Eric Pratt could hear and feel the chipping and splintering of his fingernails as he dug them into the grooves of his handcuffs. It had become a new habit, useful only in that it prevented him from digging the jagged nails into his own flesh.

He should have been grateful that the guard had let him keep his hands together instead of locking them at his waist to each side. He knew his captors had misread his polite behavior, perhaps even thought he was harmless. Though not entirely harmless—he rattled the shackles on his ankles, reminding himself they were there, readjusted himself in the chair. He needed to stop squirming. Why couldn’t he sit still?

As soon as the woman entered the room, Eric had felt a wet chill sweep over his body. She had introduced herself as a doctor, but Eric knew better. The woman was small, well dressed, about his mother’s age, but very attractive. She carried herself with confidence and ease despite the high-heeled shoes she wore. He found himself watching her legs as she crossed them, making herself comfortable in the steel folding chair. She had smooth, firm calves, and from what he could see of her thighs, she was really nothing like his mother.

She was explaining why she was here. He glanced at her mouth, but he didn’t need to listen. He knew exactly why she was here. He had known the second she walked in the door.

She was the woman clothed with the sun. Her reddish-blond hair had been a dead giveaway. It circled her face like the rays of the sun. Of course, she would possess warm green eyes and a quiet, captivating manner, a polite and hypnotic voice and a body that could distract and tempt. Father Joseph had outdone himself this time. He had sent a vision straight out of John’s description of the Apocalypse. Had he honestly believed Eric wouldn’t recognize her?

Sweat trickled down his back. Her voice hummed in his ears, the words no longer separate but strung together as melody—Satan’s death song, lovely and mesmerizing. He wouldn’t let it hypnotize him. He wouldn’t let her draw him in and incapacitate him. But she was good. Oh, she was clever with that kind smile and those sexy legs. If Brandon’s visit hadn’t prepared him, he may very well have been taken into her web, ensnared before he realized what the true purpose of this visit really was.

Click, click—his fingernails picked at the metal. One of them was bleeding. He could feel it, but he kept his hands in his lap, pretending to be calm, pretending the fear wasn’t clawing inside him, ripping at the walls of his stomach and trying to race up his throat to strangle him.

He looked into her eyes, saw her smile and quickly looked away. Was that her secret weapon? If she couldn’t hypnotize him with her voice, would she use her eyes? He wondered how she might kill him, and his eyes scanned the length of her, looking for bulges in her clothing.

The guards would have allowed her in with anything she cared to conceal. They would want no part of the mess, even if they were able to stop her. After all, Father had told them the woman clothed with the sun had special powers, according to the gospel of John, St. John the Divine, Revelation 12:1–6. She was light. She was dark. She was good and evil. She was a messenger of Satan and could disguise herself easily.

Suddenly, Eric remembered a newspaper article Father had read them just months ago. No member was allowed newspapers or magazines. There was no need when Father took the burden upon himself to relay those news items that were relevant and from sources that could be trusted.

But now Eric remembered the story of a foreign diplomat who had been visiting the States from some evil empire. Eric couldn’t recall the country. The diplomat had been slain in his hotel bed and reports were that the woman who killed him did it while straddling him, waiting for him to come and then slitting his neck. Father Joseph had used it as an example of justice being done. Was that where he had gotten the idea of sending this woman?

Eric noticed her tapping the pencil, the eraser smacking the notepad—the notepad, a decoy left on the table, not a single note scrawled on it. The pencil had been freshly sharpened, its lead a dagger’s point. He could distinguish some of the words that came out of her mouth, words like help and cooperate. He knew better. He refused to be sucked in by her code words. They could just as well have been words like kill and mutilate. He knew their true meaning.

Tap-tap, tap-tap—he watched the pencil and tried to ignore the panic squeezing the air out of his lungs. The room felt smaller. Her voice droned on. Tap-tap, tap-tap. His heart pounded in his ears. Or was that the pencil?

He made himself look into her eyes. He had cheated Satan once before. Could he do it again?