Original Sin

by Allison Brennan

  He raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. He held out his hand and helped her up. She gently touched the claw marks on his chest.

  She had a sudden urge to kiss him, to soothe the pain he was in, but instead she turned away, heat rising to her face.

  “Moira.”

  She looked back at Rafe. The dim light coming in from the library made his dark eyes fathomless as they locked on to her face. He reached up and touched her cheek, firmly turning her to face him. Her lips parted to speak, but no sound came out because she couldn’t think of any words. His dark hair was damp with sweat and fell forward, partly obscuring his eyes. Her uninjured hand shot up, as if it had a mind of its own, to brush the loose strands out of his face, but he grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her to him.

  He kissed her. One hand held her face, the other her wrist, and he kissed her. Too passionate for a good luck kiss; too long for a friendly good-bye. Too … good. All pain slipped away, just for that moment. The weight of Moira’s responsibilities eased, just a fraction. As if one kiss, one oh-so-hot kiss, could take away some of her misery, claim a share of her obligations.

  His unshaven jaw rubbed against her skin erotically. She could scarcely breathe, sinking into Rafe’s passion, her need for him growing not unexpectedly. From the moment she’d found him in the abandoned cabin, she’d felt connected to Rafe Cooper in ways she couldn’t begin to explain. And maybe she didn’t want to understand.

  Rafe stepped back, just a half step, severing the kiss with a primal groan that made Moira quiver. He didn’t apologize, nor did she want him to, but the shock on his face must have mirrored her own surprise.

  Any other time, any other place, and she’d have continued moving toward where that kiss was heading. The craving in Rafe’s eyes, the firm set of his jaw, indicated that he would be more than willing to join her in the exploration.

  But Moira couldn’t forget who she was and what she had to do. Nor could she forget Rafe was spoken for—he was a warrior for St. Michael’s Order. Neither of them could afford to be distracted by attraction or affection. It was dangerous for them, and those they were responsible for. Rafe knew it as well as she, but still pinned her with a gaze that said: This is only the beginning.

  She swallowed the words she wanted to say and handed Rafe a plastic three-ounce container with the last of her holy water. He took it, and she retrieved her dagger.

  “Ready?” she asked, her voice low and raw.

  He nodded, and together they stepped outside the circle, their eyes locked on the unmoving demon in the corner.

  Why was the demon still here? It should have slithered back to Hell by now. Its essence at least should have made a flashy show of falling back into the pit. Could it really be dead?

  Moira would have liked the time to explore the house, to see if there were any clues as to what Fiona’s plans were, but they didn’t have time. She had to figure out where the witches were re-creating the ritual. She took Rafe’s hand and they ran out of the house as fast as they could.

  Less than five minutes later, they were at Matthew Walker’s car. Moira took a bottle of water and poured half of it on her arm. It stung and she swore.

  Rafe found a towel in her bag. “Here,” he said. “Let me.”

  He gently wiped away the blood. She squeezed her eyes closed, holding back tears of pain. She felt a kiss on her arm and her heart skipped a beat.

  Her eyes opened and Rafe smiled at her. “You okay?”

  She nodded, and examined the wound so she could avoid looking at Rafe, not wanting to think too much about what was happening between them. This … nothing. Nothing was happening. It was the adrenaline of the moment, the panic, the rush of escaping. Same as with the kiss.

  You’re lying to yourself. She ignored her inner conflict about what the kiss might have meant and studied her arm even more intently. The small pricks weren’t bleeding anymore, though they still hurt like hell, but the two canine bites had gone deep. “I have a first-aid kit in my bag,” she said. “You could use a bandage or two as well.”

  “I’m fine,” he said and retrieved the kit. He opened it and smiled. “Bandages, tape, antiseptic, a crucifix, and holy water.”

  “Never know what you might need,” she said.

  As he taped gauze over the two deep wounds, Rafe said, “Fiona went to kill you.”

  “She didn’t find me.”

  “You weren’t at Rittenhouse?”

  “Rittenhouse? The furniture store?”

  “She said you’d end up there. That’s where they went to complete the ritual. Where they are now.”

  “That was where the guy killed his co-workers, perfect for them. Shit!” She started the car. “I don’t know where it is, and I kinda threw the GPS out the window.”

  Rafe smiled, “Go back to the highway and head north. It’s just before the county line.”

  She did as Rafe said and tried to call Anthony. The call went right to voicemail.

  “Anthony, it’s Moira. They’re at Rittenhouse Furniture. I have Rafe; I’m on my way there.”

  She tried Skye, and after four rings got her voicemail and left her a similar message.

  Why wasn’t anyone answering their phone?

  Rafe took her hand. “What’s wrong?”

  “I sent Anthony to Good Shepherd. He’s not answering his phone.” Rafe didn’t say anything for a moment. “Rafe? What?” she prompted.

  “Anthony is well trained. We have to trust him.”

  Now it was Moira’s turn to remain silent.

  “Spill it,” Rafe said, squeezing her hand.

  “Good Shepherd is on the way. It’s a short detour.”

  “You care,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You couldn’t reach Skye, but you’re not worried about her. Anthony is just as capable—maybe more so—of taking care of himself, but you’re on the verge of panic.”

  “I’m not.” She was worried, though. “I’m just going to drive by the place, make sure everything is kosher.”

  She turned off the narrow highway and headed into town. It was late, the roads were empty, but as they neared the downtown area, sirens howled. Alarms rang in businesses. People walked the streets. There were fights, smashed storefronts, and chaos.

  “What’s going on?” Moira asked, horrified at the apparent anarchy.

  “Envy.” Rafe dropped her hand. “Give me your gun.”

  She took it from her holster and slid it across the seat to him. He checked the ammunition, then held it ready.

  “It’s a riot,” she said.

  She slowed down and moved over to the right for an ambulance to pass. When she did, two teenage boys jumped on the hood of her car and told her to stop.

  “Floor it,” Rafe said.

  She did and the sick thud of a body falling off and onto the side of the road made her stomach flip. She glanced in the rearview mirror, relieved to see both boys getting up.

  “Now I know why Skye didn’t answer,” Moira said. “She has her hands fu—”

  An explosion rocked the car.

  It came from the direction of Good Shepherd.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Pride, envy, avarice

  these are the sparks that have set on fire the hearts of all men.

  —DANTE ALIGHIERI

  Skye heard the explosion before she saw the flames in the direction of Good Shepherd.

  She floored it and radioed the fire department.

  “Dammit, Anthony, if you’re dead …” She would not think of it. She would not think of it.

  She pictured herself standing over Anthony’s charred body in Rod Fielding’s morgue, while Rod went through his autopsy checklist.

  Tears stung her eyes. Anthony was her life. She couldn’t lose him.

  Her sheriff’s truck passed her. She glanced over, not sure if Anthony was in the car, but the man behind the wheel was definitely not Anthony. Big, beefy shoulders and a hat. He looked like a uniform, but he we
nt so fast Skye couldn’t identify him.

  She wanted to continue to Good Shepherd, to see if Anthony was there. To see if he was hurt. If he needed her.

  But someone had stolen the truck Anthony had been driving. If Anthony was injured, the fire department would be there in minutes. If he was dead, she would know it far too soon.

  Torn, but making her choice, she made a U-turn and followed the truck from a distance. There were at least three people in the vehicle.

  She called dispatch with her cell phone, in case the thief was monitoring police radio transmissions. “It’s McPherson. I need to get a GPS reading on my assigned vehicle.”

  “Lose it again?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “An hour ago I had a request for a GPS on your truck, that someone had stolen it.”

  “Who made that request?”

  “Deputy Young.”

  Skye felt both betrayal and rage. Young—she’d worked with him for eight years, ever since he was fresh out of the police academy. He was born and raised in Santa Louisa. He was one of them? A spy—a witch—in her own department? Were there more?

  “Sergeant,” she said, “I don’t know what’s going on with Young, but my truck wasn’t stolen until five minutes ago.” She wasn’t supposed to let anyone else use her official vehicle; as sheriff she was supposed to set an example. She’d have a lot to answer for when this was over.

  If she survived.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the sergeant said. “Here it is. I’m tracking it. Will send the coordinates to your car—what are you driving?”

  “Unmarked vehicle number six-niner-zero.”

  “One sec … okay. You should have it on your computer.”

  She tapped a key and there was her truck five blocks ahead, still going north on Main Street.

  “Thanks. I may need backup.” Who could she trust? She didn’t know anymore.

  “Everyone is tied up, but I can pull a team.”

  “Jorgenson. Call him in.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.” He had given her the key information on Matthew Walker; he had to be on her side. She hoped she hadn’t read him wrong.

  Trust your instincts.

  “Jorgenson and David Collins. Have them track my unmarked car and meet up with me ASAP. Radio silence on this. Cell phones only. Over.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Ari blubbered. Jared wanted to slap her to make her shut up, but he didn’t.

  He’d destroyed the first altar, the easiest one he could get to, and they’d just arrived at the second. When Ari woke up, she remembered everything and seemed to have turned into a wailing lunatic.

  “Either help me or shut up,” he said. “Or both.”

  “I—” She stopped. “I’m sorry, Jared.”

  She was calmer now, so Jared responded, “It’s okay. It’s my fault too. I helped you.”

  “I didn’t really give you a choice.”

  “Of course I had a choice.”

  She shook her head. “I cast a spell of compliance. I wanted you to agree with everything I wanted to do. You argued, fought it, but I got everything I wanted. Do you think you would have agreed to be part of my circle if you weren’t under a spell?”

  He didn’t know.

  “I’m worried,” he said. “I’ve been trying to reach Moira and Anthony. No one’s around. I feel like I should be doing something!”

  “We are.” She overturned the altar and scattered the herbs, dirt, and stone far and wide.

  Bright lights came up the road, followed by police lights and the whirl of a siren.

  “Shit,” Jared said.

  When the cop got out of the car Jared recognized him. “Dad!”

  Hank Santos approached. He looked angry, but he rubbed his head as if in pain. “What are you doing out here this late? This town is insane tonight. I’ve been on call after call; I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  Jared almost argued with him, but the worry and stress in his dad’s voice melted away his anger. It had been a hard two years after his mom died, and Jared had been upset when his dad started dating again a few months ago. He was being selfish and critical, and now was a good time to grow up.

  He said, “Dad, I need your help. Please. You’re the only one I can turn to. I need you.”

  Hank stared at him. Tears came to his eyes; he took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, then put the glasses back on. “You still need me?”

  “I’ll always need my dad. We’re family, and that will never change.”

  The relief and love on Hank’s face eased Jared’s mind. Family mattered, Hank used to say. And now Jared realized why it was so important. Forgiveness meant pushing aside all the crap, the hard feelings and mistakes. They loved you, unconditionally, if you let them.

  “Tell me what’s going on, son.”

  Jared sighed with relief. “It’s going to be hard to believe, but I swear it’s the God’s honest truth.”

  “After the things I’ve seen tonight, I’d believe just about anything.”

  Good Shepherd was a wall of flames so hot and bright that Rafe and Moira didn’t dare get close.

  “Where’s Anthony? Where’s Father?” Moira said as she jumped out of the car.

  Rafe followed. “Hold on, Moira,” he said.

  “No, no! What if they’re inside? I told them to come here! I told them—”

  Rafe spun her around and gave her a shake. “Moira. Listen to me.”

  Her brows came together and he felt her biceps flex. She didn’t like being manhandled or ordered around, but he needed her one hundred percent focused. “Let go,” she said quietly.

  He loosened his grip but didn’t let go. “No panicking.”

  “I don’t panic,” she said, but glanced down. “I’m sorry.”

  “Can you feel any magic?”

  “No! I can’t feel anything—”

  “You need to relax. Be calm.”

  “I can’t, dammit! What if they’re dead? Because of me?”

  “Moira, listen. The only way you can help them is to focus, and you can’t use all your senses if you’re panicking.” Rafe took her hands in his and squeezed tight. “I’m right here. Relax. Is there any magic at work? Can you sense if anyone is inside? Injured?”

  The heat from the blaze uncomfortably warmed the air around them. His back was hot, sweat was beading on his brow. He watched Moira work to get her emotions under control.

  “I can’t,” she said, though she was breathing easier.

  Rafe stared into Moira’s eyes. “Yes, you can. Breathe. Now let it out.”

  He saw the moment she found her balance. Her entire body relaxed as if the panic had whooshed out. Her grip relaxed in his hands, but he didn’t let her go. “What do you sense?”

  “Old spells. Old demons. They’re burning. There’s a new gateway here. Dammit! They opened another gateway. Too many and we’ll lose control—”

  Rafe interrupted, calm but firm. “That’s for another day. Right now, is anyone working a spell?”

  She shook her head. “No. No active spells. Nothing—” She stopped, her mouth dropped open, and she stared over his shoulder.

  “What is it?” He glanced behind him, saw nothing but the evil building engulfed in bright orange flames. The fire was spreading, but the fire department hadn’t arrived yet. He saw nothing unusual and turned back to Moira.

  She didn’t say anything, her gaze unfocused, her body shaking uncontrollably. Sweat poured from her skin, from something other than the blaze. What was happening to her? Fear clawed at Rafe. He needed Moira. He couldn’t do this alone.

  “Moira? Please, please, snap out of it. Tell me what’s happening, dammit!”

  He pulled her to him, hating that she was suffering. Something—had Fiona sent a nightmare to her as she’d done to him? Was Moira reliving pain of her past? Did she have to watch over and over people she cared about die? Painful, horrible deaths? He would take it from her if h
e could.

  He repeated a prayer for deliverance, over and over as he held her close. She stiffened in his arms and he tilted her chin up, but she pushed him back and started running, staggering, down the street.

  He caught up quickly and grabbed her hand. “Watch out, the debris.”

  “Anthony!” she shouted. “He’s here. The building is about to collapse and if we don’t get to him first, he’ll die.”

  He didn’t ask how she knew—she’d had a vision. It was the only explanation.

  “Where?”

  “He’s in the back of a truck. He fell into the back of a pickup, but when this building goes it’s going to suck everything down with it.”

  “Get the car. Now. I’ll find Anthony.”

  She nodded, and ran down the street to where they’d parked.

  Staying on the opposite side of the road, Rafe ran past the burning building. He searched for trucks. None in the church parking lot. He looked in front of the building next to Good Shepherd. There!

  He ran across the street, the heat searing his skin, making the claw marks on his chest burn. He jumped into the bed of the pickup, his hands burning on the hot metal, and there was Anthony, on his back, trying to get up, blood running down his face and into his eyes.

  “Anthony!” Rafe opened the back of the pickup. “Come on, it’s coming down right now.”

  “Walker,” Anthony said, his voice dry and low.

  “Later, buddy, we got to go.”

  Headlights came at him and he jumped out, helping Anthony, who staggered under his own weight.

  Moira leaned over from the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door.

  “Get in now!” she said as the earth started shaking all around them. Anthony fell to the street and Rafe half dragged him to the car. He got in first and used his weight to pull Anthony in after him. The door wasn’t even closed when Moira floored it.

  “Hold on!” she yelled, going from zero to sixty in six seconds. The door swung closed, and Anthony struggled to sit upright as the two large men were crammed in the front next to Moira.

  Rafe turned his head and watched as Good Shepherd blazed bright red and disappeared into the earth. The pickup truck Anthony had fallen into was sucked in with it, along with the buildings on either side.