The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation

A ROWAN GANT INVESTIGATION

BOOK THREE OF THE MIRANDA TRILOGY

A Novel of Suspense and Magick

By

E.M.A. Mysteries

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, except as
noted.

The name
Velvet
Rieth
, is used with permission, and is loosely based
on an actual person. While some characteristics of the individual’s
persona are accurate, the character portrayed herein does not
necessarily reflect the actual personality or lifestyle of the
aforementioned.

THE END OF
DESIRE
: A Rowan Gant Investigation

A WillowTree Press Book

E.M.A. Mysteries is an imprint of WillowTree
Press

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2007 by M. R. Sellars

Cover Design Copyright © 2007 Johnathan
Minton

Cover Photography: Johnathan Minton

Cover Model: Ms. Mickie Mueller

This e-book edition is licensed for your
personal enjoyment only. This e-book edition may not be re-sold or
given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each
person This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any
means, electronic or mechanical, without permission.

For information contact: WillowTree Press on
the World Wide Web

http://www.willowtreepress.com

Smashwords Edition – 2010

This is the part where I gush about the folks
who make all this possible. “This” being all of these words I hurl
at paper and hope like hell at least some of them stick. This list
is certainly not comprehensive. There are many, many folks who make
the Rowan Gant series possible, not the least of which are those of
you who buy them each time I write a new one. However, the folks
listed here have been directly responsible for support, insurance,
research, ideas, steak, crackers, beer, assorted boozes, chips and
dip, various candies, donuts, ice cream, and sometimes even a
shoulder to cry on when things aren’t going the way they are
supposed to in my world. For that, I owe them at the very least a
kudo or two here… After all, as my dear friend Tish would say,
“It’s a moral imperative.”—

Dorothy “Donut Radar”
Morrison:
Tour Buddy
Extraordinaire

Sergeant Scott “Big Scary Cop Guy”
Ruddle, SLPD:
‘Nuff Said

Roy “I Concur”
Osbourn:
A Source Of Much Information and
Amusement

Kristin “Don’t Call Me Kirstin”
Madden:
Adopted Little Sister

Trish Telesco, Christopher Penczak, Edain
McCoy, Charlotte Bailey, Gail Wood, Maggie Shayne, and all you
other crazy WIP’s—you know who you are.

Velvet Rieth:
Sleazy Motel Investigator Extraordinaire. Love the eye
patch!

Gil Rieth:
I’ll
Pass on the Whole Stun Gun Thing.

Anastasia and Seitz:
Officially Endorsed “Murv Stalkers”

Dr. Amy Miller, Adrienne, and Dawn over at
St. Louis Skin Solutions

Coldie, Crystal, Layla, SinGin,
Moonfire, and Lord Bastard:
The Team That
Makes the RGI Forum and Fan Club Actually Happen

Duane “Three Beer” Marshall, Angel, Randal,
Scott, Andrea, Rowan, Lori, Beth, Jim, Dave, Rachel, Doug, Duncan,
Kitti, Boom-Boom, Kevin, David, Bella, Shannon, Denessa, Annette,
Boudica, Imajicka, Owl, Breanna, Anne, Heather, Kathy (all of them
and their various spellings), Marie, Lin, Jerry, Mark, Christine,
Rollie, Hardee, Z, Mickie, and probably twenty or thirty more…

All of my good friends from the various
acronyms: F.O.C.A.S., H.S.A., M.E.C., S.I.P.A, etc. (And even the
acronyms that have since disappeared…)

Patrick and Tish Owen:
Family Forever

My parents:
You
know… I wish you were here.

Scott “Chunkee”
McCoy:
World’s Greatest Publicist

Johnathan “Are We There Yet”
Minton:
Cool Pictures Dude

My daughter:
Stop Growing Up So Fast
.

My wife Kat:
Insert Mushy Stuff Here.

The gang at CAO for the
MX2
and entire
Brazilia
line of cigars

Coffee, Green Tea, Joss Whedon, TISM, Crocs,
Pop Rivets, 11½ Inch Fashion Dolls, Vodka, Tonic, Limes, the
Mexican place around the corner, Asparagus, Hans Grüber, Compost,
John McLane…

And, as always, everyone who takes the time
to pick up one of my novels, read it, and then recommends it to a
friend.

For
Browncoats
everywhere.

Keep on doing the impossible…

While the city of St. Louis and its various
notable landmarks are certainly real, many names have been changed
and liberties taken with some of the details in this book. They are
fabrications. They are pieces of fiction within fiction to create
an illusion of reality to be experienced and enjoyed.

In short, I made them up because it helped me
make the story more entertaining, or in some cases, just because I
wanted to.

Note also that this book is a first-person
narrative. You are seeing this story through the eyes of Rowan
Gant. The words you are reading are his thoughts. In first person
writing, the narrative should match the dialogue of the character
telling the story. Since Rowan, (and anyone else that I know of for
that matter,) does not speak in perfect, unblemished English
throughout his dialogue, he will not do so throughout his
narrative. Therefore, you will notice that some grammatical
anomalies have been retained (under protest from editors) in order
to support this illusion of reality.

Let me repeat something—I DID IT ON PURPOSE.
Do NOT send me an email complaining about my grammar. It is a rude
thing to do, and it does nothing more than waste your valuable
time. If you find a typo, that is a different story. Even editors
miss a few now and then.

Finally, this book is not intended as a
primer for WitchCraft, Wicca, or any Pagan path. However, please
note that the rituals, spells, and explanations of these
religious/magickal practices are accurate. Some of my explanations
may not fit your particular tradition, but you should remember that
your explanations might not fit mine either.

And, yes, some of the magick is “over the
top.” But, like I said in the first paragraph, this is fiction…

For behold,
I
have been with you from the
beginning,

and
I
am that which is attained at
the end
of desire
.

From

The Charge of the Goddess

As attributed to Doreen Valiente

Thursday, November 24

3:09 A.M.

Room 7

Southern Hospitality Motor Lodge

Metairie, Louisiana

A
nnalise Devereaux felt
like she was suffocating.

Not the literal asphyxiation one experiences
from lack of oxygen, but a metaphorical suffocation brought about
by the absence of something else entirely. A something else that
was just as important to her as the air she was now breathing.

And, metaphorical or not, the agony she
suffered because of the void it left was no less real.

At the root was the feeling she harbored deep
inside. It was the unquenchable thirst that drove her to do
unspeakable things for no other purpose than self-gratification. It
was the force that made her no longer Annalise, but Miranda.

It was also the thing that now brought her
pain.

The inner sensation was no longer a mere
tickle; nor was it the insatiable itch she had grown to know so
well. It wasn’t even a mere compulsion. In fact, it had surpassed
her very need to breathe in order of importance, making itself the
top rung on her ladder of survival. And, with that, it had turned
to a raging fire that could not be quelled.

Still, that didn’t stop her from trying to
snuff out the flame.

But, for everything she did to feed the
hunger, to douse the burning, to satiate the desire—simply to
breathe—she still felt as if she was gasping. As though she was
barely clinging to life in the face of that which had become all
consuming.

The truth is, it felt as if someone was
actually taking it from her, breath by breath. Literally stealing
the force that fueled her will to live; and in her mind it belonged
only to her, and her alone.

She knew all too well that her current
situation had everything to do with Saint Louis. Everything that
had happened there had been wrong, and although the reward had been
sweet for a time, the price paid was too high. Two sacrifices so
close together, both of whom would be missed. Doing that had been
beyond dangerous; it had been reckless. She knew when it was
happening that it was a mistake, but she’d had no choice.

She
had
demanded it, and Annalise had to do as
She
said.

But,
She
would also never take responsibility for the mistake. The
blame would fall to
Her
servant, to Annalise. With blame came penance, which must be
paid by the servant. It now seemed that penance was sharing her
reward with another—the reward that kept her from suffocating as
she was right now.

The identity of the other remained a
mystery. And perhaps it always would. But the fact remained that
she hated her for taking what didn’t belong to her. Even
though
She
was giving it to
the other freely, in Annalise’s mind, the other was still
stealing.

Call it greed, but she had already tasted it
all, and for her, half simply would not do. She intended to take it
back.

Annalise allowed her anger to feed her lust
as she looked down at the man beneath her. He had been easy enough
to coax here to the small motel room. All it had taken were some
kind words, a cheap bottle of rum, and the promise of a bed for the
night. It was a better deal than he would have had otherwise.

In the end, the hardest part had been getting
him to shower.

He was still struggling against the bonds
that held him securely to the bed. He pretty much had been ever
since he’d realized this wasn’t just a game.

It had been nothing to get him into this
position. She’d started him on the pint of rum as soon as she had
picked him up. Of course, as always the bottle contained more than
mere alcohol. So, by the time he’d had several healthy swigs,
followed by the shower, he was “medicated” enough to be pliable.
But then, they always were.

The vagrants along Airline Highway were easy
prey. Even better, they were rarely, if ever, missed. When they
disappeared no one asked questions. No one wondered where they
might be. No one, except maybe the others like them with whom they
spent their pathetic lives each day and night. But, no one listened
to them. And, just like her chosen sacrifice, none of them even
mattered. Like all men, they were there for her amusement, and
because these wretches led such an unremarkable existence, they
were perfect for those times when the need arrived unannounced.

She just had to be careful which ones
she chose. But then, Miranda did the choosing, and
She
was always careful.

Except for Saint Louis.

Annalise stared into the man’s face. His fear
was making the rum and Diazepam cocktail wear off quickly, which
was exactly what she wanted. She needed his fear and his pain, for
with them came his undying love. And, these were the currency that
brought the reward.