by Jenn Stark
Chapter Seventeen
Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist
Cleveland, Ohio
2:30 p.m., Dec. 24
Dana entered the cathedral from the front this time, trotting up the wide stone stairs, pulling back one of the broad doors. The foyer was quiet, pristine, and she crossed quickly to the doors that led her to the cathedral’s sweeping hall, looking for Father Franks.
She saw him almost immediately, instructing a small host of maintenance workers in placing white poinsettias on the altar and celebrant chairs. A dozen artificial trees had already been erected around the altar, and yet more workers were running extension cords between them, linking them to the already winking display around the nativity scene to the left of the altar.
Dana strode up the main aisle, the cobblestone floor uneven beneath her boots. She felt her blood thrumming against her temples and forced herself to hesitate as she reached the break in the rows of pews. Father Franks looked up, eyes going wide for a second before he nodded to her and went back to his instructions. Dana could only stare.
The priest was surrounded by a pulsing, incandescent golden glow. It was faint, certainly. Nothing compared to the white shimmer that had come off Finn. But it was indisputably there, as readily apparent as the priest’s thick silver hair or the slight stoop to his shoulders as he leaned down to explain flower arrangements. Dana tried to train her eyes on the workers around him, and nothing came off them. But Father Franks glowed with a life, a vibrancy that was unmistakable in the magnificent sweep of the church.
Trying not to fidget, Dana turned her eyes to the beautiful stained glass windows detailing various scenes from the Bible—the Nativity, Jesus Teaching at the Temple, the Last Supper, and easily a dozen more. The cold light of the December day shone through the glass, scattering rich jewel-toned patterns across the gleaming, polished hardwood of the church pews and gilded plaster of the thick columns that held the roof aloft. The light threw the church into quiet brilliance, under the careful watch of hundreds of angels represented in paint and stone throughout the church.
Her father had known every stone of this place, calling it his sanctuary. She couldn’t remember being here more than a dozen times in the past year, though. Including last night.
Then Father Franks was in front of her, startling her out of her reverie. “Dana,” he said, and his eyes betrayed his concern as they searched hers. “What’s wrong? Where’s Finn?”
“He’s…losing a fight. On purpose. And I need to talk to you,” she said. “Now, and alone.”
“Of course.” Father Franks looked toward the beehive of activity around the altar, then gestured. “We can talk in my study.”
They walked with purposeful strides toward the back of the cathedral, Dana grimacing as they passed the altar. She remembered Finn standing here, in the flickering candlelight, his eyes wide with wonder. She knew Franks remembered it too.
“You thought he was a demon.” Dana’s quiet words were cut off by Franks’s hand on her arm.
“I did,” he said. “While in truth, he’s worse, in some ways. So much worse.” He opened the cathedral door that led into the administrative portion of the church and gestured her through. Here, there were more people, but they moved through them quickly, heading deeper into the labyrinth of the Church’s inner sanctum. “Where is he now?”
“Nightclub on Euclid, The Church.” She shifted her gaze toward him. “Going down hard, but again…on purpose. Meanwhile, I think I saw—I know I saw—men with demons inside them, Father. Women too.” She shuddered. “They looked…I can’t even describe it.”
“Faces contorting outside the frame of typical human bone structure, animalistic screams, your name repeated over and over?” Father asked, but his question didn’t need an answer. “The tricks never change,” he said. He unlocked his office and stepped inside. “Finn sent you here?”
The first thing she saw was Franks’s desk, covered with file folders and notebooks. There was a computer on a side desk, but it sat gleaming and undisturbed. The good father probably only used it under duress. Lining the wall were dozens of framed newspaper clippings of church events, smiling parishioners, news about the pope.
She realized the priest was waiting for her response.
“Not exactly. He told me to stay safe, then the Possessed came in. A lot of them.” She paused, looking around the small office. It had been years since she’d been here last. The room was a compact library, with books lining the walls from floor to ceiling, and four book-strewn leather chairs gathered in a conversational setting around a low table. A desk sat in the far corner, with the banker’s light on, file folders and paperwork scattered across it. Sitting on top of the folders was a worn leather pouch, its edges frayed and nearly white with age. The pouch was open, and Dana could see a flask and crucifix edging out of the bag before Father Franks pushed the items back inside the casing with a tidy sweep of his hand.
“How many?” he asked, recalling her to herself.
“Maybe twenty. It was hard to see. The place is a techno club, lots of bright flashing lights. But they were there and they…were wrong.” She shook her head. “I don’t think Finn can be possessed,” she said. “I wasn’t so sure about myself. And once it seemed like Finn was deliberately giving himself up, I sensed very strongly that I should go.” She forced a smile. “I don’t think he wanted to add me to the casualty list.”
“I appreciate that.” Father Franks moved away from her as he opened up his closet, taking out purple and white vestments. A long, heavy jacket hung over the chair, ancient with age, and Franks tapped it as he walked by, assessing his supplies. Dana turned her attention to the walls of books he passed. Bibles of every stripe lined the shelves, along with works on archaeology, theology, Christology, and religious theory. And, oddly enough, an entire shelf devoted to angels, saints, and demons. All decidedly newer books, more than half of them dipping into secular perspectives. On a stand by the shelves, a lectern held up a thick, ancient Bible, its heavy pages opened to Revelations. “Did he kill the Possessed?”
“I think he was sending the demons out of some of them,” Dana said. She didn’t tell him about the man she’d encountered whose demon seemed to recognize her. She didn’t remember much of what happened after that, until the man had slumped in her arms. “They seemed like they were breathing when he was done. Others…sort of exploded.”
“Those would be the true demons, not Possessed.” Franks said, though the admission clearly cost him. “Finn is a Fallen. He would save God’s children if he could. The others he would consign to whatever hell they deserved.” He donned the surplice over his black shirt and trousers. It fell only to his knees, with a long slit on either side. Demon hunters apparently needed to be able to run. The violet stole went on next.
Franks turned to look at Dana. “There are knives in the closet, four of them,” he said, as he leaned over his desk. “Get them for me.”
Dana turned and opened the closet, and hanging on the back of the wall were two sets of large ceremonial knives. She pulled them out, then frowned. “These aren’t even sharp.”
“They aren’t meant to draw blood,” he said. “Give me one, you keep the other. There’s another long jacket in the closet. Put it on.” He scowled at her. “Where’s yours?”
“Draped over one of the bodies. I left it behind to give myself a head start.” She pulled out the brown leather duster, cracked from weather and salt. “You should take better care of this,” she said.
“It was your father’s.”
“I need—I need to talk to you about him too,” Dana said, moving in beside Franks. He glanced down at her, and Dana focused on the floor, suddenly nervous. Now that the time was here, she didn’t know what to say. She took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly, surprised at how her throat burned with the movement. “I need to know…if he knew about me.” She looked up to see Franks staring at her with wide, unhappy eyes. “What I am.”
&n
bsp; Father Franks didn’t change expression, but a wave of loss spilled off him as strong as if he’d been wounded in front of her. “Ah, sweet child. There’s probably only one thing you truly need to know. And it is something you already know in your heart. Your father was an ordinary man, Dana, not like you. He married his wife, Claire, and eventually welcomed you into the world. He was a good man, a good policeman, and he loved you more than anything. But his burden was that he was plagued by demons. Or, rather, you were.”
Dana’s eyes popped. “What?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. He nodded at the coat in her arms. “He came to me after they had first appeared, not knowing what he was seeing or why. Not knowing why they sought you out. For many years, he accepted it as his cross to bear, the pain that he witnessed, the constant vigilance. He believed you were special—and, of course, you are. He vowed to protect you. One day, he decided he could no longer merely protect you, however. He had to fight back. He came to me for help with that as well.”
She swallowed, holding the coat tightly. She’d never seen it before, and now it represented everything about her father that she didn’t know. “Did he win?”
“Not always, and not that last time,” Father Franks said, and she stilled at the tone of his voice. Suddenly, Father Franks looked old. Old, weary, and resolute. His eyes were no longer gentle, they were cold. His shoulders didn’t round over in gentle apology, his hands didn’t shake. He picked up a small duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder. “But often enough. Come with me.”
The back door to Franks’s office led to a short staircase. The priest moved down it with surprising grace and pushed through another door into a basement room set up with weights, mats, and a punching bag.
“Demon hunting keep you in shape, Father?” Dana asked as they moved through it, the bright light shining through the windows letting her know they were near the parking lot. He threw the duffel on a card table and opened a large metal cabinet. More flasks went into the bag, along with stakes, an old Smith & Wesson, and bags of powder. She frowned at him. “What is all this stuff?” she asked. “We’re not going after vampires.”
Father Franks chuckled darkly. “People never give the Possessed much credit. They accuse them of having weak minds, a lack of faith.” Into the bag went an embroidered veil, a Bible burned around the edges. “But it is those who are possessed that have the greatest faith of all. For if you are to allow a creature within you, you must first acknowledge that creature’s right to be within you. Its strength, its dominance. You must cede your control of your own self-determination to something which you view as more powerful than yourself. This takes a very strong belief.” He zipped up the bag and turned to look at Dana. “Put the coat on. You’ll need to be able to maneuver with it on.”
She did, and he pulled the knives out of their sheaths. “You don’t drive with the tip, as if to cut,” he said. “Although you can if that is necessary. But the force of these blades is in laying them over your opponent’s heart in a crossed pattern, the bottom one vertical, the top horizontal. Like this.” He stepped up to her, placing the blades into position. “No matter what religion the mortal professes to believe, he will recognize that symbol. More importantly, the demon inside him will. Or, if it’s not a possession at all but a demon appearing human—and there are more and more of those these days—you can be sure they’ll know it as well.”
“Got it.” Dana felt the blades heavy on her chest and willed herself not to step away. But the religious relics felt odd in that position, a faint thread of violation worming through her. “So what’s the other stuff for?”
“Symbols of the religion lost whenever the possession began. Even fallen-away believers have their own inviolate truths. For some, it’s holy water, for others, a crucifix. Still others, a stake, silver bullets. An elixir of salt and wolfsbane. But for those believing that a demon has entered, something external must be introduced to bring it back out. That,” he smiled, “and these.” He held up a pair of heavy wire cutters. “To cut any medallion off them that’s holding the demon in place, which is also a common trick.”
“I’ve seen those medallions,” Dana said, startled.
“I thought you might have.” Franks returned the knives to their sheaths and buttoned up his jacket. Then he turned toward the door. “Finn is very likely no longer at the nightclub,” he said. “The building is riddled with escape routes, and if Bartholomew wanted to speak with him alone, he has the whole city to work with.”
“So do we,” Dana said. She pulled a thin metal device out of her back pocket, then hit a few key instructions. Instantly, a radar swept on.
“I took the precaution of planting a tracker on Finn.” She frowned down at the system. “It looks like he’s at…” She frowned. “The cemetery?”
Chapter Eighteen
Erie Street Cemetery
Cleveland, Ohio
3:00 p.m., Dec. 24
Bartholomew clearly had been serious about his game of tag.
Before Finn could grab him, he’d taken off at a dash, not stopping until he reached the grandly arched opening to some kind of city park, which was dwarfed by the stadium across the street. He turned, as if to make sure Finn was following him. The lettering carved into the stone was clear in the harsh sunlight: Erie Street Cemetery. Bartholomew turned and ran lightly over the snow-encrusted surface of the sidewalk, his body fleet and agile.
Finn staggered along behind him, still far faster than mortals, but nowhere near reaching Bartholomew’s speed. He’d not fully gotten used to being Fallen yet, while Bartholomew had had six thousand years of practice, and there was that small problem of recently having taken more than his share of a beating. He glanced around as he jogged down the long central roadway of the cemetery. Trees dotted the landscape, the precious real estate otherwise taken up with row upon row of tombstones, most of them easily over a hundred years old.
Figures that Bartholomew would choose a cemetery. To a being that lived forever, a cemetery was like Disneyland. A glimpse into an experience they would probably never know.
Finn felt the change in the air as Bartholomew stopped, pivoted. He stopped as well, cautious. Not sure how to play this.
The Fallen laughed. “You haven’t gotten used to the weight of the atmosphere yet, have you? You will. When I finally accepted what my role was on this earth. It became…far easier.”
“You left the church in Lyon. Why?”
“You’ve been speaking to Father Franks, I see. I knew there was something about the man that was important—knew it. But I couldn’t decide exactly what. That’s the problem with the Fallen’s perspective. You’ll know what I mean, if you live long enough. You can see, if you look hard enough, entire lifetimes. Not merely the path, but every step along the path. Franks was a vital key to my future, I knew it in my bones, but I didn’t understand how, back then. It was only after the good father made his way to this city that he met Walter Griffin. A man who’d spent so much time in the presence of the light, I mistook him for the light himself. It took me years to realize my mistake, but still proved to be vitally important to me.”
Finn frowned at him, and Bartholomew came up closer to him, just out of reach. “You’re no match for me, Finn. You aren’t strong enough. It’s best if you acknowledge that.”
Finn’s anger filled the small space between them. “What do you want with Lester Morrow?” he asked.
“Ahh… my dear Lester. Had I known how close I was to his operation fifteen years ago, when my pets killed Walter, I would have made much better use of my time in this pit. But it took me finding Lester along the trail of his own greed to realize what he was, what he might have. And honestly, I have to thank you for that. Were it not for you being sent here by your precious archangel, I might still believe that Lester was merely a minor player in this game. But he isn’t, is he? He’s the ringleader. And Dana is his star attraction.”
Finn shifted. “How do you know anything about who sent me?�
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Bartholomew ignored the question to ask another of his own. “Tell me, Finn, how will it feel when you’re asked to leave your precious Dana Griffin behind, knowing that merely for having met you, she’s become a target? If you thought she was in trouble before, rest assured. You’ve all but ensured her death.”
He sighed. “Too bad I can’t let you stay to help her.” And he launched into Finn.
This time, however, Finn was ready. In some ways, he’d been ready for more than six thousand years.
Finn took the weight of Bartholomew’s attack as a storm of absolution, the feeling of power and thrust knocking him backward but not down. As his fist connected with the rogue Fallen’s temple, the crunch of bone against bone exceptionally gratifying.
But Bartholomew had been fighting on this plane for far longer than Finn, at least in this present form. He jerked his head back from Finn’s punch, then came at Finn with fists pounding in explosive, percussive bursts, his movements fueled by rage and fire and more hatred than Finn would have thought possible. He was the most dangerous of breeds, the madman who thought himself sane. The self-righteous zealot who thought himself justified.
And in questioning what might happen to Dana after he’d left her to face life as a newly awakened Dawn Child, he’d opened up a hole inside Finn that might never be refilled.
Bartholomew dragged in a breath, and Finn followed it with a crack to the jaw with his elbow, his body pressing forward as he pushed Bartholomew down to the snow-covered ground. They scrambled there, neither one getting the upper hand for some time until Finn finally threw Bartholomew over onto his back.
“And what do you gain from this list?” Finn seethed as Bartholomew scrambled up to face him. “Why are they so important to you? There’re simply not that many of them.”
Bartholomew laughed, a sharp, guttural sound. “Even a handful of the Dawn Children are enough, properly trained.” His eyes blazed with feral intensity. “Which is why I won’t give them that chance.”