Original Sin (42 page)

Rafe sat up and reached for her, pulling her toward him. He groaned in pain, but held her tight. Tears streamed down her face, but she said, “Glad you’re alive.”

“Are you okay?”

“I will be,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Let me see.”

“No.”

“You’re being a baby.”

“Damn straight. It hurts.” She took a deep breath and let Rafe pry her arm from her chest.

Two deep holes from the demon’s canines and a hundred pin pricks between them pierced her skin. The blood that poured from the wounds burned and bubbled with the acid of the demonic bite. Her entire body was on fire and she cried out when Rafe touched near the bite, as if yelling would rid her body of the pain.

Rafe frowned and inspected the wound. She turned away, willing the pain to subside, and she realized that the dog was no longer growling at her, no longer pacing. She looked around, where did it go?

Then she spotted it, lying in the corner, its mouth a bloody mess. Its eyes were wide and unfocused. Its legs, with impossibly long claws at the end of each of its six paws, were stiff and unmoving.

She stared, unbelieving. This couldn’t have happened. She shook her head. Of course it had. A belated reaction to the poisoned dart. She breathed easier, though she was still nervous. The Cerberus was too dumb to play opossum … she hoped.

“It’s dead,” Rafe said in disbelief.

“Appears so.”

“How?”

“Poison dart.”

“That’s how it works? I thought demons couldn’t be killed.”

“Not, um, usually.” Two dead in one night. That had to be a record. “But we can’t be sure. Let me check.”

She jumped up, but he pulled her back down. “No. You’re not going to risk your life.”

“I already did,” she replied, “and we can’t stay. Fiona could be back any minute. We need to get out of here.”

He raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. He held out his hand and helped her up. She gently touched the claw marks on his chest.

She had a sudden urge to kiss him, to soothe the pain he was in, but instead she turned away, heat rising to her face.

“Moira.”

She looked back at Rafe. The dim light coming in from the library made his dark eyes fathomless as they locked on to her face. He reached up and touched her cheek, firmly turning her to face him. Her lips parted to speak, but no sound came out because she couldn’t think of any words. His dark hair was damp with sweat and fell forward, partly obscuring his eyes. Her uninjured hand shot up, as if it had a mind of its own, to brush the loose strands out of his face, but he grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her to him.

He kissed her. One hand held her face, the other her wrist, and he kissed her. Too passionate for a good luck kiss; too long for a friendly good-bye. Too …
good
. All pain slipped away, just for that moment. The weight of Moira’s responsibilities eased, just a fraction. As if one kiss, one oh-so-hot kiss, could take away some of her misery, claim a share of her obligations.

His unshaven jaw rubbed against her skin erotically. She could scarcely breathe, sinking into Rafe’s passion, her need for him growing not unexpectedly. From the moment she’d found him in the abandoned cabin, she’d felt connected to Rafe Cooper in ways she couldn’t begin to explain. And maybe she didn’t want to understand.

Rafe stepped back, just a half step, severing the kiss with a primal groan that made Moira quiver. He didn’t apologize, nor did she want him to, but the shock on his face must have mirrored her own surprise.

Any other time, any other place, and she’d have continued moving toward where that kiss was heading. The craving in Rafe’s eyes, the firm set of his jaw, indicated that he would be more than willing to join her in the exploration.

But Moira couldn’t forget who she was and what she had to do. Nor could she forget Rafe was spoken for—he was a warrior for St. Michael’s Order. Neither of them could afford to be distracted by attraction or affection. It was dangerous for them, and those they were responsible for. Rafe knew it as well as she, but still pinned her with a gaze that said:
This is only the beginning
.

She swallowed the words she wanted to say and handed Rafe a plastic three-ounce container with the last of her holy water. He took it, and she retrieved her dagger.

“Ready?” she asked, her voice low and raw.

He nodded, and together they stepped outside the circle, their eyes locked on the unmoving demon in the corner.

Why was the demon still here? It should have slithered back to Hell by now. Its essence at least should have made a flashy show of falling back into the pit. Could it really be dead?

Moira would have liked the time to explore the house, to see if there were any clues as to what Fiona’s plans were, but they didn’t have time. She had to figure out where the witches were re-creating the ritual. She took Rafe’s hand and they ran out of the house as fast as they could.

Less than five minutes later, they were at Matthew Walker’s car. Moira took a bottle of water and poured half of it on her arm. It stung and she swore.

Rafe found a towel in her bag. “Here,” he said. “Let me.”

He gently wiped away the blood. She squeezed her eyes closed, holding back tears of pain. She felt a kiss on her arm and her heart skipped a beat.

Her eyes opened and Rafe smiled at her. “You okay?”

She nodded, and examined the wound so she could avoid looking at Rafe, not wanting to think too much about what was happening between them. This … nothing. Nothing was happening. It was the adrenaline of the moment, the panic, the rush of escaping. Same as with the kiss.

You’re lying to yourself
. She ignored her inner conflict about what the kiss
might
have meant and studied her arm even more intently. The small pricks weren’t bleeding anymore, though they still hurt like hell, but the two canine bites had gone deep. “I have a first-aid kit in my bag,” she said. “You could use a bandage or two as well.”

“I’m fine,” he said and retrieved the kit. He opened it and smiled. “Bandages, tape, antiseptic, a crucifix, and holy water.”

“Never know what you might need,” she said.

As he taped gauze over the two deep wounds, Rafe said, “Fiona went to kill you.”

“She didn’t find me.”

“You weren’t at Rittenhouse?”

“Rittenhouse? The furniture store?”

“She said you’d end up there. That’s where they went to complete the ritual. Where they are now.”

“That was where the guy killed his co-workers, perfect for them. Shit!” She started the car. “I don’t know where it is, and I kinda threw the GPS out the window.”

Rafe smiled, “Go back to the highway and head north. It’s just before the county line.”

She did as Rafe said and tried to call Anthony. The call went right to voicemail.

“Anthony, it’s Moira. They’re at Rittenhouse Furniture. I have Rafe; I’m on my way there.”

She tried Skye, and after four rings got
her
voicemail and left her a similar message.

Why wasn’t anyone answering their phone?

Rafe took her hand. “What’s wrong?”

“I sent Anthony to Good Shepherd. He’s not answering his phone.” Rafe didn’t say anything for a moment. “Rafe? What?” she prompted.

“Anthony is well trained. We have to trust him.”

Now it was Moira’s turn to remain silent.

“Spill it,” Rafe said, squeezing her hand.

“Good Shepherd is on the way. It’s a short detour.”

“You care,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“You couldn’t reach Skye, but you’re not worried about her. Anthony is just as capable—maybe more so—of taking care of himself, but you’re on the verge of panic.”

“I’m not.” She
was
worried, though. “I’m just going to drive by the place, make sure everything is kosher.”

She turned off the narrow highway and headed into town. It was late, the roads were empty, but as they neared the downtown area, sirens howled. Alarms rang in businesses. People walked the streets. There were fights, smashed storefronts, and chaos.

“What’s going on?” Moira asked, horrified at the apparent anarchy.

“Envy.” Rafe dropped her hand. “Give me your gun.”

She took it from her holster and slid it across the seat to him. He checked the ammunition, then held it ready.

“It’s a riot,” she said.

She slowed down and moved over to the right for an ambulance to pass. When she did, two teenage boys jumped on the hood of her car and told her to stop.

“Floor it,” Rafe said.

She did and the sick thud of a body falling off and onto the side of the road made her stomach flip. She glanced in the rearview mirror, relieved to see both boys getting up.

“Now I know why Skye didn’t answer,” Moira said. “She has her hands fu—”

An explosion rocked the car.

It came from the direction of Good Shepherd.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Pride, envy, avarice
these are the sparks that have set on fire the hearts of all men
.

—DANTE ALIGHIERI

Skye heard the explosion before she saw the flames in the direction of Good Shepherd.

She floored it and radioed the fire department.

“Dammit, Anthony, if you’re dead …” She would not think of it. She would
not
think of it.

She pictured herself standing over Anthony’s charred body in Rod Fielding’s morgue, while Rod went through his autopsy checklist.

Tears stung her eyes. Anthony was her life. She couldn’t lose him.

Her sheriff’s truck passed her. She glanced over, not sure if Anthony was in the car, but the man behind the wheel was definitely not Anthony. Big, beefy shoulders and a hat. He looked like a uniform, but he went so fast Skye couldn’t identify him.

She wanted to continue to Good Shepherd, to see if Anthony was there. To see if he was hurt. If he needed her.

But someone had stolen the truck Anthony had been driving. If Anthony was injured, the fire department would be there in minutes. If he was dead, she would know it far too soon.

Torn, but making her choice, she made a U-turn and followed the truck from a distance. There were at least three people in the vehicle.

She called dispatch with her cell phone, in case the thief was monitoring police radio transmissions. “It’s McPherson. I need to get a GPS reading on my assigned vehicle.”

“Lose it again?”

“Excuse me?”

“An hour ago I had a request for a GPS on your truck, that someone had stolen it.”

“Who made that request?”

“Deputy Young.”

Skye felt both betrayal and rage. Young—she’d worked with him for eight years, ever since he was fresh out of the police academy. He was born and raised in Santa Louisa. He was one of
them?
A spy—a
witch
—in her own department? Were there more?

“Sergeant,” she said, “I don’t know what’s going on with Young, but my truck wasn’t stolen until five minutes ago.” She wasn’t supposed to let anyone else use her official vehicle; as sheriff she was supposed to set an example. She’d have a lot to answer for when this was over.

If she survived.

“Yes, ma’am,” the sergeant said. “Here it is. I’m tracking it. Will send the coordinates to your car—what are you driving?”

“Unmarked vehicle number six-niner-zero.”

“One sec … okay. You should have it on your computer.”

She tapped a key and there was her truck five blocks ahead, still going north on Main Street.

“Thanks. I may need backup.” Who could she trust? She didn’t know anymore.

“Everyone is tied up, but I can pull a team.”

“Jorgenson. Call him in.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” He had given her the key information on Matthew Walker; he had to be on her side. She hoped she hadn’t read him wrong.

Trust your instincts
.

“Jorgenson and David Collins. Have them track my unmarked car and meet up with me ASAP. Radio silence on this. Cell phones only. Over.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Ari blubbered. Jared wanted to slap her to make her shut up, but he didn’t.

He’d destroyed the first altar, the easiest one he could get to, and they’d just arrived at the second. When Ari woke up, she remembered everything and seemed to have turned into a wailing lunatic.

“Either help me or shut up,” he said. “Or both.”

“I—” She stopped. “I’m sorry, Jared.”

She was calmer now, so Jared responded, “It’s okay. It’s my fault too. I helped you.”

“I didn’t really give you a choice.”

“Of course I had a choice.”

She shook her head. “I cast a spell of compliance. I wanted you to agree with everything I wanted to do. You argued, fought it, but I got everything I wanted. Do you think you would have agreed to be part of my circle if you weren’t under a spell?”

He didn’t know.

“I’m worried,” he said. “I’ve been trying to reach Moira and Anthony. No one’s around. I feel like I should be doing something!”

“We are.” She overturned the altar and scattered the herbs, dirt, and stone far and wide.

Bright lights came up the road, followed by police lights and the whirl of a siren.

“Shit,” Jared said.

When the cop got out of the car Jared recognized him. “Dad!”

Hank Santos approached. He looked angry, but he rubbed his head as if in pain. “What are you doing out here this late? This town is insane tonight. I’ve been on call after call; I’ve been worried sick about you.”

Jared almost argued with him, but the worry and stress in his dad’s voice melted away his anger. It had been a hard two years after his mom died, and Jared had been upset when his dad started dating again a few months ago. He was being selfish and critical, and now was a good time to grow up.

He said, “Dad, I need your help. Please. You’re the only one I can turn to. I need
you.”

Hank stared at him. Tears came to his eyes; he took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, then put the glasses back on. “You still need me?”

“I’ll always need my dad. We’re family, and that will never change.”