The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation Read online

  THE END OF DESIRE

  A ROWAN GANT INVESTIGATION

  BOOK THREE OF THE MIRANDA TRILOGY

  A Novel of Suspense and Magick

  By

  M. R. Sellars

  E.M.A. Mysteries

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, except as noted.

  The name Velvet Rieth, is used with permission, and is loosely based on an actual person. While some characteristics of the individual’s persona are accurate, the character portrayed herein does not necessarily reflect the actual personality or lifestyle of the aforementioned.

  THE END OF DESIRE: A Rowan Gant Investigation

  A WillowTree Press Book

  E.M.A. Mysteries is an imprint of WillowTree Press

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2007 by M. R. Sellars

  Cover Design Copyright © 2007 Johnathan Minton

  Cover Photography: Johnathan Minton

  Cover Model: Ms. Mickie Mueller

  This e-book edition is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book edition may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission.

  For information contact: WillowTree Press on the World Wide Web

  http://www.willowtreepress.com

  Smashwords Edition – 2010

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This is the part where I gush about the folks who make all this possible. “This” being all of these words I hurl at paper and hope like hell at least some of them stick. This list is certainly not comprehensive. There are many, many folks who make the Rowan Gant series possible, not the least of which are those of you who buy them each time I write a new one. However, the folks listed here have been directly responsible for support, insurance, research, ideas, steak, crackers, beer, assorted boozes, chips and dip, various candies, donuts, ice cream, and sometimes even a shoulder to cry on when things aren’t going the way they are supposed to in my world. For that, I owe them at the very least a kudo or two here… After all, as my dear friend Tish would say, “It’s a moral imperative.”—

  Dorothy “Donut Radar” Morrison:Tour Buddy Extraordinaire

  Sergeant Scott “Big Scary Cop Guy” Ruddle, SLPD:‘Nuff Said

  Roy “I Concur” Osbourn:A Source Of Much Information and Amusement

  Kristin “Don’t Call Me Kirstin” Madden: Adopted Little Sister

  Trish Telesco, Christopher Penczak, Edain McCoy, Charlotte Bailey, Gail Wood, Maggie Shayne, and all you other crazy WIP’s—you know who you are.

  Velvet Rieth: Sleazy Motel Investigator Extraordinaire. Love the eye patch!

  Gil Rieth: I’ll Pass on the Whole Stun Gun Thing.

  Anastasia and Seitz: Officially Endorsed “Murv Stalkers”

  Dr. Amy Miller, Adrienne, and Dawn over at St. Louis Skin Solutions

  Coldie, Crystal, Layla, SinGin, Moonfire, and Lord Bastard: The Team That Makes the RGI Forum and Fan Club Actually Happen

  Duane “Three Beer” Marshall, Angel, Randal, Scott, Andrea, Rowan, Lori, Beth, Jim, Dave, Rachel, Doug, Duncan, Kitti, Boom-Boom, Kevin, David, Bella, Shannon, Denessa, Annette, Boudica, Imajicka, Owl, Breanna, Anne, Heather, Kathy (all of them and their various spellings), Marie, Lin, Jerry, Mark, Christine, Rollie, Hardee, Z, Mickie, and probably twenty or thirty more…

  All of my good friends from the various acronyms: F.O.C.A.S., H.S.A., M.E.C., S.I.P.A, etc. (And even the acronyms that have since disappeared…)

  Patrick and Tish Owen: Family Forever

  My parents:You know… I wish you were here.

  Scott “Chunkee” McCoy:World’s Greatest Publicist

  Johnathan “Are We There Yet” Minton: Cool Pictures Dude

  My daughter: Stop Growing Up So Fast.

  My wife Kat:Insert Mushy Stuff Here.

  The gang at CAO for the MX2 and entire Brazilia line of cigars

  Coffee, Green Tea, Joss Whedon, TISM, Crocs, Pop Rivets, 11½ Inch Fashion Dolls, Vodka, Tonic, Limes, the Mexican place around the corner, Asparagus, Hans Grüber, Compost, John McLane…

  And, as always, everyone who takes the time to pick up one of my novels, read it, and then recommends it to a friend.

  For Browncoats everywhere.

  Keep on doing the impossible…

  THE USUAL DISCLAIMER:

  While the city of St. Louis and its various notable landmarks are certainly real, many names have been changed and liberties taken with some of the details in this book. They are fabrications. They are pieces of fiction within fiction to create an illusion of reality to be experienced and enjoyed.

  In short, I made them up because it helped me make the story more entertaining, or in some cases, just because I wanted to.

  Note also that this book is a first-person narrative. You are seeing this story through the eyes of Rowan Gant. The words you are reading are his thoughts. In first person writing, the narrative should match the dialogue of the character telling the story. Since Rowan, (and anyone else that I know of for that matter,) does not speak in perfect, unblemished English throughout his dialogue, he will not do so throughout his narrative. Therefore, you will notice that some grammatical anomalies have been retained (under protest from editors) in order to support this illusion of reality.

  Let me repeat something—I DID IT ON PURPOSE. Do NOT send me an email complaining about my grammar. It is a rude thing to do, and it does nothing more than waste your valuable time. If you find a typo, that is a different story. Even editors miss a few now and then.

  Finally, this book is not intended as a primer for WitchCraft, Wicca, or any Pagan path. However, please note that the rituals, spells, and explanations of these religious/magickal practices are accurate. Some of my explanations may not fit your particular tradition, but you should remember that your explanations might not fit mine either.

  And, yes, some of the magick is “over the top.” But, like I said in the first paragraph, this is fiction…

  For behold, I have been with you from the beginning,

  and I am that which is attained at the end of desire.

  From

  The Charge of the Goddess

  As attributed to Doreen Valiente

  Thursday, November 24

  3:09 A.M.

  Room 7

  Southern Hospitality Motor Lodge

  Metairie, Louisiana

  PROLOGUE:

  Annalise Devereaux felt like she was suffocating.

  Not the literal asphyxiation one experiences from lack of oxygen, but a metaphorical suffocation brought about by the absence of something else entirely. A something else that was just as important to her as the air she was now breathing.

  And, metaphorical or not, the agony she suffered because of the void it left was no less real.

  At the root was the feeling she harbored deep inside. It was the unquenchable thirst that drove her to do unspeakable things for no other purpose than self-gratification. It was the force that made her no longer Annalise, but Miranda.

  It was also the thing that now brought her pain.

  The inner sensation was no longer a mere tickle; nor was it the insatiable itch she had grown to know so well. It wasn’t even a mere compulsion. In fact, it had surpassed her very need to breathe in order of importance, making itself the top rung on her ladder
of survival. And, with that, it had turned to a raging fire that could not be quelled.

  Still, that didn’t stop her from trying to snuff out the flame.

  But, for everything she did to feed the hunger, to douse the burning, to satiate the desire—simply to breathe—she still felt as if she was gasping. As though she was barely clinging to life in the face of that which had become all consuming.

  The truth is, it felt as if someone was actually taking it from her, breath by breath. Literally stealing the force that fueled her will to live; and in her mind it belonged only to her, and her alone.

  She knew all too well that her current situation had everything to do with Saint Louis. Everything that had happened there had been wrong, and although the reward had been sweet for a time, the price paid was too high. Two sacrifices so close together, both of whom would be missed. Doing that had been beyond dangerous; it had been reckless. She knew when it was happening that it was a mistake, but she’d had no choice.

  She had demanded it, and Annalise had to do as She said.

  But, She would also never take responsibility for the mistake. The blame would fall to Her servant, to Annalise. With blame came penance, which must be paid by the servant. It now seemed that penance was sharing her reward with another—the reward that kept her from suffocating as she was right now.

  The identity of the other remained a mystery. And perhaps it always would. But the fact remained that she hated her for taking what didn’t belong to her. Even though She was giving it to the other freely, in Annalise’s mind, the other was still stealing.

  Call it greed, but she had already tasted it all, and for her, half simply would not do. She intended to take it back.

  Annalise allowed her anger to feed her lust as she looked down at the man beneath her. He had been easy enough to coax here to the small motel room. All it had taken were some kind words, a cheap bottle of rum, and the promise of a bed for the night. It was a better deal than he would have had otherwise.

  In the end, the hardest part had been getting him to shower.

  He was still struggling against the bonds that held him securely to the bed. He pretty much had been ever since he’d realized this wasn’t just a game.

  It had been nothing to get him into this position. She’d started him on the pint of rum as soon as she had picked him up. Of course, as always the bottle contained more than mere alcohol. So, by the time he’d had several healthy swigs, followed by the shower, he was “medicated” enough to be pliable. But then, they always were.

  The vagrants along Airline Highway were easy prey. Even better, they were rarely, if ever, missed. When they disappeared no one asked questions. No one wondered where they might be. No one, except maybe the others like them with whom they spent their pathetic lives each day and night. But, no one listened to them. And, just like her chosen sacrifice, none of them even mattered. Like all men, they were there for her amusement, and because these wretches led such an unremarkable existence, they were perfect for those times when the need arrived unannounced.

  She just had to be careful which ones she chose. But then, Miranda did the choosing, and She was always careful.

  Except for Saint Louis.

  Annalise stared into the man’s face. His fear was making the rum and Diazepam cocktail wear off quickly, which was exactly what she wanted. She needed his fear and his pain, for with them came his undying love. And, these were the currency that brought the reward.

  She could see a newfound sobriety in his watery eyes as he peered back at her, silently pleading. She could barely hear his hoarse moans and squeals through the several loops of duct tape encircling the lower half of his head, securing the washcloths she had stuffed into his mouth.

  At the moment, she was kneeling astride his chest, resting her weight primarily on her knees, which pressed down hard upon his upper arms. It wasn’t so much that she needed to do so for a practical purpose. There was no way he could escape the ropes with which he’d been tied. But, the position made her feel even more in control, and she was certain that it brought him pain. It was a demonstration of her power over him, for her own benefit as much as his.

  Leaning slightly, she reached to the side table and picked up a cigarette then placed it in her mouth. With a flick of her thumb, she sparked a butane lighter to life and carefully touched the flame to the tobacco. After taking a shallow drag, she allowed the smoke to slowly roll from her mouth between crimson glossed lips and inhaled it deeply through her nose. Regarding her victim with little concern, she exhaled slowly, took a second drag, and then repeated the process.

  She felt him relax slightly, and so she allowed herself to smile. She didn’t take a third drag from the cigarette. Instead she put it out.

  Annalise caught her breath, feeling her arousal as she slowly twisted the smoldering butt against the man’s cheek. His muffled screams were music, and as he arched between her thighs, it made the wave of pleasure intensify, causing her to emit her own involuntary moan.

  By the time she crushed out a second cigarette against his flesh, and then a third, Annalise was no longer in control of her own actions.

  It was all Her. It was all Miranda.

  Her face spread into a wicked grin as she shifted backwards and settled her weight onto his belly so that his chest was now fully exposed. A haunting, almost ethereal tone surrounded her words as she spoke to him.

  “Now, little man. Let’s see how much you love me.”

  As she spoke, she flicked the lighter to life and adjusted the flame to full. Before she had finished the sentence, she was holding the bright yellow fire against his bare nipple, reveling in the scent and sound of his crisping flesh and smiling as he squirmed between her thighs.

  So the sacrifice began—as did payment of her reward.

  Unfortunately, someone else, somewhere else, was receiving half of it.

  Half that she wanted back.

  Saturday, November 26

  4:17 P.M.

  Room 7

  Southern Hospitality Motor Lodge

  Metairie, Louisiana

  “Manager said da’ do-not-disturb sign was on da’ door all day yestuhday, an’ t’day,” the uniformed cop said. “Room was only paid up ta’ t’day though, so dey came in ta’ clean it an’ dat’s when dey found ‘im.”

  The older homicide detective to whom he had been speaking jotted a note then gave him a nod and asked, “Did the manager say who paid for the room?”

  His words were structured with the generic speech pattern of any randomly selected Midwestern location, audibly setting him apart from the natives of the Crescent City.

  “He said da’ podna paid for it, cash money.”

  “Partner?” the detective asked. Just as his lack of accent set him apart, his question marked him as a very recent transplant. “Did you get a description?”

  The uniformed cop raised an eyebrow and gave the detective a confused stare. After a brief pause he nodded toward the victim on the bed and repeated, “Da’ podna. Cap over dere paid for it.”

  “Who?”

  “Da’ victim,” a slightly younger detective interjected as he entered through the motel room door. Obviously he had heard at least some of the exchange. “Ya’ gotta excuse Country dere. He never learnt a secon’ language.”

  The older man turned, peering over his glasses at the source of the new voice and said, “The victim?”

  “Yeah, you rite,” the younger man replied with a nod.

  The uniformed cop glanced over at him and grinned, “Hey, cap. How’s yamamma’n’dem?”

  “Dey good,” he replied, giving the other man a slap on the shoulder. “Ya’ gonna be home later? I’ll pass by ya’ house.”

  “Naw, I prahmis’ Jawn ah’d he’p out wit ‘is maw-maw house.”

  “Yeah? It bad?”

  The uniformed man gave his head a sad shake. “Ya’ you rite, it’s bad. She still waitin’ on da bastuhds ta’ bring da’ trailuh.”

  “Gawd. Well y
ou tell ‘em hey from me.”

  “F’sure.”

  A lull fell in the conversation, and the newly arrived detective turned his attention to the older man. “Well… Dere ya’ go.”

  “Uh-hmmm…Okay,” the transplant muttered then glanced back to the patrolman. “Sorry about the miscommunication there.”

  “So’kay, cap,” he replied.

  “Okay, well thanks. I guess I’ll catch up with you if I need anything else.”

  The cop simply nodded then turned and made his way out of the room, which was quickly becoming crowded, even though there were only two crime scene technicians, the victim, and the two detectives occupying the space.

  The younger detective offered his hand and said, “Bailey. Joe Bailey.”

  The older man took it and answered, “Tim Fairbanks. But, everybody just calls me Banks.”

  “You got it, Banks,” the younger man replied. “Everybody jus’ calls me Joe. Where ya’ stay at?”

  “I’ve got a hotel room over at…”

  “No…I mean where da’ ya’ live? Where are ya’ from?”

  “Oh. Kansas City. Homicide division. I had some vacation time coming and not much to do, so I volunteered through the FOP to come down here.”

  “We can use da’ help. Glad ya’ here.”

  “Thanks. Just got here a couple days ago. That’s kind of obvious, I guess.”