Original Sin: The Seven Deadly Sins

by Allison Brennan

He looked at the sheet. “Yeah, Tom Young is working that beat. He’s checking the site every hour. Worried about kids vandalizing the place or something?”

  She nodded. “Exactly.” Or something.

  Skye ran back to her car and prayed that nothing had gone wrong with Anthony. Or Moira.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  What’s worth the price is always worth the fight

  Every second counts ’cause there’s no second try

  —NICKELBACK, “If Today Was Your Last Day”

  Anthony stood in the basement of Good Shepherd. There was no one here, unconscious or otherwise, though the place was a complete mess.

  Father Philip crossed himself when he stepped down into the basement. He looked around, fear in his eyes, then started back up the stairs. “This room is a nest of slithering snakes, full of darkness. There are many demons here, waiting for release. We must leave immediately.”

  “I didn’t know this was down here,” Lily said. “It’s spooky. I’m scared.”

  Father took her hand and squeezed. “So am I, dear.”

  Anthony didn’t like the place either, though he didn’t sense the same evil that Father did. It was what he saw that disturbed him—the altar, the destruction, the unusually dark blood in the corner. He shook his head. “What they must have been doing—I haven’t seen magic this evil in a long time.”

  “Let’s find the box and leave, Anthony. Moira needs our help.”

  When Lily came to at Father Isaac’s church, she had been borderline hysterical. She couldn’t explain why she’d been so deeply terrified of the photo of the sigil carved into the box. She said nervously, “Do we have to take the box?”

  “Yes,” Father said. “We must destroy it.”

  They left the basement and Anthony tried the door to Pennington’s apartment. Unlocked. “Be careful,” he said. He listened for movement, breathing, any sign that someone was waiting for them upstairs. He proceeded cautiously, quickly searching the apartment with Father and Lily in tow. It was empty.

  “Moira said it was in his desk drawer. I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary,” he said.

  The three entered the small office with Father Philip standing in the doorway, looking down the hall. Anthony searched every drawer. “It’s not here. Moira swore she didn’t take it.” Pennington must have nabbed it before he left.

  Moira had said that she’d left Matthew Walker, the real pastor of Good Shepherd, with Pennington. Either Walker was injured, or he wasn’t who he said he was.

  “We need to leave,” Anthony said. He led the way down the hall, looking again in every opening.

  As he reached the door, it slammed open, hitting him. He almost attacked the man who came in, gun drawn. It was Deputy Tom Young. Anthony breathed easier.

  “Tom. Anthony Zaccardi, we were—”

  “There was an alarm here.” Tom moved into the room, still holding the gun, aimed at Father Philip.

  “The door was unlocked—” Anthony hesitated. Alarm? That wasn’t right. Moira had been in the building for more than an hour and hadn’t triggered an alarm.

  Tom didn’t holster his gun. He called down the stairs, “Got them!”

  Anthony’s blood chilled. Tom was a cop who worked for Skye, but he obviously had another agenda. Tom was the deputy who’d taken Moira to jail—he might have been the one who’d drugged the others and contacted Fiona.

  Anthony reached for his dagger. A well-aimed knife could kill. But Tom’s gun could go off, and Father and Lily were both in the line of fire.

  Tom swung his weapon toward Anthony. “Hold it, Zaccardi. Hands up.”

  Slowly, Anthony complied.

  Tom Young searched him, removed his dagger, then began to pull out all Anthony’s defenses—the vial of holy water, the vial of salt.

  He karate-chopped Young’s arm and reached for the gun. Young swore, but he kept his hand around the gun. Anthony moved right, but Young pistol-whipped him, bringing Anthony to his knees. He tasted blood in his mouth and spit it on the floor, his eyes unfocused. Lily screamed.

  A man walked into the room. “Lily. So good to see you again.”

  “Pastor Matthew—”

  “Come with me.”

  “No, please—what are you doing?”

  “I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I said God’s work?” Walker said with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Bastard,” Anthony said as he got to his feet, staggering a bit as he shook his head to clear it.

  Matthew Walker was a tall, good-looking man of average build. Though Tom had both the gun and the brawn, Walker was clearly in charge, and right now he looked bemused.

  Tom Young grabbed Lily, his gun pointed at Father Philip. “You’re pathetic, Zaccardi. And Fiona said you were smart.” He laughed. “As soon as we figured out that Moira had passed Lily on to you, she was easy to track. Every sheriff’s vehicle has GPS that’s monitored at dispatch. I tracked you here, easy-peasy.”

  Walker glanced at Tom, irritated. “Your incompetence is nothing to brag about. If you’d done what you were told, we’d also have Andra Moira, but I had to let her go because you didn’t have the arca.”

  “You wanted me to be discreet, I was damn fucking discreet.”

  Walker ignored him and said, “Zaccardi, I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure—your reputation was well deserved, though a bit exaggerated, don’t you think? But honestly, you’ve been a pain in the ass since you came to Santa Louisa. Finally, I’ll get my town back.”

  “Did you take the box after Moira left?” Anthony asked.

  “That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? But I didn’t take anything. It’s mine.”

  Father Philip spoke up for the first time since the men entered the apartment. “Walker, it would serve you well to remember that Cain turned on his own. I would strongly advise you to destroy the box.”

  Anthony didn’t know why Father was trying to reason with the magician.

  Walker stared at Father Philip, his face hard. “Let’s go, Father.”

  A voice came up the stairs. “Sixty seconds!”

  Anthony hated being helpless as he watched Young push Lily at Walker, then grab Father Philip. He couldn’t see a way to stop Walker from taking them. He clenched his fists.

  Walker smiled warmly at Lily and touched the side of her face with the back of his hand. “I’ve missed you, Lily. Your ignorance was so pleasurable for me.”

  “You know what to do, Anthony,” Father said as he passed by.

  “He can’t do anything if he’s dead.” Young aimed the gun at Anthony. The split second before Young pulled the trigger, Anthony dove to the side behind the couch, feeling the heat of the bullet against his bruised cheek.

  “Ciao,” Young said and started down the stairs with Father Philip.

  “Forty seconds!” the voice downstairs said.

  “Move it, old man!” Young ordered. “Walker? You coming or staying?”

  Anthony heard them jog down the stairs.

  Forty seconds ’til what? The anxiety in Young’s voice … Anthony had to get out of here.

  He couldn’t follow them down the stairs. Young would be waiting—with the gun—for him to emerge from the building. He ran to the front of the building, mentally counting down how much time he had left.

  The bedroom had two large double-paned windows. Anthony grabbed the heavy metal bedside lamp and used the base to hit the window with all his strength. It cracked. He hit it again. Again.

  Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven.

  He smelled smoke in the rooms below, and the reflection of flames on the building across the street told him the fire was building rapidly.

  The window splintered in a mass of fine cracks. Shielding his head, Anthony threw the lamp at the window. It finally shattered.

  Fourteen. Thirteen.

  He kicked out the shards along the bottom frame as he judged the distance he’d need to jump to not only get clear of the glass but the explosio
n he knew was about to happen.

  He couldn’t do it. He looked left—nothing. To the right there was a narrow balcony with metal railings. He judged the distance at about eight feet.

  Six. Five.

  He stood on the frame and balanced. As he leapt on three, the explosion came, the force of the air pushing him beyond the balcony. He reached out and tried to grab the railing, the heat and debris from the explosion hitting him.

  The railing slipped from his fingers and he was falling …

  Moira drove up to the mansion she’d found in Good Shepherd’s property records. Its lush grounds glowed with soft lighting. The house was majestic and sprawling, with high windows and numerous porches and porticos. There were even two turrets, which would satisfy Fiona’s pretensions of nobility.

  Aside from the physical trappings, as soon as Moira stepped onto the property she felt the undercurrent of magic. Many spells were at work here, and Moira had to tread carefully. Chances were that Fiona had alarms on the place, but Moira couldn’t worry about that right now. She’d rather take her chances with the police than with Fiona any day.

  Fear bubbled up, fear she’d suppressed at Good Shepherd. When she could act and focus on a plan, the fear stayed buried. But her adrenaline rush had disappeared during the drive out to the coast, and now all she could think about was how high the odds were stacked against them.

  When you played by the rules, the odds were never in your favor.

  Moira stayed in the shadows while she walked the perimeter, getting a sense of how the house was laid out and whether anyone was inside. No one was moving downstairs. There was no music, no television, no noise whatsoever, except the filter working in the pool and the waves crashing against cliffs three hundred yards behind the house.

  It was now or never. If Rafe wasn’t here, she had two other places to check.

  The dozen French doors were impossible to pick, and if people were inside she didn’t want them alerted by breaking glass. The kitchen door at the side of the house had a spell cast over it and it took Moira nearly three minutes to get the lock open.

  The rich scent of Irish stew lingered in the kitchen, and for a moment, she stopped and breathed deeply, her eyes stinging. There had been some good times in her childhood. Before she knew what was planned for her. Like when her grandmother cooked stew that smelled exactly like this kitchen.

  The good memories were too few and far between.

  Moira methodically, silently, walked through the first floor, checking each room quickly. She didn’t sense anything other than magic.

  Frustrated, she reached the back of the house and as she put her hand on a pair of double doors, a jolt of energy hit her. For a second she thought someone was inside the room attacking her with witchcraft, but as she pushed open the doors into what was obviously a library, she realized no one was inside.

  This was where Fiona and her people created the bulk of their spells. Compared to the magic outside, the energy in here was a hundred times stronger.

  She stopped in the middle of the towering room, her dagger in one hand and her last bottle of holy water in the other. Her senses were practically screaming caution, she was on edge and agitated, but she saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  More than at any time in her life since she’d renounced it, in the last forty-eight hours she’d been immersed in dark magic energy. More magic in a short period than at any time in her life. It was no wonder she was weirded out: Moira was walking around the house of her mother, who’d sworn to torture and kill her.

  She released a pent-up breath and focused. Opening her senses to the emotions imprinted here, trying to feel Rafe’s presence. Relax. Breathe. As soon as she calmed, she realized that it wasn’t just the magic that was stronger in here. There was a demon nearby.

  She cautiously approached a set of double doors in an alcove to the side of the vast space. An unfamiliar sigil was posted on one of the doors, instead of above it. She turned the handle and pushed the door open.

  Moira stared at Rafe, clad in jeans and nothing else, unconscious in the center of a spirit trap. Claw marks across his chest were barely dry. Her heart nearly stopped at the thought that it was too late, that Rafe was dead, but then she saw the slight rise in his chest.

  She started toward him, but her instincts saved her at the last moment.

  Demon!

  It came for her, and she realized belatedly what the symbol outside this door was. It trapped the demon inside with Rafe, to guard him. If he left, the demon would devour him. Like a Cerberus, with teeth and fangs and an insatiable appetite for human souls.

  She splashed holy water on it, its scream piercing her ears, as she jumped into the spirit trap with Rafe. The pea-brained Cerberus, for it looked like one of Satan’s guard dogs with one head instead of three, growled and barked at her but couldn’t breech the trap. It saved her … and trapped her.

  Well, fuck.

  She felt Rafe’s pulse. Strong and steady. The Cerberus yelped, and she turned to the animal and shouted, “Yahweh!”

  The animal bucked and foamed at the mouth, enraged, and physically grew in size.

  “Oh, that’s showing him,” she mumbled to herself. “Piss off the demon dog and see him grow.” She knelt by Rafe, brushing his hair off his face. “Rafe, I’m so sorry. I’ll get you out of this. I promise.”

  Right. You promise. How are you going to defeat Fiona’s demonic pit bull?

  The poisoned dart had worked with the fierce demon Serena sicced on her this morning, giving Moira confidence. She took out another dart, willed herself to stop shaking. She didn’t know what was worse, facing the demon now or facing Fiona when she returned.

  She didn’t have time to compare. She stepped to the edge of the trap and, with an ancient prayer and a “pretty please,” she extended her hand outside the circle.

  The demon attacked, ran right into the poisoned dart and screamed, but didn’t disintegrate like the other demon. Before Moira had time to react, the demon bit her forearm and she fell to her knees. Acidlike pain ravaged her body. She heard nothing but her own agonized scream, which sounded as if it were pulled out of her lungs by force. Quickly, she jerked her arm back into the spirit trap and held it close to her chest.

  Rafe sat up and reached for her, pulling her toward him. He groaned in pain, but held her tight. Tears streamed down her face, but she said, “Glad you’re alive.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I will be,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Let me see.”

  “No.”

  “You’re being a baby.”

  “Damn straight. It hurts.” She took a deep breath and let Rafe pry her arm from her chest.

  Two deep holes from the demon’s canines and a hundred pin pricks between them pierced her skin. The blood that poured from the wounds burned and bubbled with the acid of the demonic bite. Her entire body was on fire and she cried out when Rafe touched near the bite, as if yelling would rid her body of the pain.

  Rafe frowned and inspected the wound. She turned away, willing the pain to subside, and she realized that the dog was no longer growling at her, no longer pacing. She looked around, where did it go?

  Then she spotted it, lying in the corner, its mouth a bloody mess. Its eyes were wide and unfocused. Its legs, with impossibly long claws at the end of each of its six paws, were stiff and unmoving.

  She stared, unbelieving. This couldn’t have happened. She shook her head. Of course it had. A belated reaction to the poisoned dart. She breathed easier, though she was still nervous. The Cerberus was too dumb to play opossum … she hoped.

  “It’s dead,” Rafe said in disbelief.

  “Appears so.”

  “How?”

  “Poison dart.”

  “That’s how it works? I thought demons couldn’t be killed.”

  “Not, um, usually.” Two dead in one night. That had to be a record. “But we can’t be sure. Let me check.”

  She jumped
up, but he pulled her back down. “No. You’re not going to risk your life.”

  “I already did,” she replied, “and we can’t stay. Fiona could be back any minute. We need to get out of here.”

  He raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. He held out his hand and helped her up. She gently touched the claw marks on his chest.

  She had a sudden urge to kiss him, to soothe the pain he was in, but instead she turned away, heat rising to her face.

  “Moira.”

  She looked back at Rafe. The dim light coming in from the library made his dark eyes fathomless as they locked on to her face. He reached up and touched her cheek, firmly turning her to face him. Her lips parted to speak, but no sound came out because she couldn’t think of any words. His dark hair was damp with sweat and fell forward, partly obscuring his eyes. Her uninjured hand shot up, as if it had a mind of its own, to brush the loose strands out of his face, but he grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her to him.

  He kissed her. One hand held her face, the other her wrist, and he kissed her. Too passionate for a good luck kiss; too long for a friendly good-bye. Too … good. All pain slipped away, just for that moment. The weight of Moira’s responsibilities eased, just a fraction. As if one kiss, one oh-so-hot kiss, could take away some of her misery, claim a share of her obligations.

  His unshaven jaw rubbed against her skin erotically. She could scarcely breathe, sinking into Rafe’s passion, her need for him growing not unexpectedly. From the moment she’d found him in the abandoned cabin, she’d felt connected to Rafe Cooper in ways she couldn’t begin to explain. And maybe she didn’t want to understand.

  Rafe stepped back, just a half step, severing the kiss with a primal groan that made Moira quiver. He didn’t apologize, nor did she want him to, but the shock on his face must have mirrored her own surprise.

  Any other time, any other place, and she’d have continued moving toward where that kiss was heading. The craving in Rafe’s eyes, the firm set of his jaw, indicated that he would be more than willing to join her in the exploration.

  But Moira couldn’t forget who she was and what she had to do. Nor could she forget Rafe was spoken for—he was a warrior for St. Michael’s Order. Neither of them could afford to be distracted by attraction or affection. It was dangerous for them, and those they were responsible for. Rafe knew it as well as she, but still pinned her with a gaze that said: This is only the beginning.