I failed and they died.
He’d not only been tempted, but he’d given in to his temptation. He’d lusted, and his weakness had brought death into the mission.
He closed his eyes and pictured her, the woman who had lied to him, had seduced him, had brought evil into the mission. Seduced him—he was a willing partner. He’d seen her as the sign he’d been waiting for that God wasn’t calling him, that He’d never called him into the priesthood. He’d been dangerously wrong.
He wanted to sleep, here, safe, knowing Anthony and Moira would be sentries against the evil that wanted him. But he couldn’t sleep. His mind was a mess; he could hardly keep his thoughts straight.
When he’d first seen Moira O’Donnell, he was certain they’d met before—talked before. He remembered her hair, her voice with her subtle Irish lilt, her long, elegant fingers … But they’d never met. He knew they’d never met.
It was as if she were meant to find him. But that scared him as well, because he was a pawn in a larger game.
And last night on the cliffs—the words he knew, the phrases, the commands. He didn’t question, just spoke—ordered—commanded—and the arca, Lily Ellis, was saved. As hard as he tried now, he couldn’t remember what he’d said.
He hadn’t been possessed, but nor was he quite himself. It was as if his brain had many rooms, and someone had unlocked a door he’d never known was there, then slammed it shut—and locked it—after he had a glimpse inside. Try as he might, he couldn’t open the door again. This wasn’t the first time, and he feared it wouldn’t be the last.
He closed his eyes, hoping to sleep undisturbed by the nightmares—real and imagined—that had haunted him during the three months he was in a coma. He had to tell Anthony about the dreams, but would Anthony believe what Rafe had seen? The dreams felt so real that Rafe was certain they were memories, but that was ridiculous. It was more likely the work of one of the local witches—and there were many, as he knew from his time at the mission. They had blinded him to their evil intent, and when he finally learned the truth, it had been too late. They’d planted dreams and nightmares in his mind during his coma to torment him.
He moaned out loud, his chest tight with emotional pain, as images of the vivid, blood-soaked chapel snapped into his head. He’d been blinded, true, but not just because of the witches. What if he couldn’t stop the evil that threatened them? What if he’d unknowingly unleashed the arca when he saved Lily Ellis? He’d saved one, but many more were in jeopardy.
He slipped into an uneasy sleep … And the dreams returned. And try as he did to wake himself, he couldn’t. Just like he couldn’t awaken for the last ten weeks, though he’d desperately tried.
The priest prepared the homily as he always did, after prayer and fasting.
The African villagers Isa served had nothing. Some went days without food. Water was scarce. Children were starving.
What could he say to them tomorrow? They stared at him with blank expressions, sitting in the tent church, converting to Christianity because they received a small wafer of bread. The bread of life …
“Give me faith, Lord.”
He had great faith, which was why he’d been sent to Kenya. Missionaries died here. They were tortured and murdered for giving hope to a hopeless people. Death didn’t scare him. He believed in Paradise.
“Abba! Abba!” The boy, ten, ran into the small hut Father Isa Tucci lived in behind the tent church. He grinned, carrying a long animal in his bony black arms. “I hunt him.”
At first, Isa panicked. He had a great fear of snakes. But this snake was dead, a nonpoisonous boa.
Isa smiled at the boy. “Let’s prepare a fire.”
How could he feed two hundred people with one snake? He would make a stew. And he prayed for a miracle akin to the loaves and fishes. These children of God needed a miracle.
They needed food.
The potatoes he grew were small, but they would make a good starch. He used the last of the beans, only three handfuls now, feeling a bit like the foolish boy who bought magic beans hoping to grow a beanstalk to the heavens. Everyone in the village contributed something. There was laughter and talk.
Father Isa looked on in approval, humbled. “Thank you, Lord.”
Hours later, they went to sleep with full stomachs and hope. There were leftovers—enough for a small bowl tomorrow for every man, woman, and child.
In the middle of the night Isa woke to the familiar sound of many Jeeps. Fear clutched his heart. Evil lived in darkness.
He emerged from his hut and saw that the tribal chief had also stepped out. “We must hide,” Isa told him.
He shook his head. “It’s too late.”
“No—”
“Save the children.” Children were being brought from their huts as gunfire rang out nearby.
There were thirty-six children under age thirteen in the tribe, but he could find only fifteen of them. They silently followed Isa to their hiding spot in the ground. They hid for hours. Through gunfire. Screams. Cries for mercy that did not come. Isa prayed. The gunmen were above them but did not see their camouflaged entry.
When the silence outside matched the silence of the children inside the cramped shelter, Isa stepped out.
The stench of blood filled his senses.
Winged predators—vultures—were already feasting on the remains. There would be more predators soon. He walked slowly through the village.
The women had been butchered, the men tortured and killed. The children that had been left behind were no longer there. They’d been taken for slaves.
He turned, saw one boy who’d been left. The boy who had hunted the snake. His hands were cut off. His feet. His tongue. Isa realized then that the child had stolen, not hunted, the snake.
As he watched, baby snakes poured out of the boy’s body, from every limb that had been severed. Isa screamed and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the snakes were gone. But the boy was still butchered.
The slaughter was for revenge. One theft and nearly two hundred innocent people were dead.
Isa fell to his knees and cursed God.
Rafe sat upright in bed, the scent of blood wafting through the motel room, the air so hot his tongue was dusty and dry. For a split second he saw snakes, hundreds of them, slithering around the room, and he stifled a cry while praying for deliverance.
Then the snakes were gone, and the reality of his nightmare hit him.
Father Isa Tucci was one of the priests who’d been murdered at the mission. For months Rafe had encouraged Father Tucci to talk about the demon he’d confronted in Africa, but he’d refused. What he’d suffered then, the choice he’d had to make, had tormented him for more than a decade. Rafe understood now, understood as he never had while Father Tucci was alive.
“You had no choice, Father,” Rafe whispered. “God forgives you; you must forgive yourself.”
The room grew cold and the door between the rooms slowly shut without sound.
A flutter of wings sounded, but Rafe saw nothing.
Cold … a ghost? Father Tucci?
Rafe rose from the bed. He heard Anthony and Moira talking in hushed but firm voices. He shouldn’t have feigned sleep earlier; the relaxation had led to real sleep and the nightmare about Father Tucci. He checked the seals at the doors, the windows, the corners, the vents. Moira had been meticulous, ingenious even in sealing the hotel vents with salt and sticking a crucifix above the opening. She was exceptional in her complexity, and anyone who went head to head against Anthony had courage. Anthony was the golden child of St. Michael’s, an empath of sorts and a demonologist of the highest order, but he was also vulnerable in that he wasn’t a trained hunter.
Rafe had been at Olivet for a year after walking away from his ordination the first time. Rico had wanted him to study hunting, to discern whether they’d missed his calling on the island.
But after completing the training, he still wasn’t a hunter. He couldn’t make the commitment
and walked away. As with music, some could play the notes perfectly but couldn’t make music. And some musicians made errors, but their songs were infinitely sweet. Rafe could hunt demons, but he didn’t have the core instinct that made him a demon hunter.
He’d failed at St. John’s, failed at Olivet, and failed at Santa Louisa. And now he was jeopardizing his friends, new friends and old, and risking the lives of innocent people.
He frowned. How could he know that? How could he know what had happened to Father Tucci? There was no one here—no ghost—yet why was it so cold?
He breathed deeply, realized that the chill was gone, and wondered whether the sensation had been his imagination. Or residual nightmares that clouded his physical perceptions.
He had to face Moira and Anthony. He had to take responsibility.
TWENTY
you envy and you fear, so have no envy, no fear
—JOSHUA RADIN
Moira squeezed her eyes shut. She and Anthony had been going round and round about their next step and Moira was fed up with inaction.
“Lily will die if we wait around here much longer,” Moira said to Anthony, glancing anxiously around the hotel room. “Her mother is a witch, and if she was out on the cliffs last night she knows exactly what will happen to Lily. If you’re not going to help me rescue her, I’ll do it myself.”
“What about Rafe?” Anthony asked, his voice low and harsh as he glanced toward the adjoining door. “If he wasn’t in a coma, but under a spell—” He frowned. “I protected his room from demons.”
“Protection isn’t foolproof,” Moira said, feeling a smidgen of sympathy for the demonologist. He cared about his friend, and the idea that Rafe had suffered for weeks in a magic-induced limbo disturbed both of them. “And spells are like bacteria. They adapt, become stronger, defeat the standard protection the way bacteria can sometimes survive even with antibiotics. I don’t know what they did, but they could have moved him from his room, removed any amulet you had on his body. We don’t know, but we have to assume that they did something to him. But why?”
Anthony stared at the door. “I wish I knew. He’s not possessed, but he’s not himself.”
“He’s not under a spell,” she said quietly.
Anthony turned his attention from Rafe’s door to her. She felt uneasy under his silent scrutiny, his face hard and disapproving. She knew exactly what he was thinking, and her heart twisted.
“I’ll get Lily,” she said quietly. “If she’s not at her house, I’ll track her down.”
“How?”
“Her boyfriend. Jared knows more than he realizes. But I’ll need a safe house to take her to.”
“Bring her to Skye’s place.”
“The sheriff? Aren’t you putting her in a difficult position? I’m talking about kidnapping a minor. Lily is seventeen. Her mother is a witch, but she’ll use the law when it suits her. Even if Lily wants to come with me, you’re risking your girlfriend’s career.”
“Some things are more important.”
“What about Rafe? I can’t take him there, too, and we need to stick together. If we spread out too thin, we weaken the team.” She glanced around the hotel room. Much nicer than what she was used to. “Maybe I can bring Lily here, but I don’t know how safe this place is.”
“You diligently protected—”
“It doesn’t matter how well I protected these rooms against witchcraft or demons; there are ways to get to him—and you—and me. And Lily. We’re all in danger; it’s just a matter of time. Fiona made that perfectly clear this morning. We can’t leave Rafe alone, so are you suggesting we bring him to Skye’s house as well? She’ll have to bring him in for questioning; he’s probably under suspicion for murder—”
“What?”
“Give it up, Anthony. I know Rafe didn’t hurt Abby, but people aren’t going to listen to our arguments without tossing us into a padded cell or prison, which is exactly where Fiona wants us. Where she can get to us.”
“Do not treat me like a novice, Moira. You have no idea what I’ve faced here since the murders at the mission. Antagonism. Hatred. Adoration and idol worship. Some people think I’m a religious nutcase, others think I’m a prophet, others are starting a cult. People have bowed at my feet and spit in my face. Skye has been under close scrutiny by the city council, and the fact that the daughter of the mayor is dead and there are occult overtones is going to make it much worse for Rafe. I know exactly how the town will respond when the truth comes out about Rafe, which is why I want to send him back to St. Michael’s. Except—”
He stopped mid-sentence. Moira was surprised at how much Anthony confided in her about what he’d gone through these last weeks. He had no intention of befriending her, but she understood him and what he’d been through more than anyone else could.
“Except we need Rafe here, in the middle of the battle,” she finished quietly. “Okay, truce. Please, Anthony, until we figure out exactly what has happened and how to track those seven demons, we need to be on the same side. We should wake Rafe; he needs to be part of the planning. In fact, I’d suggest you stay here with him and I’ll get Lily tonight. Can we take her to the mission? Is it safe?”
“Yes, but you can’t drive that road now. It’s extremely dangerous in the rain, and if someone—or something—is tracking you it would be far too easy to push you off the edge. I’ll check out the cliffs on my way home; you stay here with Rafe. I—”
“I won’t let anything happen to him,” she said. She looked at the door that separated her from Rafe. He was listening—the door was ajar, and she sensed him standing right on the other side.
Anthony stared at her and nodded. “I’ll return at dawn to talk to Rafe while you find Lily and take her to the mission.”
“That’s six hours,” she said.
“Like you said, we don’t have much time.”
Moira hesitated. She had no intention of waiting until dawn to grab Lily. But she’d have to take Rafe with her, and she didn’t want to jeopardize him.
Anthony said, “I still don’t trust you.”
“I know. And believe me, I hate that I do trust you.”
Rafe heard Moira approach the partially closed door.
“He’s gone,” Moira said. Rafe smiled. She’d known he was standing there, listening.
He opened the door and stepped through.
She looked him up and down. “Glad the clothes fit.”
Anthony had brought him jeans and a black cotton T-shirt. “They’re loose.”
“You lost weight while you were at the hospital ‘resort.’ I have some power bars here, water, not much else. Though we can raid the mini-fridge. It’s on Anthony’s tab.” She grinned.
Moira was a beautiful woman, he realized, classical Irish beauty. No makeup; smooth, creamy skin with a smattering of faint freckles on her nose; thick wavy black hair that shined under the light. Tall, lithe, and athletic, all movement and muscle. She wasn’t a woman to sit still, he noted. Even when she was standing, her hands were in her pockets, or running through her hair, or tapping, full of energy.
Beautiful for certain, but with sad eyes. Brilliant blue eyes, the color of the eastern sky just before dawn broke, so alluring he wanted to lose himself under her gaze.
He sat on the sofa and diverted his gaze. He shouldn’t be looking at Moira as he was, yearning for something he couldn’t have. He’d lost so much already because he’d lusted; he’d allowed himself to be seduced by a witch. He wouldn’t do it again.
He felt as if he knew things about Moira, things he couldn’t know, but every time he tried to concentrate, the memory—if that’s what it was—flitted away. He wanted to believe it was nothing, just a comfort he’d felt when he was with Moira from the moment she found him.
He knew it was more than that.
She was looking at him quizzically, but he didn’t have the answer he knew she wanted. Not yet. So he said, “I agree we need to find Lily. But I’m not staying here while you pu
t yourself in harm’s way.”
She sat on the small table across from him. “You’re not a hundred percent.” She smiled, tried to make a joke. “Being in a coma can be tiring.”
He didn’t smile. He touched the side of her face where a bruise had formed, from her neck up to her cheek. “What happened? This is recent.”
“Fiona. My mother.” Moira glanced away, uncomfortable with his touch. He dropped his hand.
“The head of the coven.”
“Look, Rafe.” She rose, fidgeting, picked up her water bottle from the desk, and drank heavily. “Fiona is planning another ritual using Lily as bait for the Seven. So let’s get her, bring her back here, and take turns sleeping, okay? Two hours and I’ll be good.”
She tossed him a power bar and water bottle. “Eat up.” She opened her own and took a bite. “You need your strength,” she said with her mouth full.
He took a bite of the tasteless food. Chewed. Swallowed.
Moira was openly watching him, her enquiring expression curious and honest. Her strength moved him. Not just the physical strength he’d witnessed when she found him at the cabin and practically carried him back to the truck, or when she brought him to the hotel room, but her inner strength. Her character was so solid, so steadfast and resolute, that he trusted her. The odd sensation that they’d met before came and went again. He let it go, knowing that if he chased the memory, his headache would return.
Quietly, he confided in her. “I remember … things.”
She leaned against the desk, studying him with her sharp eyes. “Like what?”
“I’ve been thinking about this all day, all night. I heard what you said to Anthony, that his protections might have protected my hospital room, but not me. I was taken somewhere, Moira. Almost every night. It was in the hospital—I think I can find the room if I go back. There might be information there that can help me figure out what they did to me.”
Moira believed Rafe, believed everything he said and things he didn’t say. Rafe was both solid and ethereal, tough but yet vulnerable. He wasn’t intentionally being deceptive, yet in her heart she felt he was holding back—that while he wasn’t lying to her, he wasn’t telling her everything. She didn’t expect him to open up completely about what had happened to him at the mission and in the hospital, but she did expect him to lay out the important facts. The things that could get her and others killed. Or worse.
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