Pietro resumed walking down the broken stone path with deliberate steps, his age forcing him to walk slowly and carefully. “You have affection for the boy.”
Philip followed. “No more so than the others.” Was that a lie? Not a deliberate lie. To clarify, he added, “He reminds me of Peter.”
Pietro nodded.
“Peter failed.”
“Did he?”
“He believed he was stronger than he was; he believed he could turn dark power into light. He kept secrets.”
“You fear for young Gideon’s soul. Your greatest failing, Philip, is your greatest strength.”
When the older priest didn’t elaborate, Philip said. “I’m going to Olivet. I’ll need your blessing and authority.”
Pietro nodded. “You have it.”
“Anthony is asking questions.”
“As he always has. Let him ask. He’ll find answers when he asks the right questions.”
“If he’s right about the Seven-”
“He is.”
Philip stopped walking. “You know something of this?”
“I know the Conoscenza was not destroyed at Santa Louisa.”
“In Santa Louisa! The Conoscenza was destroyed hundreds of years ago. Here, in Italy-”
“A book that had been called the Conoscenza was destroyed, a brilliant forgery. But the real Conoscenza, the one written in ink tainted with demon blood, the one written by demonic hands, the original, which is older than Moses and unintelligible to most humans, is still on earth. Our ancestors in the Order were misguided, led by their own pride and erroneous sense of invulnerability. They were deceived. One of their own betrayed them, a Judas, who forged the book and hid the original so well that no one knew it existed.”
“Why was this kept secret? We needed this information. How can-”
“Philip, we weren’t certain until today.”
“Because of Anthony’s report about the Seven.”
Pietro nodded. “It confirms out deepest fears. We had no proof, but Anthony is not generally wrong about these things.”
“He’s not, but-”
Pietro held up his hand. “I know this is hard to believe, and I didn’t want to believe myself.”
The old man sat on a bench under a plane tree, one that had been planted more than four decades before, its gnarled trunk rising into countless branches. It was Father Lucca Zaccardi’s tree, planted after his death during a violent exorcism when Philip was still training under him. Philip often sat in this spot when he meditated, or when he doubted. Father Lucca had been a pillar of strength, much like Anthony. Philip felt weak between the two men, and was usually comforted here. Not today.
Pietro continued. “Father Salazar contacted me from the Santa Louisa Mission four months before the murders there. Poor Herve expressed a rather … paranoid, for lack of a better word … belief that the book was alive.”
“Alive?”
“His word, but fitting considering the origins of the book. The inner council didn’t want to accept it, but I believed him. So did the Cardinal.”
There were many cardinals in the Church, but only one cardinal publicly associated with the Order: Francis Cardinal DeLucca. He was their main benefactor, the one who ensured that St. Michael’s Order survived from his position high in the Vatican. Other high-ranking supporters did so with much discretion.
“The Cardinal sent Raphael to the mission at Santa Louisa to find the Conoscenza.”
Philip had to sit down at this revelation. He hadn’t known. How could he have not known? He looked up at the gray sky, through the leafless branches of the plane tree, and knew with certainty that he wouldn’t see spring blossom on the island.
Pietro continued. “It wasn’t until after the murders that the idea that the Conoscenza was at the mission took hold. The witch’s belief that her mother was searching for it meant we needed to-”
“The witch? You call Moira O’Donnell a witch?”
Pietro stopped for a moment, sat next to Philip, and said, “I’m sorry. I know you have affection for the girl.” He went on. “The Cardinal sent Raphael into the mission to assess the situation. You understand that we still don’t know his calling.”
By the age of twenty-one, the “calling” of all St. Michael’s children was clear. Whether they were to be priests, exorcists, empaths, demon hunters, demonologists, scholars, linguists, or one of many other specialties was discerned no later than twenty-one. Some, like Anthony, had been discerned at an early age. Others, like Raphael, were more elusive. He was in his thirties and still unsettled.
Pietro continued. “After Father Salazar’s cryptic messages, we sent Raphael to Santa Lousia, but we also began to discreetly investigate all the men at the mission. You know why they were there.”
“Because they’d been spiritually and emotionally damaged by evil.”
“And we have sympathy for our people. But-”
“You knew about the priest Jeremiah Hatch.”
Pietro paused long enough that Philip wondered if he was working on a fabrication, or if he simply didn’t want to comment. “We began to suspect Hatch was a practicing magician,” Pietro said. “It was in retracing his steps in Guatemala that we discovered some inconsistencies with his story, and in those inconsistencies accepted that he may have uncovered the Conoscenza.”
“By design.”
“We don’t know how the book came to be in Central America, or how Hatch learned it was there. But he was missing for three years, and everyone who was lost with him is still missing. They are likely dead. Hatch returned to America, and is the only priest who asked to be sent to Santa Louisa.”
“If you knew, why didn’t you stop him before the murders?”
“We didn’t know! We didn’t have all the information until after the massacre. If Anthony is right about the Seven, the only known spell to draw them from Hell is in the Conoscenza. You sent the wi-Moira-to track Fiona’s coven, and she lands in Santa Louisa. The same place that we were looking for proof that the Conoscenza survived all these years. Now that the Seven may well be on earth, we face an ancient evil we are ill prepared for.” He sighed wearily as the sky grew darker, as the sun slid farther down and the clouds grew heavy. The light breeze that had flitted through the courtyard all day strengthened, pushing at the men.
“There are times, Philip, when I want to close my eyes and leave it all for the End Times. There will be an end, and I am so tired.”
Philip refused to live his life in the belief that nothing he said or did mattered. Forgiveness was commanded by the Lord, even for those who had done unspeakable acts. And if Philip died because he obeyed, then he was ready to die.
“If we do not fight against evil, we are as those who celebrate it.”
Pietro didn’t comment, and Philip felt very alone. He was considered an idealist, known for his passion and compassion. But Pietro was a realist, and realists often looked only at the facts-that Judgment Day was inevitable, regardless of what they did or didn’t do. Arrogant, Philip believed. This arrogance-pride-was the fall of many in the Order. That they were pure and thus could turn their back on the masses of God’s children.
Philip had always been drawn to the parable of the lost sheep. That the Lord would sacrifice the pious to save the one who wandered. That the one mattered. Raphael … Anthony … Philip … Moira … even Peter, who had made wrong choices for the right reasons. That the Lord would forgive, would search for His lost sheep night and day, endlessly, and have mercy on them.
Lord, please be with your lost sheep today and forever.
“You, Philip,” Pietro said quietly, “are a rare soul.”
“I am who I am, nothing more than a servant for the Lord.” They sat in silence for many minutes, until the clouds opened and a solitary drop of rain fell on the ground.
Philip accepted his fate and rose, his bones cracking audibly. Despite the infirmities of old age, he no longer regretted his lost youth. “I should finish my prep
arations. It is a long journey.”
Pietro remained sitting and caught Philip’s eye. “As you know, the Conoscenza can only be destroyed by a very specific person.”
Philip’s stomach rose. “A witch.”
“Moira.”
“But you still call her Witch.”
“She will always be a witch.”
Philip shook his head, wiping raindrops from his brow. “You can’t believe that. We all can be forgiven.”
“’Tis true, but she is what she is. Forgiven or not, she is our one best hope. Only a mortal witch can destroy the book written in the blood of a union between demons and humans. She is a descendant of the fall of man.”
“We all are.”
“But you know what I speak of.”
Of course Philip understood what Pietro meant. After humans were banished from the Garden of Eden, after the first taste of knowledge from the forbidden fruit, a few in the following generations turned to magic, and demons roamed the earth with them. It was that first coven, the first magicians on earth, from which Fiona had come. And, thus, Moira.
“Are you certain?” Philip asked as the rain fell more steadily and they began the walk back to the building.
“I am,” Pietro said.
A chill ran down Philip’s spine. As if sensing his fear and hesitation, the wind whipped up around them, coming down into the fortress as if blown in from the heavens. Pietro pulled his handmade sweater tighter around him.
“I know you are upset with me, Philip, and I am sincerely sorry that I had to keep information from you. Rico needed Moira to believe that she was to be one of us, but it was simply to divert her questions. He never lied to her.” He hesitated. “Since you’re reluctant to bring Gideon, instead John will escort you to Santa Louisa.”
“I’m going to Olivet.” Even as he said it, Philip realized that he’d been unconsciously planning to go directly to Santa Louisa. Anthony, Moira, Raphael-they were in danger, and they needed the truth if they were to have a chance.
Philip wiped drops of rain from his cheek. “They deserve the truth.”
“Perhaps. Philip, up until now, Moira’s visions have been of the present; if she begins to see the future we have to stop it.”
Philip shook his head. “There are gifts-”
“Her gifts are not from God. Philip, you are blind when it comes to Moira. I need you to be safe. John will escort you to Santa Louisa. He can protect you.”
What Pietro was implying … “Moira would never hurt me, or any of us. It took her years to accept the assignment to”-Philip hesitated, unable to say the word kill, in violation of all he believed-“stop her mother and the coven.”
As he passed Peter’s tree again, he glanced over, his heart heavy. Pietro had said all he had to say.
They stepped inside the stone halls, water sliding off their clothes onto the ancient floor. Philip said, “I will leave tomorrow. Gideon will stay here, yes?”
Pietro nodded solemnly. “Agreed. Gideon will join you later. I will prepare John to escort you. You’ll both leave at dawn.” He took Philip by the arm. “We cannot lose you, Philip. I’ve been … uneasy lately. Without you, we lose our center.”
“I am merely a man.”
“You are a rock, Philip. I remember when you arrived at the gates. I was ten, not privy to much, but I heard Father Lucca say, ‘This one, he is of the foundation. We must protect him as long as possible.’ And he took you under his wing. It was a first for him; he’d never raised one of us.”
Philip had never heard that story before, and it moved him. “Are you keeping anything else from me?” he whispered.
“You now know everything I know, but-” He stopped.
“But? Pietro, please. I must know.”
“The Cardinal knows more.”
NINE
All hope abandon, ye who enter here!
— DANTE ALIGHIERI
Moira realized after hitting Anthony that she’d let her temper get the better of her, but connecting her hand with his arrogant face had been so damn satisfying that she gloated for the first five minutes she was locked behind bars. True, she probably couldn’t take Zaccardi out in a fair fight, but she didn’t care if she played fair, and she’d surprised him. Wham! Down on his knees. She wished she’d broken his nose, but no such luck. She rubbed her hand. Rico had taught her how to pull punches to minimize damage to herself, but damn, her palm was still sore.
There were only four cells in the Santa Louisa County jail, plus a larger “drunk tank.” There were two men in the drunk tank-sleeping. Only one other cell was occupied, and that man was sleeping as well. Though the place was clean, she occasionally caught a whiff of stale urine or vomit underneath the antiseptic cleanser.
Her cell, surrounded by three smooth, gray cinder-block walls, was on the opposite side of the wide walkway. Narrow steel bars and the three sleeping prisoners were her only view.
Six minutes of incarceration and the walls began to shrink. Her heart raced as the floor seemed to rise. She knew she was panicking, but knowing it didn’t stop the pressure in her chest, or the sweat from breaking out on her neck, between her breasts, and on her palms.
She’d been in prison before, only nothing as lavish as the Santa Louisa Sheriff’s Department.
The first time Moira had run away she was sixteen. And because she’d been stupid and unskilled in survival, Fiona had found her. Punished her. Sent her underground, in a dungeon of an abandoned castle in Ireland. Dark. Cold. Damp. With the foul stench of mold and decay, of dead, rotting rodents. She heard the rats scurrying all around her, above her on the beams, in the corners, in and out of the bars of her cell. It could have been the seventeenth century as easily as the twenty-first.
Fiona had left Moira for a week. Alone. With only enough food and water to ensure survival. Into her dreams, Fiona had sent monsters so real Moira didn’t know whether they were nightmares or reality. She hallucinated and had nearly been broken. Nearly. Except for the hard rock of hatred in the core of her heart, hatred of Fiona. It kept her alive, it kept her breathing, and when she was free she played Fiona’s game for months. When she ran again, Fiona didn’t find her for nearly five years.
Moira’s breath caught and she stared at three barred, horizontal windows on the far wall. Tilting her head up, she stared greedily at the dark sky, a nearly full moon blurred by high clouds. She had to get hold of herself. She wasn’t underground, this wasn’t a dungeon, and Fiona didn’t know she was here. She focused on the red planet through a small opening in the clouds. Mars was so bright tonight! She watched it appear and disappear as the clouds and earth moved. Imagined being outside, beneath a vast array of stars, in an open field, physically free and emotionally calm. Without trouble, without the pain of regret, without the torture of memories that burned.
It felt like hours, but it had only been ten minutes since she’d begun to panic. The terror subsided, but she felt … prickly, as if she were being watched. Tense, knowing that the panic of confinement was just beneath the surface, just waiting for something to draw it out.
The deputy who had brought Moira in had left, but he had to be nearby, didn’t he? They wouldn’t leave her in a locked cell without being able to see or hear her. She called out, “Hey! Come on, let me out! Please! Find the sheriff-” What was her name? “Skye! Are you there?”
“The courts open at nine a.m.,” the man alone in his cell said from across the corridor. “Shut up or you’ll wake the boys. They’ll puke up their rotgut dinner and we’ll be smelling that shit for hours.”
Moira wasn’t getting into a conversation with anyone. Instead she focused on paying Anthony back. She’d deck him again-out of sight of his girlfriend the cop.
“You’re too fresh-faced and pretty to be a hooker,” the prisoner said. “And you don’t look drunk. Drugs?”
She didn’t respond.
“Come on, sweet thing, talk to me. I don’t bite, unless you want me to.” He laughed at his stupid joke.
She glared at him and turned her back.
“Bitch,” he mumbled. “Hope you go to State; the dykes would love to wipe the floor with your attitude.”
Anthony wouldn’t let it go that far, would he? Send her to prison for years? No, he couldn’t. Father Philip would get her out. First call she made would be to Rico. He’d get here fast in his private plane. No way he’d let her stay in prison. And he’d beat the living daylights out of Anthony for putting her here. She hoped she could watch. No one fought better-meaner or dirtier-than Rico.
The door opened at the guard station. Finally.
Moira was about to rip Sheriff Skye McPherson a new one, but she bit her tongue.
It wasn’t the sheriff coming through the door. Even before she saw the woman, she knew who it was.
Fiona.
An exotic, seductive scent-lavender and orchids and dark ocean breezes floating on a rich, musky base. Unique, enchanting, deadly.
Moira quietly backed against the wall closest to the door, where Fiona wouldn’t first see her-not that it mattered. Fiona knew she was here; otherwise she wouldn’t have come, wouldn’t have risked exposing herself. But Moira needed a minute, a few seconds, to adjust to seeing her mother again for the first time in seven years, when she’d blindly caught up with Fiona after Peter’s death. Rico had risked his life to save her. She hadn’t deserved to be saved.
Three primary emotions battled: pain, rage, and fear. Fiona had channeled dark powers for years, had become far more powerful than even when she’d summoned the demon that possessed Moira seven years ago. Fiona could easily kill her without a man-made weapon. And Moira couldn’t fight back. Even if she had kept her abilities sharp and honed, she couldn’t fight Fiona with magic without breaking her promise to Father Philip. She’d rather die than do that. Even magic with good intentions killed, because it all came from the same source of pure evil.
It had killed Peter. It had almost killed her. Now, trapped in this prison-the physical jail cell and her own morality-she’d be dead before dawn.
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