by Duncan, Lex
Rolling off the pew and onto the floor, I felt the monster's teeth catch my hair as I hopped to my feet. I took off in a dead sprint across the church, gripping my gun with white knuckled force. I hadn't yet mastered the art of shooting backward, so I figured I'd find some place to hide before I started letting bullets fly.
The monster, being a monster, gave chase. I could hear its wings beating in relentless pursuit, the growl building in its throat. Just my luck. Come to church to find a book, find flesh-eating hell beast instead. Story of my life.
“Beatrice!” Dante's voice cut through my adrenaline burst like a well-executed knife. He stepped out from behind a nearby column and took aim at my pursuer. “Get down!”
I dove. Hit the floor at a velocity that did not agree with my elbows or my palms or my neck. Better than getting gutted by a demon, but I'd be hurting tomorrow.
Shots rang out. The monster shrieked as bullet after bullet entered its deformed body. I chanced a glance over my shoulder to see it dying, black blood pouring from its wounds. The last shot entered between its eyes and with a cry of defeat, the demon fell. Dead.
I let out a breath, lungs aching from the sudden explosion of activity. “Holy shit.”
Dante lowered his gun and extended his free hand to help me up. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I grabbed his hand and stood up. A twinge of pain nipped at my elbow where I'd fallen on it. “For the most part. What was that thing?” I vaguely remembered seeing a picture of it in my freshman year demonology textbook.
“A hunter.” He reached into the pocket of his coat for more bullets and reloaded his pistol. “Commonly known as a kazraach.”
“What's it doing here?” Aralia and Max popped out from their hiding spots behind the pews.
“Are you okay?” Max asked me. His hands were shaking. He didn't get out in the field a lot. Preferred to stay behind the scenes. Being on the scene probably scared the hell out of him.
“Fine,” I said, “I―”
The screeching of one of the kazraach was bad enough. The six more that swooped down from their hidden perches created a clamor so loud that the bodies in the graveyard out back no doubt heard them.
“Find some cover!” Dante ordered, getting a shot or two in as he slipped behind his column.
We didn't need to be told twice.
I took up shop behind the next column while Max threw himself between the pews. Aralia crouched beside me, delivering her shots with brutal efficiency. She was better than all of us combined, even Dante.
“Fun, right?” She said.
“Not really!” I stepped out of my cover to shoot when one of the kazraach made an attempt to take my head off. I ducked, cringing as its claws skimmed my scalp, then whirled around to pull the trigger. One shot and it was dead. Few demons could survive an iron bullet to the skull at such close range.
My victory was short lived, however, because as one kazraach died, another was bearing down on Max. He lost his gun and was trying to make do without it, elbowing the kazraach in the face as it lunged for him. Stunned, it collapsed in a heap and screamed like a reprimanded toddler. Meanwhile, Max disappeared underneath a pew.
The remaining kazraach preoccupied themselves with Aralia and Dante.
“Go!” Aralia urged, backhanding one with her pistol. “We'll take care of things here!”
I went, crouching low to the ground to minimize my chances of being disemboweled. Max caught my gaze from his place beneath the pew. The kazraach pursuing him was perched on top of it, looking miffed at the sudden loss of its prey. It hadn't found him yet. Good.
“Hey, ugly!” I taunted the demon, readying myself for another firefight. My impulse was to start shooting immediately, but my impulses had gotten me into a lot of trouble lately. I couldn't risk it with Max involved. “Hey! Over here!”
Its head snapped around, bloodstained teeth bared in my direction. I guess I succeeded in pissing it off. No one liked being called ugly.
“Yeah,” I said, “I'm talking to you.”
The kazraach's wings flapped agitatedly, a dry hissing noise clacking in its throat. It dropped on all fours and prowled toward me while Max crawled out from under the pew.
I couldn't help but smile. Demons could be so dumb. “That's right, ugly, come get me.”
The hissing grew louder and I was certain the kazraach would take my bait, but it didn't. It didn't because a new distraction had come into play. A clumsy one.
In his haste to find a new hiding spot, Max hit his head on the side of the pew in front of the one he'd been under just moments before. He whispered a curse and my carefully laid plans fell to pieces all because he couldn't keep his mouth shut. The jig was up and the kazraach wasn't taking prisoners.
Screeching, it launched itself in the air and swooped back down on Max like a heat seeking missile. I hated not acting on my impulses.
“Get away from him!” I aimed and fired. One bullet bit through the kazraach's left wing. Another hit its back. Another, through its leg. The last tore through its wing again, leaving it unable to fly and poisoned with iron. It plummeted to the ground and landed between Max and I, convulsing as the iron infected its bloodstream. It would die eventually. Painfully.
Applause erupted from the far side of the room.
“Bravo,” Aralia said, boots thudding across the stone. “Very nice, darling, you're learning well.”
I scanned the darkened vaulting for any remaining threats. “Where are the rest of them?”
“Dead,” she cocked her head over at Dante. “We just wanted to watch the show.”
Max pulled himself up, the very picture of scared shitless. His eyes were like saucers behind his glasses. “You call that a show?”
“Always fun watching you squirm, Maxie.”
Dante glared at her. She smiled.
And to think these were the people I chose to spend my time with. At least it never got boring.
Max visibly shivered, giving the dying kazraach a wide berth as he came to rejoin the group. “Don't we have to exorcize them or something?”
“No,” Dante said. “Kazraach are...different.”
Different? I didn’t remember learning this part.
“Why?” I asked.
He turned to approach the altar. “Demons can pass through the Veil and keep their physical bodies in check if the summoner calling to them has access to a great deal of power. So, the question here isn’t…”
“How, but who?”
“Exactly.” He ran his palm along the flickering tips of the candle flames, thoughtful lines creasing his forehead.
“It would need to be a powerful someone,” Aralia said. She wiped a drop of black kazraach blood off her cheek. “Any ideas?”
I opened my mouth to suggest Mr. Zarcotti's warning, but Dante interrupted.
“We'll discuss that later.” He climbed the stairs to the church's second floor. Large, stone stairs with a runner similar to the one down the aisle. “Beatrice, come with me. Aralia, I trust you know what to do with the mess?”
“Why d'you always stick me with the clean-up?” She complained. “Do I look like a maid to you?”
The barest hint of a smile appeared on Dante’s face. “You're a good friend, Aralia. Thank you.”
“Oh, sod off,” she muttered, then went to do as he asked. She may have hated it, but she'd do it. I was witnessing a display of true friendship. “Come along, Maxie. Make yourself useful.”
Leaving them to their own devices, I followed Dante up the stairs. I'd been told nothing was up here. Then again, I'd been told many things. Most of which were lies or deeply buried truths. “What're we doing?”
“Looking for the book,” he said.
At the top of the staircase was a heavy wooden door, an iron cross bolted to its dark surface. Despite its imposing appearance, it opened easily and we stepped inside.
“A bedroom?” I said. “Why have a bedroom in a church?”
“Priests need to slee
p too,” Dante replied. Dozens of candles burned against the dark and rain beat at the window built into the far wall, its glass riddled with cracks. Thick layers of dust covered every habitable surface it could find, cobwebs draping the stone walls like fine fabric. The furnishings were as simple and bare and dirty as the rest of the room. A bed, an armoire, a cluttered writing desk, another huge crucifix. “Though he doesn’t appear to have cleaned in quite a while.”
I shrugged. “Maybe he likes living in filth.”
Dante crouched to the floor. “It doesn't matter. Look.”
Gone was the cold stone of downstairs. In its place was wood, dark slats that could easily be converted into hiding spaces for old books.
Bingo.
“Did you know this was here?” I asked.
“I had a theory,” he said.
Of course he did. He always had his theories.
If somebody had told me a month ago that I'd be crawling around a church bedroom with Dante Arturo after helping him defeat a group of murderous monsters, I would have laughed in their face. The joke was on me because that's exactly what we were doing. We scuttled around the room on our hands and knees looking for loose floorboards like a couple of squirrels on speed. Funny how these things worked.
I paused by the bed. I thought I heard something click, just loud enough for me to notice. “Hey, I think I found something over here.”
Dante crawled over to look and I pointed to the offending piece of wood. He put his ear to the board, then tapped it with his knuckle a few times.
“Can you hear the ocean?” I joked.
He reached into his coat. Pulled out a knife. Mary Poppins to the rescue once again. “No, but it sounds hollow.”
“It does?” My pulse quickened. We were close, so close to finding this stupid book. I hoped it was worth it.
Dante wedged the tip of his knife between the planks and the one I thought had moved came loose. I waited in breathless anticipation as he lifted it up, revealing a dark space underneath.
We looked inside.
“There it is,” I whispered.
Just like Rosie said.
Nineteen
The night shift at Sawyer's wasn't prepared for Aralia's appetite. She insisted on pancakes, seeing as it was three in the morning, and the cooks were taking too long to oblige.
“I'm going to talk to the manager,” she said.
“It's only been ten minutes,” Max pointed out.
She drummed her fingers on the table, nails clicking the linoleum. “We're the only people in here. It doesn't take that long to make pancakes.”
“You ordered two stacks.”
“Is that a problem, Max? Does my hunger offend you?”
“No, but―”
Dante sighed. “I'm sure they'll be done soon.”
“Easy for you to say,” Aralia mumbled. “You ordered oatmeal. Who orders oatmeal at a diner?”
While they bickered over proper breakfast foods, I focused on things that actually mattered. Like the missing diary we'd been looking for for weeks. It was a delicate piece of history, its leather cover made soft by time and dust and darkness. The binding was stamped with four numbers in faded gold. 1800.
All our hopes were riding on this one book. Our greatest chance of unraveling what was happening in this God forsaken town was hidden somewhere in these yellowed, wrinkled pages. It had to be. If not? I didn't know what we'd do.
Carefully, I opened it.
The entries were completely tame, written in the even, elegant hand of Elias himself. He described Stone Chapel’s progress at the time, how new citizens flocked here every day, how the church was slowly but surely being built. It was cool because it was a piece of history and all, but it didn’t have much to do with anything going on in the present day.
“Anything in there?” Dante asked, breaking from his breakfast debate.
“Not really,” I said. “Nothing we didn’t learn in history class in fifth grade.” I turned the page. It was dated April 15th, 1800. Elias waxed on and on about how great his wife was, compared her to the Virgin Mary, which was probably blasphemous somehow, and that was it. I turned the page again. It was blank. As were the rest of the pages after it. After some frantic flipping to find anything useful, I noticed something near the middle of the book. Some of the pages had been torn out. I pushed the book across the table at Dante and showed him.
He ran his fingers along the jagged places where the pages should have been. “Hm. We need to find these.”
I reached for the book again, flipping through every blank page until I made it to the back cover. Nothing. Not even a dear diary, I blessed someone’s cat today.
Aralia clapped her hands as the waitress arrived with our food. “Finally,” she unwrapped her silverware from her napkin and wielded her fork like a weapon. “Really, darling, you must learn to be more punctual.”
“Sorry,” the waitress said, setting Aralia's pancakes down. “We weren't really expecting anyone.”
Aralia snorted, but that was the extent of her answer. Pancakes trumped her usual condescension.
The waitress hoisted my omlette up with one hand and balanced the rest of the tray on the other. “Where do you want me to put this?”
Her question made me realize that the book was still sitting wide open where my plate should have been. “Oh, uh,” I slapped it shut and gave it a shove in Dante's direction. It fell off the table and into his lap. “Here's good.”
“Great,” she muttered. “Which one of you got the oatmeal?”
Dante cleared his throat. “I did.”
I braced myself for the inevitable fangirl moment (since she didn't have one when she took our order), but it never came. She gave the bowl to Max and he passed it over. No fangirling to be had. Thank God. It was too late for autographs.
“Here's your French toast,” she put the last plate down in front of Max and tucked the tray under her arm. “Yell if you need anything else.”
“We will,” Aralia said between bites. She chewed slowly, contemplating her food. “Needs more syrup. Excuse me―”
The waitress was already gone. Vanished out of yelling distance. Aralia stabbed her fork in her food, affronted. “How incredibly rude.”
The rest of us ate to the tune of the radio in the background—Sinatra, with his crooning rendition of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”— and the patter of the rain on the roof. When we were finished, Dante left two hundred dollars on the table and Aralia went to complain to the manager. The poor guy saw her coming and smiled because he probably thought he was going to get some stunning woman's number. That smile vanished as soon as she opened her mouth. Aralia didn’t care about his feelings. She cared about her pancakes.
“This is great,” I said as we watched on. Aralia placed her hands on her hips and she towered over that tiny man like she was the last thing he’d ever see.
Dante’s fatigued expression remained completely flat. “They're never going to let us back in here.”
“Remind me to never make her mad,” Max said. “I mean, more than I already do.”
“You think he'll cry?” I asked. “He looks like he's gonna cry.”
“I'm going to the car,” Dante said, a heavy note of exhaustion in his voice.
I couldn’t look away from the murder I was witnessing. “Do you have the book?”
He tapped it against his thigh. “Right here.”
I gave him a thumbs-up―which he less than enthusiastically returned―and was sad to see Aralia heading toward us. “Aw, the show's over?”
“Indeed,” she said, triumphantly presenting me with a thick booklet of gift certificates. “Here you are. For future meals. I know how forgetful you are with your money.”
I wanted to be insulted, but honestly, she was right. “Thanks.”
“You're welcome, darling.” She strode past me and pushed Dante out the door. “Now come along. I'd like to get to bed sometime this century.”
***
; I didn't go to bed.
I sat in Dante's study running on fumes and coffee, still wearing my clothes from the hours before. He told me I needed to go to bed, but I wanted to help him brainstorm. Two heads were better than one, especially in this case. We needed to figure out where these missing pages were. They were the key to figuring out what exactly happened here on December 22nd, 1800. Sure, we could make some educated guesses based on our current evidence, but nothing really solid. We read Elias’s entries over and over again, looking for some clue as to what happened, some slip in his writings that would tell us what Henriette meant. We came up with exactly nothing.
“Okay,” I lifted my head up off Dante’s desk and rubbed the blurry feeling from my eyes. “So Henriette told us that her sister took her place in some sort of bizzaro ritual sacrifice at the church, right? Right. After that, a bunch of demons appeared. We know this stuff for a fact. But we don’t know who planned the whole thing and why.”
Dante flipped a page of Elias’s diary for the fifteenth time in the last hour. “Elias has to be this Prophet Henriette wrote about. Many of Stone Chapel’s early settlers essentially revered him. They wrote extensively about his kindness, his unwavering faith, his intense desire to get the church built.”
I looked at him from across the desk, too tired to buck up much enthusiasm. “We hear about that at the Founder’s Day assembly every year.”
“Yes, but I think there are many things the people who write your textbooks and local history lectures aren’t telling you.” He turned the book around and pushed it toward me. “Read this page.”
Sighing, I mumbled my way through yet another one of Elias’s useless diary entries. Dated October 1st, 1800. “Blah blah blah, the church was finished today, big celebration.” I pushed the book back. “That was really exciting.”
“Did you read the end?” He asked. He took my silence as a no and read it for me. “It is almost time.”