Deliver Us from Evil

by Allison Brennan

  “That’s ridiculous.” But there was no venom in her voice, only concern. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m drained.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll be okay. Just—let me be.”

  “Leave you? Here? At midnight?” She knelt beside him. “Let me help you.”

  Anthony rose unsteadily, stumbled, and fell against the truck. His body was solid muscle; Skye couldn’t carry him if she wanted to. He climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat.

  “Just take me to my car,” he said wearily, his eyes already closing.

  “Right. And let you drive off a cliff. I’ll take you to your hotel. You can get your car in the morning.”

  • • •

  Ianax’s essence slithered along the ground in the form of black mist, losing power the longer he was without a human body.

  Fool. You consumed your energy with the fire. You should never have fought for Zaccardi’s soul.

  His primal scream rang through the levels of Hell like nails on a chalkboard, and on earth with the moaning of trees. He rolled over a nocturnal rodent who collapsed dead after breathing his mist; a pair of owls fell from a tree above, landed with a thud.

  He was eternal death.

  Lifetimes of failed attempts to rise from the deepest pit of Hell, giving him a taste of freedom that was taken away because of the weakness of the trio left him angry, unsatisfied, hungry. Finally, his minions had perfected the call and he’d come, with a willing body for his use. Payback for the willing was immortality. And even in the dark heat of the netherworld, immortality for as long as the earth breathed was a tempting apple.

  And he, Ianax, would be able to stay, walk the earth, experience lust in everything—sex, food, death. Power. He would have been able to claim an infinite number of souls for his master.

  He fed on souls, and the pure souls of the righteous tasted better than the black souls of the damned.

  Zaccardi would have satiated him for a millennia, proven his worth. But the hunter’s protective shield was too strong for one demon to destroy. Even Satan himself wouldn’t be able to penetrate the barrier.

  A sudden gale-force wind pushed Ianax off course. He was being pulled under, down, back to Hell.

  I’m sorry, Master. My thoughts betray me.

  The wind softened.

  I am all-powerful, lowly demon. I am your Lord and Master. Zaccardi is not yours to have. When the time is right, I will consume him.

  When, Master?

  Go, finish what you were summoned to do. Then bring me my due.

  Yes, Master.

  Ianax’s essence was released from the underbelly and flung over the tops of the trees, down the mountain, dead birds raining from their nests as he stole their breath.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  * * *

  ANTHONY HAD REGAINED some of his strength on the drive back to town, but walking to his hotel room drained him.

  He’d fought evil and won, this time. But he needed to rejuvenate. He couldn’t protect Skye or save the lost souls at the mission until he regained his strength.

  He couldn’t let Skye leave.

  What he’d seen in the flames would haunt him for the rest of his life. She didn’t believe him, and if everything remained the same she would die. Horribly. Painfully. Her soul would be trapped and tortured for eternity.

  Losing her was not an option. He would sacrifice himself first.

  “Get some rest,” she was saying to him. “I’ll pick you up at seven and take you to your car.”

  “No!” He swallowed. “Please.” She stared at him, perplexed. How to keep her here? “I need your help.”

  He sagged heavily onto the sofa, exaggerating his fatigue and pain. She looked skeptical. Oh, my little doubting Thomas. You’re a tough one.

  “Please—I need you to—” What? She already thought he was a nutcase. Make something up, Zaccardi.

  “Pray with me.”

  Her face clouded.

  Good one.

  “In Latin,” he added.

  “You’ve got to be joking.”

  “I’ll teach it to you. It might come in handy.”

  He wasn’t joking. She didn’t have to know what the words meant. If she remembered them, at the right time, they might protect her. At least buy some time.

  She sat next to him looking as exhausted as he felt. Maybe he could get her to let down her shield a bit. Enough to lull her to sleep. If she slept here, in his presence, she would be safe. For tonight.

  One night at a time.

  He took her hands in his. She tensed, but didn’t pull away. You think your gun can save you. You think your smarts will get you out of any difficulty. You’ve never faced a demon, sweetness.

  He’d felt her soul in the courtyard when he’d covered her body with his. She was holding on to a deep regret and bitterness, he didn’t know from what, but her innate goodness and honor shone through. A strong core of loyalty. Strength.

  Satan would love to claim her as his own.

  An overwhelming protective urge washed over Anthony. He swallowed, uncertain what he was supposed to do. What he should do. He’d never allowed himself to grow close to any woman, because in love he would be vul-nerable. In love, he would be risking more than his own life. Already, his soul was inextricably entwined with Skye’s. The fire had fused them together, a bond he could not break.

  Save her. Save us.

  He whispered in Latin.

  “What does that mean?”

  He repeated the prayer and she frowned at him, but didn’t pull her hands from his. Progress.

  “Say it. Please, Skye. It—it would comfort me.” He exaggerated a sigh.

  She hesitated, then repeated the ancient words of protection, her voice quivering.

  “Again.”

  She complied. He touched her hair, murmured a poem.

  “That’s French.”

  He hadn’t realized he’d spoken in French. “The monks made sure I learned many languages.”

  “Monks?”

  “I was raised in a monastery.”

  “What happened to your parents?” Skye seemed much more at ease talking about his past than things she couldn’t see or touch. While he didn’t like to share things about himself, he had no hesitation in telling Skye. He wanted her to know. To build trust, to strengthen their bond. And more.

  “I don’t know about my parents. I was left on the doorstep of a monastery on a small island off Sicily.”

  “An orphanage?”

  Anthony couldn’t tell her the whole truth, but he didn’t lie. “In some ways. Women in Europe, particularly in the old country, are frowned upon if they have children out of wedlock. Some are disowned or ostracized. It can be very difficult. Many infants are left at orphanages or with the nuns. Or at a monastery. St. Michael’s—we had an unusually high number of abandoned babies.”

  “Why?”

  “The monks are among the most brilliant men in the world. Doctors. Lawyers. Theologians. Scientists. Scholars. They raise boys and send them to live all over the world.”

  “You never knew your parents.” She frowned.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me. It is hard to miss what you never had.”

  “Is it?”

  Anthony longed to know where he came from, but he’d buried those desires years ago when he tried to find his mother and came up with nothing.

  “It is easier, with time,” he corrected. “What about you?”

  “My parents are dead.”

  She spoke so flatly, suppressing emotion that bubbled just beneath the surface.

  “An accident?” he asked softly.

  “My father was a U.S. forest ranger. He was hiking in Los Padres, fell off a cliff and broke his back. His radio got caught on a tree out of reach and he couldn’t call for help. He died two days later.”

  “I’m so sorry.” He squeezed her hands.

  She shrugged. “So what was it like growing up in a monastery?”
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  Changing the subject. She didn’t want to talk about her mother. He should push, but he didn’t want to scare her off. He needed her to be comfortable here, with him, for the night. But he couldn’t share everything with Skye, not yet. If he said too much, she would bolt like a rabbit.

  “Father Philip, a missionary, often stayed at St. Michael’s. I’d always loved history and architecture, even as a young boy. Father Philip works with the church to renovate historic buildings. He became my mentor, my friend.” And he taught him to harness his senses, to locate demons in buildings and destroy them. He didn’t say that to Skye.

  “So you became an historical architect?”

  Anthony nodded. “I traveled throughout Europe, as well as Africa and parts of the Middle East working with Father Philip, before I went to college in England.”

  “You said you were raised with Rafe Cooper.”

  “Rafe was raised in the monastery as well.”

  “He doesn’t look Italian.”

  Always questioning, always suspicious. “He isn’t. He’s probably of Irish descent.”

  “Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

  He shook his head. “We have children from all races and cultures.”

  She still seemed perplexed, but asked instead, “How many live there?”

  “At any given time, fifteen monks. We have four young ones—under sixteen. When Rafe and I grew up, there were many more. At one time twenty-two of us.”

  “What happened? Women start using birth control?”

  Anthony frowned. The truth was, they didn’t have an answer to the diminishing chosen ones. Rafe was one of the last. There had only been six since him, and none in the last ten years.

  “It was a joke. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. Look, I should go.”

  “Please don’t.” He took her hand. “Do you remember the prayer?”

  “Words can’t protect anyone from anything,” Skye said.

  “Faith can.”

  “Please, Anthony, don’t do this.” Skye ran a hand through her hair. She’d lost her clip and her hair fell in creamy blond waves, no less alluring being mussed from their earlier ordeal. “Belief in God certainly didn’t save your friends up on the mountain. And it didn’t save my mother,” she snapped.

  “Your mother?”

  Skye stared into Anthony’s dark eyes. Why had she said anything? She didn’t want to talk about her mother. But maybe he would leave her alone, stop talking to her about this nonsense. Trapped souls and demons . . .

  “My mother left when I was ten. Met a guy, someone who talked all about God and salvation and dedicating your life to Jesus. And she gave him everything she owned and went away with him. Just like that. She left and never spoke to me again. Six years later a California Highway Patrol officer came knocking on the door and told us she’d been murdered. By the same kook who had talked her into joining his stupid cult.”

  Why had she said all that? The last person she wanted to talk about was her mother. She tried to pull her hands from Anthony’s, but he held firm. She wanted to avert her eyes, but he turned her face to look at his.

  “Skye.”

  Suddenly, his lips were on hers, consuming her.

  No tentative kiss. He claimed her with a confidence she’d rarely seen, hungry but patient; determined but gentle. She put her hands on his arms, surprised at the dense muscle hidden under his shirt. She wanted to push him away. She couldn’t. Her body reached for him while her mind told her to run. Heat pooled in all the right places, her heart beat triple time, her skin tingled from the electricity they generated.

  All in a kiss.

  His hands barely touched the back of her neck, but his presence captivated her. Anthony didn’t try to dominate her, but conquered her nonetheless.

  Think, Skye! Forget the kiss, this guy is bizarre.

  Shut up, she told herself and wished for once she could separate her physical needs and desires from her logical cop mind.

  She opened her mouth to tell him to stop, but instead found her tongue seeking his, being the aggressor. If he had carried her off to bed right then, she would have gone. Her body wanted him and no amount of logic would have convinced her to stay away.

  Her own guttural moan was lost in Anthony’s mouth, but the sound—too passionate to be coming from her—jolted her back to reality. She didn’t sleep with strangers. She didn’t sleep with men who weren’t grounded in reality. What was she doing? She was the damn sheriff with a massacre on her hands.

  She pushed Anthony back. Hard. He didn’t take his eyes from hers. His confidence was incredible. He already looked like he’d bedded her. “Don’t leave,” he said.

  “You’re fine,” she snapped, jumping up. “I have work to do.”

  He stood, followed her to the door. “Please stay. I’m worried about you.”

  “Worried about me? I’m a cop, Mr. Zaccardi. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  He leaned toward her. “I think we’ve gone beyond Mr. Zaccardi, don’t you?”

  He tried to kiss her again, but she averted her face and his warm lips landed on her flushed cheek. He looked more amused than insulted. Damn him.

  He also looked worried. That didn’t sit well with her.

  “Look, Anthony,” she said. “I’m a smart cop. It’s after two in the morning. I’ll be up bright and early to continue this investigation. With the mission destroyed, I have a lot more work to do.”

  “You need me.”

  “Only to translate this.” She reached down and picked up the journal that she’d placed on the table. “I’ll keep it with me for now, you can meet me at the station at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow morning.”

  “I can work on it tonight, have a translation for you—”

  She held up her hand, anticipating his request.

  He nodded curtly. “All right, Skye. May I have my cross back?”

  What was she expecting? More protests? To take her kicking and screaming to bed? She didn’t know how much she would have fought him. Damn, but Anthony was hot.

  Too bad he was a weirdo. Just like the man who’d lured away her mother.

  She pulled his cross—his dagger—out of her belt buckle and handed it to him. “Don’t make me regret this,” she said, more curtly than she intended.

  She turned and left, felt his eyes watch her open the door to the stairs because she was too impatient to wait for the elevator.

  All the good men were married, gay—or nutcases.

  • • •

  A wall of flames surrounded him, but Anthony felt no heat.

  “You again,” the fire spat.

  Again? He didn’t remember this demon, one so strong it could control the elements.

  The flames danced in laughter.

  “Someday you’ll remember. I won then, I will be victorious now. You can’t save their souls if you’re dead.”

  “You can’t kill me, Ianax, spawn of Satan,” Anthony said, his mouth working but no sound escaping.

  “I can’t. Humans will.”

  The flames disappeared, leaving him cold, shaking. He saw Skye standing at the edge of a cliff.

  She was going to jump.

  • • •

  Anthony fought sleep, weary, unusually exhausted. Something—a spell. Those who had summoned Ianax had made his sleep deep. Recognizing it, he shook his head violently, side to side, reciting the Lord’s Prayer in clipped phrases as he rolled from the bed, landing heavily on the floor.

  Every limb was weighted. With a primal growl he pulled himself up. Unseen demons clawed at his skin. Burning. Restraining him.

  “Forgive us our trespasses!” he tried to shout but a demon clawed at his throat.

  His body staggered across the hotel room, stumbled, knocked over a vase. It landed with a thud on the thick carpet.

  “—those who trespass against us.”

  Anthony pulled on his slacks, fumbling with the zipper and collapsing onto the couch. The spell wa
s weakening. The demons tried to hold on to him, pin him to the couch. To slow him down. To stop him from reaching Skye in time.

  “Lead us not into temptation!”

  His voice was stronger. He found his shoes where he’d taken them off. Where was Skye? How would he find her?

  A clear image came to his head and he knew exactly where she lived and how to get there.

  “Thank you, Lord,” he mumbled in recognition of the vision.

  Please, he couldn’t be too late.

  He ran out the door, the bright hall lights blinding him. He hit one wall, then the other, as if drunk. But his sight cleared and he turned north on the street.

  He ran, pulled by an invisible string to Skye’s house. Faster, Anthony. She’s hurting.

  “But deliver us from evil!”

  Amen.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  SKYE WOKE, glanced at the clock. Five A.M. Damn, she didn’t have to get up until six, and here she was, wide awake, her mind crammed full of the crime scene. While driving Anthony from the burned-out mission the night before, she’d called Rod and asked him to get the arson investigator out there. Rod planned on meeting him at the mission to see if they could salvage anything after the fire, but he assured her they had enough evidence and photographs to hold up in court once they arrested a suspect.

  “And,” he’d added, “I can’t say that I’m sorry that painting in the sacristy is destroyed.”

  First Juan, now Rod. Two strong, reasonable, smart men completely snowed by a few odd circumstances. Maybe it was the history of the mission itself, or Anthony’s strange comments, or the brutality of the murders. It was human nature to want to blame some ethereal “evil” when Skye knew damn well a person had killed those priests.

  Five-ten. No going back to sleep now that her mind had kicked into full gear. She padded down the hall to the kitchen and flicked on her coffeepot, which she always prepared the night before.

  The night was still black. She shouldn’t feel this alert, she’d only had two hours of sleep. But her mind was working double time. She stared out the breakfast nook window. She lived in her family home on the coast. It was just her now.