“Excuse me, I’m just—”
“Don’t play dumb. There’s just one reason you’d come here, and that’s to take my daughter.”
Anthony stepped forward, grim and determined. In a low voice, he told the witch, “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
Laughter, light and airy, rang out. “It’s you who don’t know what you’re up against. Leave now, or you’ll regret it.”
She slammed the door in his face.
Anger simmering, Anthony walked off the porch, through the paths of myrrh and lavender and henbane, back to the truck. Elizabeth Ellis was part of Fiona’s coven, and extremely dangerous. She had a solid standing in the town. No one would believe she’d be party to having her daughter sacrificed.
SIXTEEN
The only sound was the fierce wind as it whipped around Moira, slapping her face with moisture as the soggy fog turned to drizzle and the drizzle to a cold, stinging rain. If she listened carefully enough, though, she could hear the Pacific Ocean crashing on the rocks beneath the cliffs. However, if she listened that carefully, she also heard the screams. She didn’t know if the panicked pleas were real or in her imagination, on the surface of the earth or beneath it.
She stood several feet from the ritual circle and stared. Though broken, there was still some residual magic. Residual evil. A rotten, cloying scent of sulphur mixed with mold and dirt. It wasn’t mist that skimmed the ground; it was steam. Heat rose from the earth.
As she stared, a river of bloodred fire bubbled beneath the surface.
She turned away from the image, heart racing, the electricity in the air unnatural and almost unreal, unsure whether what she saw was real or her imagination, a vision or insanity.
She ran back to Jared’s truck, slapping her hands on the still-warm hood, taking deep breaths and gathering her wits.
Fear could be a healthy response, but uncontrolled fear was deadly.
She tilted her head up and faced the gray afternoon, knowing the sky was there but unable to see anything but bleakness, light without depth, shadowless, surreal.
Thin rain stung her face as she shouted, “I don’t want to be a martyr!” Her long hair whipped around her face, pulled from the loose braid she’d fastened in haste earlier. “I don’t want to watch people die!”
She squeezed back her tears, fists clenched, wanting to hit someone, take out her pain and anger on something. Rico had taught her to use the gym or to run, but she didn’t want to battle a sandbag or run ten miles, twenty miles, more, until her legs ached and her lungs burned and she threw up. She was always running. Anthony Zaccardi was right about that. She ran and ran and ran, never facing the truth.
She was cursed. She was going to die.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispered.
Moira turned to face the ruins, this time from a distance. The house had stood about a hundred yards from the edge of the cliffs. That was where the demons had been released, the back door into Hell created by the fire two months ago. Moira knew a bit about creating gateways. It was difficult and extremely dangerous, but of course Fiona and her people regularly attempted—and often succeeded in—establishing the thin membranes between earth and Hell.
Moira frowned. Why hadn’t Anthony done something to close the gateway? He’d been in Santa Louisa for months, knew what had happened at the ruins—he was a demonologist and couldn’t be ignorant about what was so obviously here. Or maybe she was sickly aware of evil because she’d lived with it for so long. Maybe she had a black heart, hard and tainted and cursed.
The edge of the continent looked eerie and surreal through the fog. She knew how these rituals went, and could picture Fiona and her people casting the circle, protecting themselves, excited and arrogant and fearful.
Lily’s observations of the ritual were tainted by her ignorance. She didn’t know anything about coven practices or how demons operated. But Lily was clear in what she had seen even if she didn’t understand it. Such as demons leaving Abby’s body as it levitated inches above the altar. Abby was part of the puzzle, a necessary piece to draw out the demons from the gateway.
Lily had been adamant about the black clouds being outside the circle. But there were two circles, a double circle, and Lily may not have made note of that. What about the witches standing in that double circle? How had they been protected? And how did Raphael Cooper affect the ritual?
Moira shook her head, frustrated. So many questions, too few answers.
She was alone and scared. Maybe she should have asked Anthony to meet her. Loneliness wasn’t new—Moira had been lonely most of her life. But she hadn’t felt so much despair since the night Peter died. She didn’t know whom she could trust, and those she did trust in this battle—those like Anthony Zaccardi—wanted nothing to do with her. Hated her. Blamed her for things that weren’t her fault. And for some things that were.
Hell churned here, in Santa Louisa. They had a war on their hands. She’d participated in some of the battles that came before, but she’d only heard about others; most which were fought before she was even born—and few came close to what they now faced.
If Moira succeeded in stopping Fiona, another magician would take her place. There were always more waiting in the wings, studying, practicing, looking for an opening to seize power and wrestle control away from the demons. It was as euphoric as it was deadly, as addictive as it was dangerous.
It was Fiona who’d united the covens and magicians in pursuit of her goal, Fiona who’d convinced them that together, they had influence. She’d been right. And the more control she wielded, the more covens would join her, a never-ending cycle that had to be stopped.
Moira felt like a pawn, expendable, used first by her mother from the moment of her conception, then by St. Michael’s Order. They didn’t care what happened to her. Deep down, she knew it. They wanted one thing from her: a weapon against the rising dominance of Fiona O’Donnell and the legions of covens she directed.
Sometimes Moira wished she’d let her mother sacrifice her.
Sometimes she wished she could just disappear forever.
Most of the time she wished she’d never been born.
Her eyes burned with unshed tears.
Self-pity is for the weak; regret is for the hopeless.
“Shut up, Rico,” she whispered.
God may have forsaken her, but evil couldn’t triumph. If she lost to Fiona, every sacrifice Peter had made would be for nothing. His death would be for nothing. The cycle would repeat like a violent No Exit. Sartre would be amused, perhaps, at the endless game where the end was certain, but irrelevant.
Peter.
She fell to her knees in the wet, sandy soil, her body vibrating with restrained sorrow. Tears, mingling with the rain, fell to the rocky earth.
“It’s not fair!” She pounded the ground with her fists. She missed him so much! Her voice cracked and she absently pushed the hair back from her face.
She stared at the ground. There was a symbol here, vague and disappearing in the rain. She crawled several feet to where it was clear, touched it.
It had been disturbed during the ritual and she couldn’t make it out completely, but seeing it stopped her numbing inaction. She knew exactly what was happening to her.
Slowly, she rose to her feet and looked around. The rain was slow but steady and she was drenched, but that didn’t bother her, nor did the cold that seeped into her bones. This place was evil. She’d told Anthony just that. She had been standing here doing nothing but feeling sorry for herself and thinking through her problems over and over and over … inaction.
Sloth.
One of the seven deadly sins.
She looked at her watch. Hours had passed. It was five o’clock, the light had changed, and she realized then the terrible risk Santa Louisa—and the world—faced with the Seven on the loose.
As soon as she realized what had been happening to her, her mind cleared. She admonished herself, drenched to the skin, but reso
lved. She had come out here to find Raphael Cooper, and she’d allow nothing to stop her.
After stealing the Mustang from Frank, high school librarian Bea Peterson pulled over and took the top down. She didn’t care that it was raining, or that she would ruin the beautifully restored seats, or stain the red carpet. She wanted to drive with the top down.
Nor did she care that she wasn’t dressed for the weather, wearing the thin wool sweater she kept at the library to stave off the chill. Her graying hair first frizzed in the moisture and wind, then the wavy strands hung heavy with the weight of the rainwater. Her thick makeup ran down her face, turning her from a moderately attractive, overweight middle-aged librarian into a sad clown—or to some she might appear deranged, her wild eyes giving light to something far more sinister and feral than anyone at the school expected from sweet Bea Peterson.
Bea drove, without thought, without regret. Carefree and single-minded, she laughed out loud as she sped around the bends of the cliff-side highway too fast. When she skidded, or spun the wheels in the narrow sandy shoulder, she whooped and hollered, as if she were on an amusement-park roller coaster. In the rain, this road was used only by necessity. The few drivers Bea passed honked at her reckless driving, but she laughed. They didn’t know what freedom felt like. They didn’t know how much pleasure there was to be had driving a classic car like this. It was hers!
Just before she crossed the Santa Louisa County line into San Luis Obispo, Bea stopped the Mustang in the middle of her lane. She stared toward the ocean, except the fog was so thick and wet she couldn’t see the water. Her heart raced. She didn’t want to give her car back to Frank, but she’d have to if she went back to the school. And he’d be angry with her for getting the interior wet and for the scratch on the door when she went around a corner too fast.
She’d seen his face in the rearview mirror when she drove away, running after his car. It pleased her that he was shocked and angry and sad that he’d lost it. She frowned. Why? Why was she so happy that Frank was miserable?
Her breaths came sharp and quick as she replayed the last hour, from seeing Frank drive into the parking lot to her grabbing his keys and driving away in his car. Her car. From sideswiping a car taking the turn out of town to taking the top down to hitting nearly one hundred on her drive. Reckless. Foolish.
She didn’t understand why she’d done it. Except that she wanted this car. This Mustang. It had to be hers. The urge had been so powerful, so overwhelming, that she couldn’t see anything but the need to have it.
She needed to go back. To apologize. Maybe he’d understand. Maybe Frank would forgive her.
No.
She cried. The car reminded her of what could have been, of the choices and decisions she’d made—right and wrong.
It’s your car now.
Go back.
Go forward.
The bend in the road up ahead was so sharp that directly forward led into the ocean. Straight down to the rocky coastline below.
They won’t let you keep the car. They’ll give it back to Frank and you’ll be arrested. Lose your job. Maybe go to jail.
They’re not going to let you keep the car.
They’re going to take your car.
Bea put the car in drive and pressed the accelerator, turned the wheel sharply to the left, and she was flying … flying off the cliff. She held on to the steering wheel as her body pulled from the seat—the old Mustang didn’t have seat belts. Then she was flying. Flying, falling, hearing but not seeing the crashing waves, the salty mist reaching up to catch her.
She hit a protruding rock, her body bouncing off and into the water, where it was tossed onto more rocks.
By then she was dead.
SEVENTEEN
Lonely, lonely, lonely—your spirits sinkin’ down
You find you’re not the only stranger in this town
—BILLY SQUIRE, “Lonely Is the Night”
Moira slowed Jared’s truck to a crawl as she neared the end of the narrow road, the windshield wipers moving intermittently back and forth, visibility so poor she was unsure she was even going in the right direction anymore.
Then she saw the broken sign, so weathered from age it was colorless.
LCOME TO P AC GE RESO
O ETS
Her heart raced as she realized this was an abandoned motel or lodge of some sort, with separate cabins all boarded up. She released the brake just enough that the truck moved forward, the road turning to gravel overgrown with small shrubs. A sign posted on the first cabin read:
Property of the State of California
Trespassers will be prosecuted
Each abandoned cabin appeared to be a large, single room facing the ocean, far off the main road and obscured by trees. In the dark, Lily could have easily passed by and not known they were here. A perfect hiding place.
She stopped the truck, turned off the ignition, and walked cautiously through the weed-strewn central courtyard. The cabins were about twenty, perhaps thirty feet apart. Cypress and eucalyptus trees shielded the area from view. Only a few hundred yards away was the main access road into the mountains—the access road Lily had found—but unless you knew these cabins were here, you wouldn’t find them.
Moira stumbled over tree roots and caught herself on the leaves of a prickly shrub.
“Damn.” She pulled two thin, sharp thorns from her right palm as she righted herself. She shivered uncontrollably, her wet clothes plastered to her skin, her hair heavy with the weight of rainwater down her back. She wanted nothing more than to get back into the warm truck and return to her miserable motel and sleep.
She didn’t believe in luck, but a spike of adrenaline hit her bloodstream as she thought of her luck in finding this place. If, in fact, Rafe Cooper was here. Could it be logic? Maybe. But still … the whole thing felt oddly fortuitous to her. She didn’t like being manipulated, by either humans or supernatural beings.
“There are always signs, there is always a helping hand. It’s understanding the signs, accepting the help, which is difficult for everyone—and you. That’s where your bias, your fear, your arrogance, and your ignorance will get you killed if you can’t see the truth.”
“Shut up, Rico,” she muttered again. She wished she’d never trained with him, because she couldn’t get his damn lectures out of her head. She pushed aside her concerns—the idea that this place was a sign she’d somehow unknowingly followed—and walked among the cabins.
Each cabin was locked tight, windows boarded up, locks on the doors, all in disrepair, abandoned for many years. But there was something different about the third cabin from the end. She stared, tilted her head, and squinted through the still fog.
She approached the house cautiously, walked the perimeter slowly.
Then she saw what had caught her eye.
The front door was splintered just a bit, the freshly split wood bright against the weathered door frame.
The lock was still on the knob, but the doorjamb had been broken. Moira hesitated. Human or possessed? She didn’t know what was going on with Raphael Cooper, but she couldn’t take chances. She pulled out a large crucifix on a chain from a deep pocket inside her jacket and put it around her neck, then pulled the Beretta out of her concealed pocket holster.
No movement, no sign of anyone watching. She opened all her senses, listened, felt the atmosphere around her. No electrical charge in the air. No smell of sulphur or rotting meat. No extreme heat from one of Hell’s gateways, nor the ice-cold sensation of ghosts. Nothing. Still, that didn’t mean that her truck hadn’t drawn attention, or that there wasn’t a way for Cooper to see out a crack in the barricaded windows—if it was Cooper inside. She didn’t think he was dangerous—he’d saved Lily and stopped Fiona—but Moira couldn’t afford to be wrong.
She pushed on the door firmly and it opened, a thick sliver of wood falling to the ground.
In the darkness, Moira caught sight of a gutted kitchenette to the right and a door in the
rear. As her eyes adjusted to the near black, the only light coming from the diminishing gray day behind her, she saw a man in hospital scrubs huddled in the far corner of the empty room.
She approached cautiously and said, “Cooper? Raphael Cooper?”
He didn’t move. She squatted, the crucifix swinging on her chain between them, and checked his pulse. It was strong. She let out a long breath.
“What happened to you last night?” she whispered.
She pulled out a flashlight, turned it on, and popped out the bottom to rest on the wood floor. The glow lit the entire room like a lantern. The scrubs Cooper wore were torn. His skin was cold, and he was huddled tightly for warmth, though sweat and a day’s growth of beard covered his face. His hair was longer than in his picture, damp and curling at the ends from the moisture. As she watched, his body began to shake and he shouted out a command of sorts.
It was in Spanish, a language Moira recognized but didn’t understand beyond the basics. He continued, his voice fearful and commanding at the same time. She touched his sweating forehead, smoothed back his hair, and murmured, “Shh, you’re having a bad dream.”
Suddenly, he sat bolt upright, eyes frightened and lost. He pulled himself into the corner, shaking.
“Raphael, my name is Moira O’Donnell. I’m a friend of Father Philip.”
He stared at her and she wasn’t sure he’d understood her.
“Do you remember what happened last night? On the cliffs? The coven?” She paused. “The Seven Deadly Sins?”
Slowly, he shook his head. His voice was rough and low when he said, “She’s dead.” He coughed to clear his voice.
“No, she’s not. You saved her. You saved Lily.” Moira took his hands, squeezed them. “Lily wore the white dress. You told her to run and not look back.” She pulled a water bottle from her jacket and handed it to him.
He looked at the water, then at her, then took the bottle.
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