Devious - Lisa Jackson [103]
Her legs would wrap around him, and she would gasp with an ache so deep that her throat would catch as he grabbed her buttocks and forced her tighter against him.
He knew that making love to her now would be a wild, frenzied act intent on washing away the pain, of reaffirming their lives while Camille would never again wake to a warm June morning.
He drained his beer and climbed to his feet.
“I think we both need to get some sleep,” he said, leaving the bottle on the table, not taking a step closer to her. “We should be at the police department around eight.” He walked to the door and hesitated. “We both have a lot to think about.”
Bo was on his feet, tail swinging slowly, head cocked. “Stay,” Slade said to the dog but ignored his own compelling urge to remain in the cozy little cottage. With his wife.
Oh, hell.
With one last look at Val, Slade managed a bit of a smile, then opened the door and screen before stepping into a night as thick and dark as an oozing pool of warm, black tar.
CHAPTER 33
“It’s time,” the voice prodded. “Hurry.”
Sister Asteria slipped out of the room, a giddiness running through her bloodstream at the thought of what was to be. She picked up the folds of her long dress, lifting the hem so that her bare feet could hasten down the hallway, through pools of blurred light from decrepit sconces.
Elated, almost drunk, she stumbled a bit but caught herself and made quick tracks down the back stairs, where she’d been steered.
“He’s waiting.”
Yes! She hurried forward, feeling a sharp prodding that kept her moving. At the doors, she stopped, suddenly unsure.
“Now!” The voice was insistent. Demanding. “Go on!”
Deep inside, beneath her odd, fast-ebbing elation, she felt the first tremor of fear, a worry scratching at her brain, a tiny reminder that what was happening was wrong, so very wrong.
Remember Sister Camille, the voice warned from somewhere in the nether-reaches of her mind. But she ignored it, concentrated on staying upright as she shoved open the doors and burst into the night. Here the moon was bright, the night close, the scent of gardenias mingling with the heavy smell of the earth. The pebbles of the path were rough under her bare feet, but she didn’t care, couldn’t really feel pain. It was almost as if she were floating as she proceeded through a gate that was open, as if someone had been waiting for her.
Her groom. Of course.
Joseph!
She conjured up his handsome face, imagined what it would be like to kiss him again . . .
No, wait. Not Joseph. That wasn’t right. Or was it? She was confused for a second, the moonlight suddenly off-kilter. Why wasn’t she in the church? And if she wasn’t marrying Joseph, who would be waiting for her at the altar?
Christ! You’re marrying Jesus, the Son of God. You’re a nun!
Of course.
She tried to reclaim the feeling of well-being that had captivated her earlier, but it was fast escaping, leaving a sudden dawning realization that she’d been duped, probably drugged, in its wake.
But how?
“This way.” The disembodied voice nudged her around a corner and through another gate that was also ajar. When it creaked on rusted hinges, she realized she had entered the cemetery, where tombs, stone sepulchers that rose from the ground, loomed around her. A sinister breeze skittered through the whitewashed tombs, tugging at her dress and rattling the branches of the surrounding trees. Spanish moss danced ghostlike from the gnarled branches, and she heard a voice hiss against her ear, “Your sins have come to bear . . . all your sins, Sister Asteria.”
“No!” She tried to scream but made no sound.
Terror raked its claws across her soul.
“You’ve made a mockery of your vows.”
Oh, dear God.
“Wait,” she tried to say, but her voice was hushed, mute.
“Move.”
Stumbling forward, Sister Asteria prayed for mercy as fear consumed her. The blood in her veins was like ice. Frigid. Congealing. Reminding her that she deserved this punishment.
The memory of poor Sister Camille’s fate