Original Sin

“There are times, Philip, when I want to close my eyes and leave it all for the End Times. There will be an end, and I am so tired.”

Philip refused to live his life in the belief that nothing he said or did mattered. Forgiveness was commanded by the Lord, even for those who had done unspeakable acts. And if Philip died because he obeyed, then he was ready to die.

“If we do not fight against evil, we are as those who celebrate it.”

Pietro didn’t comment, and Philip felt very alone. He was considered an idealist, known for his passion and compassion. But Pietro was a realist, and realists often looked only at the facts-that Judgment Day was inevitable, regardless of what they did or didn’t do. Arrogant, Philip believed. This arrogance-pride- was the fall of many in the Order. That they were pure and thus could turn their back on the masses of God’s children.

Philip had always been drawn to the parable of the lost sheep. That the Lord would sacrifice the pious to save the one who wandered. That the one mattered. Raphael … Anthony … Philip … Moira … even Peter, who had made wrong choices for the right reasons. That the Lord would forgive, would search for His lost sheep night and day, endlessly, and have mercy on them.

Lord, please be with your lost sheep today and forever.

“You, Philip,” Pietro said quietly, “are a rare soul.”

“I am who I am, nothing more than a servant for the Lord.” They sat in silence for many minutes, until the clouds opened and a solitary drop of rain fell on the ground.

Philip accepted his fate and rose, his bones cracking audibly. Despite the infirmities of old age, he no longer regretted his lost youth. “I should finish my preparations. It is a long journey.”

Pietro remained sitting and caught Philip’s eye. “As you know, the Conoscenza can only be destroyed by a very specific person.”

Philip’s stomach rose. “A witch.”

“Moira.”

“But you still call her Witch.”

“She will always be a witch.”

Philip shook his head, wiping raindrops from his brow. “You can’t believe that. We all can be forgiven.”

“’Tis true, but she is what she is. Forgiven or not, she is our one best hope. Only a mortal witch can destroy the book written in the blood of a union between demons and humans. She is a descendant of the fall of man.”

“We all are.”

“But you know what I speak of.”

Of course Philip understood what Pietro meant. After humans were banished from the Garden of Eden, after the first taste of knowledge from the forbidden fruit, a few in the following generations turned to magic, and demons roamed the earth with them. It was that first coven, the first magicians on earth, from which Fiona had come. And, thus, Moira.

“Are you certain?” Philip asked as the rain fell more steadily and they began the walk back to the building.

“I am,” Pietro said.

A chill ran down Philip’s spine. As if sensing his fear and hesitation, the wind whipped up around them, coming down into the fortress as if blown in from the heavens. Pietro pulled his handmade sweater tighter around him.

“I know you are upset with me, Philip, and I am sincerely sorry that I had to keep information from you. Rico needed Moira to believe that she was to be one of us, but it was simply to divert her questions. He never lied to her.” He hesitated. “Since you’re reluctant to bring Gideon, instead John will escort you to Santa Louisa.”

“I’m going to Olivet.” Even as he said it, Philip realized that he’d been unconsciously planning to go directly to Santa Louisa. Anthony, Moira, Raphael-they were in danger, and they needed the truth if they were to have a chance.

Philip wiped drops of rain from his cheek. “They deserve the truth.”

“Perhaps. Philip, up until now, Moira’s visions have been of the present; if she begins to see the future we have to stop it.”

Philip shook his head. “There are gifts-”

“Her gifts are not from God. Philip, you are blind when it comes to Moira. I need you to be safe. John will escort you to Santa Louisa. He can protect you.”

What Pietro was implying … “Moira would never hurt me, or any of us. It took her years to accept the assignment to”-Philip hesitated, unable to say the word kill, in violation of all he believed-“stop her mother and the coven.”

As he passed Peter’s tree again, he glanced over, his heart heavy. Pietro had said all he had to say.

They stepped inside the stone halls, water sliding off their clothes onto the ancient floor. Philip said, “I will leave tomorrow. Gideon will stay here, yes?”

Pietro nodded solemnly. “Agreed. Gideon will join you later. I will prepare John to escort you. You’ll both leave at dawn.” He took Philip by the arm. “We cannot lose you, Philip. I’ve been … uneasy lately. Without you, we lose our center.”

“I am merely a man.”

“You are a rock, Philip. I remember when you arrived at the gates. I was ten, not privy to much, but I heard Father Lucca say, ‘This one, he is of the foundation. We must protect him as long as possible.’ And he took you under his wing. It was a first for him; he’d never raised one of us.”

Philip had never heard that story before, and it moved him. “Are you keeping anything else from me?” he whispered.

“You now know everything I know, but-” He stopped.

“But? Pietro, please. I must know.”

“The Cardinal knows more.”

NINE

All hope abandon, ye who enter here!

— DANTE ALIGHIERI

Moira realized after hitting Anthony that she’d let her temper get the better of her, but connecting her hand with his arrogant face had been so damn satisfying that she gloated for the first five minutes she was locked behind bars. True, she probably couldn’t take Zaccardi out in a fair fight, but she didn’t care if she played fair, and she’d surprised him. Wham! Down on his knees. She wished she’d broken his nose, but no such luck. She rubbed her hand. Rico had taught her how to pull punches to minimize damage to herself, but damn, her palm was still sore.

There were only four cells in the Santa Louisa County jail, plus a larger “drunk tank.” There were two men in the drunk tank-sleeping. Only one other cell was occupied, and that man was sleeping as well. Though the place was clean, she occasionally caught a whiff of stale urine or vomit underneath the antiseptic cleanser.

Her cell, surrounded by three smooth, gray cinder-block walls, was on the opposite side of the wide walkway. Narrow steel bars and the three sleeping prisoners were her only view.

Six minutes of incarceration and the walls began to shrink. Her heart raced as the floor seemed to rise. She knew she was panicking, but knowing it didn’t stop the pressure in her chest, or the sweat from breaking out on her neck, between her breasts, and on her palms.

She’d been in prison before, only nothing as lavish as the Santa Louisa Sheriff’s Department.

The first time Moira had run away she was sixteen. And because she’d been stupid and unskilled in survival, Fiona had found her. Punished her. Sent her underground, in a dungeon of an abandoned castle in Ireland. Dark. Cold. Damp. With the foul stench of mold and decay, of dead, rotting rodents. She heard the rats scurrying all