Allison Brennan - Carnal Sin

Francis Cardinal DeLucca was in his late fifties, with a full head of dark hair liberally shot through with silver. He was a stately man, physically fit, and well-respected in both the Vatican and Italy. He had been instrumental in stopping a small but vocal movement close to the previous pope that had attempted to close down St. Michael’s after Peter’s death at the hands of the demon who’d possessed Moira. Without the cardinal, then a bishop, running interference and using his oratory skills and extensive network and personal friendships with many of the pope’s inner circle, Anthony suspected St. Michael’s would have closed its doors seven years ago. That was only the most recent time St. Michael’s had been at risk.

The cardinal had three priests with him, as was common when traveling. Anthony strode over to the cardinal and kissed his ring. “Cardinal.”

“Anthony.” He put his hand on Anthony’s shoulder and gave him a blessing. “I am saddened by these events.”

Anthony didn’t want to discuss the situation with the other men in the room. He didn’t know them, and while Cardinal DeLucca had been a crucial supporter of St. Michael’s and the work they did, he wasn’t of the Order.

The cardinal, as if sensing Anthony’s reticence, told the men, “I need to speak with Dr. Zaccardi about spiritual matters, if you would please wait for me in the great hall?”

Anthony shifted uncomfortably at the title of “doctor.” He had his Ph.D., but he never used his title. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had addressed him as such, except jokingly at his graduation.

The priests left, and the cardinal motioned for Anthony to sit. “I asked John to bring in Dr. Lieber’s papers. I have the rest of the day clear. I hope you’ll allow me to help with your research.”

Anthony was stunned. “Cardinal, you’re a busy man.”

“This is important. The fate of St. Michael’s is at risk. I don’t have to tell you that Father Philip’s death has had lasting repercussions. Though Pietro is the titular head of the monastery, everyone knows that Philip was the strength behind the leadership. Without him, I don’t know that I have the power to keep St. Michael’s alive.”

“What do we need to do?”

“I was hoping to convince you to return for a while. Stay here and rebuild. They need a leader, and you are a born leader, Anthony.”

“Stay here? On the island?” He missed his home greatly, but he would be lost without Skye.

“I understand you have begun a new life in Santa Louisa.”

“I am rebuilding the mission, but that is the least of my responsibilities right now, as I’m sure you are aware of what we are confronted with.”

The cardinal nodded, then turned to look at the stained-glass windows. “These are dark days,” he said. “We haven’t faced such a difficult trial in our lives, Anthony. In my support of St. Michael’s, I have always believed we need the righteous acts of selfless men to maintain balance until our Lord comes again.”

Anthony heard a but , though the cardinal didn’t say the word.

“The … theatrics … of the release of the Seven Deadly Sins, and the subsequent recapturing of one, has led to a greater awareness of what St. Michael’s Order is, what you all do. We’ve managed to keep much of the information under control. Yet, because of Philip’s death in the States-so soon after the murders of the priests at the mission that St. Michael’s administered-more people are questioning. Our opponents-those who have wanted to shut down St. Michael’s for generations-are gaining a following. Your presence here would do great service to the Order and halt opposing forces. They mean well; they simply do not understand.”

Anthony was stunned. The cardinal wanted him to retreat and save the monastery? Surely there were others better suited to the task than he. And how could he leave Skye and Rafe alone to battle the Seven?

The cardinal continued. “The few benefactors the Order has cultivated over the years are wavering now that Philip is gone. He had been the silent power. He was the one gifted with encouraging the faithful to open their purses. The trip he made to parishes across the world more than ten years ago brought in a substantial amount of money, but as you know, maintaining St. Michael’s and Olivet separately, in addition to the travel and tools-I should not have to tell you that funds are extremely tight.”

“This is about money,” Anthony said, disappointed.

“Not only money.”

“With all due respect, Cardinal, my abilities are better served on the battleground, not inside the fortress. Especially in these perilous times. We don’t have years to stop the Seven Deadly Sins; we have months. We have captured one, and we will find the others. And to reunite Olivet with St. Michael’s would be disastrous. We split the two more than one hundred years ago because a coven nearly destroyed us. It is far more difficult to take out two places, in addition to the dozens of parishes and universities where members of the Order are living and working. After-yes, I will consider returning to solidify the Order. St. Michael’s was my home for many years; I miss it. But my home is now in Santa Louisa.”

“And with Sheriff McPherson.”

“My feelings for Skye are second to my duty.” As he said it, Anthony wondered whether that was true. Could he leave Skye forever if that’s what it took to save St. Michael’s? He hoped to never have to make that choice.

But the cardinal wouldn’t be talking to him if the situation wasn’t desperate.

Anthony said, “I will make calls. I have contacts all over the world I can cultivate. I can raise the money we need.”

“Perhaps that will slow the inevitable,” the cardinal said without conviction.

The cardinal turned to face the two boxes that sat on the long, narrow table. “Dr. Lieber brought these here with him. Perhaps if we find the answers we need, we’ll have a resurgence of support.”

Anthony would have preferred to go through the material alone, but he had no choice. Keeping the cardinal on their side, as their advocate, was crucial, now more than ever.

He slid over one box to the cardinal, opened the second box for himself, and silently, they read the dead doctor’s extensive notes, hoping to find the answers in these pages to save humanity.

Rafe woke when Moira sat up abruptly in bed.

He squinted. They’d fallen asleep with the lights on. He had no idea what time it was and glanced over at the clock: 6:45. He assumed a.m., since the cop who expected them at “oh-eight-hundred hours” hadn’t kicked in the door and arrested them. What had they had, four hours’ sleep? If that.

He turned back to Moira. “Good mor-” He stopped.

Her back was covered in scars. Some faded, some prominent; some long, some short nicks. One started at her shoulder, dark and wide, and tapered to nothing at the top of her round buttocks. He lost count at twelve … he remembered asking about the scar across her stomach last night.

Fiona .

Rage bubbled inside him. Rage that anyone would hurt Moira-whip her, beat her, hurt her so deeply that the scars on the outside were the least of her injuries.

“Good ‘mor,’ too,” Moira said sleepily. She rose and stretched like a cat, beautiful in her nakedness, long and lean and muscular. She crossed the short distance to the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

Rafe couldn’t rid his mind of what Moira had suffered. He had his fair share of scars, though faded and hardly noticeable. Most of them he’d received as a young child, before he turned up at St. Michael’s. The cut on his cheek had been during training at Olivet. That scar irritated him because it didn’t have to happen; Rico had been making a point the hard way.