“You’re not the first person to have faced an incarnate demon.”
“Well, that takes away the warm fuzzies. I no longer feel special.”
“You forget I know you.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” He knew her weaknesses and doubts, what made her cry and what made her angry. She hated that.
“Show me your arm,” he demanded.
She put her hand on her hip. “No
He stared. Without humor, he said, “Please.”
Her heart was racing. Why did she care if he saw the scar? Why did she care what he thought, or if she’d screwed up? He might banish her, he might hate her, but he wouldn’t kill her. At least she didn’t think he’d kill her.
She angrily took off her jacket and dropped it to the ground. In the cold salt air, goose bumps rose from her sweaty skin. She held out her arm and Rico took her hand, turned it so he could inspect her injury. Considering the ferocity of the attack, it was amazing that there were only two small, round scars; one on her wrist and one near the inside of her elbow, where the demon’s jagged teeth had punctured deep into her flesh. The marks were faded as if she’d hurt herself as a kid-not been bitten by a rabid demon dog just two weeks ago.
“Tell me what happened.”
“I told you-”
He squeezed her wrist. “Everything.”
She jerked her arm away. “I did my research and figured out where Fiona was keeping Rafe. I found him in a double demon trap-Rafe was locked in a circle to protect him from the demon dog, and the demon was trapped in the room circling him, to prevent Rafe from leaving.”
“What did the demon look like?”
“Ugly as sin. Like a Cerberus, but with one head. Four legs, but his tail wasn’t wagging. It was spiked, like a stumpy dragon tail with thorns. I ran through his domain and into the trap with Rafe. I had to get Rafe out before Fiona returned. Not to mention that Fiona and her band of merry magicians were setting up their own ritual to regain control of the Seven. I stabbed the beast with a poison dart. He croaked, but not before the hellion bit me.”
“What happened to your arm at that point?”
“It hurt like it was being burned in the fucking flames of Hell. What else?” Her breathing quickened as Rico drew out her anger. Meanwhile, he was a damn emotional iceberg. He had to be. He’d tried to train her to be just as cool but failed in that regard. She’d never learned to perfect the hard, uncaring exterior that most Olivet graduates maintained.
He didn’t respond. She closed her eyes, picturing herself back in the middle of that round room that had reeked of sulphur and rot. “It bit me as I plunged the poison dart into its chest. It convulsed and died in the corner. And no matter what Anthony says, it was dead, not just unconscious. And don’t ask me why it didn’t turn to ash or disappear into the underworld-I don’t know, and at the time I didn’t think about it because we had more pressing issues.”
“Your arm?”
“It hurt, it bled, it bubbled like acid. I wrapped it in a shirt, then Rafe and I got the hell out of Dodge. When I took the shirt off, it was-well, the little teeth marks were mostly gone, and
There was an awkward silence as he fully concentrated.
“Show me your hand.”
“Hand?”
“Don’t be obtuse. The hand that Raphael cut open and stuffed in the demon Envy’s gut.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. Rico Cortese was watching her, observant as a hawk. She held out her left hand and he took firm hold of her wrist.
Rafe hadn’t cut through any tendons and the throbbing pain had disappeared, but she’d have a scar for life- unlike the scars on her arm, which would soon completely vanish.
He stared for a long minute. Moira snapped, “Take a fucking picture.”
Rico dropped her hand, removed a small box from his inside jacket pocket, and handed it to her. “Open it.”
She did. Inside was a syringe and vial. Before she quite knew what he intended to do, Rico took a rubber tie from his pocket.
“What?” Moira began, looking from the syringe to Rico, then back again. “You-want my blood?”
“Please make a fist.”
Moira didn’t want to comply. Tears burned in her eyes. “What’s going on?” she demanded. Rico tied the rubber around her upper arm, tapped her vein, rubbed an alcohol wipe over the spot, and inserted the needle. Blood flowed into a vial.
He wasn’t going to tell her. She hated him right then. What a fool she was! A guinea pig, a lab rat, for what she didn’t even know. Why had she done any of this? Why hadn’t she just run away after Peter died and never returned to St. Michael’s? Never gone to Olivet? She could have fought Fiona on her own terms, and so what if Moira had died and gone to Hell? At least she would have taken Fiona with her. Peter’s death would have been avenged. Now Moira was tied to St. Michael’s Order, and they wanted her blood.
Rico released the rubber strap. “Relax.”
“Right.” She swallowed heavily as he swapped out one vial and replaced it with another empty tube. He took three samples, put them in the box, closed it, and put it back in his jacket. She glared at him. “What are you going to do with my blood?”
Rico’s expression softened just a fraction, and she knew him well enough to read that he regretted what he had to do.
But duty always won.
“I’m proud of you,” Rico said as he put a small Band-Aid over the puncture.
That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. She put her jacket back on.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Moira’s imagination ran the gamut of possibilities. Did she have some demonic virus? Had the demon infected her when it bit her? Or when Rafe sliced open her hand? Did they think the Seven Deadly Sins had affected her or her judgment? Were they working on a cure? She almost laughed at the thought, as if St. Michael’s would look beyond their battle toward a medical cure for losing one’s soul to a demon.
“I don’t have the answers you want.”
He turned away, signaling the conversation was over. She almost pushed him-verbally and physically. She wanted answers, and she’d fight to get them. But there was something subtle in Rico’s expression that had her backing down.
Instead of pushing, she said, “We should go back. I’m sure Anthony is wondering why you’re late.”
“I’m not late.”
She glanced at her watch. “He said twenty minutes-oh, about forty minutes ago.”
“Anthony will wait.” He turned back to face her. “Your emotions are dangerous not only to you, Moira, but to others. You care far too much. In our war, casualties are unfortunate but necessary. You can’t think logically if you act solely on your feelings or your loyalties are divided. There is a balance; you must find it. I thought I’d taught you better.”
“And you can forget Father Philip that easily?
Rico reddened. She’d rarely seen him react to her needling. “I will say this once. I loved Father Philip and I grieve for our loss.” His voice quivered on the last sentence; then he said with firmness, “But I will not allow pain, sorrow, hatred, or rage to stop me from my sacred duty.”
Moira touched his arm, wishing she hadn’t pushed him. “I know you cared; I was out of line.”
He dipped his head and squeezed her fingers. “I cannot expect you to control your emotions any better than you have. You weren’t raised on the island.”
In other words, she was an outsider. Loneliness washed over her. Why did she think something had changed?
