Original Sin: The Seven Deadly Sins

by Allison Brennan

  “Right. Help me turn him over,” Rod said.

  After Skye complied, Anthony immediately saw a red-wine stain on Nichols’s upper shoulder. It was roughly six inches, but oddly shaped. It didn’t exactly match Abby’s, but there were similarities. But unlike Abby’s there was a darker thread, almost like a tattoo, within the mark that looked familiar:

  “It doesn’t match,” Skye said.

  “Not perfectly, but the other two match this guy. I called Abby’s parents and asked about birthmarks—I didn’t say anything about it, just that we needed information for our files. Her mother said she had no birthmark, other than a small mole on her outer right thigh.”

  “Did you show her a picture?”

  “I think her mother would know if she had a birthmark, especially like this.”

  Anthony stared at the mark. “This looks too detailed to be a birthmark,” he commented.

  “Yeah, more like a tattoo,” Fielding said, “but it’s not. There’s no ink in the mark; I already tested a sample.” He walked over to another table. “Then I got this eighteen-year-old athlete. Basketball player. Perfectly healthy; I have all his medical files from his doctor, who was shocked when he arrived unconscious at the hospital. He was bleeding from his ears—had lost a tremendous amount of blood before he died. The doctor speculated brain aneurysm, but I’ve never heard of an aneurysm that resulted in bleeding from both ears. There was no head injury that his coach was aware of; he didn’t play much in the game. He complained about a severe headache shortly before he collapsed. Bleeding from the ear can occur in some infections, but it’s usually from a head injury or foreign object. There is nothing external to have caused such an event.”

  “So what did he die from?” Skye asked.

  “I don’t know, I haven’t started the autopsy. I was prepping him early this morning when I saw the mark. Here, help me.” Skye and Fielding turned the body. A red-wine stain, identical to the shooter’s, was on the teenager’s back, almost in the same place.

  “My assistant told me there was yet another body that came in from the hospital early this morning with this mark.”

  Anthony said a silent prayer for the young man, then turned to the female corpse. She was about forty, and had a mark identical to both those of the shooter and the teenager.

  “Could it be a virus?” Skye asked Fielding. “Something contagious? What’s going on, Rod?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Who’s this woman?” Skye glanced at the toe tag. “Barbara Rucker? That name is familiar—she works at the high school.”

  “Bingo. Secretary to the principal. I don’t know the whole story, but she died in a car accident after leaving her husband’s office in Santa Maria yesterday evening. Her husband’s on his way in.” He put up his hand when Skye opened her mouth to protest. “I told him not to, so don’t jump down my throat. He’s distraught, wants to know what happened to her. I hadn’t planned on doing an in-depth autopsy—beyond a standard tox screen for drugs and alcohol—until he called. Based on the accident report, Barbara Rucker was speeding erratically, then ran off the road and into a telephone pole. It was foggy and the roads were slick; CSI is checking the vehicle for possible brake malfunction. Her husband said she wasn’t a drinker, didn’t do drugs, but hadn’t been acting like herself.” He glanced at Anthony. “Do you think she was possessed?” he asked quietly.

  “Demons don’t want the people they possess to die. They lose the body. It doesn’t make sense.” He frowned and stared at the mark. “This is familiar, but I don’t know why.”

  “Damn,” Fielding said. “I thought you’d be able to help. If you don’t know what it means—”

  Skye interrupted. “This is a criminal investigation. We need to assume that these three people had something in common, so we look into each death carefully, retrace their steps. Maybe they were all at the same place at the same time.”

  “Like the cliffs,” Anthony said.

  “Yes.” She looked at the young man’s body, then asked Fielding, “You said these marks weren’t tattoos. Could they have been self-made? Like—” she hesitated, then said, “burned into the skin?”

  Fielding considered the question. “It’s possible—I’ll need to do skin grafts, check the cells underneath for signs of intense heat and dead cells. But if it was recent, I would expect discoloration on the skin surrounding the marks. Still—I’ll check. I’ll get back to you later today.”

  “You’re doing all the autopsies today?”

  “Yes, I just wanted you to see this first.”

  “Did the toxicology reports come back on Abby?” Skye asked.

  “Not yet. I expect them early this afternoon. I’ll call you if there’s anything suspicious.”

  “I’m going to wait in the lobby for Mr. Rucker,” Skye said.

  She stopped next to the young man again. She looked at his toe tag. Chris Kidd. All color drained from her face. “I talked to this boy yesterday. When I was at the school—he came up to me and said his girlfriend might know something about Abby’s death. I pressed, and while he didn’t flat-out say it, I had the distinct impression that she was on the cliffs that night. I intended to follow up with her yesterday, but then the librarian stole—” She stopped. “Anthony, how can this all be happening? The librarian? Chris Kidd? The secretary … they’re all from the school.”

  “But not Nichols,” Fielding reminded her.

  “Maybe he’s not part of the same … thing.”

  “He must be,” Anthony said. “The marks are almost identical.”

  “I have everyone working on that case, checking his background, his apartment, his associates. He’s not married, but maybe he’s friends with someone at the school; maybe he had reason to be there yesterday.”

  “Or maybe,” Anthony said, “he was part of the coven. Maybe he was at the cliffs during the ritual—maybe all of these people were.”

  Skye said, “So were Lily and Rafe.”

  “I’m going back to the house. I’ll look at Rafe myself. After, I’ll head back to the mission and research what this mark might mean.”

  “After I talk to Rucker,” said Skye, “I’ll check on Lily.”

  Anthony hesitated, wondering if he should tell her that Moira had gone after Lily. Instead, he said, “Be careful. Elizabeth Ellis is a witch.”

  Rod Fielding’s head shot up. “Elizabeth?”

  “You know her?” Anthony said.

  “We go to the same church. She’s a nice woman; so is her daughter.”

  “Don’t go back to that church. The new pastor, Pennington, is suspect.”

  Fielding frowned, and Anthony wondered for a brief moment whether he could be trusted. But why would he call them to the morgue and show them the marks on the corpses? And he’d gone above and beyond after the murders at the mission.

  The coroner shook his head. “I don’t go often, once in a while. I’ve only been twice since Pennington took over. I don’t really like him much. He has charisma, I’ll give him that. Very attractive to the women, and young. Pennington came with outstanding credentials. I don’t think Matthew Walker would have turned over his church to just anyone.”

  “That’s something we definitely need to look into,” Anthony said.

  Skye asked Rod, “Do you know how I can reach Walker?”

  “His cell phone number is in my Rolodex. Grab it on your way out. Tell him I said hello. I should have called him at some point. His mother was gravely ill. I just didn’t think of it.”

  On their way out, Skye took Anthony’s arm. “Anthony, please be careful. And remember—let me handle the police work. Too many people are watching me too closely. Any hint that the police department is investigating supernatural crimes and everything we’ve done to protect Juan Martinez and Rafe Cooper will blow up in our faces.”

  Moira wasn’t certain how she knew something was dreadfully wrong at Skye and Anthony’s house, but before she turned Jared�
�s truck down Skye’s street back to Skye’s she sensed a charge, electricity in the air. Maybe it was the scent of fear.

  Lily’s feet were bleeding. Moira had forgotten she’d been injured running from the coven two nights ago until she saw the blood seeping through her thick socks. Running three blocks and hopping over a couple of fences in the process hadn’t helped any. Now she curled into a ball in the passenger seat. The cab was so hot Moira was sweating, but Lily had complained of being cold.

  Moira approached Skye’s house cautiously, looking for anything amiss. Skye’s truck was in the driveway, but the second car was gone. She drove around behind the house, since there were no fences to block her view.

  A metal chair was overturned on the deck.

  It might be nothing; it could have been knocked down by wind at night. But Moira didn’t remember any wind strong enough to knock the chair over. And Skye McPherson seemed too … meticulous … to leave a piece of furniture in disarray.

  She stopped the truck but didn’t get out. She couldn’t leave Lily alone, but she also didn’t want to bring her into an unknown situation.

  “Lily,” she said.

  Lily opened her eyes. “Where are we?”

  “The sheriff’s house. I need to check it out before I bring you in. How are you doing? Can you walk?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s okay. Be alert. I’m going to open the windows. I know it’s cold out, but if you see anyone, scream bloody murder. Even if it’s someone you know. I’ll hear you.”

  Lily nodded, her body shaking.

  “I’ll bring a blanket as soon as I can.”

  Moira parked the truck, opened the windows a crack, and left the keys with Lily. “Lock it,” she commanded, and got out.

  Moira took the three steps up to the deck with one leap, her dagger in one hand, ready to attack. Every nerve was on high alert, every cell listening, smelling, feeling what was outside the house, and inside.

  There’s no one here.

  No movement. No breathing. No life.

  Her heart skipped. The idea that Anthony and Rafe were dead, deserting her. Moira couldn’t do it alone. She needed backup, anyone to be on her side.

  And she wanted it to be someone she trusted. Like Anthony.

  Like Rafe.

  She felt alone again, cold and helpless and hopeless.

  Without hope, you have nothing.

  The sliding glass door was ajar. She pushed it open with one finger and stepped inside.

  The kitchen was a disaster. Dishes had been thrown around the room and shattered. Large platters and mugs had left gouges in the walls. The table was no longer in the center of the room; it was upside down, in the living room near the front door. The couch had been upended. Pictures had fallen from the wall, the frames and glass broken. Feathers from throw pillows had been scattered everywhere. A crucifix, one that Moira remembered hung over the doorway, had been thrown into the antique hutch, breaking a collection of dishes Skye had stored there.

  No one had touched a thing. As certainly as she breathed, Moira knew that a magician had walked in here and had a temper tantrum. Everything she passed by had invisible remnants of dark energy. She had never felt quite like this before. The entire house seemed alive, sizzling, crackling with sorcery.

  As she breathed in the pulsating energy surrounding her, Moira’s cells tingled. It would be so easy to pull that energy into her, to absorb it, to refuel. She was so tired …

  She stood in the guest room and stared at the bed Rafe had slept in last night.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and pounded her fists on the wall. She had to resist the urge to draw in the magic. Walking in here she had a taste of it, just a taste, and it fed her craving. On her tongue, in her eyes, coating her eardrums. Every sense wanted to absorb the energy, thirsty for it …

  She must resist. “Clamaverunt iusti et Dominus exaudivit et ex omnibus tribulationibus eorum liberavit eos!”

  The spells here were powerful, drawing her in. She battled them the only way she knew how. She continued with verse after verse of Latin exorcism rites, until an audible snap and a whoosh of air, so subtle, so quiet no one else would have heard it, told Moira the residual magic had dissipated.

  The dark craving instantly faded and she could focus on the task at hand.

  Where were Rafe and Anthony?

  Moira walked carefully over the ruins of the house, checked each room twice, and found no one, living or dead. She was alternately relieved and terrified.

  When she returned to the living room she saw the message, pinned to the back of the front door. A message that only Fiona would have left.

  An eye for an eye, yours for mine.

  The arca and the traitor for your brother.

  Two for one, for he has caused trouble.

  I am more than fair.

  The longer you delay, the more he suffers.

  Outside, Lily screamed.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Moira fled the house, heart racing with the fear that not only had Fiona kidnapped Rafe but now she had Lily, too, and Moira had been responsible for both.

  Anthony stood on the deck. “What happened?” he demanded, looking over her shoulder.

  Maybe it was his tone, or her guilt, or her anger—but more likely her fear—that provoked her to push him. He barely budged.

  “You left him alone? You left Rafe and now Fiona’s coven has him! How could you?”

  Anthony brushed past her and into the house, his own dagger out, not that it would do any good. She raised her hand to Lily, to let her know that Anthony was a friend, and then Moira put her hands on the wood railing and breathed in the fresh, moist, early-morning air. So much like her homeland in Ireland, a much-loved place to which she would likely never return.

  Rafe. They were kindred spirits, Moira and he, a little lost and a lot alone. Someone she could finally talk to about all this … and because of her, he had been taken by Fiona as a game piece.

  Checkmate.

  She couldn’t allow Fiona to win. She wasn’t turning Lily over to her, but she would trade herself for Rafe. Fiona would be hard pressed not to agree. Lily was an innocent, injured. She couldn’t even run if she needed to. And she would die if Fiona was successful.

  Anthony stepped out of the house, furious. “Where does Fiona want to make the trade?”

  Moira whirled around. “What? You can’t be seriously thinking of turning Lily over to them.”

  He scowled at her. “Of course not. But she didn’t give any instructions.”

  “She will. On her terms. And she won’t give us much time to prepare.” She looked at Anthony as she stuck her dagger back into its sheath. “It looks like it’s you and me, Anthony. That’s it.”

  “And Father Philip when he arrives. I spoke with Bishop Aretino last night. Father Philip left before dawn, alone, and is on his way here.”

  Fear clawed at her throat. “No, no, you have to stop him. Divert him. Call Rico, demand that he intercept him before he gets here. You know that Father is in great danger whenever he leaves the mission!”

  Anthony nodded. “Because he is older, not physically able—”

  She shook her head. “No! It’s because of me!”

  He stared at her and she paced on Skye’s deck. “Fiona cursed him,” she said.

  “That won’t work. His faith is too strong.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it does. Moira, for all our differences, I know you care for Father. I appreciate your trepidation, and I don’t want him here any more than you do, but I will do everything in my power to protect him. Faith does matter. It saved me more than once.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders. She stopped pacing, stunned by his showing of concern for her.

  “Even without the curse, if Fiona knows he’s here, she will attack him with the same fierceness as she did me in jail, and Rafe here—” She gestured toward the house. “He can’t survive something like this.”


  Anthony’s jaw tightened. “I will find him. I won’t let anything bad happen to Father.”

  Moira wanted to believe him, but she also knew that Father Philip believed if he left the sanctuary he would die. “Why is he coming here instead of going to Olivet?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Moira was hardly comforted by Anthony’s words, “In the meantime, I’ll find Rafe.”

  “How?”

  That, she wasn’t as certain about. But she had a few ideas. “I would start with Garrett Pennington, the pastor of Good Shepherd or whatever church.” She waved her hand dismissively. “If he won’t tell us where Fiona is, he’ll lead us to her. One thing I’m very good at is following people. He won’t know I’m there.”

  “What if he’s a magician?”

  She thought about how she’d dissipated the psychic energy in Skye’s house. “I don’t think he can detect me.”

  He seemed to take that as an answer, at least for now. “And what about Lily?”

  “She can’t walk. Her feet are practically raw from running barefoot the other night, and—” She hesitated. “Getting her out this morning wasn’t easy.”

  “How did you do it without magic?”

  “My spidey sense. Good old-fashioned intuition, something Rico taught me to listen to.” She cracked a half-grin. “Look, Anthony, take Lily to the mission and work on finding out how to trap the Seven; I’ll track down Garrett Pennington and, hopefully, Fiona. I’ll call you when I learn something, and we can go from there.”

  He was torn, but nodded. “I have another more immediate issue to research.”

  “What could possibly be more important than reversing Fiona’s spell?”

  “Nothing, but I’ve done all I can on that with what I have. I’m waiting on further information from a few people. But right now there’s a string of disconnected deaths that have one thing in common.”

  “What?”

  “The dead bodies each have some sort of identical birthmark, but it’s not on any of their medical records. The coroner says it’s not a tattoo.” He reached into his breast pocket and handed her a color print of a mark on a corpse.