Original Sin

by Allison Brennan

  “Describe the stranger,” Moira said, then added, “please.”

  “He was wearing green hospital scrubs—you know, like what surgeons wear, or orderlies. He looked sick—pale. Dark hair. Black or dark brown. His eyes—I don’t know, they were … honest. Very—I can’t explain it, but when he told me to run, I ran. I trusted him. He stopped them, stopped them from killing me. But he was too late for Abby.” She was crying now, and Jared pulled her to his chest, rocking her.

  Moira pulled out her iPhone and brought up the Santa Louisa newspaper. Her conversation with Father Philip had been running through her head, and then what Fiona had said in the jail—she knew something that they didn’t know, and Moira thought she’d figured out exactly what it was.

  She retrieved articles about Santa Louisa de los Padres Mission. Skimmed them. Anthony Zaccardi, historical architect rebuilding … the fire … the murders …

  Jared said, “What are you doing?”

  “I have an idea about who that man was, I’m trying to find a picture.”

  Moira touched article after article on the small screen until she found what she was looking for.

  Raphael Cooper, psychologist and seminarian from St. John’s in Menlo Park, was assigned by the Vatican to Santa Louisa de los Padres Mission four months prior to the murders. A spokesman for the Vatican, Samuel Cardinal Benvenuti, declined to comment, releasing a written statement that briefly said, “The prayers of the Holy See are with the victims of this unconscionable attack, and with Mr. Cooper for a full recovery.” A spokesman from St. John’s Seminary said only that Cooper was abandoned by his parents as a young child and raised in an orphanage. He became a naturalized American citizen when he arrived in California twelve years ago.

  An orphan? Friends with Anthony? He was one of them, Moira was certain—like Peter and Anthony and Rico and others, left on the doorstep of St. Michael’s.

  A photo—tagged as from St. John’s Seminary five years earlier—showed Raphael Cooper in his late twenties. His dark hair was short and conservative; his eyes at first glance looked black, but Moira realized they were dark blue. He was handsome, broad-shouldered, with a strong, square jaw. On his neck was an inch-long scar. Pure Irish oozed from every pore. How had an Irish baby ended up at St. Michael’s? Moira knew not all of the infants left were Italian, but most of them were.

  She skimmed the article. Cooper was thirty-two. Peter would have been thirty-two had he lived. Cooper hadn’t been at St. Michael’s during the time Moira lived there, but Peter must have known him.

  “Is this the man?” She showed Lily the picture.

  Lily nodded. “Yes—but his hair is longer and he’s lost weight. He has that scar, right there, on his neck.”

  “And he just told you to run and he stayed behind?”

  “I thought he followed me, but then there was an earthquake, and the screams—nothing I’ve heard before.”

  “Fuck!”

  Lily jumped at Moira’s language and Moira bit back the stream of profanity she wanted to spew. She’d bet her life that the screams were the demons’ call. When two or more demons were together, fighting being controlled by the witches who summoned them, they screamed a cackle unheard by most people.

  “Did it sound like laughter?”

  “No—well, maybe. Sick laughter. Like they were crazy.”

  “They’re demons.”

  Lily was shaking and Jared held her close, glaring at Moira. “I thought you could help. All you’re doing is hurting her.”

  “No,” Lily said quietly. “She is helping.”

  Lily stared at Moira with wide eyes. “They called me the arca, Abby the key. She never wanted to die. She wanted to live forever. She wanted—”

  “Live forever?” Moira asked. “Damn, damn, damn!”

  “What—” Jared began.

  Moira cut him off. “Stay here. Do not call anyone. Do not leave this room. I have a stash of food and water. When I leave, seal the door with salt.” She tossed a bag of special salts at Jared; he caught it. “I don’t care who it is, do not let anyone in no matter what they say.”

  She stuffed equipment in her backpack. Salt. Her backup knife—the sheriff hadn’t returned hers because it was a weapon—her cross, and holy water, and she pulled on her leather jacket.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Not to sleep,” she mumbled. “I have to find Rafe Cooper.”

  “Not alone,” Jared said.

  “Of course alone,” she snapped. “Lily has to be protected, and you’d damn well better do a better job of it this time. Lily, you said your minister was there. One of them.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Garrett Pennington. From Good Shepherd Church.”

  “Catholic?” Moira wouldn’t be surprised. The best—and the worst—in this battle were in the Church.

  She shook her head. “Just, you know, regular Christian.”

  “When did Pennington open his church?”

  “He took over for Pastor Matthew at the end of the summer. His mother got very sick and he wanted to be with her. I miss him—I really liked him, though my mom didn’t. She adores Pastor Garrett, and I liked him too, until … “

  “He’s no man of God.” Moira didn’t know if there were any left, but she didn’t say that. “What about your parents?”

  “It’s just my mom. She thinks Pas—um, Mr. Pennington walks on water. Sunday services went from less than fifty of us to over three hundred. He’s a great speaker.”

  If Ms. Ellis had been sucked in by the witch, then Moira couldn’t let Lily go home. She could very well be turned over to them, and Ms. Ellis wouldn’t even realize what she was doing to her daughter.

  “Jared, I don’t know why they wanted Lily, but she’s important to them, which means she’s in danger. You can’t let her out of your sight. I have my phone. Call me, text me, do anything—but if she’s in trouble? Get me the message.”

  She reached behind the dresser and pulled out the little .22-caliber Beretta she’d hidden earlier. Some things protected you against demons, but when facing human evil, nothing worked as well as a bullet through the head.

  “We should come with you,” Lily said.

  “No. Can I borrow your truck?”

  Jared tossed her his keys.

  “Thanks. Use the salt. Don’t open the door.”

  She looked from Jared to the teenage girl holding his hand as they sat on the edge of the bed. They both looked so innocent … young … trusting.

  They trusted her. They believed she knew what she was doing, that she could protect them.

  Doubt and fear battled her need to be proactive. She couldn’t be trusted because she didn’t know what the hell she was doing; and as far as protecting them? She couldn’t even protect herself.

  She gave them a half-smile. “If anything happens out of the ordinary—and for some reason you can’t reach me—call Anthony Zaccardi.”

  Jared looked at her quizzically. “The guy rebuilding the mission? Why?”

  “He’s your best shot at staying alive.”

  There was a knock on the door and Moira, right on the other side, jumped and put her hand to her mouth, the other hand on her gun. She motioned for Jared and Lily to stay quiet. She was about to look through the peephole when there was another loud rap.

  “Jared, it’s your father. I know you’re in there; open the door.”

  Moira shook her head and mouthed no.

  Jared looked stricken.

  “Jared, dammit! Open the door or I’ll break it open and arrest you for leaving the scene of a crime after the fact, statutory rape, and anything else I can think of.”

  This was Jared’s father? Moira was inclined to let him break down the door. She felt like shit after the beating Fiona gave her, but she knew some tricks—tricks that had nothing to do with magic—and she didn’t like Hank Santos. She wouldn’t mind practicing on him.

  Except he was a cop, and t
he last thing she wanted was to be trapped in a jail cell again. Next time, Fiona wouldn’t let her survive.

  Jared was torn, but Moira saw in his expression that Deputy Santos would break down the door if she didn’t open it.

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  She stared at the ceiling for a brief moment. She rarely prayed, but she muttered under her breath, “God, this is so not funny.”

  She hid her Beretta and opened the door.

  Deputy Hank Santos was several inches shorter than his tall, lanky son, darker in skin tone, with broad shoulders and a stance that radiated authority. His dark eyes assessed both her and the room quickly, then focused on Jared—who stood behind her—then on Lily, sitting on the bed. Finally, they turned back to Moira where she saw extreme dislike—some might call it hatred—in his expression.

  Fine with her; she didn’t like Hank Santos either, not one little bit.

  “Jared, Lily, come with me.”

  “Dad,” Jared began.

  Hank interrupted. “You’ve greatly embarrassed me. I had a call from another deputy that your truck was here, at this sleazy motel. The manager said you’ve been here a lot lately.” He stared at Moira, looking her up and down in such a vile way that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

  “Don’t make any assumptions,” she said, pissed off.

  He diverted his eyes in disgust. “I know women like you.”

  “You’re out of line, Dad.” Jared stepped forward. Moira glanced over at the young man. She saw strength of character she hadn’t seen in him before, protectiveness and chivalry. She didn’t know why she was surprised, but then realized she hadn’t really considered Jared—or Lily—as people as much as problems.

  “You have a lot of explaining to do, Jared. I’m disappointed in you. Screwing around with women is one thing, you’re eighteen—but dragging your girlfriend into it, sleeping around, lying, sneaking out of the house—I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but your mother is turning over in her grave.”

  The anger and intense pain in Jared’s face had Moira reeling. He had far more depth than she’d given him credit for.

  “Don’t drag Mom into this.”

  “You wouldn’t be behaving like an asshole if she were alive.”

  “Mr. Santos,” Lily began, but the man ignored her.

  Jared reddened and didn’t back down. “This is about you. You bully your way in here, insulting me, my girlfriend, my friend, jumping to conclusions because you have this warped idea that I’ve gone wild since Mom died. This is more about you than it is about me. You feel guilty because you’re dating again—”

  “Do not change the subject and drag Nicole into this,” Santos said. “This is between you and me.”

  “You’ve dragged my girlfriend into it!”

  Santos looked pointedly around the motel room. Moira resisted the urge to wince. It was the type of flea-bag motel that looked the other way when hookers rented a room.

  “And look where I found you.”

  “Don’t change the subject. Mom died of cancer. She was dying for years and I hated every minute because I didn’t want to lose her, but I’ve accepted it. I hated it, but accepted it. And I am the man I am today because she told me to stand strong. I’m not wild, I’m not lying. The least you could do is listen to me!”

  “Listen? You snuck out of the house—”

  “I’m eighteen.”

  “You’re still living under my roof and I demand you respect my authority.”

  “You wouldn’t understand—”

  “I didn’t know where you were last night! It turns out you were at the scene of a crime, left your friend dead! What if you could have saved her?”

  Lily was on the verge of tears as Jared said, “Abby was already dead when Moira and I arrived, and Lily was in trouble.”

  “And you didn’t call the police? Or take Lily to the hospital? The police station?” He stepped over the threshold and Moira twitched. Something had her instincts humming. A demon? Yet he’d crossed the salt line without hesitating or reacting even a bit. He didn’t even notice it. She took a step back, staying farther than arm’s length away from the cop. This situation felt … odd. Over the top. Maybe it was because he seemed so incredibly stubborn, but Moira was used to stubborn. It was more than his attitude. She watched him carefully, trying to keep her hands from shaking.

  She’d never exorcised a demon by herself before. She’d never protected anyone from a demon. And exorcisms were safest under controlled circumstances, with a spirit trap to protect the exorcist and the victim. Here, without a safety net, she’d have to stab the victim with her knife—a very specific, very special knife—and hope she didn’t hit a major artery, hope she didn’t kill the innocent along with vanquishing the demon.

  And even then, there were other concerns … such as whether the demon was strong enough after the ritual to possess someone else. Or strong enough to take its own shape and form.

  “Dad,” Jared said, “Lily just needed a little time before all the ’rents started in on her. I was going to bring her home and then talk to Sheriff McPherson. I promise, just give me an hour.”

  “You missed classes this morning, contributed to Lily’s delinquency. I’m taking Lily home—her mother is frantic—and then you and I will sit down with Sheriff McPherson.”

  Moira couldn’t allow Lily to be alone. Fiona wanted her for a reason. “They can stay here,” Moira offered. “I don’t mind.”

  Deputy Santos looked at her as if she were trash. Moira straightened her spine, but she couldn’t help but feel inferior and defensive under his intense disapproval. “Ms. O’Donnell, you’ve caused enough trouble.”

  “I haven’t done anything!”

  “You have Jared lying to me. You got him involved in God knows what—sex games? Drugs? I don’t know, but Abigail Weatherby is dead and both you and my son were there.”

  Lily spoke, her big brown eyes wide. “Mr. Santos, I was there when Abby died. Jared came later, trying to find me. He had nothing to do with it. It was an awful accident, and—”

  “Lily—” Moira interrupted.

  “Stay out of it or I’ll take you down to the station,” Santos said.

  “I’ll take Lily home,” Moira said, grasping at straws. Someone had to keep an eye out for her.

  “Dad—”

  “Enough!” Santos’s face was getting red. “Jared, Lily, come now or I’ll put you both under arrest.”

  “You can’t—”

  Santos stepped toward Moira. “Don’t talk. Not a word. I heard that something bizarre happened at the station this morning, and it involved you. You have unduly influenced these kids; you are trouble. I don’t know what your game is, but it’s over as far as my son is concerned. One word and you’ll be back in jail in fifteen minutes.”

  “It’s okay, Moira,” Jared said. “I’ll take care of Lily.” He took his girlfriend’s hand.

  It wasn’t okay, but Moira didn’t know what else to do. She couldn’t go back to jail, and if she tried to stop the cop, she had no doubt that he’d arrest her. Either way, Lily would still be home, alone and unprotected. Worse, Santos would find her gun and her knives, and take them. She’d be defenseless again. She couldn’t face Fiona empty-handed—no weapons, no open space, no magic.

  Moira had no choice but to let them go.

  “Now,” Hank said. He stepped through the door and looked up into the gray, overcast sky. The day looked as dreary as Moira’s mood.

  Jared picked Lily up off the bed.

  “I’m sure she can walk,” Hank said.

  “Her feet are cut from running,” Jared said quietly. Moira glanced over; Lily wasn’t wearing any shoes, but had on a pair of Moira’s socks pulled up high. Blood had seeped through the bottom.

  “Be careful,” Moira whispered as Jared passed by her. “Call me if anything happens.”

  Jared whispered, “Take my truck.” He nodded toward the keys still in her hand.

  Hank glanced
over his shoulder, but Moira had already pocketed the keys. “Jared!” Hank barked.

  Moira stared at the back of Hank’s neck. His hair was cut short, a little longer than a buzzcut, and it looked like there was dried blood right above his collar. She almost said something, then he shifted as she realized it wasn’t blood but a birthmark, a port wine stain that was centered at the base of his skull and went beneath his collar.

  She was tired. Exhausted, more like it, seeing things. But she had no time to rest now. Finding Raphael Cooper was number one on her list, then destroying Abby Weatherby’s corpse before Fiona got her hands on it or summoned Abby’s vengeful spirit. She’d have to call Anthony, urge him to find a way to keep an eye on Lily. Surely he could do something, considering he was sleeping with the top cop in town.

  Moira waited until Hank had driven off with Jared and Lily. Then she slipped out and drove Jared’s truck in the opposite direction, toward the cliffs, hoping she could retrace Cooper’s steps and find him before Fiona did.

  Rafe didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, or unconscious. As his eyes slowly opened, he saw shades of light in the dark shadows of the abandoned cabin.

  He was huddled in the corner of the filthy, foul-smelling room, shaking, cold and hungry, unable to move. He tried to stretch his quivering limbs, told himself he had to do it, but his body did not respond, paralyzed. He’d never felt so completely drained that he had no will to do anything. He would certainly die here, for even the thought that he would die if he didn’t leave gave him no strength to stand, or even crawl.

  He’d expended every ounce of his energy in saving the girl and escaping the witches and demons.