The library building was in darkness as he drove past on his way to Freya’s flat. If Freya had been working late, as Rhona had suggested, she wasn’t there now. Approaching the traffic lights at the foot of University Avenue, McNab ignored the red signal and drove straight through, taking a swift left up into the grid of streets behind the university union.
The arrival of the stick figure had initially annoyed rather than worried him. The papers had hyped up the Witch aspect of the killing of the two women. Black magic and sex sold newspapers and the tabloids were making the most of it. That sort of coverage attracted nutters, who liked to get involved. There had also been outrage from so-called Wiccans, defending their beliefs, accusing the police of a witch-hunt. Delivering a token like the stick figure to a member of the investigating team was on a par with all of that.
He’d been singled out on numerous occasions by angry members of the public who thought he wasn’t doing his job properly, as had Rhona. McNab suspected the real reason she’d waited four hours before calling was because she hadn’t initially spotted the faint runes or translated them. Once she had, she’d felt compelled to tell him, especially in view of the blurted confession in the lab about his love life.
Turning the car into Freya’s street, McNab saw a figure exit the main door to her set of flats and walk swiftly away. It was a young man, tall, slim, his back towards McNab, hood up, his face unseen, yet there was something recognizable about him. McNab was momentarily tempted to follow the guy, just to check him out, then he spotted a light on in Freya’s place.
To say his heart lifted would have been an understatement.
With no empty spaces on the narrow street, McNab parked alongside a wheelie bin, despite the police warning notice that he would be towed away if he committed that particular crime. As he turned off the engine, his mobile rang and the name he’d longed for lit up the screen.
‘Freya.’
‘I just got your messages. When you didn’t call earlier, I went to the library to work and forgot my mobile.’
McNab said a thousand silent thank yous. ‘I’m sorry, I got held up at work.’
‘Are you home now?’ she said.
‘No. I’m standing outside your flat.’
There was a moment of surprised silence. ‘How long have you been there?’
‘I just arrived.’
Another short silence. ‘Are you planning on coming up, or staying on sentry duty outside?’
‘I’ll come up,’ he said.
The door buzzed open.
She met him in the hall, already naked. The fear he’d striven hard not to acknowledge drove McNab now, and he swept her into his arms, lifting her high in delight. Freya responded by encircling him with her legs. McNab carried her through to the bedroom, their laughter and desire colliding.
Laying her carefully on the bed, McNab undressed.
Before he could lie down, she moved to the edge of the bed and took him in her mouth. The action was unexpected and explosive. But McNab didn’t want this. He gently caught her head in his hands and drew her up. He wanted to cradle the face that was coming to mean so much to him. He wanted to kiss her. To make every nerve in her body sing. Freya was alive. She was safe. McNab hadn’t known until this moment just how much that meant to him.
He lay and watched her sleep. McNab had rarely done that with a woman before, except perhaps Rhona MacLeod. The opportunities to do so with Rhona had been rare, and precious, to him at least. For her, he knew, not so much. There had been genuine affection in her responses, even passion at times, like the day he’d reappeared from the dead. That was the encounter he liked to remember most.
Would this relationship be any different?
McNab removed a wisp of hair from Freya’s cheek, so that his view of her face was unimpeded. She was younger than him, by ten years at least. Was that a problem? He was a detective sergeant destined to go no further than that. Her career, on the other hand, was only just beginning. If they were together, could she cope with his strange existence, his brushes with drink and his obsession with work?
The boss had a wife and a family, McNab reminded himself. Bill and Margaret had been together almost as long as the woman before him had been alive. Now that was a sobering thought.
But he wasn’t Bill Wilson. If McNab had been asked to liken himself to anyone, it would have been Rhona, although her obsessions were better controlled than his. Neither of them had truly committed to one partner. McNab had accepted long ago that there was only one man who stood a real chance with Rhona MacLeod, and it certainly wasn’t him.
But maybe his chance of happiness lay facing him?
What future did this woman, Freya, Wiccan goddess, and he, Detective Sergeant Michael Joseph McNab, recently demoted, have together?
As he contemplated this, Freya turned in her sleep and McNab was met with her back. In view of his current thoughts, it was an uncomfortable image. Women had a habit of turning their backs on him.
McNab lay down behind her, craving again the warmth and touch of her skin. She moved a little to meet him. The closeness of her sprung him into action again. McNab retreated, not wanting to impose himself on her when she was so obviously asleep.
Just then his hand touched something protruding from under her pillow. He found it and took hold, sliding it free from its hiding place. McNab knew what it was, even before he saw it. He could feel the shape of the plaited silk and judge its long length as it uncurled. Had she intended using the cingulum tonight? Had she planned to wrap it round them, tightening it as they reached climax?
The idea both disturbed and excited him.
Freya had made no secret of the fact that she was Wiccan, he reminded himself. She had been, McNab believed, completely honest with him up to now. If she’d wanted him to take part in sexual magick, she would have asked. His answer, McNab wasn’t so sure of.
At that moment Freya stirred into wakefulness, moving close to press herself against him. It was the signal McNab had been waiting for.