Ceremony in Death (In Death #5)(35)

“Then what is he doing out on the street? Why isn’t he in treatment?”

“Because it’s the law. You have to kick him when he turns eighteen. Until you nail him as an adult, he’s clear.” Eve puffed out her cheeks, blew out the air. “He’s a dangerous little bastard, but there’s not much I can do about him. He corroborates Selina’s statement for the night of Alice’s death.”

“He’d have been instructed to,” Roarke pointed out.

“Still sticks — unless I can break it.” She pushed back. “I’ve got his current address. I can check it out, knock on doors. See if his neighbors can give me something on him. If I can get him in on something, lay on some pressure, I think little Bobby would break.”

“Otherwise?”

“Otherwise, we keep digging.” She rubbed her eyes.

“We’ll deal with him. Sooner or later, he’ll revert to type — bust somebody’s face, assault some woman, kick the wrong ass. Then we’ll lock him in a cage.”

“Your job is miserable.”

“Most of the time,” she agreed, then looked over her shoulder. “Are you tired?”

“Depends.” He glanced at the screen where Lobar’s data scrolled. He had an image of her diving deeper, spending the quiet hours of night wading through the muck. He didn’t bother to sigh. “What do you need?”

“You.” She could feel her color rise as he lifted a curious brow. “I know it’s late, and it’s been a long day. I guess I was thinking of it kind of like the shower. Something to wash away the grime.” Embarrassed, she turned back, stared hard at the screen. “Stupid.”

It was always hard for her to ask, he mused. For anything. “Not the most romantic proposal I’ve ever had.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, massaged gently. “But far from stupid. Disengage,” he ordered and the screen went dark. He turned her chair around, drew her to her feet. “Come to bed.”

“Roarke.” She put her arms around him, held tight. She couldn’t explain how or why the images she’d seen that night had left something inside her shaky. With him, she didn’t have to. “I love you.”

Smiling a little, she lifted her head and looked into his eyes. “It’s getting easier to say. I think I’m starting to like it.”

With a short laugh, he pressed a kiss to her chin. “Come to bed,” he repeated, “and say it again.”

The rite was ancient, its purpose dark. Cloaked and masked, the coven gathered in the private chamber. The scent of blood was fresh and strong. The flames spearing above black candles flickered to send shadows slithering over the walls like spiders hunting prey.

Selina chose to be the altar and lay naked, a candle burning between her thighs, a bowl of sacrificial blood nestled between her generous br**sts.

She smiled as she glanced toward the silver bowl overflowing with the cash and credits the membership had paid for the privilege to belong. Their wealth was now her wealth. The master had saved her from a scrabbling life on the streets and brought her here, into power and into comfort.

She had gladly traded her soul for them.

Tonight there would be more. Tonight there would be death, and the power that came from the rending of flesh, the spilling of blood. They would not remember, she thought. She had added drugs to the blood-laced wine. With the right drugs, in the right dosage, they would do and say and be what the master wanted.

Only she and Alban would know that the master had demanded sacrifice for his protection, and the demand had been happily met.

The coven circled her, their faces hooded, their bodies swaying, as the drug, the smoke, the chanting hypnotized them. At her head stood Alban, with the boar’s mask and the athame.

“We worship the one,” he said in his clear and beautiful voice.

And the coven answered. “Satan is the one.”

“What is his, is ours.”

“Ave, Satan.”

As Alban lifted the bowl, his eyes met Selina’s. He took up a sword, thrust it at the four points of the compass. The princes of hell were called, the list long and exotic. Voices were a hum. Fire crackled in a blackened pot set on a marble slab.

She began to moan.

“Destroy our enemies.”

Yes, she thought. Destroy.

“Bring sickness and pain on those who would harm us.”

Great pain. Unbearable pain.

When Alban laid a hand on her flesh, she began to scream. “We take what we wish, in your name. Death to the weak. Fortune to the strong.”

He stepped back, and though it was his right to take the altar first, he gestured to Lobar. “Reward to the loyal. Take her,” he commanded. “Give her pain as well as pleasure.”

Lobar hesitated a moment. The sacrifice should have come first. The blood sacrifice. The goat should have been brought out and slaughtered. But he looked at Selina, and his drug-clouded brain shut off. There was woman. Bitch. She watched him with cold, taunting eyes.

He would show her, he thought. He would show her he was a man. It wouldn’t be like the last time when she had used and humiliated him.

This time, he would be in charge.

He cast aside his robe and stepped forward.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The steady beep of an alarm had Eve rolling over and cursing. “It can’t be time to get up. We just went to bed.”