I catch the flash of anger before he masks his expression. “As long as we’re still here, this is our job.”

He turns abruptly and captures my neck, shocking my breath in my lungs. “I’m in this town for you, sweetness. I’m not here to solve cases, catch killers, or save lost priestesses.”

“You’ve mentioned as much before,” I say, a tremor of derision leaking into my voice. “The feds want Devyn locked away, to punish her unjustly for a murder she didn’t commit. They’re looking at her for Alister, a scene you orchestrated.”

“She tried to frame me first,” he rebounds, his voice pitched below the thumping music. He inches his hand higher and swipes his thumb across my jawline. “There’s a merciful way to solve this conundrum, but you’ve made it clear I can’t kill the priestess.”

I try to pull away, but he backs me against the counter, placing his mouth next to my ear as he tightens his hold. “But if I find her, I promise you, Halen, if she so much as breathes a threat in your direction, I’ll be forced to break that promise.”

I angle my head to find his eyes, and as his gaze locks with mine, his tongue drags across the inside seam of his lips. “Deep down in the dark little oubliette of your mind, you know the truth,” he whispers. “You can’t say it, but that’s why you have me, to be the villain and do what’s necessary.”

I swallow the forming ache in my throat as silence fuels the tension between us, the press of Kallum’s desire at battle with my will. He believes I hold the power, he’s told me this repeatedly, but for the first time, he’s furious over it.

And suddenly, I’m staring into the intense eyes of the same cunning devil I met at Briar, the one who issues ultimatums.

I pull in a steadying breath. “You know I won’t let that happen.”

“We’ll see, sweetness,” he whispers against my ear and pushes his hand between my thighs, intimately touching the sigil and sending a current of renewed heat to make me inhale a sharp breath, effectively earning the response he wants from my body.

Before either of us are given the chance to say more, Hernandez appears in the arched doorway. Touching the back of his neck, he clears his throat, further disrupting the heated moment.

Kallum’s gaze flits over my face searchingly, his jaw clenched until a muscle flexes. “Halen thinks there’s a secret wine cellar with mysteries hidden somewhere in this house,” he says to the agent.

“Then she’d be right.” Hernandez removes his earpiece, letting it drape around his neck where he covers the feed with his hand. “The team found something in the basement.”

My gaze collides with Kallum’s, and his resulting, despondent smile is devastating on his beautiful face.

I question whether I’ll be able to walk away if I see what’s in that basement, and Kallum knows this. I’m seconds from doing just that, walking away completely, when he says, “Fuck it. There’s no satisfaction in an open ending, is there?”

He turns and brushes past Hernandez, the music suddenly too loud, the bass hitting my chest to mask the rampant pounding of my heart as I watch him leave.

The pleasure principle demands replete gratification, and in surrendering to it, we’re denied something vital in return.

Pain.

The id avoids pain at all costs, and is only opposed by the reality principle, that crucial balance needed to weigh our actions, what acts as a control to our impulses.

I follow behind Kallum, feeling as if I’m still suspended in the free-fall. Yet knowing there are some laws that can’t be broken. It’s only a matter of time before gravity takes hold.

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7

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CAGED

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HALEN

Agents in black suits and earpieces filter through the basement, crowding the space with overpowering scents of cologne and coffee. I suppose it’s a more favorable blend than the urine and feces that lingers beneath the dank air.

Dull fluorescent lights flicker on the ceiling, washing the cinderblock walls in gray light. Like any other basement, the Lipton’s is stacked with clutter. Old vacation supplies. Camping gear. Skis and life vests.

Ritualistic artifacts and jars of human organs.

Kallum and I trail behind Hernandez, following the obstacle course of caution tape and task force members as they bag and tag evidence. Maneuvering around a row of stacked boxes, I glove my hands, way too aware of my lack of underwear in this questionable environment.

According to Hernandez, a rookie agent thought it would be clever to get the son—the intoxicated teenage son—to open the basement door. As the feds can’t legally enter a locked room of a home to conduct a search, Agent Rana was able to secure a search warrant through a judge on the west coast, stating the urgency of the case.

The deeper we journey into the basement, the more pungent the odor. “Where is that smell coming from?”

Hernandez beams his flashlight on the wall across from us. “I suspect the stench has something to do with the makeshift toilet over there.”

I light my phone flashlight to pan the area, landing on a cot tucked into the opposite corner. Black material has been draped across to conceal a small living space.

“Not a bad arrangement where Vince Lipton could hole up,” Hernandez remarks. “If you don’t mind the disturbing murder house feel.”

“How do we know it was him?” I ask, and snap a few pictures before I drop my phone in the tote at my hip.

“Mrs. Lipton confessed as much before her lawyer shut down the questioning,” Agent Rana says as she approaches. Her hair is pinned out of her face, the circles beneath her eyes more pronounced in the garish lighting. “Apparently, she was harboring her brother down here on and off over the years.”

“This is why you wanted eyes on the Liptons,” I say to the agent.

“I’ve had suspicions about how involved certain members of the community are. It’s the psychology of small towns, right?” She arches an eyebrow. “People look up to this family, so how many others have been doing the same as Mrs. Lipton?”

A new degree of respect develops for the lead agent, even as her perceptive gaze bounces between me and Kallum. “It’s nice you both could finally join us,” she says. “Come on. I’ll take you to where the action is.”

Rana directs us toward the far wall where a line of agents and forensic analysts are being funneled. Careful not to disturb any evidence, Hernandez hunkers near an ancient water heater. A section of plywood has been slid away to expose a crawlspace along the floor.

“This connects to a shaft of the mine,” Hernandez explains. “The tunnel is old, probably here since the house was first built. Presumably how Vince was able to come and go without detection.”

“I didn’t think houses this close to the marsh could even have basements,” I say.

Kallum moves closer to my side. “Old money likes to circumvent the rules.”

“That’s an understatement.” Hernandez sweeps aside the material to reveal a section where cinderblocks have been dismantled to create an opening large enough to walk through.

The air changes as we step into the dark space. It’s thinner, colder. Vile. I wrap my arms around my waist, my blouse insufficient to shelter me from the soiled feel.

A single naked bulb hangs from the low ceiling, a cord feeding it power from an unknown source. The gathered task force members work in tense silence, the dark illuminated with a strobe effect of camera flashes to offer glimpses of a gruesome sight.

Like sinking into an oil slick, a tar-like substance adheres to my skin. Nothing about this space feels similar to the previous ritual sites. There’s a sense of malevolence down here that knocks angrily against my bones. It seeps down deep in my lungs until I’m forced to turn my head, seeking a breath not tainted with the stench.