Original Sin

by Allison Brennan

  “It’s okay,” she said, reassuring both him and herself.

  “She’s dead,” he repeated. He sipped the water, then coughed.

  “Yes, Abby died,” Moira said. “Abby was also there. But you saved Lily. The girl in the white gown. She’s alive and well and safe.” At least she hoped Anthony had been able to find and protect her.

  As Rafe remembered the night before, relief crossed his face. “Lily?” he asked. He sipped more water, then drank fully.

  “I need to get you out of here,” she said.

  “No. No. Give me a minute.”

  “Excuse me, but you look like death warmed over. Anthony has a place for you—”

  “Anthony. He’s here.” A statement, not a question.

  “Has been the whole time. Raphael, I’m—”

  “Rafe. My friends call me Rafe.”

  “I’m Moira.”

  “Moi-rah,” he whispered, smiling. He pronounced her name right, and she liked the way he said it.

  He took a deep breath and straightened his legs, leaning against the wall. “Thank you.” He finished the water. “I’m not usually this out of sorts.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “I think I can forgive you, considering.”

  “Considering.” He gave her a half-smile. “I’m getting my strength back.”

  “A miracle,” she said, not realizing until the words were out that she sounded sarcastic.

  “You don’t believe in miracles.”

  “Sure I do. I just haven’t seen any lately.”

  He looked beyond her, at what she didn’t want to think about. He was a seminarian; of course he had stronger faith than she did. So had Peter, and look where it got him.

  He shook his head. “I didn’t stop them. They’re out there. They’re everywhere …”

  Moira wasn’t certain whether he was talking about the demons or Fiona’s coven.

  “We’ll get them back.”

  “Oo’la te-ellan l’niss-yoona: il-la paç-çan min beesha.”

  Moira wasn’t sure what language he was speaking, but it sounded familiar. “What did you say?”

  He stared at her. “Aramaic.” That didn’t answer her question, but he continued, frowning. “The Conoscenza was stolen. My fault.”

  Moira sat next to him in the dark, dank cabin, her back against the wall, facing the door. Though he’d lost too much weight since he’d had his picture taken for the paper, he was a tall man, with broad shoulders. She felt small sitting next to him, even though she wasn’t short.

  He touched her shoulder, her damp hair, and said, “You seem … familiar.”

  He was changing the subject. For now, she could play along, but Rafe would need to answer the hard questions. “I lived at St. Michael’s seven years ago,” she told him.

  He shook his head. “I left twelve years ago and never returned.”

  “Never?”

  He finished the water and put the bottle next to him, his index finger fingering the top. “I’ve had some things to work out. It took longer than I thought.”

  She shifted uncomfortably. The way Rafe spoke, the way he looked off but didn’t see anything in front of him—it made her think he was listening to something else, seeing something that wasn’t there.

  The rain pounded on the roof; the wind rattled the sides of the cabin. The weather was getting worse. “We have to leave,” she said. “There’s a lot to do.”

  “Do?”

  “To stop Fiona.” Rafe closed his eyes. Damn, she needed a little help getting him to the truck. “Rafe—please, the high priestess of the coven is furious with you.”

  “She’s mortal. There are seven demons out there. Immortal, powerful demons.”

  “What do you know about the Seven?”

  She didn’t want to go back into the foul weather, but she didn’t want to stay here, either, and listen to someone who sounded far too much like Peter. It made her extremely uncomfortable.

  Rafe said, “The fallen angels were banished to the underworld for disobedience and pride. They envied God; they envied humans. They hated us because we were chosen, yet we were corporeal. Not spirits. They wanted everything, to be favored, to be chosen.

  “As there is a hierarchy of angels, there is a hierarchy of demons. The Seven have been around since the first angels. They know everything there is to know about Heaven and Hell. They know everything there is to know about human beings, intimate knowledge of our weaknesses. Our foolishness. Our desires and our fears. They have control over their spirit. They don’t need to possess a human body, though they can when it suits them. Instead, they roam free, feeding on sin. They strip out our God-given conscience and feed on our darkest desires. Lust becomes uncontrollable, and in our need they feed. Greed turns insatiable, and they feed. They will never be satisfied, they seek more … more sex, more money, more food, more time. They become stronger, more destructive, deadlier, as they spread their virus. They’re like legendary vampires, but instead of sucking blood they crave our greatest weaknesses, drawing them to the surface, pushing us to act on sins that hurt not only us, but others. And the more we give in, the more we want. The more we need.”

  Moira listened, captivated, amazed that Rafe Cooper, who seemed so fragile a moment ago, was speaking so clearly, so firmly. It scared her. His understanding of these demons was uncommon; even Anthony hadn’t figured it all out yet. How had Rafe picked up on the demons’ nature so quickly?

  She swallowed and inched away from him just a fraction. Saw his water bottle. An idea came to her. She was being foolish … but as Rico always told her:

  First, stay alive.

  “They are out there,” Rafe continued, almost in a trance. “Spreading iniquity. Drawing out our sins. They’ll go where they are coveted. We are up against not only evil itself, but the evil within us. How can we run from ourselves?”

  Moira handed Rafe a half-filled water bottle. Her hand was shaking. She willed it to stop, but it didn’t.

  He looked at her. “You’re different,” he said, and she didn’t know whether that was good or bad. He took the water bottle and drank.

  Swallowed.

  “Okay, I’m ready,” he said. “I might need a little help.”

  She let out a slow sigh of relief. The holy water she’d poured into the plastic bottle went into Rafe smoothly. He wasn’t possessed. He wasn’t being controlled by a demon. He was human, fully human, and she almost cried with relief.

  She was losing it. Lack of sleep, the attack by her mother, seeing Anthony, remembering Peter.

  “Moira.”

  Rafe touched her chin and she looked at him in the dim light.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “I’m not.”

  He brushed his thumb against her cheek. “Yes, you are.”

  She cleared her throat. “It’s from the rain.”

  He looked at her, didn’t believe her; she didn’t expect him to.

  “You’re shaking.” He ran his hand up her sleeve.

  “And wet. You came through the storm to find me. How?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “I don’t believe in luck,” he said. “Divine intervention.”

  “Don’t start down that path, Rafe,” she whispered.

  He rubbed her arms, put his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close to him. Her heart was racing. Why was she nervous around him? He wasn’t possessed, he wasn’t a spirit; he was unusual, and strange, but he was a person. A man.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  “I’m in your hands.”

  Something shifted painfully inside her. Moira had always been a loner, especially after Peter died. But just lately, people were depending on her. Jared. Lily. And now Rafe Cooper.

  She didn’t want the responsibility. All Moira wanted was to stop her mother.

  She pulled away from Rafe and stood, holding out her hand. He looked at it for a moment, then grasped it with a strength that surprised her given his ill appearance. She p
ulled him up; her workouts with Rico and her daily exercises kept her fit. But suddenly Rafe towered over her and she took a step back, startled.

  Then he staggered, dizzy, and she caught him.

  “Let’s go slowly,” she said.

  She eased Rafe out of the cabin, into the dark, misty rain, and down the unpaved road to the truck. By the time she got him into the passenger seat, Rafe was weakening, and once again in pain. She didn’t want to take him to the hospital, but if he was in serious distress she didn’t think she’d have a choice.

  She hopped into the driver’s seat and said, “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

  “I’m not sure about anything, but I can’t go back to the hospital. I wasn’t in a coma, but I wasn’t awake either. I don’t know what they were doing to me, but something … I just …” He stopped, looked at her, and Moira felt the anguish and confusion rolling off him.

  “It’s okay.” She reached for him, held his hand and squeezed. “I have a safe place.”

  He stared at her, his dark eyes troubled, fathomless. “There’s no place safe enough for either of us. But if we go back to the hospital, they’ll kill me.”

  They won the game, no thanks to Chris.

  “Don’t sweat it, you had a bad day. It happens to all of us.” Travis slapped Chris on the back as they boarded the bus back to school. “You’ll be on your game next week.”

  Chris shrugged off his friend’s comments. Bad days didn’t happen to Travis Ehrlich. He was perfect, he had everything, he had the scholarship to UCLA and was MVP and scored twenty-fucking-eight points—including six three-pointers—in the game.

  “Let’s hang at my place,” Travis said. “My mom’s working late; we’ll have the place to ourselves. ’Kay?”

  “Whatever.” Chris didn’t want to look at Travis, let alone spend any time with him. He took a seat in the back of the bus and sulked while Travis took kudos from the coach and the rest of the team.

  After the bus started down the dark highway, Coach sat across from Chris. “Listen, Kidd, you screwed up but I know you’re better than this. Get your head together and we’ll work one-on-one tomorrow after practice.” He slapped him on the shoulder, then went back to the front of the bus.

  It was obvious to Chris that Coach was simply placating him. Coach could care less about Chris and his future. It was all Travis all the time. The Santa Louisa Star Player, the Local Boy Done Good. Asshole. Prick.

  Why did Travis have all the talent? Because he was black, that’s why. God gave black guys all the moves. It had nothing to do with working harder, practicing, it was because they were born black and sports just came easier to them. Chris had to work his ass off for every point, every ounce of sweat. That should matter, dammit, it should mean something, but it fucking meant nothing, and Travis just walked into being the MVP and scholarships because of randomness.

  Forty minutes later, the bus pulled into the school parking lot and everyone got out, unusually quiet after a win. As they were gathering their gear from the undercarriage storage, Chris overheard Coach tell Travis, “You’re Kidd’s buddy, see what you can do with him.”

  Can do with him? Right.

  Travis came over to Chris, his duffel tossed over his shoulder. He handed Chris his bag. “My place?”

  Chris stared at the bag. What the fuck was wrong with him? Travis was his best friend; they’d been buddies since Travis moved up from L.A. six years ago after his dad died. His dad had been a beat cop, killed by gangbangers as part of a ritual stunt. Travis wanted to be a cop; his basketball scholarship was his ticket to college because his mom couldn’t afford to send him.

  And Chris wanted to kill him. His hands itched to punch Travis’s face, to beat him to death. His anger and jealously surged, and Chris shook his head, trying to rid his mind of the violent image.

  No!

  Excruciating, blinding pain hit Chris all at once. It was as if a knife were slowing carving his scalp from his skull, and he fell to his knees, his hands holding his head.

  “Chris? Coach! Coach! Chris is bleeding!”

  Chris didn’t hear anything but the drumbeat in his brain. His hands were sticky and he was choking on something. But the foul, metallic taste was nothing compared to the numbing pain.

  He mumbled something, over and over, but didn’t know if his brain translated it to his mouth.

  Sorry, Travis, I’m sorry, I’m sorry …

  Coach ran over, knelt beside him. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know! He just fell over. Why are his ears bleeding? What’s happening?”

  “Chris, can you hear me?” Coach shouted.

  Make the pain stop. I’m sorry, Travis, I’m so sorry, I would never hurt you, buddy, oh God, oh God, the pain, make it stop!

  Travis knelt beside him, took his hand. “Hold on, Chris.”

  “Sorry sorry sorry.”

  “Call 911,” Coach said as he took off his jacket and stuffed it under Chris’s head. He pulled off his T-shirt and wrapped it around Chris’s ears and skull, tightening it, and applied pressure as Travis dialed 911.

  The last thing Chris heard before he lost consciousness was Travis on the phone. “I need an ambulance at Santa Louisa High School. My buddy is bleeding a lot. Coach—”

  Coach took the phone, but Chris didn’t hear what he said.

  He died in the ambulance.

  EIGHTEEN

  And it’s never pretty when somebody’s dream dies

  But those are the rules in a mean little town

  —HOWLING DIABLOS, “Mean Little Town”

  At 1830 hours, a 911 call of shots fired came in from Rittenhouse Furniture Emporium. Now, thirty-three minutes later, Skye commanded the crime scene from a makeshift staging area, the beams from several squad cars lighting up the parking lot. Inside the store, an employee held several hostages at gunpoint.

  Skye listened in as Deputy David Collins talked on his phone to a victim, the manager Grace Chin, who was hiding in a bathroom stall and had had the wherewithal to call out using her cell phone.

  The situation was grim. Grace was trapped in the bathroom with no way out except the door that led to the shooter, whom she identified as Ned Nichols, a longtime salesman for Rittenhouse. He’d shot three people and was holding hostage a customer, Ashley Beecher McCracken.

  Skye knew Nichols. Though he was two years older, she remembered him from school. In a town like Santa Louisa, you knew pretty much everyone who grew up here. She’d already sent another cop in search of everything they could get on Nichols, starting with his cell phone number, because he wasn’t answering the Rittenhouse telephone line.

  A deputy came up and handed Skye the blueprints of the building. “The owner, Rittenhouse, just arrived with these. He wants to know what’s happening.”

  Skye put her hand over her phone. “I’ll talk to him when I can.”

  “What do you want me to say? His sister-in-law was shot.”

  His sister-in-law was Betsy Rittenhouse, who’d been shot in the leg as she fled the building. She was on her way to the hospital.

  “Tell him there’s one confirmed gunman inside, with hostages. That’s it.”

  “Got it,” he said, and left.

  She spread out the blueprints, and she and David studied them under a bright portable light. There were three offices on the east side of the building, the break room in the rear, what looked like a large janitor’s closet that had access to the electrical room, and a large L-shaped showroom that took up more than 80 percent of the square footage. She tapped her finger on the women’s bathroom next to the break room.

  “You’re in the women’s room?” David clarified over the phone.

  “Y-Yes,” Grace said.

  “Where do you think Nichols is now?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know!”

  “Can you hear anything?”

  She didn’t say anything for a long moment.

  “He’s talking,” she said. “Ranting about
something; I can’t hear the words. Ashley’s crying. I think they’re just outside the offices.”

  Nichols had shut down the overhead lighting, but dim lights from the back of the building, near the offices, illuminated the interior well enough.

  As David continued to extract information from the victim, Skye finally received the information she needed: Nichols’s cell phone number.

  She showed David and put a finger to her lips. David told Grace that he was still there, but they had to be silent for a minute.

  “You ready?” David asked her.

  “Yeah.” No, but she had no choice. She called Nichols.

  Four rings later, his voicemail picked up. His recorded voice sounded normal and calm, not the voice of a killer.

  She said, “Hi, Ned, this is Skye McPherson. Remember me from high school? I’m now Sheriff McPherson, and we need to talk.” She left her number and hung up. Then she called again. Again it went to voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message. Waited a moment. Called a third time.

  It took sixteen calls before Nichols picked up.

  “No!” he shouted into the phone. “I’m not talking to you, stop calling me!”

  “Ned, it’s Skye McPherson.”

  “I don’t care, I’m through with everyone. It’s not fair!”

  “What’s not fair, Ned?”

  “Everything. Deric doesn’t deserve the sales; he did nothing that I couldn’t have done! It’s random, all random, all a game; it’s not fair, I’m good enough.”

  “Of course you’re good enough, Ned. Let’s talk about this. If you come out now, you and I can talk. Just the two of us. You can tell me everything.”

  David was nodding at her, making the hand motion to keep talking.

  “Ned, I know you don’t want to hurt anyone. Let’s talk this out, and—”

  Nichols cut her off. “You know why she got the promotion? Do you know why?”

  She? He wasn’t talking about Deric anymore. Skye needed to keep him talking, so asked, “Why?”

  “Because she fucked him. I should have gotten the promotion, but she’s a little whore; it’s the only way she could have gotten the job that was mine!”