His body shook. God, he wanted her. His mouth dried with thirst for her. His belly ached with hunger. She fed the goodness in him. How or why he did not know, but in a flash, he thought back to the Gypsy woman and her prediction. Alexa Chandler had influenced his destiny. He’d be a fool not to listen to her now.
“What do you propose?” he asked.
Her smile lit her face like the dawn cracking over the horizon outside. “Give me the day. Don’t use the magic. Read the rest of Sarina’s diary. I promise, Damon. We’ll figure this out without sacrificing your soul.”
She slid into his arms and Damon buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the scent of her as her body imprinted its softness on every inch of his skin. Despite her pleas, he could make no promises. Not any he knew he could keep.
“I’ll wait until nightfall, but no longer.”
She took a deep breath and buoyed herself with a confidence he suspected was part of her makeup just as much as her red hair and green eyes. “Then by nightfall, you’ll be free. Without the evil magic. I’ll figure out a way or die trying.”
Twenty Three
On the porch, Ben paced, allowing Catalina privacy while she prepared, even while he rubbed his anxious hands together and tried to ignore his watch. He’d witnessed many an ancient ceremony in Africa and a few in certain parts of Europe, but his knowledge and experience with voodoo and Santería were nil. Though he drove her to the shop where she’d purchased what she needed for the rite, the rest he’d left up to her. He trusted her instincts—and that shocked him most of all.
On the surface, Catalina Reyes was the kind of woman he had no business messing with—strong willed, adventurous and boldly sexual. He couldn’t stop his brain—or more accurately, his heart—from comparing her to Mariah. Biggest difference so far was that Mariah would have split the minute she had the diary, just like she had with the statue in Istanbul and the scroll in Luxor.
Cat, on the other hand, had chosen to stay. Even when her friend had twisted emotional screws to lure her back to Florida, she’d resisted. She’d even dug into her seemingly uncomfortable past to perform the ceremony to help him find his father.
On the way to the
botánica
, Cat had explained how she’d seen her grandmother perform the ritual, usually for people trying, on behalf of her Santería followers, to tap into lost bank accounts or find family heirlooms that had been stolen or misplaced. The Santería priestess had never, to Cat’s knowledge, used the process to find a missing person—but Cat believed that didn’t mean it couldn’t be done. Her grandfather, the voodoo practitioner, had once located a kidnapped child after performing a separate rite of his own. Unfortunately, magic that powerful was painful and bloody, so he rarely performed it. Cat guessed that by combining the two traditions, and throwing in a few things she’d learned as a paranormal researcher, she might pull from the cosmos some clue to finding Paschal.
If Cat was willing, who was he to say no? If even the slightest chance existed that her magical mojo could help find his father, he wasn’t going to argue.
While Cat got ready, Ben called the detective investigating Paschal’s disappearance. Other than verifying that the blood on the driveway did indeed belong to his father, the police had nothing. No activity on his bank accounts. No sightings around town. No ransom demands. With his permission, they’d tapped both his apartment phone and Paschal’s home phone, and no one had called. Ben’s cell hadn’t beeped, either. Whoever had Paschal didn’t want him for money.
As each minute passed, Ben knew he’d go to any length to save his father—including trusting Catalina and the psychic powers she only barely trusted herself.
He’d believe enough for both of them. In his travels, he’d seen odder doings than searching for missing loved ones using candles, crystals, herbs and the old, smelly leather jacket of the man who might—emphasis on “might”—have taken him.
Cat opened the front door. “I’m ready.”
From across the porch, he couldn’t sec inside the house. With the door held close to her body, only her head was visible.
A golden glow of candlelight created a halo effect that sapped his breath. Her black hair, worn loose and long, shined against the night. As he neared, he realized she’d painted symbols on her face.
He reached out and touched the representation of a third eye on her forehead.
“It represents the Sight,” she explained.
He grinned. “I figured.”
The moment burgeoned with tension. When she swung the door wide to allow him entrance, he understood why. She’d transformed the foyer into a lighted path with candles on either side of the staircase. She wore a scarf tied around her waist like a skirt, the fabric bright with slashes of burgundy, orange and pink that glowed against her bare legs and feet. Her blouse, twisted from the same material, bared her belly and cupped her breasts. Beads glistened from around her neck and dropped to her stomach. The charms tied around her ankles jingled when she walked.
At the top of the stairs, Cat turned and pressed her hand flat against his chest.
“I can’t guarantee this will work.”
Ben laid his hand over hers, knowing she could feel the pulsing of his heartbeat. “I know.”
“I haven’t—”
He blocked her claim with his other hand, laying it flat over her lips. “Funny, but when we first met yesterday, you didn’t strike me as the insecure type.”
With a roll of her eyes, she smiled shyly. “I’m confident about a lot of things, but not this. I’m not practiced.”
“But you are motivated. I need you, Cat. My father needs you. And you need him to help your friend.”
With a resolute nod, she took his hand and led him into his father’s study. In the center of the room, lit with candles on all sides, was a small table she’d dragged in from the guest room. On it lay the jacket, a book, a Texas map, a globe, a jewel-handled ceremonial knife, three thick ceramic bowls reeking of dried herbs and one empty bowl with odd carvings around the edge. Though versed in several ancient languages and hieroglyphics, Ben didn’t recognize the symbols.
“What is this?” he asked.
She took his hand and led him to the table. “A little Santería, a dash of voodoo.”
He glanced around. “No live animals?”
She gave him an annoyed push. “I’m trying to avoid that, thanks.”
“But the blood is key,” he said, drawing on his scant knowledge of the two religions.
She silenced him with a tired expression. “Like I don’t know?” Lifting the sharp athame, she pointed the knife at him for emphasis and he suspected her wicked smile wasn’t just for effect. “Trust me, when we need blood, we’ll have it. Now, be quiet. I need you to concentrate on your father. Close your eyes and picture him. Picture the last time you spoke to him. Hear his voice in your ears. Inhale the scent of his cigar. Taste the flavor of his favorite wine.”
Ben did as she asked, opening his eyes only briefly when she clicked on the CD player. Drums beat a haunting tattoo that echoed in the silence of the rest of the house. Chanting began, first from the CD, and then from Cat. The language, though foreign, rang with need. The timbre of her voice, deep and resonant, spoke of intense desire. So much so that his lower body tightened and he had to shift his stance.
He struggled against his selfishness and redirected his attention to his father. Paschal Rousseau. Quick to laugh. Gentle. Cerebral. Images of his father barely visible behind a mound of old books popped into his head. Memory snapshots of Paschal throwing a few mismatched shirts and slacks into a suitcase and rushing out the door to catch a plane to some secret European location flashed in his mind. His father’s guttural chuckle rang in his ears, along with the sound of his incessant humming. Old music—tunes that might have been played on a lute or a harpsichord.
As long as he kept his eyes shut, he managed to ignore the heat building in the room around him, in Catalina’s needful vocals and the desires she inspired.
Then, she grew silent. The chanting on the CD continued, but though he sensed she was standing close by, Cat had stopped chanting, stopped moving. Stopped…breathing?
He opened his eyes. She stood directly across from him, her hands pressed against both the jacket and the diary, her head arched back so that his gaze immediately fell upon her slim neck and generous breasts. He squeezed his eyes tight, conjuring images of his father again when a light laugh escaped her lips.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“I have him,” she replied.
“You know where he is?”
She inhaled deeply. “Give me the map.”
He picked up the folded map as she tossed the jacket aside, her hands held out as if the vibrations of his father’s location remained on her palms. Moving the bowls and the knife aside, he spread the map on the table.
“The athame,” she said, extending her left hand.
He placed the hilt in her palm, but she made no move to tighten her grip around it. Instead, she waved the knife loosely above the map, as if waiting for the blade to tumble out of her hand and fall.
Nothing happened.
She chanted. Words Ben had never heard, phrases he couldn’t begin to understand. Then, a bit of Latin. To find. To seek. To need.
“Take the knife.”
Ben grabbed the hilt.
“Cut me.”
“What?”
She held her hand out, palm up. “Think of your father and slice my skin.” She’d started to sway with the rhythm of the repetitious mantra, her hair sliding against her body, the strands teasing the edges of the candle flames.
“Cat, no—”
She cut off his protest with a glare so intense, he wondered about her supposed inexperience with her psychic powers. Her eyes flashed with power, with determination. If he didn’t cut her, she’d cut herself. Nothing would stop her from finding Paschal, especially not a moment’s pain.
The minute he touched the sharpened tip of the athame to her skin, she closed her eyes and chanted louder. With an unspoken curse, he sliced the blade across her skin and watched, horrified, as her bright red blood beaded, then streamed across her palm. She held her hand over the empty bowl, her chanting and swaying building to a wild crescendo that grabbed him by the throat. He turned the knife on himself and sliced his hand, mingling his blood—Paschal’s blood—with hers, then, after listening intently, he repeated the prayer to her voodoo gods.
She squeezed her injured hand tightly, cutting off the flow of blood. He did the same. Still chanting, Cat dipped her uninjured hand into the herbs and added the tiny dried leaves to the bloody bowl. She grabbed a candle, held it high above her head, invoked the goddess Orunmila, and threw the flame into the bowl. The herbs ignited and the scent of coppery blood was immediately swallowed by a burst of pungency. She stirred the tip of the blade in the charred remnants, then held the knife over the map yet again.
Slowly, Ben became aware of how he swayed with Cat, how their bodies moved in synchronized rhythm with the melodious mantra on the CD. His palm stung and his shirt stuck to his body with cold sweat. But before he could register any other detail, the knife fell from her hand and punctured the map.
At this, she stopped. Her eyes flew open, and from the way her irises darted from side to side, he realized she wasn’t entirely aware of what had happened. She’d fallen into a powerful trance, one that he wouldn’t have believed possible if he hadn’t witnessed the scene himself.
She glanced at the map, shaking. Gingerly, he took her injured hand in his.
“He’s here,” she said.
Ben glanced at the location, sighing in relief when he realized his father wasn’t so far away that they couldn’t reach him before dawn. She’d done it. She’d found him. She’d endured both physical and emotional pain on his behalf—for a man she’d never met.
Driven by emotions he couldn’t name, he lifted her hand in his and pried her fingers until her fist unclenched and he could see the wound within.
He kissed her hand, directly above the cut, then led her wordlessly into the guest bathroom, where he rinsed her wound, then did the same to his. In silence, he retrieved antibiotic ointment from the medicine cabinet, applied it to her cut, then wrapped the gash in gauze. She returned the favor, slowly, carefully, without a breath of a word spoken.
When she was done, the tiny bathroom seemed to shrink. Their bodies barely fit in the enclosed space, and yet fit perfectly.
“Thank you,” he said, finally breaking the quiet ringing in his ears, drumming out the flare of passion that ignited the moment he realized she was just a few inches away from him, wearing next to nothing, dizzy from the magic she’d invoked on his father’s behalf.
“We haven’t found him yet,” she said, ducking away and returning to the study. She removed the knife and was examining the map by candlelight when Ben mustered the strength to follow.
“He’s close.”
“Not too far,” she replied. “Hill Country. But we have to get there fast, Ben. He doesn’t have much time.”
Twenty Four
“Don’t stand too close to the edge,” a voice warned, startling Alexa so that she nearly lost her balance on the dock.
She spun to find her stepbrother standing behind her, his walnut leather duffel bag slung over his shoulder while he puffed on a Dunhill cigarette.
“What are you doing here?”
“The problem in Boston was resolved,” he said. “Apparently, we don’t pay certain maintenance men what they think they’re worth.”
Alexa had to muster all her brainpower to remember what he was talking about. Oh, yeah. The sabotage in Boston. Just a disgruntled worker. Good. But that information could easily have been conveyed by phone. Which left a question. “That doesn’t explain why you’re back in Florida.”
“Bored.” He took one last drag on his cigarette, then flicked the butt into the ocean.
“Of course,” she said, turning away from her brother and taking a deep breath. She loved Jacob, but his timing sucked.
She’d stayed later than planned at the suite, trying to come up with a plan for securing Damon’s freedom without invoking Rogan’s magic. Distance from Damon had allowed her to attack the problem with all her business acumen. Without experts, she made lists of what they knew about the castle, the magic, the diary, Paschal Rousseau and Lord Rogan. Each bit of information they’d gathered produced questions—questions that might lead to the elusive solution, if Daman cooperated.