Ghostly Justice (Seven Deadly Sins, #2.5)(31)

“We know,” Moira said. “How are you really doing?”

“Surprisingly, I don’t want to kill myself anymore. That’s a plus.” He changed the subject and asked Rafe, “What happened to Amy’s ghost?”

“She’s where she’s supposed to be.”

“I guess that’s good.”

“This time, it is.”

“When are you going back to Santa Louisa?”

“Today,” Moira said at the same time as Rafe said, “Tomorrow.”

Moira frowned. “But we decided—”

Rafe cut her off. Moira still looked exhausted, and she needed a day off. “One more day,” he said. “This hasn’t been much of a vacation.”

“I didn’t think we were on vacation.”

“Now we are. Twenty-four hours. No demons, no witches, no fights.”

He could tell she wanted to argue, but didn’t. “All right, you win.” She laid back down. “If I’m on vacation, I’m sleeping.” She pulled a pillow over her head.

“That’s a good-bye,” Rafe said and walked Grant to the door. They didn’t need to say anything else, but Rafe shook his hand. “If you need to talk, about anything, call.”

“I hope I don’t need you. But I will call, if something comes up. Thanks. I mean it.”

Rafe closed the door and glanced back at the bed. Moira’s head was under the pillow but she wasn’t sleeping.

He laid down next to her and tossed the pillow on the floor. “Wake up, gorgeous.”

“I’m sleeping.”

“You can sleep in an hour. First, I want to kiss you.”

She rolled over and stared at him. “You’re going to kiss me for an hour?”

He grinned. “Among other things.” He kissed her slowly, holding her with his lips for a long minute. “I love you, Moira.”

“That’s good. Because I love you right back.”



# # #





Ghostly Vengeance


A Seven Deadly Sins Short Story





Why should he be alive

Breathing still while others died

—Blue Oyster Cult, “Sole Survivor”





Three nights after Moira and Rafe were nearly killed during an occult ritual at Rittenhouse Furniture Warehouse, they watched the property from a car she’d borrowed—without permission—from Skye’s neighbor down the road. Emergencies required drastic measures, and she figured if she saved the Sheriff’s ass, Skye’d get Moira out of any potentially sticky situations stemming from the auto theft.

Rafe shut his cell phone. “Anthony is on his way.”

“I didn’t think you’d be able to talk him out of coming. I hope I’m not over-reacting.”

“You? Over react?” Rafe smiled. “I highly doubt that.”

Moira’s sense of foreboding had been growing all evening, and now that they’d arrived at the store, she knew she’d been right to worry. Skye was in trouble. She didn’t know how she knew—it wasn’t a vision, it was more a feeling, like a dream she couldn’t quite remember. Besides, she’d never had a vision of the future, only the present. But twenty minutes ago she’d run from Skye’s house, Rafe on her heels. She knew Skye was at Rittenhouse and something was very wrong.

Staring at the dark, empty building, Moira bit her lip and considered their options. She’d already tried Skye’s cell phone, but it went directly to voice mail. They couldn’t wait for Anthony, because if something happened to Skye while they sat around twiddling their thumbs she’d never forgive herself.

Their borrowed car was concealed on the far side of the lot under a broken streetlight. In fact, all the lights were out, which was also odd. It was the middle of the night, a thick fog limiting visibly. She could barely make out the large display windows in the front of the store, but she didn’t see any flickering of flashlights or the overhead fluorescent lights. They’d been here for nearly five minutes and nothing: no movement, no light, no sound.

Skye’s truck was parked near the back entrance next to a black Jeep. They had no idea who owned the Jeep, but it could be a witch tapping into the dark energy that still permeated the area after Friday night’s disastrous ritual. Or it could belong to a couple of kids bent on making out or looting the place.

“I say we go in through the front,” Moira said to Rafe. “I don’t see any movement in the front windows.”

“Anthony said to stay put and wait for him.”

She bristled as she opened the door, shutting off the dome light as she did. “I don’t take orders from Anthony.”

Rafe opened his door. “Neither do I.”

She shivered as the damp salt air wrapped its foggy mitts around her. She wasn’t dressed for the cold, she was dressed for action: jeans, thin black turtleneck, and her special leather jacket.

“Maybe we should separate,” she whispered as they quickly shut their car doors. “I’ll take the front, you the back.”

“Hell no, we’re staying together. No way am I letting you out of my sight.”

She glanced at him, bemused. “I think I’ve proven to you that I can take care of myself.”