Carnal Sin

by Allison Brennan

  The door opened and Detective Nelson walked in with a stately, beautiful woman in her thirties. The woman glared at Moira. “She looks fine to me.”

  “Wendy, I just need a place to talk to them and find out what happened in the alley.”

  Moira knew that Wendy was the head witch, the high priestess, and this was her locker. Magical energy bubbled beneath the surface of the woman’s skin, ready to lash out, but she kept it under tight control.

  Detective Nelson handed Moira a water bottle.

  Wendy said, “First you come in here making accusations against me and then expect me to help you?”

  “I explained I have to follow up on every lead.”

  “Lead? You can’t think that the lawyer’s death had anything to do with the club. We’re already dealing with press issues because of what Kent did.”

  “I’m not going to publicize this. You know me better than that.”

  Wendy didn’t look happy, but Moira suspected it had more to do with her presence than with Nelson’s investigation. The negative energy coming from Wendy was aimed right at her. If she was a witch tied into black magic like Moira thought she was—and her sister was in fact Nicole Donovan—Wendy would know who she was, and who her mother was.

  “Fine,” Wendy said, “but we open in forty-five minutes, and I need you gone.”

  “Can we use your office?” Nelson asked.

  “No,” she said and walked out.

  Moira said, “Hostile, isn’t she?”

  Nelson ignored her comment. “What were you doing in the alley?”

  “We told you.”

  “I’m not buying it. Did McPherson send you down?”

  “The deaths of Mr. Monroe and Mr. Erickson are connected,” Moira said. “You saw the marks on their bodies.”

  “The coroner found no evidence of homicide,” Nelson said.

  “Then why are you still investigating?”

  He hesitated. “Do you have evidence that proves the deaths were not natural?”

  Neither Moira nor Rafe said anything. Detective Nelson looked tired and frustrated. Moira began to feel odd—the hair on her skin rose. She feared she was being watched, but when she surveyed the room there was nothing here. Yet … she trusted her instincts. Slowly she relaxed the internal barrier that protected her senses. She allowed herself to feel the magical energy building in the air.

  “We might be able to help,” Moira said.

  “You have evidence?” He sounded sarcastic.

  Moira was taking a risk telling the outsider anything, but she didn’t know how else to bring him to their side. “Does Wendy Donovan have a sister named Nicole?”

  The question surprised Nelson, and the answer was clear on his face even before he said yes.

  “I knew it,” Moira said.

  “Meaning?”

  Rafe answered. “Nicole Donovan is wanted for questioning as a material witness in the murder of a priest two weeks ago.”

  “Ask Sheriff McPherson,” Moira added.

  Detective Nelson stood. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t tip them off!” Moira said.

  He looked at her squarely. “I have no intention of doing any such thing, but I’m going to verify your accusation.”

  As soon as he left, Moira said, “Do you feel something?”

  “No—but I can tell you do.”

  “I don’t know exactly what, but I think someone is in the process of casting a spell. It’s not a full ritual—too subtle—but it’s definitely here.”

  Moira went back to Wendy Donovan’s locker. She picked the lock in five seconds and Rafe said, “What are you doing?”

  “We’re leaving, but I need to know where I can find her.”

  “We should call Skye, get her over here to straighten this out. I don’t want you going back to jail.”

  Moira closed her eyes and said, “I think—it feels to me like the spell is aimed at Detective Nelson.” She looked at Rafe. “What if that’s what they’re doing? Trying to get him to put us in jail? Right where Fiona can get at me?”

  Panic rose and she swallowed uneasily.

  “Okay, let’s get out of here. He’s not going to be happy if we walk out but I don’t see another option.”

  “Better we walk than if he finds our weapons.” She frowned, reaching into her pocket. “My—”

  “I have your dagger.” Rafe slipped it from his pocket to her. She breathed in relief. “But he saw your gun. Didn’t say anything; maybe he thought you’re legal because you work with Skye.”

  “He knows I’m not a cop. I’d rather take my chances out there than here. But I want to see what’s in the witch’s locker. Maybe she knows where Fiona is.”

  She looked through all Wendy’s things. “No wallet, nothing! We need to find out where she lives. Maybe Nicole is there, hiding out—dammit, she needs to answer for what she did! How do we find her? Follow her when she gets off work?”

  “We should talk to Jackson Moreno.”

  Moira froze. She closed Wendy’s locker. Jackson Moreno—she had tried to forget about him and his family. She’d been so arrogant, so damn stupid back then. When she thought she could save everyone. When she thought everyone wanted to be saved.

  “No,” she said emphatically. “We don’t need him. Besides, he won’t want to help me.”

  “Jackson knows more about witches in Los Angeles than anyone else.”

  “I know, but—”

  “He has supplies; he’s supported St. Michael’s for years.”

  “He’s not one of us.”

  “Technically, neither are you!”

  Moira bit the inside of her bottom lip. It was true, but she expected comments like that from Anthony, not from Rafe. It hurt, reminding her that she was still alone.

  “I’m sorry,” Rafe said immediately, his voice full of remorse. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. It’s obvious you have issues with Moreno. But Father Philip trusted him. What about you? Do you not trust him?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not that,” she said softly. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in the past, and there’re some people I don’t want to see again. But you’re right—Jackson will know everything there is to know about Wendy Donovan, or know where to get the information.” She held up a small book.

  “What’s that?”

  “Wendy’s spell book. It seems to be notes and ideas, not her primary grimoire. But it might help us figure out exactly what she’s up to and how it connects to this demon.”

  She suddenly jumped, her neck ice-cold.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We have to leave now. Detective Nelson is returning. I can’t go back to jail, Rafe.”

  “I’m not letting anyone take you anywhere.” He grabbed her hand and they ran out the back door.

  Rico stepped into the sanctuary of Olivet, but he didn’t feel the relief he normally experienced when he arrived at the place he called home in the foothills outside Missoula. They were close enough to the city that winter posed only an inconvenience, while many other places in Montana were completely cut off.

  Olivet itself was a virtual fortress, with four connected L-shaped buildings surrounding a courtyard that blossomed breathtakingly in the spring and summer. When Moira had first arrived at Olivet, for her original assessment six years ago, she’d come in May, and the only time he’d seen peace cross her face was when she walked through the lush gardens in the courtyard.

  Lodging was in the main building, along with their classrooms. The other buildings were off-limits to most people. But it was the deceptively small structure in the back, connected through underground tunnels that extended deep into the mountainside, where Rico brought the tabernacle.

  Tobias—one of a set of triplets left at the doors of St. Michael’s as infants twenty-eight years ago—was waiting for Rico when he arrived. He and his identical brothers Darius and Joseph had unusual gifts that made them indispensible to the Order. Ric
o did not like the term “psychic,” for it felt unholy, but it was the closest to the truth. The triplets could communicate and share information with one another telepathically, which was an invaluable gift when you needed information immediately and there was no access to phone or computers. More so, the triplets could almost see out of their brothers’ eyes. Rico had done extensive testing on the brothers to make sure there was no evil at the core of their gift, and he’d even brought Moira in and had her scour for magic or demonic energy that might be too subtle for Rico to recognize the signs. But it appeared that the gifts were truly heavenly—or at least, natural and not satanic. Sometimes it was hard to discern, but gifts came from within, while magic—witchcraft—came from casting spells and calling on supernatural forces.

  Darius and Joseph were on assignment, but Tobias was here, keeping guard. “The storm has worsened,” Tobias said.

  “Yes, but I need to go out again.” Rico placed the iron box on the table. Inside was Envy, contained in the tabernacle.

  “I’ll secure the beast.”

  “Thank you.”

  Tobias lifted the heavy chest with ease and took it to the vault.

  Rico walked down the wide hall to the small lab. He sat at a sterile table and removed a vial of Moira’s blood. One blood sample he’d hidden at the mission; another he’d placed in the box with Envy. He wasn’t certain why—he was guided by instinct. But if his theory was correct, if there was something in Moira’s blood that killed or harmed demons, then the presence of her blood might keep the demon under better control.

  Rico had been asked to obtain only one sample for testing, but he’d learned that being prepared was akin to staying alive.

  A ringing phone interrupted these thoughts. He answered it with a generic “Hello.”

  “It’s Cardinal DeLucca. Rico?”

  “Yes, Cardinal.”

  “Is it done?”

  “The demon is in the vault.”

  “And did you get the sample?”

  “Yes.” His stomach felt unusually tight and uncomfortable. Moira had looked at him with such intense betrayal that guilt flooded him even now. He’d done many difficult things in his life in the battle against evil, but every action was required to save a soul. Something as simple as drawing Moira’s blood shouldn’t elicit such turmoil and doubt.

  He did not doubt. His faith was what made him strong.

  “Have you tested it yet?”

  “No.”

  “You should have done it as soon as you landed.”

  “I had to secure the demon first.”

  “Of course.” The cardinal sounded impatient, but Rico wasn’t surprised. That the Seven Deadly Sins were on the earth threatened all of them. And with their recent losses … including Father Philip … Rico’s chest hitched. Philip had been their rock. The human cornerstone of St. Michael’s Order. Now the others looked to him for guidance, and he felt ill-prepared to be anything but the warrior that he was. Philip had been the leader; he’d been the one who led the counsel and who, in his silence, commanded the most respect.

  If it weren’t for Father Philip, Moira would have been executed long ago.

  “Anthony is on his way,” Rico said. “He’ll be landing in Italy just after noon, your time.” Which was only about nine hours from now. Which meant it was past midnight for the cardinal. “You’re up late, Cardinal.”

  “I won’t be able to rest until I know the results.”

  He sighed. “I’ll call you within the hour.”

  He rose, retrieved a syringe from supplies, and drew out half the blood in the vial. He then stored the remainder in a refrigerator, capped the syringe, and left.

  Tobias was dressed for the cold. Rico hadn’t asked him to join him in this assignment, but Tobias knew he was needed. “You had no choice, Rico,” Tobias said.

  He nodded. “Let’s do it quickly.”

  While Rico had been traveling today, Tobias had located a possessed human. The man was restrained in a demon trap in another building on the far side of the compound. Now they would see if Moira’s blood was what they suspected: poison to demons.

  If they were right, then all the other research they’d discovered over the years would be validated. If her blood was poison, the words of the Unknown Martyr would be fulfilled: that only blood that could kill a demon could forever destroy the Conoscenza. Exactly as they had believed for so long.

  They would have a powerful weapon in Moira against the demons that walked on earth; though the Seven could be sent back to Hell, there were others. The battle wouldn’t be over until Judgment Day. Moira’s blood would be in demand by everyone in the Order. They would bleed her to save the world, and Rico would be the one to force her to comply. He knew her well enough to know that she’d never agree to be locked here in Olivet for the rest of her life, a prisoner. But they couldn’t let her roam. If the covens knew the power of her blood they would kill her, or use her in far more painful and hideous ways to control the demons they summoned. Renegade groups—unaffiliated with St. Michael’s but whom they had worked with from time to time—would want her for their own plans, many of which went against the creed of St. Michael’s: Protect the innocent.

  Many in St. Michael’s had died protecting the innocent lambs of God, but the men of St. Michael’s were preordained to this call. And others had joined them from the outside. Like Moira.

  You’re in love with her.

  Raphael’s accusation had contained more truth than Rico had known until the words were spoken.

  But love didn’t matter when at stake was the fate of humanity.

  TWELVE

  Moira bit her thumbnail as Rafe turned into Moreno’s church, Grace Harvest, near the Warner Bros. studio. Four years and it hadn’t changed. The trees had grown a bit, and there was a new one growing near the main doors. Long ago, GH had been a Catholic church and it still had the simple Spanish mission façade with tile roofs and mission-style arches, but the stained glass had long ago been replaced by clear windows, and the crucifix replaced with three empty crosses.

  GH was an independent church and while Moreno, with his charisma and personal wealth, could have grown the ministry into a powerhouse, he’d chosen to keep it of modest size and scope.

  “Are you going to tell me what your problem is with Moreno?” Rafe asked her as he parked in the empty lot near the main church entrance.

  She supposed she didn’t really have a choice. “Do you know him?” she asked

  “Only by reputation. He’s an authority on witchcraft and has been tracking the dark magic covens, particularly in the western United States. Anthony and Father Philip worked with him many times over the years.”

  “You know his oldest daughter disappeared with a coven four years ago.”

  Rafe nodded. “It’s what prompted him to devote so much of his time to St. Michael’s and give sanctuary to those who wanted to leave covens.”

  “I’m responsible for Courtney’s fall.”

  “You.” He stared at her, his dark blue eyes black with anger. “And Courtney had nothing to do with it? You have an inflated ego. You, alone, chased her into practicing black magic.”

  “No, but—” She clenched her fists. “I know what you’re doing, and you weren’t there!”

  “You’re always so damn hard on yourself, Moira!” Rafe snapped, running a hand through his dark hair. It fell back over his left eye. He reminded her of an Irish barkeep—hair a little too long, eyes a little too bright, and sex appeal far too potent for her to resist.

  But she would resist.

  Just think of all the people you hurt over the years, Moira. Do you want Rafe to be one of them?

  That was enough to throw a wet blanket on her libido.

  “I fucked up, Rafe.”

  “You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, taking the blame for all the bad choices that other people make. Dammit, why not just take the blame for Eve? After all, she took a bite of the damn apple in the first pla
ce. But that was probably your fault, too—I’m sure you could figure out a way to feel guilty about the fall of man.”

  Moira grabbed the vehicle’s door handle and opened it. Taking her arm, Rafe pulled her back inside the truck. She glared at him, pulling her arm free.

  Rafe gently touched the side of her face. His hands shook just enough that Moira realized he was still upset with her. But the look on his face had softened as he ran the back of his hand up and down her cheek.

  The silence between them unnerved her. She swallowed.

  “There’s no use holding off the inevitable,” she muttered, glancing at Moreno’s church.

  He took her hand and kissed it. “Let’s go.”

  The church was unlocked, but empty. They walked around the building to Jackson Moreno’s small, well-kept home. A twenty-year-old Mercedes was parked in the driveway. Jackson had the same car four years ago.

  Rafe knocked on the door and Jackson answered at once. “I saw you approach,” he said with a glance at Rafe, his eyes focused on Moira.

  She couldn’t read his expression. Jackson Moreno was conservatively handsome, in his mid-forties, with light brown hair graying at the temples. He was as tall as Rafe, trim, and wore pressed beige slacks and a crisp button-down light-blue business shirt without a tie, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

  Moira bit the inside of her cheek, remembering that she’d seen this man cry when his daughter disappeared.

  “Moira.” He was surprised to see them, his gray eyes inquisitive.

  “Hello, Pastor Moreno. I—we’re sorry to just drop in.” She cleared her throat. “This is Rafe Cooper, he’s with St. Michael’s.”

  “Cooper—Raphael Cooper.” He nodded in recognition. “I’ve heard of you, of course. Please, come in.” He opened the screen door. “And call me Jackson. I am so sorry about Father Philip. He was truly a good man.”