Original Sin (20 page)

“Hey, Kidd, you’re late,” his friend Travis said when Chris walked into the locker room.

He jerked his chin up. “Sec,” he said. He left another message for Ari, then grabbed his gym bag from his locker and jogged to where Travis was waiting by the door. They were the last two players to leave for the bus.

Travis Ehrlich was one of the few black guys at the central coast high school and they’d been friends since day one, when Travis moved to Santa Louisa in the seventh grade. Travis made varsity his freshman year, almost unheard of. He had NBA scouts watching him and a full ride to UCLA—a PAC-10 school—where he’d probably be a starter his freshman year.

Today all Chris could think about was how Travis had everything Chris wanted—and at the assembly, hadn’t Travis had been sniffing around Ari? Was that why Ari had left early?

He shook his head as the headache he’d had all day worsened.

“What’s up?” Travis asked. “You got your game on?”

“It’s on.”

“You look sick.”

Chris hit him good-naturedly in the arm. “Freak.”

Chris had a scholarship, just like Travis. Why was he beating himself up because Travis was going into PAC-10? Chris was happy with his deal.

Travis had a better deal.
Prick
.

“Chris?” Travis prompted.

He grinned. “Fooled ya.”

“Coach is pissed. Look at his face—it’s beet red.”

“Hot tamale, get a move on.” Chris slapped Travis on the back, and they ran toward the bus that would take them to the away game.

“Watch out!” Travis grabbed Chris by the shirt and pulled him out of the path of a classic bright-red Mustang speeding through the parking lot. It came within inches of running over his toes.

“What the fuck?” Chris said. “That’s Mr. Ayers’s car.”

“That wasn’t Mr. Ayers driving. It looked like Ms. Peterson.”

“Ms. Peterson? The
librarian?”
Chris stared after the Mustang as it took a corner too fast and too sharp, clipping a stop sign it didn’t even slow down for. “Shit.”

Travis shook his head as they boarded the bus. “I swear,
everyone
has been acting weird today.”

The Ellis house was at a crossroads—three roads coming together—signifying a place where deals were made. If that were the only sign, Anthony might not have given it a second thought. But there were more. Subtle, understood only by those familiar with magic.

Moira would know
.

He pushed the vixen from his mind. He’d regretted his decision not to join Moira O’Donnell on the cliffs to search for Rafe. By his actions, he’d given her implicit sanction to take Rafe under her protective wing, and he feared her “protection” would get his brother killed.

Or worse.

Anthony walked up the Ellises’ front path of limestone edged with moss. The garden was full of herbs, plants, and flowers used in witchcraft, but more than that, they were arranged in specific ways to protect the house and its occupants from evil spirits. Some relatively innocent witches—those dabbling in witchcraft without evil intent—might protect their homes against accidents. But a supposed churchgoing Christian didn’t go to such elaborate lengths, preferring the traditional and effective crucifix.

Anthony had no choice but to continue up the walk, his apprehension growing. More than Lily Ellis’s life was in danger. If the coven possessed the
arca
, they could re-create the ritual, bringing the demons under their control to use at will.

He hesitated. If he had the
arca
he could trap the Seven, giving him more time to find the prayer that would send them back to Hell.

It might kill Lily.

It would kill her
.

Yet it might be his only recourse. He pushed the thought aside. Father Philip had instilled in him the supremacy of the individual, that human sacrifice even for a good reason was still murder.

“It’s one thing to nobly give up your life to save your brothers,”
Father had said,
“but quite another to sacrifice an innocent even if it appears to be for the greater good. Appearances are deceiving.”

Anthony had to keep Lily out of the coven’s hands; then he could research further, find an answer that didn’t involve using Lily Ellis to trap the demons.

Anthony stuffed his hands in the deep pockets of his trenchcoat, the handle of his blessed dagger-cross comforting in his grip. He was already damp from the fog as he walked up the wooden steps to the wide porch of the restored Victorian. The roof sheltered him from the rain, but the hair on his skin rose. He knocked on the door, stepped back, and glanced around. Something gave him an itchy feeling.

Anthony looked up. The wood was slightly different, a fraction lighter, directly above him. He glanced at the large doormat beneath his feet, stepped back, and lifted up the corner.

A demon trap had been etched into the wood. Most assuredly beneath the new wood above him was a similar trap. They were used to protect a house against evil spirits. Traps—barriers—had been placed near each entrance. He dropped the mat and straightened. Anthony wasn’t as well versed in witchcraft, but there were other reasons for the traps as well. He almost called Moira to ask her, but he heard someone approaching the door.

The door opened. Through the thick screen, Anthony couldn’t see much of anything, only the outline of a woman much shorter than he. Older than a teenager, she had blond hair tied up on her head and wore a long dress.

She said, “You’re not with the Sheriff’s Department.”

Anthony glanced behind him, almost forgetting that he’d been driving Skye’s truck all day.

“Ma’am, my name is Anthony Zaccardi and I—”

“I know who you are. You’re not welcome here.”

“Excuse me, I’m just—”

“Don’t play dumb. There’s just one reason you’d come here, and that’s to take my daughter.”

Anthony stepped forward, grim and determined. In a low voice, he told the witch, “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”

Laughter, light and airy, rang out. “It’s
you
who don’t know what you’re up against. Leave now, or you’ll regret it.”

She slammed the door in his face.

Anger simmering, Anthony walked off the porch, through the paths of myrrh and lavender and henbane, back to the truck. Elizabeth Ellis was part of Fiona’s coven, and extremely dangerous. She had a solid standing in the town. No one would believe she’d be party to having her daughter sacrificed.

SIXTEEN

The only sound was the fierce wind as it whipped around Moira, slapping her face with moisture as the soggy fog turned to drizzle and the drizzle to a cold, stinging rain. If she listened carefully enough, though, she could hear the Pacific Ocean crashing on the rocks beneath the cliffs. However, if she listened
that
carefully, she also heard the screams. She didn’t know if the panicked pleas were real or in her imagination, on the surface of the earth or beneath it.

She stood several feet from the ritual circle and stared. Though broken, there was still some residual magic. Residual evil. A rotten, cloying scent of sulphur mixed with mold and dirt. It wasn’t mist that skimmed the ground; it was steam. Heat rose from the earth.

As she stared, a river of bloodred fire bubbled beneath the surface.

She turned away from the image, heart racing, the electricity in the air unnatural and almost unreal, unsure whether what she saw was real or her imagination, a vision or insanity.

She ran back to Jared’s truck, slapping her hands on the still-warm hood, taking deep breaths and gathering her wits.

Fear could be a healthy response, but uncontrolled fear was deadly.

She tilted her head up and faced the gray afternoon, knowing the sky was there but unable to see anything but bleakness, light without depth, shadowless, surreal.

Thin rain stung her face as she shouted, “I don’t want to be a martyr!” Her long hair whipped around her face, pulled from the loose braid she’d fastened in haste earlier. “I don’t want to watch people die!”

She squeezed back her tears, fists clenched, wanting to hit someone, take out her pain and anger on
something
. Rico had taught her to use the gym or to run, but she didn’t want to battle a sandbag or run ten miles, twenty miles, more, until her legs ached and her lungs burned and she threw up. She was always running. Anthony Zaccardi was right about that. She ran and ran and ran, never facing the truth.

She was cursed. She was going to die.

“I don’t want to die,” she whispered.

Moira turned to face the ruins, this time from a distance. The house had stood about a hundred yards from the edge of the cliffs. That was where the demons had been released, the back door into Hell created by the fire two months ago. Moira knew a bit about creating gateways. It was difficult and extremely dangerous, but of course Fiona and her people regularly attempted—and often succeeded in—establishing the thin membranes between earth and Hell.

Moira frowned. Why hadn’t Anthony done something to close the gateway? He’d been in Santa Louisa for months, knew what had happened at the ruins—he was a demonologist and couldn’t be ignorant about what was so obviously here. Or maybe she was sickly aware of evil because she’d lived with it for so long. Maybe she had a black heart, hard and tainted and cursed.

The edge of the continent looked eerie and surreal through the fog. She knew how these rituals went, and could picture Fiona and her people casting the circle, protecting themselves, excited and arrogant and fearful.

Lily’s observations of the ritual were tainted by her ignorance. She didn’t know anything about coven practices or how demons operated. But Lily was clear in what she
had
seen even if she didn’t understand it. Such as demons leaving Abby’s body as it levitated inches above the altar. Abby was part of the puzzle, a necessary piece to draw out the demons from the gateway.

Lily had been adamant about the black clouds being outside the circle. But there were
two
circles, a double circle, and Lily may not have made note of that. What about the witches standing in that double circle? How had they been protected? And how did Raphael Cooper affect the ritual?

Moira shook her head, frustrated. So many questions, too few answers.

She was alone and scared. Maybe she should have asked Anthony to meet her. Loneliness wasn’t new—Moira had been lonely most of her life. But she hadn’t felt so much despair since the night Peter died. She didn’t know whom she could trust, and those she did trust in this battle—those like Anthony Zaccardi—wanted nothing to do with her. Hated her. Blamed her for things that weren’t her fault. And for some things that were.

Hell churned here, in Santa Louisa. They had a war on their hands. She’d participated in some of the battles that came before, but she’d only heard about others; most which were fought before she was even born—and few came close to what they now faced.

If Moira succeeded in stopping Fiona, another magician would take her place. There were always more waiting in the wings, studying, practicing, looking for an opening to seize power and wrestle control away from the demons. It was as euphoric as it was deadly, as addictive as it was dangerous.

It was Fiona who’d united the covens and magicians in pursuit of her goal, Fiona who’d convinced them that together, they had influence. She’d been right. And the more control she wielded, the more covens would join her, a never-ending cycle that had to be stopped.

Moira felt like a pawn, expendable, used first by her mother from the moment of her conception, then by St. Michael’s Order. They didn’t care what happened to her. Deep down, she knew it. They wanted one thing from her: a weapon against the rising dominance of Fiona O’Donnell and the legions of covens she directed.

Sometimes Moira wished she’d let her mother sacrifice her.

Sometimes she wished she could just disappear forever.

Most of the time she wished she’d never been born.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

Self-pity is for the weak; regret is for the hopeless
.

“Shut up, Rico,” she whispered.

God may have forsaken her, but evil couldn’t triumph. If she lost to Fiona, every sacrifice Peter had made would be for nothing. His death would be for nothing. The cycle would repeat like a violent
No Exit
. Sartre would be amused, perhaps, at the endless game where the end was certain, but irrelevant.

Peter
.

She fell to her knees in the wet, sandy soil, her body vibrating with restrained sorrow. Tears, mingling with the rain, fell to the rocky earth.

“It’s not fair!” She pounded the ground with her fists. She missed him so much! Her voice cracked and she absently pushed the hair back from her face.

She stared at the ground. There was a symbol here, vague and disappearing in the rain. She crawled several feet to where it was clear, touched it.

It had been disturbed during the ritual and she couldn’t make it out completely, but seeing it stopped her numbing inaction. She knew exactly what was happening to her.

Slowly, she rose to her feet and looked around. The rain was slow but steady and she was drenched, but that didn’t bother her, nor did the cold that seeped into her bones. This place was evil. She’d told Anthony just that. She had been standing here doing
nothing
but feeling sorry for herself and thinking through her problems over and over and over … inaction.

Sloth.

One of the seven deadly sins.

She looked at her watch.
Hours
had passed. It was five o’clock, the light had changed, and she realized then the terrible risk Santa Louisa—and the world—faced with the Seven on the loose.

As soon as she realized what had been happening to her, her mind cleared. She admonished herself, drenched to the skin, but resolved. She had come out here to find Raphael Cooper, and she’d allow nothing to stop her.

After stealing the Mustang from Frank, high school librarian Bea Peterson pulled over and took the top down. She didn’t care that it was raining, or that she would ruin the beautifully restored seats, or stain the red carpet. She wanted to drive with the top down.