Original Sin: The Seven Deadly Sins

by Allison Brennan

  Moira stared, her heart skipping a beat. “Holy Mary, Mother of God.” She didn’t realize she’d crossed herself until she’d already done it. “This is a demon’s mark.”

  “They were possessed when they died? But—”

  She shook her head rapidly back and forth. “No, no, not that. Let me think.” She whirled around and stared at the odd-shaped red demon’s mark in the photograph. “This only happens when someone goes through a demonic baptism.”

  “I know a lot about demon worship, but I’ve never heard of demonic baptisms. It’s sacrilegious.”

  Moira managed a harsh laugh. “Everything they do is sacrilegious! I had one of these.” She pulled down her turtleneck to reveal the faint scar where her demon’s mark had been. “Father removed it.” The procedure had been emotionally and physically exhausting, but it had been successful.

  No one but Father Philip and Peter had known about the mark, until now.

  “I was marked on my thirteenth birthday,” she continued. “When I came of age, I was baptized and marked. A demon—my so-called guardian devil, I suppose—was summoned to mark me. It’s rare, I’ll admit, because most witches aren’t strong enough to control the ritual and the demon possesses the person he’s supposed to mark, and it becomes a bloodbath. But Fiona is not a weak witch, and frankly neither was I. I was marked … but I didn’t know what it was for until later …”

  Her voice trailed off and she looked over at Lily still sitting in the passenger seat of the truck. Did the girl have a mark on her?

  “Moira,” Anthony prompted.

  “These people had to have been marked by a demon, but I couldn’t tell you when. It could have been the other night, during the ritual Rafe interrupted, or today, or ten years ago. I don’t know!”

  “Skye is investigating their last few days; would that help narrow it down? Abby had a similar, not identical, mark on her. I don’t have a picture.”

  Moira didn’t know how so many dead people could have gone through the ritual if they weren’t on the cliffs. It wasn’t fun, and took years of preparation to accomplish. If Lily was marked unknowingly, it had to have been when she was a young child and something she didn’t remember.

  “Was there anything else weird besides the marks?”

  “They all died under odd or unusual circumstances. Three of the four victims worked at or went to Santa Louisa High School.”

  “That’s no coincidence.”

  Anthony asked the question she’d been thinking but couldn’t quite put into words. “Can someone be marked by a demon if they didn’t know anything about it? What if they were minding their own business, but somehow were touched—not possessed—by one of the Seven?”

  “I didn’t think so,” she said, “but theoretically it could happen, I suppose.” Moira stared at the photo.

  She shook her head, handed it back to him. “I’ve seen something like it before, but can’t remember where.” She took a deep breath. “Don’t let Lily out of your sight. I’m going to stop by Santa Louisa High School before I go to Pastor Garrett’s church. If I get arrested for breaking and entering, I hope you’ll convince your girlfriend to keep me out of jail.”

  Jared hadn’t wanted to come to school, but his father drove him on his way to work this morning and said he’d be calling in to make sure he was in every class.

  He wanted to leave for good. Walk out of the school, pack his stuff at his dad’s house, get Lily, and leave. His father had called him an idiot for giving his truck to a stranger, though Jared didn’t consider Moira O’Donnell a stranger. Not after what they’d seen … Still, maybe he had been stupid to loan Moira his truck. He hadn’t talked to her since yesterday morning, and he hadn’t spoken to or seen Lily; he felt like he was in the middle of a dream. A nightmare. He couldn’t talk to his father, and Mrs. Ellis hung up the phone when he called and asked to talk to Lily.

  He considered skipping out second period—by that time, Mrs. Ellis would be at work and he could go see Lily.

  He crossed the parking lot when he heard someone call his name.

  He turned and saw Ari Blair motioning to him from the driver’s seat of a small car, looking like she was waiting for someone. For him? He’d known her most of his life, but they never really moved in the same social circles.

  He walked over to her. She looked like crap—no makeup, her hair pulled haphazardly back in a lopsided ponytail, pale as a ghost. “Hey.”

  “Get in.”

  He frowned.

  “Please, Jared. It’s about Lily.”

  He hesitated. After what he’d seen these last two days …

  Ari pleaded with him. “I know what happened on the cliffs when Abby died. I was there. I need to fix it. It’s the only way, or Lily will die. Please, Jared, I need your help. I can’t do this all by myself.”

  “I’ll listen.”

  “Listen in the car, okay? We’ll just drive around. I’ll tell you everything; I just really need your help. Or it won’t just be Abby or Chris—”

  “Chris? Chris Kidd? What happened to him?”

  “He died last night. He was killed, I’m sure of it, to keep me from doing what I’m going to do. I can’t let anyone else die.”

  Jared walked around to the passenger door and got in. “Tell me everything, Ari, and don’t lie. That’s the only way I’ll help.” He only hoped he could tell if she were lying, he thought, as she drove out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Before Skye had left the morgue, she’d spoken with Andy Rucker, the distraught husband of the dead Barbara Rucker.

  According to Rucker, he and his wife had been happily married for twelve years. Barbara had always been insecure about her weight and upset that she hadn’t had a baby, which she desperately wanted. But Andy thought she’d been relatively happy until she turned forty and found out she couldn’t conceive.

  Barbara had called him yesterday afternoon on his cell phone. He was in a meeting, let it go to voicemail, and when he called her back she was crying and wouldn’t tell him why. He almost went home but was delayed by an office emergency.

  Just after five in the afternoon, Barbara showed up at Andy’s office in Santa Maria. She accused him of having an affair. When his colleague walked into the office without knocking, Barbara stared agog at the very pregnant office worker. Barbara then chased the woman out of the office and pushed her down the stairs.

  “Barbara just … I don’t know, lost it. I thought it was because of the baby. Martha was seven months pregnant, and Barbara can’t have kids …”

  After pushing Martha down the stairs, Barbara Rucker ran out of the building. Fifteen minutes later, her car crashed into a light pole traveling, according to the accident investigation, in excess of seventy-five miles an hour. There were no signs that she’d attempted to brake.

  A second suicide by car in as many days? Both women who worked at the high school? It made no sense—unless Skye listened to Anthony. And even he didn’t know what was going on.

  But Andy Rucker was 100 percent certain that his wife was home all night Tuesday—far away from the demon-ridden cliffs. Skye didn’t see why he would lie, and though she supposed the secretary could have slipped out of the house for a couple of hours and sneaked back in without her husband waking, that was doubtful.

  When she arrived at Santa Louisa high school, the principal had confirmed to Skye everything Andy had told her: Barbara Rucker was sweet, a little insecure, very much in love with her husband, and yesterday she’d been unusually emotional.

  After talking to the principal, Skye asked the receptionist to call Ari Blair into the office between periods, but not to alert her that the police wanted to speak with her.

  “Ari is absent,” she said.

  “Did her parents call in?”

  “We have two hundred sixteen first-period absences,” the receptionist said. “I couldn’t tell you if they called yet; we’re still processing the attendance slips.”
<
br />   “Is two hundred and sixteen absences unusual? It seems high.”

  “Extremely unusual. We average thirty-two a day, sometimes double that in flu season. But over two hundred?” She shook her head. “Most of them are juniors and seniors.”

  “Isn’t that strange?” Skye asked. “Is it a senior prank or something?” It was Friday. Maybe a group had driven south to Disneyland. She dismissed the thought as soon as she thought it. A dozen seniors, sure. But two hundred? Not likely.

  Before the receptionist could comment, a student sitting against the wall said, “I saw Ari this morning in the parking lot.”

  “What was she doing?” Skye asked the girl.

  “Nothing. Just sitting in her car.”

  Skye asked more questions about Ari during the break and learned from three students that Ari was seen sitting in her car in the parking lot until approximately 8:45 a.m., when she talked to Jared Santos and they left together. Skye also learned that Lily Ellis hadn’t shown up today, either.

  She called Deputy Hank Santos. “Do you know where Jared is?”

  “School. I dropped him off this morning.”

  “He’s not here. Several students saw him drive away with another student.”

  “Dammit! It’s that Ellis girl, isn’t it?”

  “No, actually, it’s—” She stopped. “Lily Ellis isn’t at school, either.”

  “I’ll be right there.” He hung up, and Skye swore under her breath. She didn’t need Hank getting up in arms about this, or digging deeper into what had happened at the cliffs. He was already on the cusp of whether he trusted her to be sheriff, and if she lost Hank’s support, several other deputies would follow.

  While the receptionist pulled Ari Blair’s parent contact information, Skye took a call from Deputy Baca, who’d been interviewing Ned Nichols’s neighbors this morning.

  “Give me the nuts and bolts,” she said.

  “Nichols was the manager of the eighteen-unit apartment building. Clean but run-down. The crime scene investigators are still in his apartment, but there’s nothing obvious like pictures of his colleagues with targets drawn on them. We caught one tenant leaving for work; he didn’t care for Nichols, said he was a stickler for rules like no political signs, only one pet per apartment, things like that.”

  Skye cut him off. She didn’t need to know all this right now, and nothing he said helped her figure out how he had a birthmark that matched those of two other dead people. “Anything else?”

  “We’re going to track down the other residents. The gal next door works at the high school; since you’re there, I thought maybe you could talk to her.”

  Skye stiffened. “His neighbor works at the high school?”

  “Nicole Donovan. English teacher. New, moved to Santa Louisa over the summer.”

  “I’ll talk to her. Thanks.”

  She hung up, asked the receptionist what room Donovan had, and was informed that Donovan had a free third period starting in fifteen minutes.

  Skye stepped out and decided to wait until class was over, make it casual. She had no reason to think that Nicole Donovan was involved in Abby’s death, but at the same time this was one of those strange coincidences that got her police instincts humming. Nicole Donovan, English teacher, was the only apparent connection to the high school that Ned Nichols had, other than the fact that he graduated from here nearly twenty years ago.

  Donovan, Donovan … Skye pulled out her notepad. She had Abby’s schedule written down. First period:

  English 4, N. Donovan, Rm 119

  One more connection. She was heading to room 119 when her phone rang. It was Reverend Matthew Walker returning her call.

  “Thank you for returning my call,” she said.

  “I was surprised that the sheriff of Santa Louisa wanted to talk to me. I heard on the TV news what happened yesterday in Santa Louisa—the murders at Rittenhouse. I’m stunned. I know the Rittenhouse family well.”

  “I’m calling about Pastor Garrett Pennington, your replacement at Good Shepherd.”

  There was a brief silence. “Replacement? I didn’t know they’d found a replacement.”

  “Who are ‘they’? Your employer?”

  “Good Shepherd is affiliated with Lamb of God Ministries. My mother’s illness was sudden, and I couldn’t stay while they searched for a new pastor. I thought they’d have told me, but …” He let his voice trail off.

  “Do you have contact information on your ministry? I need to verify some information. So you don’t know Garrett Pennington at all?”

  “Never heard of him. But Lamb of God is small; they often recruit outside their ranks. Most of our churches have small congregations in rural communities.”

  He gave her two phone numbers and an address in San Diego—for Vance and Trina Lamb—and assured Skye that “Lamb” was their true last name.

  “When did you leave Santa Louisa?” she asked.

  “The first week of August. My mother collapsed and was admitted to the hospital. I drove up, and after talking to the doctors learned she had a brain tumor. They said she could live for a week or possibly a month. It’s been seven months, praise the Lord, but she’s still not out of the woods.”

  “You haven’t been back since?”

  “I returned for a few days to pack up my things, gave my last sermon on August ninth, told the congregation what happened, and asked them to pray for my mother. I contacted Lamb of God and informed them of my leave of absence, and they said they’d start searching for a replacement. Is this a new hire?”

  “About five or six months ago, I believe. I don’t have those notes in front of me, but he was there at the end of the summer.”

  “That’s odd. I spoke with Vance two weeks ago and he didn’t say anything to me.”

  Odd indeed, Skye thought. She thanked the pastor and hung up, then called the number he’d given her.

  A female voice answered.

  “I’m Sheriff Skye McPherson in Santa Louisa, California. I’m calling to speak with Vance or Trina Lamb.”

  “This is Trina Lamb. How may I help you?”

  “I’m calling regarding Good Shepherd Church in Santa Louisa.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m following up on your pastor, Garrett Pennington.”

  “Good Shepherd has no pastor. Matthew Walker took a leave of absence, and we haven’t filled the position yet.”

  “Mrs. Lamb, Garrett Pennington has been acting as the pastor of Good Shepherd since the end of August.”

  “We don’t know any Garrett Pennington.”

  “But Good Shepherd is your church?”

  “In a manner of speaking. We don’t have the organization of the larger churches with mandates and funding. We supply material like prayer books and stock newsletters, and take care of organizational matters such as tax filings, in return for a percentage of the collection and fund-raising. Matthew really built the church up. When he took a leave of absence, he asked for us to find a replacement for him, but we’ve been unable to do so. We sent two candidates to the church council, and neither met with their approval.”

  “Church council?”

  “Yes, when Matthew left to care for his mother, three in his congregation volunteered to interview replacements. We sent up two, but they rejected them. They’ve been holding prayer services, but I fear unless Matthew returns they’ll wander away.”

  “Who is on the council?”

  “I don’t know all the members, but my contact is Elizabeth Ellis. Do you know her?”

  Lily’s mother, who Anthony called a witch. “I know of her.”

  Lamb’s voice became indignant. “I’m disturbed that someone would be pretending to be a man of the Lord.”

  Skye sighed wearily. You don’t know the half of it.

  Moira was relieved that Anthony hadn’t asked her why she was going to Santa Louisa High. She’d have to lie to him, and she didn’t like lying to him. He couldn’t read minds, but he was sharp, and even though she
was a terrific liar—thanks to years of having to lie to her mother in order to save her own life—she wasn’t sure she could come up with a plausible excuse.

  She left a voicemail for Jared; she assumed he was in class when he didn’t answer. She walked around the silent halls, hoping no one questioned her. The nice thing about Santa Louisa was that it was a smallish town with small-town mentalities. No metal detectors at the doors, no campus cops, no one particularly concerned about someone walking the halls between classes.

  But the downside of a small town was that everyone knew everyone, and Moira was a stranger. Worse, she didn’t know how far the tentacles of Fiona’s coven extended, and people she didn’t know might know her. She was always wary of Fiona’s human spies.

  She walked around the halls looking for any sign of witchcraft, or the lingering stench of sulphur that demons left in their wake. Slowly by the lockers, breathing deeply at each narrow vent, seeking the subtle aromas of herbs and plants that might tell her someone was practicing witchcraft—or was hexed. Moira didn’t know if they would be the next victims of the demon or if they were protected from what they’d brought forth. But each person was a possible lead for her to find Fiona.

  She’d passed by several lockers that were suspect, but one stood out as if it glowed with a big neon sign: witch.

  She glanced around. Heart racing, she took out her pick and popped the lock in less than three seconds, though it felt like three minutes.

  It was myrrh that she smelled, fresh and potent. On the inside of the locker was a symbol Moira knew well from her youth—it went with a spell for popularity. As if to reiterate the fact, she found a turquoise charm hanging in the back.

  She quickly went through the books. The locker belonged to Ari Blair, student body president. In notebooks were doodles of witchcraft tables, and another notebook was the beginning of her own grimoire.

  And there was an address book.

  The bell rang; Moira pocketed the address book and shut the locker, walking away with purpose, as if she belonged.