Pure & Sinful (Pure Souls)

by Killian McRae

  It wasn’t like Marc had gone looking for Jesus. The first time he attended a mass at St. Brigit’s at the age of sixteen, he’d been scouting for a hide-out to ditch some loser looking to pound him flat. He hadn’t expected to be drawn into the sermon, or to be filled with a sense of purpose the way he was that night. The priest at the pulpit, Father Hermosa, preached of redemption and the repudiation of evil. Marc was a punk kid, but he wasn’t a criminal. Oh, but even he recognized he was stepping on the edge of an abyss heading straight for Hell if he kept to the streets in the same way. When Cecilia Angeletti discovered her son’s affection for the faith and voiced her disappointment with his “willingness to be brainwashed by the corrupt Catholic ninnies,” it only increased the appeal. One thing Marc knew from early on: if his mother disapproved, it was usually the right decision to make.

  Luckily, that same lesson had also led to his doing exceptionally well in school, despite his careless street-strutting outside of the bell schedule. Cecilia just didn’t get her son’s need to conform to the social norms and excel in the defunct system of public indoctrination. It wasn’t as though Marc was the valedictorian, or even an honor student. Still, he pulled a good enough GPA to get into UMass.

  College came across as an institution purposefully designed to woo a well-intentioned divinity student away from priestly ways. Behind every corner stood any number of temptations: booze, sex, drugs, parties.

  The Anime Club.

  But if there was one thing Marcello Angeletti was not, it was a quitter. Obstacles only made him more obstinate; he didn’t try to find a way around things, he freaking dropped a nuclear bomb on anything in his path. So, in the time span of one semester, Marc went from happenstance seminary groupie to the reincarnation of Reverend Parris, and the UMass campus was his Salem Village. Picking up a few acolytes of like persuasion, his little campus crew quickly developed a reputation as religious fanatics, and were dubbed “The Zealies.” He took out his fervor — and lack of normal social functions — in study, finishing his BD in three years, instead of four. Shortly before graduation, he and his posse picked up on the rumor of a wiccan group meeting just off campus. The Zealies considered the opportunity to crash it the perfect send off for Marc before he entered the seminary.

  The rundown Victorian-manse-turned-tiny-rentals didn’t look from the outside like a coven’s keep. Still, Marc knew that plain looks could conceal evil realities. Just look at his mother, for crying out loud. When he entered the top-floor apartment from the open door, crucifix in hand and damnation on his tongue, the last thing he expected was to have a blast of energy thrown at him. The last thing the witch doing the throwing expected was for Marc suddenly to conjure up his own latent magic abilities and rebound back at her.

  In the weeks that followed, ripples of his magical talents manifested further, spreading like a rash over his whole aura and body. At first, he thought himself cursed, but admitted to himself that he rather liked the ability to reheat cold coffee just by staring at it. The Zealies declared him possessed, a theory he couldn’t entirely discredit. Unease and unfounded guilt inspired another round of hyperactive study, letting him take on his work at the seminary in abbreviated time. The attention his herculean efforts garnered fed his ego. When he became a priest at the relatively young age of twenty-four, he hit the ground running in Alabama, trying his best to subdue the side of his nature that told him he could do more, be more, and acquire power.

  The church came first. He made his vows, and he was going to stick to them come Hell or — well, Hell. Magic? If one believed that all things came from God, then surely that could be attributed to the divine as well, couldn’t it? And anything given by God couldn’t be bad.

  Now, staring down the barrel of thirty, firm in purpose, if not in product, there was a shift again in his world. Marc sucked in the taste of his Marlboro as his thoughts turned to Riona Dade.

  God also gave hurricanes, earthquakes, plagues, and humans the ability to create disco. Clearly, the theory that all His gifts were good was one cup size short of a Kardashian.

  Riona Dade — she was just too… ungh. Marc had never thought about what his perfect woman would be like; being a man of the cloth didn’t give him much of a reason to speculate. Yet, if he had been pressed to outline such a creature roughly, Riona would fill out that sketch pretty well. She had just the right balance of street smarts, sophistication, and I-don’t-give-a-damn-what-the-hell-you-think for his taste. Not to mention she was freaking hot. As a priest, he knew true beauty lay within, but he was willing to bet becoming intimate with Riona’s inner beauty would be one hell of a joy ride.

  Treating her like trash wasn’t exactly copacetic for team spirit, but a Pure Souls office romance could have serious consequences. It had happened before, and the results weren’t pretty. Not to mention that whole cardinal sin thing on his end, which would be expected if he were to lay one of the laymen.

  After fishing his keys from his pocket, Marc unlocked the deadbolt to his studio apartment. Priests living solo in such an urban area definitely weren’t the norm, but the rectory wasn’t for him. Communal living was way overrated. Living alone gave him a space to meditate, pray, and hang out his tighty-whities to drip dry without embarrassment. Plus, no one ever gave him crooked looks about books on his shelves with titles like A Dictionary of Angels: Including the Fallen Angels and Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner.

  Luckily, being a floater priest without his own parish, the rectory was only optional. His grandfather left him a small inheritance, just enough to pay the gas, electric and rent each month. His humble salary from the church covered other incidentals. Being a Pure Soul came with many benefits, but they were all of the non-monetary variety.

  The worn cotton of his secondhand quilt felt like a mother’s embrace as he collapsed onto the bed. Not his mother, of course, but someone’s mother. It was amazing how a good night’s sleep could erase all the woes, terrors, and turmoil of the day. It occurred to him that maybe he should take off his clothes and shoes, but that would require sitting up, and he just wasn’t going there at the moment.

  Relaxation… achieved. A comfy bed delivered better bliss faster than a hot bath and a cold beer on a night like this. Marc almost forgot about the demon brawl that had gone down just a few hours before. He wondered if Dee really had been as scared shitless as he was. Riona looked shaky at first, but came through without a scratch. Just took a little encouragement, and though he failed at toning down his sarcastic snipe, he tried to serve that purpose for her.

  It wasn’t as though he wanted to come off as a pompous ass all the time, but keeping up that front was essential. Dee’s fruition had finally led to him dropping the issue. He just didn’t get it. But Marc knew. The second he got too close to being sincere and allowed Riona to see him as a friend, it was going to be too hard to pull back — literally and metaphorically.

  Marc remembered her smell as he had leaned in closely to whisper in her ear. Her fragrance… Mmm, spicy, hot, cinnamon and suede, yet completely feminine. The feel of her auburn hair, silky waves and all, brushing against his cheek did unholy things to him. Heat spread across her neck and cheeks when he spoke, and the hue of that flush had caused a reflection of red in his own composure that he thanked merciful heaven she couldn’t see with her eyes pinned on her demon ex. She had been so close, so soft, so…

  “Mmm, Riona…”

  With a bolt, Marc’s eyes shot open. His body’s Judas actions shocked him. His hand froze in place, the zipper only halfway down, though what lay underneath was completely up. No, he couldn’t do what he was starting to do. That was wrong on so many levels. Not to mention, sinful, according to church doctrine. Giving into this desire was a slippery slope, and this temptation, a monster that all too quickly could take on a life if its own. The infatuation with the witch had to stop.

  Riona Dade could never be a
nything to him.

  More importantly, he could never be anything to her.

  Chapter 5

  Marc’s little divo dance out of Paola’s left Riona with more than just uneaten pizza. Questions about the accusation beneath his words as he stormed out lingered, along with the scent of garlic.

  It wasn’t like there was a background screening required when she signed up to become a Pure Soul. No one presented a waiver that let them dig around in her credit record and social calendar. Then again, considering who her new bosses were, FICO scores and fraternal organizations probably didn’t concern them much. And if anything was in a little manila folder in an applicant file somewhere, no doubt Marc took issue with her history of romances. If he had somehow become aware of them. Riona didn’t subscribe to the Pope’s newsletter, but she was pretty sure Vatican II hadn’t changed the church’s perspectives on lady love.

  And it wasn’t like she was some flaming activist type who marched in all the Pride Parades and had a rainbow flag bumper sticker on her car. In fact, in the long term, Riona didn’t think she could even be with any woman for a long-term commitment. She could hold feelings for a female whose inner beauty she found appealing, but at the end of the day, she admitted that only a man ever made her feel whole. For her, anyway, that was just the way it was.

  Riona shoved aside three cups of apricot yogurt and tossed the pizza box into the fridge. The beer buzz from Paolo’s was dulling. After the day she’d had, blowing up her ex-boyfriend and all, the in-the-moment feeling sobriety held contained no appeal. Two choices lay before her, and she didn’t think she had the energy to make it all the way to bed.

  Ice clinked in the glass and made a ting that sounded like a mocking chuckle. Whisky silenced that sound, and she hoped in a few swigs, it would wipe out the voices in her head as well.

  Shimmying out of her jacket and unbuttoning her blouse, her backside hit the Italian leather of her couch as her arm dashed out for the remote. Local News gave her an odd delight. For a woman who had always had a limited group of friends, it could make her feel part of the community, even if by proxy.

  More of the same tonight. A few armed robberies, a short-lived hostage situation, a car crash on The 80 that left one dead, two injured. She once mourned these deaths as they were read off by the anchor, but now, she knew better. Connecting with a higher purpose by being a Pure Soul gave her a little more insight into the nature of Nature. When the soul detached from the body, it didn’t disappear. It simply moved on. Still, empathy for those left behind in the lurch filled her. They wouldn’t understand until their time came to make the journey through the pearly gates.

  Assuming they all ended up in Heaven. Despite the general consensus, Hell didn’t just let any riffraff in. The universe had a much broader live-and-let-live philosophy than she was led to believe by twelve years in parochial school. Dee relieved her concerns early on when he informed her she’d be fighting on behalf of the Creator’s SWAT team. Morality, he said, was a highly personal measure, outside of a few universal sins like murder and rape. Unless one made a vow to consign his definitions to a higher entity, like Marc had with the church, and as long as a person was just and truthful, managing morality was more like Montessori school than a military academy.

  Riona closed her eyes and said a little prayer for the person whose life The 80 had claimed, hoping he had never betrayed his own righteousness and that his soul was now in Paradise.

  Sighing as her eyes became heavy and her head swam the drunken waters, Riona hit the power button. Nothing happened. Batteries must be dying out again, she concluded. Starting to sit up so she could retrieve a fresh pair from the kitchen cabinet, a wicked grin spread over her face. What was she thinking? Remote control? She didn’t need no stinkin’ remote control.

  Slender fingers danced through the air as her thoughts focused, and with a flash, the boob tube flicked off.

  Wow, she was going to save so much money on Duracells now.

  Three more minutes’ passing saw Riona Dade sprawled out on her couch, snoring lightly. Dreams had always come quick and vividly, and her magic manifesting only sharpened the visions. Tonight and on most nights lately, her dream was the ultimate THX-3D experience.

  Glamoured Jerry grinned at her from across the room. His tux fit every dimension perfectly. There wasn’t anything magically-enhanced about those pecs; that demon had a gold star membership at Hell’s Gym and he used it. Riona burned in anticipation. Oh, what she could do with him, both in and out of that tux. But why was he so decked out?

  Looking down, she discovered that it wasn’t just him. Red sequins glittered as bounces of light from an overhead disco ball hit the fabric of a red dress designed to induce lust, making her look aflame. Add Jerry’s wanton gaze tracking her as he made his way across the ballroom, and she might actually conflagrate on the spot.

  Jerry pressed his lips to the back of her hand, the gesture heating and spreading up her arm, through her neck, down into the pit of her stomach. As his azure eyes met hers, his intention revealed itself plain as day. And, damn, she was game. Looking as fine as he did, he would get no argument from her. Her eyes were already searching for an escape route through the crowd. Disappointment caught her off guard as, instead of the door, Jerry led her towards the dance floor to join the liquid elegance of the waltz. A surging of strings touched her, the sound waves tangible against her skin like they were engaged in foreplay.

  “You look stunning tonight.” Jerry leaned in as he inhaled deeply. “And you smell... sinfully delicious. I could eat you right here.”

  “Don’t make any promises you don’t intend to keep, Jer,” she returned, feeling her temples and cheeks flush. “What’s with the fancy get-up and all these people? Why are we here?”

  He pulled back and eyed her incredulously. “Don’t be silly, witch.”

  “I’m not being silly.”

  Something began to come across as wrong with the whole picture. Jerry? Wait, didn’t Jerry and she break up? Her movements slowed as she became aware of something on her head. A hat? She wasn’t really into hats, and why would she wear one with a dress this nice and naughtily cut? She wished she had a mirror. Her hands reached up and pulled a mass of scratchy, red mesh material from the top of her dome.

  A veil. A blood-red veil.

  His coy laugh made her shudder. “It’s our wedding, darling. Don’t you remember? An altar? A sacrifice? Something borrowed, something blue? Something bloody, something new?”

  Her feet stopped on the spot. “Wedding? Our wedding? No, that can’t be. I’m a Pure Soul, and you’re a demon.”

  Jerry’s arms crossed over his chest when she backed away, his expression filling with concern. “Riona, are you feeling okay? Don’t you remember? You were a Pure Soul, but you fell. You betrayed your purpose to save Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb, and agreed to sacrifice your soul for theirs. Don’t act like this is all news to you. It was all your decision. More than that, it was your destiny.”

  “No, it’s not. And you’re lying. I would never do that.”

  Someone must have set the room on “turntable;” everything around her was spinning. From all sides, bodies fell in on her, the faces of the other dancers coming into crystal clear focus. Every manner of demon, goblin, and underworld cast members jeered. It was almost as bad as being at Disneyland.

  She turned, looking for the exit, a way out. At the far side of the room, another man stared with concern her way. Unlike the sea of scary around her, his face held goodness and compassion in its features. His back straightened when her eyes met his, as Riona felt a wave of unfounded familiarity run down her. He began to move, first in her direction, before gnashing his teeth and balling his hands. Looking angry at himself, he instead pivoted and disappeared into a new wave of demonkind entering from the perimeter of the room.

  Jerry trailed slowly beh
ind Riona’s futile attempts to break through the crowd. From the corner of her eye, she detected his glamour slipping away, his skin greening and bubbling. “Shall we leave, Ree? After all, we’ll have the honeymoon suite all to ourselves, and it has been awhile. I’ve never taken you with demon flesh and bone before. You’d be surprised of the advantages…” His smile parted as he slowly, teasingly licked his lips. “… of having a forked tongue in the bedroom.”

  Ignoring him, Riona pushed forward. “Dee? Marcello? Ramiel? Anyone!”

  “They’re not here, witch.”

  She turned and all but spat at him. “I don’t believe you. I wouldn’t marry you. I don’t love you. I’m not meant for you.”

  The corner of his mouth rose. “Keep telling yourself that, sugar.”

  “And I would never betray Dee and Marc!” she further insisted, planting her hands on his chest and pushing him away as he gained on her.

  “You loved me once, and sooner or later, you’ll realize you love me again.” His knowing grin put an exclamation point on the statement.

  “I do not! Get… Get away from me. All of you!” Pushing the others didn’t accomplish much, but she’d be damned if she was going to stop. “Marcello! Marc, please!”

  A thickly-braided mass of muscles in the form of arms caged around her defensively. Riona knew it was Marcello — not only by his smell, an odd combination of Old Spice and communion wafers, but by the feeling of safety that flooded her.

  “Back off, demon!” he bellowed, pressing her tighter against his chest. “The Keystone comes with me.”