The third ring had markings he would need to analyze, but they appeared to be a numeric code of some sort. Some who practiced demonolatry used numerology as part of their rituals.
But the inner circle held three filled ovals that formed a fat triangle, a mark he’d never seen but filled him with an unexplainable primal fear. The image reminded him of soulless eyes, of which he had seen far too many.
Rod said, “It looks almost like hieroglyphics, but not exactly. Too much detail. The words are Latin.”
“ ‘Summon the fires to serve in death; relinquish the soul to serve your lord; walk in the willing dead,’ ” Anthony translated.
“What the hell does that mean?” Skye demanded.
“I’m not sure, but it’s part of a ritual.”
“A satanic ritual?” she questioned, disbelieving.
“This isn’t the mark of Satan.”
“Well?” she prompted when he didn’t continue.
“This is the seal of a demon. It’s used as part of the ritual to bring a specific demon from Hell.” He gestured at the crude painting.
“Demons, Satan, does it really matter? I mean, we’re dealing with a bunch of violent psychos anyway.”
“It matters,” Anthony said. Walk in the willing dead. He’d never heard that phrase before. Fire was a common element to call upon, particularly when dealing with demons. To serve Satan, one had to relinquish their soul to the fires of Hell. But the willing dead? Physical death or spiritual death?
“And who is he?” Skye asked.
If he were in Italy or in some other countries, Anthony could explain in far greater detail what they were dealing with. Believers would be appeased with his explanation that someone had brought forth evil and until they knew what evil they faced they’d never be able to send it back. But here in America? This pretty blond cop with intelligent, sad eyes? Her entire demeanor said she wouldn’t believe anything he had to say.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. He didn’t know which demon had been called, a first for him. All those years of study, and he was at an impasse.
“Great.” She rolled her eyes. “So we’re dealing with some satanic cult,” she said, obviously not listening to—or believing—Anthony. “You’re right, Rod, the press is going to have a field day.”
“You think we have a wacko group running around performing satanic rituals and killing people?” Rod asked. “The crime seems too—disordered.”
“Very Charles Manson-ish,” Skye said with a smirk.
Anthony said, “You don’t know what you’re up against. These aren’t satanists, and they’re not disorganized. This is pure demonolatry. Someone called this spirit up and helped it kill those men. This seal is—how would you say it?—like his signature. He’s gloating over death.”
Skye rubbed her temple. Anthony resisted the anger that rose because of her disdain. He’d faced ridicule many times before, and he knew whatever spirit had been unleashed would feed on his anger, fear, and insecurity.
“So you think a demon killed those priests? And your friend just happened to survive the slaughter?”
Anthony chose his words carefully. “I think that a person brought forth the demon and used the power of Hell to kill those men. How, I don’t know. Why Rafe was spared, I don’t know. But I can tell you that it”—he pointed to the circle on the wall—“is still here. And more people will die if I can’t find him and send him back to Hell.”
Skye sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Let’s get out of here.”
Anthony didn’t move. He took out his wallet, extracted a business card, and began to re-create the seal of the demon on the blank side. Anthony needed to find out exactly who—and what—he was up against. Maybe there was a chance to save those souls. The willing dead.
These men hadn’t been willing. The demon would be looking for someone who was. One of those who summoned him? Did they know what the demon would demand of them?
“Look, Mr. Zaccardi,” Skye said, sympathy crossing her face. “You’ve been through a lot today. I’m sorry about your friends, but I’m asking you to leave the crime scene. I’ll be in contact later.”
He finished the sketch and wrote down the Latin phrase. “You do not know what you are up against,” he repeated.
“Yes I do. I’m up against a group of brutal cowards who killed twelve unarmed men.”
“You are up against those who worship him.” He stabbed his pencil at the drawing. “It is his strength that slaughtered those men. The people who called him—and there had to have been more than one—are tools. They may be frail old women or strong teenage boys. It doesn’t matter, after bringing forth this demon they have the power of Hell on their side.”
Anthony must sound crazy to the sheriff. The more she tried to dismiss what he knew to be true, the angrier he became. He had to control his temper. Not only to be able to work with this cop, but to prevent the spirits from using his temper against him.
“Sheriff,” he said quietly but firmly. “You don’t believe me. But you must. We don’t have time for doubts.”
“Please leave.”
“You wanted me to tell you if anything was missing.”
“Do you know where the written records are kept?”
“In the caretaker’s office.”
“I’ll let you know if anything has been stolen,” she said.
He stared at her, her green eyes never leaving his, her mouth firm, her posture rigid. She wore her long blond hair back, in a complicated French braid. But the tight hairstyle didn’t diminish the femininity of the tall, athletic woman. Skye was attractive, but deliberately downplayed her assets. To be seen as a leader first, a woman second.
The men around her were watching the situation closely. This was her turf, her pride at stake. There would be another time, soon, to reason with her. When they were alone, maybe she would let her guard down, soften her heart to the reality she denied.
“We’ll talk later.” He pocketed the drawing and left.
Skye watched Zaccardi leave, nodded to Martinez to follow him out. She turned and stared at the hideous drawing, the eyes inside the circle seeming to look right at her. Watching her.
Demons.
Ridiculous. “Don’t listen to him,” she said to Rod. “The guy’s a whack job.”
Rod didn’t say anything.
“What? Man of science believes in demons?”
Rod put away his equipment and stared at her. “Skye, I’m fifty-two years old. I’ve been a crime scene analyst in New York City, Chicago, and Los Angeles. I came here because Santa Louisa was supposed to be one of the safest places to live.
“I’m telling you, in my thirty years of law enforcement, I have never seen anything like this. I’m not a religious man, but I believe in God. And if God exists, why not demons? I just can’t wrap my mind around this crime scene. It makes no sense. No one tried to leave the chapel. The killers should have been drenched in blood, but not one drop was found outside this room, except for what Mr. Zaccardi tracked out when he saved his friend. If we are to believe Zaccardi that he broke down the kitchen door, which was bolted from the inside, that means that the only two entrances to the mission were locked by someone inside.”
“Which means Rafe Cooper is our only suspect.”
“Where are the weapons? We have searched everywhere and there are none. As far as I can see, at least four different weapons were used, all blades. Yet there is not one knife in this room, and certainly nothing that can decapitate a man.”
Skye opened her mouth, closed it. She had no answer.
She walked out of the sacristy and saw Anthony Zaccardi standing next to the altar. “Reiner! Escort Mr. Zaccardi back to his car.”
What the hell was he doing standing like that? What was he looking at?
He turned to her with a strained expression. “The tabernacle. It’s missing.”
Juan stood next to her and pointed. “It’s right there.”
Skye stared at a small, simpl
e antique metal box with gold mesh wire for sides.
Zaccardi shook his head. “That’s not the tabernacle I installed five years ago. Now I know exactly how the demon got in.”
CHAPTER TWO
* * *
ANTHONY CLOSED HIS CELL PHONE and stared at the fountain in the mission courtyard. He’d called the only person who might know which demon had been summoned, the only person who knew more about demons than he did.
And if Father Philip didn’t know, they were in mortal danger.
He’d stepped out of the chapel as soon as he realized the tabernacle had been replaced. Without the ancient protection against evil, these men had been in jeopardy from the moment the tabernacle had been switched. For how long? Was this a slow-working insidious evil, or a sudden awakening? Anthony had specifically asked about the tabernacle, and Rafe hadn’t seemed worried. Had it been switched before he arrived last month? Or more recently? The fake looked nearly identical to the original. Only someone with Anthony’s expertise would be able to tell the difference.
How long had the demon been tormenting these men?
A silent cloak of frightened whispers wrapped around the former sanctuary, suffocating the mission. The vicious imprint of what had happened inside these walls could never be cleansed.
Help us help us help us.
The chant wrapped around him, invisible tentacles reaching for his soul, the pleas growing in urgency as a sharp sliver of icy fear rolled down his spine and his heartbeat doubled. Sweat broke out on his brow and he leaned forward, putting both hands on the fountain, the trickle of water soothing. Breathing deeply, eyes closed, he forced his heart rate to slow and regained his internal composure. He needed all his energy focused on learning who and what was responsible for these murders.
He opened his eyes. Blood poured from the statue of Saint Jude. He gasped, blinked, and the blood was gone.
Help us help us help me.
The keening of trapped souls, the souls of the men being carted out of the chapel in black plastic body bags, surrounded Anthony, deafening in their persistence. He’d heard the cries of the dead before, had saved countless souls before they were forever lost. But never like this, never this strong. Never this lost.
“What’s wrong?”
He turned and faced Sheriff Skye McPherson.
Needful, he soaked in her raw beauty to clear his mind of all he’d seen. She did everything possible to diminish her sensuality, but nothing could destroy what lay beneath. Her creamy, clear skin. Her sharp, intelligent green eyes. Her full, red, unpainted lips. Makeup would only have destroyed what nature had created to be pleasing to a man.
Anthony desperately needed hope. Skye’s presence strengthened him. It was as if she’d been conjured from his dreams. As if he’d seen her before. As if he was meant to be at her side, helping her. Watching her. Protecting her.
He turned from her, unsettled by the thought that there might be a bond with a woman he did not know, a woman who doubted him and everything he believed in.
He touched the statue, water—not blood—flowing over his hand. Certainly his mind was clouded and troubled by what had happened here. The bond with Sheriff Skye McPherson was only through death.
“Saint Jude,” he murmured, “the patron saint of desperate causes. The men inside were desperate, Sheriff. Desperate because of what they had lived through. I put this statue here, personally selected and retrieved it from a monastery in France that had given sanctuary to other desperate people. Jews escaping the Holocaust. Desperation and hope. Without hope, we have nothing.”
Uncertainty flashed in her eyes, then the steady face of the cop he’d first met returned. She wouldn’t understand, she hadn’t believed him even when faced with the violence inside; why did he even try to explain?
Because of hope. He sensed the hope and goodness within Skye McPherson as strongly as he felt the evil that permeated the formerly hallowed grounds of Santa Louisa de Los Padres.
“All I feel,” she said, “is that someone—most likely several someones—slaughtered twelve people. Considering they were priests and this is a place of worship, it is being looked at as a possible hate crime.”
Anthony almost laughed, pulled his hand from the water and crossed himself. A faint scream from the trees taunted him. Skye didn’t hear it.
“Hate crime?” he repeated. “All violence comes from hate.”
She glanced at the doors of the chapel where another body bag was being removed, then looked at him. It was obvious to Anthony she had grave questions for him.
“Did you remove anything from the crime scene?” she finally asked.
“Other than Rafe, no. Why?”
She didn’t answer, then suddenly it became clear. He pictured the destruction he’d walked into at dawn.
“There are no weapons.”
“Someone removed them. And if you were telling the truth about breaking into the kitchen—”
“I was.”
“Then they are in here, someplace.”
“The killer left. He could have taken them.”
“You said a demon killed these men.” She couldn’t keep the derision from her voice.
He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. Patience, Anthony. “Demons don’t act on their own. They need human intervention. They need someone to bring them forth. Once here, they have more power, but in the netherworld, their power is only that which they are given by Satan himself. This is why demonolatry is so dangerous. It is humans who are giving these demons power, enabling them to walk on earth stealing souls.
“Yes, a demon was responsible, but only with the help of people.”
“Then how did the human being leave a locked mission?”
“You’re the cop, you figure it out!” Anthony turned away from Skye, angry with himself for his temper. He couldn’t allow himself to fall. He leaned into the fountain, put his hands in the water, seeking peace.
Help us help us help us
“You told my deputy that the mission was locked when you arrived.”
“Yes. The gate here”—he motioned to the courtyard fence—“had a padlock. I have a key to the mission, and went through to the kitchen door because it was closest. But the door was bolted from the inside. I broke in.”
It had been like an invisible hand, dark and twisted, holding him back. The sensation of evil slithering across his skin. Malevolence hung thick in the air, whipped his tongue, and he knew he was too late.
“The lights were out.”
“It was five in the morning,” Skye said, as if his comment were ridiculous.
“For some of these men, dark is as much an enemy as Satan himself. The wall sconces are always on, and in the event of a power outage, the mission has a generator.”
He saw Skye scribble a note. Of course, a sabotaged generator was tangible, something she could investigate. But who would know these men feared the night?
Anthony held the crucifix—dagger point out—in front of him as he ran down the hall toward the smell of death.
“I smelled fresh blood. The chapel doors were closed.”
Resisting the urge to call out, he pushed open the solid wood doors and stepped into the house of worship. A rush of burning heat came at him, then the temperature dropped and he saw his own breath.
Anthony couldn’t tell this cop about the demon he felt vacating the chapel. She wouldn’t believe him.
“I checked for survivors, but it was clear they were butchered. I was too late.”
Eerily beautiful, the early morning sun filtered through the tall, narrow stained-glass windows bathing the dead in colorful rays of light. Body upon body filled the narrow chapel. Some decapitated, some without limbs, all murdered.
The crucifix hung upside down. It was a sign of demons, of Satanists, but this cross weighed too much for even a large group of men to invert and rehang. It had been carved from granite in Mexico and brought to the mission when it was first built in 1767.
“I began loo
king among the dead for Rafe, giving blessings as I went.”
“What spirits tortured you?” Anthony whispered to the dead. Where was Rafe? He carefully crossed the floor, checking the pulse of the men he passed. All dead. As he neared the altar, he saw his friend.
“I found Rafe behind the altar.”
He lay facedown, white T-shirt covered in blood. Anthony squeezed back tears of anger, regret, and deep sadness as he knelt beside Rafe and turned him over. Anthony wasn’t a priest, but at this point he doubted God would care who gave last rites. The crying for help intensified as Anthony began the prayer.
“After I turned him over, I saw that he was breathing. His pulse was strong and I ripped open his shirt to find the wound that had caused all the blood, but there was nothing. No visible injuries. I couldn’t wake him, so I carried him out.”
The trapped souls of the dead priests cried out to him. Maybe they hadn’t been dragged down to Hell. Maybe they were in between worlds, like ghosts, waiting for help. Waiting for him.
First, save Rafe. Then he could return to save the dead.
“I called 911 as soon as I started down the mountain.”
“We have the call logged at 5:32 A.M. You told my deputy you arrived at the mission about twenty minutes before that.”
He nodded, rubbing his temples as the whispers continued, scratching at his subconscious. “Skye,” he said quietly, not looking at her, calling on the person, the woman, not the sheriff.
“Yes?”
“Do you know of doubting Thomas?”
“Vaguely.”
“He had to see Jesus to believe. He had to touch His wounds to believe in the Resurrection.”
Anthony turned, stronger now, faced the woman whom he needed in order to save these men. He could stop the demon, but it would be her investigation that led him to those humans responsible for calling on Hell. To the ritual that maybe, with luck, strength, and faith, he could reverse.
He reached out, touched her soft skin. “I am asking for faith from a doubting Thomas. But I am still asking.”
Skye stared at Anthony Zaccardi, the dark pirate, because that was most certainly what this man was. She should be laughing in his face—demons and Hell? Ridiculous. Her own mother had left to seek God and look what happened to her. Their entire family had been torn apart. Skye didn’t need religion or belief in anything she couldn’t see when she had cold, hard facts that didn’t lie.
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