Carnal Sin

SIXTEEN

It was after eleven by the time Grant finished the report on Nadine Anson’s death and started for home. He’d written most of it while sitting outside the Palomar. He didn’t know why he thought those two from Santa Louisa would be up to something, but he didn’t feel right leaving them on their own. He hoped they’d screw like rabbits and leave his case alone.

Grant didn’t consciously make the detour toward Velocity. It wasn’t out of his way, since he lived just the other side of the 405 in West L.A. He was so exhausted he was practically asleep on his feet, but he wanted to talk to Julie about Nadine. He wished he could have told her in person, but he’d been tied up on the scene, then wanted to make sure Moira O’Donnell and her boyfriend actually checked into the hotel as they said they would. He had a dozen questions and every time he thought he had an answer, another ten questions popped up.

He squirmed at the thought of the two of them in a solitary hotel room. He didn’t particularly like Raphael Cooper. He was too quiet, for one thing, and watched everything with sharp eyes. Grant didn’t like being scrutinized by anyone, particularly Cooper. And he was always standing just behind Moira, like a bodyguard ready to pounce on any man who wandered too close.

He squeezed his eyes shut and wondered where that thought had come from. Moira was certainly his type, all that thick wavy hair and athletic body and sarcastic mouth. But he didn’t go after attached women. He shouldn’t even be thinking about getting her naked beneath him, but it had been on his mind since he’d met her, though that didn’t mean much. Grant usually assessed women as potential lovers. But when he’d seen Moira unconscious and vulnerable in the alley behind Velocity … he’d wanted her.

The line outside Velocity was long, but as a regular and a cop Grant had access whenever he wanted and he used his privilege tonight.

He looked around for Julie but didn’t see her. Sitting at the bar, as far from the dance floor as he could get, he rubbed his temples. A bitch of a migraine had solidified its position dead center after he watched Nadine Anson lose her mind, then her life. It made no sense, and he had been running through the scene over and over again trying to understand what happened to her. But all it did was make his migraine worse.

He should feel elated-she’d confessed right there with witnesses that she’d killed “them.” Not specifically who, but Nadine’s prints were all over George Erickson’s house. It was enough that his chief would close the case and tell him to pick up one of the other fifty case files sitting on his desk.

But Grant didn’t feel satisfied with closing the case with so many unanswered questions. This case-these cases-disturbed him. He was a good cop, but he cut corners like most. Knew what lines he could cross and which he couldn’t. Had he cut a corner he shouldn’t have? Had he let his friendship with the staff here at Velocity cloud his judgment?

“On the house,” Ike said, sliding over Grant’s off-duty beverage of choice, a bottle of Heineken. “You look like you need a couple shots of whiskey.” He nodded toward the bandage on Grant’s face. “I heard what happened.”

“I had paperwork up the ass, otherwise I would have come in earlier.”

Ike waved off his apology. “You want to get good and drunk, I’ll get you a cab, no problem.”

He shook his head. “Nah. Just this one for me. Early morning. I wanted to talk to Julie. Is she still here?”

“Yeah. Wendy let some of the girls off early, but Julie said she’d stay. I think she’s waiting for you.”

Grant shifted on the stool. His and Julie’s on-again/ off-again relationship wasn’t doing either of them any good, but he couldn’t say goodbye. Sure, they weren’t together anymore-they screwed around with others-but neither of them had claimed they wanted to keep their friendship strictly platonic. Grant didn’t want a relationship with anyone. He already had one failed marriage and more failed relationships than he could count on his fingers and toes combined. What he and Julie had was an agreement, though he wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. She deserved better. He hoped she found someone who treated her with the respect and love she deserved. Grant cared for her-but she was too good for him. Most women were. Fortunately for his libido, they didn’t seem to know it.

“Tell her I’m here, okay?”

Ike gave him a thumbs-up and walked away. Thank God; Grant didn’t want to talk anymore. The throbbing dance music, which he could usually push to the back of his mind, was punishing with its heavy bass. He tried to focus on the eye candy that filled the trendy club. Like that blonde at the bar being hit on by two guys. Early twenties, small but perky tits, a little chunky around the hips, but he didn’t mind. She caught his eye and he winked. She smiled, enjoying putting on the show, touching one of the men flirting with her.

Slut.

Another blonde walked by and hesitated beside him. He ignored her, though she was hotter than Ms. Perky-Tits. His thoughts disturbed him. He never thought of women as sluts. Some were too loose for his tastes, but they were few and far between. He didn’t expect them to behave better than he did.

Sheriff Skye McPherson was a blonde. Quite a looker, too, better than most of the women in his division. But she was a cop. Physically, Grant would be happy to have her in his bed, but he didn’t date anyone in law enforcement. Period. They were either man-haters or too damn competitive. He wanted someone who was strong and self-sufficient, but also soft and feminine. Gorgeous, but unpretentious; independent, but affectionate.

Someone like Moira O’Donnell. Someone exactly like Moira O’Donnell.

She’d been on his mind since Grant saw her in the morgue early in the afternoon. Gorgeous, check. Definitely not conceited or pretentious. Didn’t flaunt her good looks like the sluts who frequented Velocity. In fact, Grant suspected that Moira wouldn’t set foot in Velocity for fun. He imagined that she enjoyed beer by the pint and rowdy laughter and would know exactly how to please him. She was physically sculpted-he’d seen her muscles, her lean, hard, flat stomach, and pictured what it would be like to have her ride him all night long. No strings attached.

Self-sufficient and independent, check. But he saw her lean on that long-haired jerk who wouldn’t leave her side. Raphael Cooper. What kind of name was Raphael? Or Rafe? A sissy name. And he let her just run the show. Overprotective. She could do so much better than that loser. He didn’t even have a job. Grant had checked on him. He’d been in a fucking coma until two weeks ago. She probably felt sorry for him; that’s why she was at his side. Maybe they weren’t involved.

They’re sharing a hotel room.

Grant pushed that thought aside, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling hot and cold at the same time, trying not to picture Moira O’Donnell screwing the too quiet, pompous, overprotective asshole.

She needed someone like Grant.

He would show Moira O’Donnell who was on top, and she’d enjoy every minute.

“Grant?”

He blinked, then saw Julie standing next to him, concern on her face. Guilt coursed through his body; he’d been thinking about fucking another woman while waiting for the one he’d been screwing most every weekend for the last six months. He had a flash of Julie and Moira in his bed, and his cock tightened uncomfortably.

He flushed. Why was he here?

Nadine.

“What’s wrong?” Julie’s voice cracked.

Wrong. “You heard about Nadine.” He cleared his throat and focused. He was a cop first. “I’m so sorry, Julie.”

Julie’s green eyes brimmed with tears. “I was stunned. Still am. I don’t think it’s sunk in yet. What happened, Grant? The cop who talked to Wendy and me said she committed suicide? I don’t believe it. I-”

“I was there. She was on drugs. I don’t think she walked into the traffic on purpose; it was like she was hallucinating.”

She touched his face. “You were hurt.”

“It’s fine.”

Julie stared at him. He took her hand. Her skin was so soft. He squeezed. “I’m sorry.”

“I want to go home-Wendy said I could, she called in a few people. I just-I don’t want to be alone.”

“Come to my place.” He kissed her forehead. Her scent made him shiver; why hadn’t he noticed how good she smelled before? He pulled her to him, hugged her tightly, breathed in her hair. Kissed her neck, held her.

“Please-my place. You still have some of your things there. And I have that massage oil you like so much.” She touched his face. “Do you have a headache? You don’t look so good.”

“A migraine.”

She kissed him. “You know I can get rid of it for you.”

Julie was inventive in bed, and would do anything he asked. He nodded. “Let’s go.”

“Let me get my purse.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t-”

“I want to.”

He wasn’t letting her out of his sight.

In the employee room, he locked the door. “Julie, come here.” He unzipped his pants.

What are you doing? Not here-

“Grant-”

“Please. It’ll make us both feel better.”

A cloud crossed Julie’s face, but he pushed her doubt aside.

“You know I make you feel better.”

She nodded. “We have to be fast.” Her bottom lip quivered.

“Then kneel.”

She obeyed him and took his cock in her mouth. He held her there, not thinking about Julie, not thinking about anything but the rush of blood through his veins, the throbbing, his need. He orgasmed hard and fast, but didn’t feel the wave of satisfaction he always enjoyed. His entire body was on edge, uncomfortable.

Julie pushed herself away. He hadn’t realized he was still holding on to the back of her head. “Grant,” she panted. “I couldn’t breathe!”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Let’s go.”

“Are you okay? Grant, you’re-”

“It’s been a long fucking day and I just want to screw you in bed, okay?”

She looked like she was going to cry. He felt like slapping her.

Grant frowned. He’d never hit a woman in his life. What was he thinking? He rubbed his temples.

Julie rushed over to him. “I’ll take care of you, Grant. You’ll be okay. I won’t let anything hurt you. Let’s go.”

He didn’t remember how they got to her place, but the next thing he remembered was Julie, naked beneath him, crying.

“You’re familiar with how the succubus operates, correct?” Jackson asked after Rafe closed the hotel door. “And her male counterpart, the incubus?”

“Generally. They’re demons who have sex with humans. But most alleged succubus attacks were human in nature,” Rafe said. “People who claimed they were attacked by such a demon in order to cover up affairs, for example. From everything I’ve heard, they don’t generally kill their victims. Sometimes drive them insane, but not steal their souls.”

“True. But covens like Wendy’s use the demons for their own gain, summoning them for an exchange-a soul for something of value.”

“They don’t need a succubus for that,” Moira said.

“No, but Wendy’s coven is a sex coven, and they have a devotion to a specific demon. The things of value can be anything, but are usually information from the supernatural world-new and improved spells, the location of powerful occult objects. Sometimes they seek something more immediate and tangible, like a house or money. The demons can’t just conjure up such things, but they can make certain things happen that benefit the witch.”

“Like if someone wants a new house, their aunt may die and leave it to them?” Rafe asked.

“Exactly. I’ve been researching Wendy Donovan ever since you left this afternoon. She owns fifty percent of Velocity and several other clubs that belonged to Kent Galion. But there is no record of her buying into it. Galion is carrying a small loan, but her share is worth at least twenty times the loan.”

“He just gave it to her?” Moira grabbed a water bottle off the top of the dresser. It wasn’t until she opened it that she noticed the Enjoy me for five dollars label.

“I was skeptical,” Jackson continued, “but then I called a friend in public records and he confirmed the corporate records and lien amounts. She owns her house outright. It’s worth at least two million dollars-the Hollywood Hills is a coveted area.”

“She bought it?”

“No. Three years ago, she was engaged to a popular rock star, Kyle Dane. He bought the house, but had her put on the deed with right of survivorship when she moved in. When he died, his insurance paid off the mortgage. It’s hers, free and clear.” Jackson sat at the table in the corner, his gaze sweeping the room and pausing on the salt traps and strategically placed crucifixes.

Rafe sat across from Jackson. “How did he die?”

“Heart attack, after a concert. He’d been ill for weeks and his doctors advised him against touring-this was all in the major papers, I did a Google search.”

“So it was no big surprise when he dropped dead,” Rafe said.

“Except,” Moira interjected, “he was engaged to a witch who summons demons.” She didn’t dare sit for fear her exhaustion would overpower her. Instead, she leaned against the dresser.

“Where does Lust come in?” Rafe asked.

“I wish I knew,” Jackson said. “But since succubi are sex demons and Lust by definition feeds on the human sex drive, they must be connected.”

They had to be, but Moira didn’t know how. “Do you have a picture of the chalice you mentioned on the phone?”

He unfolded a computer printout. “I got this from a friend of mine in London. This is what I think Wendy has.”

It was a detailed drawing of a squat, bowl-like chalice with a glass ball nestled in the shallow curve. The base was wider than the cup and curved upward.

“Such a chalice is often used in sex magic. If there’s no demon involved, the glass ball isn’t necessary. The witches will collect bodily fluids-blood, semen, saliva-in the bowl and offer it up. They are essentially asking for favors, more like a prayer than an order. But with this specific chalice, the blood of the victims is dripped into the base. The glass is essential to open the doorway to Hell. When the demon is first summoned, it’s brought through the chalice-”

Moira said, “Like Fiona used a human vessel to bring forth the Seven Deadly Sins.”

“Right,” Jackson said. “But a succubus ritual isn’t usually quite as deadly-or dangerous. With the right ritual, the chalice becomes a mobile doorway to Hell. The demon comes in, is channeled into a woman-or if an incubus, a man-and goes about the business of stealing the marked soul.

“The thing is, when the soul is claimed, the demon is supposed to leave the human vessel and snap back into the bowl. The coven then completes the ritual, and the demon goes back to Hell.”

“Something went wrong with Wendy’s ritual this time,” Rafe said.

“Damn straight,” Moira said. “We have to be prepared. If the demon left Nadine’s body because it was being drawn back into the original gateway-the chalice-that means it could still be at Wendy’s house.”

“Are you certain this is the demon Lust?” Jackson asked.

“There’s no other explanation,” Moira said. “The marks on the bodies too closely resemble the marks left by the demon Envy.”

“But I’ve heard that demon marks are common when practicing black magic,” Jackson said.

Moira didn’t respond, and Rafe knew she was upset. She’d been marked by a demon once, and it had nearly killed her. The mark was gone, but it still affected her. She never talked about it with him, and he realized that at some point he was going to have to get her to tell him exactly what happened all those years ago.

“These marks,” Rafe said when Moira didn’t respond, “are unique. They look more like birthmarks, with a thin dark red line inside forming a satanic mark, similar to what you see in occult rituals, but at the same time different than anything we’ve seen before.”

Moira said, “Other demon marks are small, simple brands. The Seven Deadly Sins mark their victims with far more elaborate designs.”

“If the demon is trapped in the chalice, we can put it in a vault, correct?” Jackson said.

“It would be unstable,” Moira said. “We need something sacred to trap it completely.”

Jackson said, “I brought an iron box with me; it will hold the chalice.”

“If it’s all we have,” Moira said.

“There’s another idea-something more permanent than storing it in a vault.”

Moira and Rafe both looked at Jackson. “We’re all ears,” Moira said.

“In theory, if the demon is trapped in the chalice, it should go back to Hell. At that point, while it’s trapped, we melt the chalice and that portal will be closed forever.”

Moira frowned. “That destroys the chalice, but are you certain it will also destroy the demon?”

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t.”

Moira was skeptical on that point, and Rafe asked her, “What are you thinking?”

“This is the demon Lust we’re talking about. It’s not going to let itself get melted.”

“It may not have a choice.”

“We need to talk to Anthony before we do anything like that,” Moira said. “And if the demon is out and about somewhere? Not trapped in the chalice?”

“I don’t know.”

“So we can’t melt the vessel until the demon is trapped.”

“Maybe we can-maybe that would kill it.”

“More likely, if you destroy the portal, its bonds are broken and it’s free.”

“We can use traditional exorcisms,” Rafe said.

“Without the chalice, there’s nothing keeping the demon here. It can go anywhere, do anything, kill anyone,” Moira said.

Jackson said, “I found an exorcism that will draw back the demon and close the portal.”

Moira held out her hand. “Let me see it.”

Jackson reluctantly handed it over. She read it, shaking her head. “No, no, no!”

“But it’s the only way-”

“Moira?” Rafe said.

“It’s a spell, not an exorcism. Exorcisms work one way-sending demons to Hell. Spells summon the demon to you.” Moira was agitated.

“But it could save someone’s life!” Jackson said.

Moira threw up her hands. “You of all people should know better! I don’t care how good or noble our motivation is in stopping this demon, I will not resort to spells and witchcraft to trap it. It can only end in blood.”

“So we wait until the coven calls the demon back?”

“I’d say yes, but that means letting someone else die. Maybe more than one person. I can’t do that. The only thing we can do is control the chalice. Get it away from Wendy and her coven. Then, find who the demon is possessing and perform a real exorcism. An exorcism will force the demon back into the chalice, and then we can lock it up or melt it.”

She glanced at her watch. “Anthony should be in Italy soon. We need his input. I don’t know anyone else who’ll know where to get the answers about whether we melt the damn thing with the demon inside or not, or what we can use to imprison Lust. Anthony can be a jerk, but he knows more about specific demons than I do. All those books he reads.”

She was trying to make light of the situation, but Rafe felt her concerns. He strode to the dresser and stood with her. Moira needed to know he was with her one hundred percent.

“Wendy will protect that damn thing with everything she’s got,” Moira said, changing the subject.

“How will we know if the demon is inside the chalice?” Rafe asked.

“The glass changes color,” Jackson said. “But that’s also easy for a witch to fake.”

Moira said, “I’ll know.”

“If they value it so much, won’t they lock it up?”

“No reason to,” Moira said. “They probably have a hidden altar-either a locked room or a room behind a false wall. I can find it. Protective magic will be stronger the closer we get to the chalice.” She frowned, and Rafe reached over and took her hand. He didn’t say anything, but she squeezed back.

She cleared her throat. “So what’s your plan?”

“We wait until everyone inside is asleep. Then we go in and steal the chalice. Put it in Jackson’s iron box, and then … what?”

“I have a vault,” Jackson said. “I can keep it there. It will be safe, at least for a while.”

“See?” Rafe smiled. “A plan.”

“Waiting. My favorite thing,” Moira said sarcastically as the three of them left the hotel room.

As soon as Anthony landed in Italy and worked his way through customs, he called Skye even though it was nearly two in the morning in California. He’d promised he’d call when he landed, and if he woke her he’d say good night and remind her that he loved her.

He simply wanted to hear her voice.

Skye picked up on the first ring. “Anthony?”

“Good morning. Why are you awake so late, love?”

“I can’t sleep.” She sounded exhausted.

“What’s wrong?”

“What isn’t wrong?”

Anthony stopped walking through the airport and found a place against the wall where he could stand without being bumped by other passengers. “Tell me. Is it the situation in L.A.?”

“Partly, but Rafe and Moira are working on it. They’re consulting with Jackson Moreno. Know him?”

“Yes, very well.” He breathed marginally easier. “He’s trustworthy.”

“Good, because I had to come home. Truxel dropped the charges against Elizabeth Ellis. She’s out of jail.”

“And Lily?”

“She’s here with me. Then there’s the press-” She stopped.

Anthony heard the tension and stress in Skye’s voice.

“I’m not going to complain.”

“You can tell me anything, Skye.”

“I know. You do your thing, come back soon, okay?”

Anthony spotted John Vasco from St. Michael’s crossing the baggage claim area. Anthony raised a finger and John nodded.

“Of course,” Anthony said quietly. “As soon as possible. Are you okay, Skye?”

“I’d be better if you were here.”

“I miss you, mia amore.”

“Ditto.”

“Be careful. I’ll be home as soon as I can. I love you.”

“Love you, too. I hope this trip of yours is worth it, that we have the answers we need to stop these … things.”

She still had a hard time talking about demons.

“So do I.”

He reluctantly cut off the call. John approached. Anthony hugged his brother-in-arms. At forty-three, John was the oldest living demon hunter out of St. Michael’s. He’d backed off most assignments and acted more like a bodyguard than a hunter, but he still worked in the field when needed. He said little, and his loyalty was legendary. He’d risked his life to save both his comrades and innocent strangers, and never once complained or questioned his duty.

“Good to see you,” Anthony said.

John stepped back, his expression grim. “Dr. Lieber is dead.”