Mortal Sin (8 page)

But Anthony wouldn’t let her play the tough love card. The “I’ve been where you are; adjust or die.”

“I’ve given Juan as much time as I can,” Skye said. “I need him.”

“When I get back, I’ll do a full-court tough love with him with your help.” No guarantee it would work, but nothing Anthony had done had fixed him, either.

“Anything you need.”

“Anthony is using the soft approach. Sometimes, you need to be slapped upside the head to snap out of the funk.” Moira paused. “He might benefit from time at St. Michael’s. He needs to get away from here. I suggested it to Anthony, and it was the only time he didn’t bite my head off, so we might be able to convince Juan to go.”

“You want to send him to Italy? Why not Montana, this Olivet place?”

“Because Olivet is training warriors. They’d break him. Trust me on this. It’s not a place to go when you’re on the edge. St. Michael’s—they can fix him if he can be fixed.” And that was the million-dollar question.

“I don’t know what to do,” Skye muttered. “You know, I won’t be able to do
anything
when I lose the election.”

“
When
you lose?” Moira said. “Aren’t you being Negative Nellie.”

“Crime has tripled since the massacre at the mission. Do you realize that in the ten and a half months before the massacre last November, there were only
three
homicides? Two were domestic, one was a drug dispute. From mid-November to the end of the year, fifteen people died, one a cop. And since January first? Less than five months into the year?
Triple
our homicide rate of last year. At this rate, we’ll be wading through bodies by Christmas. Not to mention vandalism, assault and battery, theft, sexual assault—basically, every crime catalogued by the FBI is hitting my town hard.”

Moira wished she could say something to make Skye feel better, but she had nothing.

“It sucks. But if you lose the election, and that ass-wad gets in? It’s not going to change anything.”

“Yes it will,” Skye said, turning up a long, narrow driveway. “It’ll change
everything.
Because he’ll deport you, launch an investigation into Anthony and Rafe, and fire everyone who’s helped me keep a lid on the shit that’s going on here.”

“When he sees his first demon, he’ll be toast.”

“This isn’t funny!”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Fuck,” Skye said. She slammed the truck into park in front of closed garage doors.

“Yeah,” Moira agreed. “Skye, if I thought me leaving would have any benefit, I’d already be gone. But Santa Louisa is a portal to Hell, and that’s not going to change until we capture the Seven and send them back from where they came.” She touched Skye’s arm. Moira cared about the cop, and that caring was going to hurt both of them.

“I’ll be okay,” Skye finally said.

“I know you will.”

Attachments. Attachments were going to get them all killed.

#

Bertrand lived in an expensive house with an expensive view in the hills overlooking the ocean. This afternoon, the fog had rolled in early, wrapping the house in a damp, white mist. First week of May and it was still chilly. It reminded Moira of home. Of Ireland. Of better times. Times before she’d learned she was being trained to serve as liaison to the Underworld. Which would, of course, mean she’d be dead. Sort of a prerequisite for the job.

She stood outside the house and tried to relax. Skye, Rafe, and Hank hung back and watched. She had to step closer to the house, away from Rafe’s over-protectiveness, in order to better discern what Bertrand had been up to. Her emotional—almost empathic connection—to Rafe made her extra-sensative to his emotions, which could cloud her judgment or make it harder to weed through the layers of magic and spells.

This sensing magic shtick made Moira feel like she was a circus act. Not even someone with a circus, which might have some fun to it, but more a parlor trick.
“Watch the former witch use her spidey sense!”

Moira didn’t quite know what to prepare for. Bertrand was a magician, but he was nowhere near the level of Fiona and the rest of her inner circle. Moira suspected Fiona had needed Bertrand because of his position at the hospital and proximity to Rafe, so brought him into the fold, but Moira had never felt he was a high-level member. Fiona and everyone else had left town and Bertrand was still here. Skye hadn’t been able to arrest him because there was no evidence he’d done anything wrong—and no proof that he’d artificially kept Rafe in a coma.

Moira didn’t know how she did what she did. Whenever she was around magic, her skin tingled, like all the hairs on her body were vibrating. It was subtle, but very real. She saw colors—auras—of spells at work. Not just the natural auras surrounding all living things, but auras of
spells,
which suggested, to her at least, that spells were living, growing things—even if invisible to most people. Scientific research suggested that smell was the most powerful of senses, triggering memories—and Moira would agree. Just the hint of an herb or concoction had her earliest memories returning without her consciously thinking about it. This combination—sight, touch, smell—gave her all the clues she needed to detect and analyze magic.

She’d been terrified of this skill when it first manifested itself, and even more scared as she learned to lower her protective shields and allow herself to feel what was around her. It was heady and scary and intense. She felt more connected to the Earth and all living things, but she was also horrified because most of the spells she sensed had dark, destructive purposes.

She wasn’t expecting any active spells in Bertrand’s house, but nonetheless, she cautiously lowered her protective shields, letting the natural aura of the building, the grounds, the air flow over her. She almost laughed. Bertrand had not only been a mediocre magician, his attempts at protection were weak, countermanding each other as he experimented without knowing what he the hell he was doing. No wonder Fiona had left him behind—he might have been a competent doctor, but he was certainly a poor witch.

Comfortable that she would be safe walking around, she relaxed completely, letting out a long breath.

She nodded to Skye. “I’m ready. Let’s go in.”

#

Rafe stayed on the periphery, watching Moira.

They’d learned over the last few months that if he got too close to her when she was working, his anxiety distracted her. The distraction could be dangerous, especially when she was opening herself up so completely.

Then when they were alone, just the two of them, Moira’s senses, her unusual empathy and ability to not only feel but share her own emotions on a raw, primal level had given him an unbreakable connection to her. When she completely let go, it was as if they blended together, as if it were always meant to be. When they made love, they became one. Every atom of his body felt every atom in her body. The intensity of their united emotions made sex far more important, far more powerful than an enjoyable physical release. The ecstasy was so powerful that the world melted away and it was always just Rafe and Moira.

Sometimes he didn’t even need to touch her. Sometimes he just had to think of Moira and he felt her within him.

Rafe didn’t want Moira going to Montana. He didn’t see the need for her to track down John when Rico had other people to do it. Yes, John was important and a vital part of the St. Michael’s team, but to split up Rafe and Moira when every sign told them that Santa Louisa was bubbling with evil made no sense.

But Rafe would not stop her. He didn’t know if he could, and right now, he wasn’t sure he could accept her choosing duty over love.

Sometimes, Moira was the only person keeping him tethered to reality. He focused on her now, deep in thought, as she slowly walked through Bertrand’s house.

He loved watching her work. Moira raised her arms, just a bit, as if the air was multi-dimensional, visible only to her. Her long, unadorned fingers spread, relaxed yet poised to react to the slightest supernatural attack. Her blue eyes brightened, her skin almost glowed, every movement fluid, like a subtle dance. At the same time, she was tense and on full alert. These events drained her. Yet, she never complained, never said no.

Rafe stepped back so he didn’t crowd Moira. Skye had her back if something happened. He looked around, assessing Bertrand’s house. He was angry about what the doctor had done to him, but Rafe had always kept his rage in check. He was mostly worried and curious. What did Fiona and her people want to know? Did they know about these memories he had? Did he have information they wanted? He’d thought a lot about that, because if they wanted the information, then it would help if he could pull it out of his head, figure out what it meant. Perhaps it was how to send the Seven back. Or what Fiona’s end game was. Did they want to know
what
he knew before they killed him?

He rubbed his temples. Already, a dull headache was forming as if just asking the questions pained him. He turned into the kitchen to get a glass of water, then stopped.

As soon as he stepped across the threshold into the bright white kitchen with the sleek black appliances, his head lightened with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu and he grabbed the doorjamb to avoid falling.

He’d seen this kitchen before.

Yet he hadn’t. He’d never been in Bertrand’s house before.

The headache he’d barely beaten this morning returned, moving from the base of his skull throughout his head as he tried to remember. He knew better—when he forced the memories, his brain felt like it would explode. But if he couldn’t control the flashbacks, if he couldn’t figure out
exactly
what was going on in his head, he wouldn’t be able to help Moira. It was the memories—memories that weren’t his—that were the key to finding Fiona, to solving the mystery of how to send the Seven back to Hell once they were captured. But every time he tried to access the deeply planted memories, it hurt. Only when they came on their own, without his conscious effort, was it almost painless.

Yet, he couldn’t depend on the information to come in crisis. He needed to get ahead of the game, to figure this out
now.
How to tap into his brain. How to bring forth the knowledge that would save him. But mostly, somewhere buried deep inside, was the information that would save Moira.

So he pushed through the pain, then fell to his knees, frozen. The flashback came hard and fast, and Rafe stared in the past through the eyes of Jeremiah Hatch.

The traitor who had helped poison the priests at the mission, who had helped kill them, who had planned on giving his body to a demon before he died when Rafe interrupted the ritual.

Pure evil underneath human flesh.

Jeremiah Hatch was both amused and angry as Richard Bertrand washed his hands frantically in the sink.

“I should never have trusted you!” Richard shouted. “I’m never going to get this off.” He poured dish soap into his palm and worked up a lather.

“Foolish idiot,” Jeremiah said through his grin. “There’s no blood here; it’s one of her spells. I told you she was powerful.”

Richard frowned as he continued to lather, though not as quickly.

“
Versatus consum defluerem
,” Jeremiah began. He chanted the simple spell, really something Richard could have done just as easily if he had any backbone whatsoever. But Richard was a tool, a nobody.

Richard stared at the bubbles filling the porcelain bowl. The doctor closed his eyes, opened them, then shook his head. He rinsed his hands of the soap, shut off the water, and pulled a clean dish towel from the drawer. “I abhor these games.”

Jeremiah resisted the urge to work up another spell where Richard would see blood on his hands. Like Lady MacBeth, going crazy, wiping away blood that was not there. It would have been so easy to turn Richard into a blithering idiot.

Jeremiah had warned the coven that Richard was the weak link, but they didn’t care. Fiona and Serena, two peas a pod, surrounded themselves with weak men. They had once thought he was weak, but they’d said he’d proven himself.

He’d suffered, he’d killed, he’d bled for their cause. And still, he brought back the book that would give them immortality.
The Conoscenza
was theirs because of his sacrifices.

And he kept the one key that made the ritual work all to himself. He didn’t trust those two; they’d stab him in the back—literally—if he gave them all the information. Once they opened the portal and he had control of Ianax, he’d give them the final piece of the puzzle by which they could control the Seven Deadly Sins.

Jeremiah Hatch was anything but weak.

“This isn’t a game, Richard, and you should not have whined to Serena. She’s the direct line to the head of the coven, the only one you should concern yourself with pleasing. And you complained about everything.”

“There’s a risk—there’s no guarantee those men will kill each other. And you’ll be there. What if it works and they kill you, too?”

“Ye of little faith!” Jeremiah was beginning to despise this pathetic excuse for a witch. If they didn’t need his particular skills, Jeremiah would have dispatched him long ago.

To curb his temper, Jeremiah walked around the kitchen slowly. But because he was angry, he thought of Raphael Cooper. St. Michael’s had sent him, and Jeremiah didn’t trust him. Yet, he hadn’t treated Jeremiah any different than the others. Someone suspected something… but Jeremiah was pretty certain no one knew about him. He’d covered his tracks exceptionally well.

Still, Jeremiah sensed Cooper was going to be a problem, and Serena said she’d take care of it. And had she? No. He was still at the mission, still keeping a watchful eye on the damn priests.

Jeremiah whispered a heat spell. He needed to show to Richard, not explain, that everything they’d been working toward for years was no game.