Wild Passion (8 page)

Meg crossed her arms, attempting to gather what
little warmth she could from her own arms. Without much thought to
her own safety, she moved forward, her boots sinking into thick
snow that crunched loudly underfoot. “Can I help you?”

The woman shifted, as if spurred forward by the sound
of Meg’s voice, only to pause under the soft glow of the lamplight.
Although it was only a few steps, the movement sent her hood
backward, revealing raven hair and porcelain face so pale and
perfect that Meg wasn’t sure which surprised her more, the woman’s
beauty or sudden appearance. Shock gave way to envy.

Suddenly aware of her loose, tangled curls and worn
dress, Meg paused uncomfortably, barely aware of the biting wind.
“Is there someone with whom you wish to speak?”

The woman didn’t respond. Meg’s worry burst anew.
There was something in her appearance that disturbed… Something in
the exhausted stoop of her shoulders… Something in the very anxious
air that stirred around them…

With the child’s hand in hers the woman shuffled
forward once more. One step…two… slowly, like one aged and
decrepit, yet she couldn’t have been much older than Meg’s twenty
one years.

Wrong. Something was terribly
wrong
.

She didn’t pause until she reached next pool of
lamplight. Brilliant, eerie green eyes glowed from beneath thick,
black lashes. Eyes that met Meg’s gaze and seemed to penetrate her
very soul.

“
Au secours
.” The wind carried the woman’s
whispered words.

French? Meg shook her head, unsure. “I’m sorry.”
Desperate for help, she glanced at the stone church looming next to
her, wishing Papa would appear. “But I don’t understand.” She
rubbed her brow, an ache beginning to form behind her skull. “We’re
not from here, you see. Merely visiting London, but would you like
me to find the Vicar��”

The woman’s legs gave out, her body folding like a
building collapsing into a velvet heap.

Meg gasped and raced the last few steps, her skirt
whipping around her ankles and doing everything in their power to
slow her progress. “Good Heavens!”

The dark blue of her dress contrasted brilliantly
against the snow, angry flakes pelting her thin body. Meg sank to
the ground with a thud that jarred her knees. The woman’s pale face
practically faded into the snow, ethereal, unearthly.

“Papa!” Meg cried out, praying he’d hear her call.
“Vicar Beazley!” But the ruthless wind merely took her words and
tossed them into the cloudless night. Intending to stand, Meg
pushed her hands into the snow, the ice soaking her mittens and
stinging her sensitive flesh. “Let me find help.”

The woman’s lips parted, those green, glowing eyes
coming to rest on Meg’s face. “He’s coming.”

Meg froze. Through the eerie howl of the wind, the
woman’s words were barely audible. But Meg heard them as if she’d
shouted.

He’s coming.

Icy fear trickled through her body, drip by drip.
“Who’s coming?” She dared a glance down the empty street where
whirlwinds of snow danced wickedly up and down the lane as if
mocking their plight.

“
S’il vous plait
,” the woman said, ignoring
her question. “My little Colette. Please.”

Meg spared the child a quick glance. She was
trembling; her round face so innocent, so pure that she reminded
Meg of her younger sister Sally. Compassion compelled Meg to move.
“Yes, yes, your daughter.”

She jumped to her feet, tripping over her skirts in
her haste to reach the child. Colette’s hands were ice-cold. Meg
pulled her forward, into the warmth of her woolen cloak. For once,
London was empty. No one lurked on the corners, threatening danger.
So why did the hair on the back of her neck still stand on end?

“She’s here. Your child is here.” Meg started to
reach for the woman when she noticed a halo… like a satiny poppy,
soaking the snow and spreading around the woman’s body.

Blood.

The lamplight lining the lane blurred. The walls of
the church faded. In her mind’s eyes she sat on the bed next to
Julia.

“
Help me, Meg.” Her sister’s large eyes
pleaded.
But Meg couldn’t help; she couldn’t do a damn thing
but watch Julia bleed to death, her red blood soaking the bed
sheets until she was drained white.

Meg’s body wavered, the thin link to her sanity
growing weak. Julia disappeared and suddenly Meg was back on that
road, the unforgiving winter wind sinking its bitter teeth into her
exposed skin.

“Help me,” someone whispered.

Meg rubbed her brow, forcing herself to focus. Not
Julia. No. A stranger. But someone in need all the same. She
tightened her hold on the child.

The woman latched onto Meg’s wrist with surprising
strength. “Take care of my daughter. Hide her.”

It was not a question, but a demand made by a mother
desperate for help. Before Meg could agree or disagree, the woman
released her hold and reached for Colette.

“
Mon bebe,
” the woman whispered.

At the contact, Collette came to life. Her lower lip
trembled, a murmured whimper escaping her bow mouth. Confused, Meg
shook her head. It was mad. The woman was receiving her last rites
when they should have been focused on finding the injury.

“Please, let me help.” Without waiting for
permission, Meg nudged her way closer, determined to find the
wound.

The woman merely smiled; the soft, sad smile of a
fallen angel. “It is too late.” Tears glistened in her eyes,
wetness that clung to her dark lashes, then trailed slowly down her
white cheeks.

Meg shifted impatiently. “Please, just…”

No, the woman wasn’t crying. The liquid was too dark
for tears. Dark trails that contrasted against her pale, pale
cheeks. Slowly, Meg lifted her hand and pressed a finger to that
trail.

Blood.

The woman was bleeding from her eyes. Meg drew in a
sharp breath and lurched back. Not just the woman’s eyes, but also
from her nostrils. Two thin lines of blood, seeping down and around
the corners of her perfect mouth.

“Oh God,” Meg whispered.

“Please,” the woman gasped. “Please, take care of
Collette.”

A mother’s desperation shone in the depths of the
stranger’s eyes, a desperation that painfully pierced Meg’s heart.
Her gaze shifted to Collette. Large, green orbs shimmered with
tears, small fists pressed to a bow mouth. Meg had the urge to pull
her close, to rush her into the church so she wouldn’t have to
witness death; witness what Meg had witnessed at such a tender
age.

“Yes,” Meg whispered. “Yes, I—”

An eerie cry pierced the quiet night. Meg jumped. An
inhumane sound that sent a shiver over her skin. As quickly as it
had come, it was gone. Silence fell; the only noise was the soft
whisper of snow against the ground.

Meg scampered to her feet, her heart slamming wildly
against her chest. “Who’s there?”

From the darkness, snow crunched. She spun around,
searching for the intruder. No one was there. Panic clawed its way
through her body.

“Hurry,” Collette whimpered, taking Meg’s hand, her
icy fingers startling Meg into action.

“Go!” Meg shoved the child toward the wide, shallow
steps that led into the church. “Go now!”

The child raced toward the large, wooden doors. Time
was running out. Meg slipped her arms around the woman’s waist. She
would not abandon her here on the street with whatever was coming.
She leaned back, her boots slipping over snow and ice as she
dragged the woman toward the steps.

“Leave me,” the woman whispered, her weak voice
barely audible. “Leave me. They will know what to do with my body.
They will take care of me.”

Meg grunted with determination. “No, hush now. You’ll
be all right.”

“You don’t understand. They’re coming, you don’t have
time. Leave me.”

Snow crunched from her left. Meg jerked her head
toward the direction of the sound. No one was there. Her heart made
a mad dash for her throat. Was there someone out there in the
shadows, or had fear finally made her insane?

The woman reached up, her fingernails digging into
Meg’s sensitive wrists. Meg cried out, releasing her hold. The
woman slumped to the ground.

“He will not allow me into the church.” Her voice
came out in a low hiss that sent a chill over Meg’s spine.

It made no sense. But then nothing made sense.
Frustrated, Meg stomped her foot. “But…why?”

“Meg!” Papa’s voice was a welcome relief.

Meg spun around. Thank God! Her father would know
what to do, know how to reckon with this stubborn woman. “Papa! I
need your help. She won’t let me…”

Papa froze at the bottom of the steps, his long black
cloak swirling around his booted feet. His wide gaze was pinned to
the woman. His face went pale, his lower lip trembling with some
sort of emotion she couldn’t possibly understand. What the hell was
wrong with everyone?

“Papa?” Meg stepped closer.

Her father latched onto Meg’s arm, his strong grip
belying his old age. “Leave her, Meg.”

“But Papa!”

His weathered face grew fierce, those faded blue eyes
flashing under his fluffy white eyebrows. “Leave her!”

Shocked, Meg glanced down at the woman. How could her
father be so cruel? This wasn’t the Papa she knew. Like a helpless
doe, the woman was curled into a ball, a pile of velvet and blood.
Her skin so pale, her face practically melted into the flurries,
but for her eyes… her eerie, green, glowing eyes.

“You promised to take care of my daughter,” she
whispered, her lips lifting into a snarl as her gaze focused on
Papa.

“We will.” Papa pushed Meg toward the steps. His eyes
were fierce, but his body was trembling…with fear or anger, Meg
wasn’t sure. “We must go. Into the church now!”

Stunned by the harshness of his tone, Meg stumbled
back. But even in her confused state, she was aware of the shadows
morphing from the darkness, men stepping into the lane, shifting
into the light. Men, wearing long, black overcoats that swirled
around their booted feet. Their eyes shadowed by the brims of their
top hats, were as unreadable as their faces. Who were they?

“Meg, now!” Papa grappled with the cross hanging
around his neck and lifted the wooden piece high. “The Lord is my
shepherd…”

Without breaking his verse, he shoved Meg toward the
church. She slipped and stumbled her way up the icy steps, her
heart hammering so loudly she could barely hear her father behind
her. Vaguely, she was aware of Collette standing still in the
doorway, her gaze pinned to the scene beyond Meg’s shoulder.
Reaching her side, Meg spun around. Papa was slowly making his way
up the steps, his back to them.

“I shall not want…” he mumbled, holding that cross
high as if the necklace could help them, as if the necklace could
waylay the men slowly making their way toward the woman like they
were vultures after a sure kill.

And all the while, the woman lay still upon the
ground; a beautiful, fallen angel accepting her fate. Yet, no angel
would have eyes that glowed green and skin as pale as snow.

The three men moved slowly around her, forming a
circle. Their faces as pale as the woman’s. And their eyes…Lord,
their eyes glowed, lips that curled as an unnatural hiss slipped
from their throats like serpents in the Garden of Eden.

“He maketh me to lie down…” Papa stepped into the
church, grabbed the brass handles and slammed the door shut with a
thud that vibrated through the hallowed building. His breathing was
harsh and despite the cold, sweat beaded on his wrinkled
forehead.

Meg dropped her gaze to the child, as if to find
answers within her innocent features. Collette merely stared at
those closed doors. What the hell was happening? With a cry, Meg
pushed passed her father and raced to the small window alongside
the door. The woman was gone, the men gone. The only thing that
remained was the bright spot of blood that marred the pristine
snow.

The room spun, the sconces along the walls swirling
lights that twirled and danced before her eyes. Meg pressed her
hand to her belly. Fear and sorrow churned acid in her stomach
until she thought she’d be sick.

“No,” she whispered, leaning against the stone wall.
“No.” Tears blurred her vision, her dry throat aching with the need
to cry out for help. But there was no one to help, not now. It was
too late. They’d left her outside to die, to be taken by
those…monsters.

Snowflakes beat against the windows like death come
to steal the woman’s soul. She was dead. Meg knew that.

Trepidation fought with the need for answers. Slowly,
she turned to face her father. “Who were they?
What
were
they?”

Her father threw the bolt over the door, his body
visibly relaxing. The candlelight lining the perimeter of the
church flickered and hissed, highlighting his face and deepening
the wrinkles making him look older than his fifty-eight years.
“Sometimes it’s best not to know the truth.”

He spun around, his dark robe flaring wide, and
started down the aisle, his boots tapping over the stone floor.

“Papa! I demand to know what they are!”

He paused, his back to her. She was as shocked as he,
for she’d never raised her voice to her father. For one long moment
she thought he’d refuse to reply. Then he spoke, a soft whisper of
words she barely understood. “They sacrificed their sons and their
daughters to demons.”

Confused, Meg wasn’t sure how to respond. Why was he
quoting Bible verses? Surely he couldn’t mean…

No. Impossible.

“You mean to say…they were demonic?”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

Her body started trembling…shaking as if she were
chilled with fever. “But if…if that’s true…” Her gaze dropped to
Collette who still stood as still as a statue, as quiet, as pale,
as a porcelain doll. “If that’s true, then what is she?”