Sheriff McPherson walked over to the body and, careful not to disturb anything or turn her back to Moira, bent down to feel for a pulse. “Shit,” she mumbled. “You said you were here with Jared Santos? Where is he? I want the God’s honest truth. What happened here? Were you drinking? Getting high?”
“Summoning demons?” Anthony whispered.
Moira said, “We thought Jared’s girlfriend, Lily Ellis, was coming here. We found Abby instead of Lily.”
“You know Abby Weatherby?” Skye asked as she approached, standing beside Anthony.
“Not personally.”
“Anthony?” Skye asked. “Do you know this woman? Can you vouch for her?”
“Vouch? I can vouch that she’s a killer.”
“Fuck off,” Moira snapped. “Look around, Zaccardi. I didn’t do this, and you damn well know it. And Sheriff, this has nothing to do with kids getting high or drunk; Abby died because she was sacrificed. Lily Ellis is missing. We think she came here to try and talk Abby out of the coven, but—”
“Coven?” Anthony shook his head. “That sounds familiar—something you know really well. What was your part in it? Or are you going to pretend you were possessed again?”
“Pretend? You bastard!” She swung her arm out to slap him. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed so tightly she thought her bone would snap. She kicked him in the shin and he let go, wincing. She turned and walked several feet away. She had to control her temper around Anthony. It would get her in trouble.
“That’s enough!” Skye said. “Anthony, let me ask the questions, okay?”
Anthony backed off.
Skye radioed for the coroner, crime scene unit, and backup. She glanced at Moira, then added into her mic, “Call Deputy Santos. He’s off-duty. Patch him through to me when you reach him. Over.”
Skye shot Anthony a glare, then asked Moira, “Do you have some identification?”
Moira pulled out her wallet from the inside pocket of her leather jacket and held it out. Skye retrieved it, opened the flap, and saw her passport. “You’re from Ireland.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve traveled a lot.”
She shrugged.
“Student visa. Olivet in Pinesdale? Where’s that?”
“Montana,” Moira said.
Anthony grabbed the passport and took a close look at her entry date. “You’ve been here for six months!”
“I’ve been in Santa Louisa for a week, but yeah, in America for six months.” This time.
Skye retrieved the passport from Anthony. There was an ease and familiarity between the two. Why was he with Skye in the middle of the night? Interesting.
She raised an eyebrow and gave Anthony a cocky half-smile. “So Santa Louisa has a demonologist on the payroll?”
“No one has to answer to you,” Anthony snapped.
“Excuse me.” Skye motioned for Anthony to follow her. Moira couldn’t help but grin. She had to like anyone who stood up to the arrogant demonologist. Peter had done it, often. Her smile faltered. Maybe if Peter had listened to Anthony’s warnings, he’d still be alive.
A car pulled onto the road and they all turned to look at it. It wasn’t Jared’s truck, it was another cop.
As Skye walked over to the new arrival, Anthony approached Moira. “Don’t even think of running. I will hunt you down like a dog.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
She glared at him and he turned away, flashlight in hand, and began to walk the perimeter. She took an uneasy breath. If she gave any hint of how much he was upsetting her, he’d continue poking with a sharp stick until she was a basket case.
The fog was thin and low, obscuring the symbols and signs on the ground, but Moira recognized the remnants of witchcraft. Black candles, the foul stench of herbs used for protection and control and warding off evil spirits. Moira could laugh at the thought—they were summoning demons, but used herbs and spells to keep themselves from being possessed.
If they only knew …
Of course, Fiona did know. Her mother knew exactly what she was doing, and she didn’t need the candles or herbs or red silk sheets laid on a makeshift altar. All she needed were the right incantations, the proper demon trap, the will to call forth evil, and the strength to control it. When you were a magician for as long as Fiona had been, when you trained and practiced day in and day out and didn’t care who you hurt or what you did, power became both addictive and easy.
For years, Moira had studied witchcraft with no idea why, other than to please her mother. From the beginning, it terrified her, but she did it because she knew no other way to gain Fiona’s favor. She’d continued until she was sixteen and unwittingly participated in a human sacrifice—a sacrifice that dedicated her to the underworld, as the “Mediator.” It was during that ceremony that she was branded, the scar still on her neck. It was then that she learned Fiona’s plans not only for youth and beauty and finding the Book of Knowledge, but for Moira’s future.
To be sacrificed on her twenty-first birthday to serve as Mediator between Hell and the Magicians.
It was the highest honor, Fiona had told her. “You have no idea what goes into creating a Mediator, to properly conceive, train, and place one. We haven’t had a good Mediator in generations; they’ve all managed to self-destruct or be killed by an order.” An “order,” in Fiona-speak, was a group of people, generally worshipping God and affiliated with a church, fanatics who were devoted to the repression of the transformative knowledge and cathartic oneness gained from magic and working with the underworld.
“We are the trees of knowledge,” Fiona often said. “The reason God forbade His people from practicing sorcery is because He wanted to deny us. He wanted to keep us from knowing the truth, the true power, of the universe. But with magic, we gain. We become more powerful, more beautiful, live longer, gain wisdom that was wrongfully reserved only for the angels above and below.”
And Moira was a believer for years. She had done everything Fiona wanted. Learned everything she taught, and more. Moira desperately wanted to please her.
Then, on her sixteenth birthday, she went to her dedication ritual. They’d traveled for two days, but Moira wasn’t sure where they were—someplace in Europe. It marked the beginning of the five-year journey where she would learn spells and protections that few witches knew. At first she was as excited as she was nervous.
The excitement quickly ended.
“Today, you begin your final journey here on earth,” Fiona said, beaming at Moira, proud of her. But Moira didn’t like what her mother was saying.
“I don’t understand.”
“You will be able to walk between the worlds at will. You will be able to control spirits with a command, initiate requests from every coven on earth.”
“I still—”
“You will understand!” Fiona was losing her temper and Moira shut up. She couldn’t face Fiona’s wrath, not on this day.
She was treated like a princess, and even Serena, her eleven-year-old half-sister, was excited for her. “You’re going to be a goddess. Forever.”
But Moira was skeptical. Mediator? Goddess? Walking between the worlds? It sounded like she was to be a spirit herself, a ghost, trapped into slavery, doing the bidding of whatever witch summoned her …
Then that night …
Moira would never forget the screams of the two men who were stabbed in the chest with a glowing dagger.
Her mother’s fury when she didn’t drink their blood.
The chaos when her refusal caused the demons they’d trapped to break their restraints and torture those whose protective shields were weak. Fiona had then used all her power to send them back to Hell. Moira helped out of fear more than rage.
“You will comply!” Fiona said, coming at her with a dagger dripping with human blood. “You are here because I made you. You will serve me or you will burn!”
Moira ran, tossing spells out almost without thought, stopping those who tried to cap
ture her … she didn’t even know where she was until she ran out, saw signs in French, and wondered how she’d been ignorant for so long. She hadn’t even remembered the journey! Had she been drugged? Under a spell?
She ran, hid, ran again, covered herself with protective spells and shields and anything she could think of. Anything and everything except calling forth a demon to do her bidding.
This was so wrong, people dying—how could Fiona have killed those men? For her? So she could be a slave?
That was the first night she’d ever been alone. But Fiona soon found and punished her. Afterward, Moira played the good daughter as long as she could. She learned as much as she could to fight her mother, to stop her, studying Fiona’s enemies, particularly St. Michael’s Order, a much hated group.
And then at last, she escaped. And this time, she knew enough to keep her whereabouts hidden from her mother.
She had heard about Father Philip of St. Michael’s, and that he might be able to help her, but had no information about where he lived or what he could do for her. She tried to find him by leaving coded messages at every Catholic church she entered, not knowing whom to trust. After more than a year, she started finding messages from Father Philip when she went to the churches, in the middle of the night, to steal holy water. Slowly, he told her of many atrocities her mother had committed over the years, awful things in which Moira had unknowingly participated. Horrified, she worked to undo the damage they’d caused, righting wrongs, hiding from Fiona while seeking more information from the elusive Father Philip.
She didn’t realize until later that St. Michael’s Order had been trying to find her. Or that until she escaped her mother, they would have killed her to stop Fiona. To stop her from becoming the Mediator. And she still didn’t fully understand what being the Mediator meant!
After two years of running and despair, the holy man arranged to meet her at dawn, in a small church in rural Italy.
She knew him the moment she laid eyes on him.
“Father Philip?”
He nodded, then crossed the stone floor, the rising sun streaming through ancient stained-glass windows. Father Philip was older than she’d thought, with trimmed silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses, but he was spry, stood straight, but was still several inches shorter than she. “Child, at last. We’ve been looking for you.”
She frowned. The notes they’d left for her over the years had been pretty clear: they did not want to have anything to do with her personally, but they would feed her information.
“But the messages you left for me—”
“That was Pietro. You will meet him. He insisted that we test you, to make sure you weren’t setting a trap. This is the first time I’ve stepped outside our sanctuary in many years. There are some who—” He stopped, put his hands on her shoulders. “Some people who want to hurt me. Like your mother.”
She became suddenly scared and confused, and started trembling, sitting down heavily.
“Moira, what is it?”
What if this was a trap … for her?
When she didn’t answer, he said, “I will show you something that may give you a modicum of peace.”
He removed his clerical collar, then pulled back the neck of his shirt far enough to show her his upper right breast.
On his tan skin was the tattooed symbol of St. Michael’s Order that she’d seen in one of the ancient books she’d found during her search. The sword of St. Michael the Archangel slaying the serpent, an elaborate triangle behind it to represent the Holy Trinity.
“You are strong, child,” Father Philip told her, replacing his collar, “with a well-formed conscience. Your heart is pure; your quest has come with a price and a reward.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Join us. Let me teach you the ways of St. Michael’s. The decision is yours.” He sat on the pew. “Or continue running from Fiona.”
She shook her head. “I—I’m so lost. I didn’t know what she was doing.”
“The road you have chosen is not easy. But it is your path. I can’t walk it for you. Believe me when I tell you that every man at St. Michael’s would walk in your shoes if they could. But you are unique, Moira. And in time, you will understand that. Until then, I’m here to help you. I can teach you to avoid or confront obstacles on your path. I can give you the tools to survive. Though in the end, I cannot take your place.” He gently touched her face, his eyes watering. “I would if I could, my dear.”
Her lip quivered. “I’m so tired.”
“You are not alone, Moira.”
“She has to be stopped, but I am so scared.”
“God tells us, ‘Do not be afraid.’ But there are many things that are fearsome. There are good reasons to be afraid, and while we can be confident in our eternal life, we may be terrified on earth. We have a sacred duty to save as many souls as we can. Fiona and her kind have turned so many souls black. Hardened their hearts, devoted them to serving her and covens like hers, seeking answers where there are only dark lies. Come with me, and we can help.”
“I’m cursed.” She pulled down her turtleneck, revealing the mark of the demon on the side of her neck. “I’m theirs.” Her voice choked.
“No, you are not.”
“You can help me?”
“I will help you, and you will stop her. You are stronger than you know. But first, from this moment forward, you must promise me no more magic. It’s your magic that is leaving a trail for Fiona to follow. It’s why she’s close.”
“But it’ll leave me unprotected! I can’t, it’s—”
“Even magic used for good leads to evil. Never forget that.”
She’d tried to live according to Father Philip’s rules. He taught her everything about St. Michael’s Order. And her knowledge of Fiona and covens would help them stop the evildoers. Father Philip and his order had been floundering ever since Fiona began to unite the independent covens. Moira’s unique position gave them intelligence they’d never had before.
She wanted to help, and did. But it felt … passive. It became increasingly difficult to follow Father Philip’s rules. She wanted to be out of the walls of St. Michael’s, out tracking Fiona herself! But Father said she was unsafe outside the monastery’s walls. She’d traded fear and hunger for security in a beautiful sanctuary that too often felt like prison. And then there was Peter …
Together, they’d begun to use magic to undo the damage that Fiona had done. As a team, they were so powerful, and they were doing good! They had great successes, though even those they kept secret. Rico and the others believed that it was their own handiwork, while Peter and Moira were aiding them from afar. They were …
… leading Fiona right to them. It was the magic that revealed Moira’s location, the magic that led Fiona to St. Michael’s, and no amount of protection could shield Moira from her own arrogance.
Fiona found her, sent a demon to possess her, and with her own hands Moira had killed the one man she loved.
SIX
Oh mama, I’m in fear for my life from the long arm of the law
Lawman has put an end to my running
and I’m so far from my home.
—STYX, “Renegade”
Moira had to steer well clear of any self-pity, especially now when Anthony had the opportunity to chip away at her carefully constructed shields. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Skye McPherson approaching Anthony, who was standing near the edge of the cliffs. Skye and Anthony talked, and Moira knew damn well what Anthony would say about her.
Moira turned on her flashlight and shined it on the ground, looking for more clues.
It was obvious—at least to her—that there had been a full, protective circle here. Anthony knew how to read the signs and symbols, how to trace their magical supplies. As a demonologist, he might even know which demons had been summoned. But most of the symbols were obscured. Some attempt had been made at collecting the supplies—she saw only two candles, yet the wax in the dirt indicated
many more. Something violent had wreaked havoc here. Maybe she could piece it all together and somehow discover Fiona’s weak spot.
If only it weren’t just about her, Moira wouldn’t hesitate to use magic to find and destroy her mother, even knowing that she herself would likely die and her soul would be lost. What did Moira have to live for but regret?
But she couldn’t risk innocents. Lily, or Jared, or even that bastard Anthony Zaccardi. She’d told Father Philip she couldn’t bring Anthony in because she didn’t want to risk his life, and while on the surface it sounded altruistic, it was purely selfish. She didn’t care if Anthony was dead or alive, as long as he was dead through natural means. Then his eternal fate was between him and the Big Guy. But witches? Possession? Hell? She couldn’t suffer through that again.
You’re pathetic. Get over it already.
Good going, Mo. Practice that tough love on yourself; maybe you’ll believe it one of these days.
Moira walked along the perimeter of what had been the outer circle and suddenly spotted something. She stopped, squatted, and inspected the earth.
There had been a double circle, and the remnants of a hexagram. But this hexagram had crossed the inner circle and touched the outer circle. Generally, the hexagram was constrained by the inner circle. She hadn’t seen one of these before, but she knew the triangles at the tips of the hexagram within the double circle were for specific, ancient rituals. They were not well known, not practiced by most covens because most covens were novices working basic spells that did nothing but add to the fissure between the underworld and humans.
For Moira’s entire life, her mother had been obsessed with finding the Conoscenza. Everything that she and Peter had uncovered years ago told them that the Conoscenza, the Book of Knowledge, the key to finding the Tree of Life, was gone forever. What if they’d been wrong? What if Fiona had found it? How in the world had her mother even read and understood it? It wasn’t written in a known language; it was so foreign, so old, that it was rumored to have first been written in the generation after the fall of man, by fallen angels and the humans they seduced into rebellion.
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