“Thanks.” I tried the door and found it open. The dim booth was small enough it should have been claustrophobic, but it wasn’t. I felt secure, safe, protected. It was the strangest thing that in a world gone mad with monsters and demons and magics, oh my, that this would comfort me. A small panel slid back. Silence.
Here we go.
“Um, forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. A lot.”
There was a heartbeat of silence. Then came the most compassionate voice I’d ever heard. “There is nothing, child, that the Father cannot forgive.”
I wanted to challenge him, force him to see the things I had seen and tell me that his faith was still as strong after the revelations as it had been before. My mind worked madly. Every precalculated idea, every squirrelly plan, every direct challenge—they left me. All that remained was the truth, and I couldn’t bring myself to share it.
“When was your last confession?”
My reaction was inexcusable. I snorted. “Never.”
“If you’re interested in Catechism—the switch to Catholicism—you’re free to talk to any of the clergymen in the lobby.”
“I appreciate that, but I’m not interested in converting.”
“Pardon me?”
“No. Wait. I’m sorry. I’m sure Catholicism is a great organized belief system, but that’s not why I’m here. I need your help. I’m in over my head, and I need you to…”
How was I supposed to go about asking someone to put his soul on the line? How could I ask this stranger to risk his eternity for me? Easy. Because it wasn’t me I was asking for. It was the man I loved. For him I’d find a way to draft a trade treatise between Heaven and Hell and broker souls myself.
Pressing my hand against my belly, I took a chance and blindly reached out for help. “Hell has come to Earth, and I’m about to drag you into the whole mess.”
Another pause. “Go on.”
This was the difference between the priest and me. Before the whole Niteclif Evolution, I’d have laughed, suggested a lightening of the dude’s chemical load and been on my way. The priest listened. So I talked. “There’s a demon, Agares, who’s tracking down fallen angels and giving them nine kinds of hell before he either helps them earn re-admittance to Heaven or steals their souls forever. Agares is after my fiancé’s soul, sir. He—my fiancé—isn’t a fallen angel, but he and the demon have…history. I’m not about to let his soul go without a full-blown religious smackdown. Which is where you come in. I need your help to stop the demon.”
This pause was longer, and I wondered if he was calling the Guarda. When he finally spoke, I could hear the skepticism I’d expected all along. “Religious. Smackdown.”
“I wish I had a better way to put it, but I’m terrified I’m going to lose him to either dark magic or Hell’s Happy Hitmen. I had nowhere else to turn for help.”
The window between us closed with a distinctive snap. It was over. I wanted to knock, to ask him to give me another chance to better articulate my needs, to put to use the hours I’d spent practicing as I drove. Chances were it wouldn’t matter, though.
I moved from the confessional, blind to the parishioners, altar boys and clergymen. Anger was a muted emotion, weighed down by the crushing reality that I’d failed in the only plan I had to save Hellion.
A hand closed on my arm and I looked up into shrewd gray eyes. “Come with me.”
Yanking my arm free, I rounded on the priest, my heart in my throat. “You didn’t believe me.”
“You didn’t give me much to go on short of a few names and fantastical statements,” he countered.
“I guess it’s easy to become numb to the realities of…” I looked around.
His gaze followed mine. “My office.”
With a single nod, I followed him. Hope kept me right on his heels lest he change his mind. In that case, without a doubt, I’d take him down and pound the truth into him.
One way or another, I was about to make a believer out of a man of faith.
His office was beautiful. Warm woodwork, book-lined walls, scrolls on a drafting table and an antique desk sitting on an Oriental carpet made me want to curl up in the leather visitor’s chair and forget the outside world existed. It was an office designed to coax that feeling forward, and whoever designed it had done a commendable job.
“Whiskey?” he asked, moving to a small sideboard.
“Only if you can drink too.”
“We’ll consider it sacramental and both lift a glass.” He poured two fingers into each tumbler and passed mine over with a small blessing.
I took a sip, reveling in the way the woody, smoky flavor wafted up through my nose.
The priest was of average height, trim and slightly soft with it. His skin tone said he was a man who saw little sunshine. As such, his face was far more youthful than his cap of silver-threaded red hair would have me believe. Small reading glasses repeatedly slipped down his nose only to be absently pushed back up. He sank into a chair across from me and sipped his drink, watching me through discerning eyes. “I’m Father O’Cleary.”
“Maddy Niteclif.” I took a larger swallow and my eyes watered.
He tipped his glass toward me, gesturing for me to carry on.
I blew out a hard breath and nodded. “Okay. I have to keep this to the condensed version because I’m betting Agares will discover either Zerachiel or Gagiel, and I don’t want to lose another fallen angel who might have been redeemed.”
“Fallen angels.”
“Fallen angels,” I repeated. Then I started in on the highly condensed version of the last few weeks of my life.
Watching Father O’Cleary’s face go through its own evolution of skepticism to outright disbelief to sheer wonder at Micah’s arrival and the story of the Sons of Seth made the retelling interesting. Even more so considering I was so newly emerged from the hopes and heartaches and had to now look back on all of it with a clinical eye. By the time I reached current events, I almost didn’t believe it myself. It was too much.
The priest drained his glass and moved to the sideboard, poured three solid fingers of whiskey and tossed it back without flinching.
“And here I thought you were breaking the rules,” I said softly.
He looked over his shoulder at me, his breathing slightly accelerated, pupils larger than normal. “You’re telling me the truth.”
“As I’ve lived it. Yeah.” I ran a finger around the rim of my glass, hesitating.
“You’re leaving something out.”
“What makes you say that?” I set my glass down and stood, wandering over to his bookshelves. Knickknacks cluttered every inch not taken up with old tomes and current thrillers. Small boxes held personal treasures, though one made no sense to me at all. It was a sliver of wood encased in a clearly expensive humidor. “What’s this?”
“A symbol of the most powerful faith.” He moved to stand next to me. “It’s a sliver of the cross of St. Peter.” Taking the small box down with clear reverence, he stroked a finger along the glass. “It’s a relic that has belonged to the Church for centuries. The little box travels from church to church, bequeathed by its current owner at his passing. It came to me from the last pope.”
Okay, so I was impressed. “You knew him?”
A wistful smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. “Very well. He taught my Catechism classes. We managed to keep in touch over the years.” Turning the box under the light, he considered it. “Such a small, seemingly insignificant thing to harbor so much power.”
“How is it powerful?” The skepticism in my voice was so apparent I managed to embarrass myself.
O’Cleary waved a dismissive hand. “It’s imbued with the faith of the man who made the sacrifice for his beliefs.” Setting the box on his desk, the priest studied it absently for a long while. Finally, locking his hands behind his back, he faced me. “There’s something you’re not telling me, Ms. Niteclif. I’d like you to be brutally honest. No tap dancing, no redirection, no avoid
ance.”
There were times I loathed intuitive people. Forcing myself to meet his gaze, I nodded. “Fine. I want to try to exorcise a demon who has his own corporeal body, banishing him to Hell with your…experience.”
O’Cleary paled a bit. “I don’t do exorcisms independently anymore. You’d need a cardinal or one of the priests more recently trained—”
“No. I ended up here. You were in the confessional. You have to do it.”
His brows winged down. “Why? That doesn’t seem like a logical argument.”
“I’m sure it’s not. But I’m going on the fact Micah claims my life’s path has been set. You were set square in that path, Father. I could have chosen any of the confessionals, but I chose yours. That means you’re along for at least this leg of the journey.”
“It’s the whiskey talking,” he said firmly, staring out the window into the night.
“I haven’t had enough to get fluthered, thanks.” Hands in my pocket, I picked at a hangnail and waited.
The priest pulled at his Roman collar. His attention unexpectedly zeroed in on me. “What aren’t you telling me? I’ll only ask this one last time.”
Closing my eyes, I sighed. “I’m having a little crisis of my own, Father.”
“Which is?”
I considered him through one squinted eye. Only truth would pacify him. So be it. “I can’t decide if life is ruled by free will or destiny.”
He cocked his head to the side. “And it matters greatly to you?”
“A life ruled by destiny would absolve the one living, me, from guilt because I wouldn’t be responsible for hurting Bahlin.”
“The…”
“Dragon shifter.” I might have said it a tad forcefully. Oh well. “Free will means the prophecies were suggestions and I’ve made the choices I’ve made and hurt the people I’ve hurt all on my own. I don’t know if I can live with that.”
“We’re stronger than we think, particularly when we factor faith into our personal equations.”
I rolled my bottom lip between my teeth and shrugged.
“Ah, a crisis of faith.”
“I don’t have time to dig into this right now. Hellion has to come first.” I straightened my shoulders and met his gaze head on. “If I had to guess, I’d say Agares is on the ground and hunting. I need to get out there and find him. He has answers to my questions, including Asmodeus’s involvement in this cluster…mess. His name keeps popping up, but no one can tell me who he is. Will you help me?”
“You’re asking me to accept this—”
“On faith,” I interjected. “I’m asking a man of faith to act on faith. Yes.”
Tucking his hands in his pockets, he rocked back and forth, heel to toe, considering me. “I’ll go with you on two conditions.”
“Name them, and we’ll see if we can agree.” I didn’t like to admit to holding my breath, but the silence stretched long enough for black dots to dance in my vision.
“You’ll agree to dig into this matter of faith more thoroughly with me after tonight.”
I let my breath out in a whoosh. “I’ll agree to dig into it after Hellion’s safe.”
“Agreed, provided my second condition is met.” He worked to readjust his collar.
“What’s the second condition?” Skepticism leaked into my question.
He smiled. “Oh ye of little faith.” Clearing his throat, he lifted his chin a fraction and I saw the stubbornness of the man shine through the grace of his faith. “You’ll prove to me that what you’re saying is true.”
A wicked, slightly manic grin broke free, and I nodded. “Oh, I can do that. But remember to be careful what you wish for, Father, because you can never go back once you know.”
He paled even further, his skin taking on the color of chalk dust. A ghost of a smile flitted across his lips. “I suppose I should get my holy water, then.”
“I suppose. A crucifix probably isn’t a bad idea either.”
My stomach went into free fall. We were doing this, going out into the night essentially unarmed to hunt down a demon.
Oh boy.
Father O’Cleary’s reaction to the car had been pretty priceless. Turned out he was a car freak.
“Holy Bride!” he’d exclaimed as one of the valet attendants had opened his door.
“Careful, Father. I need you to save the exclamations for later.” I’d winked at him over the top of the car before slipping into the driver’s seat.
The Bugatti was, naturally, drawing huge crowds at stoplights and roundabouts. People were pointing and taking pictures. My only hope was that Agares heard about it before Hellion did. Were demons up on social media? I chuckled softly and downshifted, the tachometer revving as we took a corner.
“Where are both the most posh parts of town and the very rundown sections? I’m talking extremes.” I glanced over to find the priest watching me intently. “What?”
“You really believe this is all true.”
“You will too,” I muttered, turning down yet another side road.
“All right, then, let’s have a go at the Sandymount area. It’s a very affluent area. If that won’t work, we can head to—”
A beam of faint light shot up over the building just ahead of us.
“Hold on,” I shouted, punching the accelerator.
The car shot forward like a stuntman from a cannon, setting us back in our seats with the force of tires digging into pavement. O’Cleary grabbed his harness and shouted something to the Almighty, but I was too busy muscling the car to the head of an alleyway to pay attention.
Stopping as hard as I’d started, I threw the door open and looked over at the priest. His was petrified, eyes frozen and focused on whatever was happening in front of the car. I did the only thing I could think to do. I punched him. Not hard, but a good knock to the chin.
“Get it together. I told you what was happening. Grab your gear and let’s go.” I slid from the car and stood, taking in the scene before me.
Agares had the fallen angel down. He’d beaten him badly—nearly as badly as Micah had been beaten before he showed up on Hellion’s doorstep only days ago. The demon’s wraiths were circling, moving like smoke in the wind.
“Shut it down,” I said quietly. Volume didn’t matter. The demon could hear me, would hear me, no matter whether I whispered or screamed.
Agares turned to face me, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fancy meeting you here.” He grinned, the unnaturally handsome face so out of line with the soul behind its façade. “And I see you brought…what? An entourage of one? Not your usual practice Madeline Niteclif, but I’ll give you points for style. A priest.” He chuckled.
“Niteclif?” The angel lifted his head and reached out beseechingly.
My stomach knotted up. I wanted to run to him. Protect him. Save him. In the end, I only managed a single step in his direction.
“Stop.” Agares’s smile disappeared as the wraiths pulled in tighter.
Air moved behind me and I knew Father O’Cleary had moved in close.
The demon’s eyes narrowed. “What do you think you can accomplish, holy man? It’ll take more than a little prayer and a blessing to get this miserable sack of shit out of trouble.”
The downed angel was trying to drag himself away. He made only inches at a time as he pushed and pulled, his labored breaths fogging the air. Blood matted his hair. One arm was clearly broken. His clothes were ripped and torn, hanging from him in tatters.
“Be still.” Agares kicked the creature hard enough I thought I heard the muffled crunch of ribs breaking.
The angel grunted and fell to the concrete.
My heart hurt. My eyes burned. I couldn’t breathe. “Don’t.”
“Does this hurt you?” He kicked the angel repeatedly. “Good ol’ Gagiel seems to like it. See how he just lies there and takes it?”
“Don’t,” I shouted, stepping forward. I reached out a shaking hand, beseeching. “What do you want, Agares?”
Agares threw his head back and laughed. “A man? I see you’ve never crossed the Divide, you bendable, breakable mortal.”
“The Divide?” The father’s hand tightened.
“You’ve never seen beyond this mortal plain to the supernatural,” I answered, the words falling from lips gone numb. I’d been a fool. Such a fool. And now Gagiel would pay for my hubris in trying to stop Agares alone.
“Let’s rectify that.” Agares began to strip.
Father O’Cleary stepped around me. “You’ll cease this nonsense immediately, young man. You’ve no right to beat an innocent man. Leave now and I won’t call the Guarda.” And God bless the priest, he tucked his Bible under his arm to pull his cell phone out.
Agares stepped free of his pants. Standing bare before us, he rolled his head back and forth, stretching the muscles in his neck. His hands curled in on themselves. Everything happened so quickly after that that it was impossible to say what came first and what changed last.
Scarred black wings exploded from his back as his skin darkened. Ash-colored, his toes and fingers split as talons shot forward, curling into the asphalt as if it were soft clay. His body grew. And grew. Short, bony spikes erupted over his shoulders and the crown of his head. Tall horns grew from the back of his skull and rose high, curling back. His face elongated, his lower jaw widening and jutting forward. His mouth was a mess of serrated teeth. Eyes that had been blue bled to crimson and were filled with unfiltered loathing and…hunger.
I shuddered.
The wraiths scattered, hovering well away from their keeper.
A heavy thud made me look over, well, down at Father O’Cleary. He’d fallen to his knees, his Bible dropped beside him. The rice paper pages fluttered in the breeze, the sound abnormally loud. The father’s lips moved, sounds coming out low and unintelligible.
Agares snarled. A thin line of drool escaped, lingering before falling. The ground sizzled where it landed.
Vengeance: The Niteclif Evolutions, Book 3 Page 22