Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) (20 page)

FIFTY-TWO

He’d made a mistake.

There’d been no reason to follow when she left the alley; he knew where she was going. Parking down the street from the boarding house, he waited. As he knew she would, she pulled into the driveway about an hour later.

He’d meant to leave her a token of his affection, nothing more. Cutting across the neighbor’s yard, he approached from the back, a perfect rose held gingerly in his gloved hand. Concealed in shadow, he’d gazed up at her window, the curtains parted to reveal a slice of dim light from within.

He’d been about to step from the dark when
he
appeared. Even from here he could see it. True power—not borrowed but born—settled into his shoulders, and he carried it as if he’d held it all his life. He recognized him for who and what he was almost instantly.

Ares. His brother. His rival.

He
had stood there, surveying the yard as a king would survey his kingdom, eyes sweeping every corner and shadow, landing on him more than once. He shrank back, deeper into the dark, sure he would be seen. But the Fates had protected him, concealed his presence. Ares’s ignorance bolstered him, assured him that he was of little consequence, but his confidence was short-lived. Suddenly she was there, his Calliope. He saw her for just a second, a towel clutched to her breasts as she yanked the curtain closed, shutting them both from his sight.

He could imagine it plainly: his beloved and his brother, groping and gasping as they slaked their lust for one another, nothing more than a pair of crude, rutting animals.

His muse had betrayed him, her infidelity the very sharpest of slights, a wound so deep he could not breathe for the pain of it. Pain soon turned to rage and rage into wrath.

He’d dropped the rose, grinding its head beneath the heel of his shoe as he strode across the yard, no longer concealed. No longer caring if he was seen. He went home, a new and terrible purpose burned, all but consumed him.

Calliope and Ares would pay for their betrayal.

His perfect plan laid to waste, he ignored the Sisters and their whispered admonitions as he fashioned the figures carefully, forming their limbs, entwining them together in a lovers’ embrace, pushing strands of Calliope’s hair into the clay, all the while muttering a prayer that he might be granted revenge.

Per dea Hekate quaeso mihi adlaturus esset uirtutis et astutiae, qui extrahi illuderet meam super me.

By goddess Hekate, I pray, bring to me the strength and cunning to extract my vengeance upon those who would make a fool of me.

Their whispers grew louder, warning him to turn back from this new path he’d chosen, but he ignored them, spitting upon the figures, a curse in of itself, using a needle from his work bench to scratch their names into the legs of each.

Καλλιόπη
Άρης

The whispering grew louder still. Disdain. Skepticism.

Dea Hekate, sciant nihil nisi sanguinem et dolor. Tuli ergo fleret patientes et flevit.

Goddess Hekate, let them know nothing but blood and sorrow. Let them suffer and weep as I have suffered and wept.

They were screaming at him now. Warning him of the consequences for his actions, the price for vengeance that must be paid. But he would not be swayed. There was no turning back.

From the vial he wore around his neck he drew a drop of blood—her blood—and smeared it into the caste, staining the earthen clay with red, the letters he’d scratched upon it filling with blood.

Quaeram sanguinem eius per omne tempus His maledicti sint, ea vacuum infernos lacus sæcula. Et fratres mei dilectissimi.

By this blood I ask they be cursed for all time, let them writhe in the pit of Hades for all eternity. My brother and my beloved.

He ripped a strip of cloth from the square he’d used to cleanse Urania and wrapped the figures within it before sealing it and his curse against them inside the box.

The screaming reached its peak, a deafening shriek, humming in his brain so loud he was sure it would burst … and then, suddenly silence.

He dropped to his knees, the uneven stones of the floor beneath his feet rushing up to gouge at the flesh stretched across his bones.

Now that it was done, panic seized him. Had the Fates abandoned him? Cast him aside for his pettiness? He leapt to his feet, driven by desperation. A way—there must be a way to regain their favor. Atonement needed to be made. Tribute must be offered.

A sacrifice of the flesh to prove his devotion.

He glanced at the naked woman who lay stretched across the
altar. Her liquid brown eyes had gone flat hours ago, had stopped tracking his every move, as if she’d already surrendered her soul to Hades. The only indications that she was still alive were the shallow lift and fall of her bare chest, each soft breath throwing shadow and light across her smooth brown skin, and the rhythmic jerking of her wrists against the restraints used to hold her in place.

His hand sought out his instrument. Careless fingers skating along the curve of its blade came away wet with blood, but he hardly felt its sting. The Sisters were angry. Urania would not be enough to appease them.

The answer came to him without a second thought; he turned toward the small hearth set in the corner, stoking the low-burning fire until it crackled and jumped, the heat of it licking across his sweat-cooled skin. Leaning against the wall beside the small table that held his clothes were his tools—among them, brands whose symbols had come to him in dreams. Willing the Fates to guide him, he chose one and thrust it into the flames and paced before them, waiting the eternity it took for the twisted metal to glow bright orange.

He pulled the brand from the fire and carried it to the altar. Draping his arm across the foot of the altar, between Urania’s legs, he turned it up, exposing his forearm.

Praebeo dolor contritionis O fatis. Exaudi orationem meam, ne derelinquas me.

I offer my pain as contrition, oh, Fates. Hear my plea, do not abandon me.

He pressed the brand into his flesh without hesitation, the smell of his own charring skin swirling up into his nose, enough to make him gag. He locked his knees, pushing his hips against the altar for support and to kill the arousal that gathered there. He breathed, pulling the stench deep into his lungs. Urania began to retch, her soft belly convulsing against the smell of scorched flesh that surrounded them both. Her legs, bound to the altar at the ankle, began the same incessant heaving as her wrists.

He did his best to ignore her, counting the seconds in his head. Beyond her noise he could hear the Fates’ whispers, distant and shadowy, return. He pressed harder. Each second spent in agony strengthened them, brought them closer, until they drowned out the humming buzz of pain that pushed against his skull. Until he heard nothing of his Urania and her mewling cries.

He dropped the brand and stared down at the symbol seared into his flesh.

The Sisters were pleased but still angry. In their murmurs he heard warning. Another chance would not be given. He would not be saved again.

Et iterum, non recedet, dilectis sororibus. Tantum faciam ut iubes, iuro.

I will not stray again, beloved Sisters. I will do only as you command, I swear it.

The whispers soothed him, their silken caress bringing tears to his eyes.

He allowed himself to crumple to the floor, cradling his newly branded arm against his naked chest, listening to the soft murmur of voices and the new plans that they made.

FIFTY-THREE

“This is stupid.”

She didn’t bother to look up to see if he was paying attention to what she was saying. She was pretty sure he’d stopped listening to her about forty-five minutes ago. “This is—”

“Stupid. I know—I heard you the first time, Ms. Vaughn. None the less, I’d like you to do another set.” Kyle Weber stood in front of her, hands dug into the pockets of his Dockers, a pleasant smile used to conceal his frustration.

Sabrina looked away, down at the grapefruit-sized balls spread out on the floor in front of her. Standing straight, she took a deep breath in an attempt to steel herself against the pain she knew was coming.
To improve dexterity and range of motion,
he’d said. Both of which she needed desperately.

Settling her hands on her hips, Sabrina lifted her injured leg off the ground, extending it to tap the ball in front of her with her toe. Rotating her hip she did the same to the ball at her side and again to the ball just slightly behind her. Each turn was excruciating. Each tap was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“Again.”

“You said one more set.” She sounded like a whiny child who needed a nap. Hearing herself make that kind of sound was enough to make her want to kick her own ass.

“Do you have somewhere more important to be, Ms. Vaughn?” His tone clearly indicated that he knew she probably did and that he didn’t care.

She lifted her leg for another set. “Tell me something—has it always been your lifelong dream to torture people while wearing Dockers or is it a vocation you just sort of fell into?”

His head jerked back on his neck just a touch—enough to let her know she’d touched a nerve. “Not that it’s your business, but I had other plans. Circumstances led me here instead.” He looked away from her. “Another set, please.”

She swallowed the smart-ass remark that bubbled on her lips about where she’d like to lead him and did as he asked. Then she did it again and then again. Kept going until he finally used the toe of his cross-trainer to kick the ball in front of her out of her reach. “That’s enough.”

Looking up at him, she swiped at the tears on her face and told herself it was just sweat. “Are you sure? I can go all damn day.”

He seemed ready to say something, but he let whatever it was pass. Instead, he looked up at the clock stuck to the wall. It was just after ten o’clock. “Twenty minutes on the treadmill and then we’re finished for the day.”

She turned, even though her leg offered the support of a wet noodle, and hobbled over to the bank of cardio equipment.

“Keep it under two miles an hour,” Weber said as he walked away.

“Sure thing, boss.” She punched the button to start the conveyor belt and stepped on, setting it to the required speed. Each footfall felt like a hammer-driven chisel against her bone.

As soon as his back was turned, she cranked the speed up to twice what he’d prescribed.

She zoned out. Found that place she’d used during her time with Wade to float above the pain. She hadn’t been there in months—had forgotten how nice it was to not feel. To be swallowed by the void. She wasn’t sure how long her leg would last at this speed before completely folding, but she intended to find out.

She stepped off the treadmill nearly forty-five minutes later, drenched in sweat, to find her leg had gone numb. Weber was nowhere to be found. He must’ve gotten tired of watching her punish herself. She forced herself forward, using the handrails secured to the wall to hold herself up. Commanding her knee to bend before each step so she didn’t fall face first onto the floor, she made it to the locker room without embarrassing herself.

Lowering herself onto the bench in front of her locker, she stretched her leg out in front of her and gave it a good long look. While she was here, wasting her time with toe taps and “running” a thirty-minute mile, there was a killer out there stalking his next victim, and there was nothing she could do about it. Somehow he always seemed to be two steps ahead of her. Knew where she was going to go, what her next move would be before she even made up her mind to make it.

He’s in your head, darlin’. Sure getting crowded in here …

“Tell me about it,” she muttered under her breath, forcing herself to stand and put full weight on her leg. The numbness was beginning to fade, replaced by a million needles undulating beneath her skin, pushing so hard it was a wonder they didn’t break through.

She stripped off her shirt and pants and tossed them into her locker, reaching for her phone. A missed call from Strickland.

Call your partner.

Had it really been only a few hours ago that Nickels had said those words to her? So much had happened since then … she hit redial and listened to the phone ring, almost hoping he wouldn’t answer.

“Strickland,” he said. He sounded distracted. It was obvious that he hadn’t looked at his caller ID before answering.

“Hey.” She rolled her eyes at her own utter hopelessness. “Nickels said you were trying to get a hold of me,” she added in an effort to at least sound like she had social skills.

“Where are you?” he demanded, the hard edge to his tone instantly setting her teeth on edge.

“Just finished up a PT session with Weber. Why?” She took a look at her watch. She wasn’t technically on duty yet, which meant she had all day to check out observatories and colleges.

He went quiet for a moment. She could almost see him, wherever he was, poised, his mind rolling in a hundred different directions at once. For all his attempts at looking the part of a shlumpy, hack-eyed detective, Strickland had a mind that was razor-sharp. He never missed a thing. “I need you to meet me.”

“I can’t—I’ve got some stuff—”

“I’m heading over to see Black. Meet me in a half an hour,” he said over her like she hadn’t said a word.

She felt a wave roll over her, raising the flesh on her arms in its wake. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Time to give back some of that trust you’re so fond of demanding. Black’s office. Half hour.” And then he was gone.

FIFTY-FOUR

Michael stepped off the
elevator on the ninth floor, tucking his hands into the pockets of his brand-new jacket. He’d bought it, along with the Giants cap, for fifty bucks off a guy who’d just exited the building. The jacket was cheap, a nondescript dark blue, the collar a bit frayed but, like the hat, it was clean. To anyone watching, he’d look like the guy who’d just left. This wasn’t the kind of place that had security cameras in every corner, but he had to be careful. A nosy neighbor could do more harm than a top-notch security system any day.

Inside one of the pockets was his lock pick and he palmed it, held it at the ready. Scanning the numbers fixed to the doors that lined the hallway, he walked until he found Croft’s apartment, number 908. Approaching the door, he had his pick out and fit into the lock within seconds. The door swung open before he counted to ten.

Letting himself in, he shut the door quietly even though he knew no one was home. Croft was out doing whatever it was he did during the day. He wouldn’t be back for hours. And if he happened to come home early, well … that was just fine with him.

He took a quick look around. It was a small space; the kitchen/living room combo separated from the bedroom by nothing more than a low-slung archway. He opened the fridge. A carton of eggs sat alongside a half-empty container of orange juice, a slice of sausage and onion pizza that looked a bit fuzzy, and a soggy-looking sub sandwich—breakfast of champions.

Shutting the door, he moved through the kitchen, pulling open cabinets and drawers on his way toward the living area. He had no idea what he was looking for—something that would clue him into whatever agenda Croft was working. And he was working one, of that Michael had no doubt.

He’d been thinking about it since he’d left Miss Ettie’s. No matter what the movies would have you believe, a story as big as his—an internationally wanted hitman found in the employ of Uncle Sam’s number-one defense contractor—wasn’t one a lone reporter chased after blindly for the sake of nothing but the truth. Something was driving Croft. There was a reason he was so hell-bent on bringing him down. As soon as he found out he’d been involved in Sabrina’s rescue, Croft had gone off the reservation—quitting his job, dropping his other assignments—and Michael needed to find out why.

The living room consisted of a lumpy-looking couch, a scarred coffee table, and what probably amounted to a small fortune in books. Faded paperbacks shared shelf space with rare first editions—everything from true crime to classic literature. Resisting the urge to pull one off the shelf, he kept looking, circling the room until he was right back where he started … and on the coffee table right in front of him was what looked to be a large photo album.

Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Michael pulled the album onto his lap and flipped it open. The first page held a picture of Sabrina, her hand held out to the camera, trying to shield her face as she walked up the steps of Central Station. The headline read:

VAUGHN RETURNS TO WORK
AS SFPD INSPECTOR DESPITE
MURDER ALLEGATIONS.

He flipped a few pages. Another picture and article about Sabrina—this one showed her outside Good Shepherd, leaning heavily against Nickels’s broad shoulder, her leg in a brace from hip to knee. The cop had his arms slung protectively around her shoulder, pulling her close against his chest while a sullen-looking orderly stood behind them both with a wheelchair. This time the headline read:

LONE SURVIVOR RELEASED
FROM HOSPITAL. BIBLE BELT BUTCHER’S SEVENTH VICTIM FOUND IN WOODS.

There were dozens of them, all set in chronological order, going back to the day he’d loaded her onto that chopper and watched her fly away.

Settling in, he read her story in reverse, each article more invasive and sensationalized than the last. Each one clenching the grip anger had on his gut tighter and tighter. Croft had been hounding her for months, and he wasn’t alone. In almost every picture, Sabrina was surrounded by what Nickels had called her
groupies—
reporters and civilians who refused to leave her alone.

The cop’s words came back to him.
Thanks to you, she’s the pin-up girl for every whack job, wingnut, and loony tune in the Western Hemisphere …
He’d thought Nickels was exaggerating, but he could see now just how accurate the cop’s assessment had been.

Eight months ago, he rode into town on a mission to find Frankie’s killer by any means necessary, and he’d accomplished that mission in spectacular fashion … and then waltzed away, leaving her to pay the price.

Michael flipped the page with enough force to loosen it from its binding and he looked down to see the first picture in nearly a hundred pages that didn’t chronicle some aspect of Sabrina’s life. In fact, this article had nothing to do with her at all.

The picture was of Croft, taken nearly a decade ago. Standing next to him was a pretty, dark-haired woman in fatigues. Michael recognized her instantly, causing the muscles on his neck to tighten like a fist around his spine.

Her name was Marisol Ramos, and he was suddenly sure that she was the reason Jaxon Croft was so determined to find him.