Ritual Sins Read online

  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 bene
ath 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.

  He didn’t move, didn’t bother to open his eyes as Catherine knelt down by his head. She was a smart old lady; there were times when he wondered just how much she knew, or guessed, about the secret workings of the Foundation of Being. She reminded him of Granny Sue, the old woman who’d taken him in when he first arrived in Chicago, a tough-talking, chain-smoking ex-hooker who’d taught her daughters how to turn tricks by the time they were fourteen. There was a similar ruthlessness about the two of them, though Catherine, with her blue blood and her perfect manners, hid it better than most. She was more than a match for some of the worst cons he’d known. More than a match for Calvin.

  She waited in respectful silence, and he held it long enough for her to get restless before he opened his eyes. “Blessings, Catherine,” he said. Rachel didn’t move, still lost in a deep, dreaming sleep.

  “You’re going to have to do something about Calvin,” Catherine said. “He’s become unstable.”

  “I thought it was Angel McGuiness who was unstable,” he murmured.

  “She’s no longer an issue. Calvin, on the other hand, is becoming more of a problem. You don’t deny he’s responsible for this? That he deliberately endangered Rachel?”

  “I don’t deny it. I’m just not certain why he did it.”

  “He must think she’s some sort of threat. Which is ridiculous, of course. We have nothing to worry about, no secrets to hide. Rachel is a severely troubled young woman, looking for meaning in life. We can help her find the answers she needs. If Calvin would keep his murderous tendencies to himself.”

  “Calvin can be a bit … overenthusiastic where I’m concerned,” Luke said. “I hadn’t realized he was worried about her presence here. I’ve spoken to him. He expressed the proper shame and repentance.”

  “So it won’t happen again?” Catherine persisted, forgetting, as she often did, that she was in the presence of her spiritual master. Generations of old Philadelphia money made subservience difficult.

  It was easy enough to remind her, with the touch of his cool hand on her dry, aging flesh. She jumped, startled, suddenly contrite.

  “Forgive me, Luke,” she murmured. “I’m just an old woman who worries too much. Of course you’ve got things well in hand. I’m just concerned about the girl—she’s a sweet thing, despite her anger.”

  He controlled his amusement at the notion of Rachel’s alleged sweetness. “Of course she is, Catherine. And I know that we can all help her basic goodness and gentleness come through.” As long as Calvin doesn’t try to off her again, he added to himself. And assuming there’s any goodness and gentleness there to be brought out.

  “You’ll show her the way,” Catherine murmured.

  “I’ll try,” he said, wondering just how drugged Rachel was. He wanted to look at her. Touch her. Let his bare skin rest against her. He wanted to fuck her, but having sex with a comatose woman wasn’t particularly appealing, even if it was the only way he could have her for now.

  “I’ll leave you,” Catherine said. “She’s already looking better—I think her color’s improved. Shall I make arrangements for her to be brought back to her room? Or do you want her in the infirmary?”

  “Later,” he said. “Take the healers with you. I want to concentrate on her without any distractions.”

  “You’re too good,” Catherine said in a husky voice, rising with surprising grace given her age. Within moments they were gone, all of them, and he was alone in the murky, cavernous room with Rachel Connery, so deep in sleep that she’d never remember a thing.

  No one would dare interrupt him. Only Calvin, and in his current disgrace he wouldn’t show his face until tomorrow at the very earliest. Luke had hours to himself, and a surprisingly sensual woman to play with.

  It was a good thing he was such an amoral bastard, he thought, propping himself up on one elbow and surveying her. Other men might have qualms, scruples, all those strange, crippling moral dilemmas that had never bothered Luke Bardell. Other men would be shocked at the very notion of taking advantage of a drugged woman who’d just gone through the kind of ordeal Rachel had.

  Fortunately Luke wasn’t other men. Never had been. He reached out and began to untie the knot that held the loose tunic top closed over her breasts.

  His hand shook slightly, which surprised him. He must be hornier than he thought. It hadn’t been that long, but there was something about the night, and the woman, that made him feel dangerous.

  Her skin was a pale white-gold in the darkness, and she seemed almost peaceful. He knew it was an illusion. She was driven, determined, Stella had told him, on one of the rare occasions she’d talked about anything but herself.

  He knew what was driving her now. Her determination to destroy him. The very thought amused him as he pushed the jacket off her shoulders. Narrow shoulders, oddly defenseless-looking. People had tried to destroy him since before he was born, starting with his grandparents’ attempt to make his mother abort him, his so-called father, on through th
e gangs in prison, the cadres of lawyers, the angry young woman who lay motionless, sleeping, beneath his impassive gaze.

  And no one could. He had a gift for survival, for escape when things threatened to get too bad.

  But there was no need for escape right now. For the next few hours he could enjoy himself with his new toy. And if she remembered anything the next day, it would all seem like an erotic dream, one she’d be ashamed to admit she’d had.

  He let his fingers skim down her flat stomach to the drawstring of her pants. Smooth skin, silky.

  And he leaned down to taste it.

  5

  Rachel dreamed again, a shifting mélange of blood and violence. Of an angel, screaming in her face as she wrapped strong fingers around her throat, closing off her breath, her life, and somewhere in the distance was the faint sound of the flute.

  Her eyes refused to open, no matter how hard she struggled against the heavy veils of sleep. And the murderous creature straddling her, strangling her, the long hair falling in Rachel’s face, was now a fallen angel, a creature of light and darkness. Even as she recognized the threat, the hands no longer punished, they caressed her throat, her neck. And everywhere they touched, healing followed.

  The fallen angel was a man, Lucifer, kicked out of heaven for wanting too much power. He would rather reign in hell than serve in heaven. But was she in hell now, or floating somewhere in between?

  He touched her with his mouth, and she shivered in the darkness, resistant, aching. Her hands were by her sides, held down by someone far stronger as he leaned over her, blotting out what little light there was. She was hot, burning up, and he was cool, and sweet, a calm bastion of healing and serenity. He was what she wanted, what she needed so desperately.

  He would give her love. He would give her peace. And total, eventual destruction.