“Thank Albert,” I say. But I know that I have no choice now, I have to either go into St. Alban’s church or Chauncey’s open arms.
“There are guards on every side; how do you expect your soul-bound to infiltrate?” Albert shouts, even though Chauncey is only a yard away.
She leans toward the gate, her nose stopping a hair-width away from the space between bars, “Many motivated murderers.” She wiggles her fingers at me, “Ta-ta, see you soon.”
I spin on my heel and don’t stop running until I’m at the stairs leading to the pointed arch portal of St. Alban’s Anglican Church. Even though I’m still not at my best from the whole death thing, I left Albert far behind; which is just fine by me, it would be just fine if Albert disappeared all-together.
I don’t take the time to catch my breath; I hop up the few stairs and bang on the rounded wood door. Albert catches up before anyone answers. He might be slower than me, but his breathing is measured and even.
I touch the stone portal around the door. It’s funny, this was exactly the kind of monument I wanted to visit; this church is probably considered ‘gothic revival.’ How different my trip turned out from what had been on my original itinerary.
The door swings open and the flood lights shine in exposing only a crack of the interior. The white robed man who sticks his beard out immediately brings the word ‘priest’ to mind. I don’t know if it’s the flood lights but he looks washed out and exhausted. The bright directed light makes him blink furiously. His voice sounds exhausted as well, “Your wrists, child?”
I bring both my wrists up and, from the corner of my eye, see Albert do the same. I wipe my wet hair from my forehead. Glancing down at my outfit, I remember I’m not exactly wearing the appropriate attire for a church (bare feet, a sopping wet white tank-top and track shorts). Water drips off me to pool below where I stand.
The priest steps back behind the door, letting us pass. I rush in, but when I see the cluster of men gathered half-way up the aisle between pews, I slow to a walk.
The groups of priests don’t even look up; but, before I know whether to call to Stephen and Nicholas or duck behind a pew, two pairs of blue eyes find me. I’m caught in the crossfire of their gazes. Both Nicholas and Stephen’s jaws drop open. While Stephen closes his eyes and gives a slow shake of his head Nicholas clenches his jaw and… charges.
I step out of the way and Nicholas barrels past me heading for Albert, who’s positioned (with both hands raised) at the end of the aisle. I don’t watch the fight that breaks out between the brothers; I try to tune them out as I run up the aisle toward Stephen.
He opens his eyes and spreads his arms and I run into them.
I didn’t even know I needed a hug but Stephen arms wrap protectively around me and it feels right. If he’s bothered by the fact I’m soaking wet, he doesn’t say anything. I breathe into his shoulder as his hand caresses the back of my hair. He has several guns in holsters under each arm. I blink; he also has a sword at his belt.
I find the strength to pull away, this is not a time for falling to pieces. “Hi,” I say a little anti-climatically, “We have to go, now.”
Stephen’s hands move from my hair to steady me at the elbows. “I know,” He nods, “I’ll get the guns. But first, I want you to meet someone.”
“If I don’t get out of here, the soul-bound...”
“I know,” He repeats and grabs my hand. “But you need weapons. Don’t worry; now that you’re here, I know what we have to do.” Stephen pulls me to one of the pews where an elderly priest is kneeling, praying. I guess while we were hugging, all the priests scattered to kneel and pray.
“Father Dixon...” Stephen interrupts.
The priest’s skin is such a dark mahogany color that the wrinkles around his eyes look purple as he squints up.
“This is Raven Smith.”
The priest nods. “Hallo,” he says with a thick English accent
“Raven, father Dixon is a real priest, and a friend.” Stephen gestures to the space beside the elderly man. “Take a seat. I’ll be right back.” Stephen just about pushes me into the pew. My shorts make a squishing sound and I’m pretty sure the motion flung water off my clothes and onto father Dixon.
I’m uncomfortable, itchy, everywhere my clothes are drying. I turn my head when Albert and Nicholas’s argument turns into yelling, but they quickly quiet. I lick my lips and turn back toward the altar and the stained glass windows above.
A real priest... Stephen wants me to talk to a real priest? I squeeze closed my eyes and nibble on my lower lip.
“Does it work?”
I open my eyes and turn toward the shaky voice beside me, “Sorry?”
“Do your troubles improve...?” He points a willowy finger, “When you chew on your mouth?”
My hand claps over my lips. I huff out a laugh and lower my hand, “It’s a bad habit.”
“No, go ahead; don’t let me disturb your masticating. I just wondered.” He smiles forward and breathes slowly through his wide nose.
I comb my wet hair with my fingers tucking it behind my ears on both sides. My fingers drip with water so I wipe them on my already soaked shorts. “I think...” I glance at father Dixon, “Should I...? Am I supposed to confess?”
“Are you supposed to confess?” He repeats under his breath. “Hmm. In my experience of God and his teachings, a man or woman is only supposed to confess if they desire to.” He clears his throat, “Is that what you wish to do?”
“Um…”
“You are unsure?”
“It’s just...” I concentrate on my hands, “I confessed my sins to a man I thought was a priest, and he wasn’t, and it didn’t count.”
“Perhaps, it was not the false priest that you confessed to; perhaps, it was God. Did you mean what you said in your confession?”
“Yes,” is my automatic answer, but immediately I know it’s not true. I rub my hands down my face, “Maybe. You see...” I peer over at him, “I’m still having a hard time accepting and believing in all this Heaven and Hell stuff even though the proof of it keeps trying to kill me... or kiss me.” I exhale, “I guess I’m only just now starting to believe in Heaven and Hell and God, I’m still so confused about all of this.”
A papery hand is offered to me. I pause before I taking it; his skin is as soft and insubstantial as tissue paper.
“Finding the lost sheep makes him...” He nods toward the altar, “…happier than keeping all those who did not wander. You see, Raven Smith, you might just now begin your belief in God, but he has always believed in you. He will be here when you are ready, and he will joyously welcome you home.”
I swallow. “I...”
A thud, a loud crack, and then a deafening smashing sound makes me jump and turn to see the center window behind the altar shatter. Some large object comes hurtling through, pushing a giant hole into the stained glass and landing at the base of the altarpiece. The object leaves a trail of dark liquid down the center of the sculptural white trisection. An instant later, following the object, a figure climbs through the window and clambers down the altarpiece.
“The lord is my shepherd,” Father Dixon whispers beside me. His head is down and my hand is still wound around his. He continues, “I shall not want.”
The figure, a man, bounds down the center aisle. He’s wearing a torn and dirty mechanic’s jumpsuit, he’s gaunt and his eyes bulge.
“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures...”
The man jumps onto the pew in front of us and crouches down. He’s so fast, how did he get here so fast?
“He leadeth me beside the still waters.”
The man is... can it be? Crying. His breath comes out fast and short, every part of him is shaking. He lifts up a knife, a kitchen knife from the look of it. “I sold my soul...” he hyperventilates while speaking in a thick accent, “…to save my daughter from the carrion flu, and now the demons have my son!”
“He restoreth my soul...”
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me...”
“I need to get my son back… I’m… I’m so sorry!” He sobs.
There’s no shriek or scream from father Dixon as the knife comes down. He does not raise an arm to stop the blows as the man stabs him over and over again. The blade parts his skin like taught tissue paper.
For some reason, my body won’t look or jump away, or scream, or fight. As his warm blood splatters onto me, I just clutch father Dixon’s soft hand until his grip slackens in mine. My hand is slick with his blood and his fingers slip through my grasp. “Don’t… don’t…” I whisper, way too late.
The priest slumps away on the pew. His whisper is just audible over his murderer’s panting, “I forgive you.” His eye twitches and neck jerks to gush blood onto the pew and floor. He has a few more spasms and splattering, before he stops moving.
A warm drop of liquid drips down my cheek. For a moment, I think it could, possibly, be a tear; but, when I wipe it away with my clean hand and examine my fingers, I see it’s blood.
I lift my gaze to the knife I already know is poised above me. The mechanic is standing now. His blade no longer shakes, gripped between both of his blood dripping hands. His red-rimmed eyes shine as they stare into mine.
I’m boxed in, the pew on three sides and Father Dixon on the other. The opening to the aisle, between the side-wall and the next pew, is at an awkward angle. More bloody tears course down my face.
“Raven Smith...” He whispers, as if he just noticed me. He demands, “Forgive me!”
“No way!” I twist and dive for the aisle as the blade plunges. I slam into the floor, my knee shoots with pain but I don’t feel the bite of the knife. I scoot and crawl into the aisle.
Fingers seize a handful of my hair by the roots and jerk my head up. He’s so fast.
I scramble to my knees, flailing, kicking, and elbowing back wildly. My shoulders raise and chin tucks as low as his grip will allow; no way am I giving him a clear shot at my throat.
My elbow finds something tender and he, for an instant, releases his grip; it’s enough for me to twist and punch him in the groin.
He buckles over long enough for me to stand up. His knife is only held in one hand and he’s distracted, I could probably fight it from him...
Albert jumps from a pew, twists in the air, and lands behind the man, his large hands reaching to both sides of the man’s head.
The man slashes the knife out so fast the blade is a line of gray streaking the air. It’s only arcing for an instant, a slash from one side of my neck to the other, too possibly fast to dodge or even block. But the knife doesn’t open my throat as it should. I grab for my neck, but an arm, an arm is wrapped around me. I feel a tear in the white shirt from wrist to elbow, bleeding profusely.
The bloody arm clamps around my shoulder and I’m yanked back into someone’s chest.
Albert’s baseball-mitt sized hands take both sides of the soul-bound’s head and give it a quick twist. There’s a loud crack; the knife drops and is quickly followed by the mechanic, who jerks once then collapses, smacking a pew on the way down.
The arm around me tightens, dripping copious amounts of blood down my arms and shirt.
“Nicklaus!” Albert says lunging toward us.
I’m pulled away quickly by the bloody appendage, as if he’s now trying to shield me from Albert.
“Nicholas,” Albert articulates, “You’re bleeding. The man is dead, let go of Raven. I need to wrap up your arm.”
I try to peer back at Nicholas but his grip around me doesn’t give.
When I turn back to Albert, Stephen appears from the back of the church. His arms are overflowing with clothes and weapons, which he drops at Albert’s feet. He swipes up a white cloth from the pile and holds it out to me.
“Press this to the wound,” Stephen’s voice is so even and calm I just blink at him for a moment. He waves the bandage again and I take it. To Albert he says, “Go get bandages.”
Albert doesn’t blink; he’s off before I press the cloth to Nicholas’s arm.
Stephen’s gaze darts to the soul-bound at his feet, then father Dixon’s corpse. He closes his eyes and exhales. But the moment his eyes re-open he’s jumping down and deftly sorting his weapons.
The cloth soon has no absorbency left and the blood continues to pour.
“Stephen,” I choke out, “I need another cloth.” The moment I speak, Nicholas’s grasp tightens around me. I whimper unintentionally from the pressure.
Stephen jumps up from the pile with another cloth and, weirdly, a plate. “Put the old one on here,” He bobs the plate toward me.
I do as he says and replace the old cloth with the fresh. Some pounding sounds from behind make me jump, but I still can’t look.
Albert returns with a red bag and skids to a stop almost kicking the soul-bound’s body. Even after he takes out the bandages it takes both Stephen and Albert to pry Nicholas off me. The moment his hand detaches from my arm Nicholas seems to slump onto his brothers.
Albert drags him to the pew opposite of Father Dixon’s, and helps him sit.
Nicholas doesn’t look over at me, he hasn’t said anything or even looked into my eyes, but he stopped that knife with his own arm. I should say something; but what can I say? ‘Yo, thanks for that?’ I don’t think so.
While elevating Nicholas’s arm and pressing gauze to the still gushing wound, Albert explains, “The soul-bound broke the lock on the door and attacked, while that one desecrated the church by murdering Father Dixon and attempted to kill...”
“We don’t have time for explanations,” Stephen snaps as he stands. “Fix up Nicholas as fast as you can then you two climb out the window. I need you to clear and defend a space for us, at least ten yards in each direction.” He steps over the soul bound and holds out a thick black vest. I slip my arms through; it’s probably bullet proof, the padding is so thick. There’s also a holster with two gleaming pistols under each arm.
“Do you know how to shoot?”
“No,” I say.
“Then, you’ll need this,” He wraps a belt around my waist and a long sheathed sword hits my leg, it’s heavy. “They’ll have a hard time taking that away from you.” To Albert, “Are you finished yet?”
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Albert objects.
“Would you rather leave him here for the...”
“I can fight,” Nicholas rasps unconvincingly. Then stronger, “I can fight!” He manages to stand and without a look our way passes his brothers to march for the broken window.
My throat feels tight.
I watch Nicholas’s forced steadiness as he clambers up the blood-slicked altar with one arm; he slips for a second at the top, but catches himself with his injured arm and an obvious wince. He’s going out there to fight a demonic horde… like that?
I shake my head; I can’t look at him anymore.
The church has a strange tension after Albert loads himself up with guns and follows Nicholas out the window. The quiet murmur of voices and a chaotic beating on the front door are the only noises echoing through the apse. The banging evens out, reminding me of a beating heart. I peer behind me to see what happened to the other priests, they haven’t moved from their kneeling praying positions.
“What will happen to the priests...?” I whisper, “…when the demons break through?”
Stephen stares intently into my eyes, “Do you really want to know?
I shake my head. No, I don’t want to know, not now, not ever.
I glance back at the pew where Father Dixon lies, “I didn’t even...”
“Not today, Raven. Today is not the day for mourning. Today is the day we ice over who we are and do w
hat needs to be done. Tomorrow, if we’re alive, we can look forward to crying and screaming and smashing furniture, understand?”
“Yes.”
Stephen picks up a canister of salt and the plate with the bloody bandage.
“You’re taking that?” I point to the plate.
He nods, “This is a blood offering.”
“What?”
He holds out the blood dripping plate and leans into my gaze, “A blood offering. That’s my plan Raven; when we get outside, we’re going to summon a demon.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Day Fifty Six (Continued)
“Quick, put the plate down inside the circle,” Stephen says over his shoulder as he pours a stream of granules onto the grass. “Make sure not to disturb any of the salt.” I can barely hear him over the screeching fighting sounds coming from where Albert, Nicholas and several commandos are holding a horde of demons at bay. At least the seething mass of fanged, clawed, and red gleaming eyed beasts seem to have scared off the soul-bound, for the moment.
I quickly do as he says, stepping over the salt line; the pool of blood on the blue ceramic threatens to slosh over so I set it down ever, so carefully. I leap back out of the circle before Stephen closes it with the last drips of salt; he throws the empty container down and offers me his hand.
I slip my hand in his; both of our palms are sticky with drying blood. “Have you ever done this before?” My voice sounds higher pitched than I intended.
“No,” Stephen admits, “But I’ve studied the theory.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything that could improve the situation.
The Deception Dance Page 27