LITMIR.BIZ

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out. He was God’s disciple. “Show me the way,” he whispered urgently, licking his lips. “Tell me what I must do.”

      Kill.

      The Voice was clear.

      Slay them both.

      Sacrifice the man and woman.

      He frowned as he prayed, not completely understanding. The woman, Eve, he understood. Oh, how long he’d waited to do just what the Voice commanded. He envisioned her. Heart-shaped face with a strong, impertinent chin. The faintest hint of freckles bridging a short, straight nose. Intense eyes as clear and blue as a tropical lagoon. Fiery, storm-tossed hair.

      So beautiful.

      So headstrong.

      And such a whore.

      He imagined what she let men do to that athletic body…. Oh, he’d seen her before, peeked through the slit between her curtains and seen taut skin stretched over feminine muscles, skin that moved fluidly as she bathed. Her breasts were small, firm, and tipped with rosy-hued nipples that tightened as she stepped into the bathwater.

      Yes, he’d watched her, spying upon her as those long legs slipped over the edge of the tub, unknowingly flashing him just a glimpse of the pink folds and red curls at the juncture of her thighs.

      Thinking of her, he felt that special tingle that only she could entice from him, the hot run of blood that flushed his skin and caused his cock to thicken in anticipation.

      If only he could run his fingers inside her legs, lick those tight little breasts, fuck the hell out of her. She was a whore anyway. In his mind’s eye he saw himself mounting her, his toned body taut over hers, his cock driving deep into that hot, wanton wasteland where others had spilled their seed.

      He was breathing hard.

      Knew what he was thinking was a sin.

      But he wanted to ram deep into her just once.

      Before the killing.

      And he had the opportunity. Hadn’t the Voice instructed him to prove what a whore she was?

      But what of the man?

      As if the Voice had heard his thoughts, It whispered, You are the Reviver. The One I have chosen for this task to revive the souls of the weak. Do not fail me. It’s up to you who will live and who will die. Now, go!

      Realizing he was still on his knees, he made another swift sign of the cross and felt a jab of shame that God might have read his thoughts and learned of his weakness where she was concerned. He had to fight the lust. Had to.

      And yet, as he stood, stretching his honed muscles, he felt needles of anticipation piercing his skin, desire causing his groin to tighten almost painfully.

      The Reviver. The Voice had given him a name. He rolled it around in his head and decided he liked it, enjoyed the thought that he was the decider, the one who ultimately chose who lived and who died. It was a good sign, wasn’t it, that the Voice had decided to name him? Kind of like being anointed, or knighted. The Reviver. Yes!

      He dressed in the dark, pulling on his camouflage pants and jacket, ski mask and boots, the uniform he hung from a peg near the door. His weapons were already stowed in his truck, hidden in a locked drawer in the false bottom of his toolbox. Knives, pistols, silencers, plastic explosives, even a peashooter and darts with poisoned tips….

      And something special, just for her.

      He slid out of his dark room and stepped into the deep, mist-laden night.

      He was ready.

      Eve checked her watch.

      Ten forty-five.

      “Great,” she muttered between clenched teeth.

      She was running late.

      Despite the fact that the night outside the windshield of her Camry was thick with fog, she stepped on the gas. Her dented Toyota had nearly a hundred and twenty thousand miles on the engine but still leapt forward, ever reliable.

      So she wouldn’t be on time. So what? A few minutes one way or the other wouldn’t hurt.

      She took a corner a little too fast, cut into the inside lane, and nearly hit an oncoming pickup. The driver blasted his horn and she jerked on the wheel, slowing a little, her heart jack-hammering.

      She forced herself to relax her grip on the wheel and take a deep breath. Roy could wait, she decided, thinking of the frantic phone call she’d received less than half an hour earlier.

      “Eve, you’ve got to come,” he’d said in a rush, his voice tense. “To the cabin—you know the one. Where we used to go in the summer as kids. My uncle’s place. But hurry. I’ll…I’ll uh, meet you at eleven.”

      “It’s late,” she protested. “I’m not going to—”

      “I’ve got evidence.”

      “Evidence of what?”

      “I’ll tell you when you get here. Just come. Alone.”

      “Hell, Roy, you don’t have to go all cloak and dagger on me. Just tell me what’s going on!”

      Her answer was several clicks and dead air. He’d hung up.

      “No, wait! Roy! Oh for God’s sake,” she growled, poking a few buttons on her phone, hoping to capture his number on caller ID and return the call. But her screen had come up with the phrase “Unknown Caller,” and she was left gnashing her teeth in frustration, her heart pounding with a case of nerves. What “evidence” had Roy found? What was he talking about? Half a dozen possibilities, none of them good, had run through her mind as she’d hurried to meet him.

      Maybe she shouldn’t have come at all. Cole hadn’t wanted her to. In fact he’d practically barred the door, completely infuriating her. In her mind’s eye she still envisioned his taut, worried face, and she recalled every angry word. He’d wanted to come with her, but she’d insisted on going alone. She’d hurried out the door into the cold, foggy night before he could bully his way into her decision making.

      This was something she had to do by herself.

      So now she was driving, in the middle of a moonless Louisiana night, toward the swampland where Roy’s uncle, Vernon, owned an old fishing cabin. If it still existed. The last time she’d been there, over ten years earlier, the place had already been going to seed. She couldn’t imagine what it might be like now.

      Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw the worry in her eyes. What the hell was going on?

      She hadn’t spoken to Roy in over a year.

      Why would he call now?

      He’s in trouble again, of course. You know Roy. He’s a prime example of borderline paranoia. The man’s got his own special brand of neurosis.

      So why do you always come running when he calls, huh?

      What kind of pull does he have over you?

      What’s your own special brand of neurosis that you have to bail him out over and over again?

      “Oh shut up,” she muttered tightly. The problem with being part of a post-grad psychology program was that she was always psychoanalyzing herself.

      It got old.

      She snapped on the radio. Notes from the tail end of some country ballad about a love triangle trailed into a commercial for the latest weight-loss program. Not much help. Switching stations and listening with half an ear, she peered through the rising mist. Vernon’s place was nearby, she thought. Squinting, she spotted a faded No Hunting sign that had been nailed to the trunk of a tall pine tree and blasted with a shotgun several times over, the letters nearly obliterated by buckshot.

      Only one other vehicle passed by her as the road wound through the swampland. She shivered, though the night was far from cool. Finally her headlight beams

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