Mortal Sin (19 page)

“No,” Rico said.

“That’s fine.” Kyle didn’t seem disturbed by the change of plans. He readied the boat and took them out. “I could have driven, but it’s like a two-and-a-half-hour drive. This is much faster. And I like boats over cars any day of the week. And I can get you in without any fuss.” Meaning, he had a private dock.

They all stood up above in an enclosed room where Kyle maneuvered the boat with an ease that belied his young age. Moira didn’t particularly like the boat, but it didn’t make her as nervous as the plane.

“What’s this theater John kept going to?”

Kyle shrugged. “Just a playhouse. Neat place, historic. But the building John died in was only two blocks away, and accessible through a tunnel that goes under the theater. He asked me to pull all the maps of the area, particularly the underground maps, as well as provide him with research. You know, for example, that Victoria is the most haunted city in Canada.”

He said it matter-of-factly. People who didn’t believe in ghosts might engage in lighthearted discussion; Moira, on the other hand, asked, “Is that true?”

“It’s my area of expertise. I’ve debunked many claims, but have verified even more. The Playhouse is haunted, but they’re benign ghosts. More an imprint than anything is my guess. But the Point Ellice Bridge disaster in the late 1800s—that’s more serious.” He frowned. “The building is right there near where the bridge collapsed. And that’s the bridge Chris jumped from.”

“Chris? Who’s Chris?”

When Kyle didn’t say anything, Moira turned to Rico. “The suicide victim? The one with a demon mark?” Then to Kyle, “You knew him?”

Kyle nodded. “I had a class with him. I didn’t know him well, but I knew him.”

“Did you know, Rico?”

“Of course I knew.”

Moira seethed, but kept it to herself. When she was done here, she was done taking orders from Rico unless he made some big changes. She was sick and tired of being kept in the dark. Rico might not think the information was important, but they didn’t
know
what was important at this point. “I need a crash course history lesson, Kyle,” she said.

Rico interrupted. “John wasn’t looking for spirits. He was on the trail of a demon.”

“And demons love disasters. All those sudden deaths, lost souls, ripe for the picking. Especially in a place like this. Most haunted city in Canada? Where there’re ghosts, there’re demons. Tell me about the bridge, Kyle.”

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable, but he talked. “Not much to tell. In 1896, the bridge collapsed when a streetcar was overcrowded, people all heading to a big party for Queen Victoria’s birthday. Fifty-five people died. There are confirmed hauntings—no violence reported, but I’ve seen the spirits. I helped Brody send a family over.”

Her stomach twisted in knots. “What?”

Rico said, “Kyle works with us to put souls to rest. His uncle is a priest, Monsignor Brody Callahan. He’s been helpful to us.”

“How did the bridge collapse?”

“Like I said, overcrowded streetcar, poorly maintained bridge, driver error. Nearly half the people died.”

“Hmm.”

“What are you thinking, Moira?” Rico asked.

“Nothing yet. I don’t have to tell you that disasters become potential hot spots. The past tragedy could have attracted one of the Seven. Overcrowding, parties—Gluttony, maybe. Especially if John was following one of Fiona’s minions who was on those cliffs when they released the Seven. I still think the Sins are somehow attached to the coven that released them. I just don’t know how.”

“Victoria has a colorful history,” Kyle continued. “It was one of the leading ports for the opium trade in the late 1800s, for prostitution, gambling, you name it. Gluttony would fit in well here.”

Rico didn’t say anything.

“Geez,” Moira said, “you’re going to ruin the Canadian reputation of being so nice and polite.”

“We are nice,” Kyle countered. “We just have a colorful history.”

“No jumping to conclusions,” Rico said.

“I need to know what we’re facing.”

“Assume the worst.”

“I always do,” she countered. “Only lately, my imagination isn’t up to the task. So whatever is out there is going to be worse than any of us can picture.” She’d only battled two of the Seven and she didn’t know if she’d survive a third.

She turned back to Kyle. “So John was here for two weeks. He was interested in the theater, the bridge, anything else? What kind of research were you doing?”

“Mostly research on the bridge. He was interested in one of the dead people—the only unidentified victim of the disaster. There are several theories as to who she was, but John didn’t believe any of them.”

“What did he believe?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t share that with me. Only that she was an ancestor of someone.”

Covens were multi-generational. Daughters, mothers, grandmothers.

She flipped through the notes, but nowhere did John mention
who
he had been following.

“Which one?” she said to Rico. “He was following Fiona’s coven and he ended up here. It’s not Fiona, I would know. So who?”

Reluctantly, Rico said, “Serena.”

“You bastard.”

Rico bristled under her verbal attack, but Moira didn’t care.

Her sister. Her sister was
here.
That’s why Rico wanted her to come because Serena was powerful, and if her spells were the ones being spun here, Moira was one of the few who could diffuse them. But if Serena was here, Fiona could be close.

And Moira didn’t know if she could face her mother again and survive. She’d have to do it sometime, but she hoped by then she’d gain insight into how to defeat her.

“She’s not here alone,” Rico said.

Kyle cleared his throat. “John had me look into someone named Katherine Truxel.”

Moira’s skin prickled. “Truxel? Are you sure?”

“Of course. I double check all my information.”

“What do you know about her?” Rico asked.

Moira frowned. “The D.A. in Santa Louisa is Martin Truxel. I haven’t met him, but it’s not that common of a name, and in this business, we can’t assume a coincidence.”

“Katherine is long dead,” Kyle said. “I was putting together a genealogy for John, because he thinks she’s the unknown victim of the bridge.”

“Why did he believe that?” Moira asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t ask questions,” Kyle added. “I just do what Brody asks of me.”

“I appreciate that,” Rico said pointedly.

Moira rolled her eyes. “Well, ignorance will get us all killed, so I’ll ask the questions. I want to meet your uncle. I want all the information about Katherine Truxel and her ancestors.” She pulled out her cell phone. Rico grabbed it from her hands. She elbowed him sharply and grabbed it back. “What’s your problem, Rico?”

“I told you we were going dark. No phones.”

“Rafe and Anthony need to know that Truxel is a potential threat. And had you and John not been so closed mouth about what he was doing here, I might have been able to find out more information from Skye McPherson. She knows everyone in Santa Louisa, including Truxel. What if one of his relatives was part of Fiona’s coven? What if
he
is?” Dammit, she should have found an excuse to get close to him. She’d know if he was a magician if they had ever been in the same room.

Rico was angry, but he pulled out his own cell phone and handed it to her. “Use mine. I know it’s safe.”

“Thanks so much,” she said sarcastically and dialed Rafe’s number. He didn’t answer, and she didn’t leave a message. She then called Anthony. He didn’t answer.

“What’s wrong?” Rico asked.

She didn’t respond. She called Skye’s cell phone. She thought Skye wouldn’t answer, but on the fourth ring she did.

“McPherson.”

“Skye, it’s Moira.

“Are you coming back?”

“Do you need me?”

“I don’t know.”

“What happened?”

“I can’t talk about it on the phone. Just get back as soon as you can. There’s some weird shit happening.”

“I tried Anthony and Rafe.”

“Yeah, they’re staying away from me right now.”

“That would be fun to watch,” Moira said.

“What do you want? I really don’t have time for your and Anthony’s bickering right now.”

Ouch. “Martin Truxel.”

“What about him?”

“He might be a witch.”

“I thought you could tell.”

“I’ve never met him. Anthony or Rafe will be able to tell, at least from outward signs. They should go to his house.”

“That will not happen. What’s all this about?”

“Does Truxel have a blood relative?”

“I’m sure he does. Most of us do.”

Skye was
really
snippy.

“What I mean is, someone who might have been involved in Fiona’s band of merry magicians.”

Silence.

“Skye? You there?”

“He has a sister. Tiffany Truxel. She’s a teacher.”

Moira straightened her spine. “At the high school? With Nicole Donovan?”

“Yes.”

“Get eyes on her.”

“I haven’t seen her in a while, but I’ve been busy.”

“Are you sure she’s still in town?”

Skye hesitated. “No.”

“Find out if she left, when she left, and anything else you can—but don’t tip your hand to Martin Truxel. If he’s one of them, we have to be very careful.” Moira paused. “Isn’t he supporting your opponent in the election?”

“He is.”

“Well, shit. That explains a lot. I’ll call you later.” Moira hung up and handed the phone back to Rico. “Does the name Tiffany Truxel ring a bell?” she asked Kyle.

“Yes,” he said. “She’s the great, great granddaughter of Katherine Truxel.”

#

Moira hated morgues only a fraction less than she hated flying. But she went nonetheless.

She was surprised when Kyle led them directly into the crypt or whatever they called the place where they stored the dead. It was mid-afternoon, but no one was around.

“Where is everyone?” she asked.

“The head pathologist is a friend of my uncle’s,” Kyle said. “He’s giving us fifteen minutes.”

“Nice friend.”

“He gets it.” Kyle opened one of the drawers. “I’m really sorry, Rico,” he said. “I wanted to go with him, but he said no, then left in the middle of the night without telling us.”

“Kyle, you could have been killed as well,” Rico said. He cleared his throat. “Moira.”

Great. She was up now. “Step back,” she told them. They each took a step back. She still felt Kyle’s nerves and Rico’s anger-tinged grief. “More.”

Rico frowned, but they walked over to the door. She hadn’t told him how sensitive she’d become to other people’s emotions. For a loner like her, it was bordering on painful.

She looked down at John’s body. He seemed smaller in death, and that bothered her. He’d been large and protective. Of Rico, of Father Philip, or the Order.

He had bruises on his chest and arms. He’d definitely been in a fight. “How long after the fight did he die?” she asked Kyle.

“The M.E. said several hours.”

“And you don’t know who he fought with.”

“No. He left the rectory at midnight and the M.E. said he died between four and six in the morning.”

Slowly, so she wouldn’t be assaulted by anything else in the room (and she wasn’t completely certain there weren’t ghosts here,) she lowered her emotional barriers and reached out to feel around for any spells that might have killed John.

When she tried to discern magic over living things, she felt a myriad of emotions. Loss. Love. Happiness. Anger. She relied on instinct to sort through the truth and the lies, and then determine if the lies were internal or external. She could feel spells, and they were different than emotions. She could see active spells—swirls of distortion, of faint color—and through that prism, she could discern what the spell’s purpose was. But residual magic was harder to identify, which meant she needed to lower her barriers even more.

John would have been protected by St. Michael’s, both their prayers and his personal adornments—sacred objects used to repel magic. She’d once joked with Rico that St. Michael’s prayers were protective spells. He didn’t find humor in that.

But she couldn’t deny that those who fought for St. Michael’s had a bubble around them, that it took more effort by both covens and demons to fight them for whatever reason. Maybe it was the simple awareness of the supernatural that protected them, or maybe it was more. The prayers? The icons? God Himself? At this point, Moira couldn’t discount anything.

There were no spells around John now, no residual magic. Magic powerful enough to kill would leave a signature, some sort of energy that could take more than a day to dissipate. Because John was dead, he had no aura. His soul was gone. Everything that had given him life, that had made him unique, was no longer here.

“Magic didn’t kill him,” she said quietly.

“You’re certain?” Rico said, his voice gruff and emotional. His grief flowed from him and she shifted her feet, discomfort running through her.

“Yes. It wasn’t a spell. But I need to see his clothes, his medallion, anything he had with him when he died.”

Kyle went to a locker across the room and retrieved a box. He put it on the stainless steel table in the center of the room. “That’s everything. Except his dagger. That’s locked up.”

She stared at Kyle. She didn’t need to say it. He nodded and left the room.

“What are you looking for?” Rico said as he stepped forward.

“Don’t come closer. Please, Rico, I know you’re worried about me. You’re worried about what happened to John, and I feel that on you. Plus, you’re so full of rage you can barely contain it. Stand back.”

As she said it, she felt Rico’s tension begin to release, as if he hadn’t realized he was holding in his anger. Good. She needed him one-hundred percent, and grief made people do stupid things.

She picked up John’s clothes. “Someone tried to cast a spell over him, but it bounced off,” she said quietly. “An apathy spell. They didn’t want him pursuing whatever he was pursuing. A simple enough spell, but perfectly created.”

She found his medallion. Everyone at St. Michael’s wore one, and embedded in the metal was a relic. She held it in her hand and a flash of dark, like a shadow, washed over her. She dropped the medallion and it crashed to the table, the sound echoing in the hollow room.