“I will not be defeated!”
His eyes glowed and his mouth opened in a deep roar that vibrated every cell in Skye’s body.
Juan began to chant again, looking into her eyes. She couldn’t draw her gaze away, as if someone held her lids open. Corinne and Lisa joined in the ritual. The heat in the room increased until sweat poured from Skye’s body. The foul stench that had permeated Skye’s own house that morning seeped in, filling her nostrils, her lungs, until she wasn’t breathing air, but thick sulfur. Her eyes drooped; she was on the verge of passing out.
On the ceiling, over Juan’s shoulder, she saw flames. Bright, hot, red. She saw eyes, everywhere eyes, glowing, howling, laughing, shrieking. She tried to scream but no sound came out.
Her father stood in front of her, consumed by fire.
You forgot me. You let me die.
No, Daddy! I loved you.
He ignited in front of her, his flesh turning black, falling off his bones, raining down on her.
She screamed.
Her mother—her beautiful, elegant mother—floated in the flames. Her face twisted, her cheeks hollow. Skye watched the fire dance in the large hole in her chest.
“Mom,” Skye muttered, her voice distant, as if she was hearing a poor recording of herself.
I left because of you. I never wanted a child. You should never have been born.
She was so alone. Dead to the world. No one to love. No one who loved her.
They were going to burn her alive. The whole cottage was on fire and she was going to die . . .
. . . then she saw the knife in Lisa’s hand.
Anthony. Help me.
• • •
Ianax had one common trait with every demon Anthony had encountered.
Arrogance.
Ianax couldn’t sense him because in his arrogance he’d believed he’d taken care of Anthony by erecting a protective circle and making Skye doubt him. Ianax also had to battle to keep Juan’s soul imprisoned, which consumed a huge amount of satanic energy.
Anthony knew exactly what the three were doing. They were destroying Skye from the inside out in preparation for the purging of Juan’s soul to the netherworld. Juan was an unwilling host and fighting the possession, so they needed to weaken Skye so she wouldn’t fight Ianax when he claimed her. If that failed, they would sacrifice her.
Skye had been worn down to raw nerves, her grief and guilt and loneliness being used to destroy her.
Anthony. Help me.
Anthony heard Skye’s plea, didn’t know if she had screamed it or thought it. He peered from his hiding place into the living room where the demonic ritual was unfolding. Skye writhed on the floor as if in pain, but nothing was touching her. Skye’s eyes were wild, unseeing—at least not seeing what was in front of her. Something was scaring her, something that made her believe. Believe in him. And that was all Anthony needed.
Juan and the Davies women stood over Skye, chanting, drawing out her soul.
Corinne’s speech to Skye made sense to Anthony. The two women and Hatch had summoned Ianax, and had he successfully possessed Hatch’s body, the demon would have been far more powerful on earth. He would have finished the ritual and dragged the other souls down to Hell. A huge victory for Satan to have God’s own men in his domain, and as a reward Ianax would walk on earth in human form but with inhuman power, the goal of every demon.
But Rafe had interrupted the process, possibly begun an exorcism, and Hatch died before the possession was complete, his soul already damned. And Rafe—
Anthony remembered the rush of heat followed by icy cold when he’d entered the chapel and saw the carnage.
Rafe was unconscious; he would have been a perfect vessel for the demon. Tortured, unable to save his men. Guilt had consumed him. Ianax could have taken him, used his anguish against him, but Anthony had interrupted.
Where had the women been?
In the sacristy.
He hadn’t searched the chapel, he’d been so intent on saving Rafe.
He could have stopped it two days ago. But he’d been blind in his own fear and failures. And now Skye was going to die because of him.
No. He shook his head. I will not let her die.
He brought out his dagger-cross and held it in front of him as he said in a loud, deep voice, “By the power of the heavens, of the Holy Spirt, by the order of Saint Michael and all the angels and saints, Ianax! You are dismissed!”
The demon in Juan screamed. Corinne stepped toward Skye while Lisa jumped at Anthony with her long nails outstretched.
Anthony pushed aside all notions that hitting a woman was wrong, and put all his strength into a right hook that stopped Lisa in her tracks. The girl crumpled at his feet, knocked cold.
“Bastard!” Corinne screamed, holding a knife at Skye’s neck, crouched over her like a wild animal. Skye was sweating profusely, her body jerking as if being poked and prodded.
She’s dying.
“Fight, Skye!” he shouted.
Corinne couldn’t kill Skye because Ianax needed her.
Anthony hoped he was right. He hadn’t faced such an ancient demon, nor one who was so powerful that he could survive on earth without a body, which he’d done for hours after Hatch’s death.
Anthony held his cross high, chanting ancient words of exorcism.
Juan twisted, his body rising from the ground. The demon stared at Anthony.
“YOU!” he howled, his mouth straining. “I will not go back!”
The screech hurt Anthony’s ears, but he continued. The demon held up his hand and Anthony was slammed against the wall, his body inches from the ground. Pain hit him like a million pinpricks. He couldn’t draw air into his lungs.
Skye was pinned to the floor but looked right at him.
In her eyes, Anthony saw her pain and love and loneliness and, mostly, her trust.
Suddenly she screamed, “NO!” as her body arched in pain.
The demon’s hold on Anthony slipped. Anthony pushed back from the wall. Corinne grabbed Skye’s hair, held the knife to her throat.
The demon’s horrid face could be seen in Juan as he touched Skye. “Blood for my Master and two souls.”
Corinne brought the knife up and, chanting with the demon, aimed the tip for Skye’s heart.
Anthony tackled Corinne, threw her from the circle. The tip of the knife sliced his side. He grabbed her wrist, slammed it against the edge of a low table, hearing the bone crack.
The smell of smoke grew. In the struggle, candles fell and both the couch and the curtains ignited.
Anthony grabbed the knife and pulled from his belt a vial of holy water from the river Jordan. He poured the water on the knife; steam rose and the knife burned his hand. It was a demonic knife, one used in many deadly rituals.
And very likely one of the knives used in the massacre at the mission.
Anthony had one chance.
The demon grabbed Skye and held her to him. Her face twisted in pain. She struggled to breathe.
Anthony glanced to Skye’s right. She blinked once.
He raised the knife. “Let her go, Ianax!”
An unnatural voice rose from Juan’s throat. “Mine.”
Anthony felt his chest tighten. He threw the knife at the same time as Skye pivoted right. The demon’s hold on her was tight and she couldn’t get away. The fire grew around them, feeding on the fuel that was the house.
The knife missed her by an inch, landing exactly where Anthony aimed in Juan’s thigh.
The demon screeched, his head thrown back, and Skye fell to the floor. Thick black smoke shot out of Juan’s mouth, up to the ceiling, then with a shriek that made Anthony’s ears ring, the demon disappeared through the fire.
He would be back. Anthony had to get them out of the house.
“What have you done?” Corinne shouted.
As soon as the demon was gone, Skye could breathe. But the smoke was thick, the fire hot. She crawled over to Juan’s prone body.
“Juan!” she cried. The knife was in his leg and she knew it would be even more dangerous to attempt to remove it now.
“We have to get out now,” Anthony said, staggering toward her.
Blood soaked through the side of his shirt.
The ceiling began to collapse around them. Skye stood unsteadily, grabbed Juan under his arms, and dragged him toward the door.
Corinne blocked the door. “You will die with us!” she said. “And I’ll drag all your souls down to Hell!”
Anthony lunged at her, knocked her to the side. They fought and Anthony shouted, “Get out, Skye!”
Skye couldn’t leave Anthony. But Juan was unconscious.
She struggled to open the door, an ungodly scream echoing around them in the night sky. Coughing out smoke and taking in as much air as possible, she dragged Juan off the porch.
The house was engulfed in flames. She couldn’t see the sky through the smoke, but something looked off. The fire itself was red, the flames dense. The house seemed to be shrinking in front of her.
Anthony.
She ran up the steps and through the open door. Anthony was lying on the floor, unmoving. No, no, no! He’d saved her life. Again. She wasn’t going to let him die, not when she had so much to tell him.
It took all her strength to drag him out. The smoke weakened her, the fire burned her skin. She glanced at Corinne Davies, unconscious. She couldn’t see her daughter Lisa through the smoke, on the far side of the living room.
She couldn’t save them. She didn’t even know if she could save Anthony and herself.
“You are mine!”
The flames danced and whispered, a cacophony of heat and flames and burning wood and falling timber, but all Skye heard was the call of the demon.
“You are mine. You are mine. You are mine.”
Skye didn’t stop. She used strength she didn’t know she had to drag Anthony from the burning house. The porch collapsed as they crossed it, and Skye rolled down the stairs with Anthony. He grunted when they landed on the sandy soil.
“Anthony!” She crawled away, dragging him, feeling the house pulling her back. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the face of evil in the flames as an inhuman scream echoed through the night.
With a deafening roar, the house collapsed into itself, and nothing but the smoldering foundation remained.
Sirens pierced the air. “Anthony, Anthony, talk to me,” Skye whispered, her voice hoarse and dry from the smoke.
“Skye,” he murmured. “My Skye.”
She cried with relief. She kissed him, her hand touching his chest.
The blood.
She ripped open his shirt. A deep cut sliced open his lower abdomen. He’d lost so much blood already. It coated his shirt, her fingers. She pressed her hands on the wound, but it didn’t stop the bleeding.
“No, no!” She couldn’t lose him. “I’m sorry.”
“Do. You. Trust me?” His speech was labored.
“Yes, of course. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe—”
“Water in my pocket.”
“I don’t—”
“Hurry.”
She reached into his pockets. In one was a plastic bottle half full of a clear liquid. Water?
“Pour it. On the wound.”
“I don’t think—”
“Trust, my Skye.” He coughed.
Hands shaking, she unscrewed the cap. She smelled the liquid. Nothing.
She poured it over his wound. Before her eyes, the wound stopped bleeding. It seemed to . . . shrink.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
He reached for her, pulled her into the nook of his arm. “My faith, your trust.”
She relaxed in his arms. The sirens were closer, the lights of the rescue vehicles cutting across the cliff where the Davies house used to stand.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered.
“Never.”
She took his hand in hers, brought it to her lips. “I thought I’d lost you. I’m so alone, Anthony.”
“Not anymore.”
She turned her head, looked at his face. “What is this, Anthony? I feel complete. With you.”
He smiled. “We’re complete together. I love you, Skye.”
“You live in Italy.”
“I live with you.”
Realization hit her, but she didn’t want to believe. Didn’t want to be hurt. “But your life—”
He kissed the top of her head. “My life is with you. My soul belongs to you while I walk this earth. I am what I am, warts and all, but I am a man who believes in fate, a man who believes I came here for a reason. To save you.”
He kissed her again, his lips stealing her loneliness.
“I was a lonely man,” he whispered in her ear. “Until I saw you.”
Skye had never felt truly at peace, until now, lying in the nook of Anthony’s arm, being held, and holding.
Maybe, maybe she could believe in love.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
* * *
One week later
SKYE WATCHED ANTHONY from afar. He stood in the middle of the rubble that had been the Santa Louisa de Los Padres Mission. His dark hair was pulled back into a leather band, his white shirt billowed in the wind, and his hands were outstretched.
He was the most beautiful creature who had ever walked on earth, and the knowledge that he was hers, that he loved her, that he wasn’t going to leave, had finally sunk in.
She’d had a lot of work this past week, rarely saw him, but he waited for her at her house each night. He made love to her with passion and tenderness, heat and softness, showing her a love she had not believed existed. Because Anthony was in her bed and in her heart, she could put aside the questions from her colleagues, the lawyers, the threats of lawsuits by Corinne Davies’s surviving family in Oregon, the forensic evidence that was still a puzzle because—except for Rod Fielding—she’d told no one about the demon, or her belief that supernatural forces were responsible for so much of the destruction.
As far as the public was concerned, Corrine and Lisa Davies had worked in conjunction with Jeremiah Hatch to poison the reclusive Santa Louisa priests until they committed suicide. The press had implied that it was a Catholic hate crime aimed specifically at the mission, and Skye did nothing to dissuade the rumors.
But there were still so many questions and evidence to sort through. Fielding and his team were scouring the ashes at the Davies house to identify remains. And even though Skye had heard the motive out of Corrine Davies’s own mouth—immortality—she had a difficult time accepting it. Without Anthony by her side, she would have believed everything she’d seen had been caused by drugs. But her eyes hadn’t deceived her.
With Anthony, she would not only survive but heal. She hoped Juan could as well. A very weak Juan had finally been released from the hospital that morning. He remembered everything that had happened, was tortured by his actions.
“It was the demon.” She had finally said it. And believed. She had seen the face of evil, and doubting Thomas was no more.
Juan still tortured himself. Anthony was talking with him daily. If anyone could help Juan, it was Anthony.
The funeral for the priests had been that morning, and Anthony and Skye were the last to leave. Anthony had insisted that the men, except Jeremiah Hatch, be buried at the mission. No one argued. Hatch’s body had been shipped overseas, for what purpose Skye didn’t know.
Anthony saw her watching him and waved. She stepped over the stones, to the rose garden that had—miraculously—been spared in the fire. Something else unexplainable that Skye was beginning to simply accept as part of her new life.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
“The demon didn’t get their souls, but I don’t know if they are at peace.”
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what Anthony meant exactly, but he was upset and that, in turn, saddened her.
“They may have a message, but they’re
not sharing with me.”
“Like ghosts?”
He shrugged. “I should be grateful they’re not in Hell.”
She leaned up and kissed him. “You did everything you could.”
“Not everything.”
He was thinking about his friend Rafe Cooper. “The doctors said there’s nothing physical keeping him from making a recovery,” she said.
“I thought—I thought when Ianax was destroyed that Rafe would come out of the coma.”
She touched his handsome face, her finger gliding over the dark stone in his ear. “You did everything you could.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
“He’ll recover. Have faith, Anthony.”
He opened his mouth, closed it. Smiled. “I love you, Skye.”
“I love you, too, Anthony Zaccardi.”
He pulled her to him. “I spoke with Father Philip earlier. He’s going to convince the historical preservation committee at the Vatican that I need to oversee the rebuilding of the mission.”
“You’re going to rebuild?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll need to stay in town.”
“I don’t have a place to live. I suppose I could go back to the inn.” His mouth turned up in a half grin.
She kissed him. “You already have a place to stay. As long as you want.”
He rubbed her back, ran a hand through her hair. Made her feel warm and loved and whole for the first time in her life.
“Is forever too long?” he murmured into her lips.
“Sounds just about right.”
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Chase Ryker is the reluctant bodyguard of TV psychic Arianna Killian, and when she begins receiving deadly messages from a frightened killer, he must protect her . . . and his burgeoning love for her.
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Deliver Us from Evil Page 13