Allison Brennan - Original Sin

And even then, there were other concerns … such as whether the demon was strong enough after the ritual to possess someone else . Or strong enough to take its own shape and form.

“Dad,” Jared said, “Lily just needed a little time before all the ’rents started in on her. I was going to bring her home and then talk to Sheriff McPherson. I promise, just give me an hour.”

“You missed classes this morning, contributed to Lily’s delinquency. I’m taking Lily home-her mother is frantic-and then you and I will sit down with Sheriff McPherson.”

Moira couldn’t allow Lily to be alone. Fiona wanted her for a reason. “They can stay here,” Moira offered. “I don’t mind.”

Deputy Santos looked at her as if she were trash. Moira straightened her spine, but she couldn’t help but feel inferior and defensive under his intense disapproval. “Ms. O’Donnell, you’ve caused enough trouble.”

“I haven’t done anything!”

“You have Jared lying to me. You got him involved in God knows what-sex games? Drugs? I don’t know, but Abigail Weatherby is dead and both you and my son were there.”

Lily spoke, her big brown eyes wide. “Mr. Santos, I was there when Abby died. Jared came later, trying to find me. He had nothing to do with it. It was an awful accident, and-”

“Lily-” Moira interrupted.

“Stay out of it or I’ll take you down to the station,” Santos said.

“I’ll take Lily home,” Moira said, grasping at straws. Someone had to keep an eye out for her.

“Dad-”

“Enough!” Santos’s face was getting red. “Jared, Lily, come now or I’ll put you both under arrest.”

“You can’t-”

Santos stepped toward Moira. “Don’t talk. Not a word. I heard that something bizarre happened at the station this morning, and it involved you . You have unduly influenced these kids; you are trouble. I don’t know what your game is, but it’s over as far as my son is concerned. One word and you’ll be back in jail in fifteen minutes.”

“It’s okay, Moira,” Jared said. “I’ll take care of Lily.” He took his girlfriend’s hand.

It wasn’t okay, but Moira didn’t know what else to do. She couldn’t go back to jail, and if she tried to stop the cop, she had no doubt that he’d arrest her. Either way, Lily would still be home, alone and unprotected. Worse, Santos would find her gun and her knives, and take them. She’d be defenseless again. She couldn’t face Fiona empty-handed-no weapons, no open space, no magic.

Moira had no choice but to let them go.

“Now,” Hank said. He stepped through the door and looked up into the gray, overcast sky. The day looked as dreary as Moira’s mood.

Jared picked Lily up off the bed.

“I’m sure she can walk,” Hank said.

“Her feet are cut from running,” Jared said quietly. Moira glanced over; Lily wasn’t wearing any shoes, but had on a pair of Moira’s socks pulled up high. Blood had seeped through the bottom.

“Be careful,” Moira whispered as Jared passed by her. “Call me if anything happens.”

Jared whispered, “Take my truck.” He nodded toward the keys still in her hand.

Hank glanced over his shoulder, but Moira had already pocketed the keys. “Jared!” Hank barked.

Moira stared at the back of Hank’s neck. His hair was cut short, a little longer than a buzzcut, and it looked like there was dried blood right above his collar. She almost said something, then he shifted as she realized it wasn’t blood but a birthmark, a port wine stain that was centered at the base of his skull and went beneath his collar.

She was tired. Exhausted, more like it, seeing things. But she had no time to rest now. Finding Raphael Cooper was number one on her list, then destroying Abby Weatherby’s corpse before Fiona got her hands on it or summoned Abby’s vengeful spirit. She’d have to call Anthony, urge him to find a way to keep an eye on Lily. Surely he could do something , considering he was sleeping with the top cop in town.

Moira waited until Hank had driven off with Jared and Lily. Then she slipped out and drove Jared’s truck in the opposite direction, toward the cliffs, hoping she could retrace Cooper’s steps and find him before Fiona did.

Rafe didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, or unconscious. As his eyes slowly opened, he saw shades of light in the dark shadows of the abandoned cabin.

He was huddled in the corner of the filthy, foul-smelling room, shaking, cold and hungry, unable to move. He tried to stretch his quivering limbs, told himself he had to do it, but his body did not respond, paralyzed. He’d never felt so completely drained that he had no will to do anything. He would certainly die here, for even the thought that he would die if he didn’t leave gave him no strength to stand, or even crawl.

He’d expended every ounce of his energy in saving the girl and escaping the witches and demons.

The wind howled around the cabin, the boarded-up windows providing a break from the damp salt air.

Rafe had no idea how he’d found this cabin when he fled the chaos he’d caused.

Intellectually, he’d known that it wasn’t his fault that the demons had been released. He hadn’t started the deadly ritual; he would never have even flirted with the dark arts or any form of magic. It was antithetical to everything St. Michael’s Order stood for. He was one of the chosen few who was charged with stopping the spread of witchcraft, of sealing breaches between this world and the underworld. Even within St. Michael’s, he’d had talent-special gifts in their fight against evil.

Yet he’d had no part in any of the battles of late. He’d been most recently at St. John’s, hoping to become a priest but unable to say his vows. His mentor told him he should look deeper, try to better discern his calling. He’d thought helping the tortured priests at Santa Louisa de los Padres Mission was the answer.

He was wrong.

In his heart, he feared that somehow, he was just as culpable as the coven for what happened last night. When he stopped the demons from possessing the girl’s body, the arca , he’d known exactly what he was doing. Now? He tried to remember, tried to find the words, or at least understand their meaning, and nothing. Nothing but pain, in his head, in his heart, in every muscle of his body.

And now the demons were on earth, free. He had to find them, stop them. Demons could only be sent back to Hell; they couldn’t be killed.

Yes they can .

He frowned, trying to chase the words in his mind, to find the solution to the problem. If demons could be killed, how?

A sharp pain shot through his ear and his hands grabbed his head. Make the ringing stop! His stomach retched, but there was nothing inside, nothing to throw up, and he dry heaved until his gut ached.

He closed his eyes.

God, help me .

He slipped into sleep, or unconsciousness, or death … but the dead didn’t dream or remember, did they?

Skye watched the security tape twice without comment.

Rafe Cooper had been recorded four different times on three different cameras. The first was outside the elevator bank closest to his room-he’d shuffled by, wearing a hospital gown and appearing disoriented, confused, and in pain. A few minutes later he was seen entering the staff lounge at the opposite end of the floor. He seemed steadier, as if walking had given him strength, but he was still slow.

When he emerged-a good fifteen minutes later and in hospital scrubs he’d stolen from an employee locker-he still looked pale but walked with purpose, slow and steady. He was neither looking at the camera nor trying to avoid detection.