fear, then used it to kill her.
Vincent should destroy him. Instead, he’d followed along to watch.
Even as he ordered himself to move, to stop the demon and vanquish him, his limbs refused to function, as if he, too, had been hypnotized by the demon’s spell.
He was trapped in the blackness. Powerless to stop the scene before him as the faceless monster created a surge of wind that caught the woman and spun her above the ground, then flung her over the ledge.
He tried to shout for the demon to stop, but his voice choked, emotions pummeling him as the girl fell to her death.
Her hair floated around her as she spiraled through the air. Finally the scream came, distant and hollow, boomeranging off the mountain walls, mingling with the sound of the demon’s laughter.
Vincent bellowed in rage, his body trembling with the force. He’d seen death before, had caused it himself. But the young girl wasn’t a criminal . . . she was just a child.
Self-hate made him nauseous as he flexed his hands. He halfway expected to see fire shooting from his fingers, but none came. Only guilt and self-condemnation . . .
And the realization that he was weak. Had lost to the demon.
And with his supplication, his powers would grow, his hands more dangerous, his mind a sieve to mastermind plots to take lives and offer the helpless souls to Satan.
No . . . The scream ripped from him. He couldn’t relent.
Mindless with pain, the black hole swirled around him. He saw the future, saw himself walking through the graveyard of lost souls, looking at the burial plots for the ones whose lives he would steal. Hearing their screams as they realized they’d traded their souls for a hell that would never end.
Fire seared his skin and fingers, yet a cold gray blanket of despair washed over him as he stopped to stare at his next conquest. The woman who would assure his place as a master of the darkness.
The name etched on the granite tombstone was Clarissa’s.
Stunned, he finally jerked himself free from the demon’s trance.
Terror spiked Clarissa’s heart rate as she searched the foothills and mountains. Where was Vincent? Was he all right?
Had the demon gone after him?
Was he coming for her next?
Her grandmother’s predictions disturbed her even more, as did the stories about the Black Forest. What other kinds of creatures lived within those miles of rolling hills?
Who had this demon disguised himself as?
A scream tore down from the mountain, resounding off the jagged ridges, and a chill clutched her as the dead girls’ skeletal faces floated in front of her, their haunted eyes etched with horror.
“He has another . . .”
“He’s killed again . . .”
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
A feeling of helplessness made her legs buckle, and she ran outside, then screamed into the mountains, anger and frustration ringing through her cries.
“Why hide your face and kill innocent girls? Why don’t you show yourself to me, you coward?”
A cold wind rustled the trees, whistling through the leaves, the sound shrill. Yet a low, haunting voice rode on its tail.
“Don’t worry, I’m coming for you, Clarissa.” Laughter rumbled from the hills. “Soon you will be mine.”
Vincent stirred from the depths of the black hole, clawing his way back to reality. Had he just dreamed about the demon, or had he really walked along beside him?
The whisper of death brushed his neck, and he opened his eyes, the muted gray shades of light and shadows flickering through the trees, igniting fingers of tension coiling inside him. Above him a black hawk soared, and somewhere in the distance a coyote wailed while the vicious sound of gnashing teeth—a predator tearing into his meal—sliced the silence.
He rubbed his temple where it throbbed, then glanced around and found himself lying at the edge of the precipice where he’d stood and watched the girl fall to her death.
Nausea gripped him, but he swallowed the bile, holding his breath as he forced himself to look down into the canyon.
Hell and damnation. His head swam as he zeroed in on a body.
He hadn’t been dreaming.
He had truly walked with the black-faced demon, and he hadn’t prevented the kill.
Which made him just as responsible.
Balling his hands into fists, he raced down the mountain. His boots skidded over rock, and he pushed branches aside, ignoring the ones that slapped his face and tore at his back. He had to get to the girl. Find out if she was the one he’d seen die at the demon’s hands.
Then he had to call the sheriff and report the death. But what could he say?
That a black-faced, shadowlike demon killed the woman? That he pushed her over the edge without touching her? That he was working for the devil?
That Vincent had witnessed the murder and had done nothing to save her?
Guilt and self-hate nearly immobilized him, but he jogged faster, weaving between the trees, grimacing at the dead animals along the path. Had the demon killed them, or had he?
Fury balled in his gut, and he flung his hands out, literally snapping branches from the trees to clear his path and sending small rocks flying.
Cold fear made his heart pound. He’d seen Clarissa’s name on her tombstone. The killer was coming after her.
He’d die before he’d let the demon have her.
Denial stabbed at Clarissa’s nerves as she ran back inside, making her cold and achy. She banished the cries of the dead, begging them to leave her alone. And Vincent was fine. He was tough and could take care of himself.
Meanwhile, she had to get dressed for Tracy’s funeral.
But there wou
ld be more lost spirits at the graveyard, more voices crying out to her . . .
She swallowed back a sob. She had to be strong, couldn’t break down like her mother.
Sucking in her courage, she climbed in the shower, closed her eyes, and let the water warm her.
The demon wouldn’t get her. Vincent would protect her, as he’d protected her from his father years ago.
He wasn’t evil.
Still shaken, she dried off, blew dry her hair, and dressed in a long turquoise skirt and white blouse for Tracy’s funeral. But the heat plastered her clothes to her skin as she headed to her car and drove to the chapel.
Trying to drown out the cries of all who lay buried in the cemetery, she entered the church, her heart clenching as she spotted Ronnie and Eloise Canton huddled together on the front pew. Friends filled the rows, the sound of the organ drummed an old gospel song. She slid onto a rear seat, searching the faces.
Deputy Bluster sat near the front, but she didn’t see Vincent or Sheriff Waller. Bo Bennett loped in and claimed a back pew, and the bartender from Six Feet Under took a seat near the middle.
Hadley Crane stood in the back in that gray pinstripe he always wore for funerals, his movements jerky as his gaze shifted across the crowded church.
The preacher began his eulogy, and Clarissa knotted her hands together, struggling to focus, but the cries of Tracy’s friends and family blended with the spirits’, making her head swim and throb.
She massaged her temple, time blurring as the funeral continued. Finally the last prayer was said, and the pallbearers carried Tracy’s casket down the aisle. The somber crowd rose to follow, sniffles echoing all around. A few offered their condolences at the church, while others strolled outside, braving the heat to join the family at the graveside services.
Skeletal ghosts roamed the grounds, rising from the dirt, floating above the tombstones, and screaming, their agonized screeches assaulting Clarissa.
She walked down the path, noting the way some graves were well tended while others lay neglected, flowerless, with weeds marring the surface. Mourners gathered outside the tent situated by the burial plot while the family and closest friends filled in the metal chairs beneath it, and dozens of flower arrangements and wreaths surrounded the tent. Clarissa stood to the side to make herself available for the Cantons, but supportive friends surrounded them.