by Jamie Wyman
“Saw something…” I said. “Outside. It’s coming.”
“What?”
I shook my head, my throat tightening. “Big. Most certainly bad.”
At the edge of my hearing, that reedy voice spoke again. “Of course, my son. Whatever you need.”
Nate appeared again, trailing a slight man in a short-sleeved black shirt and black pants. The Roman collar bobbed at his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Adjusting his spectacles, the priest stared at me with watery, pale eyes. His thick eyebrows arched up, wrinkling the flesh of his forehead.
“How about some water?” he offered.
I nodded.
“Thank you, Father,” Nate said, clapping the man on the shoulder as the two of them went off together.
“Can you stand up?” Flynn asked.
I nodded. “I’ve got this.”
Apparently I didn’t, though, because as I raised myself to my full height, I realized I’d been running on adrenaline after using so much power at the police station. Now, even that reserve had run dry. My legs went rubbery, and black spots clouded my vision.
Flynn caught me. “Marius,” he barked, “care to make yourself useful rather than check out my girlfriend’s ass?”
The satyr smiled. “Can’t help but admire fine craftsmanship when I see it.”
He shoved off of the wall and took one of my arms while Flynn held the other. The same enhanced strength that allowed them to outstrip cheetahs on the hunt meant that they picked me up as if I weighed little more than a feather. They eased me down into a pew.
Every time I’ve been in a church—usually when my grandmother forced me to join her for Easter Mass—I got this sense of subjugation. It felt as if I was being choked beneath the boot of some intangible bully who hated me for what he thought I was. Later, he’d pass a collection plate for my lunch money to add a new gold tooth to his sneer.
Yeah, I guess you could say that I’m not a fan of churches.
That night, though, I sat in the pew and felt safe. The church was empty except for our strange group and the priest, and a somber quiet draped over the room like soft, silk bunting. For the first time in my life, I was in a church and I felt peace. No one stood judging me or trying to convert me. No one wanted my soul. I just had a place to sit down and catch my breath. For that I was eternally grateful. I gave an awkward but appreciative nod to the man on the cross.
No one spoke for a while. When Nate and the priest returned, each was carrying a gilt tray full of small plastic cups.
“It’s what we have,” the priest said apologetically. “Normally people just need a tiny portion of Communion wine. Drink what you need and I can refill the cups.”
“It’s fine, Father,” Nate said.
Double-fisting the Dixie cups, I rehydrated. The water was cold, crisp, and the sweetest thing I’d ever drunk. After my fourth cup, I stacked the empties and placed them on the tray. “Thank you, Father…?”
“Calvert. Thomas Calvert.” He wiped a handkerchief over the bald crown of his head and patted the scant brown hair above his ears. Though a thin man, his face was round with paunchy cheeks. When the man smiled, they ballooned out like a greedy squirrel’s would. His nut-brown face was careworn.
“We’ll get out of your church soon,” I assured him.
“There’s no rush,” he said. “This young man tells me you’ve seen quite a rough evening.”
I shot a glance to Nate. What had he told this guy?
The priest went on. “I wouldn’t be living up to our church’s name if I didn’t offer you shelter.” Before I could ask, he straightened himself to his full—although not impressive—height. “Welcome to the Guardian Angel Cathedral.”
Despite my cynicism, I smiled. “Thank you.”
Karma and Flynn voiced their gratitude, too, as I took another cup from the tray. This one I sipped slowly.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any of that Communion wine, Padre,” Marius said.
Father Calvert bristled. “I’m sorry, my son,” he said. “That is reserved for the Sacrament.”
I almost giggled. The priest, probably just on the south end of fifty, calling Marius—an immortal—“son.” Cute.
“Fantastic,” Marius muttered sarcastically. The satyr rubbed at his wrists. Somewhere along the way—either during the run or after he’d slid into the church—the zip ties had been cut from his hands. Red welts formed at the cuffs of his green sweater.
Oh, how we must have looked to Father Calvert… Marius was little more than darkness and sarcasm dressed in jeans and a sweater, his black mane tousled artfully. The golden, good-hearted Nate acted as his polar opposite—reverent, quiet. Flynn and Karma looked like a couple of punk kids with their vibrant hair and clothes. Then there was me—a vision in bleeding scrapes and road rash.
Yeah. Quite the crew.
Then again, Guardian Angel Cathedral wasn’t exactly typical herself. We sat in the dim main sanctuary. Out here, the pews were arranged in ranks of shadows. The wan security light rippled over the tops of the seats like whitecaps. As I looked around the large room, my eyes tracked up the tall, sloping walls. Triangles carved into the building formed a sharp rib cage, and each of those insets housed a stained glass window depicting one of the Stations of the Cross.
The pulpit, an expanse of gleaming white stone, stretched the width of the building. From the shallow steps, to the podium, to the thick slab at the center that made the altar; everything was comprised of white marble. Black curtains and a swath of gold fabric emblazoned with a crest hung behind the altar. Above, a crucifix with the dead prophet on it. Unlike most I’d seen, though, this representation didn’t inspire guilt. The body was not emaciated, or wracked with agony, but at peace. The Savior’s face composed a beatific smile. Angels guarded either side of the stage at his feet.
Behind the crucifix, a mural filled the massive triangular wall. Abstract forms of people in vivid colors—magenta, gold, bone white, and royal purple. Some of the figures prayed, others lifted their arms as if in gratitude. The central figure—purple, wreathed in fiery oranges—stretched his arms to the sky as if in flight.
Unlike any church I’d known, Guardian Angel Cathedral radiated hope to the point of jubilation.
My eyes tracked back to the pew in front of me. Most of the cups on the priest’s trays had run dry.
“I’ll just go get some refills,” he said.
As he shuffled off, Flynn dropped his voice. “You said you saw something outside?”
I nodded, my blood going frigid at the memory of the guttural purr. “I don’t know what it was. Didn’t get a very good look. Something was…reaching out for me? I think? Leathery skin, kind of a dark and muddy brown. Long claws. Shadow of horns.” With a jolt of inspiration, I jumped. “Flynn. Pull up the video from Polly’s phone.”
“Here?” His eyes darted up furtively, scanning for the priest.
“Please,” I said, digging into my pocket for Muriel’s flip phone. “I think I’ve got something.”
Cupping the phone’s speaker to dampen the sound, I played the message.
“You missed our appointment,” that hellish voice said.
Flynn’s display popped up on the back of the pew in front of us. Then he played it. “Sing for me, Muse,” the cruel growl commanded.
“It’s the same voice,” Karma said.
I nodded. “And I just heard it as we were running here.”
Nate whipped his head up to the doors of the church, every muscle in his body going rigid. “Muri’s killer?”
“And Polly’s,” I added.
On the video, Polly choked her last syllables. “Mm-M…ll…ach.”
Nate eyed Marius.
“It wasn’t him,” I said. “He doesn’t have pipes like those under the hood.”
“You could check,” Marius offered. “Under my hood, that is.” He waggled his eyebrows.
I shook my head. “Anyway, that’s not Marius’s voice.”
�
��Voices can change,” Nate said, clinging to his accusation.
“Nope.” I kept my gaze on Nate. “Marius was in front of me the whole way here. The voice came from behind. The voice that belongs to whatever killed Polly. The same person who had some meeting with your sister. Nate, it’s time for you to tell me anything you know.”
He squirmed visibly but said nothing.
I sighed. Despite myself I assured him, “Nate, you don’t have to tell me your secret. Whatever your heritage, it’s yours. The mages want the veil. I think they might have killed Muriel to get it.”
Nate hooked a thumb at Marius. “He wants the veil, too.”
“I’m but an errand boy,” the satyr intoned.
Steady, stare unwavering, I pressed. “Do you know anything about the veil?”
Nate shook his head. “No.”
“Polly never talked about it?”
“No more than you would talk about your shoes, Cat. It’s a thing. It’s not her.”
“Belial,” Karma whispered. A little louder she said, “The pyromancer. He called out, ‘Hail Belial’”
Nate’s knuckles popped as he balled up his fists.
“What’s that mean?” I asked.
Flynn and Marius opened their mouths to speak, but it was Father Calvert who answered. “Ah, one of the Princes of Hell.” Easing down his tray of water cups, he took in our astonished faces and blushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“What can you tell us about him?” I asked, pocketing the phone and sipping from my cup.
The priest vibrated with a joy, his eyes twinkling. When he spoke, his words tumbled out with excitement. “You see, when Lucifer fell from Grace, he took many other angels with him. He had three Princes with whom he shared the realm of Hell: Beelzebub, Leviathan, and Belial. It was Belial that saw himself as a sort of—” his hands wheeled in the air as he chose his words “—champion. Yes, a champion of man. He relished in the most base, carnal sins of humanity. Sex, drugs, gluttony…”
“Sounds familiar,” I tossed over my shoulder to Marius. He gave a gentle bow.
“Oh, Belial would be quite at home here in Las Vegas,” the priest said. “He played to humanity’s desires for fulfillment. Made them promises, fed lies to those seeking power.”
“How so?” Flynn asked.
“The oldest tales of him say that he offered power to sorcerers, Kabbalists and the like. In exchange for their allegiance, Belial would give them strength and mastery of witchcraft. Then he would devour their souls or feed them to one of his pet demons—Azazel, Innana, or Moloch.”
I blinked. One of those names sounded familiar. I tried not to gasp, but I felt my eyes widen as realization set in. The choked sounds Polly made around her own blood: M...ll…ach. Had she been trying to say Moloch?
“That last one,” I interjected. “Moloch? What’s that?”
Father Calvert propped himself up on the pew in front of us, on his knees and facing backward. He threaded his fingers and leaned his elbows against the pew. “This is where things get shaky. Some scholars have found that Moloch was a sort of sun god worshipped by the ancient Phoenicians. Others have found texts claiming that he’s sort of a low-ranking general in Hell’s army. They all agree, though, that Moloch was honored with child sacrifices.” He shuddered. “It’s truly a terrible, bloody history.”
“Children?” I whispered. No children had died, but both Muriel and Polly had very important fathers.
The priest nodded solemnly. “The Phoenicians built a special altar for their offerings to Moloch. They carved stone to look like him, a man with a bull’s head and a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth. The demon’s hands formed the altar itself. They would lay the child in his hands, cut his or her throat, and lift the altar to the mouth where the body would be devoured by the beast.”
My breath caught in my throat, stuck on a knot of despair. “That’s…that’s terrible.”
Calvert spread his hands in apology. “Humans weren’t always as civilized as we are today.”
Understanding tingled through my blood, over my scalp. This had to be it. This was our guy—Moloch. With every fiber of my gut, I knew it.
Flynn stared at the priest with a sort of awe. “How do you know all this?”
Calvert colored again, pink rising up over his cheeks and shiny pate. “Before I joined seminary, I majored in Humanities. Ancient religions are fascinating. If we can’t learn from the past, we’re doomed to repeat it, right?”
Flynn smiled, and the priest’s lips hitched into something like mischief. “You know, I’m hungry. I was going to order a pizza for myself, but I’d be willing to share it with you all.”
“That would be great,” Flynn said. “Would you mind if I asked you a bit more about these religions?”
Calvert beamed. “Of course. I’ll just go put in that order, and I’ll be right back.”
With a bounce to his step, the priest disappeared beyond the altar. As soon as he was out of sight, Karma took up the priest’s seat on the pew in front of me. Nate joined her, and soon voices tumbled over one another.
“Do we think this Moloch thing killed Polly?” she asked.
“Does the Pope shit in the woods?” I asked. Karma pointed toward the altar and glared at me. “Sorry, habit. Seriously, though, I think this Moloch guy is our voice. I feel it in my bones.”
“What about Muri?” Nate asked. “Did he kill her?”
“It’s possible,” Flynn murmured, his shoulders bouncing into a shrug.
“It’s likely,” I corrected. “And what about Belial?”
Nate’s face turned sour with hatred. “Belial,” he snarled.
Karma ticked points off on her fingers. “Works with sorcerers. The mage keeps hailing him.”
“And Marius said that one of the uses of the veil might be to empower mages,” I added.
“Excuse me,” Marius said. “I have something to add.”
Flynn leaned against the pew, ignoring Marius and continuing on. “Who wouldn’t want an item of power like that? Are they taking it to Belial, you think? Or do they want it for themselves? Or do—”
“Wait,” Karma interrupted, looking dubious. “Are we actually thinking that we’re dealing with an ancient god who eats children here? A Prince of Hell?”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “We’re fucked.”
“Will you shut up for a minute?” Marius nearly shouted, voice echoing off the marble floor and slanted walls. “I’m trying to help you lot from going down the wrong rabbit hole.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Moloch is gone,” he said bluntly. “Remember I told you that many of the old gods have vanished of late? Well, he’s one of them.”
“So? That doesn’t mean he’s not going to surface for a bite to eat,” Flynn said. “Does it?”
Marius shook his head, annoyed. “You have no idea how to think like a deity. There are deep games here. Politics seeps into every minute detail.” He turned to me, green eyes imploring for someone to speak his language of intrigue and deceit. “Catherine, you’ve seen that in action.”
I gulped down another knot. I had. I knew all too well how the gods toyed with humans. They weren’t much different when dealing with one another.
“It’s true. The gods work on infinite scales of time. Grudges can get worked out over centuries, and some of them are so wound up about all the political shit that they don’t bat an eyelash without having five contingency plans.”
Karma’s curls rustled dryly. “This makes no sense. Why would a god just walk away and hide? I don’t understand.”
“I don’t pretend to understand their motives,” Marius snarled. “But if a powerful deity—let’s just use Loki as an example—felt the need to disappear, everyone would be looking for him. He couldn’t just show up killing Muses and the like. He’d have to go completely off the radar. He might scamper off to another plane or even masquerade as a mortal for a while.”
I nodded to
the others. Marius was right. There’s no way a deity would be as reckless as whatever we were dealing with.
“Now,” the satyr went on, relishing the sound of his own unctuous voice, “Loki isn’t likely to go underground because he has amassed capital in the immortal world and the mortal one. His roots go deep. Others, though, like Moloch don’t have that kind of wealth. My guess is that he just crawled off to die somewhere. Who remembers some relic of pre-Christian history like him?”
Flynn’s voice was hard and steely in the marble church. “I thought we had a lead.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Flynn,” the satyr said.
“What if you’re wrong?” Karma protested. “What if it is Moloch killing my friends, and he was the big nasty thing chasing Cat out there?”
“I can’t speak to his sister,” Marius said, tipping his head toward Nate, “but Polyhymnia was hardly a babe in arms. Not exactly on Moloch’s preferred menu of children.”
“But they’re children of gods,” she countered.
My eyebrows shot up. I stared at Nate. “Is that true? About you and Muriel?”
He turned away and paced up the aisle. Karma’s face flushed as she chewed her own lip and then hissed out a curse. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she muttered.
“You’ve got ears everywhere, Marius. Have you heard anything useful?” I asked, bone weary.
Marius posed against a pew and crossed his arms over his chest. “No one is talking, Catherine. I see it, though. Appointments are cancelled. The Lady’s beloved poker game is at a standstill. Eris herself is nervous. It reeks of a plot. Old factions are playing at something. And when someone as powerful as the Almighty Himself vanishes, it bodes ill.”
Nate shuffled his feet. Flynn stared up at Karma and took her hand in his. Everyone sagged with exhaustion.
I needed to think. With a grunt of frustration, I laid back in my pew. Pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until little black-and-white stars burst behind my eyelids, I tried to think my way out of this. Trickster gods sending their personal minions to get involved…murdered Muse…a Prince of Hell and his pet demon…mages.