Deliver Us From Evil Part 8

"Doesn't that seem odd to you?"

He shook his head. "We have children from all races and cultures."

She still seemed perplexed, but asked instead, "How many live there?"

"At any given time, fifteen monks. We have four young ones-under sixteen. When Rafe and I grew up, there were many more. At one time twenty-two of us."

"What happened? Women start using birth control?"

Anthony frowned. The truth was, they didn't have an answer to the diminishing chosen ones. Rafe was one of the last. There had only been six since him, and none in the last ten years.

"It was a joke. I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry. Look, I should go."

"Please don't." He took her hand. "Do you remember the prayer?"

"Words can't protect anyone from anything," Skye said.

"Faith can."

"Please, Anthony, don't do this." Skye ran a hand through her hair. She'd lost her clip and her hair fell in creamy blond waves, no less alluring being mussed from their earlier ordeal. "Belief in G.o.d certainly didn't save your friends up on the mountain. And it didn't save my mother," she snapped.

"Your mother?"

Skye stared into Anthony's dark eyes. Why had she said anything? She didn't want to talk about her mother. But maybe he would leave her alone, stop talking to her about this nonsense. Trapped souls and demons . . .

"My mother left when I was ten. Met a guy, someone who talked all about G.o.d and salvation and dedicating your life to Jesus. And she gave him everything she owned and went away with him. Just like that. She left and never spoke to me again. Six years later a California Highway Patrol officer came knocking on the door and told us she'd been murdered. By the same kook who had talked her into joining his stupid cult."

Why had she said all that? The last person she wanted to talk about was her mother. She tried to pull her hands from Anthony's, but he held firm. She wanted to avert her eyes, but he turned her face to look at his.

"Skye."

Suddenly, his lips were on hers, consuming her.

No tentative kiss. He claimed her with a confidence she'd rarely seen, hungry but patient; determined but gentle. She put her hands on his arms, surprised at the dense muscle hidden under his shirt. She wanted to push him away. She couldn't. Her body reached for him while her mind told her to run. Heat pooled in all the right places, her heart beat triple time, her skin tingled from the electricity they generated.

All in a kiss.

His hands barely touched the back of her neck, but his presence captivated her. Anthony didn't try to dominate her, but conquered her nonetheless.

Think, Skye! Forget the kiss, this guy is bizarre.

Shut up, she told herself and wished for once she could separate her physical needs and desires from her logical cop mind.

She opened her mouth to tell him to stop, but instead found her tongue seeking his, being the aggressor. If he had carried her off to bed right then, she would have gone. Her body wanted him and no amount of logic would have convinced her to stay away.

Her own guttural moan was lost in Anthony's mouth, but the sound-too pa.s.sionate to be coming from her-jolted her back to reality. She didn't sleep with strangers. She didn't sleep with men who weren't grounded in reality. What was she doing? She was the d.a.m.n sheriff with a ma.s.sacre on her hands.

She pushed Anthony back. Hard. He didn't take his eyes from hers. His confidence was incredible. He already looked like he'd bedded her. "Don't leave," he said.

"You're fine," she snapped, jumping up. "I have work to do."

He stood, followed her to the door. "Please stay. I'm worried about you."

"Worried about me? I'm a cop, Mr. Zaccardi. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

He leaned toward her. "I think we've gone beyond Mr. Zaccardi, don't you?"

He tried to kiss her again, but she averted her face and his warm lips landed on her flushed cheek. He looked more amused than insulted. d.a.m.n him.

He also looked worried. That didn't sit well with her.

"Look, Anthony," she said. "I'm a smart cop. It's after two in the morning. I'll be up bright and early to continue this investigation. With the mission destroyed, I have a lot more work to do."

"You need me."

"Only to translate this." She reached down and picked up the journal that she'd placed on the table. "I'll keep it with me for now, you can meet me at the station at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow morning."

"I can work on it tonight, have a translation for you-"

She held up her hand, antic.i.p.ating his request.

He nodded curtly. "All right, Skye. May I have my cross back?"

What was she expecting? More protests? To take her kicking and screaming to bed? She didn't know how much she would have fought him. d.a.m.n, but Anthony was hot.

Too bad he was a weirdo. Just like the man who'd lured away her mother.

She pulled his cross-his dagger-out of her belt buckle and handed it to him. "Don't make me regret this," she said, more curtly than she intended.

She turned and left, felt his eyes watch her open the door to the stairs because she was too impatient to wait for the elevator.

All the good men were married, gay-or nutcases.

A wall of flames surrounded him, but Anthony felt no heat.

"You again," the fire spat.

Again? He didn't remember this demon, one so strong it could control the elements.

The flames danced in laughter.

"Someday you'll remember. I won then, I will be victorious now. You can't save their souls if you're dead."

"You can't kill me, Ianax, sp.a.w.n of Satan," Anthony said, his mouth working but no sound escaping.

"I can't. Humans will."

The flames disappeared, leaving him cold, shaking. He saw Skye standing at the edge of a cliff.

She was going to jump.

Anthony fought sleep, weary, unusually exhausted. Something-a spell. Those who had summoned Ianax had made his sleep deep. Recognizing it, he shook his head violently, side to side, reciting the Lord's Prayer in clipped phrases as he rolled from the bed, landing heavily on the floor.

Every limb was weighted. With a primal growl he pulled himself up. Unseen demons clawed at his skin. Burning. Restraining him.

"Forgive us our trespa.s.ses!" he tried to shout but a demon clawed at his throat.

His body staggered across the hotel room, stumbled, knocked over a vase. It landed with a thud on the thick carpet.

"-those who trespa.s.s against us."

Anthony pulled on his slacks, fumbling with the zipper and collapsing onto the couch. The spell was weakening. The demons tried to hold on to him, pin him to the couch. To slow him down. To stop him from reaching Skye in time.

"Lead us not into temptation!"

His voice was stronger. He found his shoes where he'd taken them off. Where was Skye? How would he find her?

A clear image came to his head and he knew exactly where she lived and how to get there.

"Thank you, Lord," he mumbled in recognition of the vision.

Please, he couldn't be too late.

He ran out the door, the bright hall lights blinding him. He hit one wall, then the other, as if drunk. But his sight cleared and he turned north on the street.

He ran, pulled by an invisible string to Skye's house. Faster, Anthony. She's hurting.

"But deliver us from evil!"

Amen.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

SKYE WOKE, glanced at the clock. Five A.M. d.a.m.n, she didn't have to get up until six, and here she was, wide awake, her mind crammed full of the crime scene. While driving Anthony from the burned-out mission the night before, she'd called Rod and asked him to get the arson investigator out there. Rod planned on meeting him at the mission to see if they could salvage anything after the fire, but he a.s.sured her they had enough evidence and photographs to hold up in court once they arrested a suspect.

"And," he'd added, "I can't say that I'm sorry that painting in the sacristy is destroyed."

First Juan, now Rod. Two strong, reasonable, smart men completely snowed by a few odd circ.u.mstances. Maybe it was the history of the mission itself, or Anthony's strange comments, or the brutality of the murders. It was human nature to want to blame some ethereal "evil" when Skye knew d.a.m.n well a person had killed those priests.

Five-ten. No going back to sleep now that her mind had kicked into full gear. She padded down the hall to the kitchen and flicked on her coffeepot, which she always prepared the night before.

The night was still black. She shouldn't feel this alert, she'd only had two hours of sleep. But her mind was working double time. She stared out the breakfast nook window. She lived in her family home on the coast. It was just her now.

Intense sadness flooded her senses as it always did when she unexpectedly thought of her father. His death had been so wrong.

Skye poured herself coffee, adding a teaspoon of sugar. Her dad had been a quiet, calm man. Never raised his voice. Never harmed anyone, human or animal. He cared for all living things, taking his job as a forest ranger seriously. He was in those woods every day, even on his days off. He stayed in the ranger's cabin more often than at home. Skye had a room there as well, but she also needed to attend school. She'd pretty much raised herself, especially after her mother left.

"I can teach you," her father had said, asking her to live at the cabin with him.

"But I like school. I don't want to live in the woods with no one around."

She'd hurt her father, she knew, but not on purpose. Never on purpose. He'd hurt her, hadn't he? By loving the land more than his own daughter?

A tear escaped and Skye watched it hit the table. She never cried. But this was her father, and her emotions were always close to the surface with him. She'd loved him so much . . . and then he'd died. He'd never have died if she'd agreed to live with him in the mountains like he'd wanted.

The autopsy report said he'd been alive for two days after the fall. With a broken back, he couldn't move. He'd died of internal bleeding.

She hadn't even worried about her dad until the a.s.sistant ranger called. After all, her father often disappeared into the woods. He could take care of himself. Then it took them two days to find him. Dead.

Skye poured another cup of coffee, angry with her mother for leaving in the first place. Her father had never recovered from Marjorie running away. To find herself, to find G.o.d, whatever, she'd left to join this freaky religion in the middle of Oregon. What did Oregon have on Central California? Why did any G.o.d want a mother to abandon her only child?

"Take me with you, Mom," Skye said out loud, feeling ten again. Torn. Between a father she loved, and a mother she knew.

Marjorie had said children were a distraction. "You're your father's daughter." As if that were a bad thing.

Why was she thinking about her mother? It was Anthony's fault, making her talk about the past. She'd gone to sleep thinking about her empty life, and woken up with these odd emotions she usually kept under tight control.

Feeling claustrophobic, Skye stepped out on her deck to breathe in fresh, cold air. The biting predawn salt air wrapped around her and she shivered, barely noticing she only wore the tank top she'd slept in and panties. She heard the waves crashing on the rocks below her house. The dark water topped with the glowing foam of breaking waves. They crashed in, rolled out.

She walked down the wooden stairs and across the rough and rugged cliff, rocks sharp against her bare feet. The sensation didn't pain her, instead it made her feel alive. Her skin p.r.i.c.kled, her hair rippled, in the brisk ocean wind.

She was alone. Her father had died because no one thought to look for him. Her mother had died because she'd run away to find herself, and ended up being murdered by a man she'd trusted. Her own husband would never have killed her, but she trusted a stranger more.

The memories of what was lost flooded her and she couldn't stop them.

Skye's body hung with despair. So much death in her life. She had no one. No family. No parents, grandparents, brothers, or sisters. She was sheriff, but what did that mean? Constantly on show. Constantly worrying that someone was going to stab her in the back. Her election was coming up. Her first election. She'd been appointed by the board of supervisors after the Santa Louisa sheriff died of a heart attack. She'd been held up to the media and community as the first female sheriff. They'd pa.s.sed over well-qualified men to be able to say they'd appointed a woman.

Who was she to have this job? She didn't deserve it. She was a chess piece. A p.a.w.n. All she'd wanted was to be a cop. To stop predators from luring lonely housewives into cults. To know that when someone was missing, maybe they'd better look, just to be on the safe side. Better to be embarra.s.sed than grieving.

Rocks shifted beneath her feet and she looked down. She should step back from the cliff. It wasn't stable here. The sandrock crumbled continually. Her house, which had at one time been one hundred eighty feet from the edge of the cliff, was now, after only thirty years of erosion and storms, one hundred fifty-two feet from the edge.