Free Midnight Exposure by Melinda Leigh Page B

Necessity had fueled the killing. The gods required the boy die for ruining the ritual. But his trespass had been a blessing in disguise. It was when blood had been spilled onto consecrated ground that the gods’ message was revealed.
    There was no such thing as coincidence. It was another omen. The gods had intended the boy to wander there. They wanted to show the true path to salvation. Blood was the stuff of life, fromman’s first nourishment in the womb until it ceased to circulate upon his death. Only a blood offering could save him. He knew that now.
    Blood was his only hope.
    He shifted her body in his arms.
    Her blood.
    He had no time to waste. He could feel his health slipping away, like water through cupped hands. The winter solstice was his last chance. This holiest of Druid celebrations, the rebirth of the earth from its darkest day, the dawning of new life.
    He lowered the woman to the floor, grimacing at the filth she’d have to endure. Not for long, though. He only had to keep her confined for a few days.
    He removed her jacket, hat, and gloves. Her limp body slid in the dirt as he adjusted her position and clamped the handcuffs around her slender wrists. She was a marvel. Fine-boned and feminine, yet simultaneously long-limbed and strong. His palms stroked up her biceps, squeezed the firm muscle of her shoulder, then moved upward to cup her jaw. And now he knew exactly why she’d seemed so familiar the first time he’d seen her.
    His gaze moved to the tapestry he’d brought down and hung on the cinder-block wall. One of the prizes of his collection, it depicted the story of another tall, graceful redhead with creamy skin and a warrior’s bearing: the goddess, the healer, the Druidess, Brigid.
    Jayne was Brigid in the flesh. And, like the goddess, she’d been sent here to heal him.
    He turned back to his captive. Long eyelashes rested against skin the color of fresh cream. She was lovely. Absolutely lovely. And pure as the clean snow falling outside. His fingertip traced the scar on her cheek. A crude spiral. The symbol for etherealpower. Exactly what he needed to end his torment. The woman had been marked by the gods.
    He pulled her camera from her jacket pocket and turned it over in his hands. He scrolled through the digital images. His photo was not among them. She must have another. Perhaps she’d left it in her room at the inn. No matter. He’d get it. The picture wasn’t that important anymore. Not after the revelation had come to him.
    The winter solstice loomed just a few days away. Until then he’d pass the night hours awake and lonely. On the solstice, she’d be bound to him forever. Her life would flow from her body to his. Life and death would be mingled in the strongest earthly connection.
    Until then—
    He pulled his
boline
from his pocket. The white handle of the ritual knife fit comfortably in his palm; its curved, sickle-like blade sharp as a razor. He knelt by her side, the concrete floor unyielding under his knees. He turned her palm upward, drew the knife across her soft skin, and dipped a forefinger in the blood that welled from the shallow cut. Raising his hand to his forehead, he drew the lines of Brigid’s off-kilter cross on his flesh.
    Perhaps some of her power could sustain him until the solstice. Then, her sacrifice would be his salvation.

    John lifted his head from the mattress and listened. Thumping and the barely discernable murmur of voices echoed through the ductwork.
    The man was back. Terror coiled around John’s heart like a python and squeezed. His gaze darted to the open cardboard boxnext to the door. The usual bottles of water and meal replacement bars were still piled inside from this morning’s visit. Unless it was tomorrow.
    Had he blanked out an entire day? Or was this a new, unexpected visit? A steady dose of some sort of tranquilizer made days difficult to track, but a change in the daily routine could mean his time was up. Despite the man’s