Carnal Sin (18 page)

The demon said, "Moh-rah."

"Shut up," she told the demon, knowing better than to get in a conversation with a creature like this. "Hurry, Rafe!"

Rafe was sweating profusely as he increased the pace and intensity of the exorcism.

"Moh-rah, free me. You will join me and my master."

"Fuck you."

A crash against the first set of doors told Moira their time was running out.

"Rafe!"

"Free me," the demon said. "Free me."

Moira suddenly feared they were doing something wrong. The demon flinched, but wasn't in obvious distress, nor was it even close to leaving the woman's body. Exorcisms could be as short as five minutes or take days. With one of the Seven, it would more than likely take several days.

They barely had five minutes.

A crash in the front room shook the house. If anything happened to Jackson, what would she tell his daughter?

"We have to go, Rafe!"

Suddenly, the body inside the trap collapsed. The demon was partly freed. A hot swoosh of air tainted by the foul stench of Hell itself filled the space within the trap, floor to ceiling, the energy emanating from it enough to knock both her and Rafe down. The demon spun faster and faster, but it couldn't get out.

Moira couldn't understand how Rafe's exorcism had worked that fast. But if the demon abandoned the female body on its own, why hadn't it left Nadine earlier? What was going on here? Why wasn't it trapped in the chalice? They were way over their heads with this one. For a moment, Moira doubted if they'd even get out of there alive.

"What are you doing?" Wendy cried, flinging open the doors into the small room. "Stop right now!"

Moira didn't wait for Wendy to get her bearings. Tucking the chalice under her left arm as if she were running with a football, Moira charged at Wendy, punching her square in the stomach, then kneeing her in the nose as the witch doubled over.

Out of the corner of her eye Moira saw movement. She turned and pivoted, but it was too late. Nicole Donovan--the bitch of a witch from Fiona's coven in Santa Louisa--slammed the butt of her asthame against Moira's head. Moira's quick reflexes minimized what could have been a killing blow, and she managed to keep hold of the chalice, but her eyesight blurred. She stumbled over Wendy as the witch tried to get up, falling to her knees.

Rafe kicked Nicole in the wrist and she dropped the knife. The demon roared from the trap, the woman's unconscious body inside the trap with it being lifted to the ceiling. Suddenly the body dropped to the ground. Then it slowly rose again.

"Rafe, the demon is killing her!" Moira screamed.

Wendy crawled into the room and began chanting a spell. Moira knew it well: it was a binding spell to tame the demon.

Moira didn't want to leave the poor possessed woman trapped with the demon, but she also didn't know how to save her.

"Moira!" Rafe shouted. "Moira! Go!"

She hesitated, but didn't see any way to reach the trapped waitress. Nicole charged Moira, and Rafe stopped the witch with a punch to the jaw.

Moira spotted Jackson trying to get up from the corner of the room. She ran over, helped him up, and handed him the chalice. "Come on, Jackson--we have to get out of here. Go--"

"Where's Rafe?"

"I'll get him, go!" she ordered the pastor.

She spun around, shook her head to clear it, and saw Nicole leap onto Rafe's back. Nicole had her asthame back in hand, its polished blade reflecting the dim light. Rafe shook her off, but then Nicole slammed headfirst into his back, knocking him to the ground.

Moira ran over and grabbed Nicole's wrist as she was about to plunge her knife into Rafe's kidney. There was already blood on the knife--Moira's chest heaved. "Rafe!" she cried out as she wrestled with Nicole.

"I'm okay!" He scrambled to his feet and freed the knife from Nicole's grasp as Moira held her wrist down on the ground. Nicole bucked beneath her, and Moira kneed her in the stomach.

"You bitch!" Nicole gasped. "You'll be sorry. When Fiona gets her hands on you, you'll wish you were dead."

"Where is she?" Moira pinned Nicole's neck down with her arm, holding her body down with her right knee and her weight.

Nicole spat in her face. Moira pressed harder, cutting off her air supply. This bitch had watched Father Philip die at the hands of a demon she'd summoned. She didn't deserve to live.

"Moira, we have to go--!"

Moira barely heard Rafe's voice.

"Where is Fiona?" Moira shouted.

Nicole's face reddened.

Rafe pulled Moira to her feet. "Stop, Moira! Now is not the time."

Moira wanted to kill Nicole Donovan. Did that make her no better than her evil mother? Vengeance--it had driven her for so long. But was she a killer?

"Let's go." Rafe took her hand.

Wendy was consumed with controlling the demon, but the witch was strong and Moira felt the demon succumb. When the room began to fill with electricity, Moira didn't notice at first.

She glanced at Nicole, who was on the ground, catching her breath, chanting a spell.

"Right behind you," Moira said to Rafe, not wanting to find out what Nicole had up her sleeve.

They bounded up the stairs to the top floor and fled the house. Jackson was nowhere to be seen. "Dammit, I told him to get the hell out of Dodge! I knew we shouldn't have brought him!" Moira didn't want his death on her conscience. She didn't want to lose anyone else.

A slight tremor beneath their feet had them both sprinting down the street.

A vehicle rushed toward them. It was Skye's truck, Jackson at the wheel. They jumped into the backseat, tires squealing as Jackson hastened away.

"You got it!" Jackson said. "You really did. I put the chalice in the box."

Victory was bittersweet. Moira slammed her fist on the seat in front of her. "We didn't get the demon! That woman--"

Rafe took her hand and squeezed. "We did what we thought would work--it didn't. If an exorcism doesn't work, we'll figure out something else."

"What else is there?" Moira snapped. "We need to strategize, but we don't have any time."

"Listen, we got the chalice. That's one big plus for the good guys," Jackson said.

Rafe caught her eye and Moira flushed with embarrassment at her loss of control. Rafe said, "Don't beat yourself up over your rage at Nicole Donovan. I wanted to kill her myself."

"I would have if you hadn't stopped me. All I could think of was that face watching Father die."

Rafe took Moira's hand, and she felt something damp. She flipped on the overhead light and saw blood on her fingers. She pushed aside his jacket and pulled up his T-shirt. "Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?"

"It's not fatal."

She bit back a lecture and pulled her first-aid kit from her backpack.

"Is he okay?" Jackson looked back from the driver's seat.

She inspected the injury. "Nicole did this? With her knife?"

"When she hopped on my back. She just nicked me."

"This is more than a nick," Moira mumbled. She focused on cleaning the wound and taping it up. She tried to rid her mind of the image of the possessed woman's body falling from the ceiling, but even when she blocked the mental picture she could still hear the sick thud as the body hit the floor over and over again.

"Moira, we'll find the answers," Rafe said. "We have the chalice--they won't be able to use it again."

"But the million-dollar question is, can we use it to send Lust back to Hell?"

After leaving Moira and Rafe at the hotel, Jackson ensured that the chalice was properly secured in the vault in the Grace Harvest church basement. The alarm was armed. He walked across the parking lot to the vicarage, physically exhausted but emotionally wound up.

He knew about demon hunting and had participated in a few exorcisms, but only as an assistant or bystander, and only under controlled conditions. He'd had no idea what was required, what Moira and Rafe truly had to do, or how much fortitude they needed to face off a demon that wanted them dead. They had worked in unison, completely in sync with each other. It had been amazing to watch, as well as terrifying.

At least for now, it was over.

Jackson wasn't a drinker, but tonight--this morning, rather--he poured himself a double Scotch before going to his office. He sat at his desk and booted up his computer. While waiting, he sipped his drink and consoled himself with the fact that he hadn't lied to Moira. In fact, he'd told her the truth--he was still looking for Courtney.

He would never have considered breaking and entering to obtain the information he needed--information he suspected Wendy Donovan had--but when the opportunity arose, he'd jumped at it. How could he not? His daughter's life--her eternal soul--was at stake. He couldn't stand by and not try to save her.

If Wendy Donovan's contact list and computer files didn't ultimately help him track down his daughter, at least he would have a much more comprehensive list of witches across America to add to his database. Jackson was confident he would someday find Courtney. He knew the name of the witch who had recruited his daughter, and now with Wendy's files he could track down her associates. Eventually, he would find and save his daughter.

Even if it took his last breath.

EIGHTEEN

After Moira helped Rafe recline on one of the double beds in their hotel room, she took her knife and cut away his shirt from the wound. Her field dressing had held, but the bandage was soaked bright red. He'd somehow reopened the wound.
Dammit
.

"I liked that shirt," Rafe said, eyes closed.

"You have at least six other black T-shirts," she said. Rafe was pale, but at least he hadn't lost his sense of humor. She willed her hands to remain steady as she carefully removed the dressing and inspected the injury.

The wound had stopped bleeding again, but it had gone in deep enough to have Moira debating whether to take Rafe to the hospital. What if the blade had nicked a vital organ? She must have stared too long, because Rafe said, "Forget about the hospital. I'm fine."

"You lost a lot of blood." She showed him the bandage she'd just removed. "How are you feeling? Honestly. Nicole stabbed you with her asthame. We don't know if the knife was poisoned, or cursed, or--"

"I am
fine
. Just exhausted, like you. I think I saw orange juice in the mini-fridge."

She rose and crossed the room. "I forgot there was a refrigerator. I'm so used to the generic, cash-only, fleabag motels."

She pulled out orange juice for Rafe and a water bottle for herself. Then she grabbed a mini-bottle of vodka.

"I didn't know you drank the hard stuff," Rafe teased.

"Me? Hell, no. If it's not beer, don't bother me with it. This is for you." She shoved a folded towel under him. "It's going to sting."

"Don't--" he began, but she'd already poured half the bottle over his wound.
"Shit,"
he gasped, biting down on his lip.

"I warned you. Sorry." She kissed Rafe near the cut, not realizing she'd done so until her lips touched his warm skin, tasted the alcohol on his body, and smelled the sweat from their battle with the witches.

In silence, Moira finished cleaning and taping his injury, trying to ignore Rafe's watchful eyes. "You'll live." She tried to sound flip, but it came out relieved. She finally looked at him, and he took her hand and kissed it. "Thank you."

Her racing heart was finally slowing as the adrenaline from the last hour faded. "But if you feel any sharp pains, start bleeding, get a fever--I'm taking you to the hospital. Or else back to Santa Louisa to have Dr. Fielding look at you."

"I don't need a coroner yet," he said with a half smile.

"I'm serious!" She tried to stand, to pace--worry and fear battling for primacy--but Rafe didn't let go of her hand. He pulled her down on top of him.

"I'm fine, sweetheart. But it's nice to have someone worry about me."

For a split second she thought about his wound, not wanting to reinjure it, but his bare chest was flat against her, his lips right in front of her, his eyes staring into hers.

"I'm
fine,"
he whispered again.

She kissed him, not wanting to hear he was okay because she knew he wasn't. He'd been stabbed; he could have died. She shivered uncontrollably. They were partners; she'd never forgive herself if he died during one of their operations.

They were more than mere partners.

"I can't lose you," she said, her mouth moving from his lips, to his rough jaw, to his neck. "I can't," she whispered.

The thought that tonight could have been their last night on earth terrified her. For two weeks they'd been talking around their mutual attraction--every time Rafe brought it up, she avoided the conversation. She didn't want to talk about the kisses they'd shared, the hot touches, the way she missed him when they were apart, the way she knew when he entered a room even when her eyes were closed. She had kept the protective shields surrounding her heart, her emotions, erect and strong.

But tonight they crashed down around her with one simple thought:

Rafe could have died
.

She didn't want to care about Rafe Cooper. She didn't want to be here in this hotel room alone with him, his arms wrapped tightly around her body, holding her close as she greedily licked his salty skin. Caring raised the stakes. Caring left her vulnerable. She didn't want to care. Or to fall in love.

But she didn't know how to stop it.

Tonight, she let go. Tonight, she touched Rafe the way she'd wanted to for weeks. She pushed aside his earlier comments about not settling for a one-night stand. She'd worry about that tomorrow.

She kissed Rafe's chest. His biceps. The soft skin on the inside of his elbow. She kissed each of his fingers in turn, slowly, wanting to know every inch of his body. She kissed his stomach and stopped when her lips brushed his bandage.

"I don't want to hurt you," she said. "Maybe--"

He grabbed her forearms and pulled her up, his mouth hard on hers, silencing her excuses. He rolled over so her back was flat on the bed and he towered above her. His voice was a low, primal growl. "If I bleed, you can stitch me up later."

Then there were no more words between them, only the heat that had been building exponentially until together, they turned combustible.

Rafe pushed aside his doubts, all anxiety over what they had faced and what they would face, and focused on Moira beneath him. Kissed her so she couldn't talk, couldn't tell him to stop, to slow down, to think. He didn't want to debate whether making love to Moira was right or wrong; it couldn't be wrong. Not when she warmed his cold heart; not when she gave him the will to live, a reason for fighting the pain of memories that weren't his, or the unspoken traumas of his own distant past.

With Moira, he could face the world and any battle the underworld threw at them.

He had to. For her.
For them
.

Rafe wanted all of Moira now, and he wanted to savor each second, every kiss, every touch. He kissed her softly, lightly, but she reached up and pulled him down to her, opening her mouth so he could fully appreciate her lush lips, her eagerness. He'd been waiting for Moira to accept not only their attraction, but the very real feelings that had been simmering from the beginning. He could have had her earlier, he'd wanted to make love to her against the dresser, on the floor, anywhere, but he'd known she wasn't fully there with him, and he wouldn't pressure her any more than she could handle.

But now, tonight, she'd made the leap. She might not know it, she might think she could talk herself out of this relationship, but she wouldn't do it. And he wouldn't let her.

"Rafe," she said, her voice muffled against his mouth. "Shirt."

He raised himself on his forearms and Moira reached down and quickly pulled off her shirt, tossing it aside. Rafe stared at her skin, her beautiful, soft skin marred by a long, jagged scar across her stomach. Rage bubbled in the pit of his stomach, an anger so hot and wicked he wanted to punch something. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed every centimeter of the scar, top to bottom, then he licked it slowly, bottom to top. Moira shivered beneath him, her hands gripping his biceps.

"A demon attack?" Rafe asked quietly, then kissed the top of the scar.

"I heal pretty well from demon attacks," she said. "That one came from my mother, after I ran away the first time."

The torment Fiona O'Donnell had imposed on Moira--physically and emotionally--was cruel and sadistic. Anyone else would have been broken under the repeated assaults. But not Moira--she was made of resilience and the strongest of wills. She was a survivor of the highest order.

"Don't think about it, Rafe," she said.

"I'm not. I'm thinking about you. How amazing you are." He kissed her. "How much you mean to me." He kissed her again, longer, savoring her tongue, drawing in her bottom lip to nibble.

His mouth traveled from her lips to her neck and back to that spot behind her ear that she loved so much when he kissed it. She gasped and reached for his belt.

He rose from the bed and stared at the beautiful woman. His beautiful woman. His Moira. He unbuckled his belt.

Moira's breath hitched as Rafe stared at her with his bottomless dark blue eyes. She watched him take off his belt, unbutton his jeans and push them--and his boxers--to the floor. His long, perfect penis stood straight out, moving as if it had a mind of its own. She reached out for him, but he turned away and walked to the end of the bed. He grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her down until he could reach her waistband. He unzipped her pants, curled his fingers under her panties, and in one fluid movement pulled them off and dropped them to the floor. He never took his eyes from hers as he lay back down on top of her.

He kissed her firmly, possessively, neither too soft nor too hard. His hands moved from her thighs, skimming past the spot she wanted him to touch, up her stomach until he found her breasts. She sucked in her breath when he slid down to take one breast in his mouth while rubbing the other. At the point past where she couldn't take the exquisite torture, but was too aroused to speak coherently, he switched sides.

Moira couldn't stop moving her hands. She was never one to sit still, and with Rafe Cooper lying naked on top of her? She needed to feel him, to remind herself that this was real, that she was worthy, that Rafe was safe. She tried to take control of the lovemaking--she didn't like giving up control in anything, even bed--so she reached down and caressed his penis, urging him to speed up.

Rafe groaned and said, "Not so fast."

"I'm ready."

"I'm past ready, sweetness." He removed her hand and brought it up above her head. He took her other hand and held it tight as well, not giving her the chance to explore his body.

"Rafe--" Her voice was low and seductive.

He kissed her again, his breath coming faster, mimicking her own urgency. She pulled her hands away from his grasp, and he held them again, on either side of her head, then adjusted his body between her legs. She opened for him, her chest rising and falling with anticipation.

Rafe stared at her and she nearly stopped breathing. The passion and intensity in his expression had her frozen.

Never had anyone looked at her with such raw desire.

He let go of one of her hands, but she didn't move. She didn't know if she could. He reached down between her legs and ran his finger lightly back and forth. It skimmed that too-sensitive spot and she shivered, the warm pit in her stomach instantly turning hot and fluid. She felt so damn needy and wanton; she leaned up to kiss him, then licked his jaw, salty with his sweat and restraint.

He groaned, his veins tight on his neck, holding himself back.

"Make love to me, Rafe," she whispered and fell back onto the bed, her arms out and open, showing him with her body how ready she was. How much she wanted this. Wanted him. Now.

He replaced his finger with his penis, and slowly--too slowly--pushed himself into her. Moira didn't want to wait. Couldn't wait. She reached down and grabbed Rafe's hard ass and pushed while she arched her pelvis forward. He thrust in completely and they both stopped moving. Moira didn't think she could breathe. Waves of emotion, physical and emotional, flooded her. Rafe's emotions and her own. She relaxed, trying to absorb them all without drowning. She was teetering on the brink when Rafe said, "I love you, Moira."

Rafe held himself in check, his physical desire for sex battling his emotional need for intimacy. He craved to show Moira deep affection and the sincerity of his love, not just say the words. But urgency propelled him, as if he was going to lose her. His heart skipped a beat and he eased himself down, sinking even deeper inside her warmth, his chest against hers, their hands locked.

"Rafe," she murmured, her breath caressing his lips.

Her voice wrapped around him and he set a slow rhythm, but together slow was not an option. They increased their sensual tempo, their bodies, slick with sweat, entangled in the dance they shared. Moira's breath quickened to match Rafe's, a gasp escaping as they tried to pace themselves. But slow wasn't working, he wanted to make the exquisite sensation continue all night, it had been so long for him, and never like this. Never had his emotions been equal to the physical act of sex. Here it was all about Moira, about him, about them together.

He moved within her, slow, steady, deep, prolonging each thrust until he tumbled over the abyss. He gathered her into his arms, held her tight as his body shook almost violently.

"Moira," he whispered. "Moira, love."

She quivered beneath him, her arms and legs wrapped around him, and she gasped twice, then her breath stopped. He let go of everything inside with a long, low-pitched groan. Everything, including his heart.

Rafe rolled onto his uninjured side, pulling Moira and the blankets with him, wrapping her up with him. He kissed her repeatedly, many small kisses everywhere on her face, her lips, her neck. Her heart thudded against his chest, and he put one hand over her breast, feeling her life beating against his palm. He slowed down his kisses, drawing each one out, savoring the taste of her salty skin, swallowing her sighs in his mouth. She nestled against him, and with a final sigh, Moira slept.

Rafe watched her. Asleep, Moira was just as beautiful, but surprisingly vulnerable. Delicate. Two words he'd never associate with her while awake.

But he had known, deep down, that Moira was vulnerable. What they did--what they must do--put her at risk. He wished foolishly that he could take her away from everything evil in the world. Pamper her. Show her the beauty of the mountains, the serenity of the meadows, the majesty of endless fields of wildflowers. He would give his life to give Moira peace in hers, peace and security she'd never had before.

Someday they would have it. He might not deserve it, but Moira did.