Mortal Sin (18 page)

“I don’t know yet. I’m going to find out.” He put it down.

Rafe stared at the cover. “It’s a sacred box.”

“One of ours.”

“What’s in it?”

“Nothing. Moira said that there had been a dagger, which had been stolen and used to kill the homeless man last week.”

Rafe looked perplexed. “Was there a purpose to the murder? A ritual? Why was it in a sacred box?”

“All good questions; we have no answers.”

“What kind of dagger?”

“I don’t know, but these boxes are often used to contain dangerous artifacts. It’s lined with lead. It’s heavy.”

While Rafe inspected the box, Anthony looked at the notebook Rafe had been reading. “That looks like Greek, but it must be in code. I can’t read it.” Greek was one of the languages Anthony was fluent in.

“It’s Coptic.”

“How do you know?”

Rafe hesitated, then read,
“‘The fire burns hot with souls, overflowing into the river of the damned. The key has been turned. Victory is near. Evil is awe, the righteous will suffer. Set will rule until the end of days, and the Earth will fill with the blood of the martyrs and the righteous will succumb to Set’s will.’”

Anthony shook his head. “You can’t know that.”

“I can’t explain it, but when I saw this, I could read it.” He paused. “Father Verda knew Coptic.”

“I told you, you can not have any of those memories. It’s not possible.”

Rafe shook his head. “Anthony, considering what we have seen in our lifetimes, how can you say it is not possible?”

“I don’t believe—”

Rafe cut him off, which angered Anthony. “I don’t care what you believe, brother, but I do believe. I know what I know. Juan wrote in Coptic, and Set is the Egyptian word for the devil. The key—that’s the release of the Seven. The key has been turned. When Fiona released the Seven through the willing sacrifice of Abby Weatherby, the key was turned. They’re one step closer to Hell on Earth, to wreak havoc until the Second Coming. This wasn’t about releasing the Seven. That’s only the first step to destroying the barrier between here and the Underworld.”

Anthony sat down, unsteady. “How does Juan know this? Is it because of Ianax, the demon?”

Rafe nodded. “I think that’s exactly it. For hours Ianax was inside him, merged with his body and mind. His thoughts imprinted in Juan’s thoughts. When I looked at the notebook and read the words, Juan immediately relaxed. He’s been wanting someone to understand, but even he didn’t understand.”

Anthony didn’t know what to believe anymore. If Rafe had memories—memories of the dead—did that mean that ghosts were here? That the souls of the priest weren’t at rest? Had Anthony failed them as much as he’d failed Juan?

“I should have sent him to St. Michael’s.”

“I don’t know that they could have helped.”

“We have scholars there who know Coptic. At least would have recognized it.”

“Why didn’t you send his writings to St. Michael’s? Didn’t you send samples?”

“Yes, if course I did. But they were a mess, nonsensical. Or direct Biblical references from the Old Testament. One week, Juan wrote Psalm twenty-three in Aramaic over and over. More than two thousand times. Everything was repetition, but there was so much I couldn’t keep up with him.”

Rafe stared at the sleeping detective. “Maybe he’s been fighting.”

“He’s not possessed.”

“No. But he knows what’s coming and he can’t communicate it. This is a prophesy of sorts.”

“There are no new prophets.”

“None recognized officially by the Church, but they exist.”

“Separating the truth from the lies is impossible, which is why we don’t listen to any.”

Rafe didn’t speak. Anthony grabbed his hand. “Ianax could still be using Juan. He could be under a spell. He could be filled with remorse so deep he’s calling on his childhood teachings. His mother is extremely devout.”

“Anthony, Juan never learned Greek or Aramaic or Coptic. His Latin was limited to his catechism. You know this is important.” Rafe paused, then said, “He came here because this is where he feels safe.”

“How do you know?”

“It was the way he was praying. He needs to stay. I think he can heal himself here.”

“Skye needs to talk to him.”

“And you know what he’ll say. Nothing that will help her.”

Anthony looked down at the notebook. The words were tight and perfectly formed, much neater than some of the written ramblings Anthony had seen. Completely unreadable unless you knew the old language, which hadn’t been used in hundreds of years. Coptic had never been used widely, as it was Hebrew written using the Greek alphabet.

“Are you certain that Juan wrote this?”

“Have you seen his hands? They are gnarled and abused.”

Anthony said, “We need to take him to a doctor. Dr. Wicker has recovered from the attack last year.”

“Dr. Wicker is two hours away and refuses to come to Santa Louisa. He’s terrified.”

Anthony hadn’t realized that Rafe had been speaking to the doctor who used to treat the priests at the mission. “When did you talk to him?”

“I visited him last month,” Rafe said. “Moira and I had some questions.”

“You took Moira?”

Rafe didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

“You can’t trust her.”

Rafe’s hands fisted on the table. “Don’t.”

“I’ve been telling you for months—”

“And you’ve been wrong. There is no one I trust more.”

Anthony felt like he’d been punched in the chest. “We’re brothers.”

“I love you, Anthony. Yes, we are brothers. But I love Moira as well. And she is pivotal in this battle. Without her, we lose.”

“One person will not win or lose this battle.”

“I disagree. We need all of us, working together.
All
of us trusting each other. And right now? We’re divided. You’re angry with me because you don’t understand these memories I have. Moira is in Canada with Rico. You and Skye are arguing. Skye is torn between her duty as sheriff and her duty to you. Lily is in Montana. I have this sick feeling that this was all part of the plan. To divide and conquer. We will win when we’re together. We will be defeated if we separate.”

Anthony couldn’t respond to that. He’d been feeling apprehensive because of what he had learned in Sicily. When he read the papers left by the late Dr. Lieber and realized that there was only one way to end this reign of terror, only one way to send all Seven Deadly Sins back to Hell where they belonged.

Moira must sacrifice herself to save humanity. She must choose to do it. She must choose to die.

If Rafe knew the truth, he would stop her.

And then the end would most certainly come.

The flight to the San Juan Islands in Rico’s small plane took over three hours. Rico had been quiet since take-off, so Moira tried to sleep. When that failed, she reviewed John’s notes again so she knew exactly what he had been up to.

John Martinelli was one of the best St. Michael’s had to offer—smart, devout, loyal, with just enough ruthlessness to make him effective. He hadn’t been a fan of hers, but who was? Yet he’d deferred to Father Philip and tolerated her.

Dammit, she missed Father.

She pushed Father out of her head and focused on what John had learned.

He’d arrived in Victoria six days ago because of verified signs of demonic activity near the downtown area. He had been tracking a coven that might have had ties to Fiona, but his notes were vague—basically, a group of five, two women and three men, were meeting in the sub-basement of a theater that was closed for renovations, but had a history of supernatural activity—namely, ghosts. Separate from that, he’d learned about a dead body that had an odd mark on it. He’d broken into the morgue to take a picture, which he’d sent to Rico. That body had a demon mark very similar to the other victims of the Seven Deadly Sins.

The body had been a suspected suicide: an eyewitness had seen a teenager jump into the water from the Point Ellice bridge. It wasn’t a drop that was automatically fatal, but when his body was recovered, he was dead. The autopsy revealed that he’d drowned.

“There’s nothing else about this kid,” Moira said. “Not even his name. If this suicide was a victim of one of the Seven, we need to retrace his steps.”

“I have people working on it,” Rico said, and nothing more.

She frowned, flipped through the sparse notes and wondered if Rico was keeping information from her.

“There’s nothing here about how John identified the coven in the first place, or why he thought the guy who jumped might have been marked. Or what the coven was doing in the basement. There’s really no detail. The good stuff is missing. What aren’t you telling me?”

Rico didn’t say anything for a long minute. Then he said, “I want to see what you can learn when you arrive.”

“You’re
testing
me? This is all a fucking test?”

“No,” Rico said, teeth clenched. “John is missing. But your skills have expanded exponentially in the last six months. I want to see if we can trust them.”

“You don’t trust me?” She didn’t know whether to be hurt or angry.

Both. Definitely both.

“Don’t make this into anything more than it is.”

“Right,” she mumbled. How many times was she going to have to prove herself? Was she going to have to martyr herself to prove she wasn’t practicing magic?

She stuffed the notes aside and closed her eyes. She drifted in and out of sleep, odd dreams creeping in and out of her head. Replays of the last two battles, and then something else.

Something different.

One part of Moira knew she was in the plane, Rico as pilot, flying over an endless, empty section of land. But the other part, Moira knew she wasn’t in the plane. She was elsewhere… back in the storage unit, with Skye.

It’s a dream. Just a dream.

But if felt different than a dream. She stepped into unit 214 and a beautiful man stood there, his hair long, his bones sharp and jaw chiseled. Beautiful and deadly.

I’m free, Andra Moira. I’m coming for you. No one can protect you from me.

In his hand was a dagger, and it plunged into her chest. She felt no pain, nothing but a vast emptiness, dark space, and falling… and then the pain came.

She jerked awake. Rico had slapped her.

“What the hell?” she said, breathless. Her heart was racing, and her hands gripped the co-pilot’s wheel in front of her. She let go.

“You had nightmare.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You screamed, then grabbed the controls. You’re lucky I could disable the co-pilot easily.”

“The dagger.”

“You dreamed about the dagger?”

“It was a demon. The dagger
is
a demon. Or, a demon was trapped in it. It’s coming.” She left off that it was coming
for her.
“You know about it.”

“Anthony sent me a photo of the box. The box was familiar, but I don’t know anything about containing a dagger, or why that dagger would be in Santa Louisa.”

“It’s real, and it’s in the hands of someone who knows it’s dangerous. We need to get back to Santa Louisa as soon as possible.”

“Anthony and Raphael can handle anything that comes up while you’re gone.”

His tone said the subject was closed.

#

It was after ten in the morning when they landed on San Juan Island. A kid met them at the small airstrip. At least, Kyle Callahan looked like a college kid. He was tall, but had that awkward composure as if he’d just recently grown eighteen inches and didn’t quite know what to do with his newfound height.

“Kyle,” Rico said introducing her, “this is Moira O’Donnell.”

Kyle took her hand. “It’s very good to meet you,” he said with a sincere smile.

She wasn’t expecting the jolt of emotion coming from him. Grief. Confusion. Relief. She slammed down her senses. She was
not
an empath, and she didn’t want these empathic feelings. She didn’t know where this was coming from, but it was as if every day her senses had become more… more
sensitive.

Rico was watching her closely and he saw her reaction. She kept her face impassive. Kyle looked confused, then turned to Rico. “I don’t know how you knew, but you’re right. John is in the morgue as a John Doe.”

Moira looked at Rico. “You believed Lily? You told me you didn’t believe anything she said.”

Rico ignored her comment and said to Kyle, “Let’s go.”

They walked briskly to a large boat, simple in design but functional. Moira asked, “What happened to John? How did you find him? How long has he been dead?”

Kyle glanced first at Rico before answering. That irritated Moira, but she kept her anger to herself. For now.

“His body was found near the Upper Harbor, in an abandoned building near the bridge. He’d been in a fight, but the coroner is uncertain about the cause of death. He’s ruling it a suspicious death.”

“I need to see his body,” Moira said. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to look at the body of a dead friend. But she had to. She needed to know what happened.

Kyle glanced again at Rico, and Moira snapped, “Really? We’re still playing this game?”

“Don’t,” Rico said.

“John’s
dead
, Rico. I’m sorry about that. Truly. But we can’t pussy-foot around. I need to find out if magic killed him. Or if he was marked. I read his reports to you—he found one of Fiona’s witches and was tracking her. He found a body with a demon mark. Now he’s dead. We have to know what we’re facing, or we’ll be dead, too.”

Rico didn’t say anything for a long minute, but he was clearly angry. He didn’t like his authority questioned, particularly in front of anyone else. But Moira was tired of the games. She was tired of the distrust. She was tired of the constant trials. Yes, she’d been a witch. She’d fucked up and people died. She would never forget it or forgive herself, but that was seven years ago, and she had proven herself over and over and over.

If she could walk away, she would.

Rico turned to Kyle. “Take us to John.”

“Hop aboard. We’ll get across the strait in thirty minutes or so, another twenty minute drive to the morgue. You don’t want to settle in first?”