Moira realized that it wasn’t a craving to use magic, it was a reflex. She remembered the pain of Fiona’s attack in the jail, how she had battled it internally, not with an exchange of magic. She’d survived. Maybe next time she wouldn’t, but there was hope for her without turning to supernatural forces.
She held her dagger as if it were her lifeline.
Serena laughed. “I’m not possessed. I’m not a demon. Your religious symbols and amulets don’t scare me.” She stepped forward. “You have to believe for them to work. You don’t.”
“I do!” Moira bit her tongue, furious with herself that she’d allowed Serena to goad her into defending herself.
“You don’t!” Serena’s palms went up and Moira turned the dagger to repel the energy shock, using the power of the relics and her internal hope.
The dagger burned in her hands and she cried out, but held tight as the sacred blade reflected the energy safely away.
Serena tried again, but whatever energy she had drawn in was extinguished. And worse for the witch, she was drained. Moira could see it in her stance, the way she swayed like a drunk, in her eyes, in her voice.
Moira said, “Walk away, Serena. Leave Fiona.”
“She needs me.” Her voice was small, almost childlike.
“All the more reason to run away while you can. She’ll weaken if you leave. I can stop her. You can’t let this go on! You can’t continue to play with human lives like we’re game pieces. We’re flesh-and-blood people, just like you.”
Serena attempted to gather more energy, but the attempt pained her, bringing her to her knees, and she struggled for breath.
“I loved you, Moira,” Serena whispered, and Moira remembered the little girl she’d raised when Fiona went off on her extended trips. So beautiful, so fair, so quiet, so smart. Sweetly Serena, Moira used to say.
“I love you, Serena.”
“Don’t talk of love! You don’t know anything!” Serena reached into her pocket and Moira raised her dagger.
Serena threw something small, a crystal smaller than a Ping-Pong ball, on the ground, while saying, “In the name of your master Baal, in the name of your master Baltach, I command thee Prziel to steal Andra Moira’s soul!”
The small ball of glass shattered on the sidewalk. A thick liquid poured from it, the consistency of pooled blood, moving, growing, into a being, a person, a …
With a deformed, horned human head and the body of a goat, the demon took shape and continued to grow.
Moira froze. She’d faced possessed people, but never an incarnate demon.
She’d never faced a pure, soulless spirit.
Her fear was absolute and instant, but she couldn’t allow fear to win. Her soul was at stake, eternal pain and suffering, and it was time to accept her fate, here, now.
She would not die without fighting back.
The demon was far more fearsome in appearance than in action. He staggered, weak, and didn’t seem to see her clearly. Moira could use that to her advantage.
He lunged at her, his body not quite fluid but moving fast and breezily, as if his corporeal form were made of thick gas. He had form, but he over-exerted himself in the failed attack and wavered before her eyes before solidifying again.
He was blind, sensing her through smell or instinct. He staggered, screaming in pain. She hadn’t touched him, only jumped away, into a controlled fall to bring herself back on her feet and ready to fight.
She pulled out what Rico called a poisoned dart: a three-inch iron barb that had been blessed and saturated in sacred oil and ash from Sunday palms.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, go back to the pit!”
It took all her willpower and control to stand her ground as the demon attacked again. She held the dart out and as soon as it pricked the demon’s corporeal shell, the creature screamed an agonizing bellow that Moira felt deep in her chest. She fell to her knees, unable to breathe, unable to move. The demon turned to dust, and a gust of hot air swooshed down and consumed the dust like a vacuum. It happened so fast, and Moira was in such pain, she wondered if she were delirious.
When she could finally look up, her sister was gone.
THIRTY-ONE
My friend, this life we live
Is not what we have, it’s what we believe.
When Anthony and Lily arrived at the mission, he spotted an unfamiliar car. He pulled up close behind it and proceeded with caution.
Lily had slept during the drive up the mountain, and he let her continue to sleep while he inspected the intruder’s vehicle. Just as he noticed the car had a rental sticker in its back window, Father Philip stepped out of the mission’s only remaining structure.
“Anthony.”
He took long steps to reach the only father he’d ever known, and hugged him tight. “Father. It is good to see you.”
“And you, son.”
Anthony stepped back. “Why did you come here instead of Olivet? And without a bodyguard. It’s dangerous here.”
“We have much work to do, but not enough time. Where’s Moira?”
“Gathering information on where to find Rafe. The coven has taken him!”
“Anthony-we need to talk. Moira didn’t go after Rafe alone, did she?”
“We had to split up. She’s at Good Shepherd Church, a front for Pastor Garrett Pennington-one of Fiona’s magicians-hoping that there will be information there to help us find where they’re holding him.”
Father tensed, concern crossing his tired face. Anthony had always known Father was older than most of the elders, but now he appeared even older than his years, and it greatly worried him. “Who is her backup? She shouldn’t be alone.”
“We had no choice. I need to protect Lily Ellis, the young woman they called the
“They will never exchange him. Rafe’s too valuable to them. Come inside. Fill me in while we prepare.”
“We? You can’t be part of this! You will stay here, where it is safe. With Lily.” But Anthony didn’t know if Father Philip and Lily were safe anywhere, alone. He’d left Rafe in what he believed was a safe refuge, yet they had found him. No one was truly safe as long as Fiona O’Donnell was alive. He wished Rico could come, but he was battling evil elsewhere. Despair rushed Anthony. How could they possibly battle against a coven as large and powerful as Fiona’s with just him, an old priest, and Moira-who wasn’t even part of the Order? So far she had been more diligent and useful than he’d expected, but she’d also rushed off this morning without discussing it with him. Moira was a maverick. St. Michael’s couldn’t function with mavericks; it was their communication and planning and union that gave them the strength and intelligence to fight supernatural battles on earth without succumbing to the dark forces themselves. How could their pitifully small group possibly save Rafe and make sure Lily didn’t fall into their adversary’s hands?
Despondent over their options, Anthony gently woke Lily and carried her inside. There were two small rooms
