Carnal Sin

by Allison Brennan

  Anthony had, of course, heard of Dr. Katja Zuelle. She’d written extensively on religious artifacts in Europe and the Middle East. He’d never met her, nor known she was the reclusive, paranoid Dr. Lieber’s granddaughter.

  “Is she coming?”

  Pietro shook his head. “Dr. Zuelle hadn’t spoken to her grandfather in many years. She told me she’d contact his lawyer about his will and find out what his wishes were. We, Anthony—you and I and Philip and the others—have no family, except one another. To have blood relatives and be estranged—it saddens me deeply.”

  Pietro sounded depressed, very unlike the serene and stately bishop Anthony had grown up with.

  John stepped into the great room and said, “The cardinal is waiting in the east library.”

  Anthony couldn’t shield his surprise. “Cardinal DeLucca? He’s here?”

  “He arrived this morning to meet with Dr. Lieber,” Pietro said. “He didn’t have the chance.”

  Anthony hadn’t even known the cardinal was on the island. “Bishop, John,” he said quietly, “everyone must be extremely cautious. Until we know what happened to Dr. Lieber.”

  John nodded. Anthony realized John had the same concerns. He needed to speak to his brother in private. Ever since he had set foot in St. Michael’s, something felt wrong. It could simply be the absence of Father Philip and the empty halls. Or it could be something more nefarious. For the first time, he wanted to call upon Moira and have her use her abilities—namely her ability to detect magic—here at St. Michael’s. He loathed to summon her back here, but if the Order was in jeopardy he would do anything to save it.

  Pietro seemed confused, and Anthony wondered whether at his advanced age he might not have complete control of his faculties. “Dr. Lieber died of natural causes,” Pietro said.

  “We can’t assume that. He was old, but I hope a full autopsy is done. Bishop, do you know the magistrate who is handling the death investigation?”

  “Not personally, no.”

  “Whoever you trust the most, someone who understands the people and demons we face, please call him and request a full autopsy and investigation.”

  “I know who to call,” John said.

  Anthony was relieved that John fully understood the situation.

  “Anthony, the cardinal is waiting,” Pietro said.

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll take you,” John said. With a slight bow toward the bishop, the two men left the room.

  “What’s going on, John?” Anthony asked quietly.

  “I don’t know, but Rico sent almost everyone here on assignment. Only the oldest and most infirm are left—it puts them at risk. I told Rico I needed to stay.”

  “You must—this is our sanctuary. If we lose it—” Anthony didn’t have to finish his sentence.

  “We have no one to spare. I will stay as long as necessary. While you meet with the cardinal, I’ll walk the grounds and investigate even the most trivial signs.”

  “Thank you.”

  They parted in the main entry, and Anthony proceeded down the long, wide stone hall to the east library. It was midafternoon. On a sunny day, light would have been streaming through the stained-glass windows, but not today. Still, it was one of his favorite rooms in the monastery, where he had spent a great deal of time here over the years.

  Francis Cardinal DeLucca was in his late fifties, with a full head of dark hair liberally shot through with silver. He was a stately man, physically fit, and well-respected in both the Vatican and Italy. He had been instrumental in stopping a small but vocal movement close to the previous pope that had attempted to close down St. Michael’s after Peter’s death at the hands of the demon who’d possessed Moira. Without the cardinal, then a bishop, running interference and using his oratory skills and extensive network and personal friendships with many of the pope’s inner circle, Anthony suspected St. Michael’s would have closed its doors seven years ago. That was only the most recent time St. Michael’s had been at risk.

  The cardinal had three priests with him, as was common when traveling. Anthony strode over to the cardinal and kissed his ring. “Cardinal.”

  “Anthony.” He put his hand on Anthony’s shoulder and gave him a blessing. “I am saddened by these events.”

  Anthony didn’t want to discuss the situation with the other men in the room. He didn’t know them, and while Cardinal DeLucca had been a crucial supporter of St. Michael’s and the work they did, he wasn’t of the Order.

  The cardinal, as if sensing Anthony’s reticence, told the men, “I need to speak with Dr. Zaccardi about spiritual matters, if you would please wait for me in the great hall?”

  Anthony shifted uncomfortably at the title of “doctor.” He had his Ph.D., but he never used his title. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had addressed him as such, except jokingly at his graduation.

  The priests left, and the cardinal motioned for Anthony to sit. “I asked John to bring in Dr. Lieber’s papers. I have the rest of the day clear. I hope you’ll allow me to help with your research.”

  Anthony was stunned. “Cardinal, you’re a busy man.”

  “This is important. The fate of St. Michael’s is at risk. I don’t have to tell you that Father Philip’s death has had lasting repercussions. Though Pietro is the titular head of the monastery, everyone knows that Philip was the strength behind the leadership. Without him, I don’t know that I have the power to keep St. Michael’s alive.”

  “What do we need to do?”

  “I was hoping to convince you to return for a while. Stay here and rebuild. They need a leader, and you are a born leader, Anthony.”

  “Stay here? On the island?” He missed his home greatly, but he would be lost without Skye.

  “I understand you have begun a new life in Santa Louisa.”

  “I am rebuilding the mission, but that is the least of my responsibilities right now, as I’m sure you are aware of what we are confronted with.”

  The cardinal nodded, then turned to look at the stained-glass windows. “These are dark days,” he said. “We haven’t faced such a difficult trial in our lives, Anthony. In my support of St. Michael’s, I have always believed we need the righteous acts of selfless men to maintain balance until our Lord comes again.”

  Anthony heard a but, though the cardinal didn’t say the word.

  “The … theatrics … of the release of the Seven Deadly Sins, and the subsequent recapturing of one, has led to a greater awareness of what St. Michael’s Order is, what you all do. We’ve managed to keep much of the information under control. Yet, because of Philip’s death in the States—so soon after the murders of the priests at the mission that St. Michael’s administered—more people are questioning. Our opponents—those who have wanted to shut down St. Michael’s for generations—are gaining a following. Your presence here would do great service to the Order and halt opposing forces. They mean well; they simply do not understand.”

  Anthony was stunned. The cardinal wanted him to retreat and save the monastery? Surely there were others better suited to the task than he. And how could he leave Skye and Rafe alone to battle the Seven?

  The cardinal continued. “The few benefactors the Order has cultivated over the years are wavering now that Philip is gone. He had been the silent power. He was the one gifted with encouraging the faithful to open their purses. The trip he made to parishes across the world more than ten years ago brought in a substantial amount of money, but as you know, maintaining St. Michael’s and Olivet separately, in addition to the travel and tools—I should not have to tell you that funds are extremely tight.”

  “This is about money,” Anthony said, disappointed.

  “Not only money.”

  “With all due respect, Cardinal, my abilities are better served on the battleground, not inside the fortress. Especially in these perilous times. We don’t have years to stop the Seven Deadly Sins; we have months. We have captured one, and we will find the others. And to reunit
e Olivet with St. Michael’s would be disastrous. We split the two more than one hundred years ago because a coven nearly destroyed us. It is far more difficult to take out two places, in addition to the dozens of parishes and universities where members of the Order are living and working. After—yes, I will consider returning to solidify the Order. St. Michael’s was my home for many years; I miss it. But my home is now in Santa Louisa.”

  “And with Sheriff McPherson.”

  “My feelings for Skye are second to my duty.” As he said it, Anthony wondered whether that was true. Could he leave Skye forever if that’s what it took to save St. Michael’s? He hoped to never have to make that choice.

  But the cardinal wouldn’t be talking to him if the situation wasn’t desperate.

  Anthony said, “I will make calls. I have contacts all over the world I can cultivate. I can raise the money we need.”

  “Perhaps that will slow the inevitable,” the cardinal said without conviction.

  The cardinal turned to face the two boxes that sat on the long, narrow table. “Dr. Lieber brought these here with him. Perhaps if we find the answers we need, we’ll have a resurgence of support.”

  Anthony would have preferred to go through the material alone, but he had no choice. Keeping the cardinal on their side, as their advocate, was crucial, now more than ever.

  He slid over one box to the cardinal, opened the second box for himself, and silently, they read the dead doctor’s extensive notes, hoping to find the answers in these pages to save humanity.

  Rafe woke when Moira sat up abruptly in bed.

  He squinted. They’d fallen asleep with the lights on. He had no idea what time it was and glanced over at the clock: 6:45. He assumed a.m., since the cop who expected them at “oh-eight-hundred hours” hadn’t kicked in the door and arrested them. What had they had, four hours’ sleep? If that.

  He turned back to Moira. “Good mor—” He stopped.

  Her back was covered in scars. Some faded, some prominent; some long, some short nicks. One started at her shoulder, dark and wide, and tapered to nothing at the top of her round buttocks. He lost count at twelve … he remembered asking about the scar across her stomach last night.

  Fiona.

  Rage bubbled inside him. Rage that anyone would hurt Moira—whip her, beat her, hurt her so deeply that the scars on the outside were the least of her injuries.

  “Good ‘mor,’ too,” Moira said sleepily. She rose and stretched like a cat, beautiful in her nakedness, long and lean and muscular. She crossed the short distance to the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

  Rafe couldn’t rid his mind of what Moira had suffered. He had his fair share of scars, though faded and hardly noticeable. Most of them he’d received as a young child, before he turned up at St. Michael’s. The cut on his cheek had been during training at Olivet. That scar irritated him because it didn’t have to happen; Rico had been making a point the hard way.

  Did Rico fully comprehend what Moira had suffered? Or was she simply another tool in the battle against evil? Expendable, replaceable.

  Not to Rafe. He could not let her be a martyr in this cause. In any cause. There had to be another way. He would find it.

  He heard the shower running, and he rose from the bed and knocked on the door.

  “Moira?”

  She opened the door, still naked. “You knocked?”

  “It would save time and water if we showered together,” Rafe said.

  Moira wanted to turn Rafe away. Not because she didn’t want to be with him; on the contrary, she didn’t want to leave their bed. She’d wanted to stay at his side, on top of his body, under his body, anywhere near him to absorb his warmth, his strength, make love to him all day. The idea that she couldn’t get enough of Rafe Cooper overwhelmed her. This was wrong on so many levels. Neither of them would live a long life, for one. Rafe distracted her, and any distraction could be fatal. Not to mention, the only other man she’d loved, she’d killed.

  She shivered, unable to think about Peter.

  “Rafe, maybe—”

  He kissed her, covering her mouth with his, and preventing her from saying whatever she’d been about to say. Since Peter, she’d avoided getting close to anyone, knowing it would end badly. In death. His or hers. Or both of theirs. Their lives were neither stable nor safe.

  So perhaps because of that precariousness, shouldn’t they enjoy this moment in time? What if this was it, and today was all there was? What if she’d never again feel his urgent hands on her body, his passionate mouth exploring her lips, his arms embracing her so completely that she didn’t know where she ended and he began?

  She gasped when he lifted her off the ground and carried her to the shower. She wrapped her legs around his waist as hot water coursed over them.

  Last night was sensual and sweet; this morning was sexy and fast, up-against-the-wall passion. Rafe supported her with the weight of his body and his hands cradling her ass. She gasped as he entered her in one deep movement, then stood there. Their bodies were tense and hard, every nerve ending raw and excitable. Moira’s breath came in shallow moans as Rafe moved in and out, his mouth on hers, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his confident thrusts. Every sensation was heightened, the sound of water pounding over them, on the tile, swirling down the drain. The steam-filled bathroom sizzled with the electricity of their lovemaking. She felt weak and strong at the same time; she longed to peak yet she never wanted this rare, powerful feeling of being more than alive to ever end.

  “Moira,” Rafe whispered. “Dear God, but I love you.”

  Waves of his passionate emotions flooded her. She couldn’t respond, couldn’t think. They clung to the other as if drowning, and maybe they were, the steam suffocating them like an obsession, Moira’s burning need to give everything she had and take everything Rafe could give. It was so much more than she’d ever desired to share with another, and she had no choice but to give in as she tumbled over the edge of ecstasy. She could no more turn her back on Rafe than she could forget who and what she was.

  If it was wrong, she would deal with the fallout. She’d always faced head-on the consequences of her actions. Today would be no different. And if there was a tomorrow …

  Slowly, they came down off their sexual high. One minute or one hundred minutes could have passed and neither would have surprised Moira. Silently, Rafe set her on her feet, unwrapped the hotel soap, and washed her body. Tenderly, methodically. Her nerve endings raw from their near-violent union against the wall, the seductive massage relaxed her, comforted her, warmed her heart as the hot water soothed her skin.

  Rafe kissed her almost reverently as he washed and rinsed her. He sat her on the edge of the tub and kneeled. She leaned against the edge of the wall and he brought her foot up and washed it, a symbol of what she meant to him. She almost panicked, not wanting anyone to love her, for it would surely end in disaster.

  But looking into his blue eyes, her fears washed away, at least for this one perfect moment in time. She believed they would survive, that she could love again, that Rafe was the one for whom she was willing to risk her heart, her sanity, her life.

  For the first time in seven years, she didn’t want to die.

  “Moira—” Rafe began as he turned off the water.

  “Shh.” She put her finger to his lips, then her lips to his mouth. “I’ll remember this moment for the rest of my life.”

  She stepped from the tub, and dried off.

  “Who whipped you?” Rafe asked quietly.

  She often forgot about the scars on her back, mostly because she couldn’t see them. But they had been hideous for years. Though fading with time, they’d never be completely gone.

  “The first time I ran away my mother found me. I was sixteen, scared and stupid. She—” She cut herself off, shook her head. She left the bathroom and grabbed her only clean clothes from her backpack. She’d have to shop, find a laundry, or go home tonight.

  “Moira,” Rafe sai
d, then remained silent until she turned around.

  He had on his jeans and nothing else, and he was the sexiest man on the planet. His dark hair was wet, curling at his neck, water dripping down his body. He hadn’t shaved, and looked dark and almost unapproachable.

  She knew what he wanted and shook her head. “It was a long time ago.”

  He met her eyes, wouldn’t let go.

  Just thinking of it, she felt foolish and very afraid, even though Fiona hadn’t been able to find her for seven years, not until Moira walked into her territory. Moira didn’t want to remember the past, even as she lived with it every day.

  “Your fear is going to get you killed.”

  Rico had forced her to face her fears so she could survive whatever came her way. But the dungeon … she had never really overcome it. She’d pretended, for Rico. But deep down, she knew her survival was a miracle. It certainly had nothing to do with her.

  “My mother locked me in a dungeon for a week. In Ireland, a castle. It was cold and moldy, and she sent in monsters to—” She stopped herself again.

  Rafe stepped forward. “I will never let anyone hurt you like that. I would die first.”

  She whispered, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  He tilted her chin up. “I wish I could tell you don’t be afraid. I wish I could take your fears away. But I’m here for you, for us, and I’m not going away.”

  Moira tried to push aside the hope that filled her, knowing that something was surely going to ruin this—something or someone. But she felt lighter, as if she might have a chance to survive this supernatural war.

  Rafe took her into his arms and held her tight. Several minutes later, he said, “We should go to the police station before Detective Nelson busts down the door.”

  “First—” Moira bit her lip. How did she ask this? After what they’d shared this morning? She blurted out, “Rafe, I need to know about your vision.”

  “Vision?”

  “At Wendy’s house. When we were downstairs. You had a vision—I know you did. You were out of it for a good minute. You have to trust me, Rafe. And I have to trust you. I want to. Just tell me the truth.”