“We should come with you,” Lily said.
“No. Can I borrow your truck?”
Jared tossed her his keys.
“Thanks. Use the salt. Don’t open the door.”
She looked from Jared to the teenage girl holding his hand as they sat on the edge of the bed. They both looked so innocent … young … trusting.
They trusted her. They believed she knew what she was doing, that she could protect them.
Doubt and fear battled her need to be proactive. She couldn’t be trusted because she didn’t know what the hell she was doing; and as far as protecting them? She couldn’t even protect herself.
She gave them a half-smile. “If anything happens out of the ordinary-and for some reason you can’t reach me-call Anthony Zaccardi.”
Jared looked at her quizzically. “The guy rebuilding the mission? Why?”
“He’s your best shot at staying alive.”
There was a knock on the door and Moira, right on the other side, jumped and put her hand to her mouth, the other hand on her gun. She motioned for Jared and Lily to stay quiet. She was about to look through the peephole when there was another loud rap.
“Jared, it’s your father. I know you’re in there; open the door.”
Moira shook her head and mouthed no.
Jared looked stricken.
“Jared, dammit! Open the door or I’ll break it open and arrest you for leaving the scene of a crime after the fact, statutory rape, and anything else I can think of.”
This was Jared’s father? Moira was inclined to let him break down the door. She felt like shit after the beating Fiona gave her, but she knew some tricks-tricks that had nothing to do with magic-and she didn’t like Hank Santos. She wouldn’t mind practicing on him.
Except he was a cop, and the last thing she wanted was to be trapped in a jail cell again. Next time, Fiona wouldn’t let her survive.
Jared was torn, but Moira saw in his expression that Deputy Santos would break down the door if she didn’t open it.
Fuck fuck fuck.
She stared at the ceiling for a brief moment. She rarely prayed, but she muttered under her breath, “God, this is so not funny.”
She hid her Beretta and opened the door.
Deputy Hank Santos was several inches shorter than his tall, lanky son, darker in skin tone, with broad shoulders and a stance that radiated authority. His dark eyes assessed both her and the room quickly, then focused on Jared-who stood behind her-then on Lily, sitting on the bed. Finally, they turned back to Moira where she saw extreme dislike-some might call it hatred-in his expression.
Fine with her; she didn’t like Hank Santos either, not one little bit.
“Jared, Lily, come with me.”
“Dad,” Jared began.
Hank interrupted. “You’ve greatly embarrassed me. I had a call from another deputy that your truck was here, at this sleazy motel. The manager said you’ve been here a lot lately.” He stared at Moira, looking her up and down in such a vile way that she knew exactly what he was thinking.
“Don’t make any assumptions,” she said, pissed off.
He diverted his eyes in disgust. “I know women like you.”
“You’re out of line, Dad.” Jared stepped forward. Moira glanced over at the young man. She saw strength of character she hadn’t seen in him before, protectiveness and chivalry. She didn’t know why she was surprised, but then realized she hadn’t really considered Jared-or Lily-as people as much as problems.
“You have a lot of explaining to do, Jared. I’m disappointed in you. Screwing around with women is one thing, you’re eighteen-but dragging your girlfriend into it, sleeping around, lying, sneaking out of the house-I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but your mother is turning over in her grave.”
The anger and intense pain in Jared’s face had Moira reeling. He had far more depth than she’d given him credit for.
“Don’t drag Mom into this.”
“You wouldn’t be behaving like an asshole if she were alive.”
“Mr. Santos,” Lily began, but the man ignored her.
Jared reddened and didn’t back down. “This is about you. You bully your way in here, insulting me, my girlfriend, my friend, jumping to conclusions because you have this warped idea that I’ve gone wild since Mom died. This is more about you than it is about me. You feel guilty because you’re dating again-”
“Do not change the subject and drag Nicole into this,” Santos said. “This is between you and me.”
“You’ve dragged my girlfriend into it!”
Santos looked pointedly around the motel room. Moira resisted the urge to wince. It was the type of flea-bag motel that looked the other way when hookers rented a room.
“And look where I found you.”
“Don’t change the subject. Mom died of cancer. She was dying for years and I hated every minute because I didn’t want to lose her, but I’ve accepted it. I hated it, but accepted it. And I am the man I am today because she told me to stand strong. I’m not wild, I’m not lying. The least you could do is listen to me!”
“Listen? You snuck out of the house-”
“I’m eighteen.”
“You’re still living under my roof and I demand you respect my authority.”
“You wouldn’t understand-”
“I didn’t know where you were last night! It turns out you were at the scene of a crime, left your friend dead! What if you could have saved her?”
Lily was on the verge of tears as Jared said, “Abby was already dead when Moira and I arrived, and Lily was in trouble.”
“And you didn’t call the police? Or take Lily to the hospital? The police station?” He stepped over the threshold and Moira twitched. Something had her instincts humming. A demon? Yet he’d crossed the salt line without hesitating or reacting even a bit. He didn’t even notice it. She took a step back, staying farther than arm’s length away from the cop. This situation felt … odd. Over the top. Maybe it was because he seemed so incredibly stubborn, but Moira was used to stubborn. It was more than his attitude. She watched him carefully, trying to keep her hands from shaking.
She’d never exorcised a demon by herself before. She’d never protected anyone from a demon. And exorcisms were safest under controlled circumstances, with a spirit trap to protect the exorcist and the victim. Here, without a safety net, she’d have to stab the victim with her knife-a very specific, very special knife-and hope she didn’t hit a major artery, hope she didn’t kill the innocent along with vanquishing the demon.
And even then, there were other concerns … such as whether the demon was strong enough after the ritual to possess someone else. Or strong enough to take its own shape and form.
“Dad,” Jared said, “Lily just needed a little time before all the ’rents started in on her. I was going to bring her home and then talk to Sheriff McPherson. I promise, just give me an hour.”
“You missed classes this morning, contributed to Lily’s delinquency. I’m taking Lily home-her mother is frantic-and then you and I will sit down with Sheriff McPherson.”
Moira couldn’t allow Lily to be alone. Fiona wanted her for a reason. “They can stay here,” Moira offered. “I don’t mind.”
Deputy Santos looked at her as if she were trash. Moira straightened her spine, but she couldn’t help but feel inferior and defensive under his intense disapproval. “Ms. O’Donnell, you’ve caused enough trouble.”
“I haven’t done anything!”
“You have Jared lying to me. You got him involved in God knows what-sex games? Drugs? I don’t know, but Abigail Weatherby is dead and both you and my son were there.”
Lily spoke, her big brown eyes wide. “Mr. Santos, I was there when Abby died. Jared came later, trying to find me. He had nothing to do with it. It was an awful accident, and-”
“Lily-” Moira interrupted.
“Stay out of it or I’ll take you down to the station,” Santos said.
“I�
�ll take Lily home,” Moira said, grasping at straws. Someone had to keep an eye out for her.
“Dad-”
“Enough!” Santos’s face was getting red. “Jared, Lily, come now or I’ll put you both under arrest.”
“You can’t-”
Santos stepped toward Moira. “Don’t talk. Not a word. I heard that something bizarre happened at the station this morning, and it involved you. You have unduly influenced these kids; you are trouble. I don’t know what your game is, but it’s over as far as my son is concerned. One word and you’ll be back in jail in fifteen minutes.”
“It’s okay, Moira,” Jared said. “I’ll take care of Lily.” He took his girlfriend’s hand.
It wasn’t okay, but Moira didn’t know what else to do. She couldn’t go back to jail, and if she tried to stop the cop, she had no doubt that he’d arrest her. Either way, Lily would still be home, alone and unprotected. Worse, Santos would find her gun and her knives, and take them. She’d be defenseless again. She couldn’t face Fiona empty-handed-no weapons, no open space, no magic.
Moira had no choice but to let them go.
“Now,” Hank said. He stepped through the door and looked up into the gray, overcast sky. The day looked as dreary as Moira’s mood.
Jared picked Lily up off the bed.
“I’m sure she can walk,” Hank said.
“Her feet are cut from running,” Jared said quietly. Moira glanced over; Lily wasn’t wearing any shoes, but had on a pair of Moira’s socks pulled up high. Blood had seeped through the bottom.
“Be careful,” Moira whispered as Jared passed by her. “Call me if anything happens.”
Jared whispered, “Take my truck.” He nodded toward the keys still in her hand.
Hank glanced over his shoulder, but Moira had already pocketed the keys. “Jared!” Hank barked.
Moira stared at the back of Hank’s neck. His hair was cut short, a little longer than a buzzcut, and it looked like there was dried blood right above his collar. She almost said something, then he shifted as she realized it wasn’t blood but a birthmark, a port wine stain that was centered at the base of his skull and went beneath his collar.
She was tired. Exhausted, more like it, seeing things. But she had no time to rest now. Finding Raphael Cooper was number one on her list, then destroying Abby Weatherby’s corpse before Fiona got her hands on it or summoned Abby’s vengeful spirit. She’d have to call Anthony, urge him to find a way to keep an eye on Lily. Surely he could do something, considering he was sleeping with the top cop in town.
Moira waited until Hank had driven off with Jared and Lily. Then she slipped out and drove Jared’s truck in the opposite direction, toward the cliffs, hoping she could retrace Cooper’s steps and find him before Fiona did.
Rafe didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, or unconscious. As his eyes slowly opened, he saw shades of light in the dark shadows of the abandoned cabin.
He was huddled in the corner of the filthy, foul-smelling room, shaking, cold and hungry, unable to move. He tried to stretch his quivering limbs, told himself he had to do it, but his body did not respond, paralyzed. He’d never felt so completely drained that he had no will to do anything. He would certainly die here, for even the thought that he would die if he didn’t leave gave him no strength to stand, or even crawl.
He’d expended every ounce of his energy in saving the girl and escaping the witches and demons.
The wind howled around the cabin, the boarded-up windows providing a break from the damp salt air.
Rafe had no idea how he’d found this cabin when he fled the chaos he’d caused.
Intellectually, he’d known that it wasn’t his fault that the demons had been released. He hadn’t started the deadly ritual; he would never have even flirted with the dark arts or any form of magic. It was antithetical to everything St. Michael’s Order stood for. He was one of the chosen few who was charged with stopping the spread of witchcraft, of sealing breaches between this world and the underworld. Even within St. Michael’s, he’d had talent-special gifts in their fight against evil.
Yet he’d had no part in any of the battles of late. He’d been most recently at St. John’s, hoping to become a priest but unable to say his vows. His mentor told him he should look deeper, try to better discern his calling. He’d thought helping the tortured priests at Santa Louisa de los Padres Mission was the answer.
He was wrong.
In his heart, he feared that somehow, he was just as culpable as the coven for what happened last night. When he stopped the demons from possessing the girl’s body, the arca, he’d known exactly what he was doing. Now? He tried to remember, tried to find the words, or at least understand their meaning, and nothing. Nothing but pain, in his head, in his heart, in every muscle of his body.
And now the demons were on earth, free. He had to find them, stop them. Demons could only be sent back to Hell; they couldn’t be killed.
Yes they can.
He frowned, trying to chase the words in his mind, to find the solution to the problem. If demons could be killed, how?
A sharp pain shot through his ear and his hands grabbed his head. Make the ringing stop! His stomach retched, but there was nothing inside, nothing to throw up, and he dry heaved until his gut ached.
He closed his eyes.
God, help me.
He slipped into sleep, or unconsciousness, or death … but the dead didn’t dream or remember, did they?
THIRTEEN
Skye watched the security tape twice without comment.
Rafe Cooper had been recorded four different times on three different cameras. The first was outside the elevator bank closest to his room-he’d shuffled by, wearing a hospital gown and appearing disoriented, confused, and in pain. A few minutes later he was seen entering the staff lounge at the opposite end of the floor. He seemed steadier, as if walking had given him strength, but he was still slow.
When he emerged-a good fifteen minutes later and in hospital scrubs he’d stolen from an employee locker-he still looked pale but walked with purpose, slow and steady. He was neither looking at the camera nor trying to avoid detection.
The last camera that caught him was mounted just outside the emergency room doors. He walked right out of the hospital.
“How does someone usually wake up from a coma?” Skye asked Cooper’s doctor, Richard Bertrand.
“There’s no typical way. I’ve seen a coma patient wake up after eight days with no side effects, ready to walk out the door. Mr. Cooper has received daily physical therapy and quality care, but his muscles would still have atrophied some after ten weeks, and he’d be too weak to walk. It normally takes weeks to fully recuperate. But Mr. Cooper’s unconsciousness-while technically a coma-was uncommon in itself. As I explained to you when he first came to me in November, he had no head trauma. No tumor, no aneurysm, no brain damage. His brain waves showed signs of REM sleep, but little activity during his so-called waking periods. It’s an atypical case, and while not the only such documented case, certainly rare.”
Skye was ticked off and worried. Where did this put her investigation? She had to talk to Cooper; he was still technically a material witness to the murders at the mission. She couldn’t very well put in her police report that a demon had been involved.
District Attorney Martin Truxel was going to be the biggest problem. The D.A. had made it clear that Cooper was his suspect, and when she reminded him that he was a prosecutor, not a cop, he told her flat out that she’d fucked up the entire case and it would cost her the election.
The D.A. had made it no secret that he was supporting Assistant Sheriff Thomas Williams, who’d recently filed to run against Skye for Sheriff. The election was five months away, and right now it was between Skye and Williams. With Cooper waking up-and walking out of the hospital-the murders at the mission would once again take front and center in the local media. The Santa Louisa Courier covered a small territory, but the four-person staff was dogged. Everyon
e in town read the paper daily, commented on the popular Courier website, and believed what was printed. If The Courier wrote it, it had to be true.
And on top of all that, she had daily messages on her desk from a Los Angeles crime reporter who was writing a damn book about the mission and the murders. It was enough to make Skye throw her hands up and take a full-page ad out in the Courier telling everyone exactly what happened-demonic possession and all.
Then Williams would win the election; her best friend, Detective Juan Martinez, would be either in prison or a mental hospital; and she’d probably be sued for wrongful death by the family of the deputy who had died on the cliffs, not to mention prosecuted for gross negligence. Because no one would believe that a demon-let alone witchcraft! — had been involved in the murders at the mission or the fire on the cliffs two nights later.
“No one saw him?” she asked Dr. Bertrand, incredulous that a formerly comatose patient could walk out of the hospital without anyone trying to stop him.
“A nurse checked his vitals at eleven p.m. before the shift change. At one a.m. the new shift was in, and the nurse who did rounds assumed he’d been taken for tests or moved, because his chart was missing. We’ve moved him a couple of times. And while tests aren’t common at night, because of tight budgets I run some of the scans then, when there is less demand on the equipment. I had been running REM tests on Mr. Cooper, trying to figure out what was causing the coma. The only answer is psychosomatic. He’d experienced a major trauma. His brain just shut down.”
Skye spoke to the nurse who’d found Cooper’s bed empty, the nurse who last checked his vitals, and everyone still in the building who’d been on duty between 12:07 and 12:29 a.m. while he’d been moving around the hospital before walking out of the building. No one remembered seeing him.
She finally said, “If he shows up back here at the hospital, call me.” She wrote her cell phone number on the back of her card and handed it to Dr. Bertand. “I’ll put an APB on Cooper, and anyone who finds him will be instructed to bring him back here for medical evaluation, under guard, until I know what’s going on. You good with that?”
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