She was right, Mark realized. His limbs had grown heavy, his head light. Pinpricks of colored light danced before his blindfolded eyes. He attempted to blink them away but couldn’t.
The sensations were unnatural but not unpleasant. They sucked all fear and uncertainty from him.
The two helped him into a vehicle and he slumped against the seat, a smile curving his lips, his thoughts sailing-over lakes and mountains, past his life’s events, people he had known and loved waving as he flew by. Buoyant as a cloud on a summer breeze, he returned their greeting, wishing he could stop and talk, frustrated that he couldn’t.
Mark became aware of the vehicle moving. He fought to focus, to determine travel time and direction. His effort was wasted. Instead, his head filled with sexual images. With Sarah’s mouth and touch, her voice in his ear.
“You want me, don’t you?”
With a shock he realized she was beside him in the car, her mouth close to his ear, her hand in his lap. Kneading. Freeing. Stroking.
He groaned. She replaced her hand with her mouth, circling him, sucking, stroking with her tongue.
“Save it, my sweet. We’re here.”
The voice came as if from a great distance, echoing strangely. A man’s? he wondered. Or a woman’s?
The two helped him from the car. Mark didn’t feel his feet touch the ground. He was levitating, he realized. Floating, like a Macy’s New Year’s Day balloon, being anchored by his companions’ hands.
If not for them, he would float away.
He became aware of a thousand breaths being expelled, of a murmur rippling through a sea of people. They were gathered around him, he realized. Hungry.
They meant to feed on him. On his soul.
He should fight. Scream for help. Deny the unholy cravings of these walking cadavers. Instead, anticipation rippled along his nerve endings, so strong it felt as if his flesh was undulating.
Greedy hands stripped away his garments. Sarah murmured, “Drink,” and brought a large vessel to his lips. He did. The liquid was warm and slightly salty.
A roar of approval rose from the gathering. Heat radiated from his lips, spreading to every nook and cranny of his being. With it came a heightened awareness, a crackling energy.
“Feed on the heat of the Flower!” someone shouted. “It opens to all possibilities. To pleasures that are its birthright.”
Those assembled began to chant. “Let him see! Let him see!”
Sarah removed the blindfold. Creatures surrounded him, ones in human form. Wild animals. Exotic birds. Horrific monsters.
A scream rose in his throat. The creatures moved closer. They touched and stroked him; they whispered encouraging, loving words against his skin. Sounds of excitement slipped from their lips, of approval.
Or were those sounds slipping from his?
It was as if they were worshiping him. The physical sensations were incredible, more exciting than any sexual experience he’d ever had. Not of this world. He was infused with power. He was a god. All-knowing. All-powerful.
This was what Tara had meant, he thought. What Sarah had promised. The most perfect experience ever. If he chose the Horned Flower family, this power, this exaltation, could be his forever.
Mark felt himself levitating above the floor, floating, enraptured. He found himself upon an altar. Lips and mouths consumed him, arms enfolded, hands explored. He orgasmed, how many times he didn’t know, for the spasming was all but continual.
Suddenly, light exploded in his head. Blinding. Burning like white fire. The light was followed by darkness, as black and impenetrable as hell. A darkness more frightening than anything Hollywood could fathom, more frightening than his darkest nightmare.
In it, the beast waited.
CHAPTER 27
Saturday, November 17
9:45 p.m.
Rick’s Island Hideaway looked nothing as Liz had imagined. She supposed that because of the movie Casablanca she had expected lots of tropical plants, slowly whirling ceiling fans, women in sleek sundresses accompanied by modern-day Bogies.
Nothing could be further from reality. No plants. No sleek sundresses or Humphrey Bogart look-alikes. And instead of Sam “playing it again” at the piano, a sound system pumped out reggae music, its decibel only a notch below ear numbing.
The level needed to be heard above the raucous crowd.
She hesitated in the doorway, uncertain what to do. Obviously, her timing sucked, big time. The crowd at the bar was six deep. Rick and another bartender, a sexy-looking twenty-something woman with a wild mane of sun-streaked hair, worked the bar-each managing to fill drink orders, run the register and socialize in what seemed to be one fluid movement.
Rick would not be happy to see her now.
Liz hung back, considering her options. According to the message Mark had left on her machine the previous evening, he expected to be initiated into the Horned Flower last night. He had been meeting his contact at ten-fifteen.
If you don’t hear from me, go to Rick Wells. He’ll know what to do.
She hadn’t heard from him. She feared every minute could mean the difference between life and death.
If he wasn’t dead already.
“Goin’ in, babe?”
Liz glanced over her shoulder. She had been blocking the doorway. “Sure, sorry.”
Decision made, she stepped through. A moment later, she found herself in the middle of the Saturday-night crowd, elbowing her way toward the bar. She got within shouting distance and did just that.
Rick heard his name on her first try and looked her way. A smile creased his face. “Hey, Liz Ames. What brings you in on this busy night?”
“I need to talk to you,” she shouted. “It’s important.”
“Yeah?” He flashed her damn near the sexiest smile she had ever seen, then shifted his attention to a man sitting at the bar directly in front of him, nursing a beer. “Hey, Pete, be a gentleman. Make room for the lady.”
The other man glanced over his shoulder at her. She saw immediately that he was inebriated. “You wan’ to sit?”
“Thank you, but I don’t mean to-”
“S’ okay.” He slid off the stool, landing unsteadily on his feet. “Pete g’home now.”
She put a hand on his elbow to steady him. He smiled at her, then wobbled off, the crowd seeming to part for the old drunk.
Liz climbed onto the stool. “You didn’t have to chase him off. I could have-”
“Don’t worry about it.” He cleared away Pete’s glass and beer bottle, wiped the spot then replaced them with a fresh drink coaster. “Old Pete’s been keeping that spot warm since just after lunch. Time to cut him off.”
“Since noon?” She glanced in the direction the man had gone, amazed. “I hope he’s not driving.”
“Nope. Used to bicycle but landed in the ditch one too many times. Val impounded his bike.”
She cocked an eyebrow at the way he said the other man’s name, with real affection. “You and Lieutenant Lopez are good friends, aren’t you?”
“Pretty much the best of friends. We go way back.” He nodded at a couple other patrons, then returned his gaze to hers. “What can I get you?”
She really didn’t want anything, but felt guilty taking up both his time and space at the bar and not ordering. “How are your frozen margaritas?”
“Killer, if I do say so myself. With salt or without?”
“With, of course.”
He told her he would be right back and worked his way down the bar, taking several other orders as he did, all the while calling out humorous one-liners and greetings.
Liz dragged her gaze away, mouth going dry. She trailed her finger through a bead of moisture on the bar. Rick Wells was just one of those guys who had it alclass="underline" looks, charm, personality, brains, bod. The complete, woman-eating package. No doubt he had been an athlete in high school and had had a bevy of adoring cheerleader types buzzing around him all the time.