Original Sin

NINETEEN

Patience had never been her mother’s strong suit.

Serena tried to ignore Fiona’s pacing in the library, but it had begun to irritate her when Fiona asked, exasperated, “Is it ready?”

Serena frowned as she added the final ingredient to the glass bowl. She was at a delicate point in the spell; her mind needed to focus, as spells were as much willed as they were created. Fiona had incredible control over external forces, but it was the quiet concentration of spell casting that held true superiority.

Though some witches preferred wood or stone, Serena liked the conductive force of a perfectly formed, clear, pure glass bowl. Her peculiarities, as Fiona called them, had gained her the respect and awe of many. It was her magic that Fiona used to keep the other covens under her thumb. No one in their world doubted Serena’s ability. She had full command of the tools of her trade. Serena had taken magic to the next level, and beyond-a feat even her mother, on occasion, admired.

Not that Fiona would admit to anyone that Serena was as powerful as she was … or more powerful.

If you only knew what I could do, Mother.

“Serena!” Fiona snapped. “Answer me!”

Ever since Fiona’s Third Eye had been unable to locate Raphael Cooper, she’d grown increasingly irritable. Serena suspected it was more because Fiona needed to ask her for help, and Fiona did not like giving up control to any of them, even her own daughter.

Fiona had put herself in a trance and sent out her psychic “Third Eye”-an ability that worked most of the time. She tracked Rafe from the cliffs to a nearby abandoned cabin, but when she sent two of her men out to capture him, he wasn’t there. She’d been so certain, but she hadn’t allowed Serena to verify the information before impulsively acting on it.

Another rash act. Fiona’s going to the jail early this morning in her attempt to kill Moira had been particularly unwise. Now Moira knew for certain that Fiona was nearby, and probably Anthony Zaccardi did as well. The coven had been protected here in Santa Louisa partly out of ignorance-St. Michael’s Order didn’t know where they were. But now it was only a matter of time before hordes of witch hunters descended on the town and their efforts were hampered. She didn’t want to leave and stake out new territory-Santa Louisa was perfect for their purposes for many reasons.

After the failure to apprehend Rafe at the abandoned cabin, Fiona sent out her Third Eye again, but Rafe seemed to have learned how to shield his aura from exposure-a difficult and almost impossible task against Fiona’s psychic eye. Whether she was conscious of it or not, Serena didn’t know, but the more Fiona tried to find him-and failed-the more irritable she became. Now she was on the verge of exploding.

“The ingredients need to sit.” Serena put a clear crystal into the bowl and recited the spell that summoned Prziel, the demon of lost enemies, and trapped him in the crystal. Once the crystal glowed red, Prziel could be used to find nearly anyone, though he was primarily used against enemies.

Fiona paced. “When I get my hands on Raphael Cooper, he will understand true pain. If he thinks he can walk away with what I need …”

“He doesn’t know what he has locked in his mind,” Serena interrupted.

Fiona whipped around and angrily shot an electric charge at Serena. Used to her mother’s mood swings, Serena held up her hand and sent the charge into the fish tank. The water sizzled and steamed, and in seconds more fish were floating on the surface. Dammit, Margo had just put in the new fish three hours ago.

Fiona barely noticed. She whirled around and peered into the mirror, inspecting her perfect skin with a critical eye.

“We have the arca back,” Serena reminded Fiona.

“But we don’t have the Seven and they’re becoming stronger. I need them under my control before they gather so much strength even I can’t control them. We don’t have the time to screw around. I’ll pull the information from Raphael Cooper’s mind if it kills him.”

It likely would, and if it didn’t, Fiona would find other ways to torture him and make him beg for death.

Serena didn’t want Rafe to suffer, but he’d made his decision when he fought them ten weeks ago at the mission. There was nothing Serena could do to end Fiona’s wrath. If only the process had been completed then, they would have had the Seven under their control the night of the fire on the cliffs when they first opened the gates. But Rafe had led Anthony Zaccardi to Santa Louisa. The demonologist’s presence had forced them to be cautious, lest he discover them. They’d been smart, and while he was suspicious and had walked the ruins nearly every day, he hadn’t figured out why he was suspicious, and that enabled them to continue their work.

But Moira had somehow tracked them to Santa Louisa. Fiona thought Moira was weak, foolish, annoying-a pest, a gnat to swat dead. Fiona wanted to torment her for fun and revenge, but didn’t consider her a real threat.

Serena suspected that Fiona underestimated Moira.

Serena had once dreamed that she and Moira would band together and defeat their psycho mother. Together, they would be more powerful than anyone could imagine. But Moira didn’t want to run the coven and had turned her back on their gifts.

Serena desperately missed her sister, loving and hating her at the same time. Did Moira ever think about her? Did she remember that there was a time when they were best friends? Did she know that it was Serena who put a magical shield around her so Fiona didn’t know she’d slipped out? Did Moira know that Serena had saved her life?

Serena stared at the glass bowl. The clear liquid began to bubble, though it was nowhere near a source of heat.

“I need his blood,” she said.

Fiona walked over to the locked mini-fridge behind her desk and typed in the secret code. She didn’t trust anyone, even Serena, with that information, though Serena had broken the code many times. Fiona always underestimated her, just as she underestimated Moira. It pleased Serena to have so many secrets from the sorceress, the one who believed no one could lie to her.

Fiona handed over the small test tube of Rafe’s blood that Richard had obtained for them. They had only a few left-in a rage, Fiona had once fried the fridge, destroying everything inside. They were still rebuilding their supplies.

Serena held up the tube of Rafe’s blood, opened the stopper, and chanted the words she knew by heart, a spell she had perfected. Few witches today did anything but what the old books told them; Serena could write her own grimoire with powerful, original spells. She understood more than even the most seasoned of witches, more than Fiona herself, though Serena wouldn’t say that out loud.

She dripped two drops of Rafe’s blood into the potion. “As it is above,” she said, adding two more drops, “it is below.” Two final drops were added and she sealed the tube. Fiona took it from her but didn’t return it to the fridge. She, too, was entranced by the metaphysical reaction in the bowl.

The clear liquid turned blood red, bubbling and churning. A whirlpool began to move faster and faster, and the table the bowl rested on began to shake violently. Serena held the sides of the bowl so it wouldn’t crash to the floor, the liquid warm but not burning.

She chanted the name Prziel over and over and suddenly the shaking stopped; the potion settled and returned to its clear color. At the bottom of the bowl, the crystal, now red, glowed.

Serena removed the crystal with iron tongs to prevent the demon from escaping into her. She carried it over to a map of Santa Louisa County and put it down, spinning it gently with the tip of the tong.

“Find him, find this blood,” she commanded the demon.

The crystal moved across the map. It started lazily, then began to spin faster like a child’s top, all over the map. Faster, faster, faster, until it spun itself off the table and across the room, hitting the wall with enough force to embed it inside the wood.

Fiona ignored the trapped demon and looked at the map. “There!” she announced excitedly.

One blood-red drop told them that Raphael Cooper was at the Santa Louisa Coastal Inn.

Rafe pretended to be asleep when Anthony arrived in the two-room suite. Moira was arguing with Anthony.

“Don’t wake him. Give him an hour, at least, okay?”

Movement at the partially open door. Rafe felt it was Anthony, making sure he was both alive and present.

“Did you seal both rooms?” he whispered.

“Of course,” Moira snapped. “I’m not a complete novice.”

“No, you’re not.”

It wasn’t a friendly comment.

Rafe breathed a sigh of relief when Anthony didn’t try to wake him. It’s not that he didn’t want to talk to Anthony-he wanted to see his old friend. But he felt safe here, at least for the time being. Safe enough to try to organize his thoughts before Anthony bombarded him with questions. Moira already had many; Rafe had seen them in her brilliant blue eyes.

Moira had insisted he lie down while she sealed the rooms against demons and witchcraft, but he watched her. She was meticulous, pouring salt, reciting prayers as if they were spells, not leaving any edge unprotected. But while demons couldn’t come in, and spells couldn’t attack them, both he and Moira knew that the protections were mere stopgaps in the battle. A temporary fort that could be breached with time and strength.

He prayed silently in the dark, blocking out the loud whispers of Anthony and Moira in the room next door. A verse from the Book of Sirach came to him, and he shuddered:

there is anger and envy and trouble and unrest,

and fear of death, and fury and strife.

And when one rests upon his bed,

his sleep at night confuses his mind.

Sleep … how could he sleep? He’d been in a state of sleep for ten weeks. Ten weeks of a coma? A drug-induced sleep? A spell-induced sleep? He didn’t know, but his thoughts were filled with confusion and sorrow.

I failed and they died.

He’d not only been tempted, but he’d given in to his temptation. He’d lusted, and his weakness had brought death into the mission.

He closed his eyes and pictured her, the woman who had lied to him, had seduced him, had brought evil into the mission. Seduced him-he was a willing partner. He’d seen her as the sign he’d been waiting for that God wasn’t calling him, that He’d never called him into the priesthood. He’d been dangerously wrong.

He wanted to sleep, here, safe, knowing Anthony and Moira would be sentries against the evil that wanted him. But he couldn’t sleep. His mind was a mess; he could hardly keep his thoughts straight.

When he’d first seen Moira O’Donnell, he was certain they’d met before-talked before. He remembered her hair, her voice with her subtle Irish lilt, her long, elegant fingers … But they’d never met. He knew they’d never met.

It was as if she were meant to find him. But that scared him as well, because he was a pawn in a larger game.

And last night on the cliffs-the words he knew, the phrases, the commands. He didn’t question, just spoke-ordered-commanded-and the arca, Lily Ellis, was saved. As hard as he tried now, he couldn’t remember what he’d said.

He hadn’t been possessed, but nor was he quite himself. It was as if his brain had many rooms, and someone had unlocked a door he’d never known was there, then slammed it shut-and locked it-after he had a glimpse inside. Try as he might, he couldn’t open the door again. This wasn’t the first time, and he feared it wouldn’t be the last.

He closed his eyes, hoping to sleep undisturbed by the nightmares-real and imagined-that had haunted him during the three months he was in a coma. He had to tell Anthony about the dreams, but would Anthony believe what Rafe had seen? The dreams felt so real that Rafe was certain they were memories, but that was ridiculous. It was more likely the work of one of the local witches-and there were many, as he knew from his time at the mission. They had blinded him to their evil intent, and when he finally learned the truth, it had been too late. They’d planted dreams and nightmares in his mind during his coma to torment him.

He moaned out loud, his chest tight with emotional pain, as images of the vivid, blood-soaked chapel snapped into his head. He’d been blinded, true, but not just because of the witches. What if he couldn’t stop the evil that threatened them? What if he’d unknowingly unleashed the arca when he saved Lily Ellis? He’d saved one, but many more were in jeopardy.

He slipped into an uneasy sleep … And the dreams returned. And try as he did to wake himself, he couldn’t. Just like he couldn’t awaken for the last ten weeks, though he’d desperately tried.

The priest prepared the homily as he always did, after prayer and fasting.

The African villagers Isa served had nothing. Some went days without food. Water was scarce. Children were starving.

What could he say to them tomorrow? They stared at him with blank expressions, sitting in the tent church, converting to Christianity because they received a small wafer of bread. The bread of life …

“Give me faith, Lord.”

He had great faith, which was why he’d been sent to Kenya. Missionaries died here. They were tortured and murdered for giving hope to a hopeless people. Death didn’t scare him. He believed in Paradise.

“Abba! Abba!” The boy, ten, ran into the small hut Father Isa Tucci lived in behind the tent church. He grinned, carrying a long animal in his bony black arms. “I hunt him.”

At first, Isa panicked. He had a great fear of snakes. But this snake was dead, a nonpoisonous boa.

Isa smiled at the boy. “Let’s prepare a fire.”

How could he feed two hundred people with one snake? He would make a stew. And he prayed for a miracle akin to the loaves and fishes. These children of God needed a miracle.

They needed food.

The potatoes he grew were small, but they would make a good starch. He used the last of the beans, only three handfuls now, feeling a bit like the foolish boy who bought magic beans hoping to grow a beanstalk to the heavens. Everyone in the village contributed something. There was laughter and talk.

Father Isa looked on in approval, humbled. “Thank you, Lord.”

Hours later, they went to sleep with full stomachs and hope. There were leftovers-enough for a small bowl tomorrow for every man, woman, and child.

In the middle of the night Isa woke to the familiar sound of many Jeeps. Fear clutched his heart. Evil lived in darkness.

He emerged from his hut and saw that the tribal chief had also stepped out. “We must hide,” Isa told him.

He shook his head. “It’s too late.”

“No-”

“Save the children.” Children were being brought from their huts as gunfire rang out nearby.

There were thirty-six children under age thirteen in the tribe, but he could find only fifteen of them. They silently followed Isa to their hiding spot in the ground. They hid for hours. Through gunfire. Screams. Cries for mercy that did not come. Isa prayed. The gunmen were above them but did not see their camouflaged entry.

When the silence outside matched the silence of the children inside the cramped shelter, Isa stepped out.

The stench of blood filled his senses.

Winged predators-vultures-were already feasting on the remains. There would be more predators soon. He walked slowly through the village.

The women had been butchered, the men tortured and killed. The children that had been left behind were no longer there. They’d been taken for slaves.

He turned, saw one boy who’d been left. The boy who had hunted the snake. His hands were cut off. His feet. His tongue. Isa realized then that the child had stolen, not hunted, the snake.

As he watched, baby snakes poured out of the boy’s body, from every limb that had been severed. Isa screamed and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the snakes were gone. But the boy was still butchered.

The slaughter was for revenge. One theft and nearly two hundred innocent people were dead.

Isa fell to his knees and cursed God.

Rafe sat upright in bed, the scent of blood wafting through the motel room, the air so hot his tongue was dusty and dry. For a split second he saw snakes, hundreds of them, slithering around the room, and he stifled a cry while praying for deliverance.

Then the snakes were gone, and the reality of his nightmare hit him.

Father Isa Tucci was one of the priests who’d been murdered at the mission. For months Rafe had encouraged Father Tucci to talk about the demon he’d confronted in Africa, but he’d refused. What he’d suffered then, the choice he’d had to make, had tormented him for more than a decade. Rafe understood now, understood as he never had while Father Tucci was alive.

“You had no choice, Father,” Rafe whispered. “God forgives you; you must forgive yourself.”

The room grew cold and the door between the rooms slowly shut without sound.

A flutter of wings sounded, but Rafe saw nothing.

Cold … a ghost? Father Tucci?

Rafe rose from the bed. He heard Anthony and Moira talking in hushed but firm voices. He shouldn’t have feigned sleep earlier; the relaxation had led to real sleep and the nightmare about Father Tucci. He checked the seals at the doors, the windows, the corners, the vents. Moira had been meticulous, ingenious even in sealing the hotel vents with salt and sticking a crucifix above the opening. She was exceptional in her complexity, and anyone who went head to head against Anthony had courage. Anthony was the golden child of St. Michael’s, an empath of sorts and a demonologist of the highest order, but he was also vulnerable in that he wasn’t a trained hunter.

Rafe had been at Olivet for a year after walking away from his ordination the first time. Rico had wanted him to study hunting, to discern whether they’d missed his calling on the island.

But after completing the training, he still wasn’t a hunter. He couldn’t make the commitment and walked away. As with music, some could play the notes perfectly but couldn’t make music. And some musicians made errors, but their songs were infinitely sweet. Rafe could hunt demons, but he didn’t have the core instinct that made him a demon hunter.

He’d failed at St. John’s, failed at Olivet, and failed at Santa Louisa. And now he was jeopardizing his friends, new friends and old, and risking the lives of innocent people.

He frowned. How could he know that? How could he know what had happened to Father Tucci? There was no one here-no ghost-yet why was it so cold?

He breathed deeply, realized that the chill was gone, and wondered whether the sensation had been his imagination. Or residual nightmares that clouded his physical perceptions.

He had to face Moira and Anthony. He had to take responsibility.