Now.

He burst around the driver’s side of the car. The door was locked-he’d figured it would be. Using the butt of the gun, he shattered the glass, grabbed the woman by her hair, dragged her out the window. She was small, light, fine-boned. The long hair was a perfect handle, he was able to maneuver her entire body out and onto the ground. He perched over her, pinning her down, legs on either side of her. She struggled and bucked, tried to scream, but he punched her with his free hand.

She was pretty. Her skin was very pale, he could see the flush of color the imprint of his knuckles made across her cheek. Encouraged, he punched her a few more times, and she stopped screaming. Blood rushed from her nose, and her lip was split. He reached down on impulse and licked her face, savoring the salty essence of her heart.

He realized he had a throbbing erection. Well, why not? This slut was out here spying on him, she deserved everything she got. He held the gun to her temple, and she stopped fighting. Carefully, he reached back and slid her dress up, over her thighs. His questing fingers found her panties. There was a rending tear and they were off. She started to struggle again, so he hit her with the butt of the gun, slicing open a slit in the soft skin of her forehead. Her head snapped back into the dirt with a dull thud.

He undid his jeans-it was hard to handle the buttons over his erection with one hand, but he managed. He shifted back and down, pushed his body between her legs, using his knee to force hers apart, and thrust, hard, landing home with one shove. She screamed, high in her throat, legs flailing against him, and he jabbed her head with the gun again to shut her up. She was fighting him now, each stroke shifting him back and forth so he didn’t have to do any work at all. He leaned over her, took both arms and trapped them against the ground over her head with his left hand while he finished, a blinding white orgasm making him forget who and where he was.

The breath came hard in his throat, his eyes came back into focus. The woman was keening, crying, trying to wriggle away from him. He was heavy enough that she couldn’t shift him without work, but she finally managed, pushing him off her, slipping into a ball a few feet away.

It was taking him a minute to catch his breath. He didn’t know who she’d called-he needed to leave. Should he kill her? He’d never raped anyone before; he hadn’t used a condom, there would be evidence. It wouldn’t matter in the long run, he’d seen the hourglass in Fane’s room, the small grains of sand slipping inexorably toward their finish, had known it to be a sign. No, he’d leave her here. But he was going to make damn sure she’d never tell anyone.

He fumbled his fly closed and stood, brushing the leaves and grass off the knees of his jeans. She saw him moving, got to all fours and started trying to crawl away. He walked to her-she wasn’t going quickly, more like a snail than a crab-and kicked her in the ribs. She landed on her side, the breath £oin£ out of her in an audible whoosh.

‘Tell anyone, and HI kill you. Do you understand me, bitch?”

The woman was saying something he couldn’t understand. It sounded like an incantation of sorts. He listened closer. She was whispering, hands on her stomach.

“I sis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, In ana.”

The Goddess chant? What the fuck? Who was this person?

He asked her name, she just shook her head, continued the incantation.

Raven felt dread be°;in to build in his stomach. Fear. He’d never felt such fear. He needed to get away. He needed to get away now. He stumbled backward, falling onto his ass, scraping his hands and elbows. The gun dropped a foot from him; he turned over onto all fours, grabbed it and ran. The Rat was parked on the other side of the road, back in the brush, off the path so no one from the road would see it. He hurried to the vehicle, fumbling the keys and the gun. He had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling.

Ratty thing acquiesced when he put the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life. He pulled away from the grove, bumping over the shoulder and onto the road.

He turned right, up McCrory Lane, toward the highway. He had one more place that he knew he could go. One place that had been a refuge, long in the past. He pointed the car east and drove into the night, the echoes of the Goddess chant in his ears. He didn’t see the flashing blue lights congregating behind him. He didn’t see anything at all.

Fifty-Six

There were three patrol cars at the Shell station when Taylor pulled in. And no sign of Ariadne. McKenzie had been redialing her number on his cell, but there was no answer.

Taylor ran inside and described Ariadne to the man behind the counter, who hadn’t seen her. Nor had he seen anyone who looked like the drawing she pulled out. So no Ariadne and no Schuyler Merritt. Shit.

She went back outside, signaled to the officers. “Mount up. Let’s drive up McCrory, see if we find her car.”

They all piled in their cars and took off, Taylor in the lead. The flashing blue-and-white lights made the road light up like Christmas, and it only took a few minutes until they saw a Subaru Forester parked at the side of the road, just at the rise of the hill. It snowed no signs of life, no lights, no engine.

‘Her car’s there,” McKenzie said unnecessarily. Taylor pulled in behind it, the three patrols taking up defensive positions in front and on her flank, effectively blocking the road.

Taylor was out the door in an instant, Glock drawn in a two-handed grip, pointing toward the ground. She eased up to the vehicle. The driver’s side window was broken, there was glass everywhere, inside and outside the car. A jagged edge shone dark in the feeble moonlight; Taylor could smell blood.

“Whaf s that?” McKenzie whispered in her ear. She stopped and stood tall, listening. Crying, coming from twenty feet away.

“Ariadne?” she yelled, walking toward the noise. She saw a lump on the ground, yelled, “She’s here. Shit. 10-47, 10-67, code 3!” She holstered her gun, knelt down and rolled Ariadne onto her back. She cried out in protest.

“Relax, honey, it’s okay. We’ve got help coming. Where is the boy?”

It didn’t take a genius to see what had happened. Ariadne was grimy with dirt and leaves, her skirt twisted, flashing pale thighs smeared with blood. She cried out again as Taylor moved her hands over her in the dark. Broken ribs, probably, maybe a broken jaw. A bloody cut on her forehead.

“When you called, you said he heard you. Was it Schuyler Merritt, Ariadne? Did he rape you?”

A ghost of a nod. She was trying to speak, the words coming out low and jumbled. Taylor leaned her head down, close to Ariadne’s mouth.

“Don’t know his…name. Pulled me. From the car. Ra…ra. ..raped me. Drove off, after.”

The broken sentences exhausted her, and she let her head drift back down to the ground. Taylor felt for her pulse, reassured when she found it strong and steady. The damage wasn’t life threatening.

“Okay, you’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

McKenzie was squatting a few feet away. He took Ariadne’s hand and whispered, “I’m sorry. We should have listened sooner.”

Taylor shot him a look, but didn’t stop him. Getting herself and the department sued for letting a witness become a victim was the least of her worries right now.

She heard the comforting sound of sirens. Rescue was on its way.

She held Ariadne’s hand tighter. Where was that little bastard going now? They had his woman, his friends in custody. His mother and father were dead, with cops crawling all over the two houses he might retreat to. Where else would he go?