beings.
“Trust me,” he said simply, imploring her with his eyes. He saw a hint of doubt in her face, the desire to believe him. Then it vanished.
But hope was all he needed. He’d worked with far less.
“I’ll translate Rafe’s journal for you,” he offered.
Skye wanted to say no. She didn’t want to trust this man who talked about demons and demonolatry and evil spirits. Those were the fantasies of religious nutcases like her mother and the man who sold her a bill of goods under the guise of being a man of God.
But she’d walked into the crime scene today and felt odd. She could dismiss the idea that someone was watching her in the daylight, but when she’d been sitting in her car in the courtyard tonight her skin prickled and every nerve seemed to stand at attention. She wasn’t a flighty female. She wasn’t scared of the woods or of being alone—she’d hiked and camped for weeks with her dad or by herself. But here—this was different.
A crash echoed through the mission. Skye’s gun was out as she walked through the door.
“It came from the chapel,” Anthony said.
“Stay,” she commanded him.
“No.”
She didn’t have time to argue. Cautious but quick, she darted down the hall, Anthony right on her heels.
The closer they came to the chapel, the hotter the air.
“Stop,” Anthony commanded.
She didn’t take orders from civilians. Someone was in there. The killer? Murderers often revisited the crime scene.
She opened the doors of the chapel and smelled smoke over the stench of dried blood. She blinked and saw the carnage of that morning, in full sunlight. Every body, every dismembered limb, lying there. All eyes looking at her.
Help us!
She stifled a scream. She wasn’t seeing this. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw a flame in the sacristy, where the drawing had been left. The bodies were gone. That had been her imagination, after all the nonsense Anthony spouted.
Someone—someone human —was destroying evidence. Her crime scene was on fire.
She whirled around to face Anthony. “You! You distracted me so your partner could destroy the evidence.”
“You know that’s not true,” he said, but he was looking over her shoulder.
She followed his gaze but saw nothing. “I need to put this fire out before it takes the whole chapel!”
Skye ran down the hall to the kitchen where earlier she’d seen two extinguishers on the wall. She started back down the hall toward the chapel, but Anthony blocked her path. “Don’t go back there. You’ll be trapped. We have to get out of here. Now!”
She ignored him, but instead of going through the interior entrance, she flung open the side door, pushed a tank at him, and exited the building, running around to the main courtyard entrance.
The iron gates that had been locked and sealed were wide open, proof that the fire had been set by humans, not demons. The fact that she was beginning to believe Anthony, that she wanted to believe him, was a testament to her poor judgment when it came to good-looking men. He was sexy and handsome and sounded normal. She’d overlooked the fact that he was a lunatic to insist that something supernatural was at work.
She’d fucked up the crime scene because of him. She should have stayed at her post. She may have been able to not only stop the fire, but arrest the killer.
She saw the flames in the narrow arched windows, bright against the moonless night. Running to the chapel doors, she touched them; warm not hot. She readied the canister and kicked open the doors.
A loud roar emanated from the building on a wave of flames and laughter.
She was thrown to the ground and only after her back hit the cold, hard dirt did she realize Anthony had pushed her down. He’d saved her life.
He was still standing, facing the flames. He had his hands up as he walked toward the fire, chanting something foreign and ancient. She couldn’t make out the words, just an urgent, fierce rhythm. The fire
“Trust me,” he said simply, imploring her with his eyes. He saw a hint of doubt in her face, the desire to believe him. Then it vanished.
But hope was all he needed. He’d worked with far less.
“I’ll translate Rafe’s journal for you,” he offered.
Skye wanted to say no. She didn’t want to trust this man who talked about demons and demonolatry and evil spirits. Those were the fantasies of religious nutcases like her mother and the man who sold her a bill of goods under the guise of being a man of God.
But she’d walked into the crime scene today and felt odd. She could dismiss the idea that someone was watching her in the daylight, but when she’d been sitting in her car in the courtyard tonight her skin prickled and every nerve seemed to stand at attention. She wasn’t a flighty female. She wasn’t scared of the woods or of being alone—she’d hiked and camped for weeks with her dad or by herself. But here—this was different.
A crash echoed through the mission. Skye’s gun was out as she walked through the door.
“It came from the chapel,” Anthony said.
“Stay,” she commanded him.
“No.”
She didn’t have time to argue. Cautious but quick, she darted down the hall, Anthony right on her heels.
The closer they came to the chapel, the hotter the air.
“Stop,” Anthony commanded.
She didn’t take orders from civilians. Someone was in there. The killer? Murderers often revisited the crime scene.
She opened the doors of the chapel and smelled smoke over the stench of dried blood. She blinked and saw the carnage of that morning, in full sunlight. Every body, every dismembered limb, lying there. All eyes looking at her.
Help us!
She stifled a scream. She wasn’t seeing this. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw a flame in the sacristy, where the drawing had been left. The bodies were gone. That had been her imagination, after all the nonsense Anthony spouted.
Someone—someone human —was destroying evidence. Her crime scene was on fire.
She whirled around to face Anthony. “You! You distracted me so your partner could destroy the evidence.”
“You know that’s not true,” he said, but he was looking over her shoulder.
She followed his gaze but saw nothing. “I need to put this fire out before it takes the whole chapel!”
Skye ran down the hall to the kitchen where earlier she’d seen two extinguishers on the wall. She started back down the hall toward the chapel, but Anthony blocked her path. “Don’t go back there. You’ll be trapped. We have to get out of here. Now!”
She ignored him, but instead of going through the interior entrance, she flung open the side door, pushed a tank at him, and exited the building, running around to the main courtyard entrance.
The iron gates that had been locked and sealed were wide open, proof that the fire had been set by humans, not demons. The fact that she was beginning to believe Anthony, that she wanted to believe him, was a testament to her poor judgment when it came to good-looking men. He was sexy and handsome and sounded normal. She’d overlooked the fact that he was a lunatic to insist that something supernatural was at work.
She’d fucked up the crime scene because of him. She should have stayed at her post. She may have been able to not only stop the fire, but arrest the killer.
She saw the flames in the narrow arched windows, bright against the moonless night. Running to the chapel doors, she touched them; warm not hot. She readied the canister and kicked open the doors.
A loud roar emanated from the building on a wave of flames and laughter.
She was thrown to the ground and only after her back hit the cold, hard dirt did she realize Anthony had pushed her down. He’d saved her life.
He was still standing, facing the flames. He had his hands up as he walked toward the fire, chanting something foreign and ancient. She couldn’t make out the words, just an urgent, fierce rhythm. The fire
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