Mortal Sin (13 page)

Rafe didn’t comment. Rod was close to the truth there.

“Let me pursue this. I won’t scan you unless I have more information, more of a plan and less of a fly-by-night experiment.”

Rafe considered the compromise. He was worried about the long-term effects of the headaches. But at the same time, he needed the memories.

“All right,” he said, “but nothing invasive. I have the answers inside. I just need to find them. If I can find them without pushing for it, I’m open to it.”

Rod nodded. “And, Rafe, if you have any other lapses like the one today, call me. Day or night.”

“Agreed.”

#

Moira O’Donnell had faced demons big and small. She’d battled dark magic; held her own against demon hunters who didn’t think she, a woman and former witch, should be fighting alongside warriors from St. Michael’s; and faced death up close and personal more times than she could remember. She’d been imprisoned by her mother and attacked by monsters both physical and mental; she’d been imprisoned by Rico in his attempt to break her fear of confinement. She’d been possessed by a demon and killed the man she loved, and been on the run from her mother for years.

But it seemed it was the small things she feared the most. Maybe because when she was in the middle of a battle, she was too busy to be scared.

She hated morgues. Her skin burned when she walked along the cliffs near Skye’s house. And she really,
really,
despised flying.

As soon as the seat belt light went off, she paced the aisle. Back and forth. She let her senses relax to make sure there were no dangerous magicians on board. Witches weren’t prone to suicide missions, but with Fiona, Moira couldn’t be certain of anything. There was no one of import on the plane. A couple Wiccans in college who were harmless. She felt the nerves of others who hated flying, and a few people who seemed agitated or worried or upset, but nothing that screamed
danger.

She sat down halfway through the flight, but didn’t buckle her belt. Lily put her delicate hand on Moira’s arm and whispered, “The flight attendants are watching you. You’re making them nervous.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’re making
me
nervous.”

“We’re sitting ducks up here,” Moira said.

The woman across the aisle glanced at her.

“You checked out the plane when we boarded.”

“Yeah. Well. That’s only part of the battle.” She had no weapons. No knives, no devil’s cuff, not even her dagger. She had a crucifix and some holy water and some salt, and while that would help against a weak demon, if one of these passengers were infected by the Seven, all bets were off.

But she couldn’t very well ask to see everyone’s neck to see if they had the mark. And not all victims were marked on their neck.

She rubbed the back of her own neck, where the scar remained from where she’d removed the tattoo her mother had branded her with back when she was still a teenager. Fiona had four men hold her down while she used magic to imprint on Moira her destiny.

“You escaped once, Andra Moira. You will never escape me again. This mark is my claim on you; a physical sign of the promise I made at your conception. You are mine; you will serve me. Your fate has been set. Every breath you take, you take because I allow it. Never forget,
mi filia
.”

Moira buzzed the flight attendant, who came over immediately. Yeah, they’d definitely been watching her.

“Can I get a couple bottles of Jack Daniels?”

“Do you have a credit card?”

“Of course,” she snapped. It wasn’t hers, but they didn’t exactly check ID midflight. She was traveling on false documents because her passport had been flagged. She’d normally find it humorous that St. Michael’s had a team devoted to creating fake IDs and docs, but she really hated flying and the humor just didn’t cut it right now.

Three minutes later, the flight attendant came back with two small bottles of JD and a cup of ice. Moira ignored the ice and drained one bottle, then pocketed the second. Lily watched her.

“I didn’t think anything scared you.”

“Everything scares me.”

“That can’t be true.”

“I just don’t let the fear stop me.”

She got up again and paced to the back of the plane. Then to the front. Then back to the rear. She asked the flight attendant there, the same one who’d given her the Jack, “How much longer?”

“We’ll be starting our descent in ninety minutes.” The woman paused. “Do you need another drink?”

Moira pulled the second one from her pocket and drained it. The burn from the whiskey made her feel alive. But the alcohol wasn’t having any effect on her nerves. Rico would have a shit fit knowing she was drinking on the job because it could impair her abilities. She’d told him she was always on the fucking job, and she wasn’t supposed to drink ever again? But truth was, she rarely drank and even when she did, it barely affected her.

“Two more,” she said. Her tolerance was high, but she wasn’t going to make it through this flight without drawing more undue attention if she couldn’t calm herself down. “I hate flying,” she mumbled.

One of the passengers near her said, “They have drugs for that.”

Moira decided to ignore the jerk. The flight attendant leaned over and whispered, “Honey, you’re making everybody here nervous. Can you please sit for the rest of the flight?”

“I don’t like people sitting behind me.”

“Are you a cop?”

“No.”

The flight attendant pulled out the jump seat in the back of the plane. “You can sit here until we start our descent, then you’ll have to go back to your seat.”

Moira hesitated, but realized she didn’t want to go to her seat. And here, she could watch everyone on the plane. “Okay. Thanks. And I’ll take the Jack, too.”

She buckled in and after the third small bottle, felt calmer. She watched the plane. It was 80% full. Many people were sleeping. Many were watching the small television screens on the back of the seat in front of them. None were aware of the dangers facing humanity. The weight of her charge nearly suffocated her.

She missed Rafe.

She’d grown far too dependent on Rafe over the last three months—nearly four months—since she first rescued him from the abandoned cabin near where her mother had released the Seven Deadly Sins. She didn’t understand what had happened between them, but together they seemed stronger, able to battle—and defeat—two of the Seven Deadly Sins. They’d taken on other demons and dark magicians as well, including a group of would-be vampires who worshipped the blood demon Bathomet. That had been a close call for both of them.

But they’d survived because there was some sort of sixth sense between them. Moira dismissed Rafe’s claim that she was psychic—she wanted no part of that, not knowing where the ability might come from, and whether it was from the dark or the light. She wasn’t going to take that risk. Not after what happened to Peter.

She could buy into a sixth sense, a connection between them because of their connection to St. Michael’s or proximately to the Seven when they were released or even just because God was a master jokester and thought it was funny. Maybe that was splitting hairs, but it’s what she was comfortable believing.

Psychic? Um, no. Not even after what happened today at the storage facility.

Though, for the first time, she seriously thought she might have been. Maybe she kept denying she was psychic because she was scared of what it might mean.

She decided to push it out of her head. She’d deal with it later.

She looked up to the middle of the plane, where Lily was sitting. She couldn’t see Lily, but knew she was there. Where else could she have gone? The last thing Moira had ever wanted was to be responsible for anyone else… yet now she was responsible for the eighteen-year-old senior who might not live to see her high school graduation. Moira and Lily had a lot in common—they’d both been conceived to be pawns in a supernatural war. The only difference was Lily had been completely ignorant that anything was wrong until she’d nearly been sacrificed as the
arca
.

Would it have worked? Maybe. Her mother was powerful and ruthless. But most certainly Lily would have been dead at the end, just like her cousin Abby who’s died on the cliffs.

Rafe had saved Lily’s life, and in that had released the Seven into the world. Though the ritual hadn’t been completed, there was an invisible tether between the demons and Fiona’s coven. It was the only way she and Rafe had been able to track down and capture Envy and Lust—through Fiona’s coven. But it had been quiet for far too long. Was Rico right? Was one of the Seven in Canada right now? If so, would Moira be able to stop it without Rafe? Why didn’t Rico want Rafe with them? Well, other than the very obvious reason that the two men despised each other.

Moira had a mild buzz, but the alcohol had a pleasant, soothing effect. She wished she could sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw the dead Joe Smith. She hadn’t seen his death imprint, but she knew what a disemboweled person looked like. She saw the dagger, old and glowing with the evil contained inside it. It must be a trapped demon. Opening the box had awakened it.

She opened her eyes and realized she had dozed off for a few minutes. As her sight adjusted to the dim cabin lighting, she realized that Lily was walking down the aisle, away from Moira, toward the front of the plane. She stopped and stood outside the bathroom. The bathroom light was green, but she didn’t go in.

Something’s wrong.

Moira unbuckled herself and made her way as quickly as she could to the front of the plane. She was halfway there when one of the flight attendants said something to Lily. Lily gave no sign that she heard her.

Shit, shit, shit.

Moira reached Lily just as the attendant was saying, “Are you ill? Do you need something?”

“I got her,” Moira said.

Moira turned Lily to face her. Her eyes were unfocused, her lids fluttering.

Don’t faint. Please don’t faint.

Moira walked Lily back to their seats. She steered her into the window seat, then sat down next to her. “Lily,” Moira said. “Snap out of it!”

“Save Moira,” Lily’s voice said. But it wasn’t wholly Lily’s voice. It was a trance, a monotone.

Moira snapped her fingers in front of Lily’s face. Nothing happened. So she pinched her arm. Hard.

Lily yelped. Her eyes cleared and she looked confused as she rubbed her arm. “I didn’t see you sit down. I must have fallen asleep.”

“You were sleep walking.”

“No I wasn’t.”

“You were. What’s going on?”

Suddenly, Lily grabbed her arm and exclaimed, “Don’t go!”

“There’s nowhere for me to go on this plane.” She buckled them both up. She handed Lily the last bottle of Jack Daniels. “You need this more than me.”

Lily shook her head. “Father Philip doesn’t want you going to Victoria. Don’t go to Victoria.”

“Stop, just stop!” Moira sounded angrier than she intended. “Father Philip is dead, Lily. He’s not talking to you. He’s not a ghost. He’s buried in consecrated ground. It’s your imagination, nightmares, whatever—it’s not him.”

She wished more than anything that Father Philip was here. He was the wisest, kindest person she knew. St. Michael’s would never be the same without him. He’d sacrificed himself to save Lily.

Maybe that’s what this all meant. Father Philip died for Lily; Moira would do anything to protect her. Simple psychology. Moira loved Father Philip; therefore, she would not allow him to have died in vain.

Father Philip would want her to save John. Rico would not have called her in if he didn’t need her. And Moira wasn’t going to listen to a young girl who had eaten little, slept less, and talked nonsense.

You need to listen.

Maybe. Except… what was she supposed to do? Tell Rico no? That her own life was more important than John Martinelli? Based on an unsubstantiated nightmare by a distraught girl?

“John’s dead.”

A chill cause Moira to shiver, and not just because John was on her mind. “You don’t know that.”

Tears fell down Lily’s cheeks. “I wish I didn’t. What’s wrong with me, Moira?”

“You’re tired, malnourished, and traumatized.” But Moira believed her. If Lily said John was dead, Moira believed it was the truth. She just wished she understood how Lily was getting this information, if it was from good or evil.

Lily clasped her hand. “If you die, it’s over. They’ll win. We’ll all die if you die.”

“Stop.” Moira couldn’t listen to this anymore. The weight of everyone’s life on her? Why her? Why not someone stronger? More capable?

The pilot announced they were starting their final descent into Missoula and to make sure seat belts were fastened and chairs and trays were in their locked and upright positions.

Finally.

Moira wanted to ignore Lily’s rantings, to convince herself they didn’t mean anything. One life wasn’t worth more than any other life. How many of St. Michael’s Order had died violent deaths over a thousand years? How many had been sacrificed to save the world from being overrun with evil? One more—her life—wasn’t important in the big picture.

Except that, right now, she was their only hope of stopping Fiona.

Great. That didn’t instill confidence in anyone, least of all Moira.

Moira hadn’t slept well. It was over one in the morning when they landed and Tristan—Rico’s quiet “Boy Friday”—had picked them up at the airport. He escorted them directly to their bedrooms. Moira didn’t know where Rico was, but she tried to sleep.

Tried
was the operative word. She went to sleep immediately, but within two hours, dark dreams overwhelmed her. She pushed through the nightmares as if drowning in a murky lake and clawing her way to the surface. Her heart raced and she took a shower, the water rejuvenating her.

She paced her room until four, when she left to navigate the familiar corridors of Olivet until she reached the kitchen. The fortress was silent. Wall sconces illuminated the halls. It was large and sparsely furnished, masculine and impersonal.