The priestess, p.19
The Priestess, page 19
"Aren't you going to ask me in?" she asked gently. "Or don't you want to see me?"
Emotions tumbling, Orient smiled and stepped back. "I was coming to see you in a while. Everything all right?"
"Everything's rotten. I missed you terribly." She moved closer and kissed him, hands caressing his damp skin.
"Mmm, that's better." She sighed. "Do you want me to order some wine? I'm not sure I can wait that long."
Her cool, restless fingers sent icy prickles of delight along his spine, making it difficult to ease out of her embrace.
"We'll have to wait," he said softly. "I've got to meet the boss in a little while and take care of some unfinished business."
Cara's expression became as wooden as her touch. "All right, then, David. If that's what you want. I'll be waiting."
She turned and hurried from the room, and as Orient stared at the empty doorway, desire and doubt pecked at his brain like a pair of hungry vultures.
He'd spent two weeks working Cara out of his system, but after seeing her again it was clear he hadn't succeeded. The cravings aroused by her presence were a gnawing reminder that she was still part of him.
He dressed quickly and went to the corridor leading to Pay's private wing. The guards waved him through, and Orient realized that he'd accomplished the first phase of his objective. He'd gained complete access to Pay's inner fortress.
Heartened by the observation, he went to the main room and spotted Mojo sitting apart from the small crowd of guests, earnestly conferring with Tom and Zack. Knowing they were still hammering out the details of the championship fight, Orient took a drink from a passing tray and made himself comfortable.
As he waited, he tried to concentrate on his business with Mojo, but his eyes kept wandering across the room, searching for Cara's exquisite face, until he saw Mojo coming toward him.
"Everything's on, duke. Starting Monday morning, the gambling concession is yours," Pay announced, settling down beside him. "You'll have a staff of four assistants under you. Anything else you need, just holler."
Orient gathered his straggling concentration. "I won't need any assistants. All I need is a breakdown of your take for the last three months."
"What for?"
"I think I can cut down overhead and raise the profits. Fair enough?"
Pay chuckled. "Sure sounds like I picked the right man for the job. Tell you what. You raise the take and you get twenty-five percent of whatever comes in over normal."
"You've got a deal, Mojo."
"Good. It's settled. You'll have that breakdown Monday morning. Meanwhile, why don't you just relax and have a good time? Cara's been lookin' for you. I think she's gone on you, duke."
Pay's face was impassive, but a challenging note in his voice alerted Orient's instincts.
"She's lovely," he said calmly.
The diamond in Pay's tooth glittered at the edge of his smile. "You got good taste. I admire that in a man. And you're smart. The best way to forget an old flame is to strike a new match, my daddy always said."
The gathering in the private reception room enlarged to a full-scale party. Orient knew he should try to get some rest, but remained in his corner, trapped between the taunting memory of Royce's death and a scratching need to see Cara.
He felt a soothing tug at his instincts, and a moment later she was framed in the gilded doorway. She hurried to meet him.
"I'm late because I wanted you to miss me," she whispered. "Did you?"
"Yes. I missed you."
"Then let's get out of here. All these people make me nervous."
Holding his hand tightly, she led him outside to a small unoccupied room at the end of the hall. She closed the door, pressed the light switch, and a section of the wall slid away, revealing a stairway.
Fighting to regain control of his raging desire, Orient followed, and as the panel closed behind them, he saw that the carpeted stairs led to a miniature palace with a domed mosaic ceiling and tiled walls adorned with brocade tapestries. Without pausing, Cara ushered him through an inner doorway to a satin-padded bedroom.
"We'll have everything we need in here," she promised as the panel slid shut, sealing them inside. "Anything you ever wanted, my darling."
Cara was a perpetual fountain of pleasure, as well as an insatiable consumer, filling Orient with torrents of sensation, then draining him in long, delicious surges, over and over again. When he became exhausted, she nursed him with champagne and cocaine, and his senses billowed with renewed vitality, the hot, liquid need pumping through his body like blood.
Orient reveled in the unbridled bursts of ecstasy, surrendering all control to the foaming lusts of Cara's flesh, until every cell was saturated by her wanton sweetness, and passion spilled into oblivion.
A shaft of light prodded his eyes open.
He peered numbly at the patterns of brightness and shadow and minutes later recognized the hazy figure across the room. It was Cara, sitting at a mirror, braiding her gleaming black hair.
When she left the mirrored table and came back to the bed, he saw she was dressed.
She sat at the edge of the bed and cradled his head in her arms.
"You were asleep a long time," she murmured, kissing him gently. "How do you feel?"
He groaned. "Which piece are you talking about?"
"You just need a big breakfast."
As Orient sat up, he realized that Cara's head was covered by a white kerchief, and an image of Royce lashed his helpless brain. She'd been wearing the same kind of head cloth the night he killed her.
"Where are you going?" he asked numbly.
Cara's smile was radiant with anticipation. "It's Saturday evening, my darling. I must fulfill my obligations as matriarch of the Lecumi faith."
She held out a string of crystal beads. "Be an angel and fasten these for me. I don't want to break a fingernail."
Orient's fingers caressed the smooth nape of her neck as he clasped the necklace, and a spark of desire tingled his instincts.
Cara shivered slightly. "I'll be back soon, my love, and I'll belong only to you." A moment later she eased out of his arms.
"Time to go. If you need anything, dial zero."
Powerless to stop her, he watched her cross the room and slip through an arched panel.
It took over a half-hour of bending, stretching, and breathing before Orient's body felt whole again. An advanced meditation session replenished his withered senses, and after a hot shower he picked up the phone and ordered breakfast.
In a short time a uniformed waiter appeared carrying a tray of eggs, bacon, toast, honey, orange juice, and coffee. Appetite sharpened by the night's excess and his recent exercise, Orient devoured it all. He was lingering over a second cup of coffee when the man returned for the tray.
As Orient idly watched the waiter leave, it occurred to him that the man used a different panel than the one Cara had taken when she left.
The room was octagonal, and each of its eight sides was arched in shape. Two of the arches were open -- the entrance to the bath and Cara's dressing room. The others were padded with blue satin. Of those remaining six arches, two were exits. One panel, he knew, led to the room downstairs.
Perhaps, Orient reasoned, the other led to Pay's sanctum.
If the Lecumi service was being held off the estate, it might be an opportune time to look around. The crucial question was where the rite was being conducted.
From the outside, the large windowless wing resembled nothing more than a rectangular box attached to the rest of the mansion as an afterthought. There was no way of telling if Pay's private quarters contained three rooms or thirty.
Orient went to the arched panel Cara had used and pressed his ear against the satin padding.
Hearing no sound vibrating against the panel, he weighed the possibilities and pushed the circular light switch. If he wandered into anything embarrassing, he could plead ignorance of the floor plan.
The panel opened onto a short corridor and led to a small room and three blank walls. He located the light switch and pressed. Nothing happened.
Reluctant to be stopped so quickly, Orient studied the dial. Like the others, it raised or dimmed the light when twisted, but also had a spring beneath. Obviously it was meant to be pushed. He wondered if the dial had to be pushed in a certain sequence, like a Morse code, to work. He explored the variations of a three-dot code, since there were only six possible combinations, and on the fourth try -- one short and two long -- part of the wall slid open.
Elation broke through Orient's apprehension as he stepped into the marble-pillared room and saw the alabaster table heaped with offerings. He'd penetrated the sanctuary.
He went to the altar and examined the flowers, silver urns of fruit, coconut halves, bottles of perfume and rum, bowls of incense, and other offerings ranging from meat to jewelry, arranged around a garishly colored crucifixion statue of a black saint with silver arrows protruding from his bloody chest. He made careful note of the African totems interspersed among them, and realized that although much grander, it resembled Royce's simple altar to Yemaya.
Then he checked the immense empty room for more light dials. There were two -- one directly behind the altar, and the other across the room facing it.
Orient weighed going farther. At this point, he couldn't plead ignorance if he was discovered prowling around. Unable to decide, he went into a deep breathing pattern and extended the orbit of his awareness, dowsing for direction.
He found something immediately.
As soon as he expanded perception, a buzzing discordance stung his mind like a swarm of disturbed hornets.
Orient quickly withdrew his senses, but his curiosity was aroused. The core of the disturbance was located somewhere behind the altar, and from the fleeting impression he'd received, contained a huge reservoir of negative energy. Without hesitation he went around the altar and pressed one short and two long on the light dial.
A section of speckled green stone slid back, revealing a deep rectangular niche whose inner wall was lined with rows of white-cotton sacks. Neat squares of tape were placed beneath each sack, and something was printed on them.
Orient stepped closer to examine the labels, then froze as a thick, liquid shadow oozed from a corner of the niche. Paralyzed with terror, he watched the snake slide toward him, oily red scales glistening against the white-marble floor.
Chapter 17
Orient's frantic heartbeat filled the silence as the reptile glided closer, and a half-dozen thoughts sprayed his panic. The pointed head meant it was poisonous; probably a coral snake; best to keep perfectly still; no way to escape unless he could leap onto the altar; if he lifted a finger, the snake would strike; he was trapped like a caged bird.
The memory of the bird who'd flown into his window weeks before sparked his reflexes, and he took a long, slow breath, drawing his perceptions into a state of total acceptance. Senses balanced, he extended the passive orbit of awareness toward the approaching snake.
A harsh, bitter texture scratched his mind, and he felt the creature's hunger, thirst, and rage. Understanding he had to pacify the reptile's driving appetites, Orient drew the grating anger into his orbit of consciousness.
The snake lifted its head, slender white fangs protruding from its pink maw. Orient absorbed the reptile's hostility and eased his concentration back along the crimson body to its twitching tail. A second later the snake turned away.
Carefully moving his focused will along the floor, Orient guided the reptile to a point about fifteen feet away. Then he lifted his eyes and scanned the altar table.
He saw a plate of ground meat and a bowl of water among the offerings and slowly shuffled toward them. It was difficult to move and hold concentration, and when he glanced up, he saw the snake crawling toward him, tail lashing nervously.
He deepened his concentration, and the reptile stopped about three feet away. Orient's awareness absorbed the snake's murderous tension as he placed the plate of meat and bowl of water on the floor. Then, tilting his focus toward the food, he took a tentative step back.
A heartbeat later, the snake's head dipped into the bowl of water.
Knowing he might still alarm the deadly reptile with a sudden move, Orient inched back to the niche in the marble wall. After making sure the food had captured the snake's complete attention, he turned to examine the neat rows of white sacks.
There was a name printed beneath each small cotton bag. Orient quickly examined the labels and found two he recognized: B. Fein, and his own alias, D. Clay. Although curious to see what the sacks contained, he restrained the impulse. They were all sewn shut, and it was important that nothing seem disturbed.
He waited patiently until the snake's hunger was satisfied, and then, using his concentration as leverage, coaxed the sluggish reptile back to its nest on the floor of the niche. The moment the section of marble slid closed, Orient's control crumbled.
Perspiration streamed over his face, and his hands trembled as he replaced the plate and bowl on the altar. Suddenly afraid he'd been gone too long, he hurried to the door. He moved swiftly through the small room and corridor, and when he returned, saw that only thirty minutes had passed since he'd left the bedroom. Relief buried under a hoard of questions, Orient removed his sweat-dampened clothes and phoned for a double brandy.
The drink burned the revulsion from his belly, but the questions persisted.
Obviously, since Bella's name had been included, the sacks were lethal occult missiles, to be deployed whenever it became expedient to remove an enemy. He wasn't surprised to see his name included among the potential victims, but wondered if Cara knew about the niche behind the altar.
"Lazybones. I suppose all you've been doing is lying back counting the profits."
He looked up and saw her coming toward him, bare feet silent on the carpet.
"You're back early," he said awkwardly.
She knelt beside the bed, head slightly tilted, as if listening to the distant tremor of his heartbeat.
"You sound disappointed," she observed gently.
"Not at all."
Uncertainty chipped her pale smile. "I don't suppose you even missed me."
Orient's doubts were obliterated by a thrust of desire, and he knew only that he needed Cara. Her fragile presence filled the arid craters in his soul like moist earth.
"Yes, I missed you," he whispered hoarsely, reaching out.
Cara eased into his arms, soft mouth sending delicious ripples across his skin. Her restless tongue goaded the sensation, intensifying delight until it massed into a fierce ground swell of lust that raged past dawn.
The next few weeks arranged themselves into a pleasant routine. Orient would rent a suite at one of the hotels on the strip and spend his days collecting the cash receipts from Pay's network of bookie joints and policy banks.
As he'd calculated, making the rounds personally eliminated petty skimming and increased the profits by twenty percent the first month.
Every Friday afternoon he'd meet Mojo Pay at his Doral suite, turn in the week's take, and after a brief business conference they'd drive back to the estate, where Orient would rejoin Cara.
Together they'd remain secluded in her miniature palace, exploring the unlimited possibilities of sensual pleasure, until Monday morning, when, like all dutiful executives, Orient went back to work.
Pay ignored the relationship completely, except on Saturday night, when he called for Mama Pay to preside as matriarch of the Lecumi rite.
In those weeks Orient learned very little about Pay's cult. The Cuban businessmen he visited were polite but extremely reluctant to discuss anything beyond the weekly gambling receipts.
The breakdown in his investigation gnawed at Orient's awareness, but he soothed the guilt with the hope that Cara would eventually furnish him with what he required to defeat Pay.
She was his most vital link to the inner formulas of Lecumi. It was therefore crucial that he remain an indispensable employee.
As he drove to the Hotel Naples, however, Orient remembered the neat rows of deadly little white sacks and wondered if Mojo Pay considered anyone indispensable. It was late afternoon when he reached the ornate structure, and he looked forward to visiting his old friend before having a drink in the lounge.
Gaspar was at his post in the men's room, but seemed less than pleased to see him.
"I guess you came for your money, as usual," the elderly attendant muttered. "It's all here, don't worry."
Orient smiled. "I'm not worried, amigo. How's business?"
"This business is always the same. But at least it's clean," he retorted, thrusting an envelope at Orient. "Count it, please."
He opened the envelope and riffled through the bills.
"One hundred even," he confirmed. "Any problems I can help you solve?"
"Nothing I can't take care of myself," Gaspar spat.
"If there's something you don't like, let me know. That's why I'm here," Orient told him calmly.
The short, scrawny attendant puffed his chest like an aggressive turkey, bright-gray eyes blinking indignantly.
"I don't like paying off, and I don't like errand-boy collectors. Now, why don't you run back and tell that to your boss, so he can work me over?"
"I don't get it," Orient said slowly. "I'm a collector, sure, but nobody wants to work you over. I don't see why you're complaining. Ninety percent still leaves you nine hundred a week. Not a bad profit on the franchise."
"Nine hundred?" The old man snorted contemptuously. "Shows how smart you are. I don't clear more than two-fifty a week here. That hundred dollars isn't my percentage, it's my minimum contribution. I was doing fine until the great Mojo Pay decided to move in on my two-bit location. Now do you get it?"
Orient suddenly understood why he'd been unable to gain any of his clients' confidence. They saw him as part of Pay's tyranny of extortion.
"When I first saw you, I thought you were different, better maybe," Gaspar piped. "But you're just like Valentine and the rest of the pimps on the strip. Why don't you wise up?"
