Bestselling author Nora Roberts dazzles once again with a
powerful tale of passion, murder, and small-town scandal. In this
classic novel, a woman returns to the home she left behind, to a
past that is waiting to kill her.... A decade ago, sculptor Clare
Kimball fled Emmitsboro, Maryland, to take the art world by storm.
Now she''s celebrated as the artist of her generation. But no amount
of success can eclipse the nightmares that haunt her--or the
memories of her father''s suicide. Just as her star is shining
brighter than ever, Clare leaves it all behind to face her demons.
Emmitsboro sheriff Cameron Rafferty loved Clare from afar all
through high school. Now that she''s back, they form a bond that
grows stronger each day--fueled by an attraction that''s been
simmering for years. But Clare''s past soon rises up with a
vengeance, rocking the town with a sinister murder that is clearly
linked to her return. As an investigation gets under way, Clare and
Cameron will learn that evil can linger anywhere--even in those you
love and trust the most. But it''s a discovery that may come too
late to save them....
關於作者：
Nora Roberts is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of
over one hundred novels. Her Bantam titles include the recent
reissues of Brazen Virtue, Hot Ice, and Sacred Sins. With over 200
million books in print, she is without a doubt the most celebrated
writer of women''s fiction today.
From the Hardcover edition.
內容試閱：
Chapter 1
The rite began an hour after sunset. The circle had been prepared
long ago, a perfect nine feet, by the clearing of trees and young
saplings. The ground had been sprinkled with consecrated
earth.
Clouds, dark and secretive, danced over the pale moon.
Thirteen figures, in black cowls and cloaks, stood inside the
protective circle. In the woods beyond, a lone owl began to scream,
in lament or in sympathy. When the gong sounded, even he was
silenced. For a moment, there was only the murmur of the wind
through the early spring leaves.
In the pit at the left side of the circle, the fire already
smoldered. Soon the flames would rise up, called by that same wind
or other forces.
It was May Day Eve, the Sabbat of Roodmas. On this night of high
spring, both celebration and sacrifice would be given for the
fertility of crops and for the power of men.
Two women dressed in red robes stepped into the circle. Their
faces were not hooded and were very white, with a slash of scarlet
over their lips. Like vampires who had already feasted.
One, following the careful instructions she had been given, shed
her robe and stood naked in the light of a dozen black candles,
then draped herself over a raised slab of polished wood.
She would be their altar of living flesh, the virgin on which
they would worship. The fact that she was a prostitute and far from
pure disturbed some of them. Others simply relished her lush curves
and generously spread thighs.
The high priest, having donned his mask of the Goat of Mendes,
began to chant in bastardized Latin. When he had finished his
recitation, he raised his arms high toward the inverted pentagram
above the altar. A bell was rung to purify the air.
From her hiding place in the brush, a young girl watched, her
eyes wide with curiosity. There was a burning smell coming from the
pit where flames crackled, sending sparks shooting high. Odd shapes
had been carved in the trunks of the circling trees.
The young girl began wondering where her father was. She had
hidden in his car, giggling to herself at the trick she was playing
on him. When she had followed him through the woods, she hadn''t
been afraid of the dark. She''d never been afraid. She had hidden,
waiting for the right time to jump out and into his arms.
But he had put on a long, dark coat, like the others, and now she
wasn''t sure which one was Daddy. Though the naked woman both
embarrassed and fascinated her, what the grown-ups were doing no
longer seemed like a game.
She felt her heart beating in her throat when the man in the mask
began to chant again.
"We call on Ammon, the god of life and reproduction. On Pan, the
god of lust."
After the calling of each name, the others repeated it. The list
was long.
The group was swaying now, a deep hum rising up among them while
the high priest drank from a silver chalice. Finished, he set the
cup down between the breasts of the altar.
He took up a sword and pointing it south, east, north, and west,
called up the four princes of hell.
Satan, lord of fire
Lucifer, bringer of light
Belial, who has no master
Leviathan, serpent of the deep
In the brush, the young girl shuddered and was afraid.
"Ave, Satan."
"I call upon you, Master, Prince of Darkness, King of the Night,
throw wide the Gates of Hell and hear us." The high priest shouted
the words, not like a prayer, but a demand. As his voice rang out,
he held up a parchment. The lights from the greedy flames washed
through it like blood. "We ask that our crops be bountiful, our
cattle fruitful. Destroy our enemies, bring sickness and pain to
those who would harm us. We, your faithful, demand fortune and
pleasure." He placed a hand on the breast of the altar. "We take
what we wish, in your name, Lord of the Flies. In your name, we
speak: Death to the weak. Wealth to the strong. The rods of our sex
grow hard, our blood hot. Let our women burn for us. Let them
receive us lustfully." He stroked down the altar''s torso and
between the thighs as the prostitute, well-schooled, moaned and
began to move under his hand.
His voice rose as he continued his requests. He thrust the
sword''s point through the parchment and held it over the flame of a
black candle until all that remained of it was the stink of smoke.
The chant of the circle of twelve swelled behind him.
At some signal, two of the cloaked figures pulled a young goat
into the circle. As its eyes rolled in fright, they chanted over
it, nearly screaming now. The athamas was drawn, the ceremonial
knife whose freshly whetted blade glimmered under the rising
moon.
When the girl saw the blade slice across the white goat''s throat,
she tried to scream, but no sound passed her lips. She wanted to
run, but her legs seemed rooted to the ground. She covered her face
with her hands, weeping and wanting to call for her father.
When at last she looked again, the ground ran with blood. It
dripped over the sides of a shallow silver bowl. The voices of the
men were a roaring buzz in her ears as she watched them throw the
headless carcass of the goat into the fire pit.
Now the stink of roasting flesh hung sickeningly in the
air.
With a ululant cry, the man in the goat mask tore off his cloak.
Beneath he was naked, his white, white skin glimmering with sweat,
though the night was cool. Glinting on his chest was a silver
amulet inscribed with old and secret symbols.
He straddled the altar, then drove himself hard between her
thighs. With a howling scream, a second man fell on the other
woman, dragging her to the ground, while the others tore off their
cloaks to dance naked around the pit of fire.
She saw her father, her own father, dip his hands into the
sacrificial blood. As he capered with the others, it dripped from
his fingers. . . .
Clare woke, screaming.
Breathless, chilled with sweat, she huddled under the blankets.
With one trembling hand, she fumbled for the switch on the bedside
lamp. When that wasn''t enough, she rose to flip on others until the
small room was flooded with light. Her hands were still unsteady
when she drew a cigarette from a pack and struck a match.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she smoked in silence.
Why had the dream come back now?
Her therapist would say it was a knee-jerk reaction to her
mother''s recent marriage--subconsciously she felt her father had
been betrayed.
That was bull.
Clare blew out a defiant stream of smoke. Her mother had been
windowed for over twelve years. Any sane, loving daughter would
want her mother''s happiness. And she was a loving daughter. She
just wasn''t so sure about the sane part.
She remembered the first time she''d had the dream. She''d been six
and had wakened screaming in her bed. Just as she had tonight. But
then, her parents had rushed in to gather her up and soothe. Even
her brother, Blair, had come in, wide-eyed and wailing. Her mother
had carried him off while her father stayed with her, crooning in
his calm, quiet voice, promising her over and over that it was only
a dream, a bad dream that she would soon forget.
And she had, for long stretches of time. Then it would creep up
on her, a grinning assassin, when she was tense or exhausted or
vulnerable.
She stabbed out the cigarette and pressed her fingers to her
eyes. Well, she was tense now. Her one-woman show was less than a
week away, and though she had personally chosen each piece of
sculpture that would be shown, she was plagued with doubts.
Perhaps it was because the critics had been so enthusiastic two
years before, at her debut. Now that she was enjoying success,
there was so much more to lose. And she knew the work that would be
shown was her best. If it was found to be mediocre, then she, as an
artist, was mediocre.
Was there any label more damning?
Because she felt better having something tangible to worry about,
she rose and opened the draperies. The sun was just coming up,
giving the streets and sidewalks of downtown Manhattan an almost
rosy hue. Pushing open the window, she shivered once in the chill
of the spring morning.
It was almost quiet. From a few blocks up, she could hear the
grind of a garbage truck finishing its rounds. Near the corner of
Canal and Greene, she saw a bag lady pulling a cart with all her
worldly possessions. The wheels squeaked and echoed hollowly.
There was a light in the bakery directly across and three stories
down. Clare caught the faint strains of Rigoletto and the good
yeasty scent of baking bread. A cab rumbled past, valves knocking.
Then there was silence again. She might have been alone in the
city.
Was that what she wanted? she wondered. To be alone, to find some
spot and dig into solitude? There were times when she felt so
terribly disconnected, yet unable to make a place just for
herself.
Wasn''t that why her marriage had failed? She had loved Rob, but
she had never felt connected to him. When it was over, she''d felt
regret but not remorse.
Or perhaps Dr. Janowski was right, and she was burying her
remorse, all of it, every ounce of grief she had felt since her
father died. Channeling it out through her art.
And what was wrong with that? She started to stuff her hands into
the pockets of her robe when she discovered she wasn''t wearing it.
A woman had to be crazy to stand in an open window in SoHo wearing
nothing but a flimsy Bill the Cat T-shirt. The hell with it, she
thought and leaned out farther. Maybe she was crazy.
She stood, her bright red hair disheveled from restless sleep,
her face pale and tired, watching the light grow and listening to
the noise begin as the city woke.
Then she turned away, ready for work.
It was after two when Clare heard the buzzer. It sounded like an
annoying bee over the hiss of the torch in her hand and the crash
of Mozart booming from the stereo. She considered ignoring it, but
the new piece wa...
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