Allison Brennan - Original Sin

Three primary emotions battled: pain, rage, and fear. Fiona had channeled dark powers for years, had become far more powerful than even when she’d summoned the demon that possessed Moira seven years ago. Fiona could easily kill her without a man-made weapon. And Moira couldn’t fight back. Even if she had kept her abilities sharp and honed, she couldn’t fight Fiona with magic without breaking her promise to Father Philip. She’d rather die than do that. Even magic with good intentions killed, because it all came from the same source of pure evil.

It had killed Peter. It had almost killed her. Now, trapped in this prison-the physical jail cell and her own morality-she’d be dead before dawn.

“Well, well, well, hell- lo , hot stuff.” The sober prisoner sat up on his cot and gave Fiona an appraising look.

Both Fiona and Moira ignored him. Moira had no idea how Fiona had found her, how her mother knew she was in town and specifically in prison, but she damn well knew why she’d come. Seven years ago when Rico and Father Philip saved her, Fiona had said:

“You are cursed, firstborn daughter. I will find you. I will hunt you down, I will destroy you inside and out. I will wring your soul dry until it’s begging for mercy, of which I have none to spare you.”

Anthony wouldn’t have let it out that she was in jail. If he’d known where Fiona was, he’d have gone after her himself. And he still believed Moira was working either with her mother or another coven. But Sheriff Skye McPherson-was she part of the coven? Covens loved to recruit people in positions of power. Cops, teachers, ministers. Anyone with authority and trust.

And then there was Jared, who’d disappeared to find his girlfriend right before the police came. Could he have alerted Fiona? Perhaps his original intent in bringing her to the cliffs was to lure Moira into a trap, but something went wrong and the coven had dispersed.

“Cead inion.” First daughter. Some might think it was a term of endearment, but Moira knew better. To Fiona, it meant she was property.

“Cailleach.”

Fiona smiled at the insult-Moira didn’t know what offended her more, the “old” part or the “hag” part. Her red, glossy lips wide, teeth so white they seemed false. Some might have called her grin inviting. But Moira knew better. She was a shark, circling her prey.

Fiona’s brilliant, dark blue eyes matched Moira’s; her hair, a shiny, golden red, was thick and curly and impossibly long. Moira had the same curls, but she kept her black hair up or braided and out of the way. Fiona’s skin was smooth and flawless, her cheekbones high and aristocratic. Her mother had always been a dramatically beautiful woman. She hadn’t changed. She hadn’t changed physically at all from when Moira had last seen her. Fiona was forty-eight. She looked … younger. Stunning. Twenty-eight, maybe, but not forty-eight.

“Andra Moira.” Her full name rolled off Fiona’s tongue with the Irish lilt and the proper accent. An-drah Mor-rah . Moira hated it. She preferred the wrong way everyone else in the world pronounced her name, with three syllables instead of two. And she refused to use her first name, Andra, knowing whom she was named for and why. An ancient goddess who relished blood and human sacrifice …

Moira stared at her, tense and watchful. Wishing the damn sheriff would get her ass in here. How had Fiona gotten in? Had she killed someone …

“You’re weak.” Fiona walked to the center of the jail and stared at Moira with both shock and contempt. “You haven’t been practicing! Pathetic.”

She sounded disappointed, as if she’d wanted some sort of supernatural battle between them. But Moira had learned the hard way that all supernatural power came from the wrong side of the tracks, and payment for borrowing it was steep.

“I know what you did on the cliffs,” said Moira. “I know what you’re up to.”

“You can’t possibly imagine in your small mind what I am doing.” Her eyes glowed with excitement-from Moira’s entrapment or her own plans, Moira didn’t know. Probably both. “You are fortunate that I am forgiving.”

“As forgiving as the devil himself,” Moira snapped. “Oh, wait, he’s one of your friends.”

Fiona’s throat tensed, revealing delicate bones under flawless skin. “You should be more respectful of your father.”

“Bullshit.” A chill started in the center of her bones, hardening her gut, bringing the panic on, but she stood perfectly still. Moira had never known her father. For all she knew, her mother had slit his throat after mating. Moira’s bravado was a farce, and she damn well knew that if Fiona smelled fear, she would pounce. She crossed herself more to goad her mother than to proclaim faith.

Fiona murmured a spell aimed at Moira, but at the last minute tossed it toward the drunk cell with a flip of her wrist. Moira could almost see the gray smoke, even though she knew it wasn’t physically there, but merely an illusion.

The drunks both groaned in their stupor, the nightmare Fiona had thrown into their minds taking hold.

Fiona paced the length of the walk. The velvety blue gown swirling around her gave the illusion that she was floating. Wisely, the man in the far cell said nothing.

“What did you do to the guards?” Moira asked.

“They’re sleeping.”

Fiona stopped dead center in front of Moira’s cell. “Andra Moira, I am granting you a choice.” She raised her left hand with flair, her jewels sparkling in the artificial light. “On the one hand, I will let you out. You come with me and fulfill your role as it was decided before your conception. You, the first daughter of a virgin womb, sacrificed to be the goddess of the underworld. Such a high status for doing nothing but being born. You are of the chosen, for I am of the chosen. I gave my body to the gods so you could exist.

“On the other hand,” she waved her right hand as if swatting away a fly, “you will die now, and I will rip your soul from your body and send it into the pit to be tortured forever. She who gives life can also take it away.”

Fiona held her palms up, as if in a peace offering. Moira stared, feeling an unspoken spell building. On Fiona’s open palms, two worlds balanced: one of fire, the other identical but with Moira in the middle, her face melting to bone, the bones turning to ash.

Another illusion. Moira willed her mind to see only what was in front of her, to repel the telepathy that her mother was using to send images into her mind.

She blinked and it worked. She saw only her mother. Rico had trained her well.

“Free will conquers magic. Use your mind, your thoughts, your free will in battle. Turn not to external forces, but to the strength that God gave you.”

An irritated scowl crossed Fiona’s face and she dropped her hands.

“You released the Seven Deadly Sins from Hell,” Moira said, emboldened by her small victory. “There’s no reason-”

“I didn’t free them! They were to be mine. It was that-” She stopped, straightened, and glared at Moira. “Your decision. Now! Come with me or die.”

They were to be mine . Fiona did nothing without a reason, but Moira couldn’t come up with even one idea as to why Fiona wanted to claim, or keep, the Seven.

Moira’s words were clear. “I am not yours. I refuse to be sacrificed to any of your demons. Go ahead and try to send me to Hell; if you succeed, I know ways to come back and thwart every one of your plans.”

Fiona laughed.

“You fool,” she said between bouts of laughter. “You know nothing. Those pathetic men on that ridiculous island have no idea of the power to be had. The wall separating the worlds is so thin, it is close to crumbling. Between the here and now, the underworld and time; I am the weakest link, where the membrane between humans and the supernatural universe is thinnest. You will never defeat me.”