“It means exactly what I said. You are blind when it comes to Raphael. We don’t know what happened to him at the hospital, what those magicians might have done to him. What he’s doing now. If you stop and look at everything that has happened these last two weeks—objectively, not with rose-colored glasses—you’ll see that he is teetering on the edge. I don’t know which way he’s going to fall. But Raphael will fall, and he’ll take others with him.”
Anthony slammed his fist on the steering wheel. “It’s her fault!”
Rico’s gut twisted. He couldn’t share everything with Anthony—yet. But soon he’d have to know. For now, he said, “I understand why you have animosity toward Moira, but she’s essential to our mission. Without her, we can’t beat Fiona or destroy the Conoscenza.”
“She’s not that good.”
Rico disagreed, but arguing with Anthony on that point would be fruitless. “There are things we don’t fully know at this point, but the research is extensive and your meeting with Dr. Lieber is essential to filling the gaps in our knowledge.”
“What research? It would help if you kept me informed!”
“I would tell you everything I know, Anthony, except it would cloud your judgment. I don’t want you going into the meeting with any preconceived ideas. After Italy, you’ll fly to Olivet. We’ll meet and combine information. I still have some work to do but will have answers by the time you return to the States.”
“Does your ‘work’ have something to do with taking Moira’s blood?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
Anthony expected more from him, but Rico remained silent.
“I need to leave or I’ll miss my flight,” Anthony said after a moment.
“Be careful, Anthony. These are dangerous times.”
Rico retrieved the tabernacle and watched as Anthony drove away. Too fast. In anger.
Anthony’s anger had always been his weak spot.
Rico walked to his plane. He secured the demon in his hold, which he’d spiritually reinforced to prevent any possible escape. Still, flying alone with the demon tested even his steely resolve.
But he always did what was necessary, no matter what the risk or cost.
SIX
Moira had never been to a morgue before.
She’d seen dead people, but she hadn’t hung around to see what happened to the bodies after they died.
And she kinda, sorta—okay, absolutely—wished she did not know now.
Skye didn’t seem to have the same problem Moira had walking through rows of the dead in a very cold, very large, very sterile room in the Los Angeles County Morgue, following a petite black girl with a nose ring named Fern. Fern … something. Moira had been so floored by the atmosphere, she didn’t even remember the girl’s name. Fern called this cavernous room the crypt—just the name freaked Moira out. Dead people covered with sheets, gurneys stacked three high that could be summoned by the touch of a button.
“I want to be cremated,” Moira said suddenly.
Fern shot her a glance and a grin. “You’d still probably have to come through a place like this first.”
“Great.” She plastered a smile on her face, but it didn’t feel natural and Skye shot her an odd look. Somewhere between concern and surprise. Moira could practically hear Skye saying:
You nearly died facing down an incarnate demon, but a few dead people freak you out?
Moira didn’t know why she was getting the heebie-jeebies. She wasn’t normally skittish. But the hair on her arms rose, and she couldn’t stop thinking about the dungeon her mother had locked her in, the first time she’d tried to escape Fiona’s coven. It had been cold—not this cold, but cold enough. And the smell was similar—not the antiseptic, overly clean scent of the crypt, but the underlying, subtle scent of death. Of decomposing bodies. That they were in a room that could be easily locked, where they could be trapped with the dead, terrified her. Another type of prison. A place Fiona would love to keep her while she mentally tortured her.
“Moira.” Skye put a hand on her shoulder and Moira jumped.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
Skye didn’t believe her; who would? Moira was probably as pale as the corpses. She mentally closed down her senses—Rico would be pissed, but Moira didn’t want to feel any of the spirits that might be lingering. She was too jittery, like this morning when she came within inches of hurting Rafe after her vision. She didn’t think she would have—she’d been acting on what Rico called her mental muscle, instincts plus training that kept her alive.
But something was off here, and while it wasn’t magic, it creeped her out. So she’d turned her senses off, flipping a mental switch. Rico could go pound salt for all she cared. He’d stolen her blood, after all; she could shut off the power to keep her sanity in this place of the dead.
I should have stayed with Rafe and Dr. Fielding. They’d gone to meet the M.E. who had identified anomalies in a brain similar to what Dr. Fielding found in the victims of the demon Envy. But a room full of human organs had sounded worse than the crypt.
Fern said, “I still have two of the bodies, but I don’t know how long I can keep one of them. The family is calling, it’s been two days, and the autopsy ruled heart attack, though we’re running additional tox screens because the detective in charge thinks it might be drug related. We don’t normally keep the body once we’re done, and the family wants to ship him back to Michigan.”
“Two—I thought you said you had three bodies,” Skye said.
“Two bodies, but I have photos from a third that came in last week. The body I called you about is scheduled for autopsy this afternoon.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m prepping him in an hour.”
“Would it be all right if we observe?” Skye asked. Moira suppressed a shiver at the thought of watching a body being cut open.
“I don’t see why not, but I gotta clear it with my boss.”
The first victim still in the morgue was a twenty-two-year-old who’d been found dead in an alley behind a local nightclub with his pants down around his ankles. No visible sign of death, and the first officer on scene had called it a possible OD. Not unlikely, Skye had told Moira, considering the prevalent drug use among college students. His alcohol level was only a fraction above the legal limit.
“Drugs are bad news, but add alcohol to the mix and there’s a brain-cell-killing cocktail that’s damn effective.”
Fern pulled the sheet off a corpse. “This is Craig Monroe, the twenty-two-year-old college student from UCLA.”
Skye said, “He was found partly naked in an alley behind a club?”
“Velocity, a club in Westwood.”
“Have you gotten the drug screen back yet?”
“Not the secondary screen. He was cleared of the obvious—no nose candy, no needle marks, his lungs were clear—not a smoker, legal or illegal. Nothing in his stomach but a few beers, nuts, and a well-digested pepperoni and mushroom pizza.”
Moira was never eating pizza again.
“Coroner is ruling a heart attack, but it’s by process of elimination. With fifty or so bodies coming through here each day, sometimes that’s the best we can do.” Fern motioned to Skye. “Help me turn the body.”
Moira stepped back. She wasn’t going to touch the corpse. The thought nearly paralyzed her. The fear was highly unusual, and she didn’t know why. Did it have anything to do with burying Father Philip last week?
Don’t think about that, don’t go there, don’t remember that he’s dead. That he’d been in a place like this.
She turned away and breathed deep, calming breaths. That made it worse. She had sharp senses, and couldn’t help but breathe in the preservatives the coroner used to keep the dead from rotting. And the slow decay in the cold room. And the vile antiseptic that kept the place as sanitary as possible with hundreds of dead bodies lined up like B-movie zombies ready to rise and conquer the world.
You’d better stop it, girl, or you’re going to puke all over th
e place.
Right. Big, bad demon hunter Moira O’Donnell scared of a couple hundred corpses. She was okay. If she repeated the mantra enough, maybe she could buy in to it.
She heard them moving the body behind her and couldn’t block out the sound. She closed her eyes.
“Dammit,” Skye mumbled. “Moira, look.”
Moira forced herself to open her eyes and turn around. She tried to avoid looking at the bluish-white skin, and focused only on the demon’s mark on the dead guy’s lower back.
“See? The birthmark is freaky on its own, but it matches the photo I sent you, and it matches the mark on the new guy,” Fern said.
“Can we see the new corpse?” Skye asked.
“It’s the same, but if you want to, sure.” She gently rolled the body back to its original position and covered it again. They returned to the front of the crypt.
Fern removed the sheet and turned the body attached to the tag that read Erickson, G. followed by a number. The mark on Erickson’s body was exactly the same, in nearly the same place. “So what is it?” Fern asked the question she’d been itching to ask from the beginning.
Skye looked at Moira. “It’s not identical to the others.”
“Of course it is,” Fern interrupted. “Just like the stiff over there and the photograph.”
“I mean to the bodies in Santa Louisa.”
“So you have seen this before?” Fern was curious. “What does it mean? It’s not a tattoo; I can find no ink in the skin graft. But we’re considering a type of caustic material may have caused the mark, like a brand, but there is no dead skin to indicate a burn. And then—”
Two men entered the crypt and swiftly strode toward them. One was black and broad, well over six feet tall; the other, of average height, was a white guy with an athletic build and a pissed expression across his GQ face. They both wore plainclothes with a badge on their belts and guns at their side.
“Takasugi said you brought in another cop to view my body? Without my permission?” GQ said.
Fern bristled but didn’t back down. “Detective Nelson, I followed morgue protocols.”
Skye said, “Ms. Archer didn’t know that I was coming down. She spoke with my medical examiner, and I came with him to verify information that may be related to one of my cases.” She stepped forward and extended her hand. “Sheriff Skye McPherson, Santa Louisa County.”
“Detective Grant Nelson; my partner, Detective Johnston.” He shook her hand, glanced at Moira, then looked at the uncovered body. “What’s that tattoo? I haven’t seen a gang tat like that. Jeff?”
Detective Johnston shook his head.
Nelson said to Skye, “Proper procedure would be you calling me or my superior if you want information on a case, not dropping by the morgue. Long drive just to look at a tattoo when we could have sent you photos.”
“I called the Sheriff’s Department,” Skye said, “as a courtesy because I didn’t know anything about the case or who had jurisdiction.”
Fern stood up to the cop, though she couldn’t be more than five foot two. “I called Santa Louisa. And it’s not a tat. It’s a birthmark.”
“You tested it? I’ve never seen a birthmark like that.”
“No ink, though I’ve sent the grafts to the lab. But the odd thing is that the birthmark matches the college student who came in yesterday, and the guy last week who died while in custody.”
“What guy?” Nelson said.
“Galion.”
Nelson blanched. He held it back well, but Moira was watching him closely. She was trying to gather the courage to open her senses again. She didn’t know if he was just a powerful personality or if he was driven by something supernatural. This cop may not have worked the second victim’s case, but two out of three? Warning sirens shrieked in Moira’s head.
Nelson turned to Skye. “And you know what this is?”
Skye didn’t say anything for a moment, and Moira couldn’t blame her. What could she say? That their victims had been touched by a demon and that had likely contributed to their death?
Skye cleared her throat. “I’m not sure. But I had four bodies with similar marks on their backs.”
“Naked men?” Nelson asked.
“No.”
“Then it’s not the same—” He cut himself off.
“You were going to say killer,” Moira said.
Grant Nelson shook his head. “I don’t want to get into this here. I came for the autopsy.”
“I’d like to observe,” Skye said.
Nelson just shook his head. “Are you going to share your cases with me?”
She hesitated. “Mine are a bit complicated.”
“Right. I share, you don’t. Look, Sheriff McPherson, Santa Louisa is a county of what? Thirty thousand? My division, one of twenty-one in the city, has over ten times that number. I’m dealing with multiple jurisdictions and there’s nothing to connect these victims. I just got another case dumped on me because of the possible connection, so if you can give me something that helps then I’m all ears. Otherwise, I don’t have time to play show-and-tell.”
“You’re lying,” Moira said.
“O’Donnell!” Skye snapped.
Moira shook her head. “He said that there’s nothing to connect these victims, but there is.”
“We don’t know that,” Nelson said.
“You think you know.”
“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you’re not going to walk into the middle of my investigation and tell me what I know and don’t know.”
Skye straightened. “Can we take this outside? I’ll tell you everything I have, and maybe we can help each other.”
Moira couldn’t imagine that Skye was going to tell this cop the truth, but she didn’t say anything. These two dead guys were connected somehow to one of the demons—or one of Fiona’s witches. Had Fiona relocated here in Los Angeles? Definitely possible, it was a big place. Easy to blend in. Of the twelve who had been at the ritual two weeks ago, one was dead and two were in prison. One was walking freely around Santa Louisa because Skye had no cause to put Dr. Richard Bertram in prison—which angered Moira to no end. The guy was guilty of being a witch, of being party to summoning the Seven Deadly Sins from Hell, but there were no laws against these crimes. And try proving any of it in court! Skye was trying to get Bertram on something else—such as drugging Rafe into a coma—but they still had no proof of that. Rafe’s medical records were missing or had been destroyed.
Nelson agreed. “Five minutes, you first.” He glanced at Moira. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Moira O’Donnell.” He stared at her, looking her up and down, trying to intimidate her with his unblinking gaze. She straightened her spine and stared right back at him. She’d faced down an incarnate demon; no way some arrogant cop was going to bully her.
He said, “You’re not a cop.”
“Nope.”
Skye said, “She’s a consultant. An expert on cults.”
Moira barely restrained her surprise at Skye’s easy and blatant lie.
“Cults?” Johnston asked. “You think this is some sort of cult killing?”
“Outside,” Skye said.
“I’m going to prep the body,” Fern said. “Thirty minutes and we’ll begin in the main room.”
Skye had piqued the interest of the two detectives. They led the way out, and Moira whispered, “Cult?”
“I’d sure as hell call Fiona’s coven a cult, wouldn’t you?”
She had a point. Moira bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud.
Skye said, “Don’t get cocky, we’re not out of the woods yet. Nelson doesn’t want to share, and I can’t tell him the truth, so we’re going to have to play this carefully.” She slowed and said softly, “Did you feel anything from the corpses?”
“They’re dead.”
“But—”
“Magic? No. They’re dead. Any spell on them would have ended as soon as they cro
aked. But they definitely did have some contact with one of Fiona’s coven. Or—”
“Or what?”
“A demon, up close and personal. And in a city this big, I don’t know how we’re going to track the coven or a demon. I know one thing, though—I need to go to that club, Velocity.”
“Not alone.”
“Skye, I hate to tell you, but you’re a cop. You look like a cop, act like a cop. I can blend in. I’ll get a cab, meet up with you in a couple hours. And honestly, I don’t want to watch those bodies being sliced and diced. Being in that room alone freaked me out.”
“I didn’t think anything freaked you out.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“You and Rafe go, take my truck. Rod has the van, so I won’t be stranded.” She glanced at Moira. “Why did you call the detective a liar? That’s really fucking with my position. I want him to play nice; calling him on the carpet isn’t helping.”
“He knows there’s a connection.” She frowned. She wasn’t psychic; how did she know that? Rafe said she was an empath, and while she hadn’t wanted to believe it, it made sense based on various times when she sensed facts about people after meeting them. Detective Nelson had entered the room and Moira simply knew that he thought that the dead were connected. She couldn’t read his mind, it was more his emotional state; he felt the connection deep down.
Skye said to Grant as soon as they left the crypt, “We had four victims with similar marks on their bodies. Our coroner is working on how the marks were made; he’s thinking some sort of laser.”
Skye was lying through her teeth, but it sounded good. Moira was impressed.
“A laser?” Nelson asked, skeptical.
“I’m not a doctor, but my M.E. thinks a laser on a low setting or possibly ultraviolet radiation could cause those type of markings.”
Nelson said, “Possibly? So if this is a cult, are these victims members or innocent?”
“I’m not sure.”
“There’s nothing that connects the victims—nothing. Other than they are males and were involved in a sexual situation immediately prior to death.”
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