Original Sin: The Seven Deadly Sins

by Allison Brennan

  “What’s that?”

  “I was looking for lockers that belonged to witches, okay? This came from one.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I was hoping for maybe a calendar or something that could give me an idea of where Fiona is staying.”

  She opened it and saw on the front page:

  Property Of:

  Arianne Blair

  “This is hers,” Moira told Skye.

  “Was there anything helpful in there? I can’t believe I just asked that. It’s an illegal search and seizure.”

  “I took it, you didn’t.”

  “Fruit of the forbidden tree. I now know you stole it, so I can’t use anything in it to arrest anyone.”

  “Screw that; I just want to stop Fiona from killing Rafe. She opened the address book to “Garrett Pennington” and tapped the address. “This is where I’m going to start.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Good Shepherd Church. Garrett Pennington. He lives in an apartment above the church—she has two addresses here, one for the church and one for Pennington.”

  “I found a connection between Pennington and Elizabeth Ellis. It’s not safe for you to go there alone, and I don’t have a warrant.”

  “Who cares about a warrant?”

  “I do. Because if he killed Abby Weatherby, I can put him in jail.”

  “Rafe could die. I need information, and Pennington is the best bet to get it.”

  “This is fucked,” Skye said, then changed the subject. “Can a witch make someone sick?”

  “Sure, it’s a standard spell. Not too difficult.”

  “What about a brain tumor?”

  “Harder, but for a skilled magician, not impossible.”

  “I don’t generally like coincidences, but Matthew Walker’s mother has a brain tumor, and that was the reason he left Santa Louisa. Then just a few weeks later, Elizabeth Ellis, who is on the church council, hires Garrett Pennington as the pastor. But Walker didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Seems obvious to me when you put it like that,” Moira said. “If the coven had something personal of hers—preferably blood, hair, or fingernails, but a personal object can sometimes work—they could curse her. Give her a brain tumor or a heart attack. It doesn’t always work, it’s not a science, and the farther the distance the harder it is.”

  “That sounds like voodoo.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re saying voodoo is real.”

  “Voodoo is witchcraft, nothing more, nothing less. What’s so surprising?”

  “I have a lot to learn.” Skye paused. “Can you help me with something before we go to Good Shepherd?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Ari Blair lives near here; I called her mother earlier and have permission to search her room.”

  “Good idea—she’s young, probably less disciplined than Pennington. We might get what we need there. If not, you’ll take me to Good Shepherd?”

  “No. I’ll drop you off down the street at the Starbucks. You can go wherever you like from there.” Skye glanced at her. “I’m still a cop, Moira. I’ve already broken so many laws that I’ve sworn to uphold that when I can pretend I’m not breaking one, let me pretend.”

  It took ten minutes to reach Ari’s house. As soon as Moira stepped on the property, she knew a witch lived here.

  “Moira? Hey—Moira!”

  Moira barely heard Skye’s voice when she turned into Ari Blair’s bedroom without being told which one was hers.

  Magic, powerful magic, permeated every inch of space. The walls, the carpet, the clothing strewn across the desk chair … it was as if the room breathed magic.

  The energy was strong, but young; powerful, but untrained. Moira sensed an inner goodness in the room, an aura of wanting to please. The aura of kindness. She wanted to weep for the poor girl who lived here, the betrayal she was about to face.

  Ari Blair could have been her.

  “Do you need to sit?” Skye asked from what seemed to be a great distance but was only feet away.

  Moira shook her head and crossed the neat but cluttered room. She touched a book on the desk. A Wiccan spell book. Another was a Wiccan book of blessings, another about the elements in Wicca. All benign in the sense that they promoted the stated belief of witchcraft: do no harm. Most practitioners were well-intentioned but misguided people who were searching for truth, balance, and understanding.

  They didn’t understand the dark underbelly of magic. That noble intentions were simply that: intentions. That do no harm was impossible when you messed around with supernatural forces. Ari had been used, her inner goodness and innocence and desire to learn more about herself and the world around her being twisted in order to pull energy from her.

  “How did Ari’s boyfriend die?” Moira asked quietly.

  “Possible brain aneurysm. He complained of a severe headache in the afternoon, then a few hours later collapsed and bled from the ears. He died en route to the hospital.”

  “I feel fear. Here, in this room. Fear and magic. She’s definitely scared about something.”

  Skye was looking at her strangely.

  “What’s wrong?” Moira asked.

  “You sound like Anthony.”

  “Anthony is an empath. I’m not.”

  Moira turned her back to Skye to avoid more questions. Together they searched the room. Moira flipped through the spellbooks one by one.

  Skye said, “Jared was here.”

  “How do you know?” Moira asked.

  Skye held up two phones. “This is Jared’s cell phone.” She flipped it open to show a photo of Jared and Lily on the wallpaper. “I’ll bet this is Ari’s. They dumped the phones so no one could GPS them.”

  “Dammit! What on earth was that kid thinking?”

  “He’s worried about Lily, and he’s an eighteen-year-old boy. He thinks he’s invincible.”

  “Idiot,” Moira mumbled. “We need to find them.”

  “I will.” Skye looked through Ari’s closet while Moira continued going through her books and papers. Moira took the time to study what wasn’t as obvious. She noted that Ari was interested in vortexes—intersections of positive and negative energy. Important in balance theory, a yin-and-yang thing.

  An idea popped into Moira’s head as she reviewed Ari’s books. She talked it out to get it straight. “Let’s say Ari had no idea what the ritual the other night was about. After, she’s terrified and thinks she needs to fix it. Her boyfriend dies. She’s panicking, and she comes up with an idea to stop it.”

  “How?”

  “I think she’s trying to undo the damage she helped create on the cliffs. Look—” She pointed to books on geography, spiritual vortexes, geometry, and ley lines. “This tells me she believes in intersecting points of power.”

  “Points of power? What’s that?”

  “Intersecting points of power. I’d love to explain it all to you, but we don’t have time. Ari is playing with fire. In a nutshell, she’s trying to set up a power center. It takes time—she needs to go to specific places the same distance apart, and each the same distance from the chosen power center. When each spot is aligned, it creates a one-way flow of energy, helping in complex rituals, especially for sole practitioners. Most covens have enough people to draw energy from, but individuals use the elements.”

  “What can that do?”

  “The more energy Ari can draw into her, the more powerful her magic. But she can’t possibly think she can reverse the ritual. She’ll get herself killed. And Jared. Dammit, as soon as she sets up the power center, she’s practically broadcasting her whereabouts to Fiona. Fiona’s power weakens when Ari draws energy to one spot.”

  “Okay, assuming this is true, why can’t we do the same thing? Buy ourselves some time? Maybe lure Fiona into a trap?”

  “Because the energy flow comes from magic, and only begins when the ritual starts. When that happens, you’re looking at battle magic, Fiona agai
nst Ari. Fiona will win, hands down, but not before more demons are released. Ari is drawing energy toward her—any demons, spirits, ghosts within the boundaries of the ley lines will be drawn to her center. She’s a novice. Even a practiced witch like Fiona wouldn’t attempt such a ritual without days of planning and preparation to protect her and her coven. Ari probably thinks she can either call on her own demon for vengeance or draw in the demons she released. But either way, she’s summoning the damn creatures. And now Jared is with her. It’s extremely dangerous. I have to find Ari. Stop her from making the same mistakes I did. I’m ready to go to Good—” She cleared her throat. “Starbucks. Actually, their tea isn’t half-bad. Not like a fresh-brewed pot, but for tea in a bag, tolerable.”

  “You sound just like Anthony,” Skye said, not for the first time.

  “Well, Italy and Ireland … we have a lot in common.”

  “I’d never have imagined.” Skye turned around.

  Moira gathered up Ari’s material on power points. She’d study Ari’s notes and try to figure out where she planned to set up this vortex.

  “You can’t take—”

  Damn, Moira thought she’d been discreet. She slid the material into her bag. “Take what?” She smiled and walked past Skye, relieved when the cop said nothing more.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Father Philip had listened attentively to Anthony’s recap of what he and Moira had learned, asking only a few questions for clarification, and now he sat quietly at the table, his expression contemplative.

  Anthony grew impatient but remained silent.

  At last the old priest spoke. “You said you have a photograph of the marks on the dead bodies?”

  Anthony nodded, retrieved the photo, and slid it across the table to Father. “Moira said it’s a demon mark, except these people—other than Abby Weatherby—weren’t on the cliffs during the ritual.”

  The old priest studied the instant picture and frowned. “Moira is right. I don’t see how this could happen—but then again, I’ve seen things during my eighty-three years that I couldn’t have imagined. The coven would have set up powerful protections for their members. Perhaps those in the circle were unaffected, but anyone who had contact with the demons after the ritual are affected.”

  “But why would a demon possess them, then kill them? It doesn’t make sense, not with what we know about demons.”

  “You’re right. We are truly facing the unknown here.” He paused, then added quietly, “Perhaps it’s the proximity. As the demons move through town they affect people they come in contact with.”

  “I’ve read Franz Lieber’s notes,” Anthony said, pulling out the handwritten journal. “He believed the Conoscenza was destroyed.”

  “We all did.” Father sighed and looked Anthony in the eye. “I learned yesterday that there have been secrets in the Order. Raphael was sent here to find the Conoscenza.”

  Anthony shook his head. “None of this should have happened. It didn’t have to!” He spun around, angry. He didn’t want to be angry at Father Philip, his mentor had learned of the truth only yesterday, but Father should have known. “Who hid the truth?”

  “The Cardinal.”

  That stunned Anthony. Cardinal DeLucca was their ally. “He would never have put Rafe in jeopardy.”

  “I am certain he is horribly distraught at what happened, but we can only do our best with the information we have at the time. Faith, instincts, intelligence.”

  “Where did the cardinal get his information?”

  “Hervé Salazar.”

  Anthony knew Hervé well. The young priest meant well, but he had been so damaged by past experiences battling the occult that he saw things that weren’t there. Anthony had been called to no fewer than sixteen places around the globe where Hervé was certain demons lived within buildings. He feared the apocalypse was imminent, that demons were everywhere. Nothing had been proven, and Anthony’s specialty was architecture. If there was a demon embedded in a building or artifact, Anthony could identify and exorcise it.

  “The cardinal didn’t believe him,” he said.

  “The cardinal needed to verify what Hervé told him, and Raphael was in California at the time. He has a natural gift of communication, speaks multiple languages, and we had need for a caretaker here.”

  “What happened to the last caretaker before Rafe was called up?”

  “He resigned. He wasn’t of the Order, and the cardinal felt he had problems handling the special needs of the priests in his care.”

  “Could he have been lured away by the housekeeper and her daughter, the witches? They could have cast a spell over him, poisoned him, done almost anything so they could continue unencumbered. They were poisoning the priests; they didn’t want interference.”

  “You may be right. I don’t know.”

  Anthony sat down. He couldn’t help but feel that the Order had failed not only Rafe, but all the priests who were murdered that night. If they’d been more alert, more suspicious, they might have stopped the slaughter. He asked quietly, “Where do we go from here? It’s you and me.”

  “And Moira and Rafe, and even your Skye McPherson. And Lily. She is stronger than you believe.”

  “Rafe is—” He couldn’t say it. He looked down. “I failed him,” he whispered. “Again.”

  Father Philip reached over and touched his forearm until Anthony looked at him. “No self-pity, son, no regrets. We don’t know the future; we do the best we can. Intentions matter. Your intent was not to allow Raphael to be taken. He is still alive, and we will do everything to get him back. We may die. But what is it that the Americans say? We won’t go down without a fight.”

  Anthony smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, though I am worried about your safety. There are many witches who want you dead.”

  “My safety is unimportant right now. We have a fundamental problem with the Seven. They grow stronger by feeding on the sins inside human beings. The sins that came from Adam and Eve. The stronger they become, the harder they are to trap.”

  “I understand this, from what Franz Lieber has written, but what can we do?”

  “I don’t know how to send them back, but I believe I know how to trap them.” Father Philip pulled a small journal from his breast pocket. It was stained, and very old.

  Anthony recognized the tattered book as The Journal of the Unknown Martyr. The stains were blood, the book hundreds of years old, written in Aramaic, the language of Jesus Himself, but virtually unused in the thirteenth century when the Unknown Martyr penned it. The fact that the book had survived nearly one thousand years was testament to its importance. That Father Philip had taken it from St. Michael’s vault was against everything they believed.

  Father Philip carefully, reverently, opened it to a page near the end. He translated as he read:

  “Your humble servant begs you, O Lord, to end our suffering. I have seen the Seven Sins, with my own eyes, in their True Being, and I fear great for mankind. They come for me, I beg You for deliverance. When the last was interned, they broke the traps we set. Now we pray and hide, hide from their collective Wrath, and pray to You, O Lord, for Mercy. Virtue conquers Sin. Give me a sign, O Lord, we who battle the demons in Your Name, Your most Humble Servant, I.”

  He put the book down. “That is the last entry.”

  The pain in the words was not lost on Anthony. “Yet the Seven were sent back, so there must be a way.”

  “Not without loss.” He stared at the book stained with blood.

  “What does it mean, Father? I see that together they are stronger, yet Lieber said that when released they disband.”

  Father nodded. “Yes. Because they are drawn to their nature. Lust to lust, sloth to sloth. They can be trapped, but the journal ends and we don’t know how the Unknown Martyr and his fellow soldiers did it. We only know that they succeeded, and then they died.”

  Anthony was solemn. “We have no choice.”

  “You can find another way. It will take time t
o find all Seven. But first we trap the Sin that is in Santa Louisa. It is imperative we know which of them we are dealing with.”

  “Why?”

  “Virtue traps Sin.”

  Anthony frowned, then realized what Father was saying. “We can trap them with a vessel that negates them.”

  “Yes. I believe that is what this means. I’ve read the entire journal. The language is archaic, but based on the facts I believe the Martyrs trapped them one by one in different pure vessels. It is with the last that they encountered death.”

  “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction,” Anthony mumbled. “For lust, chastity would keep it inert. For pride, humility.”

  “Yes. What sin is out there now? What are we fighting?”

  Anthony paced again, this time in contemplation.

  “The bodies I saw in the morgue. The ones with the demon’s mark. A woman who couldn’t have children pushed a pregnant woman down a flight of stairs. A man who had been passed over for a promotion killed the woman who was promoted in his place. But what of the basketball player who died of an aneurysm? He had the same mark, yet he hurt no one.”

  “Perhaps he was battling the Sin internally.” Anthony stopped pacing. “So we either kill or die?”

  “When touched by one of the Seven Deadly Sins, our own conscience becomes twisted. We act on our impulses, we take what we want, do what we want; we have no barrier, no standard of right and wrong. If someone covets his neighbor’s ox, he takes the ox.”

  “Covets—envy.” Anthony knew it as soon as he said it. “Envy is in town. How do we trap it?”

  “Envy is the first sin, the original sin. The serpent lured Eve to taste the forbidden fruit, to eat from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. He was envious of God’s newest creation, human beings. Humans who had free will. Humans who were favored. He couldn’t have what they had, so he took Paradise away from them.” Anthony frowned. “What object can contain Envy?”

  “A tabernacle,” Father responded solemnly. “But how do we trap Envy inside it? We can’t summon it without drawing on the evil we are trying to stop.” Then the solution came to Anthony. “So we have to find where Envy is most likely to be lured, and set the trap there.”