Vigil: An Urban Fantasy Thriller

by Russell Newquist

  Peter nodded agreement. He settled back into position. Faith and Quentin moved in around him. They adjusted for a few minutes, working to find room for all three to fit. When they finally found workable positions, Peter gave a count. On three, they pushed together.

  They managed to move the stone a full inch before it slammed back into place.

  “This isn’t going to cut it,” the knight declared. “We need leverage. That’s why they had the pry bar out here.”

  He took a minute to ponder the situation, studying the rock and surveying their supplies. He drew the Sword and considered a groove beneath the rock, clearly meant for the pry bar.

  “Is that a good idea?” Faith asked. “What if it ruins the steel?”

  “Probably not, but I don’t have any others. Besides…” Peter paused for a moment, studying the blade. “I don’t think it’s steel.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked as he worked his way into position.

  “I’ve used it for some crazy things,” he explained. It took some doing to wedge the tip of his considerably wider blade into position, but he managed it. “And an ordinary blade would show nicks and scratches by now - lots of them. But take a look at this one.”

  She knelt over the Sword to study it. He waited while she completed her examination.

  “It looks perfect.” She couldn’t conceal her awe.

  “Exactly. No steal I know of could stay that pristine. Or any other metal.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Quentin interrupted. “But can we get out of here already?”

  Peter grunted. Faith stepped out of the way and he pressed downward, using his body weight to augment his strength. He pushed with everything he had.

  This time the stone moved so easily that Peter almost fell as he worked his lever. He caught himself at the last moment as it rolled away. Nicolette spat out a tiny squeak as she jumped out of the way. Even the priest, who had seen the giant rock move before, took a wary step back.

  “Whoops,” Peter apologized. “That went a lot better than I expected.”

  He collected his gear and they stepped across the threshold into an unfinished basement. The space consisted of a small storage area, a tiny desk with a lamp, paper, and pens on it, and an open bathroom. It smelled of mildew and mold.

  Peter ignored everything and went straight to the sink. He turned it all the way on, cupped his hands under it, and started drinking. A few minutes later he swapped to splashing water on his body. “That is so much better!” he exclaimed.

  Chaotic noises from above interrupted his Peter’s reverie. He looked upward. “Sounds like battle,” he noted. He scanned the room again and realized what he hadn’t seen the first time. The room had no other exits. “How do we get up there? They need us.”

  For once, Quentin actually smiled. “Let me show you!”

  Chapter 21

  Peter pushed his way up through the hole. The hazy, supernatural light filled even the small closet. Faith pushed Nicolette up to him. He hauled the little girl up with ease. Faith didn’t present much more of a challenge, but he lifted her delicately and gently. He showed considerably less concern as he helped Father Quentin through the hole. He found the door and pushed it open.

  He burst out into the sanctuary to find a spear dancing angrily in his face. He swatted it away with his blade, prepared to do battle with its owner. Instead, he heard a whoop of joy.

  “Peter!”

  Conor lowered his weapon and reached out to grasp Peter’s hand in a firm welcome. His gaze drifted behind the young man as Faith, Nicolette, and the priest filed out to join them.

  A gasp rose from the congregation.

  “Nicolette?” a woman's voice called out.

  “Mama!” the girl answered. “Papa!” she added, after she noticed her father as well. She ran across the sanctuary. Faith smiled as her parents rushed to meet her, scooping her up and smothering her with hugs and kisses. Benedict trotted off after the girl as if guarding her.

  “We’ve got to finish the mass,” Peter told him.

  “It may be too late,” Gabriel answered from the altar. Peter turned to see his friend kneeling over the fallen form of Friar Stefan. He glanced around the church. The entire congregation manned defensive positions at the various doors, wielding whatever makeshift weaponry they could find.

  “Oh, that is not good,” Peter said. “That is really not good. Where do we stand elsewise?”

  “Maybe half a dozen drakes surrounding the sanctuary,” Conor reported. “The peasants are holding them off, but they’re not trained for this. Best we’ve got are a couple of teen athletes. Most of the rest are old or crippled, but they’ve got courage and faith. Not that it’ll do them much good when that dragon comes back for another pass.”

  “What about Stefan?” Peter’s gaze turned to the fallen friar.

  “One of the kobold's stabbed him. The blade must've been poisoned. He’s fading fast, Peter. We’ve got to get him help.”

  “The mass?” The Knight pressed.

  “We can’t finish this tonight, Peter. We’ll have to come back another time and try again.”

  “How far did you get?”

  “Not far enough.”

  Peter grabbed his friend by the shoulder and pulled him close. Conor leaned back, pulling away from the intensity in the young man’s eyes

  “How far?”

  “He consecrated the bread, but not the wine. It’s not enough to complete the sacrifice. But he can’t finish it in his state. We have to leave.”

  Father Quentin swore.

  “We can’t leave,” Peter told him. “We have to finish it. We have to finish it now.”

  “We can repair the binding another –”

  “You can't repair the binding!” The little Frenchman interrupted. He threw his hands up in exasperation.

  Conor and Gabriel focused dark expressions on him. The Irishman loomed over him, his intimidating form violating the priest's personal space.

  “You'd better have one hell of an explanation,” Conor growled.

  “That stupid rich girl irreparably damaged the binding. You can't fix it. No one can.” Father Quentin kept his voice calm, but that didn’t extend to his face or his body language. He cowered in fear before the Conor.

  “Why?” Gabriel asked gently, playing good cop to his friend's bad cop. “Why did you lie to us?”

  Peter stepped forward. “Calm down,” he told his comrades. “We've already been through this.”

  “The demon lied to me,” Father Quentin continued. “It’s kind of what they do.”

  The older men traded looks before nodding back at him unhappily.

  “Fair enough,” Gabriel agreed. “What does it want?”

  “To desecrate the mass.” Quentin visibly relaxed with each word, as if telling his secret lifted a massive burden from his shoulders.

  “Dammit,” Conor swore.

  “Yes, literally that,” the priest answered.

  “Of course,” the Texan nodded. “He wants to destroy the bond completely, but he needed us to do it. And like fools, we walked right into his trap.”

  Quentin nodded in confirmation.

  “We have to finish it,” Peter declared, “or the Peluda gets free. The modern world isn’t prepared to fight this thing, or to keep it in check. We have to end it now.”

  “How?” Gabriel asked. “In case you didn’t notice, our priest is down for the count.”

  A raspy breath caught their attention. Friar Stefan made the smallest gesture with his fingers. Gabriel rushed to his side, but his friend pushed him away.

  “Priest,” the Friar forced out. He managed to raise a shaky finger and point it at Quentin. He turned it over and curled it back toward himself in a come hither motion.

  Father Quentin shuffled toward the injured friar, one step at a time. He looked like he'd prefer to approach the dragon. Shaking, he knelt beside Stefan. The German motioned him closer. The others fell in around him, struggling to he
ar.

  “You.” They could barely hear the word in the breath, but Stefan managed to jab his finger straight at Quentin’s heart. Even in his weakened state he managed to harness a stern, fatherly look. “Canon law. Must finish. You finish.”

  “That could work,” Conor mused.

  Quentin trembled as he listened.

  “I can’t,” he whispered. “I’m in a state of mortal sin, and I’m not –”

  “In extreme circumstances…” Gabriel agreed. “Canon law does permit it. Demands it, even.”

  “Confession,” Stefan hissed. “To me. Right now.”

  Quentin choked off a wail, but somehow he found his courage. He nodded.

  “Leave us,” the friar choked out.

  The French priest crossed himself and whispered quietly to the German friar as the others moved toward the congregation. Peter couldn’t make out their quiet voices, and he made it a point not to pry.

  “We've got to keep them safe while they finish,” Conor declared.

  “This could take a while,” Peter noted.

  Faith gave him a look of grim determination and agreed.

  “What's our weaponry look like?” the knight asked.

  “A couple of blessed spears, a harpoon gun, a few pistols, and the Sword,” Gabriel answered.

  Peter sighed. He'd hoped for more, but he put a good face on it. “Hey, what else could a guy ask for?”

  “I don’t know,” Faith answered. “A six-demon bag would be pretty handy right now.”

  Gabriel and Conor traded another confused look, but Peter grinned like an idiot. For the first time all night he felt a genuine sense of joy. Faith smiled back at him. It hit him suddenly how beautiful she really was. He decided not to fight the sudden impulse that came over him.

  “Wanna get some coffee and catch a movie?” he asked flippantly, as if it were that simple. Her smile grew and her pale blue eyes gleamed. Of course she wants to get coffee. She's only been trying to get you to ask her out since the moment she met you.

  She looked at him as if she expected that he really would just waltz out with her in tow. When she looked at him like that, he almost believed it himself. A man could conquer empires with a smile like that behind him. He should’ve asked her out sooner.

  “I'd like that,” she answered.

  Peter nodded.

  “It’s a date,” he said.

  “What’s the play?” Conor asked.

  “Save the priests, kill the dragon, and get the girl.”

  “I can get behind that,” Gabriel replied.

  Peter drew his Sword. The blade burst into a sudden flame, catching him completely off guard with its intense light and heat. As it ignited, screams broke out from the congregation around them.

  “Hey y’all,” Faith asked, “did anybody else see that statue move?”

  Chapter 22

  The sound of stone grinding on stone seemed to bypass Peter’s eardrums and burrow its way straight into the most primal centers of his brain. His training took over, and he adopted a defensive posture. But since his training had mostly centered on jujitsu, he found himself in entirely the wrong kind of stance for the weapon he now held.

  He adjusted quickly as he watched the nearest statue come to life and approach him. A quick glance around the room confirmed what his ears had told him. Nearly a dozen other statues had also awakened. Benedict let out a series of growls and barks as he moved between Peter and the stone sentinels.

  Why did someone put gargoyle statues inside the church? Peter asked himself.

  Had he seen the statue in good lighting he’d have admired the artistic work, if not the design. The intricate horrid detail revealed a squashed face with enormous sunken eyes, pointed Yoda-like ears, and sharp fangs. The stonework creature spread its wings into a six foot span that loomed over him as it neared.

  It stopped just outside of his personal space bubble. They all stopped in unison, leaving a loud clack that echoed throughout the sanctuary. Peter dug in, readying himself to strike.

  The creature snapped a smart salute right at Peter.

  He froze in mid strike and met the gargoyle’s gaze. Uncertain of what else to do, he raised his sword hand to the center of his chest, holding the blade vertical between his eyes. He snapped it down to his right in a fencing salute. When he’d finished, the stone creature lowered its own hand and pointed at the Sword. As its lips moved, Peter clearly heard words forming underneath the sound of grinding rock.

  “Servimus gladio.”

  Peter blinked, trying to work through the Latin. Gabriel beat him to it.

  “We serve the Sword,” the Texan translated.

  Peter let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d held.

  “Y’all know anything about this?” he asked the room at large.

  “Not a damn thing,” came Gabriel’s drawl.

  “First I’ve ever heard of it,” Conor agreed.

  “OK.” Peter decided to roll with it. “OK. Man the doors. No – wait. Guard the priest.”

  The gargoyle looked at him stupidly.

  Of course. It speaks Latin. That’s probably all it understands, too.

  Again, Gabriel beat him to the translation.

  “Defende sacerdos!” the Texan ordered.

  The beast stood still, staring at Peter. The young knight repeated his friend’s order. Then the gargoyle snapped him another salute before turning toward the main entrance. The others followed suit, spreading out toward the other doors around the edge of the room.

  “Congratulations, Jar Jar!” Faith taunted him. “You’re a general now!”

  “I’ll try not to pass out,” the young American replied.

  A commotion rang out from the main entrance doors almost before he finished speaking. The French teens Conor had placed on guard dove in and pressed their shoulders against the heavy wood, fighting to hold the doors closed. Peter, Gabriel, and Conor raced for the door without a word, ready to join the effort.

  They still had twenty feet to go when the doors burst open. Tall-Jacques and Short-Jacques gave their most valiant efforts, but the force drove them backwards and sideways. The taller youth fell to Peter’s left; the shorter one to his right.

  The three comrades found themselves face to face with the two baby drakes that charged in through the opening. One had the face of an old woman. The other carried the countenance of a small child. Peter saw his friends break to the sides in his peripheral vision, but he ignored them. Instead, he opted to keep his momentum. He raised his blade high as he continued the charge. The glow intensified, flooding the entire sanctuary with a blinding white light.

  He picked the beast on his right and brought the Sword down in a smooth strike. But the dragon moved at the last moment, throwing Peter’s timing off. Instead of cutting cleanly through the drake’s snout, his blade lodged in its skull. He’d effectively incapacitated the wyrm, but now he struggled to free his weapon.

  The other drake sputtered behind him as the dead creature fell to the ground at his feet. Peter stomped a boot on the side of its head and used it for extra leverage as he pulled. He managed to keep his balance as the Sword came free, but it slowed his spin. He heard the breath behind him as he turned to face the other creature, but he already knew he’d taken too long.

  Thankfully, his friends hadn’t. The blast of Gabriel’s harpoon gun rang through his ears, followed quickly by the solid thwack of his friend’s projectile hitting home. Peter brought his own weapon to bear just in time to see Conor’s spear strike through the creature’s neck.

  The teens arrived a moment later, fire extinguishers in hand. Like Peter, however, they simply stood and watched as the drake thrashed in agony. Steam hissed from wounds that seemed to boil. He puzzled over the sight, uncertain of what he saw.

  “Holy water,” Gabriel clarified.

  Peter nodded before stepping in to sever the beast’s neck in one clean stroke. By that point it honestly felt like putting the poor creature out of its misery. I
t joined its twin in a heap on the floor.

  Before he could catch his breath, another roar rang out in the chamber. The Peluda rushed in through the open doors, howling in rage. This time Peter followed his friends’ lead and dove out of the way. He rolled right, while his friends tumbled the opposite direction.

  This time it was the teens who held their ground, armed only with their fire extinguishers. Each of the youths held two of the devices, one in either arm. Peter watched in awe of their courage as they stood firm, waiting for exactly the right time. The dragon opened its maw, sputtering as it prepared to unleash a blast. Short-Jacques let out the command, and they jumped forward, aiming and unloading together.

  They emptied the contents of all four canisters straight down the Peluda’s gullet. It swiped at them as it gasped and coughed, but they managed to dodge in the confusion and duck away. They traded a high five as they slipped behind a column for cover.

  It swiped at them as it gasped and coughed, but they managed to dodge in the confusion and duck away. Peluda shook his massive head to clear the tears from his eyes. He hunted for the youths until Father Quentin caught his gaze from behind the altar. The dragon stared down the priest, but the little Frenchman held his ground. He raised the bread high and proud as he proceeded, reciting the litany. For the first time Peter could recall, the priest’s hands didn’t tremble.

  “May the body of Christ keep me safe for eternal life.”

  The dragon roared as Quentin calmly ate the wafer before him.

  “No!” Peter yelled, moving onto the offensive.

  But the beast moved faster. It huffed and puffed, but the fire extinguishers had done their job. The Peluda couldn’t muster another blast of fire. Instead, it charged, bearing down on the altar.

  Quentin ignored the oncoming monster. He raised the gold chalice above his head, meeting the beast’s eye. The ground shook beneath him, but he kept his hands steady as the dragon closed in.

  Chapter 23

  The dragon accelerated as it moved, howling in rage. Peter never would have believed anything that size could move so quickly if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. The demon ignored the pews and the congregation, its gaze focused entirely on stopping the priest.