Original Sin

“Sheriff Skye McPherson. And you are?”

“Moira O’Donnell. I was with Jared Santos, but he ran off after-”

A man in plainclothes stepped forward from behind the sheriff. Moira shielded her eyes from the light and squinted. She could see no details, but the way he moved was familiar, like a big, caged cat.

The sheriff reached out to grab him. “Wait, Anthony-”

Anthony brushed off her hand and quickly approached Moira, stopping only a foot from her. Disbelief and anger rolled off him in palpable waves.

Anthony Zaccardi. Though she knew he was in town, she was still stunned to see him again after all this time. The towering demonologist’s middle name could have been Intimidation.

“Moira O’Donnell.” He spoke the name as if it were a curse. “I should have known where there is trouble from the underworld, you would be nearby, puttana.”

“Prick.”

She held her ground, though Anthony’s hostility put her on edge. He hadn’t liked her even before she’d killed Peter. If Father Philip hadn’t been there, Moira was absolutely certain Anthony would have killed her that same night.

“What did you do?” Anthony glanced briefly at Abby’s body, then his gaze focused on her.

Sheriff McPherson walked over to the body and, careful not to disturb anything or turn her back to Moira, bent down to feel for a pulse. “Shit,” she mumbled. “You said you were here with Jared Santos? Where is he? I want the God’s honest truth. What happened here? Were you drinking? Getting high?”

“Summoning demons?” Anthony whispered.

Moira said, “We thought Jared’s girlfriend, Lily Ellis, was coming here. We found Abby instead of Lily.”

“You know Abby Weatherby?” Skye asked as she approached, standing beside Anthony.

“Not personally.”

“Anthony?” Skye asked. “Do you know this woman? Can you vouch for her?”

“Vouch? I can vouch that she’s a killer.”

“Fuck off,” Moira snapped. “Look around, Zaccardi. I didn’t do this, and you damn well know it. And Sheriff, this has nothing to do with kids getting high or drunk; Abby died because she was sacrificed. Lily Ellis is missing. We think she came here to try and talk Abby out of the coven, but-”

“Coven?” Anthony shook his head. “That sounds familiar-something you know really well. What was your part in it? Or are you going to pretend you were possessed again?”

“Pretend? You bastard!” She swung her arm out to slap him. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed so tightly she thought her bone would snap. She kicked him in the shin and he let go, wincing. She turned and walked several feet away. She had to control her temper around Anthony. It would get her in trouble.

“That’s enough!” Skye said. “Anthony, let me ask the questions, okay?”

Anthony backed off.

Skye radioed for the coroner, crime scene unit, and backup. She glanced at Moira, then added into her mic, “Call Deputy Santos. He’s off-duty. Patch him through to me when you reach him. Over.”

Skye shot Anthony a glare, then asked Moira, “Do you have some identification?”

Moira pulled out her wallet from the inside pocket of her leather jacket and held it out. Skye retrieved it, opened the flap, and saw her passport. “You’re from Ireland.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve traveled a lot.”

She shrugged.

“Student visa. Olivet in Pinesdale? Where’s that?”

“Montana,” Moira said.

Anthony grabbed the passport and took a close look at her entry date. “You’ve been here for six months!”

“I’ve been in Santa Louisa for a week, but yeah, in America for six months.” This time.

Skye retrieved the passport from Anthony. There was an ease and familiarity between the two. Why was he with Skye in the middle of the night? Interesting.

She raised an eyebrow and gave Anthony a cocky half-smile. “So Santa Louisa has a demonologist on the payroll?”

“No one has to answer to you,” Anthony snapped.

“Excuse me.” Skye motioned for Anthony to follow her. Moira couldn’t help but grin. She had to like anyone who stood up to the arrogant demonologist. Peter had done it, often. Her smile faltered. Maybe if Peter had listened to Anthony’s warnings, he’d still be alive.

A car pulled onto the road and they all turned to look at it. It wasn’t Jared’s truck, it was another cop.

As Skye walked over to the new arrival, Anthony approached Moira. “Don’t even think of running. I will hunt you down like a dog.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

She glared at him and he turned away, flashlight in hand, and began to walk the perimeter. She took an uneasy breath. If she gave any hint of how much he was upsetting her, he’d continue poking with a sharp stick until she was a basket case.

The fog was thin and low, obscuring the symbols and signs on the ground, but Moira recognized the remnants of witchcraft. Black candles, the foul stench of herbs used for protection and control and warding off evil spirits. Moira could laugh at the thought-they were summoning demons, but used herbs and spells to keep themselves from being possessed.

If they only knew …

Of course, Fiona did know. Her mother knew exactly what she was doing, and she didn’t need the candles or herbs or red silk sheets laid on a makeshift altar. All she needed were the right incantations, the proper demon trap, the will to call forth evil, and the strength to control it. When you were a magician for as long as Fiona had been, when you trained and practiced day in and day out and didn’t care who you hurt or what you did, power became both addictive and easy.

For years, Moira had studied witchcraft with no idea why, other than to please her mother. From the beginning, it terrified her, but she did it because she knew no other way to gain Fiona’s favor. She’d continued until she was sixteen and unwittingly participated in a human sacrifice-a sacrifice that dedicated her to the underworld, as the “Mediator.” It was during that ceremony that she was branded, the scar still on her neck. It was then that she learned Fiona’s plans not only for youth and beauty and finding the Book of Knowledge, but for Moira’s future.

To be sacrificed on her twenty-first birthday to serve as Mediator between Hell and the Magicians.

It was the highest honor, Fiona had told her. “You have no idea what goes into creating a Mediator, to properly conceive, train, and place one. We haven’t had a good Mediator in generations; they’ve all managed to self-destruct or be killed by an order.” An “order,” in Fiona-speak, was a group of people, generally worshipping God and affiliated with a church, fanatics who were devoted to the repression of the transformative knowledge and cathartic oneness gained from magic and working with the underworld.

“We are the trees of knowledge,” Fiona often said. “The reason God forbade His people from practicing sorcery is because He wanted to deny us. He wanted to keep us from knowing the truth, the true power, of the universe. But with magic, we gain. We become more powerful, more beautiful, live longer, gain wisdom that was wrongfully reserved only for the angels above and below.”

And Moira was a believer for years. She had done everything Fiona wanted. Learned everything she taught, and more. Moira desperately wanted to please her.

Then, on her sixteenth birthday, she went to her dedication ritual. They’d traveled for two days, but Moira wasn’t sure where they were-someplace in Europe. It marked the beginning of the five-year journey where she would learn spells and protections that few witches knew. At first she was as excited as she was nervous.