“Santa Louisa,” she whispered in the dark. The town wasn’t far from the mission massacre Father Philip had told her about. She realized now that she should have headed here directly after that phone conversation. If only she’d known the mountains in eastern Santa Louisa were a mere thirty miles from the Pacific Ocean!
She’d arrived in the picturesque central California town nearly a week ago, remaining after sensing this was the right place. Her research and her finely tuned instincts told her the gateway to Hell was here in Santa Louisa.
On the Internet message board she frequented that discussed supernatural phenomena, she’d encountered a teenager who described cliffs in the area that seemed strikingly similar to those in her vision. He’d been concerned because a mysterious fire had destroyed a local house and there’d been other odd occurances. His name was Jared Santos and everything he told her confirmed that these were the cliffs of her vision. She’d immediately headed to Santa Louisa.
The cliffs—the ruins of the destroyed house—terrified Moira even in daylight. Frightening images and thoughts flooded her mind whenever she went near the place.
She’d stood where evil radiated from the ground like heat from a furnace set on high.
Evil surrounded her. Evil didn’t float in the air, it was the air. The earth didn’t smell like earth, it reeked of the dead, of terror, of lost souls clawing through moldy dirt, desperate to escape their fate. She’d passed dead birds, rodents, a mutilated dog as she neared the center of the ruins on the cliffs. Her heart strained, told her to leave, but she looked down, and for a second that seemed to last forever, Moira saw a river of fire beneath the surface. She felt the heat rising. The soles of her feet burning, she ran.
That first night, in the dark, she’d hid among the cypress, waiting, the fear gnawing at her. She’d forced herself to stay, hoping—and fearing—her mother would appear.
Fiona hadn’t come. No one had. The following day, Moira had contacted Father Philip and told him what she’d learned. About the fire and the two deaths inside the house. That the house had been completely destroyed was frightening enough. Worse, Moira knew that portals like this could be opened only through human sacrifice.
Father asked her to stay on site and watch, to be diligent, and she had been. Or so she’d thought.
Fiona spoke, surrounded by energy so evil Moira began to shake. She could see nothing else, nothing but her mother’s flaming red hair, everything obscured by a smoky curtain that Moira couldn’t penetrate. Dark shapes took form within the curtain, whether human or demon she didn’t know. The gates of hell were open and Moira was too late.
Dammit, no! She couldn’t be too late. Father was certain Fiona wouldn’t act until the first of February, when the worlds were naturally closer. Moira had agreed, but they were wrong. It was happening now. How could she face her mother and whatever evil she had summoned and defeat it? Alone?
Yet how could she not?
She sensed beyond a shadow of a doubt that right now—at this very moment—Fiona was on those cliffs finishing what she’d started more than two months before. Two months? Fiona had been seeking immortality her entire forty-eight years, continuing the journey that started with the first covens assembled in ancient times. But Fiona was the first witch to come this close.
“Shit,” Moira muttered, “that’s going to go straight to her head.” She couldn’t let her succeed.
She slid from between the worn sheets, clothed in a blue T-shirt and black panties. She switched on the desk lamp, pulled on her jeans, then tossed her sweat-soaked T-shirt into a plastic bag.
How the fuck was she going to stop her mother? She had no backup, few tools, and too little information to go head to head against Fiona. Father Philip hadn’t figured out what the gateway would bring forth, and without that knowledge Moira might as well be sprinkling holy water on Satan himself. A mere sizzle within an apocalyptic inferno.
She couldn’t let Fiona go through with the ritual. It would end in murder. It always did.
The mark on her neck burned.
Moira snapped on a bra and pulled a black turtleneck over her head, then slid into the custom-made leather jacket Rico had given her. With special pockets for special things.
“I’m not a hunter,” she’d told him, holding the jacket as if it were on fire.
“No, you’re a huntress,” her trainer said. Rico pushed her chin up. “Despero caveat, mei amica. Despair lets them in. Despair means no hope, and there’s always hope.”
Anger fueled her fear, both volatile emotions that could be used against her. She didn’t know how to control them. That lack of control had screwed her big-time in the past, often enough to force her to pause now and breathe deeply. She remembered that there was more at stake tonight than her life.
If she failed, the covens would grow even stronger, more powerful, aided by demons at their side. St. Michael’s Order would be in great peril. One by one, Peter’s brothers-in-arms would die. Horribly. Violently. Painfully.
Move it, Moira. Stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself.
She grabbed her bag and opened the door.
Outside something—someone—moved.
She quickly stepped back into the shadows of her room as she sensed before she saw a person approaching through the dense fog. Her knife was in her hand before she knew it, sweat on her brow. Though she’d yet to do it alone, she knew how to stop a demon. It was extremely difficult outside of a controlled environment—like the monastery—to banish the demon and not kill the human being it possessed. And even then, survival of the victim or the exorcist was not assured. She wanted no more deaths on her conscience.
There was only so much that intensive training could do, even with Rico—the best instructor the Order had—in her corner. Experience trumped the classroom every time. But she had no choice at this point. Fiona was here because Moira had made a deadly mistake. A mistake she couldn’t make again.
She recognized the visitor. Jared Santos, eighteen, her sole friend in this country.
Shocked, Jared’s dark eyes went to her knife and she quickly pocketed it. “I didn’t know who you were.”
“So you pull a knife? This is Santa Louisa, not Detroit.”
She ignored his comment. He still didn’t understand what they were up against, but she’d needed someone who knew the locals and the area. Jared had been her lifeline for the last week, providing her with information and transportation. He didn’t completely believe what she told him, but he’d seen and heard enough that he hadn’t turned her in to the police. And considering his father was a deputy sheriff, that was a real good thing.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “You’re supposed to be watching Lily.”
“She’s gone.”
Moira’s nagging fear deepened. She knew where the girl had gone, but she didn’t know why. She had come to Santa Louisa because Jared had told her on the message board about several odd incidents he and his girlfriend Lily had uncovered about her cousin Abby’s new group of friends. The fire on the cliffs—occurring the same night as her vision more than two months before—sealed the deal. Everything Moira heard was stamped with the M.O. of an actively recruiting coven. That Abby had been overweight until recently and had few friends, outside of Lily, was another big flashing neon sign warning Moira.
“We have to find her. When did she leave? Why did you let her go?”
Jared began, “I didn’t—”
“I told you what was at stake!”
He ran his hands through his short buzzcut, a pained expression on his face. “I don’t know what happened.”
“You fell asleep.” Geez. She shouldn’t have trusted him.
“I don’t know. I—I didn’t mean to. My head’s foggy; I guess I haven’t been sleeping so good lately.”
Fiona or one of her minions must have cast a spell over Jared. Or drugged him. Something had enabled Lily to slip away. The girl was crazy, that’s all there was to it. Moira had told her w
hat Abby and the others were up to, but Lily didn’t believe her. “I know it’s not safe, but—”
“There are no ‘buts,’ Lily! They are not playing games. They are deadly serious, and outsiders are not invited into their coven for a cup of tea. They are invited to be sacrificed.”
She’d gone too far revealing that detail. No one believed in human sacrifices because the evidence disappeared. Just because there were no publicly recorded cases of human sacrifices in America, that sure didn’t mean they didn’t happen. Moira knew for a fact they did.
“She promised she would tell me before she went to the meeting,” Jared insisted. “I don’t understand why—”
“We haven’t time.” Moira cut him off and pushed him out the door, rolling her eyes, having no patience for the kid’s excuses. Meeting. Nice way to sugarcoat deadly occult rituals.
She spotted Jared’s black truck parked at the end of the front row. She started to run. “Let’s go. The cliffs.”
“Is Lily really in danger?”
“Yes.”
“But—”
She abruptly turned around and he stumbled to avoid running into her. “You told me about the fire,” she said with frightening vehemence. “About the dead animals near the cliffs, Lily’s cousin Abby and all the weird things you saw. Everything matches what I know about these rituals. It’s the timing I don’t understand, but I do know we have to go right now.”
Moira didn’t give him time to answer or argue. She ran around to the passenger side and hopped into the truck. He quickly followed and headed for the cliffs.
During the ten-mile drive, she called Father Philip. When he came to the phone, he sounded extremely worried. She hated that she’d caused him to fear for her safety.
“Moira, where are you? You haven’t called in three days. I was worried.”
“I’m still in Santa Louisa.”
“I’m checking out one more thing; then I hope to know more.” She hoped to still be alive. She very much wanted to be wrong about tonight.
“Have you seen Anthony?”
Her hand tightened on the phone at the mention of the name. Father Philip had told her the demonologist was in town, but because they both thought there was time, they hadn’t contacted him. Not that Moira would. Anthony despised her because of what had happened to Peter. He blamed her, even more than she blamed herself.
“No. I told you—”
“I should have called him when you arrived,” Father Philip said.
“So he could get himself killed?”
“He’s much stronger than he was seven years ago.”
“He’s not a hunter,” she protested.
“He’s gifted in other ways.”
“He hates my guts.”
“He hates no one.”
Father didn’t know what he was saying. “I can’t risk him, too.” Her voice cracked. Damn, she didn’t even like Anthony—the man Peter had called brother—and she had to worry about him now.
“Anthony is a grown man. He’s faced his own battles, and survived.”
Father Philip believed in forgiveness; Anthony did not. But Moira couldn’t tell Father that. He wouldn’t believe it, or if he did, it would hurt him. And he was the last person on the planet Moira wanted to hurt.
“You are certain about the gateway,” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
“Don’t go back.”
“I have to. There’s a coven in town; all the signs are here. If this is Fiona—I have to stop her.”
Father Philip said, “I’ll call Anthony.”
“No!”
“Moira, child, you can’t do this alone.”
“He’s not going to help me.”
“Yes, he will. You need to have faith and trust, Moira.”
“And a little bit of pixie dust?”
“Excuse me?”
“A joke.” If she didn’t laugh, she was going to fall apart.
“I’ll call Anthony and be mediator. You need to explain your visions. Don’t go to the site again until you have backup.”
“Too late, Father. I’m on my way. Something’s happening right now.”
“Moira—”
“I’ll be careful.” She hung up.
“Maybe,” Jared said as he drove too damn slowly, too damn cautiously, through the thickening fog, “I should call my father—”
“Sure. Call him. Tell him you’re working with Moira O’Donnell, P.I., as in Paranormal Investigations. That you contacted me to check out supernatural phenomena in the area and oh, by the way, there’s a coven of witches on the cliffs about to open a big-ass gateway to Hell and release Lord knows what demonic forces into the world.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic.”
“I’m not. If you want to call him, fine, but you’re already risking your life to help your girlfriend. I don’t know what we’re facing, and if you want to get out now, fine by me.” She didn’t want him to leave her alone, even though he didn’t know what he was doing. But she didn’t want to risk his life, either.
“I love her,” he said. He didn’t make a move, either to leave her by the side of the road or to make a call. Love Moira understood. It made you do stupid things and it hurt worse than a knife to the gut.
She wished she had someone to back her up other than a testosterone-fueled teenager playing Romeo to Lily’s Juliet. At least she had a getaway driver. And Father Philip would call Anthony. She knew that as certainly as she knew the sun would rise in a few hours. Whether she lived to see the next day was another story.
“Step on it, Jared. We might already be too late.” None of Moira’s visions had been about a future event, but Fiona was still around. Rituals took time, especially with Fiona, who liked all the bells and whistles, especially with complex rituals. Moira knew this was a big one. If she cut off the head of the coven, the rest would scatter, and hopefully whatever evil they’d summoned would turn on them.
A confrontation with her mother would likely kill Moira, but she also knew that if she didn’t stop her, Fiona would destroy innocent people in far more painful ways. It was now or never.
On the horizon, in the direction they were headed, lightning slashed the fog. It was too close to the ground. Rivers of bright lava crossed the road in front of them. Above them, a fluttering of bats … but they weren’t bats. They were an “it,” one large dark cloud with mass, with volume, evil to its core.
She screamed and Jared jumped.
The fires were gone, but she’d seen them. She’d seen them. Hadn’t she? Was she losing her mind?
“What the fuck? You scared the he—”
“Didn’t you see it? The fire? The … dark cloud?”
He frowned. “I—it was just birds. It’s the middle of the night; they got startled or something.”
“Denial will get you killed.”
“What do you think that was?”
She swallowed. She didn’t know, but whatever it was, it wasn’t supposed to be here. “Hell on earth,” she whispered. Then, more urgently, she said, “Go faster, Jared.”
THREE
Lonely is the night when you find yourself alone
Your demons come to light and your mind is not your own
—BILLY SQUIRE, “Lonely Is the Night”
“Dear God, why are you doing this to me?”
Biting back a curse, Rafe Cooper stumbled along the rocky cliffs that, to him, marked the edge of the world. It was a long, long way from his youthful island home in the blissful isolation of Sicily’s St. Michael’s.
Earlier tonight, he’d been in a hospital bed. He’d opened his eyes with the overwhelming, undeniable compulsion to leave. How he got from there to here he didn’t know, only snippets of his two-hour journey remaining.
When he tried to think—to remember—knifelike pain sliced through his head, lights and shadows exploding, and he had to stop until the intensity subsided.
He knew who he was—Raphael Cooper—and he knew why he’d be
en in the hospital—the attack at the mission. He’d been the sole survivor. Uninjured while the others had been butchered. Comatose, according to the doctors, but that couldn’t be right. He’d been unable to see or speak, but he heard everything. He heard far too much, so why couldn’t he remember now?
Again, pain sliced through his skull as he tried to recall what had happened during the months he’d been in the hospital.
A grove of cypress trees provided a canopy and a place of rest. He sat on a lightning-split trunk and let out a long breath. Every limb shook, his feet were numb, and his mind raced faster than he could think. He didn’t know why he’d come here, why he was compelled as if he had no control over his actions.
A car was parked on the north side of the cypress grove, but no one was inside. The tick-tick of the engine told him that someone had stopped here recently, and he looked around, confused and curious. He seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, but he wasn’t alone.
South of the grove he saw light within the thickening fog. Flickering light, from candles, a mere football-field length from him. Shadows of people—a dozen or more blurry figures—moved within the fog, among the flames. Fear clawed at the base of his skull; his blood alternated between hot and icy cold. Something evil was at hand.
How do you know that?
He considered, and shards of pain stabbed his head again, blinding him, bringing him to his knees in supplication, until his mind again went blank. He screamed, but no sound came from his lungs.
He refocused on the scene, the still, low fog casting an ethereal glow in the vicinity.
Be quiet, be very quiet, don’t think, don’t think a word …
Salt air rising from the inky depths of the ocean mingled with the pungent fragrance of myrrh and musk and other scents he couldn’t identify. The candle-holding figures wore white, their gowns shimmering in the quickly disappearing moonlight.
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