Ghostly Justice (Seven Deadly Sins, #2.5)(32)

He smiled. “Sure you have. Maybe I need you to take care of me.”

He was teasing her, but before she could come up with a retort, his smile disappeared and he scrutinized the building, palpable tension rolling off him. “Rafe?”

“I feel—odd.”

Odd. Yeah, that was an appropriate word for the creepy crawlies that kept the hair standing straight up on the back of her neck. A darkly nagging sensation, like an itch you couldn’t scratch, or the phantom sensation that a spider was crawling up your back.

They skirted the edge of the lot, where bushes and trees were dead or dying. The concrete had been pristine on Friday; the earthquake caused by the demon Envy when it roared into the building had broken the perfect slab, making the property look long-abandoned.

If someone were planning a ritual sacrifice, Moira thought, this would be the place to go. Murder, violence, and magical energy still coated the building like a glove. Ripe for one of the dark magicians to seize the power.

Taking her hand, Rafe pulled her to his side. He assessed her critically. “You sure you’re okay? You’re still limping.”

“Am not.” Her thigh had been severely bruised when a demon at Good Shepherd had stepped on it with his hoof, but she wasn’t going to let a sore spot keep her from her job. It’s not like her leg was broken. She didn’t like Rafe noticing her limp. If his attention was not fully on the job, it could get him hurt or worse. “Don’t worry about me, okay? If we’re going to do this, we’re a team. Equal partners, no lone wolves.”

“Partners,” he said.

Rafe brought her left hand to his lips and lightly kissed it. The only injury she had that was still bandaged; in the heat of battle, Rafe had cut her palm to weaken the demon Envy.

Not that she was expecting a fight here.

Not that she wasn’t.

They continued to the front of the building, stooping under the large display windows in case anyone inside was looking for movement in the dark shadows.

She squatted in front of the lock. There was still a police seal on this door. No one had entered this way since the seal was put on early Saturday morning. If she broke it —well, chalk up another crime on her growing rap sheet.

She eyed the combination lock. “Great.” She pulled out small hand-held sheers. “This might take a minute.” Especially one handed since she didn’t have full-use of her left hand yet.

“I’ll do it,” Rafe said, taking the sheers. Twenty seconds later he’d cut through.

Rafe reached for the door handle. “Wait,” she whispered.

“What’s wrong?”

Something tingly electrified the damp air around them. While it felt similar to magic—like a few too many electrons in the area—there was no magical undercurrent. No witchcraft, except for the residual spells cast three nights ago. No demons, but there was something—

From deep in the interior of the warehouse, a blood-curdling scream pierced the night, followed immediately by three gunshots.

“Skye!”

Moira grabbed the knob, and rushed in, Rafe on her heels. He grabbed her roughly and pulled her back.

“Be smart!” he growled in her ear. He was right, of course. Her panic would get them both killed, and then no one could save Skye. She willed her racing heart to slow down.

They were in the main furniture showroom. Their eyes had adjusted to the absence of light, and she could see the outlines of the furniture against the edges of the vast room. Remnants of the occult ritual remained, but much of it had been boxed and put into evidence. Moira glanced over to the center of the room where Father Philip had died . . . she averted her eyes, still unable to come to terms with her mentor’s death. She pushed her grief to the back of her mind. Skye needed her undivided attention.

At first the voices in the back of the warehouse were indistinct, male and female, then Moira clearly heard Skye.

“David—we have to leave right now,” Skye said.

Moira exchanged glances with Rafe. “David Collins,” Rafe whispered. “The SWAT team leader.”

On Thursday, the night before all hell broke loose at Rittenhouse, a disgruntled employee had killed two of his co-workers and a customer before he was taken out by SWAT. Skye had been here that night, and Moira suspected that the sheriff’s presence tonight had more to do with the human murders than the demonic activity the following night.

“It’s my fault,” the male voice—David—pleaded. He sounded on edge, his voice rough and emotional.

“You did your job, David. You did it right and saved three lives. It could have been so much worse.”

“But we lost three innocent people!”

“You can’t think that way,” Skye said.

“Don’t lecture me!”

“We have to go. We’ve seen her die three times, we have to get out of here. I’ll call Anthony, he’ll understand this better than us.”

Rafe whispered in Moira’s ear, “Ghost.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“They’re in the bathroom, right? That’s where the manager died, right?”

“Yeah, but if she’s repeatedly dying, it might just be an imprint of her death, not a real spirit.” Sometimes during sudden or violent deaths, sensitive people could see the victim die. Death loops fade away over time, but violent deaths could take longer. And what happened here at Rittenhouse had been horrific.