Chemistry of Evil: Department 57, #1

By L.M. Connolly

Sophie Adams is engaged, but the second she sees sexy Evan Howell, she wants him. When her fiancé dumps her, Evan is there to catch her. And show her a passion she'd never dreamed of before, drawn from his dark experiments into sexual magick, a magick that has driven more than one man insane. Enthralled by the new world Evan introduces her to, Sophie wants more.

Evil follows them across the Atlantic. From Arthurian Cornwall to New York, Mordred, cursed son of King Arthur, stretches his evil influence to encompass Sophie, Evan and everyone they love. Evan has already lost his sister to Mordred and his supporters—he refuses to lose Sophie, too.

Evan, ex-convict hacker turned CIA computer genius for Department 57, explores the dark side of life. It will take all his skill to save Sophie from the danger threatening to take her over, body and soul. All his skill—in the bedroom as well as out of it.

Together, the three will embark upon a dance of danger, at the end of which there will be only two. . .or one. . .or none

• Language: English
• Publisher: LMC Publications
• Release date: Jan 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781497785533

L.M. Connolly

L.M. Connolly writes steamy, exciting contemporary and paranormal romances. The best-selling writer of the STORM, Department 57, Pure Wildfire, and Nightstar series, she lives and breathes her characters. She lives in the UK, but travels to the US once a year, to enjoy the high life! Her books have gained her a number of awards and five star reviews, and she's also a best-selling author. Her life experiences add colour and veracity to the stories she tells, and she is always finding more! As Lynne Connolly, L.M. also writes historical romances.

Book preview

Series Note: Although part of the Department 57 series, this title can be read on its own.

Sophie Adams is engaged, but the second she sees sexy Evan Howell, she wants him. When her fiancé dumps her, Evan is there to catch her. And show her a passion she'd never dreamed of before, drawn from his dark experiments into sexual magick, a magick that has driven more than one man insane.

Evil follows them across the Atlantic. From Arthurian Cornwall to New York, Mordred, cursed son of King Arthur, stretches his evil influence to encompass Sophie, Evan and everyone they love. Evan has already lost his sister to Mordred and his supporters—he refuses to lose Sophie, too. It will take all his skill to save Sophie from the danger threatening to take her over, body and soul. All his skill—in the bedroom as well as out of it.

Author’s Note

The tarot deck and the definitions are taken from Aleister Crowley’s Book of Thoth.

Prologue

He couldn’t escape. They’d bound him too tightly for that. Three of them left alive, bound, and imprisoned. One by his own will. But he wasn’t that one.

He needed a male body to use. Any body would do, but he preferred one with strength and beauty. His mother had taught him well. As soon as someone called him, he knew what to do—take the male body nearest to him. Once out and free, he could choose which body to inhabit. But no one ever called him; no one ever came.

He’d been here for more years than he could count. Centuries earthbound in this dark, unfeeling place. He could feel nothing, see nothing, hear nothing. He could taste nothing. Those who bound him here expected him to consider his sins and repent and left only his mind active, so he should have no distractions.

He had never repented. Fury filled him, red and dangerous. How dare they do this to him? It wasn’t for him to repent; that was for those who’d opposed him. If he’d won the Last Battle, he could have continued his father’s work and made England powerful and rich. The time had been right, and Arthur was old and dying. His mother was ready to help him and put her immense power at his disposal.

He’d had centuries to think and plan. He wouldn’t make the same mistake next time. If there was a next time.

Mordred let out a howl of rage, a howl heard by no one but him that echoed painfully in his mind. Someone had to find it. The only way he could be called back was if someone used the aulos he’d been bound to, and for all he knew, that had been destroyed. He would have destroyed it, had it been him.

If he ever returned to the land of man, his revenge would be terrible. There was someone, somewhere, responsible for his anguish, someone who would pay. He would find him. He would make them pay.

"Patience, my son. That soothing, feminine voice could be his imagination, but it was still here, still returned to him. You must get free. Then come to me and we will set the world alight."

He’d heard that voice in his head for so long, he was no longer sure if it was a memory or real. It didn’t matter. All he needed was one more chance.

A chance to put things right. A chance to destroy and then he could re-create the world as it should be, as he and his mother had planned it.

One chance.

Chapter One

Sophie’s dreams of violent, terrifying deaths halfway across the world faded in the peace of the English countryside.

Even here in Tintagel, a place that had seen murder and terror in its time, the atmosphere felt tranquil. The bloody history was long gone; only a pile of moss-encrusted stones remained as a mute reminder. On the other side of the world lay her new, exciting life. But for now, she was here, and the only turmoil lay inside her.

Sophie pushed a curl out of her eyes and bent down to sift through the soil. She loved the careful, meticulous work. A children’s TV program had spurred her interest in digging up the past, and got her into deep trouble with her mother when she’d discovered Sophie unearthing the roots of her favorite rosebush. Sophie was still obsessed with what lay beneath the earth. Very few things were as thrilling as touching an artifact last handled hundreds or thousands of years before.

The familiar excitement gripped her, tightening her stomach muscles when her trowel scraped against something hard. She eased her trowel around the object, clearing away the dirt, and then reached for her brush to dust off the rest.

Anybody got the camera?

She felt warm breath on her shoulder as Gwyneth leaned over to hand her the camera and peer at the object. What have you found?

Don’t know yet. A metal object.

Ooh. Gwyneth bent around, subjecting the object to close scrutiny. Metal should have perished in this damp earth after all this time.

I know. Sophie worked, clearing as much of the dirt from around the metal edges as she could, her heart racing as it always did at any new discovery.

Archie’s voice, sounding faintly amused, came from behind them. You know it’s too near the surface to be anything significant.

Sophie grinned, not bothering to turn around. Archie had been her colleague before he became her fiancé, and he led this archaeological dig. The familiar pang of guilt that always assaulted her when she thought of Archie shot through her, but she tamped it down, determined not to spoil this moment.

Sophie looked up to smile at Archie, her vision strained from hours staring at grains of dirt. Seagulls wheeled in the blue sky above Archie’s fair head. She heard the ever-present crash of waves against the cliffs and marked the moment in her mind. You never lose the thrill, do you?

Archie’s mouth turned up in an amiable half smile. If I did, I’d give up the job.

Sophie uncovered the object, using her brush to dust the soil away. Her heart sank when she saw it. It was too perfect to belong to the dig. Bright metal gleamed here and there where the dry earth fell off it. It was intact, a long tube of some silvery metal. Standing back, she allowed Gwyneth to take the pictures of the object in situ, then bent and picked it up. A whistle. It looks a bit like a Roman aulos.

Yes. Archie took the object from her and shook it, dislodging a few more grains of earth. But I think you’re letting your imagination run away with you. It looks more like an ARP whistle from the Second World War. I’ll take it to the tent and get it cleaned up for you. Sophie didn’t miss his supercilious smirk.

Thanks. Disappointed with her find, Sophie went back to her digging. Archie always had to be right. It was one of the reasons she was no longer sure she wanted him. She’d come back home to marry him, had volunteered to help with the dig because she couldn’t resist, but it only emphasized the differences that had grown between them.

Five years before, they’d made a perfect fit, but Sophie had moved on, and now they didn’t fit anymore. After her father’s murder, she’d found a place where her skills worked, and with extra training, she was now a forensic archaeologist, working with the FBI and CSI officers to establish crime scene data. She’d found a new life for herself, a life she loved.

The job in Virginia at Quantico had led to a temporary assignment in New York, advising on a murder case. Archie still wanted her, still said he loved her, but Sophie knew she’d fallen out of love somewhere along the way. She would have to tell him. Soon, before they left Tintagel to go to her mother’s home and their wedding.

She found nothing else that afternoon. The small pit she was excavating was an exploratory one, and she found nothing of significance. Modern pottery and bottle tops left by tourists didn’t count.

The sun had just touched the horizon when Gwyneth came over to her once more. Her tight braids flew out when she shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, relaxing the muscles tensed by a hard day’s digging.

Sophie stood and went through similar motions, shrugging her shoulders, flexing her arms, then stamping her feet. She tucked her trowel and brush into the little pouch at her waist and climbed out of the pit.

It was easy to forget what a spectacular view this site had when you spent all day with your nose to the earth. Now, with the sun casting a red glow over the sea, it was hard to ignore. Everything was imbued with a rosy light, tinged with fire. Sophie pushed back a curl that had come loose from her ponytail, the red highlights gleaming in the dark strands when the sun hit it. Her father had always jokingly called her a redhead, claiming her fiery temperament came directly from it, but she regarded herself as a mousy brunette. Although five years had passed since his death, Sophie still missed him. Nobody teased her like that anymore.

She stretched her back and headed for the tent where the team laid out the day’s finds. A kettle lived there too, heated over a camping stove. The lure of tea was almost more important than the view. Almost.

Find the Grail? she asked Gwyneth, flashing a grin.

Not today. It was an old joke, masking a secret desire. Here, on the top level of Tintagel, one almost believed in Arthur and all the other old tales. The modern world seemed to recede, only the occasional plane flying high overhead reminding them of their time and place. You?

Nothing like it. Just a few old shards.

Not as glamorous as New York, then. You’ll be back there soon enough.

With Archie. He’d taken a job at the Metropolitan Museum, a lucrative position with a research fellowship attached. He always had to go one better than her.

Sophie would miss England, her native land. The soft grass, masking hard, unforgiving rock, the levels and layers, the knowledge that wherever one was on this little island, someone had gone before, perhaps dropped something, a coin, a jewel, a Holy Grail.

I don’t think Archie would appreciate finding the Grail here, she commented. She strolled with Gwyneth toward the tent. It wouldn’t fit in with his theory. He’d be more excited if we found a hermit’s cave.

Some people came up today asking about Arthur. When we told them we were excavating the medieval monastery, they didn’t believe us. So Archie told them the castle was twelfth century.

Sophie laughed. How did they take that?

They said we were mad, that everyone knew it was Arthur’s castle.

Their laughter rang over the small area of the dig. Several heads poked up to look at them, their owners’ bodies lost in the trenches of the main dig. People roused, their concentration broken, murmuring greetings to each other as they began to climb out of their self-dug holes. Moles facing the light, or perhaps bodies rising from the grave. Appropriate, since part of the dig was a burial ground. But Sophie doubted monks would wear a motley array of shorts, T-shirts, and tattered jeans or be discussing the character of skeleton deterioration over time in such a pragmatic way.

Sophie smiled to herself when she recalled her New York wardrobe with its sharp designer suits and elegant, understated eveningwear. But she still kept her old clothes. You never knew when an interesting opportunity to grub about in the ground might occur. Or perhaps it was a disinclination to let go of her old life and embrace the new. She found her new job extremely lucrative and prestigious, but not as much fun. She still loved digging and the camaraderie a team involved in a dig could engender.

The tent was a large one, which was just as well. Six people crowded in, to add to the four already in residence. A laptop was carefully set up at the end, away from the dirt. It formed their communication with the study center at the hotel in the village and a link to all the research documents, geophysics, and the rest. Long trestle tables held trays containing the day’s finds. Geophysics equipment stood propped up in the corner, expensive equipment that had to be hauled to and from the village each day.

Sophie moved to the part of the tent that contained her section, the section farthest from the opening, near to George, who was currently sitting in front of the laptop swearing at it.

Sophie’s woefully small finds section contained only one tray, instead of the three or more on the other tables. Uninformative pottery that merely served to confirm what they had already discovered, plus her one find, now cleaned and gleaming balefully at her, reminding her of her failure. Archie was probably right. The whistle, aulos, whatever, couldn’t be an ancient artifact, although it looked like one. Probably a modern reproduction, maybe bought from one of the tourist shops clustered in the village below and then dropped up here and lost. Similar to a Roman aulos but shorter, a whistle or pipe with only one finger hole, engraved with symbols and lines that looked vaguely Celtic in nature. Definitely an imaginative tourist piece. Archie would be pleased she hadn’t made a major discovery.

Foolish to think like that. She had succeeded in disproving a rival’s theory that a settlement lay buried in that area. His theory put the site farther to the east. Had Sophie found anything interesting, it might have delayed Archie’s departure for New York and his new job at the Metropolitan Museum. And their marriage.

So why did she feel depressed? Why had she tried so hard to find something? She knew. Perhaps she would tell him tonight that she couldn’t marry him and then leave for her mother’s house before going back to the States. They'd nearly finished the dig now, so she couldn’t put it off much longer.

An arm curled round her shoulders. Well, Sophie love, a voice soft as a whisper breathed hotly in her ear. New York, here we come.

She forced a bright smile and turned around. Yes, here we come. Back to the FBI for me.

He frowned. You could always join me at the museum. I’m sure I can find something for you.

A curl of anger crawled through Sophie’s mind at his patronizing attitude. I don’t want you to. I want to stay with the FBI, if they’ll have me, perhaps even apply for citizenship and join full-time.

I don’t like you working with those...bodies.

Sophie laughed. I’ve been working with bodies all my adult life, Archie love. Just that these are more recent, that’s all.

And have living relatives. His other arm went around her waist, imprisoning her. It’s only that I worry about you.

Sophie suspected it might be more. Archie was the primary male, the supervisor of this group, built like a golden bear, all bulging muscle and gleaming teeth. Gorgeous and clever, he wasn’t used to a slip of a girl besting him, but she’d done it, getting better marks than he at university, and earning her doctorate a year earlier than he did. His overwhelming niceness saved him from the accusation of alpha-ism. Sophie’s doubts had crystallized into certainty in the last few days. Where once she had loved him, the gentle liking that remained, together with a response to Archie’s undoubted sex appeal, was no longer enough for her.

When she’d needed him, when her father died, he’d been there for her. She owed him for that, but she didn’t owe him the rest of her life.

She smiled and reached up to kiss him on the cheek in a gesture more friend than lover. I’m starving.

Shall we go to the pub? I’ll miss their lasagna when we leave.

It’s only because they serve it in large roasting tins. Big enough portions for you.

Sophie tried to pull away, but Archie was having none of it. He dragged her back and angled his mouth over hers, settling in for a nice, leisurely kiss. The whistles and catcalls from the interested bystanders only served to encourage him. When he finally pulled away, she felt numb from the pressure of his arms and mouth. He waited for her reaction and gave her a cocky grin when she smiled at him. I can’t wait to leave because of what happens next.

He released her. Sophie took a deep breath, trying not to show her anger at his enforcing his so-called male superiority. Tonight. She would tell him tonight, as soon as she had a private moment with him.

The whistle gleamed evilly in the find tray, reminding her of her failure. Archie saw where her gaze went and picked it up, tossing it high into the air and catching it without looking at it. Someone’s tried his or her hand at engraving this. I had a look earlier. But it’s not old.

How do you know it’s not old? She wished she could take the words back. She knew.

Archie gave her a pitying glance. Really, Sophie! If it’s silver, it would have tarnished and rotted. If it’s steel, then by definition it’s modern. Good steel didn’t occur on a regular basis before the nineteenth century. Take it as a souvenir. I’ll sign it out as irrelevant to the dig.

Sophie felt hurt by his light response, as though he denigrated her efforts that day. Archie could still make her feel as though her achievements amounted to nothing. He did it to most people, and she suspected he wasn’t even aware of it. Defiantly she picked up the whistle and rubbed it against her T-shirt to polish it up. I’ll use it when I need help. It might come in handy in New York.

Down those mean streets? Archie laughed, just as a new voice, dark as night and twice as sinful, sounded from the open flap of the tent.

I believe that quotation was about Los Angeles.

The occupants of the tent fell silent, their end-of-the-day chatter stilled. Before them stood the embodiment of masculinity. Handsome, as dark as Archie was fair, tall, and whipcord lean.

Sophie lifted her gaze and met his dark stare. Now she knew where her restless feeling came from. This was her fate.

Chapter Two

The stranger stood just inside the opening of the tent. His collar-length dark hair stirred in the breeze, the only movement about him. His jeans and T-shirt were unmarked. His hand, where it rested on his hip, showed no dark lines under the pristine, manicured nails.

Not an archaeologist, then. Sophie watched Archie scrub his nails religiously every night, but there always seemed to be a residue of earth left. Not his fault, rather years of working on digs. Perhaps in New York the lines would finally leave his hands, but she wouldn’t be there to see it.

Archie broke the silence. Who are you? How did you get past security?

The stranger’s smile widened, tilted up more on the left side than the right. The man down the hill? I showed him my Access All Areas pass.

American. Something tightened around Sophie’s throat, reminding her of the life to which she wanted to get back.

Show me. Archie’s chin went up, challenging the stranger.

At Archie’s commanding gesture, the stranger dug into his jeans and drew out a black leather wallet. He flipped it open with a practiced gesture. Archie leaned forward to look.

Evan Howell. You’re from the CIA?

Yes. Howell’s gaze moved around the tent, then looked at Sophie directly for the first time. His eyes were dark. They might be brown, or blue, or even green, but with his back to the setting sun, they were just...dark. She felt like she knew him, but knew she’d never met him before. She searched for a connection and was disappointed when he looked away. I’m here to see someone. Privately.

Who? Archie’s voice held an edge.

Sophie exchanged a speaking glance with Gwyneth.

The interest quickened around her when the stranger straightened and took a step into the tent. He accepted the challenge.

George broke the tension. Oblivious to the scene before them, intent on his laptop, he swore, loudly and volubly. Then he shot a glance at them. Sorry. Can’t get this damned thing to work.

The stranger’s attention left Archie completely, dismissing him as irrelevant. I work with computers. What seems to be the problem?

We’re supposed to have a wireless link to the room down the hill. It won’t stay up; I keep having to reboot.

The stranger moved to the computer and leaned over. May I try something? If there’s anything here you want to keep, save it to a file, or better still, a thumb drive.

George did as he asked, then moved off his seat. The stranger replaced him. He called up a few windows, made a few adjustments, and leaned back. Try that.

Archie made a move so he could watch what the stranger did. I kept asking for a computer tech, but English Heritage never sent one.

I’m happy to help. Evan Howell stood and stuck out his hand. Pleased to meet you.

Archie Hamilton. Archie touched the proffered hand. Who are you here to see, Howell? Like a dog at a bone.

Sophie Adams.

Everyone looked at her, so Sophie stepped forward. I’m Sophie. You know I’m on leave. I’m supposed to be getting married next week. And what has the CIA to do with the FBI?

He didn’t answer her questions directly. It’s a personal matter. Something I need your help with.

Sophie frowned. What on earth could it be? His steady gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made her uncomfortable. Sophie shifted from one foot to another under his gaze before she broke the impasse, trying to find something to break the mood. You’re a computer expert?

He grinned, a flash of ivory teeth. A geek. I’m a geek.

He didn’t look like any geek she’d ever met. Geeks had pasty white skin and spectacles. She felt sure he missed nothing, near or distant, with those keen eyes. His skin was lightly tanned. Under his T-shirt lay nothing but muscle, the ridges and slopes easily discernible under the thin material. Her mind skittered away from the thoughts of what the sight made her want to do with him. Archie wasn’t particularly possessive, but the way she felt about this man seemed more intimate, more like a betrayal.

As it would be if she let her mind wander any further. She had to make the break with Archie soon if she found herself thinking of other men like this. With a heat entirely missing from her relationship with her fiancé.

Archie moved toward the entrance. We’re finished here for the day. There’s a nice pub in the village. Join us for a meal and we can talk there.

Howell gave a superficial smile of acceptance. It sounds good to me.

Sophie hated the scramble down to the village at the end of the day. The climb up wasn’t so bad. However, at the end of the day, with aching, tired muscles, she found it hard to tackle the precarious stone staircase and the narrow bridge that formed the only way off the site. After gathering the finds, the laptop, and the geophysics equipment, they began the descent.

Sophie watched the CIA man scramble down the narrow path, admiring his sure-footed descent. He paused to wait for Sophie and Gwyneth, who moved slower than the men did. Archie, tired like the rest of them, stumbled on the granite outcroppings, nearly falling a couple of times.

A few tourists joined the small band of archaeologists, leaving the castle to its ghosts. In the morning, it would start again, tourists from all over the world wanting to see the place Arthur was conceived, forgetting or conveniently ignoring the fact that the castle remains dated from the eleventh and twelfth centuries, a full six hundred years after Arthur’s time, if he had existed at all.

It wasn’t hard to forget, to immerse oneself in the heady atmosphere of legend. Sophie had once sat in Merlin’s Cave, at the bottom of the cliff, lost in the thick atmosphere that seemed to call to her. She sat there until the tide threatened to engulf her. If Archie hadn’t come looking for her, she would have been in trouble. People had drowned in that cave.

Sophie shuddered and at once felt a steadying hand beneath her elbow. Are you all right?

I’m fine, thank you. She didn’t pull away, not wanting to appear rude, but Howell’s touch unnerved her more than it should have. He was only steadying her from what he must have thought was a stumble. But the jolt from his hand on her bare elbow shot through her like a charge of electricity.

Archie glanced behind and immediately came back to join them. Tired, old girl? Want me to carry you? He gave her a cocky grin.

Sophie looked down the sheer cliff at the waves crashing against the rocks and shuddered in earnest. No, thank you, Archie.

Pleasant chatter