Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) (29 page)

SEVENTY-SEVEN

It was quiet. The
kind of quiet that burrowed into your brain like a worm and stirred up memories. Things you’d rather forget. Things you wish you’d never known.

Right then left. Left again. So many twists and turns that the entrance disappeared from sight almost immediately. Every twenty yards or so, a skylight had been cut into the canopy, allowing the waning sun to drift in and settle along the hard dirt path. It was getting late; the sun would be completely set in an hour or two.

But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting to Val before he did something to her that couldn’t be undone.

She focused on the task at hand, moved as fast as she could, following the map Phillip had drawn for her with a confidence she didn’t feel. What if it was a trap? What if she was letting him lead her right into his brother’s hands? She thought of the look on Phillip’s face when she’d told him about what David had done. No. Phillip wasn’t leading her to slaughter, but his motives for helping her were far from pure. He was hoping that she’d kill his brother and help him save face.

Another series of turns brought her to the middle of the maze, the greenhouse looming in its center. The structure was huge, white metal framing large panels of glass. The path led right to the door, either side lined with daffodils and larkspur, their sunny yellow faces turned up to catch the last of the light beneath a canopy of jasmine. The doors to the greenhouse were flung wide, propped open with a smooth white rock, as if she were being welcomed inside.

Sabrina stepped inside, instantly enveloped in a riot of color. Raised beds surrounded her, a sea of roses in every possible shade of every conceivable color. Colors she didn’t even know existed. They were beautiful, but as she moved closer she could see them—the upturned thorns along each stem, as large as her thumbnail and many times as thick. Huge teeth made to tear and chew at anyone who dared come close. And beneath the cloyingly sweet scent of the roses was something else. Something that worked at the back of her throat, trying to gag her. Something dead and rotting.

She’d taken only a few steps before she saw them. Tennis shoes poking out from behind one of the flowerbeds. The closer she came, the stronger the stench grew, until she was forced to cover her nose and mouth with her hand in an attempt to filter it out. She knew who she’d find before she saw his face, but it was still a shock. Kenny Denton lay on his back in his own blood, fermented and congealed to a thick, sticky pool around him. His throat slashed, the thinnest of cuts from ear to ear, face bloated and ugly, turned black by the warm humidity of the greenhouse.

“Phillip sent him here to kill me.” The voice came from behind her, close enough to send a chill down her spine.

She turned, finding David only a few yards away, completely nude and covered in blood, a scalpel held tightly against his thigh. The world seemed to tip forward just a bit, her vision going soft at the sight of the blood. She had a sudden image of Val lying on Mandy’s gurney beneath those high-wattage lights, her rib cage snipped open, heart cut out …

It took her a moment to realize the blood was his. Through the bright red she could see a deep slash running from his hip to the opposite shoulder. Someone had wounded him. “He was trying to stop you before you hurt someone,” she said, forcing her voice to level out. Dividing her attention, Sabrina did a visual sweep of her surroundings. Searching for a sign of where Val might be.

David scoffed, anger tightening his grip on the scalpel in his hand. “He was doing nothing more than trying to secure his place as my father’s successor. It was
me
.
I
was to head the
Geondal,
but my father found my behavior … distasteful.” David turned his arm. The flesh of his inner forearm was tight and red, the symbol branded into it wet and oozing. “I was never my father’s son, not really, and now I understand why. I am something
more
.”

“What you
are
is a lunatic. You kill people, David.” Fear evaporated under the hot gust of anger that burned through her. “Women who’ve done nothing to you … Bethany Edwards. Jemma Barrows.”
Valerie Hernandez.
She stopped short, her brain refusing to move any further.

He shook his head slowly as if saddened by her reaction. “I didn’t kill them. I loved them. Set them free. My true destiny is something he had no hope of ever stopping me from achieving. The Fates have chosen me for a higher purpose. You know this, Calliope.”

“I don’t give a shit about your destiny,” she said, driven forward by something much stronger than anger. Something righteous and just that pushed her to the brink of recklessness. She cut a glance at the scalpel in his hand, her lips curled away from her teeth in a snarl. “Where is Val?”

He lifted the scalpel, the dying sun glinting off its thin, curved blade. He pointed it at her like an accusing finger, the sadness on his face giving way to something darker. “You and I were fated. You were
my
muse. The Sisters allowed me to choose. I chose you, and you betrayed me with my own brother.” He kept talking as if she’d never spoken a word, slipping away from reality into the fantasy world he’d constructed. “I saw the two of you. I know you let Ares come to you.” His lip curled in disgust, narrowed eyes raking across her face and form. “That you let him between your legs to rut on you like the dog he is.”

He’d seen her with Michael. When and where mattered little. “Is that why you left the
kolossoi
? You cursed us because you’re jealous?”

“Jealousy is beneath me,” he said in a tone that was in direct conflict with his words. “I was simply giving to you what you both deserve. Pain and misery.”

“David, where is Valerie?” She switched subjects quickly, an interrogation tactic meant to throw a suspect off their game. It worked, the question pulling his gaze over his shoulder before he could stop himself.

There. Look over there, darlin’. Do you see it?

In the farthest corner, directly behind David. What looked to be shafts of light reached up from the dirt floor. No, not dirt. Some sort of door or hatch set into the ground, hidden by a bunch of potted plants. She took a half-step before she could stop herself, telegraphing her intentions.

David squared his shoulders and planted his feet, blocking her from going any farther. “Melpomene has served her purpose, as will you. I
will
become what the Fates intended.”

His choice of words nearly drove her to her knees.
Served
—like whatever he’d planned to do to her was already done. “It’s too soon. The solstice isn’t for another week. You haven’t accumulated enough power.”

He smiled and shook his head. “I told you, the Sisters allowed me to choose—you or your sisters. Foolishly I chose you, but it’s no matter. You are Calliope—superior muse, more powerful than all of your sisters combined. Your death alone will push me through the veil.”

She felt sick, a violent comprehension churning in her gut.
You or your sisters. I chose you …

“Where is she
?” she screamed as she took another step, closing the gap between them.

David smiled. “She? Don’t you mean
they
?”

They.

Without warning, he brought the scalpel up, slashing it through the air between them, bringing with it the slightest of stings.

She tried to push past him, using the anger and fear to shield herself against the pain, but he was unmovable, the scalpel coming at her again and again.

She dropped low, planted a leg behind him and shoved, using his own momentum to throw him off balance. He fell to the side, legs pinwheeling through the air, landing in a tangle of limbs and roses, his bare skin ripped and gouged by the huge thorns protruding from their stems as he thrashed around, searching for escape.

He howled, pain and rage tearing from his throat, but she didn’t stop. Val. She had to find Val.

She reached the corner, kicking pots and plants out of the way, scattering soil and breaking foliage. Beneath them she found what looked like a hatch, a heavy iron ring bolted to the top of it. Behind her, David still thrashed and screamed, but it wouldn’t last. He’d find his way out.

She bent over to heave against the weight of the hatch, planting her boots and pulling with enough force to make her ears ring.

It wasn’t until the third drop—fat red splatters that fell on top of the hatch—that she realized what had happened. She brought a hand to her chest and pulled it away wet. She was bleeding. Badly.

Knowing it did nothing to slow her down; if anything, it doubled her efforts. She heaved harder, screaming as her muscles shook and her teeth ached. As if in answer to some prayer, the hinges finally turned against themselves, giving way no more than a few inches. “Please. Please help me … ” she breathed. “Please … ”

A few more inches, the shriek of rusty hinges echoing in the silence. David wasn’t screaming anymore. No more thrashing. She looked over her shoulder to see him covered in blood, thorns, and broken bits of stem. Foliage protruded from his naked skin. As soon as they made eye contact, he ran at her, scalpel held high.

Still in a crouch, she kicked up and out with her injured leg, the shrapnel in her thigh chewing and scraping against muscle and bone. The flat of her boot connected with his middle, knocking him back. He sprawled in the dirt, giving her a few more precious seconds.

A final tug on the hatch gave her a couple more inches, enough to wiggle her way through. She slid in on her belly, feet first, and they met nothing but air. She found the ring on the other side of the hatch and grabbed it before letting herself drop all the way inside. She dangled for a moment before her weight on the hatch pulled it closed, sealing herself inside what looked to be a tomb.

Dark. The musty smell of damp earth and mold, mingled with the acrid scent of woodsmoke. Her arms suddenly jerked against the force of the hatch being opened from the outside. She bore down on the iron ring, using herself as a counterweight to keep it closed. Another tug came, this one strong enough to jolt her bones in their sockets.

She released a hand off the ring and felt along the edge of the hatch, looking for …
there.
Her cramped fingers threw the bolt home, securing the hatch. She let go then, allowing herself to fall onto the dirt, to rest for just a moment. Another jolt sounded from the hatch, but it didn’t give. A flurry of heaves and jerks came next, each one banging into the next, so fast and loud she was sure he’d tear the hatch from its hinges … and then silence.

“Ares is here, Calliope, as is Melpomene … but you’ll never be able to save them both,” he said from the other side, his voice muffled by the thick wood between them. “You’ll have to choose. Your lover or your sister.”

SEVENTY-EIGHT

Michael rolled over, warm
light spilling across his face. Instead of relief, he felt an intense pounding in his head that pinched his stomach and tied it in knots. He rolled back over, breathing in the soft, rich scent of dirt, struggling to put it all together.

He’d gotten a text from Sabrina—an address—telling him to meet her, and he’d gone without thinking twice. Following the winding, tree-lined drive, he’d received another text:

Road will fork. Take right. Hurry.

He wasn’t sure exactly when he realized it was a trap. Maybe when he arrived at the end of the road to find he was alone. Maybe when he’d tried to call Sabrina to find that his cell was suddenly dead. All he’d known was that it hadn’t mattered. If there was even a small chance that Sabrina was in trouble and in need of help—his help—he was willing to risk it.

He’d walked along a cobblestone path lined with topiaries, each one stranger and creepier than the next. Mythological creatures cast in shades of green.

Do you know who Ares is?

Croft had told him everything. This guy no longer wanted to romance Sabrina with notes and flowers; he wanted to kill her because he’d seen the two of them together. Michael was Ares—or at least that’s what this guy had managed to convince himself. In his mind they were both Greek gods—brothers—rivals for the love of the muse Calliope. Michael didn’t have the capacity to understand that kind of crazy.

He tried to get his arms underneath him to push himself up, locking his elbows against the pounding the effort created in his skull, but as soon as he put weight on them, they buckled into a pool of worthless jelly. His head pounded even harder, the pain rolling through his stomach to stir up the pancakes and coffee he’d eaten for breakfast.

He rolled on to his back, breathing through the urge. Short, shallow pulls that stabbed at his ribs and stomach. What the fuck was happening to him? He forced his eyes open, squinting against the watery light like he was staring directly into the sun.

The maze … he was in the maze.

He remembered parking. Getting out of his car—quickly realizing that Sabrina was nowhere to be found. He’d walked the open path that surrounded tall, dense hedges. A maze, like one you’d see in a movie. Creepy trees … one shaped like a half man, half bull, standing alone at the entrance of the maze. Instinct had kicked in and he’d pulled his Kimber … he didn’t have to feel for it now to know it was gone.

No gun. He fumbled a hand in the dirt beside him. His knife was gone too.

He remembered entering the maze and veering to the left, almost immediately hearing the sound of a woman crying. Begging and sobbing. There were drag marks on the path in front of him. Moving fast, almost reckless, he followed the sounds deeper and deeper into the maze. Gun gripped tight in his fist as he rounded one corner after another, following the deep furrows in the dirt, pushing himself to move faster.
There.
He rounded the corner just in time to catch a glimpse of a bare foot as it disappeared around the hedge … A mist. He’d passed under some sort of misting system, a fine vapor raining into his eyes, nose, and mouth.

The effects had been immediate. A burning in his sinuses, like he’d snorted hot coals. A crawling just beneath the surface of his skin, like a million insects had hatched and began to squirm underneath it all at once. He’d staggered, dropping his gun, but he kept going, kept moving toward the woman, knowing that if he’d move just a bit faster, he’d be able to reach her.

Suddenly she was there, in the middle of the path. Small. Nude. Crumpled on to the dirt like a pile of used rags. His vision began to blur, tears and mucus leaking from his eyes in defense against whatever had been pumped into the air. It wasn’t Sabrina, but he knew the woman. Valerie. It was Sabrina’s friend, Valerie.

He took a few more staggering steps forward before falling to his knees. Instinct gave him another push, this time making him reach for the blade he kept strapped to his calf. He grappled with it for a few seconds before pulling it free; the weight of it in his hand bolstered him. Reminded him who he was.

Opening his mouth, he tried to tell her it was going to be okay, even though he was pretty sure it was a lie. Catching movement in his peripheral, he turned, sluggish and drunk from the vapor that’d set his mouth on fire. That’s when he felt it. The glide of cold metal across his skin. Wet. He rounded, twisting his torso toward the assault while bringing the blade up in a swinging arch, dragging it through flesh. There was a moment of savage satisfaction, and then nothing but black.

Now he twisted around to where he’d seen Val. She was gone.

The movement caused the stabbing pain in his stomach to intensify, as if someone was twisting and pulling on his guts, and he rolled over again, this time unable to fight the undulating wave of nausea that attacked him. He threw up, his stomach convulsing in wave after wave as if it had no intention of stopping. Through the waves he heard another sound. Another woman. This one wasn’t crying. She was screaming. Anger and determination carried on the sound, a voice he knew well.

Sabrina. She was here.

Michael dug his hands into the hard-packed dirt and began to drag himself toward the sound. Toward her.