Original Sin (2 page)

The time for hiding is over
.

She picked up her cell phone. It was noon in Italy. Father Philip would be meditating in prayer. He was not to be disturbed during this hour, except in an emergency like this.

“St. Michael’s,” a calm male voice answered.

“Father Philip, please,” she said, the Irish lilt all too obvious in her voice.

“He’s not available right now.”

“This is Moira O’Donnell. It’s extremely important.”

The monk didn’t comment or hang up. She heard the receiver being placed on the wood table.

The only phone at St. Michael’s Monastery was in the library. She pictured the tall, narrow windows with stained glass in the arches; the stone floor covered with a huge, impossibly old, faded Persian rug. The worn leather sofas, the reading lamps, the peace. This was a sanctuary for study and rest. The intensive, hands-on training—the physical training—was done far away in America, maybe to separate the violence from the research, but most likely to protect the Order from being annihilated in one attack.

Moira had spent countless hours in the library with Peter, studying the old texts. Many of the others were skeptical of her, but Father Philip had allowed her to stay. He’d saved her life and cared about her when she thought there was no hope left. He’d brought her to the sanctuary, taught her, encouraged Peter to help her. That the priest felt responsible for the tragedy that followed deeply pained her. It wasn’t his fault she’d disobeyed his command to steer clear of magic. She’d wanted to undo the damage her mother and the coven had done, and the only way she knew how to battle magic was with magic. But she and Peter had gone too far. She hadn’t realized the price would be so great, but learned the hard way that even with good intentions, sorcery begot only evil.

Father Philip broke her contemplation when he picked up the receiver, saying in his soft measured accent, “Moira. It’s been six months.”

She didn’t want to explain to Father why she hadn’t contacted him, or anyone, affiliated with St. Michael’s all these months. Her doubts? Fears? Or was it the loneliness of her solitary mission she wanted to keep hidden from the few people who cared enough about her to notice her pain.

But this vision was different and Father was the only one who might have answers. “I had another vision. I don’t remember much of it, but a gateway to Hell is opening.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know!” She bit her tongue. She wasn’t angry with the old priest, but frustrated with herself. Frustrated and alone. She desperately missed Peter, but every time she allowed herself to think of him, she remembered only his death.

“Where are you?”

“Upstate New York. I was looking into a ritualistic murder that occurred on Halloween. It was just a stupid serial killer, his sixth murder in two years. It had nothing to do with Fiona.” She was disgusted with herself for being drawn here just because the woman was killed at a graveyard. Fiona wasn’t that uncouth.

Moira’s mother killed with style.

She added, “My scar hurts. I’ve never felt it like this before.”

Father Philip didn’t answer. Her heart raced; what was he thinking? That she was going to be possessed again? That she was making it up? That she had truly lost her mind and was now seeing signs of demonic activity everywhere?

She fumbled around in her backpack for her aspirin bottle and shook four out, dry swallowing them. The bitter, chalky taste coated her tongue. She cupped water from the tap into her hands and drank, her shoulder holding the phone against her ear.

“Father?”

He cleared his throat. “It’s a sign.”

“I can’t go through that again.” Every time she had a vision, it ended poorly. She almost laughed at her thought—what an understatement!

“I didn’t say it was a bad sign. I need to research.”

What about “portal to Hell” wasn’t bad? But Moira swallowed her sarcasm and said, “Tell me the truth, Father, please.”

“I don’t know for certain; it’s a hunch. Let me—”

“Tell me,” she interrupted. “Father. I must know.”

He sighed, and she could picture him taking off his small, silver-framed glasses and polishing them absently with his handkerchief. Philip was not only “Father” as in priest, but also the only father figure—the only
sane
father figure—she’d ever had. But Moira had been unable to remain at St. Michael’s when the majority of its residents accused her with their silence. She couldn’t take fearful refuge in the monastery while Fiona was free, gaining power, forging alliances with the darkest souls on and beneath the earth.

So she’d left for Olivet, an abbey in Montana named after the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem. Olivet was the go-to place for intensive physical training to be a demon hunter and, Moira supposed, the place where those in the thick of it went afterward to lick their wounds and regroup. It was the only place she could learn to use skills other than witchcraft to find and stop her mother’s insane plans.

St. Michael’s Monastery was the academic branch of the Order. They studied, prayed, raised up the young warriors, and fully educated them—until their gifts were discerned and they were assigned elsewhere, or sent to Olivet for training.

It had been whispered that St. Michael’s hunted human evil, and Olivet hunted supernatural evil. Few acknowledged that they all were both predators and prey, hunting evil while trying to protect their Order from external—and internal—enemies.

The sole reason Moira was trained as a demon hunter was to battle demons Fiona put in her path. Rico, the head of Olivet and her trainer, had made it clear that she wasn’t truly one of them: a chosen warrior raised at St. Michael’s. Moira’s only purpose was to find, and stop, Fiona. Because dark covens used demons to defend them, learning to battle demons was essential to stopping witches.

Loneliness had been added to her guilt.

“A gateway to Hell is open?” Father Philip asked.

“Opening.”

“Why do you say it like that?”

She wasn’t sure. “When I had the vision, that’s what I thought. Something is beginning. I can’t explain it; it’s just what I felt.” Moira hated unclear visions, interpretations, vague ideas of what it all supposedly meant. She wanted—
needed
—a path to follow. Explicit instructions, a solid plan. Once again, God showed his dark cosmic humor in her life.

“Then there’s time,” Father Philip pronounced from across the ocean.

“What about the scar?”

“You’ve been having the visions since Peter died.”

Her heart twisted at the mere mention of his name. “Yes.”

“These visions involve the barrier between us and the underworld.”

“More or less.” She shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve only had a few.” A dozen, more or less. “It’s not like I’m ready for the rubber room.”

“No, no you’re not.” It had been a joke, but he’d answered as if she’d been serious. “It’s a sign. You have a spiritual link to the underworld.”

“No, no,
no!
Absolutely
not!”
She was shaking. St. Michael’s newest demon hunter shaking in fear. What a world!

“Moira, I believe you do. And you’re going to have to learn to use your powers to our advantage. We must fight back. Too long we’ve been reactionaries, not acting until they brought forth evil spirits. The one right thing you and Peter did was to be proactive.”

“Father—please.” She could not talk about Peter.

“Peter made many mistakes.”

“
I
made the mistakes, Father.”

“But Peter knew better.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Daughter—” He sighed. Moira’s heart swelled. She loved to hear Father Philip call her
daughter
. It was an endearment that kept her grounded in love and hope. An assurance that even with everything she’d done, all the mistakes she—and Peter—had made, there was someone who cared about what happened to her. She was not alone, no matter how alone she felt.

Father said, “We absolutely cannot afford to be reactive. The signs have been many, and after the tragedy at the mission—”

“What mission? What happened?”

“At Santa Louisa de Los Padres. There was a demonic ritual there that led to the murders of twelve priests.”

Her stomach rose to her throat. “Father—”

“I knew many of them.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“We were too late. Perhaps that was your vision. It happened three days ago.”

Though she couldn’t remember her vision image by image, only the overall feeling, she still recalled snapshots. “It happened tonight. A great fire, complete destruction.”

“Moira, you must open yourself to the visions. Learn to read them.”

“What if they’re from Hell? What if I’m being misled?”

“Every vision you’ve had has been of an event that
is
happening, not a deception.”

“That can change. They can use me to hurt people.”
To hurt you
.

“I will continue to research. Consult Rico, others. We can be proactive. With you, we have foreknowledge.”

“Foreknowledge? If it’s happening
now
, how can that help us?”

“You said that the portal was
opening
—which means we can stop it or close it. This is our advantage, and the only way to stop them.”

Rico had taught her everything he could during her time at Olivet, including his creed: gather intelligence, create a plan, execute the plan. It worked, and she liked the structure and preparation that went with being a demon hunter. But being given inside information? That scared her. What if Father Philip was wrong? What if Fiona and the demons were trying to deceive her? Trap her? What if Moira misinterpreted the visions? What if her mistakes cost more innocent souls their lives?

She just wanted to stop Fiona. She didn’t want—couldn’t bear—the fate of mankind on her shoulders.

Reluctantly, she asked, “What do I need to do?”

“Find where the gateway is opening. Go there.”

“How?”

“Meditate. Pray.”

Never
. But Moira didn’t tell him that. She’d use more contemporary methods, starting with the Internet.

“And how do I close it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Terrific. I’ll just throw my body into the pit and battle it out to the death.”

“Do not be flippant.” Father sounded irritated. “I will find out how to close it. Let me know as soon as you locate it. I will need the specifics of how it was created and why. That might be harder to discover than its location.”

Moira closed her eyes. Everything was spiraling out of control. She didn’t want this responsibility. When she’d first accepted this mission, it was to locate Fiona, not a gateway to Hell.

But she had no choice. Fiona was somehow involved, and Fiona was her responsibility. “Fine, I’ll do it. But Father, I feel out of balance.”

“You need assistance.”

“No.” She wasn’t about to work with a partner. She wasn’t going to kill anyone again.
Except
Fiona, of course.

“My sweet child, your heart is broken, but your soul is intact. Give your pain over to God; you will heal.”

She snapped, “I don’t trust Him.” She didn’t buy into the whole benevolent God angle. Yeah, He was around, but it was hands off, fend for yourselves, children.

“Moira, go to Olivet and work with Rico on—”

“I’ll call when I find something.” Before hanging up, she added softly, “Good-bye, Father. I miss you.”

Moira picked up her pack, gathered her few things, and left the squalid motel room. She had no intention of returning to Olivet, not without answers. She scanned the parking lot. Slim pickings. Only five parked cars. She settled on the lone truck because she remembered the owner—he’d been drinking heavily in the greasy roadside restaurant when she’d stopped in earlier to order a BLT. She hoped he’d sleep through the sound of his truck starting up. She didn’t need the vehicle for long, just to get to a bigger town where she could use a library, find a coffee shop, and figure out where the damn door to Hell had cracked. She’d ditch it with a full tank of gas and twenty dollars in the glove box, the best she could do on her meager funds.

As she crossed the uneven concrete parking lot, the first snowflake of the season landed on her cheek. She brushed it aside like a cold tear. She wouldn’t be around long enough to enjoy any white winter.

ONE

Present Day

It was the darkest hour of the night.

Fiona stood within the protective double circle that framed the perfect hexagram within a perfect triangle. Bowls of incense burned within triangles, six of which were perfectly and evenly cast between the inner and outer circles at the apex of each point of the hexagram, smoke slowly rising. Only when the fumes breached the invisible shield did the wind carry them off, swirling violently into the black night. The laws of physics did not apply to Hell’s gateway.