“What do
He touched her face. So beautiful, so strong, so full of justice that it ate her up inside and out. Her heart led her to truth, to righting wrongs, and he loved that about her. “I believe that they are here. I believe they are dangerous, that they are not like demons I know and understand, but far deadlier. I don’t know how to stop them, I don’t know how to send them back, but I will find out. I promise you, I’m not resting until I figure out how to send them back to Hell before more people die.”
She reached out for him. “I trust you, Anthony. You do everything you can to find out what happened on the cliffs last night, and I’ll do everything I can to find the people involved. Whether or not something-demonic-is on the loose, you and I both know that a flesh-and-blood human being is ultimately responsible for Abby’s death. I want that person in jail.”
“On what charge?”
“Murder, of course! A teenager is dead.”
It would be almost impossible to pin the girl’s death on a coven of witches without hard, physical evidence. And if Skye became troublesome to the group, to protect themselves they’d use their dark powers to hurt her, turn her, destroy her.
A chill ran through Anthony. He had to find some way to protect Skye from their trickery. “I need to go to the mission.” He’d been rebuilding the library there, having books sent to him from his cottage in Italy. “But first-how do we deport O’Donnell?”
“I’ll talk to the D.A. Are you still dropping charges?”
“Yes-but I don’t want her to run. I need to know where she is at all times.”
“I can keep her passport. She is a material witness. If you want to take my truck to the mission, I’ll be here awhile. Abby’s autopsy is in a few hours … I can grab a car from the pool if I need it.”
He kissed her. He would do everything to protect Skye, whether she believed what he said or not. “I love you, Skye.”
Her face softened and he touched her chin, her cheek, her soft blond hair.
“You too.” She kissed him lightly, then slid out the driver’s door and he moved into the driver’s seat.
“I’ll return this afternoon,” he said.
Skye watched Anthony pull out of the parking lot, driving too fast. She cringed. She probably shouldn’t have let him drive her official vehicle, but Santa Louisa had always been more laid-back than most counties in California. With fewer than twenty-nine thousand residents, it landed near the bottom of the population list, so small by West Coast standards that most California residents couldn’t pinpoint it on a map.
She walked in through the main doors and heard the phone ringing. It was barely daybreak and the phone was ringing? She smelled something odd-but couldn’t identify it.
The desk sergeant was asleep, the phone ringing next to him having no effect.
Asleep or …
She drew her firearm and looked cautiously as she approached Deputy Jorgenson to see if he was injured. The phone stopped ringing; the silence made her heart race. She felt his pulse. Strong.
“Deputy Jorgenson!” Skye shook him by the shoulders. “Are you sick? Bruce!”
Jorgenson wasn’t yet fully alert, but he struggled to speak and stand. She caught a whiff of something that smelled like rosemary and … something like baking. Food poisoning?
“I-don’t know.”
A fine, off-white powder covered his dark hair and shoulders, some falling on his desk.
“Have you been drinking?” She touched the powder, sniffed it. Definitely a hint of rosemary, and lavender, and other herbs.
“No!” He coughed.
“Sit tight, be alert.”
She didn’t know if he’d been drugged or not, but she didn’t want him covering her back if he wasn’t one hundred percent alert. She spoke into her lapel mic, “All available units, 10–34. I repeat, officer needs assistance at headquarters.”
Another phone rang, but there were no voices. They had a minimum of four officers at headquarters during graveyard shift, more if the four jail cells were full. Where was everyone?
The phone stopped ringing and Skye heard the faint sound of the television in the break room. The twenty- four-hour sports channel. Then steady banging, coming from the jail.
She had no intention of walking into the jail cell without backup, but when she saw two more deputies sleeping at their desks, one right outside the holding pen, she feared for the lives of her men.
Damn, damn, damn! She glanced at the log, noted that there were four prisoners, two drunk and disorderly, one grand-theft auto, and Moira O’Donnell.
Just as she was about to enter the holding pen, Young walked in. “What happened, Sheriff?”
“I don’t know. Jorgenson, the others appear to have been drugged. Did you see anything when you brought O’Donnell in?”
“No, I booked her, then went on break across the street at the coffee shop.”
“We’re going in. Ready?”
He took out his sidearm and nodded.
“On three.” She held up her fingers.
She opened the door with her key, slowly and quietly. She smelled blood and her heart skipped a beat, her mind transported back to the slaughter at the mission ten weeks ago. The murders had been human, but the cause was supernatural.
She glanced around and noted the banging was Mr. Grand Theft Auto pounding the heel of his sneaker on the bars.
“It’s about fucking time!” he yelled when he saw her.
Skye saw Moira O’Donnell, sprawled on the cement floor, blood pooled around her and smears on the wall. Her first thought was murder. Skye had Young cover the door while she quickly searched-there were no hiding spaces in the jail.
She opened the cell and checked Moira’s pulse. Strong. Her eyes opened, then closed again.
“Moira!” Skye exclaimed. “What happened?”
The auto thief said, “She’s bleeding to death, what do you think?”
“Shut up,” Skye ordered.
He continued. “This crazy dame walked in, some kind of psychic or something, and the babe just flopped against the wall like some big beefy guy was holding her up, and then her nose started bleeding like a fucking waterfall.”
Moira groaned and tried to get up. “Relax,” Skye told her. Protocols would demand that Skye wait for additional backup, secure the prisoner, and arrange for transport to the hospital. But Anthony had dropped the charges, Moira wasn’t a threat to her. Could a demon have done this?
She said, “Anthony dropped the charges against you, Ms. O’Donnell. You’re free to go. I’ll call a medic, get you to the hospital.”
Moira rolled over onto her back, wiping the blood from her face with her stained shirt. She began to laugh, borderline hysterical, and Skye tensed. “She found me. Seven years and she never found me until now.”
“Who?”
She continued to laugh. “You-you think you can arrest Fiona O’Donnell? For what?” She sat up. Skye offered her hand, but Moira ignored it, crawling over to the bars and pulling herself up onto unsteady legs. Skye was stunned at the huge amount of blood left behind on the floor. It had presumably come from her nose, but Moira also had scrapes on her face and arms, and a nasty bruise on the side of her head, partly obscured by her hair.
“Let’s get you to the hospital-” Skye said.
“No. No. I just need a bathroom for a few minutes.”
“You lost a lot of blood.”
“I just need a few minutes,” Moira repeated. “And orange juice. If you have any. Or water.”
Skye was inclined to take the woman back into custody and force her to go to the hospital, but what would she tell the ER doc? That no one touched her? She stared into Moira’s eyes, so incredibly blue-both dark and
