Part 2 (2/2)

”I began looking among the dead for Rafe, giving blessings as I went.”

”What spirits tortured you?” Anthony whispered to the dead. Where was Rafe? He carefully crossed the floor, checking the pulse of the men he pa.s.sed. All dead. As he neared the altar, he saw his friend.

”I found Rafe behind the altar.”

He lay facedown, white T-s.h.i.+rt covered in blood. Anthony squeezed back tears of anger, regret, and deep sadness as he knelt beside Rafe and turned him over. Anthony wasn't a priest, but at this point he doubted G.o.d would care who gave last rites. The crying for help intensified as Anthony began the prayer.

”After I turned him over, I saw that he was breathing. His pulse was strong and I ripped open his s.h.i.+rt to find the wound that had caused all the blood, but there was nothing. No visible injuries. I couldn't wake him, so I carried him out.”

The trapped souls of the dead priests cried out to him. Maybe they hadn't been dragged down to h.e.l.l. Maybe they were in between worlds, like ghosts, waiting for help. Waiting for him.

First, save Rafe. Then he could return to save the dead.

”I called 911 as soon as I started down the mountain.”

”We have the call logged at 5:32 A.M. You told my deputy you arrived at the mission about twenty minutes before that.”

He nodded, rubbing his temples as the whispers continued, scratching at his subconscious. ”Skye,” he said quietly, not looking at her, calling on the person, the woman, not the sheriff.

”Yes?”

”Do you know of doubting Thomas?”

”Vaguely.”

”He had to see Jesus to believe. He had to touch His wounds to believe in the Resurrection.”

Anthony turned, stronger now, faced the woman whom he needed in order to save these men. He could stop the demon, but it would be her investigation that led him to those humans responsible for calling on h.e.l.l. To the ritual that maybe, with luck, strength, and faith, he could reverse.

He reached out, touched her soft skin. ”I am asking for faith from a doubting Thomas. But I am still asking.”

Skye stared at Anthony Zaccardi, the dark pirate, because that was most certainly what this man was. She should be laughing in his face-demons and h.e.l.l? Ridiculous. Her own mother had left to seek G.o.d and look what happened to her. Their entire family had been torn apart. Skye didn't need religion or belief in anything she couldn't see when she had cold, hard facts that didn't lie.

But she couldn't laugh at this man whose middle name could be Serious. His expression when he recounted finding the dead priests would stay with her for a long time. So full of pain and agony, as if he felt what they'd gone through. Zaccardi believed everything he told her, of that she was positive, and she couldn't figure out how he had anything to do with the murders.

But the investigation was still young and she refused to let her feelings cloud the facts.

”I am a cop,” she finally said, her voice a mere whisper. ”I want the people who did this. Demons or not, someone was responsible for killing these men and I will find them.”

Skye turned from Anthony Zaccardi's eyes, so piercing it was as if he could read her mind. She didn't like that, not one little bit.

She surveyed the courtyard. Two wings extended on either side, leading toward the main entrance, with the traditional rounded arches of California missions. Entirely surrounded by the Los Padres National Forest, Santa Louisa had been built by a reclusive sect of the Franciscans and dubbed the ”lost mission” because it wasn't easily accessible from the Mission Trail that started in San Diego and ended in San Francisco.

The courtyard was beautiful in its simplicity. Six arches on both sides framed the buildings. Brick walkways. And roses, everywhere roses. The fountain in the center was designed as a natural rock waterfall, water trickling over gray and brown stones that looked so precariously balanced that Skye was surprised they didn't topple over.

Saint Jude, Zaccardi had said. Patron saint of lost causes. She was certainly a lost cause. But one thing she was good at, thrived in, was being a cop. And her instincts told her that G.o.d or no G.o.d, a man was responsible for these deaths.

”I'll need your pa.s.sport, Mr. Zaccardi,” she said, regretting her decision when a cloud of disbelief crossed his face, but knowing a good cop would insist that Zaccardi not be able to leave the country. He reached into his back pocket and handed her the doc.u.ments.

”I'm sorry,” she found herself saying.

”You're just doing your job,” he finished for her.

”Where are you staying?”

”I don't know.”

”The Coastal Inn outside town is a nice place. I know the owners. Tell them I sent you, they'll give you a good rate.”

He looked over her shoulder. What did he see? All she saw was a simple stone building. His troubled eyes told her he saw something more. She wanted to ask, but bit her tongue. She couldn't, wouldn't, be sucked into his fantasy. Or hers.

Detective Juan Martinez stepped out of the chapel, waved her over.

”I'll keep in touch,” she said to Zaccardi.

A chill wind swept through the courtyard as he turned and left, as if he'd summoned the elements himself.

Or they came in his wake.

Trapped himself without a human body, the ancient demon imprisoned the twelve souls that fought for the Light, but didn't have the strength to bring each soul back to his Master.

He had failed. Black pain twisted his noncorporeal mind as he hovered in the mountains, invisible to those who did not know what he looked like, how he smelled, how he felt, in his true form.

He had never faced Zaccardi, but the human was known to all in Hades. Zaccardi was a relic from the past, relis.h.i.+ng the destruction of that which ensured balance on earth.

If the Master of Heaven hadn't wanted them to exist, He would have extinguished Satan and the rest of them during the Great Battle. But it was a game. How many souls could they win over? How many would serve the Dark Lord? The more they won, the hotter h.e.l.l burned, the more of his kind walked the earth.

But Zaccardi was among those pathetic humans who wanted a piece of the pie. As if destroying demons would grant him a larger room in Paradise. Because of Zaccardi and his powerful friend, he'd failed. He hadn't been able to keep Zaccardi at bay and Cooper trapped at the same time he manipulated death. And in that sliver of time, the soul he'd been promised got away from him.

He burned at the unfairness of it!

Losing the body chosen for him greatly irritated the demon. That which was lost would have given him more power than he'd ever had. He'd have ruled on earth forever! He would have opened new portals for his Master, converted more humans to dark service. They would be a potent force, undefeatable. No angel would be able to destroy them. No human would be able to fight them. They'd have the numbers and strength to come and go at will among the pitiable human bodies.

What a travesty that he needed such a weak vessel to survive in this dimension!

With the remaining strength from the ritual that had brought him from h.e.l.l, he'd be able to keep the souls trapped until he could complete his mission and send them to the fiery pit. He needed another body, which his earthly servants would soon provide.

He could survive in an unwilling body, but the constant battle to restrain a fighting soul would prevent him from attaining his highest power. Sooner or later, he would need a willing human to increase his strength.

The dead around him moaned with dread of their fate.

No one can save you. You were betrayed by one you loved, and you're mine for eternity.

The demon laughed, and waited, and the trees of the forest groaned.

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