Avoiding the pathetic security patrols, he smiled to himself as he hurried behind the rec hall. Weren’t his own people on each and every team appointed to oversee the safety of the academy?
It was a joke really.
He was in control.
God was on his side. The rest of the world would see.
She
would see, the woman who had so callously cast him aside.
Surely God would reward him and those who had helped him along the path of his holy mission; those who had misused the word of God, twisting it for their own purposes, would be exposed. Punished. Ultimately face their master for their sins.
Yes, there were a few bumps in his plan, but they could be smoothed easily, the Leader thought as he slipped into the chapel, the smell of smoke lingering in the air. He hurried to the staircase and flew down the steps, moving without a sound, his heart beating fast, adrenaline fueling his blood.
Not bothering to switch on a light, he strode quickly along the familiar hallway to the janitorial closet that was rarely used, the equipment within gathering dust.
Once the door was closed behind him, he flipped on the light, a dim bulb overhead; then, nearly kneeling, he reached behind a long-forgotten bucket and brush on a low shelf. Behind the bucket was a hidden keypad. He quickly pressed in the code, and the shelves popped open, swinging noiselessly toward him on a hinge to reveal stone steps leading downward.
Single bulbs offered pale light as he descended into what had once been a cave. Sometime after World War II, in the early fifties, the space had been fitted as a fallout shelter, complete with reinforced walls and ceiling, an underground generator, an air-filtration system, and a vented stove. A natural spring provided water. Fortunately, Radnor Stanton, Cora Sue’s dear, deceased father, had been a man with vision, he thought with more than a trace of bitterness. When Stanton, a Cold War survivor, helped with the construction of Blue Rock Academy, he made sure to preserve this perfect sanctuary.
But Radnor Stanton was long dead, his idiosyncratic underground shelter forgotten over the years. Gone were the ancient canned foods, transistor radio, metal cots, and huge flashlights that had been part of the essentials over
half a century earlier. Now the space was filled with an altar, pews, and lanterns, but it was vented as it had been, allowing in fresh air, filtered by the original components.
There was a locked cabinet as well, an arsenal where rifles, handguns, and walkie-talkies were stored. Cell phones were helpful, but not completely reliable here in the mountains. He did a mental inventory of the ammunition, night-vision goggles, and knives, along with ski masks, armored vests, and extra academy jackets.
He was ready.
For Armageddon.
His followers, carefully selected, were eager and fervent, anxious to put the plan into motion. Already, some had carried out his orders; others were on their way to get their instructions.
A tingle of anticipation swept through him as he realized that all of his plans, all of his dreams, were about to be realized. There would be ramifications, he was certain, but in the end, he would prevail.
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, not saying a word as they entered in twos and threes, following the orders of the academy to always travel with a partner.
They didn’t speak but took their places, eager and avid, the fervor of youth in their eyes. They were rabid, this cadre of bright, talented soldiers. Dedicated to God’s cause, ready to cross any line.
Crusaders.
A few followers cast glances at the open cabinet door, eager to get their hands on weapons, keyed up and ready to do his bidding. He wondered if one of them could be a rogue, more interested in his or her own agenda than the greater good.
He dismissed the idea quickly as they stared up at him, if not in adoration, then at the very least awe.
The Leader gave a nod, and the sergeant at arms swung the door shut. Once he’d returned to his seat on the pew, the Leader said, “You’ve been patient long enough. Some of you already know this, but tonight we strike. The plan we’ve discussed for so long has already been set into motion.
“A few of you have already begun your tasks, as have I, but now all of us need to unite and go with purpose. You know what your assignments are.” He moved his gaze over each of the faces staring up at him, caught a few of them nodding, anxious, ready. “We may suffer casualties, but not if we are precise.
“As you leave here, take the equipment you’ve been allotted and go forth with fervor and faith.” A few feet scuffled on the hard rock floor as they prepared to stand. “First,” he cautioned, “let us pray.”
In her dream, Jules walked through the den, past the flickering screen of the television to her father’s body. Rip lay in a pool of blood, the knife deep in his body.
“Dad … Dad!” She bent over and pulled out the knife, and Rip’s eyes opened wide, staring at her.
Somewhere nearby a woman screamed.
She turned, saw her mother in the archway, Edie’s face twisted in horror. “You killed him!” she accused, and ran into the room to drop onto the floor.
“No, I didn’t. Mom …”
Edie, kneeling in her husband’s blood, turned to look over her shoulder and stare at her firstborn. “Why?” she demanded. “Why would you kill your father?”
“I didn’t … Mom, you gotta believe me.”
“You’re to blame.” Rip’s voice thundered, though his mouth didn’t move, and somehow Jules knew he was talking about Edie. “You let her do this.”
“I didn’t!” Jules insisted, the drops of blood dripping onto the floor.
Jules sat bolt upright in the darkness, the strange room closing in on her. Where the hell was she?
“Hey. You okay?” Trent was beside her in the bed. His strong arms surrounded her, dragging her close. She blinked hard, remembering where she was and how she’d gotten here, fool that she was.
“No.” She was shaking her head; she was definitely not okay on so many levels. Good Lord, she was an idiot, and the memory of the nightmare still caused goose bumps to rise on her skin. “It’s … it’s everything. I get this recurring nightmare about Dad’s murder. It just keeps coming back, and it changes just a little each time. I always hear a disturbing dripping sound. And I check around and know it’s coming from the den.”
She let out a breath, shivering a little, though Trent’s arms surrounded her.
“And that’s where it changes. I walk into the den, and the TV’s always on and Dad’s always on the floor, blood pooling around him, but sometimes he’s still alive and he talks to me. Sometimes my mother is nearby; other times Shaylee is cowering and … and it all gets so blurry. All the people I cared about at that time in my life are nearby, but it’s as if they’re acting, playing different roles.” She shook her head in the darkness. “Oh, I don’t know what it means,
if
it means anything.” She let out a soft breath, ruffling the hairs on his chest. “To tell you the truth, it scares me to death.”
“Shhh.” He kissed her hair. “Let it go.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried, but …” She sighed, wishing that horrid night would stop haunting her.
It won’t; not until the memory is clear.
Her recollections of the night of her father’s death had changed with time, aged a bit, in shattered little pieces that she’d formed into a smooth montage. She was living at home, the marriage between Rip and Edie disintegrating by the day. They were continually sniping at each other, the arguments escalating. She and Shaylee had taken refuge upstairs, listening to music with the volume turned up to mute the painful words her parents thrust at each other.
Seeing them destroying each other took its toll on Jules and her half sister. And the aftermath of Rip’s death had been worse. Jules had scrapped her plans of moving away to college and had forced Trent from her life. Shay had started getting into trouble at school, and Edie … Edie had nearly lost it, falling into a horrible depression that had only lifted with the advent of Grant Sykes into her life. She’d felt a failure with two divorces, widowhood, and the loss of any considerations of wealth. Max Stillman was determined that she never get one more dime of his money to the point that he’d nearly turned his back completely on his own daughter, doting instead on Max Junior. So they’d both lost their fathers that night. Though Shay’s relationship had always been tenuous with Max, Rip had doted on Jules. Once Rip was killed, the murderer, a robber who had taken his wallet and fled in smooth-soled, size 12 shoes, according to partial impressions in the mud, their lives had changed forever. Had it been random? A business partner who had been taken? The husband of one of Rip’s girlfriends finally taking revenge?
No one knew.
All in all, it had been a disaster, the night of Rip Delaney’s death changing the course of Jules’s life and haunting her dreams.
“I think,” she said, blinking in the darkness, “the nightmare is never going to go away. It’ll always be with me.”
“Hey.” Trent’s voice was low. Steady. “I’m here.”
She snorted a laugh, finding a hint of macabre humor in his single statement. “And?”
“And this time I’m not going away.”
A lump formed in her throat, and she let his strong arms comfort her. “Even if I push?” she asked.
“Especially then.”
“Need I remind you that ‘here’ is in the middle of a madhouse of a boarding school where people are being killed?”
“It won’t always be this way.” God, he said it with such conviction.
Jules wanted to take comfort in his strong belief, she supposed, but it was difficult. As she roused and the nightmare skittered away to hide in the murky corners of her mind, she was faced with what she and Trent had discovered in Lynch’s partially burnt files. Also, now there was the heart-jarring realization that she’d made love to Cooper Trent again.
As quick as lightning, she’d slid willingly between the sheets of the ex–bull rider’s bed, and they had become lovers again in a heartbeat.
She hadn’t even put up a fight, and then had fallen asleep in his arms.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
What was wrong with her?
Had she just taken solace and comfort for a few hours? Needed a reaffirmation of life and love in the middle of this chaos?