Rico Cortese grabbed her wrist as she was about to cut him. “I thought you’d forgotten everything I taught you.”
“I would have pulled back in time.” She hoped.
“I know.” The Olivet instructor assessed her with a half smile. “At least you’re still in one piece, kid.”
“So are you,” she replied.
He wore all black and looked more like a Mafia thug than a man of God. His dark Italian complexion was marred by a scar across his temple, and he was built like a Marine. Moira supposed it was to be expected, since Rico led St. Michael’s version of Special Forces. Not so much an army for God as an army against Satan.
Rico gave her a tight hug, then kissed her on the cheek. “It’s good to see you. I’ve been worried.”
“Like you said, I’m in one piece.”
She’d forgotten how much she loved Rico, even if she’d wanted to kill him-often-during training. He’d forced her to work harder, think deeper, and feel far too much, all to break her apart and mold her into a warrior. In the end, when she thought she’d been torn apart one too many times and would never be anything but a pawn in a game she didn’t understand, he showed her that she was stronger than she’d believed possible.
But it was hugely different, and ten times harder, being in the actual battle than training for a hypothetical one. People didn’t die during training, and now there were no second chances.
He stepped back and she asked, “How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t. I came here first so I could see the ruins firsthand.”
“And what are your conclusions?”
He looked around the cliffs. “I know you’re standing outside where the circle was cast by Fiona’s coven. I saw where the plants began to die. I know there were demons here-powerful demons-by the evidence. The corruption of the soil, the dead earth. But”-he stared at her gravely-“I don’t sense Hell. I don’t feel the heat or see the rivers of fire. I’m aware of the evil because of what I see-it’s overwhelming if you know the signs-but that is nothing compared to what you feel.”
“How do you know what I feel?” she whispered.
“Before he was killed, Father Philip told me everything. There are no secrets. All I have to do is look at you and see the fear in your eyes.”
Her hands clenched and unclenched as she shifted her weight from the right to the left foot. Rico watched her fidget, himself standing still as a statue. It always made her nervous how Rico saw deeper inside her than she wanted. “Fear is your worst enemy, Moira. You need to take control of your emotions.”
“I can’t.” She gritted her teeth. “You weren’t there.”
He hadn’t been talking about the ruins and neither was she. One mention of Father Philip and she was mentally transported back to their battle against the demon Envy.
“You’re not the first person to have faced an incarnate demon.”
“Well, that takes away the warm fuzzies. I no longer feel special.”
“You forget I know you.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” He knew her weaknesses and doubts, what made her cry and what made her angry. She hated that.
“Show me your arm,” he demanded.
She put her hand on her hip. “No please? Where are your manners?”
He stared. Without humor, he said, “Please.”
Her heart was racing. Why did she care if he saw the scar? Why did she care what he thought, or if she’d screwed up? He might banish her, he might hate her, but he wouldn’t kill her. At least she didn’t think he’d kill her.
She angrily took off her jacket and dropped it to the ground. In the cold salt air, goose bumps rose from her sweaty skin. She held out her arm and Rico took her hand, turned it so he could inspect her injury. Considering the ferocity of the attack, it was amazing that there were only two small, round scars; one on her wrist and one near the inside of her elbow, where the demon’s jagged teeth had punctured deep into her flesh. The marks were faded as if she’d hurt herself as a kid-not been bitten by a rabid demon dog just two weeks ago.
“Tell me what happened.”
“I told you-”
He squeezed her wrist. “Everything.”
She jerked her arm away. “I did my research and figured out where Fiona was keeping Rafe. I found him in a double demon trap-Rafe was locked in a circle to protect him from the demon dog, and the demon was trapped in the room circling him, to prevent Rafe from leaving.”
“What did the demon look like?”
“Ugly as sin. Like a Cerberus, but with one head. Four legs, but his tail wasn’t wagging. It was spiked, like a stumpy dragon tail with thorns. I ran through his domain and into the trap with Rafe. I had to get Rafe out before Fiona returned. Not to mention that Fiona and her band of merry magicians were setting up their own ritual to regain control of the Seven. I stabbed the beast with a poison dart. He croaked, but not before the hellion bit me.”
“What happened to your arm at that point?”
“It hurt like it was being burned in the fucking flames of Hell. What else?” Her breathing quickened as Rico drew out her anger. Meanwhile, he was a damn emotional iceberg. He had to be. He’d tried to train her to be just as cool but failed in that regard. She’d never learned to perfect the hard, uncaring exterior that most Olivet graduates maintained.
He didn’t respond. She closed her eyes, picturing herself back in the middle of that round room that had reeked of sulphur and rot. “It bit me as I plunged the poison dart into its chest. It convulsed and died in the corner. And no matter what Anthony says, it was dead, not just unconscious. And don’t ask me why it didn’t turn to ash or disappear into the underworld-I don’t know, and at the time I didn’t think about it because we had more pressing issues.”
“Your arm?”
“It hurt, it bled, it bubbled like acid. I wrapped it in a shirt, then Rafe and I got the hell out of Dodge. When I took the shirt off, it was-well, the little teeth marks were mostly gone, and poof! I had these two deep red punctures. By the next day they were scars, and now they’re like this.”
There was an awkward silence as he fully concentrated.
“Show me your hand.”
“Hand?”
“Don’t be obtuse. The hand that Raphael cut open and stuffed in the demon Envy’s gut.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. Rico Cortese was watching her, observant as a hawk. She held out her left hand and he took firm hold of her wrist.
Rafe hadn’t cut through any tendons and the throbbing pain had disappeared, but she’d have a scar for life-unlike the scars on her arm, which would soon completely vanish.
He stared for a long minute. Moira snapped, “Take a fucking picture.”
Rico dropped her hand, removed a small box from his inside jacket pocket, and handed it to her. “Open it.”
She did. Inside was a syringe and vial. Before she quite knew what he intended to do, Rico took a rubber tie from his pocket.
“What?” Moira began, looking from the syringe to Rico, then back again. “You-want my blood?”
“Please make a fist.”
Moira didn’t want to comply. Tears burned in her eyes. “What’s going on?” she demanded. Rico tied the rubber around her upper arm, tapped her vein, rubbed an alcohol wipe over the spot, and inserted the needle. Blood flowed into a vial.
He wasn’t going to tell her. She hated him right then. What a fool she was! A guinea pig, a lab rat, for what she didn’t even know. Why had she done any of this? Why hadn’t she just run away after Peter died and never returned to St. Michael’s? Never gone to Olivet? She could have fought Fiona on her own terms, and so what if Moira had died and gone to Hell? At least she would have taken Fiona with her. Peter’s death would have been avenged. Now Moira was tied to St. Michael’s Order, and they wanted her blood.
Rico released the rubber strap. “Relax.”
“Right.” She swallowed heavily as he swapped out one vial and replaced it with another empty tube. He too
k three samples, put them in the box, closed it, and put it back in his jacket. She glared at him. “What are you going to do with my blood?”
Rico’s expression softened just a fraction, and she knew him well enough to read that he regretted what he had to do.
But duty always won.
“I’m proud of you,” Rico said as he put a small Band-Aid over the puncture.
That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. She put her jacket back on.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Moira’s imagination ran the gamut of possibilities. Did she have some demonic virus? Had the demon infected her when it bit her? Or when Rafe sliced open her hand? Did they think the Seven Deadly Sins had affected her or her judgment? Were they working on a cure? She almost laughed at the thought, as if St. Michael’s would look beyond their battle toward a medical cure for losing one’s soul to a demon.
“I don’t have the answers you want.”
He turned away, signaling the conversation was over. She almost pushed him-verbally and physically. She wanted answers, and she’d fight to get them. But there was something subtle in Rico’s expression that had her backing down.
Instead of pushing, she said, “We should go back. I’m sure Anthony is wondering why you’re late.”
“I’m not late.”
She glanced at her watch. “He said twenty minutes-oh, about forty minutes ago.”
“Anthony will wait.” He turned back to face her. “Your emotions are dangerous not only to you, Moira, but to others. You care far too much. In our war, casualties are unfortunate but necessary. You can’t think logically if you act solely on your feelings or your loyalties are divided. There is a balance; you must find it. I thought I’d taught you better.”
“And you can forget Father Philip that easily? Snap, no feelings? No damn grief? I’m still human, just the way God made me, right?”
Rico reddened. She’d rarely seen him react to her needling. “I will say this once. I loved Father Philip and I grieve for our loss.” His voice quivered on the last sentence; then he said with firmness, “But I will not allow pain, sorrow, hatred, or rage to stop me from my sacred duty.”
Moira touched his arm, wishing she hadn’t pushed him. “I know you cared; I was out of line.”
He dipped his head and squeezed her fingers. “I cannot expect you to control your emotions any better than you have. You weren’t raised on the island.”
In other words, she was an outsider. Loneliness washed over her. Why did she think something had changed? Why did she think she belonged? She was as alone now as she’d been the day Peter died. One year of bliss in a lifetime filled with pain, loss, and violence.
“I must ask you,” he continued, “did Raphael use magic?”
Another unexpected question. Rico was full of surprises.
She answered as truthfully as she could, but still felt as though she was betraying both Rafe and Rico. She didn’t want to lie, but what was the truth?
“I don’t know.” She didn’t like the look on Rico’s face. Though he didn’t display any emotion she could identify, she knew Rico well enough to know that he was concerned about something-almost worried. Very unlike him. “Why do you think he did?”
“I read Anthony’s report. There are questions. Anthony may be too close to Raphael to … be impartial. And he doesn’t understand magic like you do.”
“There was so much magic flying around I could barely discern individual spells, let alone who was wielding the power. It was awful.” She paused, then asked Rico the question that had been on her mind since the moment she first saw him. That it effectively changed the subject was an added benefit. “Have you heard anything about Fiona? Where she’s hiding?”
He shook his head. “You will be the first to know, Moira. I can search for her all I want, but you’ll be the one to find her. You know that. For seven years, you’ve been the only one who could.”
“Oh, joy.”
He took both her hands and held them. How unlike Rico, showing compassion. “I am not going to lie to you, Moira. Our war will get harder. Defeating Fiona is only part of the whole. You must destroy the Conoscenza.”
“That damn book!” She looked around at the dead earth. That book-the Book of Knowledge, the ancient grimoire filled with spells allegedly written in demon blood-was supposed to have been destroyed more than a century ago. But Fiona had searched for it and found it, believing it would give her the key to immortality. And perhaps it would. Fiona didn’t care about the cost; she didn’t care about anything but her own selfish desires. The Seven Deadly Sins she’d released from Hell were only the beginning, and Moira would do everything in her power to stop her.
Except use magic. Her attempt to stop Fiona with magic before had left the only person she’d ever loved dead, and Moira herself somehow connected to the underworld in ways she certainly didn’t understand. She doubted even Rico or Father Philip understood. Which was why everyone was wary around her. Suspicious, like Anthony.
“Have you figured out how I’m supposed to get rid of this book?”
“No. But Dr. Lieber has agreed to meet with Anthony. We hope to have answers very soon.”
She should be happy with the news, but the way Rico said it, a blanket of foreboding suffocated her.
“Terrific!” she said with fake enthusiasm. “I can hardly wait.”
“Moira, please be careful.”
“Always.” She winked at him. “I’m running back to the house. See if you can keep up.”
She ran, not waiting for an answer to her unspoken challenge, sure he wasn’t telling her everything, but not knowing whether it was because he didn’t want to or whether his silence was due to orders from a higher power. She wished she knew exactly who was calling the shots. She hated being a pawn.
Either way, Rico was keeping secrets from her and those secrets were going to hurt her.
Or get her killed.
TWO
After seventeen years on the force, the last nine as detective, Detective Grant Nelson trusted his gut instincts. They were rarely wrong. While he would wait for the evidence, Grant was confident that the death of George Erickson was the result of sex games turned deadly.
Grant assessed the murder scene. Private home in upscale Westwood, wife out for the night with friends, bedroom set up for a romantic tryst with candles, champagne, and the sultry voice of Patsy Cline playing in the background.
And of course the dead guy, on his back buck naked on the fully made bed, with no visible cause of death. Heart attack or OD; Grant opted for heart attack because there was no vomit or signs of violent convulsions, no obvious signs of drug use or abuse. Did the mistress panic and bail? If so, they’d probably pick up her prints. Or did Erickson collapse from the exhaustion of his sexcapade? Walk the woman out, then drop dead of a heart attack? Or maybe the wife caught him sleeping off a drunk, realized she hadn’t been the recipient of the mood music and champagne, and suffocated him with a pillow. Whichever scenario, they had some legwork ahead of them to put together the pieces. This was the part of police work Grant enjoyed-the puzzle.
“Only one glass of champagne.” Grant’s new partner, Jeff Johnston, walked slowly around the room. Johnston, who looked like the football lineman he’d been in college, had been a uniformed officer in the Devonshire Division before his recent promotion. He peered into the trash can in the corner. “Scratch that. There’s another glass in a million pieces. Think CSI can put Humpty Dumpty back together again and print it?”
Grant stared at the shattered crystal. Why toss the glass? Another puzzle piece for him to fit. Not reporting the death is one thing; covering up her identity quite another. Could be a hooker with a rap sheet.
CSI and the deputy coroner arrived. Grant and Jeff left them to process the scene while they sought out the deceased’s wife. Officer Ann Timmons had been consoling Mrs. Pamela Erickson. She stood and approached them when Grant and Jeff entered the living room.
She roll
ed her eyes. “Good luck.”
Odd, Grant thought as Timmons met up with her partner on the front porch.
Pamela Erickson was pretty-though on the skinny side-with red-rimmed eyes and her long brown hair up in the back. She was pissed off.
“Who’s the bimbo that walked out on my husband?” she demanded. “What woman does that? Walks out on someone who’s dying?”
Grant sized her up. He’d interviewed hundreds of next-of-kin and he’d seen all sorts of reactions to death. But this was a shade different. Why did the wife assume Erickson was dying while his mistress was still in the room?
“We don’t know for certain that anyone was here with your husband,” he said, though he didn’t believe that for a minute. “Or, if someone was here, whether Mr. Erickson was dead before or after she left.”
She stared at him. “You can’t be that dense-I found him. I saw the bedroom. Someone was with George last night and it wasn’t me!”
“Did you know your husband was having an affair?”
She laughed, a tinge of bitterness lacing her humor. “He wasn’t having an affair. He was fucking around. Of course I knew it. He wouldn’t screw around behind my back.”
Swingers. Married couples who had an agreement they’d sleep around. Grant knew something about that. He’d never seen it end well-it sure as hell hadn’t worked for him and his failed marriage-but it was accepted practice these days among the movers and shakers in L.A., and had spread to suburbia. “Do you know who he was with last night?”
“No.”
“And I’m guessing you weren’t out with friends?”
She glared at him. “I’m not going to be judged by a cop on how George and I lived. We respected each other, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say about some marriages!”
“If there’s anything suspicious about your husband’s death,” Grant said, “I’ll need to verify your alibi.”
It may have hit Pamela Erickson at that moment that maybe her husband hadn’t died of natural causes. Her lower lip trembled and she swallowed, looking from Grant to Jeff and back to Grant. “Someone hurt him on purpose? B-But, George?”
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