by Hunter Shea
The priest had not spoken a word the entire time they’d sat in the park. Never one for uncomfortable silences, Shane filled the void blabbing about anything that came to mind. He had hoped to elicit some kind of response, anything to make the priest seem less spooky. If the man hadn’t saved his life, Shane was sure he’d have run screaming hours ago. Something about him seemed so otherworldly, just as much as the thing with the changeable skins in the alley. But there was also a pain, something deep down that fueled this man that Shane could feel, almost as if it were his own.
Lazy snowflakes peppered the sidewalk. A hot dog vendor pulled his cart up just a few feet away. Shane still hadn’t eaten all day and the extra exertion of their morning together had burned off any stored energy he might have had.
“There isn’t any chance you have a couple of bucks for a hot dog or two?”
The priest reached into his coat and retrieved a five dollar bill without taking his eyes off the front entrance to city hall.
“Hey, thanks. You want anything?”
“No,” Father Michael replied, his voice rumbling like a runaway subway car.
“No dog for the man in black,” Shane said as he trotted over to the hot dog cart. He was grateful for the money and more so for the chance to step away from the priest and relax his mouth, not to mention his nerves. It was like talking to a wall.
Returning with a handful of hot dogs, he found himself standing before the priest, prattling on about the painting he did last summer of a hot dog vendor outside Bryant Park and how the vendor paid him for it with free dogs for a month. For some reason, he couldn’t allow for any silence between them. It was almost as if he was afraid of what Father Michael would say if given a moment to speak.
Father Michael simply stared at him, mute and immovable.
Little did he know that the distraction he provided was enough to blind them both to Cain’s arrival as the demon, in his latest skin, strode past the steps of city hall and into the parking garage,
Chapter Eleven
Mayor Peter Spinelli exhaled the day’s insanity once he had the elevator to himself. Being mayor was a 24/7 job and he was damn glad there was such a thing as term limits, because he couldn’t well trust himself not to run for a third term. If the law allowed, his luck would have kept him in office. He had never lost an election bid and polls still showed a decent approval rating.
The reality was he desperately needed the time off, to get to know his wife, Susan, all over again and spend as much time as he could with Wendy and Fred. The day he was sworn in as mayor, they were both in grammar school, one year and one grade apart. Now they were in high school, Wendy a senior and going off to Penn State in the fall. Fred was ready to take his SATs and asking for a BMW. Jesus, he had missed so much.
The elevator stopped at the lowest level of the parking garage where only his cars were kept. The security detail far outnumbered the cars in this section of the underground garage, for which he was grateful. If people only knew how many death threats he received each week, he might have gotten a little more sympathy from the city’s populace, but that might also have inspired more wack jobs to do the same.
“Evening, Ed. How’s life treating you?” the mayor asked as he approached the glass-enclosed office of the man responsible for the upkeep and security of the mayoral auto entourage.
“Just another day in the frigid apple,” said Ed, a graying attendant who was just a year from retiring himself. “You want the SUV?”
“Sounds good to me.”
This was no standard SUV. It had been specially built by Ford and equipped with bulletproof glass, tires that couldn’t be punctured and a host of other gadgets and safeguards that Mayor Spinelli prayed would never have to be employed.
Ed made a quick call into his microphone and the silver SUV appeared moments later. The mayor stepped inside, shut the door himself and leaned back in the seat.
“Home, James,” he said. His driver’s actual name was James and it had been an inside joke of theirs for the past several years. He pulled a black binder out of his briefcase and read over a report on child safety window guards in New York City apartments.
He didn’t notice Cain’s eyes flash red within the face of James in the rearview mirror as they pulled out of the garage.
Shane was considering hitting Father Michael up for some more cash for another hot dog when he spotted Aimee emerging from the double doors of city hall. Her laptop bag and pocketbook rested on one shoulder while another tan bag bursting with papers weighed down the other. She was trying hard to juggle a sizeable stack of binders with both hands. It looked like she was going to be working from home tonight. That or she had gone mad and stolen a king’s ransom in office supplies.
“That’s Aimee,” he said, pointing her out to Father Michael. “Looks like she could use a little help. Good thing I’m here.” Shane dashed across the street to relieve his girlfriend of her burden, ever the chivalrous hero.
Father Michael sat glued to the bench, his ivory eyes behind the sunglasses transfixed by the vision that was Aimee. For the first time in his life after death, he was shocked to his core.
This cannot be. My eyes and heart must be deceiving me. Please, dear Father, do not test me with the impossible, not now.
Shane and Aimee walked over to Father Michael. It had been agreed that they not tell her their true intentions. Shane would ask to stay at her house because of the extreme cold, which she would wholeheartedly agree to. Father Michael, the story would go, had befriended Shane at a soup kitchen and happened to run into him in Battery Park. Their goal was to stay by her side as much as humanly possible because Father Michael was sure that slaughtering Shane and everyone he cared for was a challenge too great for Cain to ignore. The connection that bound them all was too strong to ignore. While Shane stayed inside with Aimee, Father Michael would remain outside, waiting for Cain like a tiger in the bush.
Their plans and the danger that faced the people of the city were ushered into the deeper recesses of Father Michael’s mind when he was introduced to Aimee. Standing before him was more than just a working woman of the twenty-first century.
For the first time in almost a thousand years, he was face-to-face with his loving, departed wife, Ailis—from the delicate strength of her face, to her sable hair now covered in soft, white snowflakes, even the slight upturn of her nose.
“Aimee, this is Father Michael. He’s from Saint Mark’s Church, the place where I go to bum a meal here and there.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said.
Her eyes, a hypnotizing umber bordering on black, offered him a brief glimpse into the light touch of her soul and Father Michael knew his wife had returned. He rose to greet her properly, something he hadn’t done for as long as he could remember, and took her hand in his.
“Likewise,” he replied, straining to keep his voice at an acceptable modulation. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her, despite the fact that he had been designed by God to do just that by sight, sound or action.
There was a literal spark of static electricity when their hands met and Aimee dropped the remaining binders she had been clutching in her left hand. Father Michael’s heart, for so long simply an unstoppable organ meant to pump blood through his augmented system, actually ached from her touch.
“Any chance we could stop by your place, maybe mooch a meal?” Shane interjected.
Aimee, who looked momentarily confused, said, “Of course you can. You don’t even need to ask.” She turned to Father Michael and added, “I’m not much of a cook, but I’m really good at ordering out.”
She gave him a flickering smile and he answered with a nod. To see that smile catapulted him back to Limerick, to days spent lying in the fields with Ailis, just gazing at her face and thanking the stars that such a woman was his to love. Being in Aimee’s presence was as much painful as it was wonderful. That God could play such a cruel game with him, his servant for almost a millennium, brought a fire to
his belly that burned hotter than any battlefield rush.
“Sounds like a plan,” Shane said with a clap of his hands. “Now what do you all say to moving on out before this storm really gets kicking?” He saw the way Aimee and the priest had been looking at each other and he wasn’t sure how to feel. The last thing he needed today was another weird moment but it looked like he was being dragged into one, regardless of his wishes.
One cab ride later, they entered Aimee’s warm apartment. The living room walls were filled with paintings that Aimee explained were Shane’s creations. They ranged from beautiful portraits to sweeping landscapes to modern art pieces that defied description. Shane’s sense of color was to be admired. Father Michael wondered why such a talented young man would live like a common beggar.
He heard Aimee ask Shane in the kitchen why the priest left his dark sunglasses on in the house. Quick on his feet, Shane replied that Father Michael had had a procedure done to his eyes a few days earlier and was sensitive to light.
Father Michael gazed outside the living room window, searching the streets for any sign of Cain, while his spirit soared with the thrill of finding Ailis. Could she be his again? Would she even remember her past? He hoped that, if she could, she would be spared those last, painful moments. If he could be sure of that, he would do all in his power to make it so, no matter what the cost. Was it a sin to think in such ways? He no longer knew what to think, what was real and impossible, destiny or sin.
“I’m ordering Chinese,” Shane called from the kitchen. “Any preference?”
Father Michael didn’t answer. He had too much on his mind to even hear Shane. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t eaten in hundreds of years and wasn’t sure he would even remember how.
His place was out there, in the streets, scouring the city for Cain. So why was his Ailis here now? Was this a trick from the ultimate trickster? Or was this a sign from God? There was only one way to find out and that path was beyond Father Michael’s control.
Mayor Spinelli looked up from his report and slid forward in his seat.
“Hey, Jim, you taking the scenic route today? I have to get home and ready, pronto.”
Cain pulled the car sharply to the side of the road. They were parked down a desolate street lined with dumpsters made less ugly by the snow cover. He cut the ignition and turned around to face the mayor.
“What the hell’s going on?” the mayor demanded as if he were scolding a naughty child. His eyes darted from side to side like those of a cornered animal, looking for an escape route. Panic fed Cain’s dark, fetid soul. He liked his prey when they had glimmers of hope. It made it so much more delectable to watch their expressions as he robbed them of it.
“Hell. Good choice of words, Mister Mayor,” Cain said with a jack-o’-lantern smirk. He allowed his eyes to transform into red orbs of fury. The mayor jumped back into his seat and scrambled for the door handle.
“Who are you? What did you do to James?” the mayor shouted.
“Do we really need to go there? You can stop struggling. The doors are locked. Now, if you’ll just sit back and allow me to crush your fucking soul, I promise this will all be done before you know it.”
The mayor flipped open his briefcase and grabbed the .38 pistol he kept just in case of emergency. He shot out the side window and turned the gun on the driver.
“Don’t think I won’t use this,” he said with utter certainty. “I served three years in Vietnam and had to do a lot worse.”
His gun hand was steady, but Cain could see wisps of doubt. The man may have been a soldier at one time, but the life of a politician had made him soft and uncertain.
“Go on, shoot me! I could use the iron!”
They stared at one another, seconds passing with cruel slowness.
Cain feinted reaching out to the mayor. A quick twitch of a shoulder, the slight rise of his elbow. True to his word, the mayor pulled the trigger. It went off with a deafening bang. An angry red wound blossomed on Cain’s throat, meat petals opening like a flower catching the morning sun.
“I was in Vietnam too, and I did a lot worse than you could ever dream.”
Blood seeped from the corner of Cain’s lips. The mayor dropped the gun and dove for the shattered window.
Cain leaped into the seat like a jungle cat and pounced on the mayor. Peter Spinelli’s scream died before it left his throat. With a deafening crack of splitting bones and squishing organs, Cain slithered into his body. When he was finished, he looked in the rearview mirror.
“Well, you’re not the most handsome guy in the world, but you are the king of New York. Michael will be so surprised.”
Chapter Twelve
The next few days were spent keeping a watchful eye on Aimee without arousing her suspicion. It was no small task. Shane stayed with her by night, while he followed her like a ghost throughout the day. The only time she was out of his sight was when she was at work, a fact that bothered him to no end. He patrolled the area around city hall with Shane, the young man’s mouth a nonstop font of chatter.
So far, all had been still, which worried Father Michael increasingly with each passing hour. Cain never spent time idly. More time always meant greater evil and devastation. The demon was masterfully cloaking himself, flying under the soul-pulse’s radar. Frustration mounted.
Shane, meanwhile, was becoming more and more curious about Father Michael and the supernatural melodrama he had been unwittingly thrust into three days earlier. The fact that Father Michael never responded to Shane’s inquiries hadn’t fazed the street artist.
It was early morning, Thursday. The wind of the past few days had died down but the chill in the air had only deepened. The snow that had fallen previously was now turning to a hideous black and yellow along the streets.
“Feels more like Siberia than New York,” Shane said between chattering teeth. “I’ve got major shrinkage and I’m not even in a pool.” He laughed at his own joke as Father Michael continued stalking the streets.
A bicycle messenger nearly crashed into them as his bike glided onto the sidewalk.
“You know what time it is?” Shane asked.
Father Michael glanced up at the sky. “Ten.” Today might be a good time to finally talk to the boy.
“That sounds like coffee-break time to me. How about we go to that Starbucks over there and have a cup?” When the priest didn’t answer, Shane continued, “Or better yet, why don’t I go have a coffee while you do your whole freak-patrol thing.”
“Follow me,” Father Michael said, his stride quickening as he headed uptown.
“What about the coffee?” No reply. “Java? Cuppa joe? Something warm before I freeze to death?” Shane said, shuffling his feet faster and faster so he could keep up with him.
Father Michael kept his steady advance up the street.
“Always a pleasure chewing the fat with you,” Shane said, several paces behind him. The boy’s sarcasm was lost on him as he raced to the one place where he could reveal their intertwined future.
Cain looked at himself in the mirror. He was in the mayor’s office, fresh from a shower and in a crisp, new suit. He had to wash off the gelatinous remains of Brendon Smythe, Mayor Spinelli’s right-hand man, after devouring him whole. Smythe had grown quizzical of the new and improved mayor, a matter easily resolved.
“You were a better lunch than you were an advisor,” Cain said, patting his stomach.
Sitting behind the large, mayoral desk, he jabbed the intercom.
“Rose, can you have Aimee DeCarlo come to my office?”
“Right away.”
“Rose, the flower has nothing on you.”
Rose didn’t answer, as she was busy scurrying about trying to locate Aimee. Cain’s behavior was starting to make the administrative assistant wonder about the mayor. All the better. After all, he would need dinner.
Father Michael arrived at Saint Luke’s Church with Shane panting behind him. He rang the bell to the parish house and was greeted t
his time by Monsignor Stanton.
“Father Michael, come in, come in. I was hoping you’d return.” He spied the young punk standing just to Father Michael’s left. “And I see you have company.”
“He needs to learn.”
Monsignor Stanton narrowed his eyes at Shane.
“Him?”
Father Michael nodded.
“I’ve been around long enough to know anything is possible,” the monsignor said, ushering them both inside the warm rectory. “I have a message for you, Michael. Oh, and by the way, I’m Monsignor Arthur Stanton. And you are?”
“Shane. I’m a friend of Father Michael’s.”
“A friend?” The old monsignor stuttered for a moment. “Ah yes, I see. Well, follow me to my office. You’re young, the short walk won’t kill you.”
Shane gave a short laugh, uncomfortable around so much…religion.
They sat in chairs opposite the monsignor who was fishing around in the papers on his desk.
“I have a communication for you from the Vatican, Father Michael. It just arrived last night. Somehow I knew you’d be here to get the…aha, here it is.”
Monsignor Stanton handed a folded-up piece of paper to Father Michael who quickly scanned the message and pocketed it.
“These are grave times,” the monsignor said. “I may not have your store of knowledge, but I have my own interpretation of that dispatch. For once, I believe I’m grateful being an old man near the end of his line.”
A long, uncomfortable silence followed, both men of the cloth lost in their thoughts. Shane started to fidget in his seat.
Finally, Shane said, “Okay, nap time’s over. Or is this just an advanced class on the silent treatment? Sitting here is reminding me of why I hated going to church and stopped believing in God altogether.”
“You don’t believe in God, son?” Monsignor Stanton said, stirred from his thoughts.