connected to Rafe Cooper in ways she couldn’t begin to explain. And maybe she didn’t want to understand.
Rafe stepped back, just a half step, severing the kiss with a primal groan that made Moira quiver. He didn’t apologize, nor did she want him to, but the shock on his face must have mirrored her own surprise.
Any other time, any other place, and she’d have continued moving toward where that kiss was heading. The craving in Rafe’s eyes, the firm set of his jaw, indicated that he would be more than willing to join her in the exploration.
But Moira couldn’t forget who she was and what she had to do. Nor could she forget Rafe was spoken for-he was a warrior for St. Michael’s Order. Neither of them could afford to be distracted by attraction or affection. It was dangerous for them, and those they were responsible for. Rafe knew it as well as she, but still pinned her with a gaze that said:
She swallowed the words she wanted to say and handed Rafe a plastic three-ounce container with the last of her holy water. He took it, and she retrieved her dagger.
“Ready?” she asked, her voice low and raw.
He nodded, and together they stepped outside the circle, their eyes locked on the unmoving demon in the corner.
Why was the demon still here? It should have slithered back to Hell by now. Its essence at least should have made a flashy show of falling back into the pit. Could it really be dead?
Moira would have liked the time to explore the house, to see if there were any clues as to what Fiona’s plans were, but they didn’t have time. She had to figure out where the witches were re-creating the ritual. She took Rafe’s hand and they ran out of the house as fast as they could.
Less than five minutes later, they were at Matthew Walker’s car. Moira took a bottle of water and poured half of it on her arm. It stung and she swore.
Rafe found a towel in her bag. “Here,” he said. “Let me.”
He gently wiped away the blood. She squeezed her eyes closed, holding back tears of pain. She felt a kiss on her arm and her heart skipped a beat.
Her eyes opened and Rafe smiled at her. “You okay?”
She nodded, and examined the wound so she could avoid looking at Rafe, not wanting to think too much about what was happening between them. This … nothing. Nothing was happening. It was the adrenaline of the moment, the panic, the rush of escaping. Same as with the kiss.
“I’m fine,” he said and retrieved the kit. He opened it and smiled. “Bandages, tape, antiseptic, a crucifix, and holy water.”
“Never know what you might need,” she said.
As he taped gauze over the two deep wounds, Rafe said, “Fiona went to kill you.”
“She didn’t find me.”
“You weren’t at Rittenhouse?”
“Rittenhouse? The furniture store?”
“She said you’d end up there. That’s where they went to complete the ritual. Where they are now.”
“That was where the guy killed his co-workers, perfect for them. Shit!” She started the car. “I don’t know where it is, and I kinda threw the GPS out the window.”
Rafe smiled, “Go back to the highway and head north. It’s just before the county line.”
She did as Rafe said and tried to call Anthony. The call went right to voicemail.
“Anthony, it’s Moira. They’re at Rittenhouse Furniture. I have Rafe; I’m on my way there.”
She tried Skye, and after four rings got
Why wasn’t anyone answering their phone?
Rafe took her hand. “What’s wrong?”
“I sent Anthony to Good Shepherd. He’s not answering his phone.” Rafe didn’t say anything for a moment. “Rafe? What?” she prompted.
“Anthony is well trained. We have to trust him.”
Now it was Moira’s turn to remain silent.
“Spill it,” Rafe said, squeezing her hand.
“Good Shepherd is on the way. It’s a short detour.”
“You care,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“You couldn’t reach Skye, but you’re not worried about her. Anthony is just as capable-maybe more so-of taking care of himself, but you’re on the verge of panic.”
“I’m not.” She
She turned off the narrow highway and headed into town. It was late, the roads were empty, but as they neared the downtown area, sirens howled. Alarms rang in businesses. People walked the streets. There were fights, smashed storefronts, and chaos.
“What’s going on?” Moira asked, horrified at the apparent anarchy.
“Envy.” Rafe dropped her hand. “Give me your gun.”
She took it from her holster and slid it across the seat to him. He checked the ammunition, then held it ready.
“It’s a riot,” she said.
She slowed down and moved over to the right for an ambulance to pass. When she did, two teenage boys jumped on the hood of her car and told her to stop.
“Floor it,” Rafe said.
She did and the sick thud of a body falling off and onto the side of the road made her stomach flip. She glanced in the rearview mirror, relieved to see both boys getting up.
“Now I know why Skye didn’t answer,” Moira said. “She has her hands fu-”
An explosion rocked the car.
It came from the direction of Good Shepherd.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Pride, envy, avarice
these are the sparks that have set on fire the hearts of all men.
Skye heard the explosion before she saw the flames in the direction of Good Shepherd.
She floored it and radioed the fire department.
“Dammit, Anthony, if you’re dead …” She would not think of it. She would
She pictured herself standing over Anthony’s charred body in Rod Fielding’s morgue, while Rod went through his autopsy checklist.
Tears stung her eyes. Anthony was her life. She couldn’t lose him.
Her sheriff’s truck passed her. She glanced over, not sure if Anthony was in the car, but the man behind the wheel was definitely not Anthony. Big, beefy shoulders and a hat. He looked like a uniform, but he went so fast Skye couldn’t identify him.
She wanted to continue to Good Shepherd, to see if Anthony was there. To see if he was hurt. If he needed
