Allison Brennan - Original Sin

He was changing the subject. For now, she could play along, but Rafe would need to answer the hard questions. “I lived at St. Michael’s seven years ago,” she told him.

He shook his head. “I left twelve years ago and never returned.”

“Never?”

He finished the water and put the bottle next to him, his index finger fingering the top. “I’ve had some things to work out. It took longer than I thought.”

She shifted uncomfortably. The way Rafe spoke, the way he looked off but didn’t see anything in front of him-it made her think he was listening to something else, seeing something that wasn’t there.

The rain pounded on the roof; the wind rattled the sides of the cabin. The weather was getting worse. “We have to leave,” she said. “There’s a lot to do.”

“Do?”

“To stop Fiona.” Rafe closed his eyes. Damn, she needed a little help getting him to the truck. “Rafe-please, the high priestess of the coven is furious with you.”

“She’s mortal. There are seven demons out there. Immortal, powerful demons.”

“What do you know about the Seven?”

She didn’t want to go back into the foul weather, but she didn’t want to stay here, either, and listen to someone who sounded far too much like Peter. It made her extremely uncomfortable.

Rafe said, “The fallen angels were banished to the underworld for disobedience and pride. They envied God; they envied humans. They hated us because we were chosen, yet we were corporeal. Not spirits. They wanted everything, to be favored, to be chosen.

“As there is a hierarchy of angels, there is a hierarchy of demons. The Seven have been around since the first angels. They know everything there is to know about Heaven and Hell. They know everything there is to know about human beings, intimate knowledge of our weaknesses. Our foolishness. Our desires and our fears. They have control over their spirit. They don’t need to possess a human body, though they can when it suits them. Instead, they roam free, feeding on sin. They strip out our God-given conscience and feed on our darkest desires. Lust becomes uncontrollable, and in our need they feed. Greed turns insatiable, and they feed. They will never be satisfied, they seek more … more sex, more money, more food, more time. They become stronger, more destructive, deadlier, as they spread their virus. They’re like legendary vampires, but instead of sucking blood they crave our greatest weaknesses, drawing them to the surface, pushing us to act on sins that hurt not only us, but others. And the more we give in, the more we want. The more we need.”

Moira listened, captivated, amazed that Rafe Cooper, who seemed so fragile a moment ago, was speaking so clearly, so firmly. It scared her. His understanding of these demons was uncommon; even Anthony hadn’t figured it all out yet. How had Rafe picked up on the demons’ nature so quickly?

She swallowed and inched away from him just a fraction. Saw his water bottle. An idea came to her. She was being foolish … but as Rico always told her:

First, stay alive .

“They are out there,” Rafe continued, almost in a trance. “Spreading iniquity. Drawing out our sins. They’ll go where they are coveted. We are up against not only evil itself, but the evil within us. How can we run from ourselves?”

Moira handed Rafe a half-filled water bottle. Her hand was shaking. She willed it to stop, but it didn’t.

He looked at her. “You’re different,” he said, and she didn’t know whether that was good or bad. He took the water bottle and drank.

Swallowed.

“Okay, I’m ready,” he said. “I might need a little help.”

She let out a slow sigh of relief. The holy water she’d poured into the plastic bottle went into Rafe smoothly. He wasn’t possessed. He wasn’t being controlled by a demon. He was human, fully human, and she almost cried with relief.

She was losing it. Lack of sleep, the attack by her mother, seeing Anthony, remembering Peter.

“Moira.”

Rafe touched her chin and she looked at him in the dim light.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not.”

He brushed his thumb against her cheek. “Yes, you are.”

She cleared her throat. “It’s from the rain.”

He looked at her, didn’t believe her; she didn’t expect him to.

“You’re shaking.” He ran his hand up her sleeve.

“And wet. You came through the storm to find me. How?”

“Lucky guess.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” he said. “Divine intervention.”

“Don’t start down that path, Rafe,” she whispered.

He rubbed her arms, put his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close to him. Her heart was racing. Why was she nervous around him? He wasn’t possessed, he wasn’t a spirit; he was unusual, and strange, but he was a person. A man.

“Let’s go,” she said.

“I’m in your hands.”

Something shifted painfully inside her. Moira had always been a loner, especially after Peter died. But just lately, people were depending on her. Jared. Lily. And now Rafe Cooper.

She didn’t want the responsibility. All Moira wanted was to stop her mother.

She pulled away from Rafe and stood, holding out her hand. He looked at it for a moment, then grasped it with a strength that surprised her given his ill appearance. She pulled him up; her workouts with Rico and her daily exercises kept her fit. But suddenly Rafe towered over her and she took a step back, startled.

Then he staggered, dizzy, and she caught him.

“Let’s go slowly,” she said.

She eased Rafe out of the cabin, into the dark, misty rain, and down the unpaved road to the truck. By the time she got him into the passenger seat, Rafe was weakening, and once again in pain. She didn’t want to take him to the hospital, but if he was in serious distress she didn’t think she’d have a choice.

She hopped into the driver’s seat and said, “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

“I’m not sure about anything, but I can’t go back to the hospital. I wasn’t in a coma, but I wasn’t awake either. I don’t know what they were doing to me, but something … I just …” He stopped, looked at her, and Moira felt the anguish and confusion rolling off him.

“It’s okay.” She reached for him, held his hand and squeezed. “I have a safe place.”

He stared at her, his dark eyes troubled, fathomless. “There’s no place safe enough for either of us. But if we go back to the hospital, they’ll kill me.”

They won the game, no thanks to Chris.

“Don’t sweat it, you had a bad day. It happens to all of us.” Travis slapped Chris on the back as they boarded the bus back to school. “You’ll be on your game next week.”

Chris shrugged off his friend’s comments. Bad days didn’t happen to Travis Ehrlich. He was perfect, he had everything, he had the scholarship to UCLA and was MVP and scored twenty-fucking-eight points-including six three-pointers-in the game.

“Let’s hang at my place,” Travis said. “My mom’s working late; we’ll have the place to ourselves. ’Kay?”

“Whatever.” Chris didn’t want to look at Travis, let alone spend any time with him. He took a seat in the back of the bus and sulked while Travis took kudos from the coach and the rest of the team.

After the bus started down the dark highway, Coach sat across from Chris. “Listen, Kidd, you screwed up but I know you’re better than this. Get your head together and we’ll work one-on-one tomorrow after practice.” He slapped him on the shoulder, then went back to the front of the bus.

It was obvious to Chris that Coach was simply placating him. Coach could care less about Chris and his future. It was all Travis all the time. The Santa Louisa Star Player, the Local Boy Done Good. Asshole. Prick.