Carnal Sin

by Allison Brennan

  “You’re exaggerating.” Her voice was so weak, it pained him to listen to her. “Just take me home.”

  “You need stitches.” Rafe laid Moira down on the floor, then ordered Jackson, “I need towels—bandages—anything.”

  “My bag,” Moira said. “In the corner.”

  Jackson retrieved her satchel and Rafe looked through it. He found a water bottle. “Holy water?”

  “Drinking water,” she said.

  “It’ll clean you up.”

  “It looks worse than it is,” she said, but closed her eyes.

  Rafe took a soft cloth and doused it in water, then gently wiped her arms. She was so pale. “Moira—don’t do that again.”

  “I don’t remember half of it.”

  But Rafe did. He remembered how she’d cut her arm and bled on the demon. How she’d smeared blood on him, on Nina, protecting everyone she could. And she would have continued to do it until she bled dry. The risk to her far greater than he’d realized—until now.

  She had two deep cuts, both on her left arm. He bandaged them—she’d scar, no doubt. He kissed her forearm. “You really should get stitches.”

  “I don’t want to go to the hospital.”

  “I have a good first-aid kit in the house,” Jackson said. “I’ll get it.” He left the sanctuary. Nina walked out with him.

  Alone at last, Rafe wanted to simply hold Moira. For just a moment, to put the night behind them. Moira started to get up, but Rafe pulled her down. “You need to rest.”

  “I need to make sure the font is as secure as it can be.” She looked up at him, her expression worn and worried. “What happened with those spirits? You were under attack—I didn’t know what to do.” She reached for him and he took her hand and kissed it repeatedly.

  “I’m okay.” He wasn’t, the last wishes of each soul weighing heavily on his heart. The guilt, the pain, the fear. He hoped they’d found peace on the other side, but he didn’t know any of their fates.

  “Rafe, what really happened?”

  “It went so fast. I tried to draw out the soul of George Erickson alone, but the demon threw all of them at me. Hundreds.”

  “Hundreds?”

  “It felt that way—I don’t know how many. They wanted me to help them …” His voice trailed off.

  Moira took his hand and kissed it. “And you did.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did you send them to the afterlife?”

  Rafe hesitated, and this time Moira brought his hand to her lips. “It was another one of those memories,” he said. “I wonder, have I been speaking in tongues? So rare, but there’s nothing else to explain how I know the right exorcism at the right time. The languages—I’m okay with languages, but nothing like Anthony. Yet I spoke Aramaic like it was my native tongue, and I did not know what I was saying. I understood it in one way, but I wouldn’t be able to translate. I had control—it wasn’t a possession—but in some ways it happened on its own. I could stop it—but I couldn’t direct it.” He took a deep breath, then let it slowly out. “I’m not making sense.”

  “You’re making about as much sense as my visions—especially what I saw yesterday.”

  “I—” He hesitated. There was so much he wanted to tell her, but right now wasn’t the time. He couldn’t explain exactly what happened with Julie Schroeder, or how he fought her spirit after she took over his body. He couldn’t explain even how he got himself off the wall when the demon had him pinned. It was with another prayer, and not for the first time he was terrified. Of the unknown, of not knowing whether his words came from above … or below.

  “Rafe?”

  “I thank God that you’re alive,” he said, looking deep into Moira’s eyes. “That we’re alive.”

  “Me, too.” She touched him again, as if to confirm his words.

  He kissed her again, lightly, on her lips, her chin, her neck, back to her lips. He murmured, “My love,” before he realized he’d spoken.

  “Where’s Nicole—?” he asked.

  “Probably long gone. She wanted Wendy dead. I wonder how much of what happened tonight was partly Nicole’s doing.” Moira slowly rose to her feet.

  “Don’t—”

  “I have to. The font, Grant—there are going to be serious consequences. We’d better call Skye and clue her in.”

  Rafe steadied Moira as they walked out of the sanctuary.

  Jackson’s church was filthy, the pews half destroyed, the altar smashed. The only thing intact was the cross hanging from the ceiling.

  Rafe and Moira approached the baptismal font cautiously. The glass had fused together and turned black. Moira’s heart quickened. “It’s in there.”

  “But the chalice—”

  “No—the demon is trapped in that glass ball.”

  Jackson and Nina walked back in. “Jackson,” Moira said, “can you get that iron box you had for the chalice?”

  “It’s in the sanctuary,” he said as he handed Nina the first-aid kit.

  Teary-eyed, Nina looked from Moira to Rafe. “Thank you seems trite.”

  “Don’t,” Moira said. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Is—are—well, after everything I hate to ask, but …”

  Rafe took Nina’s hand. “George’s last wish was for me to tell you he loved you and he’ll be watching to make sure you’re happy.”

  Moira’s head whipped around to Rafe. She stared at him, eyes questioning.

  Rafe said quietly, “When the souls left, I had a sense of their final thoughts.”

  Nina said, “Grant, Jeff, and Julie are on the portico outside. Jackson called an ambulance. I don’t think Julie is going to make it.”

  Jackson returned with the iron box. Moira found Rafe’s shirt stained with her blood. It was still damp. She wrapped it around the glass ball and carefully placed it in the box, leaving the shirt inside with it. Jackson added the melted chalice, then closed and locked it.

  “Put it in your vault until Rico can retrieve it,” Moira said.

  “Nina?” Jackson asked. “Could I ask you to get the doors for me?”

  Nina handed Rafe the first-aid kit and left with Jackson, while Rafe and Moira went to the portico in the front of the church.

  Grant was sitting on the ground, his back against the stucco, holding Julie in his arms. Tears streamed silently down his face. Jeff sat several feet away, his head between his knees. The neck of his shirt was covered in blood, and he had a nasty welt on the side of his face from where he’d hit the pew. But being unconscious probably saved his life.

  “Where’s the ambulance?” Grant asked. “I called and called and it’s not here. She needs help.”

  Julie was pale, her aura nearly gone. She was dying.

  Moira knelt next to them. “You saved him, Julie. You helped save all of us.”

  Grant pushed Moira. “Leave her alone!”

  Julie’s eyes fluttered open. “Grant—” She swallowed. “Please.”

  “Don’t talk,” Grant told her.

  Julie touched his face with one shaky hand, but said to Moira, “Thank you. I understand better now—what you said this morning at the hotel. I—I’m so sorry for the pain I’ve caused. What I did was so wrong.”

  Moira wished she could do something. “Rafe—can you help her?” Moira pleaded.

  Rafe said, “I can give Julie last rites.”

  Moira kissed Julie’s hand, then stood and gave Rafe some room. She walked to the edge of the portico and wiped away tears.

  Rafe knelt next to Julie. “The ambulance will be here—I hear it.”

  Julie shook her head. “I—there’s a lot broken inside.”

  Rafe anointed her head with oil and prayed.

  “No! She’s not going to die! God, no!” Grant cried, holding Julie close.

  “Grant—” Julie coughed. “It’s okay.”

  “No, we’ll make this work. I promise. I love you, Julie. I love you! I’m so sorry for everything—please, let me make i
t up to you. Let me—”

  “Shh. Please, Grant. I’m dying. I want to do one thing to help someone.”

  “I can’t let you die.”

  Julie swallowed; her voice was weak. “I have a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “There’s a girl at the morgue. She’s been there for years. They don’t know who she is—her name is Amy Carney. Find her family; let them bury her. Her family doesn’t know what happened to her, and the morgue doesn’t know who she is. She just wants them to know what happened.”

  Grant’s tears fell on Julie’s chest. He held her close. “Julie,” he sobbed.

  Rafe finished the last rites, then took her hand. “Rest in peace, Julie. God is a forgiving God.”

  “I hope so,” she said, a hint of fear in her eyes. She coughed and looked at Rafe, her eyes unfocused. “Thank you for letting me share your body. I explained everything to Grant; you and Moira should not have any problems.” She coughed again. “Come closer.”

  Her voice was so faint he nearly missed it. He leaned over, his ear to her mouth. She whispered, “I wasn’t the only one in there.”

  Moira slipped away to the far side of the church when she saw the ambulance pull into the parking lot. Cops would soon follow, and she wasn’t confident she wouldn’t be spending the night in jail. All she really wanted to do was go home.

  But she didn’t have a home. It hurt, an empty, hollow pit in the center of her chest. When she told Rafe she wanted to go home, she’d simply meant go with him, anywhere. Away. Because she didn’t have a place to call her own. She didn’t have much of anything that couldn’t fit in her backpack.

  Rafe had changed all that. She’d found a place with him that wasn’t a place at all, but a person. She’d found the one person on earth who wouldn’t judge her, doubt her, or use her. The one person who could love her unconditionally.

  Her heart skipped a beat. Love hadn’t been good to her. She didn’t know if she could do it again. Whether she could survive losing another part of herself.

  She’d never thought about, never looked for, a love like the one she’d had with Peter. He had saved her, loved her, cared for her. Yet—she’d been young. Naïve. In many ways, foolish. But she had loved deeply. When Peter died violently at her hands, she no longer wanted to live. And had she been truly alive ever since? Or had she merely survived?

  Rafe wasn’t Peter. What she felt for Rafe wasn’t the pure, innocent love she’d had with Peter. It was deeper, far more terrifying because of its intensity. She couldn’t admit to these feelings, because she feared they would be used against her by her enemies. If Fiona knew … she could use Rafe against Moira. Another tool in her mother’s arsenal of weapons—the man she loved.

  A woeful moan escaped her throat and she swallowed it. It was her secret for now. She had to keep it buried deep. To protect herself. To protect Rafe.

  Moira saw Jackson and Nina go into his house. She followed, and caught up with them before he closed the door.

  “Come in.”

  “The paramedics are here. The police are soon to follow. We need to be on the same page.”

  Nina said, “I’ll help take care of any problems. I work for the Board of Supervisors—it might help.”

  “Skye originally told Grant she was investigating a cult,” Moira reminded Nina.

  Nina nodded. “Grant said something about drugs. I’ll make sure he’s with us on this. Wendy and Pam sure acted like they were high.”

  “One little thing—I shot Wendy in the leg with Grant’s gun.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m not a legal resident. And, um,” Moira looked sheepish, “I might be in the system for stealing cars. But,” she added quickly, “I always left them undamaged and with money for gas.”

  “Let’s see if we can keep your name out of it altogether, okay?”

  Nina left, and Jackson took the first-aid kit from Moira and took out the supplies.

  “Let’s get you fixed up here, since you’re being stubborn about the hospital,” he said.

  Moira let him clean her wound with antibacterial spray and seal it with medical glue before rebandaging it. She didn’t know how to bring up the subject she’d wanted to discuss, but finally said, “Jackson, did you take something from Wendy’s house?”

  He repacked the first-aid kit. “Why?”

  “Wendy thought I took something other than the chalice. I don’t know what, but you were alone for at least ten minutes. What did you take?”

  He let out his breath. “Names. Contacts. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to expand my information. You know how important it is to put the associations together, to be able to track these people through the country—”

  “You’re looking for Courtney.”

  Jackson’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t avert his gaze. “She’s my daughter.”

  “I’m afraid for you, Jackson.”

  “I’m not blind.”

  “About this, you are.”

  “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same.”

  “True. I don’t have a daughter. But Courtney was over eighteen.”

  “You don’t give up on your children just because they’re adults.”

  “Jackson—”

  “Don’t. You won’t understand. I’m not going to be rash. I need to know where she is.”

  His face was hard, but it was an act. He was hurting inside, and Moira couldn’t do anything to help him. So she let it go. At least for now.

  “Why don’t you stay here while I talk to the police?” Jackson said. “I’ll do everything I can to protect you and St. Michael’s.”

  “Thank you. And thank you for your help. I’m sorry about your church.”

  “It is replaceable.” He touched her lightly on the chin. “You are not.”

  Julie was dead by the time the paramedics took her from Grant’s arms. Grant seemed to be in shock. He didn’t speak to anyone, only stared straight ahead. Rafe looked around for Moira, but as soon as the paramedics—followed by a cop car—pulled into the church parking lot, she’d disappeared.

  Rafe didn’t want to talk to anyone about what happened. He wished they’d had more time to come up with a believable story.

  Two uniformed officers approached. One spoke to the paramedics; the other approached Rafe, who was standing near the door.

  “Sir, what’s your name?”

  “Raphael Cooper.” He pulled out his wallet and identification.

  The officer looked at it, wrote down the information, and handed it back. “We need to remove you from the crime scene if you’re able,” he said.

  “Pastor Moreno’s house is across the parking lot.”

  “This is Jackson Moreno’s church?” the cop asked, recognizing the name.

  “Officer?”

  Nina Hardwick strode purposefully across the portico until she stood in front of the cop. She was a mess, just like all of them. There was blood on her white blouse and two buttons had popped off, revealing a very white stomach. The cop stared at her, as if trying to place her.

  “Yes?”

  “Nina Hardwick, staff counsel for Supervisor Vochek. I was here for this unfortunate tragedy, and I’m happy to answer any questions. Have you spoken with detectives Nelson and Johnston?”

  The officer looked at the two men sitting on the ground. A paramedic was looking each one over. Grant pushed the EMT aside. “Help me up,” he told the cop.

  “Sir—”

  “Detective Grant Nelson.” Grant held out his hand. The cop took it. Aided, Grant rose to his feet, his body beaten and pale. “Pacific Division. You remember Kent Galion died last week? I was investigating his death, and my partner and I uncovered a drug ring operating out of Velocity. It spiraled out of control today. We were caught unawares. Ambushed. The two dead women inside were high on something. The coroner has been looking into designer drugs, but—” Grant shook his head.

  “Is Pastor Moreno under investigation?” the cop asked.

/>   “Of course not,” Grant said. “He had some information for us. I wish I could share with you all the details, but right now it’s still an ongoing undercover operation and you’ll have to talk to my boss.”

  He glanced at Nina. Rafe watched the unspoken communication, and Nina excused herself.

  Rafe didn’t know whether Grant’s quick talking would get him out of trouble, but for now it had saved his and Moira’s hides.

  It was time for him to take Moira someplace to rest. They both needed sleep.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Forty-Eight Hours Later

  Anthony landed in Missoula, Montana, after traveling for more than sixteen hours. A thick blanket of snow covered the ground, eerily beautiful in the stunning moonlight. He watched out the window of the taxi that wound carefully through the mountains to Olivet.

  He was exhausted. More than anything, he wanted to hold Skye. If he’d gone straight to San Francisco, it would have been a short five-hour drive to Santa Louisa. He’d have been walking into Skye’s arms now, instead of facing Rico Cortese’s grim face.

  “Thank you for coming,” Rico said, taking Anthony’s coat and escorting him to a fire in the library.

  “I didn’t have a choice.” Anthony stood in front of the grand stone fireplace, the heat unable to melt the ice in his veins.

  “The cardinal said you found answers in Dr. Lieber’s papers.”

  Anthony turned and faced the hunter. “Don’t you find it suspicious that Dr. Lieber is dead?”

  Rico sat down slowly, indicating that Anthony do the same. Anthony remained standing. Rico said, “He was elderly and infirm. The trip could have worn him out.” Then he looked pointedly at Anthony. “Yes, I find it highly suspicious. But no one has been able to prove it. We must keep our information close.”

  Believing that someone had breached St. Michael’s fortress—or worse, that someone inside was responsible—deeply disturbed Anthony.

  “What did you find?” Rico asked quietly.

  Anthony looked back toward the fire. “Father Philip believed that Moira was the only one who could destroy the Conoscenza.”

  “Yes. The Book of the Unknown Martyr clearly states that only a repentant magician with the proper lineage can forever destroy the evil book, through ‘blood and fire.’”