Ritual Sins (6 page)

Alfred held up a restraining hand, and the noise subsided. “This woman is dangerous,” he said. “Her presence here is a disruption. She’s forcing our hand, and the last thing we want to do is be precipitous. We need to take our time, make sure we don’t make any mistakes. We need to get rid of her as quickly as possible.”

“I’m working on it,” said the outsider, ignoring George. “I have everything well in hand.”

“And you aren’t going to tell us?” the old woman next to him asked in a soft voice. She was sleeping with the outsider. She probably already knew the answer, Alfred thought with a disapproving sniff.

“The fewer people who know, the better. She’ll be taken care of. Punished.”

“And Luke?” George demanded, glaring at him.

“All in good time, Grandfather,” the boy said with mocking courtesy. “All in good time.”

It was dark when Rachel awoke, and there was pain. Warmth pressed down around her, cushioning her, and she kept her eyes shut against the wavering light that teased in the corner of her consciousness. If she opened her eyes she would have to acknowledge the pain, and she was afraid. Afraid there was too much for her to handle, afraid she would be vulnerable once more, when she’d spent so much of her life trying to fight her vulnerability.

She’d learned, early on, that people hurt you if they possibly could. She tried to make it very clear that no one could hurt her, ever again.

But someone had. Her throat was on fire, her head throbbed, and her entire body felt as if it had been trampled on by elephants. She didn’t
know where she was, or how she’d gotten there. She only knew she had to escape.

She blinked, unwillingly, finally giving in to the need to open her eyes. The room was murky, filled with a pungent smoke that ripped at her sore throat. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was, or what had happened.

The faint flute music that drifted from a distance was her first clue, though she was certain she’d never heard it before. She was in New Mexico. Land of enchantment, though the retreat center at Santa Dolores was leaving her far from enchanted.

She gradually realized she was lying on the floor, on some thin pallet in a dark, cavernous room. The flute music was coming from somewhere in the distance, the pungent smoke surrounded her. Her clothes were loose, comfortable, and she didn’t have to look to know that Luke had eventually gotten his way. She was wearing one of their damned sets of pajamas.

She tried to lift her head, but the pain was so intense she let it sink back to the pallet with a groan. She could remember Angel now, the ill-named creature who’d tried to kill her, her strong hands around her throat, choking her, as she smashed her head against the hardwood floor.

Stupid, stupid, stupid
, she berated herself. She’d come away with nothing but a bruised and
battered body and a crazy woman’s ravings. A pack of lies. Much as Rachel wanted to believe the worst of Luke Bardell and his followers, on reflection the notion of wholesale murder was far too melodramatic. There were easier ways to extort money from gullible people—con men and evangelists had known that over the centuries. They didn’t have to resort to anything as messy as murder.

Rachel shifted, biting back the instinctive cry of pain. Lying on the floor wasn’t her idea of comfort, and the incense-filled darkness felt more threatening than soothing. Even the knowledge that she was alone, to lick her wounds and mend, was little comfort … especially as she suddenly realized she wasn’t alone at all.

She turned her head, slowly, carefully, the throbbing intensifying. In the misty darkness she could see him, sitting cross-legged, his hands upturned, resting on his knees, his eyes closed, his face serene. He looked like a lean, benevolent Buddha, though Rachel had no illusions. That meditative grace was purely for show. And she was far from an appreciative audience.

“We don’t believe in the concept of sin.” His voice was soft, deep, and his eyes didn’t open.

“Convenient,” she tried to say, but her voice was no more than a strangled gasp of air.

He opened his eyes and smiled at her with
annoying benevolence. “Very convenient,” he agreed, though there was no way he could have understood her word. “It’s an antiquated Judeo-Christian concept used to engender guilt and obedience.”

He turned his hands flat, stretching out his long legs. “I’m not particularly interested in obedience from my followers. Which is fortunate, since I imagine obedience is the last thing I’ll get from you. And I know you’re not a follower,” he added, before she could wreck her throat with a protest. “Not yet.”

She sat up at that one, trying to speak, but her throat was so raw it brought wicked tears to her eyes. He watched her, unmoved.

“We believe in character defects instead of sin. Flaws that we try to mend, or accept if there’s no changing them. You already know one of your major defects is pride. You were so certain you could control Angel, that you were right and the caregivers were wrong.

“Fortunately one of my flaws is a dislike of being kept waiting. Which worked out well for you, since I had someone go in search of you when you didn’t arrive for your five o’clock training session. Otherwise I imagine Angel would have smashed in the back of your skull before too much longer.” He sounded completely unmoved by the prospect.

“That would have solved your problems.” At least that was what she tried to say. What came out was a harsh mumble.

“You might as well not bother,” he murmured. “You’ll just aggravate the damage, and no one can understand you anyway.”

You can
, she thought defiantly.
You know exactly what I’m thinking.

His faint, cool smile was answer enough. “Lie back and close your eyes, Rachel. The caregivers have said you should rest your voice for twenty-four hours. They’ve given you herbs to help the pain and bruising. What you need now is rest.”

There was no way she could disguise the alarm in her eyes at the thought of what Luke Bardell might think of as herbs. As usual he was a step ahead of her, reading her perfectly in the murky light. “The majority of the caregivers are licensed professionals who’ve chosen to follow a new path, Rachel. They’re doctors and nurses and therapists. Alfred oversees them, guides them. Their care, combined with the healing forces of the believers, work miracles. Now lie down.”

She glared at him in silent defiance.

“Lie down,” he said again with great patience, “or I’ll put my hands on you, and that’s the last thing you want, isn’t it?”

Her mute alarm was answer enough. She lay back on the pallet, noticing belatedly that for all
its thinness it cushioned her bruised and aching body quite nicely.

“You’re not afraid I’ll hurt you,” Luke continued in that voice that was perhaps one of the most dangerous of his very real weapons. “You know better than that. You’re frightened of the alternative.” He lifted his hands and looked at them absently, as if they belonged to someone else. Rachel looked too. They were such beautiful hands, strong, with their encircling tattoos of thorns, and for a brief, mad moment she wondered how they would feel, touching her.

She lifted her gaze, to look into his deep, unreadable eyes. There was no way he could guess what she’d been thinking, she told herself. But his faint smile, devoid of mockery, was unsettling.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said. “No one will hurt you, I promise.”

Her body felt heavy, useless. She had no defenses, not even her voice, and he knew it She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, and her eyelids were so heavy she couldn’t even glare at him. She sank back, mentally cursing him, cursing whatever drugs the benevolent caretakers had pumped into her system, cursing Angel, but most of all cursing herself for her stupid arrogance and pride in not recognizing the danger Angel presented. She’d been warned …

Of course, that warning had been couched in
deliberately provocative terms. Anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of human nature; Rachel Connery’s in particular, would know that she would find the challenge irresistible. There was no avoiding the humiliating truth—she’d been set up. Offered to the homicidal Angel as a virgin sacrifice.

She didn’t think they’d really wanted to kill her, or she’d be dead. It must have been along the lines of teaching her a lesson. She had no doubts whatsoever that the command had come from the man sitting beside her in the smoky darkness. Calvin would have been just carrying out orders.

Naturally, she’d been rescued in time. Bloody but unbowed, wasn’t that the phrase?

She was so sleepy. Drugged, of course. She tried to rally her anger to keep her mind alert, her body awake, but it was no good. The flute music in the background was low, insinuating, sliding through her veins on tendrils of melody, and the incense burned in her eyes, her nostrils, cleansing, purifying.

She let herself sink, unwilling to fight any longer. Tomorrow would come, and she’d be stronger. Fueled with her righteous rage, she could fight then. For now she could float.

Luke stared down at her. He’d warned them to be sparing with their use of drugs, and in return
he’d watched her struggle needlessly against their effects. She needed the healing powers his caregivers could provide. She needed the healing powers he could provide.

He’d first become aware of his odd gift while he was in prison, and he counted its appearance as the start of his new vocation as messiah. The notion always amused him. He had no explanation for what happened when he focused his energy on some wounded creature. Calvin would have been dead if it weren’t for Luke, holding his hand, willing the strength back into him after he’d been savagely beaten and raped in Joliet.

Rachel wasn’t going to die, no thanks to Calvin. Luke had no illusions about who had set Rachel up. Calvin had delivered her to the psycho ward, and if it weren’t for Luke’s instincts it might have been too late.

Calvin would have felt no regrets, and nothing Luke could say to him would instill any kind of conventional sense of morality. He considered Rachel Connery a threat to Luke. And when it came to his self-appointed need to protect Luke, Calvin could be entirely ruthless.

Rachel needed to be neutralized and disposed of, as quickly as possible. On that point Luke agreed with Calvin completely. They were simply at odds as to how to best go about it.

It was as simple as their disparate natures, that
Calvin would choose murder by proxy, and Luke would choose seduction. And obviously he wasn’t going to be allowed the luxury of doing it leisurely.

She was breathing deeply. They’d stripped her when they’d brought her to the trauma center, and like the rest of the followers she wore no constricting underwear beneath the loose cotton robes. She was too thin, but he wanted to see her breasts. It would be a simple enough matter to unfasten the tie and expose them to the air.

Unfortunately there was a small cadre of followers in the corner, meditating devotedly for her recovery. He’d have to wait for a more private time to see her, touch her. He leaned over her, his long hair obscuring his face in the darkness, and he let his hands skim her face.

She didn’t move, didn’t quiver, lost in a drug-induced dream. He expected those dreams were erotic.

Her skin was flushed beneath his cool hands. He let his thumbs stroke her eyelids, his long fingers cradle the back of her head, moving down to the back of her neck. Her mouth was open slightly, and he let his thumbs trail over her lips. Soft.

Even in the murky light he could see the bruising on her throat. She didn’t like being mute—it made her furious, and it gave him a wickedly unfair advantage. If she continued to be unable to
speak there was no way she could cause trouble—she’d be trapped here, at his mercy.

Ah, but she was already at his mercy, though she hadn’t quite realized it yet. She was already trapped. And he didn’t want this to be too easy. He put his hands on her bruised throat, easily encircling it, his fingers covering the marks of Angel’s strong hands, and he felt the energy flowing from him, into her.

She jerked, as if she’d had an electric shock, and he released her immediately, sitting back on his heels. She was abnormally sensitive to his touch. Good.

They were watching him jealously, longingly, from their corner by the incense brazier, watching as he put his hands over her. Waiting for him to finish. He wouldn’t disappoint them.

He stretched out over her, only their clothes touching, as he held himself a few scant inches above her, his muscles taut with the effort. It had been a long time since he’d been tempted to give in to his powerful appetites, to let his body sink down on top of a woman’s, to touch and taste and take. He wasn’t sure if it was simply that he was coming to the natural end of this odd period in his life, or whether it had something to do with Rachel herself.

He doubted it was Rachel. He liked women. Liked their curves and their scents and the sweet
noises they made when he fucked them. He liked their temper and their intelligence and their nurturing. But he’d never found a woman who could make him risk anything he’d gained in this life, and he wasn’t about to start with a cool bitch like Stella’s daughter.

She was warm, the heat rising from her body, and he was so cold. In her drugged stupor she looked younger, gentle, capable of healing a man with a wounded soul …

He levered himself away from her, almost too quickly, collapsing beside her in sudden exhaustion. If she ever found a man with a wounded soul, a man fool enough to trust her, she’d flay him alive with that tongue of hers.

Lucky for him he needed nothing and no one. Lucky for him he’d met hundreds of Rachel Connerys in his life. Rich, spoiled, searching for some kind of meaning. They didn’t know the secret of the universe, and he wasn’t about to tell them if they hadn’t figured it out on their own. That life was essentially meaningless.

She was breathing more easily now, the rasp in her damaged throat quieted. He stretched out beside her on the hard stone floor, not touching her, letting the music flow around them as he concentrated on gathering his depleted energy.

Few people would dare approach him in those circumstances. He could feel their intrusive presence,
and he knew it had to be Calvin or Catherine. He guessed it was Catherine—Calvin already knew the sting of Luke’s displeasure.