Original Sin

but bleakness, light without depth, shadowless, surreal.

Thin rain stung her face as she shouted, “I don’t want to be a martyr!” Her long hair whipped around her face, pulled from the loose braid she’d fastened in haste earlier. “I don’t want to watch people die!”

She squeezed back her tears, fists clenched, wanting to hit someone, take out her pain and anger on something. Rico had taught her to use the gym or to run, but she didn’t want to battle a sandbag or run ten miles, twenty miles, more, until her legs ached and her lungs burned and she threw up. She was always running. Anthony Zaccardi was right about that. She ran and ran and ran, never facing the truth.

She was cursed. She was going to die.

“I don’t want to die,” she whispered.

Moira turned to face the ruins, this time from a distance. The house had stood about a hundred yards from the edge of the cliffs. That was where the demons had been released, the back door into Hell created by the fire two months ago. Moira knew a bit about creating gateways. It was difficult and extremely dangerous, but of course Fiona and her people regularly attempted-and often succeeded in-establishing the thin membranes between earth and Hell.

Moira frowned. Why hadn’t Anthony done something to close the gateway? He’d been in Santa Louisa for months, knew what had happened at the ruins-he was a demonologist and couldn’t be ignorant about what was so obviously here. Or maybe she was sickly aware of evil because she’d lived with it for so long. Maybe she had a black heart, hard and tainted and cursed.

The edge of the continent looked eerie and surreal through the fog. She knew how these rituals went, and could picture Fiona and her people casting the circle, protecting themselves, excited and arrogant and fearful.

Lily’s observations of the ritual were tainted by her ignorance. She didn’t know anything about coven practices or how demons operated. But Lily was clear in what she had seen even if she didn’t understand it. Such as demons leaving Abby’s body as it levitated inches above the altar. Abby was part of the puzzle, a necessary piece to draw out the demons from the gateway.

Lily had been adamant about the black clouds being outside the circle. But there were two circles, a double circle, and Lily may not have made note of that. What about the witches standing in that double circle? How had they been protected? And how did Raphael Cooper affect the ritual?

Moira shook her head, frustrated. So many questions, too few answers.

She was alone and scared. Maybe she should have asked Anthony to meet her. Loneliness wasn’t new-Moira had been lonely most of her life. But she hadn’t felt so much despair since the night Peter died. She didn’t know whom she could trust, and those she did trust in this battle-those like Anthony Zaccardi-wanted nothing to do with her. Hated her. Blamed her for things that weren’t her fault. And for some things that were.

Hell churned here, in Santa Louisa. They had a war on their hands. She’d participated in some of the battles that came before, but she’d only heard about others; most which were fought before she was even born-and few came close to what they now faced.

If Moira succeeded in stopping Fiona, another magician would take her place. There were always more waiting in the wings, studying, practicing, looking for an opening to seize power and wrestle control away from the demons. It was as euphoric as it was deadly, as addictive as it was dangerous.

It was Fiona who’d united the covens and magicians in pursuit of her goal, Fiona who’d convinced them that together, they had influence. She’d been right. And the more control she wielded, the more covens would join her, a never-ending cycle that had to be stopped.

Moira felt like a pawn, expendable, used first by her mother from the moment of her conception, then by St. Michael’s Order. They didn’t care what happened to her. Deep down, she knew it. They wanted one thing from her: a weapon against the rising dominance of Fiona O’Donnell and the legions of covens she directed.

Sometimes Moira wished she’d let her mother sacrifice her.

Sometimes she wished she could just disappear forever.

Most of the time she wished she’d never been born.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

Self-pity is for the weak; regret is for the hopeless.

“Shut up, Rico,” she whispered.

God may have forsaken her, but evil couldn’t triumph. If she lost to Fiona, every sacrifice Peter had made would be for nothing. His death would be for nothing. The cycle would repeat like a violent No Exit. Sartre would be amused, perhaps, at the endless game where the end was certain, but irrelevant.

Peter.

She fell to her knees in the wet, sandy soil, her body vibrating with restrained sorrow. Tears, mingling with the rain, fell to the rocky earth.

“It’s not fair!” She pounded the ground with her fists. She missed him so much! Her voice cracked and she absently pushed the hair back from her face.

She stared at the ground. There was a symbol here, vague and disappearing in the rain. She crawled several feet to where it was clear, touched it.

It had been disturbed during the ritual and she couldn’t make it out completely, but seeing it stopped her numbing inaction. She knew exactly what was happening to her.

Slowly, she rose to her feet and looked around. The rain was slow but steady and she was drenched, but that didn’t bother her, nor did the cold that seeped into her bones. This place was evil. She’d told Anthony just that. She had been standing here doing nothing but feeling sorry for herself and thinking through her problems over and over and over … inaction.

Sloth.

One of the seven deadly sins.

She looked at her watch. Hours had passed. It was five o’clock, the light had changed, and she realized then the terrible risk Santa Louisa-and the world-faced with the Seven on the loose.

As soon as she realized what had been happening to her, her mind cleared. She admonished herself, drenched to the skin, but resolved. She had come out here to find Raphael Cooper, and she’d allow nothing to stop her.

After stealing the Mustang from Frank, high school librarian Bea Peterson pulled over and took the top down. She didn’t care that it was raining, or that she would ruin the beautifully restored seats, or stain the red carpet. She wanted to drive with the top down.

Nor did she care that she wasn’t dressed for the weather, wearing the thin wool sweater she kept at the library to stave off the chill. Her graying hair first frizzed in the moisture and wind, then the wavy strands hung heavy with the weight of the rainwater. Her thick makeup ran down her face, turning her from a moderately attractive, overweight middle-aged librarian into a sad clown-or to some she might appear deranged, her wild eyes giving light to something far more sinister and feral than anyone at the school expected from sweet Bea Peterson.

Bea drove, without thought, without regret. Carefree and single-minded, she laughed out loud as she sped around the bends of the cliff-side highway too fast. When she skidded, or spun the wheels in the narrow sandy shoulder, she whooped and hollered, as if she were on an amusement-park roller coaster. In the rain, this road was used only by necessity. The few drivers Bea passed honked at her reckless driving, but she laughed. They didn’t know what freedom felt like. They didn’t know how much pleasure there was to be had driving a classic car like this. It was hers!

Just before she crossed the Santa Louisa County line into San Luis Obispo, Bea stopped the Mustang in the middle of her lane. She stared toward the ocean, except the fog was so thick and wet she couldn’t see the water. Her heart raced. She didn’t want to give her car back to Frank, but she’d have to if she went back to the school. And he’d be angry with her for getting the interior wet and for the scratch on the door when she went around a corner too fast.

She’d seen his face in the rearview mirror when she drove away, running after his car. It pleased her that he was shocked and angry and sad that he’d lost it. She frowned. Why? Why was she so happy that Frank was miserable?