Carnal Sin

Rico didn’t say anything for a minute, then said, “I emailed you the exorcism prayer.”

“Thank you.”

“Moira, you are more important. But you are also correct that it is the right thing to do. Put Raphael on.”

She didn’t know what Rico said to Rafe, and Rafe didn’t tell her. His response to Rico was simple: “I understand.”

They’d picked up the necessary supplies-more holy water, several bags of salt-then went to Jackson’s place to fill him in on their basic plan and ask for his help.

Moira said, “All we have to do is stick Detective Nelson in a reverse spirit trap and wait. The demon will come to us.” She glanced at her watch. “We’re meeting him in an hour at the Palomar. I’m going to lie through my teeth to get him here, or knock him out and kidnap him.” She was only half joking.

“Sunset is at five forty-five,” Rafe said. “We only have a few hours to set the traps and bring the detective here, and then there’s the waiting to hear from Anthony about trapping the demon.”

“What about the chalice?” Jackson asked.

“We don’t know yet. We can’t use it to send the demon back to Hell, but we might be able to use it as a trap.”

Moira frowned. “I’d be very wary of using any occult vessels. We don’t know enough about it.”

“For now, we’ll keep it in the vault,” Rafe agreed.

“Will the demon even come inside the church doors?” Jackson asked.

“The demon thinks it’s invincible,” Moira said. “And it’s driven to find Detective Nelson. But it isn’t stupid. It will sense a trap, so timing is important. As soon as the demon is in the church, you have to finish sealing the outside walls with salt, and mark every door and window with the blessed oil. That will complete the reverse trap and weaken the demon. We hope.”

“Nelson may not be thinking rationally,” Rafe said. “We can’t count on him being cooperative.”

“It’s not like I’m going to tell him,” Moira said. “I don’t think he’ll believe me until he sees it himself. He wants to ask me questions; I’ll see what he has to say, then come up with a fabulous excuse to bring him here.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Rafe said.

Jackson said, “I think Rafe is concerned that Detective Nelson may act on his base impulses.”

Moira raised an eyebrow. “I would hardly let him.”

“We need something to melt the chalice once the demon is trapped,” Rafe said. “Jackson, can you find a kiln or something?”

“I’m already ahead of you on that one. One of my flock has a ceramic shop. She’s bringing a portable kiln over and will help me set it up in the sanctuary behind the altar. It’ll be fired up before you return.”

“Perfect. Jackson, are you going to be able to do all this alone?” Moira asked. “Rafe, do you think you should stay here-”

“Absolutely not,” Rafe said. “We don’t know what condition Grant Nelson is in. He was already showing signs this morning of being affected-the headache, for one, and he was preoccupied.”

Rafe was right. “No sense delaying the inevitable. Ready?”

Rafe grabbed his bag and checked his knife.

“Let’s go.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Grant was more than a little worried about Julie.

For a few minutes the jackhammer in his head slowed to a steady pounding. Maybe the aspirin he’d been popping finally kicked in. Or maybe it was just focusing on something other than his own problems.

Grant couldn’t get the image of Nadine’s tattoo out of his mind because it looked exactly like Julie’s tat. It was uncommon, and exquisite. He remembered kissing the small of her back over and over, savoring the soft, unusually erotic spot.

For a detective, he realized he was an idiot. He didn’t know much about Julie Schroeder or her friends. Everything Fern said made sense. Designer drugs. Julie had never seemed as though she’d been on drugs, at least when he was with her, but Grant also knew from his two years on Vice that major dealers rarely used, and never the heavy junk. They were in it for the money and power, not the drug high.

Grant could not believe that Julie was a drug dealer.

But he also realized that he hadn’t asked her or Wendy the hard questions about Nadine. Why? Being tired was no excuse. Was he worried, maybe subconsciously, that Julie was involved with something illicit? Was he worried that she wasn’t who he thought she was? Why did any of that matter when they were just off-again, on- again?

But it did matter. He cared deeply for Julie. Hell, he might even love her, but it was a warped kind of love wrapped in physical lust, not emotional need. Normal? Hell, no, but he wasn’t normal. Never had been, not since he lost his virginity with his eighteen-year-old babysitter when he was fourteen. He’d told his twice-divorced mother he was too old for a babysitter, but when Sylvia Nelson went out of town on business, she refused to leave him alone overnight.

Little did she know what he did with Monica Jergens those nights. Monica had seduced him at the beginning-he’d been a mature kid, responsible for his little brother because of a busy single mom-but he’d also been a kid who liked video games and sports. But after the first time, Grant had never looked back at his childhood. Surprisingly, this fact now saddened him.

He drove down Sepulveda, where even now, the lunch hour on Saturday, hookers strolled. He wasn’t a child anymore; he’d seen too much in life and on the job. These hookers were women who didn’t care how hard he fucked or how long he took-they’d take it because they got paid to take it.

Grant slowed his sedan to a crawl. The hookers glanced over, but he looked like a cop and they moved on. He was a cop. He couldn’t screw around with a hooker. He’d never paid for it before, so why would he now? Why did he have this overwhelming urge to fuck someone-anyone-without thought of the repercussions? His career was no small thing, and neither was his health.

All he could think about was sex. And it wasn’t normal. He was a guy, he thought about sex many times a day, but not this constant barrage of images, these fantasies that wouldn’t leave his mind. Fantasies he’d never lived out because they were illegal or because he’d never get a woman to agree.

Agree? Why ask? Just take what you want. Take it.

He slammed on his brakes, almost running a red light and nearly hitting two teenagers in the crosswalk. Grant barely noticed when the shorter kid flipped him off; he was frozen and distraught. He’d never raped a woman in his life, never came close until last night, but that was Julie, his Julie. He hadn’t raped her. He’d just … been rough. Uncaring. He hadn’t cared about whether she was comfortable or enjoying it, he just wanted to take. The idea that he was so close to finding it acceptable to force a woman made sweat bead on his brow, had his hands shaking.

He put his head down on the steering wheel. Something was wrong with him. He was sick. Maybe he had a fever and was hallucinating. That might explain his foul, perverted thoughts.

Cars honked behind him and he jumped, looked around. The light was green. He spurted through the intersection and pulled over to the side of the road, breathing heavily. He had to get it together. This sense of unease, of pain, the migraine, the visions of his first lover, of hookers, of Julie, of Moira O’Donnell-this wasn’t him.

Grant rested his head back on his steering wheel and willed the pain to stop. His penis was still hard and uncomfortable; he squirmed in his seat, but that only made his migraine worse.

Home. He just had to go home and sleep this off … whatever it was. He needed to meet Moira in … the digits on his clock blurred. It was already two; he was late.

What if Julie was really in trouble? The idea that she’d die in a horrible, gruesome way, like Nadine, terrified