Original Sin

by Allison Brennan

  Skye motioned toward the owner, who was sitting in a squad car on the perimeter. David nodded and ran over there to ask what Nichols was talking about.

  Skye said, “That’s not fair. Why don’t you come out so we can talk about this face-to-face?”

  “Did you fuck your way to the top, too?” His voice was taking on a more fevered pitch, and she heard a female crying in the background. Skye didn’t know if he was talking to the hostage or to her.

  “If we—”

  He cut her off. “I did everything right. Everything. I came to work. I was friendly. I talked to everyone. I sold. I sold well, but the fucking luck of the draw and Deric gets the cash cow. He did nothing for it, nothing! I’ve been here for seven years; he’s been here six months. It should be mine!”

  By the changes in his tone, and that she no longer heard crying, Skye realized Nicholas was moving through the building. A door opened. Closed.

  Skye didn’t like how Nichols was switching back and forth between outrages. If he were a bank robber, she could handle him. They wanted to get away, were willing to negotiate to buy time until they realized it was hopeless. If he were a drunk husband, she’d have a chance to talk him down while David’s team got into position. But Ned Nichols sounded totally crazy. To say it was hard to deal with the criminally insane was a huge understatement.

  “What do want, Ned? What can I do for you so that you’ll let those people go?”

  “I want everything to be fair. I want to be manager—I’m better than any of them. I want to be top salesman. I only want what’s right!”

  David ran back to the command center and scrawled:

  Grace Chin was promoted to manager nine months ago. Deric Costigan was hired six months ago, he’s a cousin to the Rittenhouse family and was training to take over the business.

  “I think we can talk about all of that,” Skye said. “You’re right, everything should be fair. How about coming outside, and we’ll talk about how we can make everything fair?” She stared at David and shook her head.

  “No.” Nichols hung up.

  “We have to go in now,” David said. “He’s ready to pop.”

  “I agree. Take the first good shot.”

  He nodded solemnly and handed her the phone.

  Skye put David’s phone to her ear. “Grace? This is Sheriff McPherson. Stay put. We’re on our way in—”

  A door slammed open.

  Grace screamed.

  Gunshots blasted over the receiver, then the phone went dead.

  “Where have you been?” Anthony answered Moira’s call on the first ring.

  “Long story,” she said, not wanting to explain about losing so much time on the cliffs. “I found him. He’s okay. Tired, but okay.” Whether he was truly okay was a matter of internal debate for Moira. She was incredibly worried about Rafe.

  “Where are you now?” Anthony asked.

  “I just pulled into the hotel. Did you get us a room?”

  “It’s under your name. Can you get checked in first? Rafe shouldn’t be in public. People are looking for him.”

  “If Fiona finds him we’re in trouble.”

  “The police have questions and he’s going to have to answer them eventually, but not yet. Not until we know exactly what’s going on.”

  Moira glanced at Rafe, who appeared to be sleeping in the passenger seat, though she didn’t think he was actually asleep. “He thinks someone at the hospital wants to kill him.”

  “Tell him,” Rafe murmured without opening his eyes, “to check into the doctors.”

  “Rafe wants you to check out the doctors at the hospital.”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  Moira said to Rafe, “Anthony wants to talk to you.”

  Rafe sighed, took the phone.

  Moira could hear Anthony’s voice clearly. “Rafe?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Thank God. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Don’t talk to anyone.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Don’t trust Moira. Once a witch, always a witch. You know that.”

  Moira’s eyes stung. Dammit, she would not shed a tear. Why did it bother her so much that Anthony was tainting her reputation with Rafe? Rafe was one of them, one of St. Michael’s Order; most of them hated her anyway. Why shouldn’t Rafe hate her too? It wasn’t as though what Anthony said wasn’t true. She had been a practicing witch, and like an alcoholic she would always be a witch. She could fall off the wagon anytime, anywhere.

  Still holding the phone to his ear, Rafe took Moira’s hand. She whipped her head around, eyes wide, unable to keep the shock from her face. He was staring at her, his eyes so dark blue they looked black. A minute ago he was weak and could barely speak; now he seemed almost radiant with strength, as if it were glowing within and under his pale skin.

  “Anthony, where’s the arca?” Rafe asked.

  “I can’t get to her right now. We have a problem. Her mother is a witch. There were many signs at their house, which is at a crossroads. I don’t know where she’s keeping Lily, but I can’t get inside. She knew who I was.”

  “I can,” Rafe said.

  “No.”

  “I’ll explain when you get here.” He snapped the phone closed before Anthony said anything more. “Anthony is single-minded. Don’t let him hurt you.”

  “He hasn’t.”

  Rafe squeezed her hand so hard it hurt. He glared at her. “Don’t lie to me, Moira. Ever. I have to know that I can trust you always.”

  She didn’t know what to say. “Are you empathic?” she whispered.

  He shook his head, his eyes wet with tears of pain.

  “I need to get you inside,” she said.

  He nodded, his jaw clenched.

  “You need to let go of my hand.” He did, reluctantly. “Stay here, I’ll be right back,” she told him.

  Rafe watched Moira run across the parking lot and into the hotel. Only when she was inside did he breathe easier.

  Once a witch, always a witch.

  Anthony believed in black and white, and Rafe loved him for it. They needed the moral compass that Anthony provided, the depth of knowledge and experience. His concrete faith. But something had happened to Rafe while he was in the hospital; that was the only explanation for what he was feeling, thinking, knowing. Never had he felt so lost or confused.

  He feared he knew more than he should. When he stopped the Seven Deadly Sins from inhabiting the arca, he felt something … a power he couldn’t explain. He knew things he shouldn’t know, that he never remembered learning. He feared he was being used by someone … or something. What if it was witchcraft? What if he was a pawn between warring covens? He’d been out of his mind for more than two months, what if someone else had gotten in?

  The things he remembered from the hospital …

  Pain sliced through his head and all thought disappeared. He lay on the seat of the truck cab, praying to God to take the pain away.

  The door opened. “You’re here.” Moira sounded both irritated and worried, but mostly relieved.

  He instantly felt the pain subside enough that he could think. She was a lifeline. He held up his hand.

  “I thought you’d done a stupid move and left,” she said, helping him from the truck.

  “I need rest.”

  “Glad you’re finally admitting it.” She put his arm around her shoulder, wrapped her right arm around his waist, supported him. She was seven or eight inches shorter than he was, skinny, but solid muscle. “We have a room. I wanted the first floor, but they were all booked. I don’t like it, but we’re on the second floor.”

  “It’s okay for now.”

  Why did he know that? He didn’t want to know the future. Seeking that knowledge was akin to buying a ticket to Hell. He didn’t want the future; he wanted to go back to before the murders, to before he’d fallen prey to seduction, to when he was safe at St. John’s.

  Safe and hiding.

  Hiding from his dreams. His
nightmares. The nightmares that had come long before he arrived at Santa Louisa Mission.

  Hiding from his fate.

  NINETEEN

  Calamities are of two kinds:

  Misfortune to ourselves, and good fortune to others.

  —AMBROSE BIERCE

  Patience had never been her mother’s strong suit.

  Serena tried to ignore Fiona’s pacing in the library, but it had begun to irritate her when Fiona asked, exasperated, “Is it ready?”

  Serena frowned as she added the final ingredient to the glass bowl. She was at a delicate point in the spell; her mind needed to focus, as spells were as much willed as they were created. Fiona had incredible control over external forces, but it was the quiet concentration of spell casting that held true superiority.

  Though some witches preferred wood or stone, Serena liked the conductive force of a perfectly formed, clear, pure glass bowl. Her peculiarities, as Fiona called them, had gained her the respect and awe of many. It was her magic that Fiona used to keep the other covens under her thumb. No one in their world doubted Serena’s ability. She had full command of the tools of her trade. Serena had taken magic to the next level, and beyond—a feat even her mother, on occasion, admired.

  Not that Fiona would admit to anyone that Serena was as powerful as she was … or more powerful.

  If you only knew what I could do, Mother.

  “Serena!” Fiona snapped. “Answer me!”

  Ever since Fiona’s Third Eye had been unable to locate Raphael Cooper, she’d grown increasingly irritable. Serena suspected it was more because Fiona needed to ask her for help, and Fiona did not like giving up control to any of them, even her own daughter.

  Fiona had put herself in a trance and sent out her psychic “Third Eye”—an ability that worked most of the time. She tracked Rafe from the cliffs to a nearby abandoned cabin, but when she sent two of her men out to capture him, he wasn’t there. She’d been so certain, but she hadn’t allowed Serena to verify the information before impulsively acting on it.

  Another rash act. Fiona’s going to the jail early this morning in her attempt to kill Moira had been particularly unwise. Now Moira knew for certain that Fiona was nearby, and probably Anthony Zaccardi did as well. The coven had been protected here in Santa Louisa partly out of ignorance—St. Michael’s Order didn’t know where they were. But now it was only a matter of time before hordes of witch hunters descended on the town and their efforts were hampered. She didn’t want to leave and stake out new territory—Santa Louisa was perfect for their purposes for many reasons.

  After the failure to apprehend Rafe at the abandoned cabin, Fiona sent out her Third Eye again, but Rafe seemed to have learned how to shield his aura from exposure—a difficult and almost impossible task against Fiona’s psychic eye. Whether she was conscious of it or not, Serena didn’t know, but the more Fiona tried to find him—and failed—the more irritable she became. Now she was on the verge of exploding.

  “The ingredients need to sit.” Serena put a clear crystal into the bowl and recited the spell that summoned Prziel, the demon of lost enemies, and trapped him in the crystal. Once the crystal glowed red, Prziel could be used to find nearly anyone, though he was primarily used against enemies.

  Fiona paced. “When I get my hands on Raphael Cooper, he will understand true pain. If he thinks he can walk away with what I need …”

  “He doesn’t know what he has locked in his mind,” Serena interrupted.

  Fiona whipped around and angrily shot an electric charge at Serena. Used to her mother’s mood swings, Serena held up her hand and sent the charge into the fish tank. The water sizzled and steamed, and in seconds more fish were floating on the surface. Dammit, Margo had just put in the new fish three hours ago.

  Fiona barely noticed. She whirled around and peered into the mirror, inspecting her perfect skin with a critical eye.

  “We have the arca back,” Serena reminded Fiona.

  “But we don’t have the Seven and they’re becoming stronger. I need them under my control before they gather so much strength even I can’t control them. We don’t have the time to screw around. I’ll pull the information from Raphael Cooper’s mind if it kills him.”

  It likely would, and if it didn’t, Fiona would find other ways to torture him and make him beg for death.

  Serena didn’t want Rafe to suffer, but he’d made his decision when he fought them ten weeks ago at the mission. There was nothing Serena could do to end Fiona’s wrath. If only the process had been completed then, they would have had the Seven under their control the night of the fire on the cliffs when they first opened the gates. But Rafe had led Anthony Zaccardi to Santa Louisa. The demonologist’s presence had forced them to be cautious, lest he discover them. They’d been smart, and while he was suspicious and had walked the ruins nearly every day, he hadn’t figured out why he was suspicious, and that enabled them to continue their work.

  But Moira had somehow tracked them to Santa Louisa. Fiona thought Moira was weak, foolish, annoying—a pest, a gnat to swat dead. Fiona wanted to torment her for fun and revenge, but didn’t consider her a real threat.

  Serena suspected that Fiona underestimated Moira.

  Serena had once dreamed that she and Moira would band together and defeat their psycho mother. Together, they would be more powerful than anyone could imagine. But Moira didn’t want to run the coven and had turned her back on their gifts.

  Serena desperately missed her sister, loving and hating her at the same time. Did Moira ever think about her? Did she remember that there was a time when they were best friends? Did she know that it was Serena who put a magical shield around her so Fiona didn’t know she’d slipped out? Did Moira know that Serena had saved her life?

  Serena stared at the glass bowl. The clear liquid began to bubble, though it was nowhere near a source of heat.

  “I need his blood,” she said.

  Fiona walked over to the locked mini-fridge behind her desk and typed in the secret code. She didn’t trust anyone, even Serena, with that information, though Serena had broken the code many times. Fiona always underestimated her, just as she underestimated Moira. It pleased Serena to have so many secrets from the sorceress, the one who believed no one could lie to her.

  Fiona handed over the small test tube of Rafe’s blood that Richard had obtained for them. They had only a few left—in a rage, Fiona had once fried the fridge, destroying everything inside. They were still rebuilding their supplies.

  Serena held up the tube of Rafe’s blood, opened the stopper, and chanted the words she knew by heart, a spell she had perfected. Few witches today did anything but what the old books told them; Serena could write her own grimoire with powerful, original spells. She understood more than even the most seasoned of witches, more than Fiona herself, though Serena wouldn’t say that out loud.

  She dripped two drops of Rafe’s blood into the potion. “As it is above,” she said, adding two more drops, “it is below.” Two final drops were added and she sealed the tube. Fiona took it from her but didn’t return it to the fridge. She, too, was entranced by the metaphysical reaction in the bowl.

  The clear liquid turned blood red, bubbling and churning. A whirlpool began to move faster and faster, and the table the bowl rested on began to shake violently. Serena held the sides of the bowl so it wouldn’t crash to the floor, the liquid warm but not burning.

  She chanted the name Prziel over and over and suddenly the shaking stopped; the potion settled and returned to its clear color. At the bottom of the bowl, the crystal, now red, glowed.

  Serena removed the crystal with iron tongs to prevent the demon from escaping into her. She carried it over to a map of Santa Louisa County and put it down, spinning it gently with the tip of the tong.

  “Find him, find this blood,” she commanded the demon.

  The crystal moved across the map. It started lazily, then began to spin faster like a child’s top, all over the map. Faster, faster, f
aster, until it spun itself off the table and across the room, hitting the wall with enough force to embed it inside the wood.

  Fiona ignored the trapped demon and looked at the map. “There!” she announced excitedly.

  One blood-red drop told them that Raphael Cooper was at the Santa Louisa Coastal Inn.

  Rafe pretended to be asleep when Anthony arrived in the two-room suite. Moira was arguing with Anthony.

  “Don’t wake him. Give him an hour, at least, okay?”

  Movement at the partially open door. Rafe felt it was Anthony, making sure he was both alive and present.

  “Did you seal both rooms?” he whispered.

  “Of course,” Moira snapped. “I’m not a complete novice.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  It wasn’t a friendly comment.

  Rafe breathed a sigh of relief when Anthony didn’t try to wake him. It’s not that he didn’t want to talk to Anthony—he wanted to see his old friend. But he felt safe here, at least for the time being. Safe enough to try to organize his thoughts before Anthony bombarded him with questions. Moira already had many; Rafe had seen them in her brilliant blue eyes.

  Moira had insisted he lie down while she sealed the rooms against demons and witchcraft, but he watched her. She was meticulous, pouring salt, reciting prayers as if they were spells, not leaving any edge unprotected. But while demons couldn’t come in, and spells couldn’t attack them, both he and Moira knew that the protections were mere stopgaps in the battle. A temporary fort that could be breached with time and strength.

  He prayed silently in the dark, blocking out the loud whispers of Anthony and Moira in the room next door. A verse from the Book of Sirach came to him, and he shuddered:

  there is anger and envy and trouble and unrest,

  and fear of death, and fury and strife.

  And when one rests upon his bed,

  his sleep at night confuses his mind.

  Sleep … how could he sleep? He’d been in a state of sleep for ten weeks. Ten weeks of a coma? A drug-induced sleep? A spell-induced sleep? He didn’t know, but his thoughts were filled with confusion and sorrow.