Chapter One
Detective Grant Nelson sat in his car outside the Los Angeles County morgue waiting for the two people he least wanted to see. He twisted the top off a bottle of generic aspirin, dumped a few in his hand, tossed them in his mouth, and chewed. He chased the familiar, bitter taste with lukewarm coffee, though he’d have preferred to follow the meds with a double shot of Jack Daniels.
It had been nearly a month since Grace Harvest Church had been damn near destroyed in a supernatural battle that he helped cover up. Who would believe that a coven of witches had used a demon to kill men they didn’t like? Who would believe that a demon named Lust had possessed his girlfriend and nearly killed him? And who would believe that he’d seen Lust in its twisted, sick, and surprisingly huge snake-like form?
Grant had never given Heaven or Hell much thought until an insidious evil tried to kill him, clogging his lungs until he nearly suffocated. Lust’s burning touch had invisibly charred his skin and though he showered three, four, five times a day he couldn’t shake the cloak of darkness that surrounded him.
He’d seen a woman thrown across the church with a force so great she’d cracked the brick wall when her body hit. He’d seen the glowing light of souls, the burning pit of Hell, and profound bravery against overwhelming odds.
He accepted it all because he had no choice: he’d seen it. It was much harder to accept that Julie had sacrificed herself to save him, or that she’d set him up in the first place. He certainly hadn’t been worthy, and would have gladly changed places with her as she lay dying in his arms.
He’d screwed up his relationship with every woman he touched, but Julie was his worst failure. He didn’t want to look too closely at his personal life because he wouldn’t like what he saw.
He was supposed to go back to work two days ago, but had called in sick. His partner Jeff was still on desk duty recuperating from a couple cracked ribs. Jeff seemed to have been unaffected by the supernatural happenings at Grace Harvest last month, but he’d been unconscious for most of it. Grant was physically in better shape than his partner, but he couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and looked like a street bum. He glanced in the rearview mirror, rubbing his prickly chin. Damn, he’d forgotten to shave, his two-day growth coming in darker and redder than his dirty blonde hair.
But did he care? The only thing that stopped him from killing himself was his promise to Julie. She’d asked him for one thing, and dammit, he would fulfill her dying request before he decided whether to blow his brains out.
Grant was close to solving the mystery Julie had laid at his feet, and when he did then he’d think about the future. She’d asked him to find out what happened to Amy Carney, a sixteen-year-old murder victim. He couldn’t ask how Julie had known that the Jane Doe who’d been in the morgue for the past six months was Amy Carney, but he’d promised Julie that he would find Amy’s parents, have her body buried, and give both Amy’s ghost and her parents’ closure.
But when he found out the circumstances of Amy Carney’s death, he realized that he needed to bring in the experts. The other experts.
He was a cop. A damn good cop. He’d made detective early in his career, he closed cases, he was the go-to guy for tough assignments. While his personal life was a mess, he’d never had problems on the job. But he wasn’t an expert about this shit—the woo-woo crap he never believed in before he saw it. He was a good cop because he relied on people who knew their job—the CSIs, the M.E., the prosecutors.
Now he had to rely on two people he’d sworn he’d never see again. Demon hunters.
He didn’t know if a human being or a demon from Hell or something else supernatural killed Amy Carney. All he knew after reading the files was that she’d been murdered in a highly unusual way. He was stunned that he hadn’t heard about the death when it first happened. Why didn’t the press have a big write up? Why all the secrecy?
A truck pulled into the public parking lot and parked kitty corner to him. Cooper and O’Donnell. A wave of conflicted feelings had him grinding his teeth and regretting the call.
It looked like never again would have to start next week.
#
Moira O’Donnell stared at the entrance of the Los Angeles County morgue. “I hate this place.”
“You can stay in the car,” Rafe said, only half-joking.
She glanced across the parking lot to where Detective Grant Nelson leaned against the hood of his sports car, talking on his cell phone. “He looks like shit,” she said.
“He’s had a rough week.”
“I’m surprised he called us. We’re not his favorite people.” Understatement of the year. “I wish he’d given us more information, other than telling us to get our asses back to L.A. I don’t have a good feeling about this.” All Grant had told them on the phone last night was that he’d learned the identity of the ghost at the morgue and her death may have been supernatural. “I don’t even know why we agreed to come in the first place. We know it’s not one of the Seven. The poor girl has been dead for months.”
Rafe and Moira had been trying to track down the Seven Deadly Sins, incarnate demons that had been released from Hell less than two months ago. The demons Envy and Lust were safely ensconced in a vault in the middle of Nowhere, Montana, courtesy of Olivet, the secluded compound where all demon hunters from St. Michael’s Order went to train. But there were no signs as to where the other five demons were hanging out. It was as if they’d just disappeared from the planet. If only it were that easy.
What was really getting to Moira, more than being ordered by Detective Grant Nelson to come to L.A., was the silence. Complete silence, as if all spiritual chatter had stopped. They had no leads, no direction, nothing to do but wait. Waiting was not Moira’s strong suit. Another understatement. But knowing her weakness didn’t make the waiting any easier.
Rafe squeezed her hand. “Ready?”
She wanted to say no, but instead nodded and they got out of the truck. Moira caught Grant’s eye as they approached. His grief was evident, coated with a layer of protective anger.
Moira slowed her stride, giving her time to shut down her senses. Over the last few weeks she’d developed a powerful empathy, which her trainer at Olivet believed came from her growing ability to sense magic. The more she opened her senses to distinguishing magical signatures, the more she physically felt the strong emotions of others.
She feared this expanding capability was unnatural. Frankly, it scared her, but there was nothing she could do to stop it, short of running away. And she couldn’t completely disappear, anyway—somehow, she always got dragged back into the demon hunting business.
“Thanks for coming,” Grant mumbled in way of a greeting and led them through the entrance. He flashed his badge and, pointing at Rafe and Moira, said to the receptionist, “They’re with me.”
A young, petite black pathologist wearing scrubs and sporting a small diamond nose stud walked through the swinging doors. “You brought friends,” Fern Archer said as she passed out booties and gloves. “So I guess you already know this is a weird one.”
Moira and Rafe had met Fern when they first came down to L.A. last month. “He hasn’t told us anything,” Moira said.
Grant said, “Let’s talk inside.”
“Fine by me.” After putting on the gear, they followed Fern through the doors into the main facility. The pathologist said to Grant, “You look like shit.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Moira muttered.
Moira shivered not from the sudden cold, but from the high-creep factor as Fern led them through the main crypt lined with rows of bodies, covered with sheets so only their feet were visible. Another pathologist passed them, pushing a gurney toward the autopsy rooms.
Moira had faced demons in many forms, she’d killed and nearly been killed, but there was something about the morgue that freaked her out. The finality, maybe, or the sense of purgatory—that all these bodies were just waiting for judgment. She knew that wasn’t the case—they’d be cremated or buried or dissected—but she couldn’t stop her imagination from traveling down the horrific path toward the apocalypse.
She glanced at Rafe. His expression was off, as if he was listening to someone. Or maybe it was just her own uneasiness, and she was reading too much into his demeanor.
Moira steeled herself against her doubts and fears. What good was she to Rafe or St. Michael’s if she freaked out at a morgue? Even though there was a ghost here who’d spoken to Grant’s girlfriend, a witch. And there were probably more than one ghost hanging around. Moira seemed to be a lightning rod for paranormal activity lately.
Wouldn’t her many detractors from St. Michael’s monastery enjoy seeing her crumble.
“Are you coming or communing with the dead?” Grant stood impatiently in the doorway of a small room on the far side of the crypt.
Moira hadn’t realized she’d slowed her pace to a near crawl. “Just talking to my friends,” she snapped back.
Two technicians coming out of the cold storage unit looked at her as if she were crazy. She smiled brightly at them.
“Come.” Rafe steered her to the room where Amy Carney’s body lay under a sheet.
She felt uneasy when Rafe didn’t look at her. Were her nerves really embarrassing him? After all they’d been through, she sometimes forgot they’d only known each other for only two months.
Straightening her spine and pushing back her uneasiness, Moira stepped into the small room. Fern said, “This is our viewing room. The victim’s parents will be here shortly to identify the body, but Detective Nelson wanted to inspect it first. It’s bizarre.”
She pulled out a file folder and handed it to Grant. “A copy of the detailed autopsy and lab reports, like you asked.”
“Thanks.” He flipped through it as Fern spoke.
“When you called me about a teenage Jane Doe I would have told you to give me a description—do you know how many Does we get in here? Dozens a week,” she responded to her own question. “Young more often than not. But I knew who it was, because it was the oddest damn case I’ve had. At least up until the bodies that came through here a couple weeks ago.” She looked from Grant to Moira, as if waiting for someone to explain what had really happened. When no one said anything, she rolled her eyes.
“This Doe was an odd case because she was exsanguinated,” Fern continued. “Not something I’d ever seen before, but that wasn’t the creepiest thing about her.”
“Creepier than having her blood drained?” Moira said.
“She was bitten by a vampire.”
Moira was not amused. “Is this a sick joke? Are you screwing with us?”
Rafe pulled down the sheet. On the victim’s neck were two holes as if punctured by canine teeth.
“We’re outta here,” Moira said, turning around. Her emotions were already running high because of her stalled hunt for the Seven Deadly Sins, but now this farce?
Rafe put his hand on her. “Moira—”
“No! There’s no such thing as vampires. Shit, Rafe, we’ve faced plenty of monsters, and we know exactly where they come from. Vampires aren’t real. They’re sick humans who drink blood. End of story. This is a law and order case, not heaven and hell.”
The three were staring at her and she wondered if she looked like a raving lunatic.
Her heart pumped hard, and she knew she was overreacting, but she’d faced people who called themselves vampires—or as she recently heard, they replaced the ‘i’ with ‘y’ to become “vampyres.” Maybe the ‘y’ was a way of stating they were human dumbshits and knew it? Or some avant-garde way to spell? Whatever they were—or weren’t—they almost scared her more than demons. When she fought a creature from Hell, she knew exactly what she faced. They had one evil goal, one dark focus, and she had no qualms about destroying the thing. But people who drank blood? They had a sexual bloodlust, used psychology and seduction to lure in followers, turning them into drug addicts, and the drug of choice was blood.
But they weren’t immortal, they weren’t spirits, and killing them was murder. They bled like everyone else. Moira knew. Years ago she’d faced off against a coven of so-called vampires in Ireland who’d been in the middle of a dark magic ritual. She had to kill one of them—she had no choice—and it still haunted her.
When bloodlust and dark magic came together, the results were always volatile and usually deadly.
Rafe stared at her with his piercing dark blue eyes, pinning her down as if trying to read her mind. She stared back. “I don’t want this responsibility.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know.”
“Amy needs our help.”
The way he said it disturbed Moira, but she didn’t have time to ask him what he meant.
Fern coughed once and said, “She was bitten by a human being with canine teeth that were either implanted or filed into points. I’ve seen both.”
Grant rubbed his eyes. “Fern. I’m going on little sleep and less food. Explain.”
She said, “The marks were made to resemble where a vampire may bite. I’ve seen it before, but not as a cause of death. Like Moira said, there’s an entire sub-culture out there of people who fashion themselves to be vampires. Not supernatural, immortal beings who sparkle in the sunlight or sleep in coffins, but people who like this alternative lifestyle. But they go a step too far and start drinking human blood.”
“It’s not supernatural,” Moira said. “Not our thing.”
“It is,” Rafe contradicted her. “Moira, you know what we’re dealing with here. They drained her blood while she was alive. They took it with them.”
“How do you know that?” Grant asked, suspicious. He was suspicious about everything. Was that the cop in him or just because he didn’t like them?
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Not to me.”
Fern said, “Rafe’s right—in order to drain half the volume of blood like they did here, the heart had to be pumping. Unless she was in a medical environment or mortuary that had embalming equipment, they needed her heart to do the work.”
Fern lifted the victim’s left arm an inch from the table and with a gloved finger pointed to a hole about the size of a dime, surrounded by extensive bruising. “This is where the killer drained her blood.”
Grant said, “That’s a damn big hole.”
“It was made by a large bore needle. Not uncommon for blood transfusions and other emergencies, but wider than what’s standard for blood donation. She had about four pints of blood left, according to the M.E. Though this is not in the report, I can say with certainty that they didn’t rush through it—if they had drained her too fast, she would have died faster.”
“How much time?”
“One hour, give or take. Have you ever donated blood?”
Grant nodded. “It takes ten minutes, tops.”
“Right—for a pint of blood. For the four or five they took, that’s forty to fifty minutes all things being equal, but blood flow slows as volume decreases. She would have gone into shock as her blood pressure dropped. Eventually, she lost consciousness, then died when her heart stopped.”
“Drugs?”
“Nothing on the routine panels. We have samples of all her tissues for further testing, but since she was a Jane Doe and the tests would have been non-standard, we have it on hold.” She rubbed her fingers together in the need money gesture.
“Budget cuts screw everyone,” Grant said with a scowl. “But mostly the victims.”
“Why wasn’t she identified before?” Rafe asked. “This is an unusual case. Wouldn’t her picture be all over the police stations? Wasn’t she reported missing?”
Grant said, “She went missing in another county. There were signs she was a runaway—and she could have been. But usually the computer will run the Jane Does and see if anyone matches the description.”
“Everything’s computerized,” Fern said, “but there’s still room for error—the data is only as good as the information entered. I’m just glad someone is coming to claim her.” Fern looked from Grant to Moira and Rafe. “So? What do you think?”
“Give me a minute,” Moira said. She didn’t want to do this, especially at a morgue. She’d become more … empathic, for lack of a better word … around spirits. She didn’t want to face a ghost or anything else hanging around this dead house.
But she had no choice. If there was something supernatural at work here, then she was the best one to identify the evil.
She stepped up to the body and lowered her defenses. She felt nothing, other than Fern’s curiosity, Grant’s grief, and Rafe’s concern. She sifted through their emotions and realized she would have to touch the corpse. She took a deep breath and rested her hand over the girl’s stomach. The body was cold and unyielding from being in the cold storage room for so long. Moira dropped her shields completely, closed her eyes, and used her inner senses to discern if there was any residual magic surrounding her body.
She frowned and said, “What was she wearing?”
Fern reached under the metal table and pulled out a box. Inside were sealed evidence bags.
Moira didn’t need to touch them. She looked into the box and straightened her spine, closing down her instinct before something jumped out and bit her in the ass. Of course that wouldn’t happen, but the morgue was creeping her out. “I can’t sense any magic left on her body, but here—there’s a layer of dark magic over everything. Burn it all.”
“It’s evidence,” Grant said.
“I don’t care.”
“Someone is going to be prosecuted for her murder; we’ll need the evidence to convict.”
Rafe kept his eyes on Moira. She wasn’t telling them everything she’d felt, and he wanted to take her away right now and give her some peace. Lowering her barriers and letting her senses feel magical energy was both stressful and damaging for her, in ways he didn’t think she recognized yet. And St. Michael’s didn’t care, as long as Moira could discern and stop the dark forces.
“What did you feel?” Rafe asked quietly.
“It’s been too long for anything specific,” she said, but she wouldn’t look at him. “She was sacrificed,” she whispered. “I need some air.”
She didn’t wait, leaving the room without looking back. He didn’t want to let her go, but he didn’t have a choice.
He had questions that needed to be answered. But first, he had to get Grant and Fern out of the room.
Rafe glanced over to where Amy Carney’s ghost stood, watching them. Rafe had felt her presence the moment they walked into the crypt, and saw her when they came into the viewing room. She knew he could see her, but hadn’t attempted to communicate. He didn’t want to scare her off, so tried to ignore her. It wasn’t easy to ignore a ghost.
To Fern, he said, “Can you cover her body?” Then he said to Grant, “I need everything you have about this case.”
“So this is one of those things,” Grant said vaguely.
“You thought so too otherwise you wouldn’t have called us,” Rafe said. “Blood rituals are nothing new to those who practice dark magic.”
Grant ran his hands over his unshaven face. “Vampires? Magic? What are we with dealing with here?”
“There are two kinds of vampires. Most are harmless making a lifestyle choice, as Fern said, wearing gothic or Victorian garb, listening to specific music, shunning the sun, participating in role-playing games. This is nothing new to you I’m sure.
“Then, there are the people who claim they ‘need’ blood to survive,” Rafe continued. “They find willing donors who give them their blood to drink. There are dentists who put in implants or file their teeth. They think they’re vampires. Whether they believe they are immortal or not, I don’t know, but they begin acting in specific ways and don’t function as well outside of the subculture. But when the blood drinkers engage in occult practices, all bets are off. That’s what we have here—why Moira was so upset. Whatever ritual was used when they killed Amy is demonic in nature. She was a sacrifice.”
“Isn’t that just fucking terrific,” Grant snapped. “My boss is not going to buy into human sacrifices. I was hoping you’d tell me there was nothing here, that this was some kind of crazy but completely natural serial killer.” He stared at the body. “Fern, were you able to get DNA from the saliva in the bite mark?”
“Yes—female.”
“You’re saying a woman bit her neck?”
“Yes. We put it in the system, and since this case is six months old, when I got your call yesterday, I checked on the status. They have run the sample and have markers, but no matches in the database.”
“But if we find a suspect—”
“—we can match the DNA,” she finished his sentence.
Grant flipped through the folder. “No sexual assault, no other injuries. She was washed?”
“Pampered is more like it. She had residual lotions and oils. We have samples of everything, if you want to pursue that further. It’s all pending lab work.”
Rafe looked in the box. Moira had been so upset, but had she seen what was in here or just felt it? He picked up a small plastic bag. Inside were several white flowers. “Lilies.”
“Do they mean anything?” Grant asked.
Amy’s ghost spoke to Rafe for the first time. No one else heard her, and he realized she was talking in his head. A chill ran down his spine, but he listened. She could help stop these people.
They dropped white flowers on my body. It would have been beautiful if I wasn’t dying.
“Cooper?” Grant snapped his fingers. “What do the flowers mean?”
Rafe said, “Lilies are a sign of purity, of life and death, among other things. I suspect she’s a virgin.”
I am.
“Virgin sacrifices?” Grant hit his fist on the wall. “I was crazy to call you. I don’t know what I was thinking. I have a place to start—the vampire subculture. You can go home.”
“We can help,” Rafe told him.
“One word gets out about virgin blood sacrifices or any shit like that, and it’s going to be media hell,” Grant said. “No.”
“Yes,” Rafe said. “You need us.”
“This is so screwed,” Grant said. He looked at sheet with Amy Carney’s dead body beneath. Finally, he said, “Fine. But I’m keeping a tight leash on you and your girlfriend.”
“I understand,” Rafe said. “I’m going to look for Moira.” He stepped out, closing the door behind him. “Amy?” he whispered.
She manifested herself next to him.
I knew you could hear me. Are you going to help me?
“I hope so. Who did this to you?”
I just want to go home.
“You know you’re dead, right?”
Yes.
Her voice became agitated.
I died in the mountains. They took my blood because they said it was pure and rich. I didn’t know what was happening, I was so confused...I don’t know why I went. I just...did.
The air swirled around him. Amy was becoming angry, and with anger she might be able to manifest herself or move objects. He couldn’t risk it, especially the real possibility that she’d disturb other spirits lurking around. But he needed more information, a direction to go.
“I know you’re upset,” he said as calmly as possible, trying to soothe the girl. “I’m going to help you. Who were you with that night?”
I don’t know. It’s so fuzzy. So unreal.
“Slow down, Amy. Think back. Were they friends?”
Yes. No. I don’t know. It was the blood moon, and at first everything was beautiful. And then it wasn’t. They said everything would be wonderful. I was special. I felt so special. Looking at the stars, at peace. Then I was so tired I just went to sleep.
An icy sliver ran down Rafe’s spine as for one brief second he saw Amy as she’d been when she died. In the long, flowing ceremonial gown. Her skin pale, her eyes glassy. Under a spell or drugged, more likely a combination. The marks on her neck were symbols, not a fatal bite, but someone had tasted her blood. She stared at him, confused, unable to move. He had a flash of the moment before she lost consciousness, her last memory. If only he could tap into it—
—but that would be extremely dangerous.
“Your parents are going to take care of you,” Rafe said, his voice shaking. “Wait in the room.”
And then she was gone. He didn’t see or hear her, didn’t know if she had gone back to stay with her body or disappeared forever, but he wouldn’t be able to shake her image for a long time.
The realization that he knew how to extract her last memories unnerved him. He had no recollection of how he’d learned, he just knew.
Grant stepped out of the viewing room. “Who were you talking to?”
Rafe shrugged. “No one.”
Grant eyed him suspiciously. He didn’t believe him, but Rafe didn’t care to elaborate.
“We have a meeting with a pal of mine from Narcotics. Carter has a handle on the underground clubs. I think blood-suckers would qualify for underground.”