Free Ritual in Death by J. D. Robb

said, with both pain and humor in her eyes. “A potion. There’s always a price for power.”
    “You’re in pain,” Eve said flatly. “We need to get you out of here.”
    “The circle needs to be closed as it was opened. Properly. Then, yes, we all need to get out of here.”
    When it was done, and her tools gathered again, Isis leaned on Roarke while Eve resealed the door.
    “Can we go back to where we had lunch? I’ll tell you what I can tell you, but I want to be away from here.”
    In the owner’s suite, Roarke helped her to the couch, tucked pillows behind her head. “What do you need?” he asked her.
    “A really big glass of wine.”
    “I can get that for you. Lieutenant?”
    “Coffee. I understand you’re a sensitive,” Eve began, “and you believe, strongly believe in your . . . faith.”
    “You sometimes hear the cries of the dead. Feel their pain, and know their need for you. We’re not so far apart.” Isis closed her eyes a moment, opening them when Roarke brought her wine. She drank slowly, as she had her potion. “She was a lovely child. I saw some of what they did to her. Not all, I think, not all, but enough. She was inside herself, screaming to get out, but trapped there. There are ways to trap a spirit, with drugs, and other methods. She drank what they gave her, ate, let them touch her. She had no choice. They marked her with a serpent.”
    Eve thought of the tattoo, said nothing.
    “Sex for power. Well, for some of them, it was only sex—the greed for it, the meanness of it. No love, not even lust. Just greed and violence and power. The one they brought her first, not one of them. Trapped as she was. Something there.”
    Isis touched a hand to her forehead, sipped more wine. “Something light between them,” she continued. “Light and new, twisted now when they coupled on the sign. Snuffing out that fragile light with chants and drugs and power until it, too, turned mean. They raped her, took him away and raped her, again and again while she lay unable to fight, to resist. And her trapped spirit screaming, screaming.”
    “Easy now,” Roarke murmured, and took Isis’s hand. “Easy.”
    She nodded, gathered herself again. “They pulled her up, dragged her to the one who leads them. She looked at him. He said her name, and she looked in his eyes when he cut her throat.
    “And they fell on her like beasts. I couldn’t bear any more. I couldn’t bear it.”
    Eve rose and walked away while Isis wept in absolute silence, while Roarke sat with her, held her hand. She walked to the wide glass doors, yanked them open, and stepped out into the spring air that buzzed like a mad hive from the city.
    When Roarke came out, she continued to stare out at the snarls of traffic, the rush of people below. “What am I supposed to do with this?” she demanded. “Go to the PA and tell him I want to arrest these people because a witch communed with the tragic spirit of the victim?”
    “Eve.”
    He laid a hand on her shoulder, but rather than turn to him, she curled her hands on the rail until they were fists. “I know she didn’t bullshit that, okay? I may be cynical, but I’m not stupid. And I’m sick at the thought that she saw what she saw. Nobody should. Nobody should have to see that, feel that.”
    “No one but you?” he asked, and turned her to face him.
    She shook her head. “I looked right in the faces of some of the people who did this to that girl. And I looked right in the eyes of one of them, the one I think cut her throat. And for a second—hell, longer—I was scared right down to my guts.” She let out a breath. “Now, I’m just pissed off.”
    He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Then take them down, Lieutenant.”
    “I damn well will.” She put her arms around him first, squeezed. “You pissed me off.”
    “Same goes. Now, it seems, I’m not. And I just love you.”
    “I’m still a little pissed.” But she tipped her head back, looked into his eyes.