Amen.

He didn’t know why that prayer had leaped into his head but he was glad it had. No matter the outcome of the night, he knew the Lord would be with him.

Mark stood and forced a smile. “I was afraid you weren’t coming.”

She didn’t return his smile. She held out a strip of dark fabric. “Until you’re fully a part of the Flower, our total anonymity has to be maintained. Turn around, Mark.”

A blindfold. He did as she requested, though his every instinct shouted he not.

She fixed the fabric across his eyes, then tied it. The fit was snug but not uncomfortable. The dark fabric completely blinded him.

“Face me.” When he did, she cupped his face in her palms. He sensed her gaze boring into his. “Remember your promise to do anything I asked?” she murmured. “Anything, without hesitation. Do you remember?”

He nodded and she stood on tiptoe. She pressed her mouth to his, and with her tongue, deposited something on his, then drew her tongue out but kept her lips pressed tightly to his.

A pill, he realized with alarm. She was drugging him! He gagged but she stood fast, her mouth against his, sealing it, forcing him to swallow.

He did and she smiled. “Good baby. Just let me make sure.” She kissed him again, this time with abandon. With a passion that took him as much by surprise as her drugging him had. She moved her body against his in time to the movement of her tongue in his mouth.

With a throaty laugh she brought her right hand from his face to his shoulder, then chest, across his abdomen to his crotch. She cupped him, massaging with alternating pressure.

His body responded and guilty tears stung his eyes. How could his body betray him that way? How could he betray Tara that way?

“It will be wonderful,” Sarah whispered against his ear, as if sensing his distress. “The most perfect experience ever. Just trust me.”

She caught his hand again and led him slowly forward. After a few moments they stepped from sand to pavement. They took eight steps, then stopped.

A car door opened. Footsteps came around the car. Mark strained to hear, to pick up anything that would reveal the other person’s identity. He couldn’t even determine whether the other person was male or female.

The footsteps ceased. “He took it,” Sarah said to the other’s unspoken question. “I think it’s starting to kick in.”

She was right, Mark realized. His limbs had grown heavy, his head light. Pinpricks of colored light danced before his blindfolded eyes. He attempted to blink them away but couldn’t.

The sensations were unnatural but not unpleasant. They sucked all fear and uncertainty from him.

The two helped him into a vehicle and he slumped against the seat, a smile curving his lips, his thoughts sailing-over lakes and mountains, past his life’s events, people he had known and loved waving as he flew by. Buoyant as a cloud on a summer breeze, he returned their greeting, wishing he could stop and talk, frustrated that he couldn’t.

Mark became aware of the vehicle moving. He fought to focus, to determine travel time and direction. His effort was wasted. Instead, his head filled with sexual images. With Sarah’s mouth and touch, her voice in his ear.

“You want me, don’t you?”

With a shock he realized she was beside him in the car, her mouth close to his ear, her hand in his lap. Kneading. Freeing. Stroking.

He groaned. She replaced her hand with her mouth, circling him, sucking, stroking with her tongue.

“Save it, my sweet. We’re here.”

The voice came as if from a great distance, echoing strangely. A man’s? he wondered. Or a woman’s?

The two helped him from the car. Mark didn’t feel his feet touch the ground. He was levitating, he realized. Floating, like a Macy’s New Year’s Day balloon, being anchored by his companions’ hands.

If not for them, he would float away.

He became aware of a thousand breaths being expelled, of a murmur rippling through a sea of people. They were gathered around him, he realized. Hungry.

They meant to feed on him. On his soul.

He should fight. Scream for help. Deny the unholy cravings of these walking cadavers. Instead, anticipation rippled along his nerve endings, so strong it felt as if his flesh was undulating.

Greedy hands stripped away his garments. Sarah murmured, “Drink,” and brought a large vessel to his lips. He did. The liquid was warm and slightly salty.

A roar of approval rose from the gathering. Heat radiated from his lips, spreading to every nook and cranny of his being. With it came a heightened awareness, a crackling energy.

“Feed on the heat of the Flower!” someone shouted. “It opens to all possibilities. To pleasures that are its birthright.”

Those assembled began to chant. “Let him see! Let him see!”

Sarah removed the blindfold. Creatures surrounded him, ones in human form. Wild animals. Exotic birds. Horrific monsters.

A scream rose in his throat. The creatures moved closer. They touched and stroked him; they whispered encouraging, loving words against his skin. Sounds of excitement slipped from their lips, of approval.

Or were those sounds slipping from his?

It was as if they were worshiping him. The physical sensations were incredible, more exciting than any sexual experience he’d ever had. Not of this world. He was infused with power. He was a god. All-knowing. All-powerful.

This was what Tara had meant, he thought. What Sarah had promised. The most perfect experience ever. If he chose the Horned Flower family, this power, this exaltation, could be his forever.

Mark felt himself levitating above the floor, floating, enraptured. He found himself upon an altar. Lips and mouths consumed him, arms enfolded, hands explored. He orgasmed, how many times he didn’t know, for the spasming was all but continual.

Suddenly, light exploded in his head. Blinding. Burning like white fire. The light was followed by darkness, as black and impenetrable as hell. A darkness more frightening than anything Hollywood could fathom, more frightening than his darkest nightmare.

In it, the beast waited.

Saturday, November 17

9:45 p.m.

Rick’s Island Hideaway looked nothing as Liz had imagined. She supposed that because of the movie Casablanca she had expected lots of tropical plants, slowly whirling ceiling fans, women in sleek sundresses accompanied by modern-day Bogies.

Nothing could be further from reality. No plants. No sleek sundresses or Humphrey Bogart look-alikes. And instead of Sam “playing it again” at the piano, a sound system pumped out reggae music, its decibel only a notch below ear numbing.

The level needed to be heard above the raucous crowd.

She hesitated in the doorway, uncertain what to do. Obviously, her timing sucked, big time. The crowd at the bar was six deep. Rick and another bartender, a sexy-looking twenty-something woman with a wild mane of sun-streaked hair, worked the bar-each managing to fill drink orders, run the register and socialize in what seemed to be one fluid movement.

Rick would not be happy to see her now.

Liz hung back, considering her options. According to the message Mark had left on her machine the previous evening, he expected to be initiated into the Horned Flower last night. He had been meeting his contact at ten-fifteen.

If you don’t hear from me, go to Rick Wells. He’ll know what to do.

She hadn’t heard from him. She feared every minute could mean the difference between life and death.

If he wasn’t dead already.

“Goin’ in, babe?”

Liz glanced over her shoulder. She had been blocking the doorway. “Sure, sorry.”

Decision made, she stepped through. A moment later, she found herself in the middle of the Saturday-night crowd, elbowing her way toward the bar. She got within shouting distance and did just that.