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  He figured he could handle a case of the jitters. Slowly, he skimmed his hand over her hip, up to her rib cage, and watched her eyes darken. Bending his head, he made love to her mouth with his until she was all but purring.

  “I want you to come home with me, for tonight.” Watching her, he caught her bottom lip between his teeth, nibbled, then released. “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Ernie watched them come out of the house through the front door. Because his window was open, he heard Clare's laugh ripple up the quiet street. Their hands were linked as they walked to Cam's car. They stopped and kissed, long and slow and deep. She let him touch her, Ernie thought, while a fire began to burn in his belly.

  He watched as they got into the car, then drove away.

  While the rage was on him, he rose quietly to lock his door and to light the black candles.

  In the woods the coven met. They did not stand in the magic circle. The ritual would wait. There were many among them who knew fear. The altar where one of the group had been executed stood before them. A reminder and a warning.

  They had been called here tonight, hours after the burial, to prove their continued allegiance. During the rite to come, each would drink of blood-tainted wine.

  “My brothers, one of our number lies tonight in the dirt.” The priest spoke softly, but all the muted conversations ended instantly. “The Law was broken, and the weak one has been punished. Know that any who defy the Law, any who stray from the path will be struck down. The dead are dead.”

  He paused, turning his head slowly. “Are there any questions?”

  No one would have dared. And he was pleased.

  “Now we have need of another to fill out our number. Names will be considered and offered to the Master.”

  The men began to talk among themselves again, often arguing over choices like politicos over a favorite son. The priest let them ramble. He already had a candidate. Mindful of his timing, he walked into the circle and raised his hands.

  Silence followed him.

  “We require youth, strength, and loyalty. We require a mind still open for the possibilities, a body still strong enough to carry the burden of duty. Our Master craves the young, the lonely, the angry. I know of one who is already prepared, already seeking. He wants only direction and discipline. He will begin a new generation for the Dark Lord.”

  So the name was written on parchment to be offered to the four Princes of Hell.

  Chapter 12

  ON SATURDAYS ERNIE WORKED the eight-to-four-thirty shift at the Amoco. And that was fine with him. It meant he was up and out of the house before his parents stumbled out of bed. They'd be busy making pizza at Rocco's when he came home. He could do as he pleased from the time he clocked out until his one o'clock curfew.

  Tonight he planned to lure Sally Simmons up to his room, lock the door, turn on some AC/DC, and fuck her brains out.

  He'd chosen to move on Sally with less concern than he felt when choosing what shirt to wear in the morning. She was at worst a substitute, at best a symbol of his real desire. The image of Clare rolling around between the sheets with Cameron Rafferty had haunted Ernie through the night. She had betrayed him and their joint destiny.

  He would find a way to punish her, but in the meantime, he could vent his frustration with Sally.

  He gassed up a milk truck. As the pump clicked off the dollars and gallons behind him, he looked vacantly around town. There was old Mr. Finch, his knobby white knees poking out below plaid Bermuda shorts, walking his two prissy Yorkshire terriers.

  Finch was wearing an Orioles fielder's cap, mirrored sunglasses, and a T-shirt that said MARYLAND IS FOR CRABS. He clucked and crooned to the Yorkies as though they were a pair of toddlers. He would, Ernie knew, walk down Main, cut across the Amoco lot, and go inside for a doughnut and a piss. As he did every Saturday morning of his life.

  “How's it going, young fella?” Finch asked as he asked every Saturday.

  “All right.”

  “Got to get my girls some exercise.”

  Less Gladhill breezed in, late as usual. He carried the pasty, sulky look that said hangover in progress. With barely a grunt for Ernie, he went into the garage to change the plugs on a ’75 Mustang.

  Matt Dopper rumbled through in his aged Ford pickup, his three dogs riding in the back. He bitched about the price of gas, picked up a pack of Bull Durham from the cigarette counter inside, and headed off to the feed and grain.

  Doc Crampton, looking sleepy-eyed, pulled in to fill up his Buick, bought a book of raffle tickets, and commiserated with Finch about the man's bursitis.

  Before ten, it seemed half the town had come through. Ernie moved from pump to pump, gassing up carloads of giggling teenage girls on their way to the mall. Young mothers and cranky toddlers, old men who blocked the pumps as they shouted to each other from car windows.

  When he went in for his first break and a Coke, Skunk Haggerty, who ran the station, was sitting behind the counter, munching on a doughnut and flirting with Reva Williamson, the skinny, long-nosed waitress from Martha's.

  “Well, I was planning on washing my hair and giving myself a facial tonight.” Reva rolled strawberry-flavored bubble gum around her tongue and grinned.

  “Your face looks just fine to me.” Skunk came by his name honestly. No amount of soap, deodorant, or cologne could disguise the faint gym sock aroma that seeped through his pores. But he was single. And Reva was twice divorced and on the prowl.

  She giggled, a sound that made Ernie roll his eyes. He could hear them continue their tease and shuffle as he walked into the back to relieve his bladder. The dispenser was out of paper towels. It was his job to keep the rest rooms stocked. Grumbling a bit, he wiped his hands on his jeans on the way to the storeroom. Reva let out a squealing laugh.

  “Oh, Skunk, you are a case, you are.”

  “Shit,” Ernie mumbled, and pulled down a box of paper towels. He saw the book, standing face out in the space behind the cardboard box. Licking his lips, Ernie reached for it.

  The Magical Diaries of Aleister Crowley. As he flipped the pages, a single sheet of paper fell out. He scooped it up, glancing quickly over his shoulder.

  Read. Believe. Belong.

  His hands shook as he stuffed the note in his pocket. There was no doubt in his mind that it had been left for him. At last the invitation had come. He had seen things through his telescope. And he had suspected more. Seeing and suspecting, he had kept his silence and waited. Now he was being rewarded, being offered a place.

  His young, lonely heart swelled as he slipped the book under his shirt. On impulse he pulled the pentagram out, letting it dangle free and in full view. That would be his sign, he thought. They would see that he had understood and was waiting.

  Clare let the shower beat down on her head. Her body felt sore and weary and wonderful. Her eyes closed, she hummed and soaped her skin. It smelled like Cam, she thought, and caught herself grinning foolishly. God, what a night.

  Slowly, sinuously, she ran her hand over her body, remembering. She'd been certain she'd had her share of romantic encounters, but nothing had come close to what happened between them last night.

  He'd made her feel like the sexiest woman alive. And the hungriest, the neediest. In one night they had given each other more than she and Rob had managed in…

  Oops. She shook her head. No comparisons, she warned herself. Especially to ex-husbands.

  She slicked her hair back and reminded herself she still had a long way to go. Wasn't she in the shower right now because she'd awakened beside Cam and wanted, too much, to snuggle up against him and cuddle? Even after the storm of lovemaking-or maybe because of it-the need just to be held and stroked had embarrassed her.

  This was just sex, she told herself. Really great sex, but just sex. Letting her emotions run rampant would only mess things up. It always did.

  So she would wallow in hot water and soap, rub herself dry and pink. Then she'd go in and jump all
over his bones. Even as she started to smile at the idea, she opened her eyes and screamed.

  Cam had his face plastered against the glass shower wall. His roar of laughter had her swearing at him as he pulled the door open and stepped under the spray with her.

  Scare you?

  “Jesus, you're an idiot. My heart stopped.”

  “Let me check.” He put a hand between her breasts and grinned. “Nope, still ticking. Why aren't you in bed?”

  “Because I'm in here.” She tossed her hair out of her eyes.

  His gaze slid down from the top of her head to her toes, then back again. She could feel her blood begin to pump even before his fingers spread and roamed. “You look good wet, Slim.” He lowered his mouth to her slickened shoulder. “Taste good, too.” He worked his way up her throat to her lips. “You dropped the soap.”

  “Mmmm. Most accidents in the home happen in the bathroom.”

  “They're death traps.”

  “I guess I'd better get it.” She slid down his body, closing her hand over the soap, and her mouth over him. The hiss of his breath merged with the hiss of the shower.

  He thought he'd emptied himself during the night, that the needs that had raged and clawed and torn at him had been put to rest. But they were only more desperate now, more violent. He dragged her up, pressed her back against the wet tiles. Her eyes were like melted gold. And he watched them as he plunged himself into her.

  “Hungry?” Cam asked as Clare stood by the bedroom window finger-drying her hair.

  “Starving,” she said without turning around. As far as she could see, there were woods, dark and deep and green. He'd surrounded himself with them, hidden himself behind them. Distant, faintly purple, were the mountains in the west. She imagined what it would look like as the sun sank below them, showering the sky with color.

  “Where did you find this place?”

  “My grandmother.” He finished buttoning his shirt and came to stand behind her. “It's been Rafferty land for a hundred years. She hung on to it, then left it to me.”

  “It's beautiful. I didn't really see it last night.” She smiled. “I guess I didn't see much of anything last night. I just got the impression of this house on a hill.”

  Then he'd tossed her over his shoulder, making her laugh as he hauled her inside, upstairs, and into his bed.

  “When I came back, I decided I wanted a place where I could get away from town. I think part of Parker's problem was that he lived in that apartment over the liquor store and never got away from it.”

  “A badge hangs heavy on a man,” Clare said somberly and earned a twisted ear. “You said something about food.”

  “I usually eat at Martha's on Saturday mornings.” He checked his watch. “And I'm running behind. We could probably scare up something here.”

  It sounded much better to Clare. The gossip mills would start turning-there was no way to stop them. But for a morning, at least, they could be held at bay.

  “Do I get a tour?”

  So far all she'd seen had been the bedroom with his big platform bed, the random-width wooden floor, and ceiling. And the bathroom, she thought. The deep tiled bath with jets, the roomy glass-and-tile shower. She'd been pleased with his taste so far, the fact that he wasn't afraid to use color, but she wanted to see the rest.

  Despite the events of the last twelve hours, she knew that man did not live by bed alone.

  He took her hand and led her out.

  “There are a couple of other bedrooms up here.”

  “Three bedrooms?” She cocked a brow. “Planning ahead?”

  “You could say that.”

  He let her poke through the second floor, watching her nod and comment. She approved the skylights and the hardwood floors, the big windows and atrium doors that led to the wraparound deck.

  “You're awfully neat,” she said as they started down.

  “One person doesn't make very much mess.”

  She could only laugh and kiss him.

  At the base of the steps, she stopped to take in the living area with its lofty ceilings, beams of sunlight, and Indian rugs. One wall was fashioned from river rock with a generous fireplace carved into it. The sofa was low and cushy, perfect for napping.

  “Well, this is-” She stepped off the stairs, turned, and saw the sculpture. He had it set beside the open stairwell, positioned so that the sun would stream through the skylight above and pour onto it. So that anyone walking in the front door or standing in the living room would see it.

  It was almost four feet high, a curving twist of brass and copper. It was an unmistakably sensual piece-a woman's form, tall, slender, naked. Her arms were lifted high, her copper hair streaming back. Clare had called it Womanhood and had sought to reproduce all the power, the wonder, and the magic.

  At first she was flustered at finding one of her pieces in his home. Her hands fumbled into her pockets.

  “I, ah-you said you thought I painted.”

  “I lied.” He smiled at her. “It was fun getting you riled up and insulted.”

  She only frowned at that. “I guess you've had it for some time.”

  “A couple of years.” He tucked her hair behind her ear.

  “I went into this gallery in D.C. They had some of your work, and I ended up walking out with this.”

  “Why?”

  She was uncomfortable, he noted. Embarrassed. He slid his hand from her hair to cup her chin. “I didn't intend to buy it and could hardly afford to at that point. But I looked at it and knew it was mine. Just the way I walked into your garage last night and looked at you.”

  She moved back a little too quickly. “I'm not a piece of sculpture, Cam.”

  “No, you're not.” Narrowing his eyes, he studied her. “You're upset because I saw this and recognized you. Because I understood you. You'd rather I didn't.”

  “I have a psychiatrist on call if I want analysis, thanks.”

  “You can get pissed off, Clare. It doesn't change anything.”

  “I'm not pissed off,” she said between her teeth.

  “Sure you are. We can stand here and yell at each other, I can haul your ass back upstairs to bed, or we can go in the kitchen and have coffee. I'll leave it to you.”

  It was a moment before she could close her mouth and speak. “Why, you arrogant sonofabitch.”

  “Looks like we yell.”

  “I'm not yelling,” she shouted at him. “But I will make a point. You don't haul my ass anywhere. Understood, Rafferty? If I go to bed with you, it's my own choice. Maybe it's bypassed your snug little world, but we're into the nineties here. I don't need to be seduced, cajoled, or forced. Between responsible, unencumbered adults, sex is a matter of free choice.”

  “That's fine.” He took her by the shirtfront and yanked her against him. Temper glittered in his eyes. “But what happened between you and me was more than sex. You're going to have to admit that.”

  “I don't have to do anything.” She braced herself when he lowered his head. She was expecting a hard, angry kiss, one ripe with frustration and demand. Instead, his mouth was whisper soft. The sudden and surprising tenderness left her reeling.

  “Feel anything, Slim?”

  Her eyes were too heavy to open. “Yes.”

  He brushed her mouth with his again. “Scared?”

  She nodded, then sighed as he lowered his brow to hers.

  “That makes two of us. Are you finished yelling?”

  “I guess so.”

  He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Let's get that coffee.”

  When he dropped her off an hour later, Clare's phone was ringing. She considered ignoring it and diving right back to work while her emotions were still heightened. But as it continued to shrill, she gave up and pulled the receiver from the kitchen hook.

  “Hello.”

  “Jesus Christ, Clare.” Angie's aggrieved voice stung Clare's