Anthony didn’t know why Father was trying to reason with the magician.
Walker stared at Father Philip, his face hard. “Let’s go, Father.”
A voice came up the stairs. “Sixty seconds!”
Anthony hated being helpless as he watched Young push Lily at Walker, then grab Father Philip. He couldn’t see a way to stop Walker from taking them. He clenched his fists.
Walker smiled warmly at Lily and touched the side of her face with the back of his hand. “I’ve missed you, Lily. Your ignorance was so pleasurable for me.”
“You know what to do, Anthony,” Father said as he passed by.
“He can’t do anything if he’s dead.” Young aimed the gun at Anthony. The split second before Young pulled the trigger, Anthony dove to the side behind the couch, feeling the heat of the bullet against his bruised cheek.
“Ciao,” Young said and started down the stairs with Father Philip.
“Forty seconds!” the voice downstairs said.
“Move it, old man!” Young ordered. “Walker? You coming or staying?”
Anthony heard them jog down the stairs.
Forty seconds ’til what? The anxiety in Young’s voice … Anthony had to get out of here.
He couldn’t follow them down the stairs. Young would be waiting-with the gun-for him to emerge from the building. He ran to the front of the building, mentally counting down how much time he had left.
The bedroom had two large double-paned windows. Anthony grabbed the heavy metal bedside lamp and used the base to hit the window with all his strength. It cracked. He hit it again. Again.
Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven.
He smelled smoke in the rooms below, and the reflection of flames on the building across the street told him the fire was building rapidly.
The window splintered in a mass of fine cracks. Shielding his head, Anthony threw the lamp at the window. It finally shattered.
Fourteen. Thirteen.
He kicked out the shards along the bottom frame as he judged the distance he’d need to jump to not only get clear of the glass but the explosion he knew was about to happen.
He couldn’t do it. He looked left-nothing. To the right there was a narrow balcony with metal railings. He judged the distance at about eight feet.
Six. Five.
He stood on the frame and balanced. As he leapt on three, the explosion came, the force of the air pushing him beyond the balcony. He reached out and tried to grab the railing, the heat and debris from the explosion hitting him.
The railing slipped from his fingers and he was falling …
Moira drove up to the mansion she’d found in Good Shepherd’s property records. Its lush grounds glowed with soft lighting. The house was majestic and sprawling, with high windows and numerous porches and porticos. There were even two turrets, which would satisfy Fiona’s pretensions of nobility.
Aside from the physical trappings, as soon as Moira stepped onto the property she felt the undercurrent of magic. Many spells were at work here, and Moira had to tread carefully. Chances were that Fiona had alarms on the place, but Moira couldn’t worry about that right now. She’d rather take her chances with the police than with Fiona any day.
Fear bubbled up, fear she’d suppressed at Good Shepherd. When she could act and focus on a plan, the fear stayed buried. But her adrenaline rush had disappeared during the drive out to the coast, and now all she could think about was how high the odds were stacked against them.
When you played by the rules, the odds were never in your favor.
Moira stayed in the shadows while she walked the perimeter, getting a sense of how the house was laid out and whether anyone was inside. No one was moving downstairs. There was no music, no television, no noise whatsoever, except the filter working in the pool and the waves crashing against cliffs three hundred yards behind the house.
It was now or never. If Rafe wasn’t here, she had two other places to check.
The dozen French doors were impossible to pick, and if people were inside she didn’t want them alerted by breaking glass. The kitchen door at the side of the house had a spell cast over it and it took Moira nearly three minutes to get the lock open.
The rich scent of Irish stew lingered in the kitchen, and for a moment, she stopped and breathed deeply, her eyes stinging. There had been some good times in her childhood. Before she knew what was planned for her. Like when her grandmother cooked stew that smelled exactly like this kitchen.
The good memories were too few and far between.
Moira methodically, silently, walked through the first floor, checking each room quickly. She didn’t sense anything other than magic.
Frustrated, she reached the back of the house and as she put her hand on a pair of double doors, a jolt of energy hit her. For a second she thought someone was inside the room attacking her with witchcraft, but as she pushed open the doors into what was obviously a library, she realized no one was inside.
This was where Fiona and her people created the bulk of their spells. Compared to the magic outside, the energy in here was a hundred times stronger.
She stopped in the middle of the towering room, her dagger in one hand and her last bottle of holy water in the other. Her senses were practically screaming caution, she was on edge and agitated, but she saw nothing out of the ordinary.
More than at any time in her life since she’d renounced it, in the last forty-eight hours she’d been immersed in dark magic energy. More magic in a short period than at any time in her life. It was no wonder she was weirded out: Moira was walking around the house of her mother, who’d sworn to torture and kill her.
She released a pent-up breath and focused. Opening her senses to the emotions imprinted here, trying to feel Rafe’s presence. Relax. Breathe. As soon as she calmed, she realized that it wasn’t just the magic that was stronger in here. There was a demon nearby.
She cautiously approached a set of double doors in an alcove to the side of the vast space. An unfamiliar sigil was posted on one of the doors, instead of above it. She turned the handle and pushed the door open.
Moira stared at Rafe, clad in jeans and nothing else, unconscious in the center of a spirit trap. Claw marks across his chest were barely dry. Her heart nearly stopped at the thought that it was too late, that Rafe was dead, but then she saw the slight rise in his chest.
She started toward him, but her instincts saved her at the last moment.
Demon!
It came for her, and she realized belatedly what the symbol outside this door was. It trapped the demon inside with Rafe, to guard him. If he left, the demon would devour him. Like a Cerberus, with teeth and fangs and an insatiable appetite for human souls.
She splashed holy water on it, its scream piercing her ears, as she jumped into the spirit trap with Rafe. The pea-brained Cerberus, for it looked like one of Satan’s guard dogs with one head instead of three, growled and barked at her but couldn’t breech the trap. It saved her … and trapped her.
Well, fuck.
She felt Rafe’s pulse. Strong and steady. The Cerberus yelped, and she turned to the animal and shouted, “Yahweh!”
The animal bucked and foamed at the mouth, enraged, and physically grew in size.
“Oh, that’s showing him,” she mumbled to herself. “Piss off the demon dog and see him grow.” She knelt by Rafe, brushing his hair off his face. “Rafe, I’m so sorry. I’ll get you out of this. I promise.”
Right. You promise. How are you going to defeat Fiona’s demonic pit bull?
The poisoned dart had worked with the fierce demon Serena sicced on her this morning, giving Moira confidence. She took out another dart, willed herself to stop shaking. She didn’t know what was worse, facing the demon now or facing Fiona when she returned.
She didn’t have time to compare. She stepped to the edge of the trap and, with an ancient prayer and a “pretty please,” she extended her hand outside the circle.
The demon attacked, ran right into
the poisoned dart and screamed, but didn’t disintegrate like the other demon. Before Moira had time to react, the demon bit her forearm and she fell to her knees. Acidlike pain ravaged her body. She heard nothing but her own agonized scream, which sounded as if it were pulled out of her lungs by force. Quickly, she jerked her arm back into the spirit trap and held it close to her chest.
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.
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