Original Sin

TWENTY-TWO

After nearly twelve years as a cop, and the last two as sheriff, very little surprised Skye McPherson.

Today surprised her.

It wasn’t just that a teenage girl was left naked and dead on the cliffs in an apparent occult ritual-which may or may not have been murder.

Or that a sweet, mild-mannered librarian had stolen a classic 1964 Mustang and committed suicide by driving off the cliffs and into the rocks at the edge of the Pacific Ocean.

Or that she’d been called to a hostage situation at Rittenhouse Furniture that night that ended in death when David Collins shot the gunman. There were four deaths and two survivors-one of whom was in critical condition. The other, customer Ashley Beecher McCracken, was hysterical and under sedation at the hospital. Skye hoped to get a statement from her in the morning.

It was that Skye had faced all these deaths in one twenty-four-hour period-only ten weeks after the massacre at the mission.

She finally arrived home after midnight. She knew Anthony was there-her sheriff’s truck was in the driveway. She’d parked behind it in the marked sedan she’d borrowed from the pool. The shower was on, and she considered joining him … but what she really wanted was a shot of whiskey.

As if all this death and dying wasn’t enough, the D.A., Martin Truxel, had waylaid her at the hospital after the shooter, Ned Nichols, was declared D.O.A. Truxel made it perfectly clear that he would make Raphael Cooper’s disappearance and Abby Weatherby’s murder major issues in her upcoming election against his hand-chosen candidate, Assistant Sheriff Thomas Williams.

Whiskey in front of her, she stood at the kitchen counter, palms down, and replayed the conversation over and over.

“You’re incompetent, McPherson. I’m watching these investigations closely. And you.”

She’d never liked the arrogant, ladder-climbing D.A., but now she was scared. If he dug too deeply, not only was her job at stake, but so were those of everyone else who had helped her cover up what happened on the cliffs during the fire that claimed three lives. Juan Martinez, Rod Fielding, even Deputy David Collins had helped her clean up after the fact, no questions asked, because they trusted her.

David was extremely upset about what happened tonight at Rittenhouse. So was she, but he blamed himself because he’d told Grace Chin to stay in the bathroom, that he was coming in to save her.

And Ned Nichols had shot her while Skye was talking to Grace on the phone. It was a living nightmare. When Skye closed her eyes, she heard Grace’s scream, then the gunshots. She would never forget.

“Skye?”

She turned around. Anthony stood there in jeans and no shirt, his skin damp from his shower, his shoulder-length hair brushed slick down the nape of his neck, curling at the ends. The scar from where he’d been stabbed on the cliffs was still dark across his stomach. She’d almost lost him ten weeks ago. She loved him so much her chest ached, and she wanted to break down and hold him forever.

“Skye, honey, what’s wrong?”

She wiped at her damp eyes. She wasn’t crying, she just wanted to. “It’s been an awful day, an even worse night.” She looked down at the glass of whiskey she’d poured but now didn’t want. She pushed it aside.

Anthony pulled out a chair and sat her down on it, then sat across from her. He kissed her lightly on the lips, so light, so sweet, but she didn’t want light or sweet. She wanted hot, passionate sex with Anthony right now. She wanted to pull down his jeans, kiss him everywhere, make love to him on the table, the floor, anywhere as long as they were together, touching, naked.

“Talk to me.”

She shook her head and pulled him to her, kissed him hard and long, pushing her tongue into his, drawing it into her mouth. He met her lust, kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke.

His lips were hard and warm against hers, his body solid, fresh soap and a hint of something mysterious on his flesh. He made her wild with need, for him, only him.

His hands moved down her back, up her shirt, hot against her cold skin. She wrapped her arms around his neck, fisting his damp hair in her hands, rubbing his neck, his shoulders, unable to keep her hands still.

“Skye-”

“Don’t talk. Make love to me.”

She pulled off her shirt and felt his bare skin against hers. She was urgent, moaning as her nipples pressed against his chest, as his large hand pushed between them and molded around her breast.

She fumbled with his jeans. He had to stand so she could push them down, along with his briefs, and his semi-hard cock grew under her touch. He knelt in front of her, kissed her, his hands on her breasts. She pushed his head from her lips downward, and he took one small breast into his mouth, his hand cupping and squeezing the other. She gasped as his teeth lightly bit her nipple, then reached down and squeezed him, pulling him closer to her.

“Skye-” he whispered into her chest.

“Shh.” He always wanted to make sure she was comfortable, that she was enjoying herself, so concerned about her that he never really let himself go. She wanted him to lose control with her, to want her so much that he took everything she offered and more. He was too damn restrained, too damn noble.

But she didn’t want to talk about it, not now; she just wanted Anthony in her, over her, any way she could get him. He was hers; she wanted to mark him.

Very unlike her. She swallowed uneasily, then Anthony whispered in her ear, “I love you, Skye,” as he stood, helping her to her feet.

He slid off her uniform pants and panties together, and she was naked. He picked her up to carry her to the bedroom. Always the gentleman. Always chivalrous.

“Right here, right now,” she said, using her body to direct him toward the counter. Uncertain, he sat her on the edge and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He was exactly the right height to make love to her like this.

Before he could protest, she guided him into her, then slid forward to take him completely. She gasped, wrapped her arms around him, and his hands moved to support her. His cock involuntarily jerked inside her. He was trying to control it again, to fight the passion, to make sure she was comfortable, that she orgasmed first, that she had pleasure even if he denied himself.

But she knew his body now, knew how to push him over the edge. She kissed his earlobe, her tongue circling, sucking, moving down his jawline, to his lips where she kissed him hard, drawing his tongue into her mouth, mimicking sex. His cock soon followed the rhythm she set with their mouths and they both groaned, so close to the edge, so close to losing themselves completely in each other.

Anthony couldn’t resist Skye when she touched him. She was a siren for him, calling, beckoning, drawing him in. She was his greatest strength and his greatest weakness. As soon as she nipped his tongue he let himself go, pulling out of her, then plunging in, her body open and inviting, her voice a melodious mixture of lust and satisfaction. Her body glistened with sweat as she worked them both up; he kissed her neck, tasted her salty flesh, wanted more. He braced his legs, bending his knees for better control. Her back arched and her head tilted back. He watched her face as her mouth opened on a high gasp of pleasure. Her hands gripped the edge of the counter; her long blond hair fell down her back in damp waves.

He swallowed a grunt, sweat pouring off his skin as he held himself in check, wanting desperately to pump heavily into Skye but not wanting to hurt her, not wanting to deny her pleasure. Then she reached behind him and dug her fingernails into his butt, squeezing as she pushed herself into him. He would have stumbled backward, but she pulled them into the counter. He worried she’d hurt her back, but then her finger touched the tender skin on the underside of his penis and he groaned out loud, pushing himself into her as he came in a powerful, uncontrollable wave of ecstasy. Her body tightened around him and she shook with her own release.

He held her close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Why?” Her breath was short and fast.

“I lost control. I wanted to satisfy you.”

“You did. And I like it when you lose control.”

“I don’t. It’s-” He didn’t know how to say it. It felt primal. Lustful. Wanton and wrong. His discipline required that he remain in complete control of his emotions and his physical needs. There was too much at stake to put aside self-control for personal satisfaction. His love already put Skye in great danger; he was selfish to want to be with her. But he craved this one weakness. He needed Skye.

“You can’t control everything, Anthony,” she said quietly.

Lights from a car coming up the street cast shadows across the kitchen. Anthony stepped back, picking Skye up and putting her on the floor.

“Someone stopped in front of the house,” he said.

She nodded toward his pants on the floor by the table as she grabbed her uniform and underclothes. “Get dressed. I’ll be right out.”

She walked into the bedroom. Anthony knew something was wrong, but he didn’t know what. He started to follow, but the knock on the door stopped him.

He crossed to the front door and looked out the side window. Rafe.

And Moira. They both had blood on them.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

Fiona listened to Ian explain how he-and two other strong, grown men! — had lost Raphael Cooper.

She was beyond furious that Moira-of all people-had found Cooper first.

But it explained a lot.

“Are you certain you shot her?”

“Her arm was bleeding pretty good, and Walter cut her neck.”

“He should have slit her throat when he had that knife on her. He’s a weak fool. Take care of him.”

Ian cleared his throat. “Can you try the blood demon again? We’re ready to go out.”

“No. Now that won’t work.”

Fiona paced, the electricity in the room sparking with her anger.

Serena explained to Ian, “It’s Moira’s blood. If Cooper has any of it on him, it’s protecting him. We won’t be able to find him.”

“What’s so special about her blood?” Ian asked. “She’s not a witch anymore.”

“She’ll always be a witch, whether she uses magic or not,” Serena said.

Fiona interrupted before Serena said more. Not because it was a secret about Moira’s bloodline, but simply because the subject infuriated her. All she’d done to protect Moira as the Mediator was now being used against Fiona.

“That doesn’t explain why we lost him after the cabin,” Fiona said. “My Third Eye saw him, we knew he was there, but then he was gone.”

Serena cleared her throat. “Maybe it was her physical presence that gave him some sort of protective bubble. Your ‘eye’ has never been able to find her unless she used magic; maybe if she’s near Cooper or anyone else she passes that shield on to them.”

“Andra Moira needs to die. She’s been an annoyance, and now she’s becoming a problem.” Fiona turned to Ian. “Take care of the idiot Walter, and make sure everyone understands that Moira is wanted only dead. No excuses, no hesitation.”

“Yes, Fiona.”

She waved at him to make him go away, and he left. It was her and Serena. The good daughter.

“It’s too late to set up the ritual tonight, and we need a new location.” She needed Cooper, but it could wait until the Seven were bound in the arca.

“I have one.” Serena handed her a printout from the local Santa Louisa Courier dated only an hour ago.

Local Man Goes Postal; DOA in SWAT action

Four people dead at Rittenhouse Furniture

A tense three-hour hostage situation ended at 10:36 tonight when a SLSD SWAT officer shot Ned Nichols through a skylight at Rittenhouse Furniture Discounters while he held a customer at gunpoint….

“Why are you showing me this?” Fiona asked her.

“Four dead. This guy Nichols lost it … violence, rage, lots of blood; it’ll draw the demons in.”

“We may have ghosts to contend with,” Fiona countered.

“May have ghosts. And if we do, I can handle them.”

Fiona considered the location. It would be private, and the spilled blood would be a lure. Though she was loath to admit it, Serena had exceptional control over her powers and could handle any spirits that interfered. Under normal circumstances, Fiona didn’t worry about ghosts because lost souls were easily sent to the underworld with a simple incantation. But with all her energy focused on the Seven, she could possibly leave herself vulnerable to a pathetic ghost, especially one who didn’t know it was dead-too often the case in sudden, violent deaths.

She smiled and spontaneously hugged her daughter. “Good idea, Serena. Now I think I’ll release some of this frustration with Garrett and get my beauty rest. You should do the same-you have bags under your eyes.”

Serena closed and locked the library doors behind Fiona and smirked. If she only knew that Garrett fooled around with others behind her back, Fiona would be livid. She expected her “men” to be loyal to her, even though she slept around when the mood struck her. But Serena wasn’t about to tell on him. She liked the lying minister. Not to screw around with, but as a kindred spirit. They were both good at deception.

She lay down on the chaise lounge and closed her eyes, incanting the spell that allowed her own psychic eye to see. She had never told Fiona that she’d developed the power, so Fiona had no reason to block her.

Serena’s mind tumbled and fell, stars swirling, until she felt disconnected from her body, connecting more firmly with the elements. The air, the fires, the winds, the waters-she was everywhere and she was nowhere.

This must be how omnipotence felt.

She watched Fiona and Garrett begin their sexual dance in Fiona’s chamber. Fiona was always in charge, always in control, even during sex. Serena grew tired of watching and left them alone, floating through Santa Louisa, watching, watching, watching.

Seeking … she looked for Moira, hoping that this time it would work, but it didn’t. It never did, but Serena had grown more powerful with the effort.

She searched for Rafe … his eyes. His touch. His mouth. She craved him like no other, wanted him back, her seduction complete only in the carnal sense. Yes, he’d made love to her, but he didn’t love her, not like she did him.

Moira’s blood protects him.

Anger bubbled and boiled as Serena realized Rafe was physically close to Moira.

The thought, the mere idea, that Rafe and Moira were working together angered her so much that her psychic eye returned to her too quickly. Serena’s head ached with a migraine so sudden and fierce that she couldn’t get up if she wanted to.

But she had an idea that would lead them to Rafe, if he was still with Moira. And if that were the case, they could take both of them. It would require time and extensive energy on her part, but she realized that she could see all of Santa Louisa except where Moira and Rafe were. She’d find them through the process of elimination as soon as she regained her strength.