“You got him?” Reggie asked.
“Keep her warm,” Grant told Reggie as he turned his attention back to Kent Galion.
Galion wasn’t moving. Shit, shit, shit!
“Officer Nelson?” Reggie said.
Grant ignored the bouncer and squatted next to Galion, feeling for a pulse with one hand, his entire body tense. At first he couldn’t feel anything, then realized that the pulse was so rapid he couldn’t count individual beats. Kent was hot as a furnace.
“Dammit, Kent, what shit are you on?” he muttered.
Julie and Ike came out through the back door. “A table blocked the—” Ike saw Galion on the ground. “My God, what happened?”
“What was he drinking?” Drugs and alcohol were a piss-poor combination.
“Club soda.”
“He’s cranked on something.” Grant had seen enough perps on PCP and meth and a dozen other hard-core narcotics to know an OD when he saw one. “Get wet towels, he’s burning up; make sure an ambulance is on the way. Tell them possible drug overdose. Did you call nine-one-one?”
Julie nodded, then went to Rachel and took the traumatized barmaid from Reggie.
“He followed me, Julie, he was looking at me all night, he said—he said I’d agreed to have sex!” Rachel sobbed. “I didn’t, I didn’t do anything to make him think that, I swear Julie, I didn’t—”
“Shh, I know, honey, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” Julie said as she led the girl back into the club.
Grant grabbed the towels that Ike had brought out and tried to get Galion’s temperature down.
Don’t you dare croak. Don’t do it.
Galion began to convulse.
“Where’s the damn ambulance?” Grant demanded a moment before he heard the sirens.
Kent Galion died en route to the hospital.
ONE
Present Day
Moira O’Donnell woke up with blood on her hands.
Her heart raced as she sat upright in the strange bed, staring at the dark-red blood drip, drip, dripping onto the white sheets, disappearing as each thick drop spread. She swallowed the scream that fought to escape.
She blinked and the blood was gone. The panicked rage faded. She almost—almost, but not quite—forgot the feeling of her hand clenching the heavy, balanced dagger. Almost forgot the sickening sound of the blade slicing through tendons, hitting bone, cutting out an invisible soul and throwing it to demons that tore it to shreds, feeding.
It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.
She repeated the mantra, reminding herself that it was only a nightmare, that she’d certainly never killed a person.
The fear from the dream stayed; it always did. Moira lived with fear day in and day out, sometimes buried so deep she almost could believe it was gone. When she lied to herself.
As the nightmare faded, her vision blurred. The dim early morning light coming from the edges of the closed blinds looked cloudy and surreal, like her nightmare. She felt a vision coming on … but that wasn’t possible. She’d never been fully awake for a vision before; they’d always hit her in the moment of unease immediately following a nightmare, before she could claw her way back to consciousness.
She was awake—knew she was awake—but everything around her was foggy, while her mind started a movie she didn’t want to see. Moira’s gut reaction was to stop the onslaught of images, but she couldn’t even if she’d tried. In a rush, her mind flooded with thoughts not her own, sights she’d never witnessed, feelings she’d never had. No vision had ever been anything like this. Not this physical sense of evil seeping into every pore, filling her until she wanted to scream.
She flew across the continent and back, tired. Bored. Frustrated. There were many places she could stay, but none of them appealed to her. It was all too easy. The desires of the body were weak, and she was anything but weak. She wanted freedom, but wasn’t free. She wanted vengeance, and she could have it—have everything—when she was free.
Freedom! Her time was now. She grew stronger with each passing day.
Yet, her spirit was caught by something stronger than she. She resisted, angry. But she was tied to the earth, and the harder she fought, the weaker she became. Spinning, spinning, spinning out of control, shrinking …
A weak, dark-haired woman sat in the circle, waiting for her. She fought the entrapment, but she’d been in the astral plane, and her anchor had called her back.
Someone trapped her! She stretched and fought and vowed revenge on her captor. The mind that shared this body was foolish. She suppressed it. Brutally, without remorse.
Moira screamed as pain filled her head. For a split second, she thought she was possessed. She tasted the hot sulphur on her tongue, felt an evil presence under her skin; then it was gone. The vision, the pain, everything. Everything but the fear.
Her body shook violently. From the corner of her eye she saw movement—something was in her room. She jumped out of bed, knife in hand without even thinking about reaching under her pillow for her weapon. She held it in front of her to ward off dark magic or a demon, making quick, confident strides toward the enemy.
“Moira!”
Rafe. She swallowed, blinked, tried to regain her focus as she wobbled on her feet. He grabbed her wrist and her vision cleared. She had been inches from him. What if she’d hurt him? What if she’d been trapped in a vision and killed him?
“You were looking right at me, but you didn’t see me,” he said quietly.
She shook her head to clear her foggy mind and sat back heavily on the edge of her bed.
She had to get her mind wrapped around what had just happened. The nightmare, waking up, the vision—being only inches from Rafe before she recognized him.
Maybe she had been asleep. That made her more dangerous to those she cared about.
She’d been in Santa Louisa for nearly a month, but the last two weeks she’d been doing nothing. Anthony Zaccardi, Santa Louisa’s own resident demonologist, had his books and research, trying to track down the Seven Deadly Sins. Rafe had his physical therapy and retraining. And what did she have? Exercise until her body ached. Nightmares that reminded her of her deadly flaws. Visions almost daily for the past two weeks that left her drained and on edge. And still no trace of her mother, Fiona O’Donnell, or Fiona’s lover, Matthew Walker. In the last seven years she’d never stayed in any one place this long, except when training to become a demon hunter at Olivet. At least there she’d worked her ass off, too exhausted to go stir-crazy.
“I’m okay,” she said, but not fast enough.
Rafe didn’t believe her, but he didn’t need words to ask. He never did. His dark, bottomless blue eyes questioned her, compelling the truth from her lips.
“I had another vision,” she admitted.
That she could say it out loud showed she’d accepted the fact she was a freak. She’d always known it, but now? Well, it sounded even crazier. But Rafe didn’t think so, which was both comforting and scary as hell. They were so much alike … yet so different. She was scared to death of what might happen if she dropped her shields. There was no future for her; she couldn’t lose her focus.
“I think …” How could she explain? “One of them—one of the demons—found a host.” That wasn’t quite right, but she didn’t understand everything she’d felt and heard and thought. “Or something like that.” It sounded lame. It was lame.
“Anthony doesn’t believe they’re seeking to possess anyone.”
“Anthony doesn’t know everything,” she snapped.
Rafe walked over to the dresser and leaned against it, crossing his arms over his chest. Already, two weeks after he miraculously awakened from his coma—if that’s what it was that had kept him unconscious for ten weeks—he’d regained his color and much of his strength. They were staying at Anthony and Skye’s place—hardly big enough for the four of them—with Rafe sleeping on the couch. She needed to get out of this place. Not just because she itched to f
ind her mother again, but because the close proximity to Rafe was too distracting. Not to mention Anthony’s need to control both of them day and night, and Skye’s constant questions. Moira liked the cop, but there were some things better left outside of the law. If Sheriff Skye McPherson knew even half the laws Moira had broken …
Rafe still didn’t say anything. Damn, how annoying was that? He just pinned her with his sharp eyes, his unshaven square jaw locked, waiting for her to tell him the truth.
“I know it’s not possible,” she began—hoping it wasn’t possible—“I just—it felt—” She hesitated, then said what she truly feared. “It felt like I was looking through the demon’s eyes. I tasted Hell on my tongue, my blood burned. But—I think—” She bit her lip.
“What?”
“She was pure evil, Rafe. Powerful. And really pissed off. She felt trapped, and somehow she blamed me.” She gave him a half smile. “Stupid, I know.”
Rafe didn’t smile, nor did he say anything—why was he always so damn quiet? Why couldn’t he get angry like Anthony or frustrated like Skye? Instead, he was calm.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you, demon or human.”
He barely whispered, but she heard every word as if his voice etched them directly onto her bones. Every hair on her skin rose. He appeared unflappable, but his stoicism was a ruse—he was a tightly controlled bundle of energy, his restlessness tangible but unseen. His words had movement and weight. He never had to raise his voice to be heard, and everyone listened.
She wanted to believe him. He meant what he said, but he wasn’t strong enough to protect her—or anyone—from the Seven. Neither was she; none of them were. They’d nearly died battling the demon Envy, and they had even lost one of their own. A loss she feared would be repeated until there was no one left standing.
Despair had moved in with her fear, but she fought it, questioning whether they were her own feelings or left from residual contact with the Seven. Was their power still present even though they had long left Santa Louisa?
All but the demon Envy, trapped in a tabernacle at St. Francis de Sales in downtown Santa Louisa, in a vault that Moira had commented was the supernatural equivalent of Fort Knox. Anthony hadn’t been amused. He never was.
But Rafe had smiled at her joke behind Anthony’s back, and winked at her, another reason why she was drawn to him. He liked her quick wit, and he made her smile.
“For nearly two weeks, I’ve been doing nothing but waiting for something we can’t even identify,” she said. “How can we stop the Seven Deadly Sins if we don’t know where they are? Do we have to wait until someone drops dead? Do we have to wait until we hear on the news that Greed is working its evil magic on Wall Street or people are dying because they’re too slothful to eat? And dammit, where did Fiona go? I can’t feel her magic anymore. They’re just gone, and I’m waiting for them to come after me! And what if—”
She stopped. When had she become a sniveling brat? She had to put the fear aside or it would bite her in the ass. Yeah, she was worried—so was everyone else. She had to stop feeling sorry for herself, accept her fate, and move forward. Maybe if she repeated the mantra enough she could make it happen.
“Moira, what is it?” Rafe asked, his concern apparent.
She gave voice to her hidden fear. Maybe by speaking it aloud she could stop it from seeming so real. “What if the Seven have infected me?”
He looked at her tenderly and shook his head. “They haven’t. You would know.”
“But I don’t know.”
He smiled. “This is a silly conversation, Moira.”
She shook her head, biting back a smile.
“I saw that,” he said, and sat next to her. He took her hand and kissed it. “Come on, smile.”
Moira started to smile, mostly because Rafe could be so endearing even when he annoyed her, but he kissed her hand again, holding her palm to his lips a moment too long. He stared at the scar from the demon attack two weeks ago, the scar he’d given her to save them all, and his face darkened. He squeezed her fingers tight, almost too tight, and pulled her to his chest.
She had no time to protest as Rafe’s lips covered hers, as one hand held hers between them and the other pressed against her back, holding her still. She tried to turn away, but his mouth followed, sliding down her cheek, to her neck, to the oh-so-sensitive spot behind her ear. A startled gasp escaped her throat and it sounded like she was enjoying this, like she wanted Rafe.
And she did. She’d been keeping her distance because every time she got too close, every time he touched her—innocently or not—she remembered that kiss. That damn, incredible, heated kiss two weeks ago that affected her so deeply that she still warmed at the memory.
It wasn’t a memory anymore. It was happening again, only this time Rafe wasn’t injured, and this time they weren’t about to go to battle against a demon. She could make no excuses about the risk of the moment, the fears of life or death fueling their sex drive, because right now they sat in her bedroom—on her bed—and Rafe was not slowing down.
“Rafe—” Her voice cracked when his hand moved up under her shirt and touched her breast. Her body betrayed her, her hand shot out and wrapped around Rafe’s neck, pulling his mouth back to hers. Waves of conflicting emotions, of lust and fear, of desire and doubt, battled. They shouldn’t be doing this. Moira couldn’t do this. There was too much at stake.
She refused to open her heart because Rafe could die. Worse, he could die because of her.
She’d already lost the first man she ever loved. She couldn’t love again. And with Rafe, sex wouldn’t be a hot and heavy one-night stand.
“Rafe—” Resolved, she put her hands between them and pushed. Hard. He got the point and let her go, a frown hardening his handsome face.
“I, um—” she stuttered, her face flushed. “You want to go to the gym?” That was lame. She swallowed nervously, took a deep breath, and regained her composure. “Well?”
“Every time I get close to you, you take me to the gym. Or for a run. Anything to avoid talking about what you feel when I touch you. What I feel when I think of you. Why I can’t get you out of my mind. You look at me when you think I’m sleeping. I know you’re worried. About what?”
“This isn’t the time—”
“It’s never the time for you,” Rafe said, frustrated.
Movement in the hall startled her, Moira jumped when Anthony appeared in the bedroom doorway. What if he’d walked by two minutes ago? He did not like Moira and Rafe spending time together. Did he suspect they had this attraction? He looked as if he hadn’t slept the night before, with bags under his bloodshot eyes. Anthony had been clocking a lot of hours at the mission reading old books, many handwritten and in ancient languages.
“Rico’s plane just landed,” he said. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes.” He glanced at Rafe. “I need to talk to you.”
She raised an eyebrow at Anthony. “Secrets already?”
He didn’t answer her.
She pushed by him. “Whatever. I’m going for a run.”
“Be back in twenty minutes,” he repeated.
Moira paused, staring at Anthony. She wanted to say so much to him—that she was sorry about everything that had happened seven years ago, that she missed Father Philip as much as he did, that she wished he’d trust her, that she needed his experience if they were going to stop the Seven Deadly Sins.
But he wouldn’t even look at her, the distrust and dislike rolling off him. He hated her. He’d never admit it; it would be so un-Christian for him to hate anyone. She didn’t know why his disdain hurt so damn much.
Moira left the house and set off on her jog at a brisk, steady pace, pushing aside Anthony’s animosity, her growing and unwanted feelings for Rafe, and her confusion over her most recent vision. She focused on running, breathing, one foot ahead of the other. As she ran, her head began to clear.
She loved to run through the early morning fog, the cold, damp sea air burnin
g and cleansing her lungs as if she were running through purgatory, pain and pleasure. She’d been staying at Skye and Anthony’s for two weeks now and knew the cliffs along the shore almost as well as she knew the paths at Olivet, where she’d lived for more than a year.
But even now, she couldn’t think of herself as a demon hunter, because the only reason she’d been trained to banish demons from Earth was to clear the field to pursue her mother, the evil witch who used demons and magic to protect herself from St. Michael’s Order. Moira, in turn, had to be able to protect herself from whatever her mother—or her half sister—tossed her way so she could live to battle them again.
As she ran she realized she was heading north, toward the ruins two miles away where it had all started. Two weeks ago Fiona had cracked open the gates of Hell long enough to release the Seven Deadly Sins, incarnate demons who should never have been allowed to escape the bowels of the underworld.
Moira had been to the ruins only once after she’d found Rafe hiding in a nearby cabin, though she knew Anthony often ventured out here alone. But he didn’t see what she saw; he didn’t feel the evil slithering over every cell in his body like she did when she neared the ruins.
She felt as if she were drowning in evil, sinking lower and lower until demons could grab her soul and torture her until the end of time. It was enough to drive most people crazy. Maybe only the truly deranged would endlessly fight demons in a losing battle. Normal people—sane people—certainly didn’t seek out incarnate evil.
As Moira neared the ruins, she saw evergreen bushes that had turned black, and the cypress trees that dotted the central coast going from canopies of dark winter green to shriveled, leafless, gnarled wood. There were no birds chirping, no animals scurrying under the dead bushes. Three dead seagulls lay rotting near the edge of where the coven’s circle had been cast. Had they flown too close to the evil that still radiated from the ground? Were they thrown off course, or dragged down against their will?
Moira realized one thing about her visions: they almost always led her back here, to the ruins. She’d been fighting them for two weeks, but this morning’s vision had brought her here. There was something she could learn from the scorched earth.
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