Devil Without a Cause (19 page)

Worried that Nathan would hear it and wake to find her gone, she headed back toward the guest room to check on him.

Opening the door as quietly as she could, she peeked in, and found the bed empty.

Her son was gone.

Chapter Twenty-­three

“I
don’t care whether you like it or not, you will do as I say,” Samael the Fallen said implacably. “Get in that tub and wash. You stink.”

They were in his private bathing chamber, where the air was thick with steam, the oversized tub filled and ready.

“Yeah? Well, you don’t smell so good yourself,” Cain returned defiantly. “And I’m not doing it.”

He’d known his son for less than an hour, and found him stubborn, rude, foul-smelling and completely, utterly fearless. If it weren’t so irritating to his nose and ears as well as his psyche, he might’ve felt some stirrings of pride over the fearlessness, but his short stint as a father had already left him ready to strangle the boy with his bare hands.

“Your time among the imps has soiled your mind as well as your body,” Sammy said, restraining his temper with an effort, “if you think to challenge
me
.”

Cain shot him a cold look from ice blue eyes. “And who do you think you are,” he asked mildly, with a self-possession he’d never have believed possible of a nine-year-old, “the fucking prince of Persia?”

Nyx stepped forward, saving his master from the sin of patricide. “You are addressing His Satanic Majesty, Son of Morning, Prince of Darkness, and Lord of the Underworld. Keep a civil tongue in your head, or I shall beg his permission to rip it from your throat.”

Those blue eyes, so disturbingly like his own, flicked briefly over Nyx, then back to Sammy. “You’re . . .” For the first time, the boy seemed to have no ready reply. “My mother said . . .” He looked away, swallowing hard. Then he squared his small shoulders in a gesture that Sammy reluctantly recognized, and opened his mouth to say more, but was forestalled.

“Nyx is correct in listing some of my titles,” the Great Shaitan said quietly, “but I believe it might be best if you just called me Father.”

They stared at each other for a moment, Sammy once again getting the feeling that the boy was far older than his years.

“Mother claims you’re all-powerful,” Cain said, “so I suppose that means I have to do what you say.”

“Your mother is a wise woman,” Sammy lied.

“No, she isn’t,” the boy replied, calling him on it. “She’s silly, and vain, and way too nice for her own good.” Then, surprisingly, despite the tenseness of the moment, he smiled, displaying teeth that looked astonishingly white against the sooty grime that covered his face. “Which is why I usually get my way.”

“Well, you’re not getting it today,” Sammy said, resisting the pull of that megawatt smile for all he was worth. “So get in the tub.”

Cain shrugged, stepped out of his grubby loincloth without a shred of modesty, and did as he was told, though his expression showed him clearly not happy about it.

“Nyx will be your instructor for the next few days,” Sammy said, knowing his lieutenant would prefer to be boiled in oil than to babysit, but not caring. Now that he’d found the boy, he had no idea what to do with him, and needed some time to think. “You are to do as he tells you without argument, and go nowhere without him.”

Cain’s attempt to give him a sullen look was spoiled as he picked up a bar of Sammy’s favorite clove-scented soap and took a sniff. “That smells good,” he said, and immediately rubbed it in his hair, smearing the bar with sticky black goo.

Inwardly Sammy sighed, knowing that particular bar was ruined. His tub was going to need a thorough scrubbing, too; the water was already turning gray. “It’s made especially for me by the dryads of Eternia,” he said wryly, “and it’s not meant to be used as shampoo.”

“What the hell is shampoo?”

A heathen. The child was an ignorant heathen.

“Shampoo is what Nyx will use to wash your mouth out if you don’t watch your language,” he returned, watching with interest as Cain scrubbed dirty, soapy hands over his face and head. “You’re too young to use profanity.”

Cain ignored the reprimand, dunking his head beneath the water. When he came up, scrubbing slightly cleaner hands over his face, Sammy watched with interest as his features were revealed.

A straight nose, much like his own. Persephone’s chin, though the shape could change as the boy grew older. The eyes, of course, were unquestionably his, and the hair—well, it was still too filthy to tell, but if it matched the boy’s eyebrows it would be blond.

In a corner of the tub, behind Cain, a curious water sprite emerged, wrinkling her pretty nose at the dirty state of the water in which she found herself. Her cat-eyed gaze flicked curiously over the boy, then toward her master, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Silently she slipped beneath the surface and emerged a few moments later holding aloft a beautiful bottle made of iridescent glass. She placed it on the tiled rim of the tub, where it made a slight
click
as she put it down.

Cain whirled at the sound, quick as an adder, and snatched the sprite’s arm before she could withdraw. Alarmed, the sprite’s eyes widened, and she bared pointed teeth in a snarl.

“Whoa,” Cain breathed. “What are
you
?” The very male appreciation in the boy’s tone was unmistakable.

Sammy, who’d been about to interfere, said nothing, merely watching as the sprite took Cain’s measure. Slowly she pulled her arm from his now slackened grip, allowing her snarl to fade. Once free she withdrew to a corner, cocked her green-haired head curiously, then favored the boy with a slightly coquettish smile before slipping, once again, beneath the surface.

Cain, dark runnels of dirty water dripping from his hair over his nine-year-old neck and shoulders, gave Sammy another one of those megawatt smiles. “I think I like baths,” he said cheerfully. “Can I take another one later?”

Beside him, Nyx gave a low chuckle. “Oh, he is definitely your son,” he murmured, giving His Satanic Majesty a red-eyed wink.

Sammy scarcely knew how to feel about such a statement, much less respond, so he turned and strode from the chamber. “Watch him until I return,” he snapped, “and make sure you keep the horny little devil on a tight leash.”

“W
hat do you want, Gabriel?”

Unsettled, Sammy had gone to one of the few places that always managed to give him some measure of peace. He visited the Sistine Chapel often, privately admiring Michelangelo’s
Last Judgment
, which held a rather good depiction of him in the lower right-hand corner. The chapel was closed at the moment, of course, as he’d never been able to abide crowds, so when he heard a footfall, feather-light, and smelled the scent of sandalwood, he knew who it was without turning.

“The artist seems to have made you a bit pudgy,” said Gabe, coming up beside him. “Everywhere except where it counts.”

Turning his head, Sammy glared at him. “A bawdy joke from one so innocent. Careful the One doesn’t strike you down for your blasphemy.”

Gabriel shrugged, examining the painting closely. “There’s nothing blasphemous about the human body,” he said mildly. “I was merely pointing out that he’s given you a penis the size of a peanut. And your head . . .” He shook his own, brown-haired and shining. “That head, though handsome, is not nearly large enough to contain your colossal ego.”

“If you’re trying to provoke me, it’s not going to work.”

“Ah. Lost your sense of humor somewhere in the darkness, I suppose. ‘Blessed are those who can laugh at themselves, for they shall never cease to be amused,’ ” Gabriel quoted. “One of the unrecorded Beatitudes.”

Not for anything would he show his amusement, so Sammy turned away, strolling toward another fresco. Gabriel followed, for all the world as though they’d come here to offer their joint opinion on man’s conception of the heavens.

“I never took you for a Catholic,” Gabe said idly, as they perused scenes from the life of Moses. “Yet here you are at the Vatican. Something to confess?”

“Your sarcasm is wasted on me,” Sammy returned, though it wasn’t. “I enjoy beauty in all its forms, whether it be in a chapel, in a field, or in the arms of a woman. You, on the other hand, are limited by the narrowness of tunnel vision. You see everything as black or white, good or evil, with no shades of gray.”

“I am limited by nothing,” Gabriel replied, “save my love for you.”

“Careful, Gabriel,” he mocked. “The church frowns on such things.”

“You know exactly what I mean, and don’t pretend you don’t.”

“
Love
,” Sammy scoffed, peering into the eyes of a painted saint, virtuous and pure. “How can you believe in love after all these years?”

“I needn’t experience it physically to know it exists. I see in the wondering eyes of a new mother or the steady, peaceful gaze of a faithful spouse. Surely you remember our early teachings, Samael. ‘And there remain these three: faith, hope, and love . . . and the greatest of these is love.’ ”

“More platitudes? What do you want from me, Gabriel?” Sammy’s anger, temporarily set to simmer, began to boil. “Why do you keep showing up to annoy me when I’ve warned you to leave me alone?”

His old friend shrugged. “You demanded your way with Faith McFarland, and I gave it. I said nothing as you shamelessly used her love for her terminally ill son to get what you wanted.”

Privately relieved to think of something—anything—other than his own recent paternity issues, Samael watched as Gabe leaned in to better examine the cherubic version of the baby Moses, rescued from the bulrushes.

“I haven’t interfered while you turned her into a thief, made her pander her body for gain, or had her kidnapped,” Gabe went on. He turned, facing Sammy directly. “The least you can do is offer me an explanation, even if it’s all lies.”

The lies were right there, on the tip of his tongue, as they always were. He could tell Gabriel anything he wanted, pull the puppet strings just to watch him dance. Eyeing his erstwhile brother narrowly, he considered it, then did the opposite. “My methods may not be yours, but I’m doing what’s best for Faith McFarland, whether it seems so or not.” His chin went up a notch. “She was in danger of becoming a dried-up spinster. What kind of mother would she be if she allowed no one to get close? And”—he smiled, as though at a private joke—“if I can get something I want in the meantime, it’s nobody’s business but my own. Finn Payne is mine, and has been for some time.”

“You don’t like him very much, do you?”

Sammy rolled his eyes at the stupidity of the question.

“You don’t like him because he reminds you of yourself, and because
she
likes him.”

Anger stilled to cold, freezing him before a colorful fresco of Moses’ journey into Egypt.

“The dark-eyed girl, the one you claim not to love.” Gabriel continued to stroll along the north wall of the chapel, wisely keeping himself out of reach. “She likes his music, plays it in that quaint little clothing shop of hers all the time. Great taste in fashion, by the way.” He paused, holding out his arms so that Sammy would notice his shirt. “Levi’s button-down, circa 1965.”

“You bastard,” Sammy said, in a tone only a fool would ignore.

“You’re jealous of the musician,” Gabe stated, ignoring away. He shook his brown head chidingly. “How very petty of you.”

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

T
he 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.”