Original Sin

He opened his eyes and saw Father Isa Tucci, a knife in his hand, blood spatter on his face.

“No!” He struck out. Hit flesh.

A grunt-female-registered. He sat up, didn’t know where he was.

“Rafe! It’s me, Moira. Rafe, please, you’re having a nightmare.”

Moira. She stood next to him, her hand rubbing her jaw.

Oh, God, I hit her. I hit her.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m tough.”

She sat next to him. Took his hands in hers. He looked at her. Her jaw was red, on top of the assorted cuts and bruises from the earlier assault. She wore a black tank top, the bandage Anthony had dressed earlier was clean and startling white. She wasn’t bleeding anymore.

He pulled one hand from hers, gently touched the tender spot where he’d lashed out in his sleep.

“What was it?”

He rose from the bed and looked around. Skye’s guest room. Moira had insisted on taking the couch, but he’d wanted her to have the bed. She’d refused. She was stubborn. He faced her. That stubborn expression was still on her face when she stood, only inches from him, and asked, “Rafe, was it another memory?”

“It wasn’t mine. What did they do to me? Why did they do this to me?”

She hugged him close to her. She smelled fresh, of soap and water. Fresh and alive and so beautiful it made him ache.

“I promise you, Rafe, we will find out exactly what they did.”

He liked the way she felt, the way she smelled. She was solid, whole, real … just what he needed. “I–I don’t understand anything. But I feel everything, like I was right there. The smells, the pain, the fear.”

She repeated, “We will find out what they did and reverse it.”

“You were a witch, why don’t you know?”

The pain on her face came and went so fast Rafe almost missed it. But it was there, and it lingered in her eyes before she shielded them.

“I didn’t mean-”

She cut him off. “Anthony and Skye are still sleeping. I’m going for Lily now, before dawn.”

“You can’t do it alone.”

“You can’t come with me. They want you-I told you what I overheard last night.”

“But they want to kill you.”

“My mother has wanted to kill me for a long time. But they want you for something else, and until we know exactly what they did to you in the hospital and what they need you for now, you have to keep a very low profile.”

He wanted to explain his comment, that it came from frustration and fear, not because he thought she was one of them. She’d taken off the bandage from her neck; the welt was still red. She’d braided her hair loosely down her back, making her look almost vulnerable.

He’d hurt her. He ached inside and wished he could take the words back.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

“It’s okay.”

But she didn’t look at him, and then she walked out.

TWENTY-FIVE

As Moira neared the Ellis home, she felt the magic at work even before she saw the Victorian house at the crossroads. The spells were so potent that she feared she’d be discovered before she even crossed the threshold.

She drove past the house without slowing, continued around the block, and parked far down the street behind it. Dawn had just started to bleed over the mountains, and dark shadows shielded her as she walked along the tree-lined street in the early morning fog.

She circled the house, careful to stay off the property, using all her senses in search of a weak spot.

You’re a witch, reverse the spell.

She could. She still felt the power inside her, the evil she’d been born with. She could unleash it. She’d find Fiona, if Fiona didn’t find her first. If she planned it, she could stop the coven.

And people would die.

The knowledge that Moira could do something didn’t mean it was right or safe. She and Peter had planned for months before she started using magic to thwart her mother. They’d done everything they could to protect her, everything to keep her safe.

And that plan had ended in death.

Enough, Moira. Do your job.

She stared at the dark Ellis house. There was magic at work here, but she discerned that any spells were to protect against evil spirits only. The herbs growing in the garden, the plants under the windows, the talismans above each door-they wouldn’t stop a person from walking in, or alert the witch that there was an intruder. Maybe Moira had a shot after all.

She picked the narrow side yard, next to the attached garage, because there was a door that couldn’t be seen from the main house. It provided her with a natural barrier from both neighbors and Lily’s mother spotting her.

She stepped into the yard, her senses on high alert. A television was on two houses over, a news program, but Moira couldn’t hear distinct words. Birds tweeted, high and low, building in sound as dawn grew. She was calm but alert, and had no sensation that the spell cast here was turning on her, signaling the witch.

Emboldened, she approached the door. Locked.

There were no locked doors when you were a witch, but you didn’t need to be a witch to use a pick. She pulled her small set from her pocket and three seconds later she was in, mentally thanking Rico for teaching her not only how to kill demons but to break and enter the old-fashioned way.

The garage housed a compact car and shelf upon shelf of dried herbs and canning jars. At first glance it appeared to be the craft shop for a creative sort, but Moira knew what these herbs and plants were used for, and none of it was good. A dried flower arrangement hung above the door. Decorative on the surface, but the herbs were to banish spirits, further protecting those inside.

She hesitated, unsure how to proceed. She didn’t know the layout of the house, and here in the garage she was fully exposed if anyone came in.

She tried the door that led to the house, slowly, carefully. It was unlocked. She listened for movement inside. Nothing.

Moira was about to step in when the hot-water heater behind her turned on. She jumped, swore, then waited. The floor creaked upstairs, reminding her that this was an old house and she needed to be mindful of the sounds her footfalls would make, no matter how carefully she stepped. She itched to rush in and snatch Lily, but Moira resisted the impulse, counting slowly to twenty, forcing herself to be cautious. She crossed the threshold into the small laundry room that separated the garage from the kitchen. The scent of freshly brewing coffee filled the air. She closed her eyes for a moment to focus on movement, however slight. She’d spent months training in what Rico, in his rare moments of humor, called her “spidey sense.” Full concentration, releasing fear, slowing heart rate. Listening. Sensing. Being.

Someone in the shower upstairs, the fall of fat drops of fast-running water. Moira almost felt the steam, the air in the house becoming warmer, moister, the longer the shower ran. A shuffling gait-someone larger than petite Lily Ellis. The steady drip-drip-drip of water into the coffeepot. The warm air pushing through the floor heating vents, rising.

Heather. The distinct herb faintly tickled her nose. Henbane, a common ingredient for a multitude of spells and incantations, most with nefarious ends. Wormwood, another herb used in witchcraft, primarily as a protection for the home.