Carnal Sin

by Allison Brennan

  But Wendy grew up and got strong. She seduced the men in her mother’s coven—weak fools, every one of them—even seduced the magician who’d taken her virginity on her fourteenth birthday. She’d been a sex slave for them, but she’d had her retribution. Wendy practically glowed with pleasure remembering her mother pleading with her to stop the ritual that ended with her grisly death.

  An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, Mother dear.

  Nicole walked onto the empty dance floor as Wendy finished the protective spell. Nicole the ignorant. Nicole the stupid. Nicole the baby. Her sister had never appreciated all she’d done for her, freeing her from their horrid mother’s control. Nicole had wanted to simply kill Susan, but where was the fun in that? What was the fun if Susan didn’t suffer what Wendy had suffered times three!

  Nicole asked, “What are you doing?”

  “I cast a protective spell.” Stupid.

  “Pam called. Grant Nelson’s partner just drove up in front of her house.”

  “Pam knows what to do,” Wendy said.

  “But—”

  Wendy put up her finger to silence her pathetic younger sister. “I’m going to show you how easy and enjoyable victory is when it is properly orchestrated by a talented magician. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

  Julie couldn’t find Moira O’Donnell. She’d checked out of her hotel and Julie had no idea where she’d gone. She thought Moira must have a powerful protective spell around her aura, because Nicole had said that even Fiona O’Donnell couldn’t locate her, and rumor had it that Fiona could find anyone practically at will.

  She might not be able to find Moira, but she could find Grant. She focused on his image. His name, his face, his energy signature. She relaxed her spirit, floated, and soon she was moving directly toward him. She let herself be carried along the astral plane, the freedom intoxicating, even with everything that had happened.

  Without her voice, Julie didn’t know how to communicate with Grant. Though she had great control over astral projection, she’d avoided communicating with anyone, living or dead, because of the inherent dangers to her life. Communicating took extreme focus and energy that could be replenished only once her spirit reunited with her body.

  The astral body was always attached psychically to the physical body. As long as her astral projection had energy, she would be fine. But if she lost her strength, or if her spirit or physical body was injured, she’d snap back into her body—the invisible, indestructible thread pulling her back. If the demon still had her body when she returned, she’d never get out. And she wouldn’t be able to stop the demon from killing Grant.

  Julie continued to concentrate on Grant. Pictured him, imagined touching him, kissing him, being with him. Her body flew without conscious thought over the city. This complete and total oneness with the air could not be replicated inside the confines of a physical body. No one who hadn’t experienced astral projection at its purest could possibly understand or appreciate true inner balance. It was as if the symmetry between being human and being a goddess was achieved only when Julie was a spirit. The more she participated in the natural oneness with earth, the more she craved it. Except for the not insignificant fact that her physical body was vulnerable when she was separated.

  She shivered as if wrapped in a cool breeze and found herself floating above the Los Angeles County Morgue.

  At first, Julie thought her reflections had turned her melancholy, but she was dangerously wrong.

  The closer she got to the morgue, the more apprehensive she became. Her spirit kept fighting her will, trying to fly away, and she fought back, knowing Grant was inside.

  For a split second she thought he was a corpse. Ignoring her instincts, she descended into the morgue.

  Everyone looked at her.

  There were specters here, remnants of the dead who had come through. Certainly not all of the dead; otherwise the place would be overrun, since hundreds of bodies came through the morgue each week. But even a dozen apparitions were fearsome, and they saw her. They not only saw her, but they knew she was alive.

  One ghost walked toward her. It was a girl in her early teens, and she looked sad.

  Why are you here? she asked Julie.

  I’m watching that man. He’s in danger. She gestured to where Grant was talking to a petite black woman. Julie was relieved that he was still breathing.

  The girl looked at Grant and frowned. He is dying.

  Julie shivered and resisted the urge to go to Grant. How do you know?

  Look. You have to look for the colors. He’s dark. Dying.

  Julie took the ghost’s word on it. Why are you still here?

  The ghost looked around at other apparitions. I don’t know. I’ve been here awhile—my body is in the other room.

  She motioned, and Julie saw the deep freezer. On one slot was a small sign:

  DOE

  They don’t know who you are.

  She shook her head sadly.

  Everyone here is unknown?

  No. Most spirits come and go. They’re attached to their bodies, can’t seem to leave them. When their body goes, so do they. Most of the bodies who come through don’t have spirits with them. I have no friends anymore. I want to leave but don’t know how. I’m scared. Can you help me?

  I’ll try. What do I do?

  The girl looked as if she was about to cry. I don’t know.

  When I get back to my body, I’ll figure it out, okay? Julie didn’t know if she’d survive, let alone be able to figure out how to find peace for this girl, but she’d try. What’s your name?

  The girl brightened. No one has ever asked me before. I’m Amy Carney.

  I’m Julie.

  The others hate you, you know.

  I’m not going to bother them.

  The girl shook her head. They don’t care. You’re alive. They’re not. I’m not. I just don’t know why I can’t leave. I don’t know why I can’t go to Heaven. Is it because I’m bad?

  Of course not.

  This girl could not possibly have done a fraction of the bad things Julie had done over the years. More than anything, Julie wanted to fix everything, starting with saving Grant’s life.

  You need to go before he sees you.

  Was she talking about Grant? Julie looked at him. He was viewing Nadine Anson’s body. A chill ran through Julie’s noncorporeal form.

  He saw you. Julie, go! Now!

  Julie had no idea what Amy was talking about, but all the ghosts disappeared, including Amy. All the ghosts, except for one.

  It was a man, old and deformed, and it stared at her. For a moment she was frozen, but then she thought, what could a ghost do to her?

  Mine, he said.

  Julie didn’t want to find out. Whatever he thought he could do, Julie realized she was vulnerable. The ghost could see her, but she had no way of defending herself. She rose to leave, but the ghost rushed at her. She flew as fast as she could out of the building, but it chased her. Faster.

  She thought she was clear, blocks away from the morgue, and she stopped flying, fearing having expended too much energy. She needed to calm down or risk not having the strength to communicate with Grant.

  She felt the spirit rush at her.

  Mine.

  Its icy darkness wrapped around her like a snake, squeezing her, trying to mingle its dead energy with her living aura. Julie was drifting, helpless and terrified.

  Her fear fed the entity, and it whispered darkly: Mine.

  No! She gathered all the psychic energy from the air around her, used all her magical strength, and repelled the evil spirit. Like a slingshot, it flung back to the morgue, to whatever tangible item or body it was attached to.

  Julie drifted down to earth, weakened. She’d had no idea what she would encounter at the morgue, or that the dead could see her. It seemed impossible, but of course it wasn’t. She had once thought so much of what she was now able to do was impossible. But nothing was; she could do anything. She cou
ld be anything.

  Yet she would be nothing if she couldn’t get her body back.

  She didn’t dare go back inside the morgue, but she floated lazily to the parking lot until she found Grant’s car. Inside it, she relaxed for the first time since leaving her body. She’d wait here for him, and hopefully figure out how to save him.

  He is dying, the ghost—Amy—had said. Dying.

  Please, whoever’s listening, help me save him.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Moira and Rafe sat in Pastor Jackson Moreno’s sunny kitchen, where she explained her plan to trap the demon Lust and save George Erickson’s soul from eternal suffering. He didn’t seem to like it any more than Rafe did, but Moira was certain she could pull it off. She had to try.

  “Your plan is not only dangerous,” Jackson said, “but the chances of success are next to nothing.”

  Moira said, “Others have been successful. It has worked before. And I’m good at this.”

  “Arrogance—pride—is one of the deadly sins,” Jackson said.

  “You don’t have to remind me,” she snapped. “You want to check my back? See if I’m marked?” She began to lift up her shirt, but Rafe grabbed her arm.

  “You are good, Moira, but Jackson is right. You can’t ignore the inherent dangers,” Rafe said quietly.

  “I know,” she said, equally quiet. “I promise, I’m not being a hotdog. I have to at least try. I won’t do anything rash.”

  She and Rafe had been through this earlier at Starbucks and again in the car after she’d spoken to Rico.

  He hadn’t wanted to share the exorcism rite with her because it put her in too great a danger.

  “Why are you risking your life for this man?”

  “It’s the right thing to do. It’s the only way to save his soul, or are you going to tell me I am more important than he is?”

  Rico didn’t say anything for a minute, then said, “I emailed you the exorcism prayer.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Moira, you are more important. But you are also correct that it is the right thing to do. Put Raphael on.”

  She didn’t know what Rico said to Rafe, and Rafe didn’t tell her. His response to Rico was simple: “I understand.”

  They’d picked up the necessary supplies—more holy water, several bags of salt—then went to Jackson’s place to fill him in on their basic plan and ask for his help.

  Moira said, “All we have to do is stick Detective Nelson in a reverse spirit trap and wait. The demon will come to us.” She glanced at her watch. “We’re meeting him in an hour at the Palomar. I’m going to lie through my teeth to get him here, or knock him out and kidnap him.” She was only half joking.

  “Sunset is at five forty-five,” Rafe said. “We only have a few hours to set the traps and bring the detective here, and then there’s the waiting to hear from Anthony about trapping the demon.”

  “What about the chalice?” Jackson asked.

  “We don’t know yet. We can’t use it to send the demon back to Hell, but we might be able to use it as a trap.”

  Moira frowned. “I’d be very wary of using any occult vessels. We don’t know enough about it.”

  “For now, we’ll keep it in the vault,” Rafe agreed.

  “Will the demon even come inside the church doors?” Jackson asked.

  “The demon thinks it’s invincible,” Moira said. “And it’s driven to find Detective Nelson. But it isn’t stupid. It will sense a trap, so timing is important. As soon as the demon is in the church, you have to finish sealing the outside walls with salt, and mark every door and window with the blessed oil. That will complete the reverse trap and weaken the demon. We hope.”

  “Nelson may not be thinking rationally,” Rafe said. “We can’t count on him being cooperative.”

  “It’s not like I’m going to tell him,” Moira said. “I don’t think he’ll believe me until he sees it himself. He wants to ask me questions; I’ll see what he has to say, then come up with a fabulous excuse to bring him here.”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant,” Rafe said.

  Jackson said, “I think Rafe is concerned that Detective Nelson may act on his base impulses.”

  Moira raised an eyebrow. “I would hardly let him.”

  “We need something to melt the chalice once the demon is trapped,” Rafe said. “Jackson, can you find a kiln or something?”

  “I’m already ahead of you on that one. One of my flock has a ceramic shop. She’s bringing a portable kiln over and will help me set it up in the sanctuary behind the altar. It’ll be fired up before you return.”

  “Perfect. Jackson, are you going to be able to do all this alone?” Moira asked. “Rafe, do you think you should stay here—”

  “Absolutely not,” Rafe said. “We don’t know what condition Grant Nelson is in. He was already showing signs this morning of being affected—the headache, for one, and he was preoccupied.”

  Rafe was right. “No sense delaying the inevitable. Ready?”

  Rafe grabbed his bag and checked his knife.

  “Let’s go.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Grant was more than a little worried about Julie.

  For a few minutes the jackhammer in his head slowed to a steady pounding. Maybe the aspirin he’d been popping finally kicked in. Or maybe it was just focusing on something other than his own problems.

  Grant couldn’t get the image of Nadine’s tattoo out of his mind because it looked exactly like Julie’s tat. It was uncommon, and exquisite. He remembered kissing the small of her back over and over, savoring the soft, unusually erotic spot.

  For a detective, he realized he was an idiot. He didn’t know much about Julie Schroeder or her friends. Everything Fern said made sense. Designer drugs. Julie had never seemed as though she’d been on drugs, at least when he was with her, but Grant also knew from his two years on Vice that major dealers rarely used, and never the heavy junk. They were in it for the money and power, not the drug high.

  Grant could not believe that Julie was a drug dealer.

  But he also realized that he hadn’t asked her or Wendy the hard questions about Nadine. Why? Being tired was no excuse. Was he worried, maybe subconsciously, that Julie was involved with something illicit? Was he worried that she wasn’t who he thought she was? Why did any of that matter when they were just off-again, on-again?

  But it did matter. He cared deeply for Julie. Hell, he might even love her, but it was a warped kind of love wrapped in physical lust, not emotional need. Normal? Hell, no, but he wasn’t normal. Never had been, not since he lost his virginity with his eighteen-year-old babysitter when he was fourteen. He’d told his twice-divorced mother he was too old for a babysitter, but when Sylvia Nelson went out of town on business, she refused to leave him alone overnight.

  Little did she know what he did with Monica Jergens those nights. Monica had seduced him at the beginning—he’d been a mature kid, responsible for his little brother because of a busy single mom—but he’d also been a kid who liked video games and sports. But after the first time, Grant had never looked back at his childhood. Surprisingly, this fact now saddened him.

  He drove down Sepulveda, where even now, the lunch hour on Saturday, hookers strolled. He wasn’t a child anymore; he’d seen too much in life and on the job. These hookers were women who didn’t care how hard he fucked or how long he took—they’d take it because they got paid to take it.

  Grant slowed his sedan to a crawl. The hookers glanced over, but he looked like a cop and they moved on. He was a cop. He couldn’t screw around with a hooker. He’d never paid for it before, so why would he now? Why did he have this overwhelming urge to fuck someone—anyone—without thought of the repercussions? His career was no small thing, and neither was his health.

  All he could think about was sex. And it wasn’t normal. He was a guy, he thought about sex many times a day, but not this constant barrage of images, these fantasies that wouldn’t leave his mind.
Fantasies he’d never lived out because they were illegal or because he’d never get a woman to agree.

  Agree? Why ask? Just take what you want. Take it.

  He slammed on his brakes, almost running a red light and nearly hitting two teenagers in the crosswalk. Grant barely noticed when the shorter kid flipped him off; he was frozen and distraught. He’d never raped a woman in his life, never came close until last night, but that was Julie, his Julie. He hadn’t raped her. He’d just … been rough. Uncaring. He hadn’t cared about whether she was comfortable or enjoying it, he just wanted to take. The idea that he was so close to finding it acceptable to force a woman made sweat bead on his brow, had his hands shaking.

  He put his head down on the steering wheel. Something was wrong with him. He was sick. Maybe he had a fever and was hallucinating. That might explain his foul, perverted thoughts.

  Cars honked behind him and he jumped, looked around. The light was green. He spurted through the intersection and pulled over to the side of the road, breathing heavily. He had to get it together. This sense of unease, of pain, the migraine, the visions of his first lover, of hookers, of Julie, of Moira O’Donnell—this wasn’t him.

  Grant rested his head back on his steering wheel and willed the pain to stop. His penis was still hard and uncomfortable; he squirmed in his seat, but that only made his migraine worse.

  Home. He just had to go home and sleep this off … whatever it was. He needed to meet Moira in … the digits on his clock blurred. It was already two; he was late.

  What if Julie was really in trouble? The idea that she’d die in a horrible, gruesome way, like Nadine, terrified him. He didn’t want to lose her like that. He didn’t want to watch her rip her hair out, falling apart in front of him, flailing about until being run over by a bus.

  He called her. Maybe if he talked to her, she’d meet him at her place. He couldn’t walk into the Palomar feeling like this.

  On the third ring he almost hung up; then she answered. “Grant.”