“You can’t hold Anthony,” the man had said. “I demand you allow him to return to Italy.”
“He doesn’t seem to want to return right now,” she’d said and hung up. Interesting.
What was more interesting, however, was the light behind the mission. Anthony Zaccardi, right on time.
CHAPTER SIX
* * *
ANTHONY PICKED THE POLICE LOCK.
He didn’t need his flashlight; the lighting had been restored in the mission. He quickly walked through the kitchen and down the main hall.
The mission had been destroyed from within. He’d seen the destruction earlier when he’d broken in to save Rafe; now the sad reality sank in.
Beautiful artwork, hundreds of years old, had been defamed. Every statue in the alcoves had its head removed. Paintings slashed. This, Anthony thought, was the work of human hands. A demon would crush the statues; humans defaced.
Anthony found Rafe’s room, accurately guessing that it would be closest to the kitchen. There was one small window facing the rear of the mission. A small night-light in the corner illuminated the room with shadows.
Anthony closed the door, looked at the wood. It was splintered and cracked, as if someone had been scratching from the inside. He shined his light on the marks, saw the damaged wood stained with dark blood. Deep gouges, likely made with something metal or hard wood had been used to pry open the door. Now Anthony knew how Rafe’s fingers had been broken, his fingernails torn.
The police had obviously gone through the room. Rafe’s computer was gone, only wires remaining. His files had been rifled through and many had been removed. The drawers of his desk were open.
But the police didn’t know the secrets the mission held, nor the many hiding places.
Anthony traced the ridges of the stone wall. He’d been in many missions, in many ancient buildings. He could find any hiding place . . . there. Around the edge of one stone he found a small, ancient release. A façade for a stone safe.
Sure enough, Rafe had left something in the space. A leather-bound journal. Anthony removed it, put the stone back in place.
Anthony carefully opened the journal, hoping for a clue. Several sheets of paper fell out and he stooped to pick them up.
The door opened and the lights came on.
“I thought you were going to do something stupid.” Skye McPherson stood in the doorway, gun drawn. “You’re under arrest.”
“Don’t.”
“Hand me those papers.”
He did.
“And the book.”
Reluctantly, he handed it over.
“Are you armed?”
“I don’t carry a gun.”
“Turn around and put your hands on the desk.”
“I told you—”
“You expect me to believe you? You broke a police seal and entered this building in the middle of the night. You’re attempting to remove evidence. You’re in hot water, Mr. Zaccardi.”
Help us.
Skye frowned, glanced around the room.
“You heard,” he said, incredulous.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hope claimed a corner of his heart. “You heard the voices.”
“I don’t hear any voices,” she snapped. “Turn around.”
He complied. Her hands moved around his waist, his thighs, his ankles. He wanted to think of her as a cop; he could only think of her as a woman. A woman who didn’t know what danger she was in, nor what power she had.
She removed his cross. “You’re clear, but I’ll keep this for the time being.”
He faced her. She was close, only inches from him as she holstered her weapon. He reached up to touch her face, and she flinched. He dropped his hand and said, “You can’t deny what you heard.”
She swallowed, took a step back. “What’s this?” She started flipping through the journal.
“I suspect it will speak of Rafe’s concerns. He would have hidden his notes if he thought something was going on here.”
She frowned, reading the journal.
“What?” he asked, inching closer. She smelled of pine and soap. All natural. All woman.
“It’s in Latin.”
Latin? Rafe hated Latin. Anthony could practically hear him groaning during class.
She tucked the journal under her arm and looked at the papers.
“What are those?” he asked.
“Copies.”
“Of?”
She didn’t say. He peered over her hands. Santa Louisa Grocery.
“Why would he keep copies of the food deliveries?” Anthony asked.
When Skye didn’t say anything, he knew she had an answer. “We need to work together, Skye.”
Her head shot up. “You said you weren’t a cop. Has anything changed in the last”—she glanced at her watch— “fifteen hours?”
“You need me.”
“I don’t know you.”
“But you know I had nothing to do with what happened here.”
“How? Maybe you were working with your friend Rafe. Maybe you’re supposed to steal artifacts while I’m trying to solve a mass murder. Maybe—”
“You don’t believe that.”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Ianax.”
“What?”
“That’s the name of the demon in the sacristy. Human blood was used, wasn’t it?”
“I can’t discuss the investigation with you.”
She had a great poker face, but her eyes exposed her soul, which told him he was right. He also had thousands of years of history to draw upon.
“Ianax was a triple agent, so to speak. He was a spirit on Satan’s side, but attempted to convince Saint Michael the Archangel that he was gathering evidence against Satan, all in an attempt to find out how many were staying on the Lord’s side and who were going with Satan. He gave information to both sides.”
She stared at him blankly. “You’re a lunatic.”
He hardened. He was used to people not believing him, but he desperately wanted Skye to trust him. The dead depended on it.
“Ianax was banished to the deepest pits of Hell by Satan when he attempted to overtake Hades. He’s an ancient demon, feeding on hate and revenge. It takes three dark souls and human sacrifice to draw him out.”
“I’ve read thousands of crime reports. There’s no proven case of human sacrifice by Satanists in America.”
Anthony continued. “Your people don’t know everything, and human sacrifice is rarely what you envision. He’s here. You sense it. You heard the voices of those trapped between Heaven and Hell. But you won’t open your heart.”
“You can’t tell me that a spirit killed those men.”
“Not alone, but Ianax was part of the massacre and if we can’t send it back to Hell more people will die.”
“Bullshit. More will die if we don’t capture the people who killed those priests.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“I don’t know what planet you live on, Mr. Zaccardi, but where I come from you put people in prison and they stop killing innocent old men.”
He’d said the wrong thing, but he persisted. “I agree, we need to find the three involved in order to send Ianax back. If we don’t, he will grow more powerful.”
“Why are you so certain there are three people involved?”
“The seal. In the sacristy.” How could he convince this woman of what had taken him a lifetime to learn?
“You look so normal,” she muttered.
A rare anger grew in Anthony’s chest, the rage he fought to keep firmly at bay.
He grabbed Skye by the arms and pulled her close. “If you think this is a game, more innocent people will suffer. I am deadly serious, Sheriff McPherson.”
Her lush mouth opened, closed, opened again. “Let. Me. Go.”
Anthony dropped his hands, the anger washing away in embarrassment. He didn’t manhandle women. It was Skye’s
total disdain of him and what he said . . .
He should be used to it by now. Few people truly believed that evil existed. They talked about it, gave it lip service, but didn’t believe in evil spirits, that they could be summoned and used, that they grew more powerful with every moment they spent outside of Hell, feeding on the cruelty and rage and hatred of human beings.
“Trust me,” he said simply, imploring her with his eyes. He saw a hint of doubt in her face, the desire to believe him. Then it vanished.
But hope was all he needed. He’d worked with far less.
“I’ll translate Rafe’s journal for you,” he offered.
Skye wanted to say no. She didn’t want to trust this man who talked about demons and demonolatry and evil spirits. Those were the fantasies of religious nutcases like her mother and the man who sold her a bill of goods under the guise of being a man of God.
But she’d walked into the crime scene today and felt odd. She could dismiss the idea that someone was watching her in the daylight, but when she’d been sitting in her car in the courtyard tonight her skin prickled and every nerve seemed to stand at attention. She wasn’t a flighty female. She wasn’t scared of the woods or of being alone—she’d hiked and camped for weeks with her dad or by herself. But here—this was different.
A crash echoed through the mission. Skye’s gun was out as she walked through the door.
“It came from the chapel,” Anthony said.
“Stay,” she commanded him.
“No.”
She didn’t have time to argue. Cautious but quick, she darted down the hall, Anthony right on her heels.
The closer they came to the chapel, the hotter the air.
“Stop,” Anthony commanded.
She didn’t take orders from civilians. Someone was in there. The killer? Murderers often revisited the crime scene.
She opened the doors of the chapel and smelled smoke over the stench of dried blood. She blinked and saw the carnage of that morning, in full sunlight. Every body, every dismembered limb, lying there. All eyes looking at her.
Help us!
She stifled a scream. She wasn’t seeing this. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw a flame in the sacristy, where the drawing had been left. The bodies were gone. That had been her imagination, after all the nonsense Anthony spouted.
Someone—someone human—was destroying evidence. Her crime scene was on fire.
She whirled around to face Anthony. “You! You distracted me so your partner could destroy the evidence.”
“You know that’s not true,” he said, but he was looking over her shoulder.
She followed his gaze but saw nothing. “I need to put this fire out before it takes the whole chapel!”
Skye ran down the hall to the kitchen where earlier she’d seen two extinguishers on the wall. She started back down the hall toward the chapel, but Anthony blocked her path. “Don’t go back there. You’ll be trapped. We have to get out of here. Now!”
She ignored him, but instead of going through the interior entrance, she flung open the side door, pushed a tank at him, and exited the building, running around to the main courtyard entrance.
The iron gates that had been locked and sealed were wide open, proof that the fire had been set by humans, not demons. The fact that she was beginning to believe Anthony, that she wanted to believe him, was a testament to her poor judgment when it came to good-looking men. He was sexy and handsome and sounded normal. She’d overlooked the fact that he was a lunatic to insist that something supernatural was at work.
She’d fucked up the crime scene because of him. She should have stayed at her post. She may have been able to not only stop the fire, but arrest the killer.
She saw the flames in the narrow arched windows, bright against the moonless night. Running to the chapel doors, she touched them; warm not hot. She readied the canister and kicked open the doors.
A loud roar emanated from the building on a wave of flames and laughter.
She was thrown to the ground and only after her back hit the cold, hard dirt did she realize Anthony had pushed her down. He’d saved her life.
He was still standing, facing the flames. He had his hands up as he walked toward the fire, chanting something foreign and ancient. She couldn’t make out the words, just an urgent, fierce rhythm. The fire whirled around him, and she could no longer make out his frame.
Anthony was being burned alive.
Skye tried to jump up to rescue him, but an unseen weight pushed her back down. Her heart leapt in her throat as she watched the fire turn bright red, twirl, and like a reverse tornado, rise into the sky with a sickly, deafening scream.
Anthony’s body lay faceup on the stone path. She crawled over to him, her limbs like lead.
He was staring at the sky, his dark eyes searching. His clothing was scorched and reeked of smoke, but his hands, his face, his limbs had no burn marks. How could that be? How could he have survived the fire unscathed?
“Watch out!” He rolled and flung his body on top of hers. From the corner of her eye, she watched the fireball come back down from the dark sky, heading straight toward them. She tried to crawl away, but Anthony pinned her down, his entire body covering hers in a protective shield.
The flames hit the roof of the chapel like a comet. Glass exploded from every window. An unreal screech surrounded them as the fire spread into every nook, every room, every corner of the building.
Except the courtyard where they lay.
Hot air filled her lungs and all she wanted was to escape, but Anthony held her still.
“Don’t move.” His lips were on her ear, but she could barely hear him over the roar of the flames.
What was happening? He grabbed her wrists when she struggled to escape, held them tight against his chest. His heart pounded against her hands. Power and fear radiated from his body. He completely covered her, shielding her, her face buried in his neck. He murmured something that might have been a prayer or a plea.
In the middle of destruction, she’d never felt so completely safe.
A cry surrounded them, and suddenly all the air in the courtyard disappeared with a violent whoosh!
She gasped, straining to breathe against Anthony’s chest. He still held her, but now she fought for air. Air . . .
He covered her mouth with his and pushed air into her lungs.
Suddenly she was off her feet and being carried through the courtyard. She clung to Anthony’s neck until he eased her into the passenger seat of her Bronco.
She looked over his shoulder at what had been the mission. Smoke rolled from the windows, out the chapel door, rose from where the roof had once been, filtering into the dark sky. Not a flame could be seen, just smoldering ruins. Yet less than ten minutes had passed since she first saw the flames.
It couldn’t have gone out on its own. Could it? There had to be a logical explanation, something the fire chief would be able to explain to her.
But she had no logical explanation for what she had seen. That Anthony had been wrapped in flames, completely immersed, and yet he knelt here before her, without a mark.
He touched her face, his large hands surprisingly gentle. “You’re okay.” It was a statement, not a question, but she nodded.
His thumb brushed against her lips. She stared into Anthony’s dark eyes and knew she had a crime she couldn’t handle alone.
“I lost the journal,” she whispered.
Anthony reached into his shirt and handed her the journal. “I picked it up when you ran from Rafe’s room.”
“Did you know what was going to happen?”
He shook his head. “But I’ve seen it before.”
“What? Spontaneous combustion?” She tried to make light of it, but neither of them smiled.
“No, that fire was most certainly set by one of the people responsible for summoning Ianax.”
Skye ached in disappointment. Not because she wanted to believe in evil spirits, but because he w
asn’t being consistent. “First demons, now humans? You’re messing with me, Mr. Zaccardi.”
“Demons can’t set fires or do anything without a person to help them. They may be able to control those humans who have already given up their souls, they may even be able to temporarily control humans against their will. Possessions. And the most powerful among them can use the elements by becoming part of the element itself. But they can’t set a fire alone.”
“So what just happened? Someone put out that fire”— she snapped her fingers—“like that?”
“Once the fire started, Ianax became the flames. Destroyed his image and everything he touched, and disappeared.”
“But he didn’t kill you,” she said softly.
“He couldn’t, even though he tried.” Anthony held her face in his hands. “But you, Skye, are in grave danger.”
She laughed uneasily. “You know this how?”
Anthony didn’t return her humor, his fathomless eyes drawing her inexplicably closer.
“He couldn’t sustain the fire and defeat me at the same time. He is not that strong. Yet.”
“But what does that have to do with me?”
Anthony touched her cheek. “You don’t know what you’re up against, Skye. You don’t know what evil incarnate can do. That makes you vulnerable.”
She scoffed at that remark. Typical male chauvinist. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Not against this.”
Skye jumped up and out of the truck, paced even though she still felt unsteady. “Dammit, Zaccardi, you’re pissing me off. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know how you weren’t burned in the fire. But there is a logical explanation. And I will find it.”
“It’s logical, Skye,” Anthony said, sinking to the ground. She frowned. Maybe he had been injured in the fire. “But you have to open your mind to see the logic.” His eyes closed and he leaned his head against her truck’s tire. “I saw your soul,” he whispered.
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