Carnal Sin

The next week she signed up for an internship at the morgue. She got her AA in human biology, and Don hired her a year later. He still tried to shock her with his dark humor, and though he was her toughest critic-both of her job and her photography-she also knew that she was his favorite.

“What are you doing?” Don’s voice broke into her thoughts.

Fern jumped and nearly dropped her camera. She glanced around the morgue’s intake room, where she was processing the latest arrival, laid out on a gurney in front of her. “He just came in. Wife found him naked and dead in their bedroom after an apparent night of hanky-panky.”

“What are you doing with the camera?” he asked again as if she needed clarification, rather than simply more time to come up with a plausible lie.

“I’m just …” She bit her lip. “It’s the birthmark.” She couldn’t lie to save her soul. Her mama always told her that when she lied, her skin darkened. Fern didn’t know how that was possible-her skin was quite black naturally, thank you very much-but her mama always seemed to know exactly when Fern was lying.

“What about it?”

“It’s pretty darn near the same mark as the guy who came in yesterday morning and the guy who came in Friday night with the brain.”

“The brain” was an intriguing case because Don hadn’t seen anything quite like the enlarged brain stem, and if Don hadn’t seen it before, Fern certainly hadn’t. While the guy’s body had been cremated, his brain was stored in a room off the main floor, awaiting the neuro specialist who came in twice a month to inspect unusual brains, primarily for genetic abnormalities.

“The same birthmark?” Don asked skeptically. “We had dozens of bodies come through here yesterday.”

“Forty-seven,” she said without even thinking. “And I thought I’d seen the mark before, thought it was a tat. Now?”

“It has to be a tattoo,” Don said. “Identical birthmarks? Unlikely.”

Damn near impossible. She showed him the backside of her camera and flipped through photos until she came to the digital copy of the birthmark she’d taken before “the brain” was sent for cremation. “See?” She put the camera next to the corpse’s body.

The supervising pathologist frowned. “Test it for ink.”

“Been there, done that.”

He glanced at her sharply. “Why? It’s not protocol.”

“Remember that memo we got two weeks ago?”

“You’ll need to be more specific, Ms. Archer.”

She inwardly cringed at his irritated tone. “From the Santa Louisa Coroner’s Office. To contact them if a body came through with an unusual birthmark. They attached a photo.”

“That wasn’t the same image.”

Not exactly, but to Fern it was just too weird. And the fact that Don had remembered it without prompting told her that he also thought the whole thing was bizarre. “Have you ever seen a birthmark that looked like this? Even a little bit?” She looked at him with what her daddy called her Yes, Fern, anything you want gaze. “Do you want to call Santa Louisa or should I?”

He shook his head, and she thought she was going to have to dig in her heels. She didn’t want to go above Don-she didn’t know if she would-she just wanted him to let her run with it. It seemed important to her.

“Go ahead,” he finally said, “but we have bodies stacking up in the crypt, so put the camera away and get back to work as soon as you hang up the phone.”

THREE

Rafe hadn’t heard Moira laugh often enough in the two weeks he’d known her, so when she entered laughing through the sliding glass doors into the kitchen, he turned with a smile.

He froze when he saw Rico Cortese running two steps behind her.

“Beat you!” Moira exclaimed as she stepped across the threshold.

“You cheated,” Rico said, his voice serious but his eyes not quite as hardened as Rafe remembered. Rico smiled-actually smiled-at Moira.

“Yes I did, and I won.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you didn’t catch on, considering I simply used one of your own tricks on you.”

“I didn’t teach you that particular maneuver.”

She shrugged. “I improvised.” She winked at Rafe. “Victory is so sweet. I’m going to shower and then-”

Anthony stepped into the kitchen and told Moira, “You’re late.” He then spotted Rico. For a moment he seemed perplexed that Moira and Rico had come in together; then he said, “Rico-good to see you again.”

“We have some time,” Rico said. “I had a stop to make.”

Behind Anthony, Skye entered the room. Anthony’s girlfriend was pretty in a no-nonsense kind of way-long blond hair pulled loosely back, tall and athletic, with sharp green eyes that seemed to see more than what was in front of her. She said, “So you’re the infamous Rico Cortese.”

“Very pleased to meet you, Sheriff.” Rico extended his hand.

Rafe resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He knew what Rico was thinking-that Skye McPherson was distracting Anthony from his duty. Rico had long advocated that Olivet’s demon hunters shun personal relationships, even though they’d never taken a vow of celibacy. That Anthony was living “in sin” with the sheriff must irk Rico, even though Anthony wasn’t a hunter.

Anthony said, “May I get you some coffee? Water?”

Moira said, “Water would be great, thanks, Anthony.” She smiled widely though her eyes were cold, knowing Anthony had addressed Rico.

Anthony opened his mouth, then closed it. The animosity between the two had grown even though they’d successfully worked together to trap the demon Envy two weeks ago. The tension grated on all of them, but Rafe didn’t know how to get Anthony to lighten up on Moira-or how to suggest to Moira that she not push his buttons all the time.

“Right.” Moira pointed a finger at Anthony. “I’ll get it myself.” She crossed to the refrigerator and took out two water bottles. She tossed one to Rico without looking and the trainer caught it with ease, his reflexes almost feline. There was an easy camaraderie between Rico and Moira, which got under Rafe’s skin. He averted his eyes, kept his face impassive. The fact that Rico had trained Moira, and befriended her, didn’t change the depth or complexity of Rafe’s relationship with her. Given their past, it was natural that Rico and Moira had gotten close.

How close?

“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” Moira said, leaving the room.

Rafe leaned against the counter.

Rico stared pointedly at Rafe, putting him even more on edge. “Raphael. I see you’ve returned to the land of the living.”

Rafe gave a nod. “You haven’t changed.”

“You have.”

Rico’s style was cool and hard to read. His comment was full of double meaning.

Rafe had fought his own battles with Rico over the years. Some might chalk it up to a difference in opinion, like Anthony, who had worked with both of them and had respect for each man. But Rafe knew how his former trainer thought: as far as Rico was concerned, those who died in the battle against evil were martyrs, heroes, saints. Rico trained his men-and Moira-well, but in the end, they all knew they would die fighting.

There were no old men who’d graduated from Olivet. That Moira was one of Rico’s hunters increasingly bothered Rafe.

Skye broke the awkward silence. “Will you be staying the night?” she asked Rico.

He shook his head. “The sooner I transport the demon to Olivet, the better for everyone.”

Rafe watched Skye assess the situation as any experienced cop would. He wondered what she thought of