Mortal Sin (9 page)

Actions were always more powerful than words.

Heat rose in the room. Richard adjusted his collar.

“Hatch, don’t—”

“This. Is. No. Game.”

He turned his heat toward the refrigerator, and water began to power from the ice maker in the door.

He said, “We have three days until the sacrifice. Three days. Now is not the time to waver.”

“I understand.”

“I hope you do.”

An invisible touch rippled over Moira’s skin. Her peripheral vision darkened, like vertigo, and her heart stumbled as it skipped two beats, then beat rapidly. It wasn’t magic… at least nothing she’d felt before. It was as if an umbilical cord were being pulled from her stomach.

“What?” Skye asked. Skye didn’t touch her, thank God, because Moira didn’t think she could handle anymore emotion seeping into her soul.

“Rafe,” Moira mumbled. She whirled around. They were standing in the middle of Richard’s office—there was no magic here, at least nothing violent. All Richard was capable of was parlor tricks, and not very good ones. They didn’t linger.

Rafe had stood back, let her work, but he wasn’t behind Skye. Or in the hall beyond. Something was wrong. She brushed past Skye and ran toward the entrance. Where was he? She whirled around and looked across the dining room, into the kitchen.

Oh, God, Rafe.

Rafe sprawled on the floor, unmoving. She ran to him and rolled him to his back. He was unconscious. Blood flowed from his nose and had pooled on the floor. Too much blood for a typical nose bleed.

Skye stepped into the threshold and said, “I’ll call an ambulance.”

“No! He’s not going to the hospital. Call Dr. Fielding.”

Skye hesitated. “Moira, I think—”

“He’s not going to that damn hospital!”

Moira put Rafe’s head in her lap. This wasn’t magic, but there was something here, something floating around, shimmering, like a wisp of the astral plane. She sensed a ripple, could
almost
see it, but as soon as she focused, it was gone. A ghost? Bertrand’s ghost? Rafe was too smart to be caught unaware by a poltergeist. And she didn’t feel a ghostly presence. Still… there was a thinning of the layers, and with Bertrand being a magician, maybe he had found a way to attack from the netherworld. He’d been killed violently. He could still be here, his soul trapped, fighting the eternal fire.

Her heart pounded in growing panic. She didn’t know, and not knowing was going to get them killed.

Rafe moaned and she let out a long sigh in relief. “Rafe. Rafe, please wake up.”

He tried to get up.

“Stay put,” she said, holding his head down in her lap. “You fainted.”
Or something.

Skye opened drawers and found dishtowels. She dampened one and handed it to Moira, who wiped the blood from Rafe’s nose. “You’re bleeding.”

“My head.”

“Shh.” There didn’t seem to be fresh blood, but she didn’t want Rafe to get up too fast. “Skye called Dr. Fielding.”

“I’m not dead.”

“Ha ha. He’s the only one I trust.”

“I’m okay.”

“No you’re not!” She didn’t mean to yell at him, but he
wasn’t
okay. The headaches were getting worse. He’d never passed out before. “You—did you have a memory?” She didn’t know what else to call them.

“Yes,” he said quietly, his eyes closed. He took her hand.

“You did it, didn’t you? You forced it. You’re going to kill yourself. Or worse.”

“Worse than suicide?”

“Yes. There are worse things than death.” She would
not
allow him to joke about this. She put her forehead on his. “Dammit, Rafe, I need you.”

He squeezed her hand. “We should talk.”

“Let Rod examine you.”

“He’s on his way,” Skye said. “Are you sure this wasn’t, you know…?” She still had a hard time saying “witchcraft,”
but Moira knew exactly what she meant.

“It wasn’t. There’s only mild residual magic here. Bertrand didn’t live his life as a magician. And there was very little when we checked at the hospital, though I didn’t expect there to be since Rafe has been up and around for nearly four months. I think Fiona must have used Bertrand’s knowledge of science and medicine more than his pathetic grasp of magic to keep Rafe in a coma.”

“We still don’t know…” Skye began.

“We
do
,” Moira said. “Magic put him in a coma and science kept him there.”

Skye walked away to talk to Hank, who was waiting outside, and Moira willed her heart rate to slow.
This
was what Rico had warned her about. Human connections. Caring about someone, about
anyone
, put them all in danger. She couldn’t think straight out of fear for Rafe. For
them.
They led dangerous lives; each day could be their last. Sure, every day could be
anyone’s
last day, but with them the odds increased. She’d accepted her fate long ago. Now, she had something to live for, and she was terrified she would lose it. Lose
him.

And fear would get her killed.

Fear would get Rafe killed.

She had too much to lose. A person like her, she needed to have nothing to lose or she couldn’t do her job.

She couldn’t turn her emotions off like a damn faucet.

Rafe pulled himself into a sitting position. “We have to talk, Moira, before you go to Montana.”

“I know, you don’t want me to go.”

“And I know you will.”

“What happened here?”

“Déjà vu. And then, well, I pushed the memory out.” He paused, looked at her. She’d cleaned most of the blood off his face, but it had stained his shirt and neck. She took the damp rag and rubbed his skin. He grabbed her wrist. “Moira. Stop.”

She stared at him, her bottom lip quivering. She didn’t want to know. But she had to know.

He said, “It was Jeremiah Hatch’s memory.”

Jeremiah Hatch was the priest who started it all. He’d infiltrated the mission. Pretended to be tormented by the evil he’d seen, when the truth was he’d committed heinous acts of evil starting as a young teenager when he likely killed his parents. He’d planned the massacre with others in his coven—the coven led by her own mother. He’d helped poison the priests and had planned to turn his body over to a powerful demon. Had he succeeded… Moira didn’t know exactly what that would have changed, except a willing possession gave the demon far more power. The demon didn’t have to fight the soul of the possessed, and the possessed body didn’t break down like those who fought back. But there had to be more to it because Jeremiah Hatch was a leader, and leaders didn’t willingly give up their lives.

These memories, the things Rafe knew that he shouldn’t, they’d never talked about. They’d talked around them, but never addressed them head on. Yet he wanted to do it
now?
While he was
bleeding?
On the floor of a low-level witch’s kitchen? And the memory was from Hatch? She didn’t want to talk about it, but Rafe was right—he’d pushed it out into the open, and she had no choice.

Rafe continued. “It’s not that I know exactly what happened to the priests—all twelve of them who died at the mission. This isn’t simple memories. I feel what they felt. The pain, the terror, the desperation. It’s as if when I walked into the mission and saw the ritual, saw the dead as they died, and they became part of me.”

She shook her head. “No. No. That can’t happen.”

“Not the way you think. But for a moment here, I thought and knew and felt things that Jeremiah Hatch thought and knew and felt. I wasn’t him,” he quickly added, “but it was almost like I stepped into the past and relived a specific scene. Like when you went back in that alley in Los Angeles, and saw the demon Lust kill that student. You saw and heard, but you weren’t there. This, I think now, is similar.

“This time, I learned things. And you have to know them.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You’re playing with something dangerous. You have to stop.”

“They’re all here.” He tapped his head. “And we need this information if we’re going to defeat the Seven. If we’re going to stop Fiona.”

“Not if it’ll kill you.”

“And you don’t risk your life?

“This is different!” She didn’t want to yell at him, but why did he have to be so damn stubborn?

“The memory came from three days before the massacre. He planned the whole thing. He was suspicious of me and why I was sent to the mission. They’d been planning this for years, Moira.
Years.
The massacre was one big step toward their end game, but not the only step. And he has the the secret. He kept it from the rest of the coven. If I can tap into more of his memories, I can learn what it is and maybe that’ll give us what we need to send the Seven back.”

“Absolutely not. No. No! It will kill you.”

You’re worried about more than his health.

She’d had this nagging fear since the first time he’d revealed this knowledge that these memories weren’t simply
memories
, but he had a soul trapped inside him. That he was, maybe unknowingly,
possessed.
She had never heard of anything like this, where there was more than one set of memories imprinted, for lack of a better word. But what if it was more than memories? What if Rafe was unconsciously suppressing the ghost—or ghosts—who only came out when he was under great duress?

“Moira… ”

She whispered. “I can’t lose you, Rafe.” Her gut still felt ripped open, and there was no explanation for it. No explanation for how she knew Rafe was in trouble while she was in one part of the house and he’d fainted in the kitchen. But the pain was real.

He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. “You won’t.” He kissed the top of her head. “I love you. Don’t go to Montana.”

“I love you. You know I have to.”

He didn’t say anything, and they sat there on the floor, holding each other. There was no resolution. There were no answers. She didn’t know if they would ever find them. She didn’t want to leave Rafe, but she couldn’t say no to Rico. Not when John disappeared tracking one of the Seven. Theirs were not the only lives at risk.

Rod Fielding stepped into the kitchen and cleared his throat. Moira pulled herself out of Rafe’s arms and stood up. “Doc, fix him.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Moira,” Rafe said.

Her eyes burned, but she turned to him.

“I love you,” he said. “Come back.”

“I promise.”

She walked away before she changed her mind.

#

Moira stood outside Bertrand’s house as Rod Fielding left with Rafe. Fielding, the medical examiner. It would have been funny if she weren’t so scared for Rafe. Rod Fielding had a calmness about him, a sense of complete grounding, and Moira didn’t trust anyone else with Rafe’s medical issues. Spiritual issues? A combination? She didn’t know. She wished Father Philip were here to talk to. He would know what to do.

She didn’t want to tell Rico everything. She hadn’t lied to him, but she had avoided his questions about some of the things Rafe had said and done after having one of the memories. The speaking in languages he didn’t know, the information he simply
knew
that had saved their butts more than once. If Rico knew the whole truth, he’d have locked Rafe up without question. Moira couldn’t do that to Rafe… She couldn’t do that to anyone. And none of the intelligence he had resulted in evil. His knowledge had saved lives. His, and hers, and others.

Anthony hadn’t shared, either—though she and Anthony had never explicitly discussed keeping what was happening to Rafe a secret, they both knew that the Powers That Be at St. Michael’s wouldn’t like it. They would want to test him. Experiment. She and Anthony had run though everything they could think of and were certain he wasn’t possessed…but there was something definitely wrong.

Anthony had accepted it as God’s will and had no more questions. His unflappable faith and unwillingness to look deeper might be a plus in the larger world, but Moira wasn’t as confident. But still, she wasn’t about to turn Rafe over to Rico to be locked up like he was crazy.

Skye got off her cell phone and said, “I sent Hank to check something out for me, then he’ll meet us back at his house and drive you and Lily to the airport.”

“Fine,” she said.

“I have a favor to ask.”

“Another one?” Truth was, Moira didn’t mind helping Skye, but seeing Rafe on the floor bleeding from his damn
nose
had thrown her. If they hadn’t come here in the first place, maybe he wouldn’t have collapsed.

“Do you remember the homeless veteran who was killed last week?”

“No.” She arched her eyebrow. “Should I?”

Skye sighed and rubbed her temple. “Probably not. The paper didn’t do much of a write up on him. He had problems. He didn’t want help—he wanted people to leave him alone. But he’s been sleeping on the streets or squatting in vacant houses nearly my entire life. My dad knew him—he’d gone to school with him. Joe enlisted right out of high school and spent ten years in the military, and when he came back, Dad said he wasn’t the same. He was fired from every job he had, usually for drinking.

“Someone murdered him.”

“And how am I supposed to help?” She spun around and faced Skye, anger filling her chest. “I’m not psychic. I can’t just touch his dead body and announce who the killer is.”

Skye bristled, but said, “It was unusual. He was gutted in an abandoned building ten days ago. No one seems to care.”

Moira bit back a sarcastic comment. Truthfully, she felt bad, but she wasn’t a cop. She didn’t know how to solve a murder, and she wasn’t psychic. If she was, she certainly couldn’t control it, and honestly? She didn’t
want
to. She was nervous about these…
visions
, for lack of a better word. About what they meant, and whether they were truly natural… or the product of her years of magic. Rafe thought God gave her the ability, but it wasn’t like she and God were on speaking terms. She didn’t even
like
the Big Guy most of the time. He could stop all this evil if He really wanted to. What were they, pawns? He started the show by creating life and death and was watching like a spectator? Because that’s how Moira felt. She respected Rafe for his convictions, for his faith and loyalty to a deity he didn’t even really know, but honestly, Moira didn’t trust anyone. She barely trusted herself.