Two men interceded. Dressed entirely in robes of black, they fought Ahmed. I was so frightened. I hid so the two men couldn’t see me. When they approached, Ahmed changed. His eyes glowed red, he grew fangs and claws-I know what I saw, I’m not insane! He attacked, and the two men in black robes sliced through him with their swords. I smothered a scream, I was so terrified I couldn’t even breathe. But instead of Ahmed falling to the ground and bleeding, he simply disappeared in smoke and ash.
I have seen many strange things in my travels. Many unexplained things. Spiritual, demonic, call it what you will. Ahmed was not of this world.
I cowered, afraid to move, to even breathe, certain they would strike me down next. But they left. It was hours later when I could run from my hiding place.
I never told anyone what I saw.
Now I find myself pregnant with his child.
But what kind of child do I carry? Is it a human child, or, God help me, something else?
I’m so afraid. And I have no one to talk to.
Who would believe me, anyway?
Oh, shit. Dalton swallowed, his throat dry and his head throbbing. He continued to read on, realizing as he did that what he’d just read about had to be Angelique and Isabelle’s conception.
The journal entries grew sparse as the years went on. The girls were born, seemed perfectly normal, and Monette seemed relieved. She didn’t mention her secret again. She wrote about the girls’ childhoods and her own adventures in archaeology. She spoke of their travels, how the girls were educated, but she didn’t mention the demons again. Still, he couldn’t put the book down, had to know if there was anything else.
He found an entry that stopped him cold.
I worry about Isabelle. I always have, though I’ve been loath to put it in writing. Now that the girls are adults, I’ve mentioned it to Angelique. She’s noticed, too.
Isabelle has a dark side. A very dark side. Yes, we often disagree on the archaeology part of our work, but it’s more than that. I sense there’s evil within her-a true, pure evil. I don’t think she’s ever been aware of it, but I’ve noticed it since the girls were little. Small things at first. Stealing and lying well beyond harmless children’s pranks. Hurting her sister. Angelique has scars from the fights with Isabelle. I can’t recall the number of times I had to pull knives and other sharp objects away from Isabelle’s hands. The threats she made, the malevolence in her eyes. What would have happened had I not been there to keep close watch over Isabelle, to prevent potential disaster? There were times I feared she might kill her sister. I never spoke to Angelique about this. I didn’t want her to be afraid of Isabelle.
There was a fire once in a bungalow, and I found matches on Isabelle, though she denied starting it. But she’d reeked of smoke. Thank the Lord everyone had escaped the hut that night. I never told anyone I suspected my own daughter. She was only eight years old. What could I do?
There were more events than those I’ve mentioned here. So many more examples of the darkness within Isabelle. I don’t know what to do about it. I’ve never known what to do about it. I’ve watched her, praying the evil of their father never surfaces in Isabelle, but I fear that someday it might, that it already has. But as soon as I think Isabelle is lost, she turns on the charm and she’s oh so sweet, her innocence shining through. Which is real, the innocence or the darkness? I honestly don’t know.
How could this potential evil be so invisible in Angelique and so prevalent in Isabelle? I don’t understand. Yet it is what it is.
I will never tell anyone about the girls’ parentage, but now that I’m ill, I’ve asked Angelique to keep watch over her sister. Angelique knows nothing, and I would never burden her with this secret. It would destroy her to know the truth. It would destroy both of them. No one must find out. But I must ask Angelique to protect her sister.
It’s all I can do. That, and pray for Isabelle’s immortal soul.
God help her. God help them both if any part of their father lives within them.
I love my girls so much. Please, God, save them.
Dalton had to talk to Lou. Now.
“Oh, my God. What are you doing?”
He damn near leaped out of the chair, pivoting around at the sound of Isabelle’s voice.
How long had he been reading? Hours, no doubt. He’d lost track of time, so absorbed in Monette’s journal he hadn’t counted on Isabelle waking up.
Damn brilliant, Dalton.
Her hair disheveled, she’d pulled on the dress she’d worn earlier. Her eyes wide, she stepped into the room and looked down at her mother’s journal, then back up at him.
“Isabelle.” He had no words, didn’t know what to say or how to explain what she saw.
“That’s mine,” she whispered in a ragged voice as she choked back tears.
“I know.”
“How did you find it? I had it locked up.”
“Yes.”
Her gaze narrowed, anguish turning to anger. “You’re not really some rich guy who wants to help me find treasure under the sea, are you?”
He shook his head. He couldn’t avoid this. It was time for the truth. “No, I’m not.”
The tears spilled down her cheeks. She wasn’t shocked anymore. Her gaze narrowed and he could feel her anger from across the room. It lit into him like a cold fury.
“Who the hell are you, Dalton?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ryder held Angie in his arms and listened to her slight moans. Not sex moans, but fitful ones. The kind that signaled bad dreams.
She was sleeping, but not peacefully.
He wasn’t sleeping at all. He’d gotten an hour, two at the most, which was all he’d needed. Now he was restless, anxious; he would feel a lot better if he could get up and pace. But he didn’t want to risk waking her. She needed the rest.
And he needed to think, to figure out what to do now that they’d crossed the line.
Not that he’d done a lot of resisting. One look at her coming out of the steamy bathroom wrapped in only a towel and he’d been a goner. He’d tried to get across to her that the two of them together was a bad idea. His body had thought it was a great idea, though. And damn if he’d been too tired to argue with either her or his cock.
“No.”
He looked down at Angie as she whispered the word. She was frowning. Still asleep, twitching a little, mumbling unintelligible words. She was having one hell of a nightmare.
He knew all about those. He pulled her closer and stroked her hair, wishing he could take the bad dreams away.
From both of them.
Ah, hell. He felt something for her. Desire, definitely. But it was more than that. He didn’t want to see her hurt. He didn’t even want her to have a bad dream. She was frowning, and tears had started rolling down her cheeks. Whatever she was dreaming about was making her unhappy. Her chest rose and fell rapidly and she had started to shake.