“If what?” she prompted.
“If I’m dangerous! I need answers. That’s why I need to go to the hospital. Answers are there. Please, believe me.”
As he stood, a wave of pain crossed his face, but he pushed forward, pacing slowly. She watched, leaning against the desk, resisting the urge to help or console him. Rafe had the same physical presence as most of the men from St. Michael’s. Calm on the outside but with energy rippling beneath the surface. The quiet intensity, the vibrancy of being alive and fighting, and part of a world most people didn’t know existed, let alone have any true understanding of what they faced daily.
He said, “When I stopped the ritual on the cliffs, I spoke in a language I do not know. I knew what they were doing even though I’ve never had more than a cursory study of demonology and witchcraft. I failed as a hunter, I failed as a seminarian, and I failed the men at the mission. What good am I if I can’t see evil when it’s right in front of me? I thought I found my calling here in Santa Louisa, but then my brothers were murdered. Mentally tortured and slaughtered like animals. Poisoned under my watch. Poisoned, because I was blinded—”
He cut himself off and put his hands on the wall, his back to her. A chill ran down her spine, but her voice was surprisingly calm when she asked, “Are you using magic?”
“No!” he shouted, turning to face her. His pale face was twisted in distress. “No,” he repeated. “Not on purpose. But I don’t know what I did, how I stopped them—maybe whatever Dr. Bertrand was doing to me turned me into one of them. What if I’m risking everyone? What if I’m the one who set the demons free?”
Now, Moira did cross the room. She put her hands on his shoulders and shook him. Though he had at least fifty pounds on her, he moved back and forth as if he were a leaf.
“Fiona and her coven are to blame. Not you. You can’t do that to yourself. Do you think that any of us are perfect? We all make mistakes. We all screw up big-time. If they did something to you, we’ll find out what and we’ll reverse it.”
“What if they’re using me? Using me for something I don’t even understand! I can’t fight against the unknown!”
“Well, I can tell you that you’re not possessed and you’re not under a spell. If you were cursed, we’d know it here, in this room.” She gestured toward the doors, windows, and vents she’d sealed. “So rule that out. I’m a witch, Rafe. I don’t use magic, but there’re some things I know because I was born this way. Conceived to be this way.” She spat out the last sentence, her anger getting the better of her. She took a deep breath. It was true that she could sense when someone was possessed or when witchcraft was in the air, but she wasn’t entirely convinced it was because she was born that way. Father Philip thought that after her possession seven years ago she was connected, somehow, to that other world. To her, it made her cursed. Father thought it might lead to victory. She hoped he was right.
“We’ll figure it out,” she repeated. “First, Lily. She’s in danger. Then, after Lily is safe, I’ll go to the hospital.”
“Not alone.”
“I’ve been alone most of my life, Rafe, and frankly, I like it that way. No one else gets hurt.”
Rafe watched her turn abruptly from him, mumbling an excuse as she stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
The pain in her voice was tangible, and Rafe wanted to take it away.
Moira was wrestling with something deep inside, as insidious as a snake, twisting her as it did him. A powerful urge to protect her washed through him, followed by a desire he knew he could never act on.
Only a moment later she stepped from the bathroom and said, “Ready?”
“Let me get my shoes.”
He stepped into the adjoining room and heard a card slide into the lock. He stopped.
Moira was right behind him. “What?”
Someone swore outside the door and moved away.
“Who was that?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She was concerned, her voice tight. She walked over to the door, listened. “They’re gone.” She frowned. “No—someone is there. Voices.” She closed her eyes. Rafe slipped on the shoes Anthony had brought with the clothing.
“Moira—”
“Shh.”
She was listening so intently, Rafe wondered if she could hear his heart beating.
Suddenly she said, “They know we’re here. We need to get out of here.” She ran back to the main room and grabbed her bag.
He followed her. “But they can’t get in. It’s safer if we stay.”
She shook her head. “Sure, we’re just fine for a while, but those guys were human. They can walk right in and do whatever they damn well please. And I don’t want to kill anyone, okay?” She frowned. “We can’t go out the door; I don’t know how many there are and they might be waiting for us to leave. The key didn’t work because they’d cast a spell on it, and at least my protections worked long enough to keep them out. The balcony—hey!”
Before she could finish her sentence, the lights went out. The emergency lights flickered on, blue and low to the ground.
“We’re so fucked,” Moira said.
TWENTY-ONE
Years of living in motel rooms and cheap apartments had trained Moira to travel light and stay packed. She had everything she needed in her bag and slung it on her back.
“Stay out of sight,” she said.
Moira crossed to the balcony and, while squatting, slowly opened the door but not the drapes. So far so good. She heard people in the hallway, guests complaining or worried about the power outage. Also good. She said to Rafe, “Stay here, by the door, don’t go out. I have an idea.”
“What?”
“Chaos. That’s a strategy that usually works.”
She ran to the door and listened again, but there were at least a half dozen people chatting in the hallway and she couldn’t distinguish the voices of the men she’d heard outside Rafe’s door. She closed her eyes, picturing the hall as she’d seen it when they first came in. They were three rooms from the end. To the left was the main hallway, and at the far end, the elevators. To the right was the staircase. The bad guys would assume they’d go to the staircase since it was closer. She hoped.
But next to the staircase was the fire alarm.
Outside her door she heard the shrill voice of a woman. “I was drying my hair! My hair is going to frizz if I can’t dry it! Kenny, can’t you do something?”
Moira took that moment to open her door and step out. The woman jumped. “Watch where you’re going!”
By the time she finished her sentence, Moira had opened the small door of the alarm and set it off.
The clanging of the emergency bells and a piercing siren trilled through the hallway.
“What are you doing?” the woman demanded as Moira stepped back into her room, shut the door, and slid both the bolt and the chain.
A swirling red light in the corner of the room had gone on with the alarm, along with a mechanical voice informing them of a possible fire and to leave the building.
“Let’s go,” she said to Rafe. “Stay low.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“Ask questions later. We’re going to jump. It’s only about twelve feet.”
In case someone was watching the balcony, she didn’t want to be obvious. The power outage helped some, though the emergency lights didn’t.
“On three,” she said.
They counted together, then she pushed open the sliding glass door and without hesitating, they both ran to the far corner of the wide balcony. They jumped together, rolling to soften the fall, and then were up and running low toward the trees on the north side of the lot where she had parked Jared’s truck.
Moira kept pace with Rafe, who didn’t have all his strength back but was moving fast enough. She spotted Jared’s truck under a street light and turned in that direction, Rafe right behind her. The fire alarm faded in the distance, but she couldn’t hear any sirens. She glanced
behind her and saw no one in pursuit, but she didn’t dare slow down.
She hadn’t told Rafe what she’d overheard in the hall, but he needed to know as soon as they were clear that he was in danger. The thugs hadn’t said a word about Moira but had mentioned Rafe by name.
Moira sprinted the last fifty feet so she could get the car open and started by the time Rafe got inside. Keys in hand, she clicked the unlock button and reached for the door at the same time that someone leaped out from between two cars in the next aisle. It happened so fast, while she was focused on who might be behind them, that the tall guy had an extra few seconds to grab her, and he slammed her head against the glass.
Shit! She tried to shake her head to rid it of the stars in her eyes. She was furious with herself; her instincts weren’t as sharp as they needed to be.
“Well, surprise surprise! It’s little Andra Moira,” the asshole cooed.
“Don’t say that name,” she hissed, jerking against him. He whipped out a knife and spun her around, holding the blade against her throat.
He laughed. “Your mother will be so pleased to see you again, Andra.”
Rafe watched as Moira was grabbed by the beefy thug and ran forward as if to tackle the attacker, halting ten feet from the truck when the man put a knife at her throat. Blood seeped through a cut on Moira’s forehead. Rafe’s chest burned, but everything around him stilled, his eyesight sharpened, and he focused on the immediate danger to Moira.
“Cooper,” the attacker said, pressing the knife into Moira’s flesh. “Come with me and I won’t kill her.” Blood dotted her pale skin.
“He’s lying.” Moira’s eyes were dark with fear, but her voice was steady. “Run.”
He wouldn’t be alone, Rafe knew. There had been at least two people outside his room, and someone had turned off the power to the hotel. They would be nearby. He didn’t have time to escape, nor would he leave Moira. Moira had dropped the keys when she was grabbed. Rafe had no weapon.
He said, “Let her go and I’ll come.”
“Get out of here, Rafe!” Moira ordered.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Dammit!” She was angry and fought against her attacker’s arm.
Rafe pointedly glanced to Moira’s left and saw that she understood his signal, even though they’d never trained together.
It was going to be risky, because he had to wait. Wait until the attacker’s backup was in sight in order to create a distraction.
“You work for Fiona,” Moira said to the attacker. “You won’t let me live.”
“For a while.”
“Téigh trasna ort féin,” Moira said. Rafe had no idea what it meant, but it sounded insulting and the thug tightened his hold. The knife dug deeper into her skin. Rafe was slow to anger, but seeing Moira in pain, blood dripping down her neck, had him raging inside. He swallowed the emotion, knowing it would hinder him. Only complete calm and focus could save her.
Rafe saw two men jogging toward them from behind the hotel. He turned his head to get Moira’s attacker’s attention. When he looked in that direction, the knife wavered just a fraction.
Simultaneously, Moira reached up between the attacker’s hand and her body, grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted it, and slammed it against the cab of the truck so hard Rafe heard a bone snap. She kicked the creep in the groin as Rafe reached down for the keys on the ground. He came up and grabbed the man’s other arm, pulling him away from the truck and pushing him hard into the ground as Moira grabbed the knife he’d dropped when she broke his wrist. Rafe slipped Moira the keys while she handed him her dagger.
A bullet ricocheted off the truck.
“Get in,” she ordered Rafe as she opened the door. “Slide over.”
Two men were running their way and firing weapons. As Moira was shutting the door, she cried out. “Shit!”
She locked the doors and turned the ignition simultaneously, tears leaking out of her eyes as she bit back the pain and drove fast out of the parking lot.
“You okay?” he asked, glancing behind him.
“I’m fine.”
He looked at her left arm and saw a hole in the leather jacket. “You were shot!”
“It’s minor. Just hurts like a bitch, but I’m fine.”
They weren’t out of the woods yet. He saw a car behind them. “The gunmen are in a sedan. They’re following.”
“I need to lose them. Hold on. Put on your seat belt.”
“You’re not—”
“Do what I say!”
She had definitely been trained by Rico Cortese, Rafe thought. She sounded just like him. He did as she said and noticed that she winced when she put her left hand on the steering wheel.
He grabbed the door handle as Moira spun the truck in a one-eighty. She then drove straight at their pursuers, turning on the high beams.
“Moira—” Rafe felt helpless as she increased speed.
The game of chicken was quickly over. Moira moved left, which the pursuing car didn’t expect, and the driver overcompensated and jerked the car off the road.
Moira braked quickly but steadily. She spun the car around again and continued in her original direction, away from the hotel.
“Rico never taught me that move,” Rafe said.
She was shaking. “Rico didn’t teach me it either. I just made it up,” she said. She glanced in her rearview mirror. No one behind. “I’m good on the fly.”
She shot a look at Rafe, then focused on the road ahead. “I heard what those men said outside your room. Fiona wants you alive. What do you have that she needs?”
Rafe slammed his fist on the dashboard. “I don’t know!”
“We’d better figure it out sooner rather than later, because she’s not going to stop until she succeeds.”
TWENTY-TWO
After nearly twelve years as a cop, and the last two as sheriff, very little surprised Skye McPherson.
Today surprised her.
It wasn’t just that a teenage girl was left naked and dead on the cliffs in an apparent occult ritual—which may or may not have been murder.
Or that a sweet, mild-mannered librarian had stolen a classic 1964 Mustang and committed suicide by driving off the cliffs and into the rocks at the edge of the Pacific Ocean.
Or that she’d been called to a hostage situation at Rittenhouse Furniture that night that ended in death when David Collins shot the gunman. There were four deaths and two survivors—one of whom was in critical condition. The other, customer Ashley Beecher McCracken, was hysterical and under sedation at the hospital. Skye hoped to get a statement from her in the morning.
It was that Skye had faced all these deaths in one twenty-four-hour period—only ten weeks after the massacre at the mission.
She finally arrived home after midnight. She knew Anthony was there—her sheriff’s truck was in the driveway. She’d parked behind it in the marked sedan she’d borrowed from the pool. The shower was on, and she considered joining him … but what she really wanted was a shot of whiskey.
As if all this death and dying wasn’t enough, the D.A., Martin Truxel, had waylaid her at the hospital after the shooter, Ned Nichols, was declared D.O.A. Truxel made it perfectly clear that he would make Raphael Cooper’s disappearance and Abby Weatherby’s murder major issues in her upcoming election against his hand-chosen candidate, Assistant Sheriff Thomas Williams.
Whiskey in front of her, she stood at the kitchen counter, palms down, and replayed the conversation over and over.
“You’re incompetent, McPherson. I’m watching these investigations closely. And you.”
She’d never liked the arrogant, ladder-climbing D.A., but now she was scared. If he dug too deeply, not only was her job at stake, but so were those of everyone else who had helped her cover up what happened on the cliffs during the fire that claimed three lives. Juan Martinez, Rod Fielding, even Deputy David Collins had helped her clean up after the fact, no questions asked, because they trusted her.
&nbs
p; David was extremely upset about what happened tonight at Rittenhouse. So was she, but he blamed himself because he’d told Grace Chin to stay in the bathroom, that he was coming in to save her.
And Ned Nichols had shot her while Skye was talking to Grace on the phone. It was a living nightmare. When Skye closed her eyes, she heard Grace’s scream, then the gunshots. She would never forget.
“Skye?”
She turned around. Anthony stood there in jeans and no shirt, his skin damp from his shower, his shoulder-length hair brushed slick down the nape of his neck, curling at the ends. The scar from where he’d been stabbed on the cliffs was still dark across his stomach. She’d almost lost him ten weeks ago. She loved him so much her chest ached, and she wanted to break down and hold him forever.
“Skye, honey, what’s wrong?”
She wiped at her damp eyes. She wasn’t crying, she just wanted to. “It’s been an awful day, an even worse night.” She looked down at the glass of whiskey she’d poured but now didn’t want. She pushed it aside.
Anthony pulled out a chair and sat her down on it, then sat across from her. He kissed her lightly on the lips, so light, so sweet, but she didn’t want light or sweet. She wanted hot, passionate sex with Anthony right now. She wanted to pull down his jeans, kiss him everywhere, make love to him on the table, the floor, anywhere as long as they were together, touching, naked.
“Talk to me.”
She shook her head and pulled him to her, kissed him hard and long, pushing her tongue into his, drawing it into her mouth. He met her lust, kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke.
His lips were hard and warm against hers, his body solid, fresh soap and a hint of something mysterious on his flesh. He made her wild with need, for him, only him.
His hands moved down her back, up her shirt, hot against her cold skin. She wrapped her arms around his neck, fisting his damp hair in her hands, rubbing his neck, his shoulders, unable to keep her hands still.
“Skye—”
“Don’t talk. Make love to me.”
She pulled off her shirt and felt his bare skin against hers. She was urgent, moaning as her nipples pressed against his chest, as his large hand pushed between them and molded around her breast.
Original Sin: The Seven Deadly Sins Page 20
