Original Sin

voice fearful and commanding at the same time. She touched his sweating forehead, smoothed back his hair, and murmured, “Shh, you’re having a bad dream.”

Suddenly, he sat bolt upright, eyes frightened and lost. He pulled himself into the corner, shaking.

“Raphael, my name is Moira O’Donnell. I’m a friend of Father Philip.”

He stared at her and she wasn’t sure he’d understood her.

“Do you remember what happened last night? On the cliffs? The coven?” She paused. “The Seven Deadly Sins?”

Slowly, he shook his head. His voice was rough and low when he said, “She’s dead.” He coughed to clear his voice.

“No, she’s not. You saved her. You saved Lily.” Moira took his hands, squeezed them. “Lily wore the white dress. You told her to run and not look back.” She pulled a water bottle from her jacket and handed it to him.

He looked at the water, then at her, then took the bottle.

“It’s okay,” she said, reassuring both him and herself.

“She’s dead,” he repeated. He sipped the water, then coughed.

“Yes, Abby died,” Moira said. “Abby was also there. But you saved Lily. The girl in the white gown. She’s alive and well and safe.” At least she hoped Anthony had been able to find and protect her.

As Rafe remembered the night before, relief crossed his face. “Lily?” he asked. He sipped more water, then drank fully.

“I need to get you out of here,” she said.

“No. No. Give me a minute.”

“Excuse me, but you look like death warmed over. Anthony has a place for you-”

“Anthony. He’s here.” A statement, not a question.

“Has been the whole time. Raphael, I’m-”

“Rafe. My friends call me Rafe.”

“I’m Moira.”

“Moi-rah,” he whispered, smiling. He pronounced her name right, and she liked the way he said it.

He took a deep breath and straightened his legs, leaning against the wall. “Thank you.” He finished the water. “I’m not usually this out of sorts.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “I think I can forgive you, considering.”

“Considering.” He gave her a half-smile. “I’m getting my strength back.”

“A miracle,” she said, not realizing until the words were out that she sounded sarcastic.

“You don’t believe in miracles.”

“Sure I do. I just haven’t seen any lately.”

He looked beyond her, at what she didn’t want to think about. He was a seminarian; of course he had stronger faith than she did. So had Peter, and look where it got him.

He shook his head. “I didn’t stop them. They’re out there. They’re everywhere …”

Moira wasn’t certain whether he was talking about the demons or Fiona’s coven.

“We’ll get them back.”

“Oo’la te-ellan l’niss-yoona: il-la pac-can min beesha.”

Moira wasn’t sure what language he was speaking, but it sounded familiar. “What did you say?”

He stared at her. “Aramaic.” That didn’t answer her question, but he continued, frowning. “The Conoscenza was stolen. My fault.”

Moira sat next to him in the dark, dank cabin, her back against the wall, facing the door. Though he’d lost too much weight since he’d had his picture taken for the paper, he was a tall man, with broad shoulders. She felt small sitting next to him, even though she wasn’t short.

He touched her shoulder, her damp hair, and said, “You seem … familiar.”

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.”