Without Mercy - Lisa Jackson [154]
He had to.
He had God on his side.
To calm himself, to show God his humility and reverent dedication, he knelt at the altar and prayed. He asked for guidance, knowing that God would provide him the true path, that he wouldn’t be lured away from his mission.
He thought of Lauren Conway, a beautiful, seductive Jezebel. How she’d outwitted and outrun him to the banks of the river. Everything he’d worked for had nearly been destroyed.
There was a reason her body had never been found, would never be. As he stood, he touched his pocket again, reassuring himself that the tiny flash drive he’d taken from her backpack, wrapped in several ziplock bags, was now with him and always would be. He hadn’t destroyed the tiny flash drive with its pictures and data about him, about his mission neatly documented, instead keeping it with him. Always. A reminder of how insidious lust could be.
Her face came to him. He remembered chasing her down, desperately running after her in the night, determined to stop her. But she’d been more clever than he’d anticipated, and only after an hour of dashing through the moon-washed landscape had he tracked her to the edge of the river. There her footprints in the snow had vanished, and he’d had to assume that she’d been swept away in the frigid, whirling current of the icy river.
No one could have survived.
He’d cursed her for eluding him and sent a prayer up for her damaged, traitorous soul.
At dawn, before a true search had been organized, on one of the rare occasions when he’d been a passenger in the seaplane, he’d stared out the window and caught a bit of the dark blue of her backpack. A small swatch of color on the snowy shores of the river. He’d said nothing, but later had ridden by horseback to the remote canyon and found her body caught in a snag of logs and brush at the river’s edge. Ashen gray and bloated, she lay on the side of the river, washed upon the shore. He’d wanted to spit on her dead body but instead had kissed her blue, blue lips for the last time. It had been a struggle, but he’d loaded her corpse onto Omen’s back and returned to the little, forgotten church where he’d caught her looking through the frosted panes, spying on him.
Though the earth had been frozen and hard, he’d dug a quick, shallow grave with a pickax. He had dropped her body into it and buried her, replacing the sticks and twigs over the frozen chips of earth, thanking God for the snowfall that would hide the burial plot in a cemetery that no one visited.
The headstone read:
LILY CARVER IN LOVING MEMORY.
How fitting. A perfect grave. Above the rotted casket and ancient bones of Lily Carver, he’d buried Lauren Conway, her initials the same so that he could always remember where he’d laid her to rest, visit her if he wanted.
She was a traitor, remember that. Her soul will burn in hell.
As much as he now hated her, he would never forget the trill of her laughter, the glint of merriment in her eyes, the graceful way she walked away from him, casually looking over her shoulder and winking at their great secret. He’d remember always the sensual lift of those provocative lips; the memory of that smile still caused a reaction in him.
Julia Farentino could do the same.
Imagine how the feel of her supple mouth upon your skin would twist you inside out. You could have her—she’s given herself to Cooper Trent after only a few days; you could take his place, strip away her clothes, make her kneel in front of you. You have the power.
His blood raced. He licked his lips and reminded himself that lust was a sin, that the hardness swelling between his legs was a distraction. Though he would like nothing more than to screw the living hell out of her, he would wait.
For now.
He couldn’t risk another mistake.
And she, like Lauren, would surely only betray him.
Footsteps alerted him that they were coming. His disciples. Tonight this underground shelter was more war room than church. He waited,