by Alex Lux
I put a hand on his, sharing my power with him, showing him a reflection of what I saw in his soul. "You know, it doesn't matter whether you're gay or not, whether you have powers or not, I can see into your heart, and it is beautiful. And the work you do to help these kids, that is something no one else could do. You've lived it. You know what it's like, what they're going through. It's what makes you the perfect person to help them."
He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I hope so. But, Rose, what if I'm the reason these kids were targeted? What if I'm the reason my cousin is now dead?"
SIX
Speak The Speech
DRAKE
Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you,
trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of our
players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines.
— William Shakespeare, Hamlet
THE SCHOOL ERUPTED in a flurry of excitement when a dark sedan drove up to the mansion and a Bishop stepped out of it.
Father Patrick always dressed casually for a priest, in black slacks and a black shirt with the priest collar, and simple crucifix hanging from his neck.
The Bishop who descended on us didn’t know the meaning of understated. He wore a black wool cassock trimmed in black silk, a purple silk sash with fringes, an elaborate gold cross studded in jewels, a purple silk skullcap with crimson lining and gold ring with a blood-red ruby the size of a small egg on his finger.
Looking past the pompous clothing, the man underneath wasn’t particularly remarkable. Medium build, dark hair, brown eyes, mid-50s but fit—a very average-looking man.
His assistant was dressed like Father Patrick minus the priest’s collar, but stood tense, as if ready to respond to a threat at any moment. After years of super strength and too many fights to count, I could spot that energy in others even without my new empathic abilities. He was younger, closer to my age or maybe a few years older, somewhere in his mid-20s, with a face hardened by life.
Looking at him took me back to my days on the street, hustling for a drug that would return my powers to me while Sam dealt with her pregnancy alone. I wasn’t that man anymore. I’d changed and she’d forgiven me, but I’d never forget what I’d done.
My instincts hummed with warning as I took in our visitors, but the emotions emanating from them both were calm enough. They were curious and tired from their journey. I caught Sam’s eye as the strangers were greeted by Father Patrick. Could she read their minds? See their intentions?
She frowned and her voice filled my mind. They’re not thinking anything specific. Mostly images of their drive. They’re tired from their trip.
Sam had always been able to read minds, and she learned how to speak mind to mind with people when she and I first met telepathically while she was a student at Rent-A-Kid. Can you dig deeper? Find out their intentions? I asked.
Her face went blank as she focused inward. After a few moments she sighed internally. They're wondering if they'll get any food.
That's it?
Sorry. They're just very present-minded people. I've met a few before.
Father Patrick greeted the Bishop with a handshake. “Your Excellency, welcome to our humble school.” He turned to introduce everyone. “This is Bishop Alaric Sarlo, and his associate…” He paused, waiting for the Bishop to supply a name.
“Ryder Conway,” the Bishop said curtly. His face was stuck in a perpetual frown, as if life were a constant disappointment. Waves of judgment rolled off of him as he examined each of us. When he came to me, his eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed before moving on to pass judgment on Sam and a group of kids who’d just gotten out of their physical education class.
Father Patrick ushered Bishop Sarlo and Ryder into the large study and offered them seats. Sam and I sat on a loveseat while they sat on the couch.
Father Patrick served everyone tea, then settled into his leather chair, ready to get down to business. “Why did they send you here, Bishop Alaric?”
The Bishop looked at Sam and me, clearly waiting for us to leave or vanish. When we didn’t, he looked back at Father Patrick. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
Father Patrick sipped his tea and smiled, looking to everyone else like a man calm and in charge, but I could feel his frayed nerves. “You can speak freely in front of them. They help run this school.”
Ryder sat forward on the couch, ignoring his tea and food, his jaw set in a hard line and shoulders tense. The Bishop placed a hand on his arm and Ryder sat back, feigning a more relaxed pose. “This property belongs to the Church,” Bishop Sarlo said.
No. Father Patrick had warned me of this. But how could they own the mansion?
“This is my property, not the Church’s,” Father Patrick replied.
Setting his tea down, the Bishop leaned forward. “You received this property from Father O’Henry when he died, but he wasn’t at liberty to give it to you, as you well know. He owed this to the Church, and we intend to maintain control. Do not fight us on this, Father Patrick. You won’t like what happens if you do.”
The threat hung in the air, and though I had no idea what the Church could do to Father Patrick, I could tell from his emotional response that the Bishop’s words carried weight.
"I've never fought you," said Father Patrick.
Bishop Sarlo leaned back and picked up his tea, sipping it. "You've withheld information about this place."
"I gave as much information as I felt was necessary. I’m not running this school. I’m just assisting in the development here. You’ll meet Professor Shaw later. He had another meeting to attend to. You got here earlier than we were expecting. He’s the Headmaster here.”
"Not anymore." Bishop Sarlo grinned. "This situation falls into our jurisdiction. We need make sure it’s handled appropriately. The Pope wasn’t happy with how much was leaked to the press about these paranormals, and he's aware of your reputation. He sent me here to make sure nothing else goes wrong.”
Father Patrick shifted on his seat, his face aging even as we talked. “Are you here to close down the school and reclaim the land for yourself?”
Sam squeezed my hand, her anxiety flooding me.
Bishop Sarlo laughed. “You have always been such a doomsayer. No, I’m not here to close it. I’m here to run the school with you. That way, the students get to keep their teacher, and the Church has someone more loyal in control.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the room. I wanted to protest, but I didn’t think anything I could say would have a positive effect right now.
Ryder broke the silence by asking me about myself. “What sort of powers do you have?”
We still weren’t used to speaking of our powers with outsiders, and this guy definitely counted as an outsider. I almost refused to answer when Father Patrick nodded. “You can answer, Drake.”
“I’m an empath. I can sense emotion in others.” I didn’t mention my ability to see the future, as haphazard as it still was. Only a few close friends knew, and I wasn’t about to let these people in on my secret. A secret too easily abused.
Ryder cocked his head, his blue eyes probing me. “Is that all?”
I wondered why he seemed suspicious, but I nodded sharply. “Yes. Sorry to disappoint.”
He raised an eyebrow, looking as if he wanted to ask more, but then fell silent.
Derek stormed into the room, a barely contained urgency in him, but paused when he sensed the tension. “I have news on the investigation, but it can wait until our guests leave.”
Father Patrick introduced Derek, and Ryder glared at him in much the way he’d glared at me. Perhaps he recognized that Derek and I were both skilled fighters, not to mention paranormals. He probably hadn’t spent a lot of time with our kind and didn’t like the idea of us being strong physically as well.
Bishop Sarlo frowned. “What investigation might this be?”
Before Derek could speak and antagonize the Bishop any further
, Father Patrick stood. “Bishop Sarlo will be joining our school at the behest of the Pope. You may speak openly in front of him. He could be beneficial in helping us solve the mystery we are faced with now.”
And so Derek reluctantly filled our guests in on what had been happening to date, then revealed his latest find. “The news was right, it does look like a wolf attack. But, something’s not right. I didn’t smell wolf, only human, even when I followed the tracks. And the tracks changed as well. As if the wolf started walking on two legs.”
“Was it another shifter?” I asked.
Derek shook his head. “No, I would have smelled another shifter.”
Ryder stared at Bishop Sarlo, his eyes hard. “A lycan?”
The Bishop furled his eyebrows. "Perhaps."
“A lycan?” I asked. “As in lycanthrope? As in… werewolf? Are those even real?”
Sam, Derek and I all had similar reactions of shock, but the other three men in the room didn’t feel surprised at all.
Father Patrick pursed his lips, ignoring my comment. "What would a lycanthrope be doing here?"
"I don't know," Ryder said. "But we’ll find out."
Derek started nodding. "That's why I couldn't smell a shifter. I’d of course heard myths of werewolves growing up, but we never believed they existed."
Father Patrick frowned, still distant. “This isn’t typical behavior for them.” He looked at the Bishop, his voice controlled but firm. "You and your people had better deal with this.”
"We will.” Bishop Sarlo stood, with Ryder following. "We will return in a few days with our belongings."
My own anger finally boiled to the top, at least I thought it was my own. I was still learning to separate other people’s energy from my own, and there was enough anger, fear and anxiety in the room to make anyone lose their cool. I pushed to my feet and faced the intruders. “You can’t just come in here and take over. You can’t control us.”
Ryder stepped in front of me, a foot taller than me. Few people were able to tower over me in this way. “You’d better hope you’re wrong about that. Because if you can’t be controlled, you’ll be destroyed.”
Derek and I could have taken them and ended this right then, but Father Patrick gave us that look he has, and we both reined our emotions in as the Bishop and Ryder left, shutting the door behind them.
The tension in the room deflated, but the anger still filled me. I spun on Father Patrick. “You’re just going to let them take control like that? Threaten us like that?”
"Of course not," Father Patrick said. "But we must tread carefully. They are very powerful."
Derek laughed without humor. "More powerful than us?"
Father Patrick nodded. "Lycans," he said, his voice low, "are all leaders in the Catholic Church."
SEVEN
You Are Not Fit
ROSE
If your mind dislike any thing, obey it. I will forestall their
repair hither, and say you are not fit.
— William Shakespeare, Hamlet
I UNDERSTOOD CURTIS' grief. He felt like he failed his cousin, but I wasn’t convinced he could have done anything to make things better. We drove in silence, the GPS giving us directions to the next victim’s house.
Curtis opened the newspaper, rereading the article about Phoenix Allen, a young woman who had died too young. “Do you think her brother, Billy, really saw what did this?”
The news reports had been vague, and Billy didn’t look like the most reliable witness in the television news clips, with his skinny tattoo-covered arms and rotten teeth indicative of a meth user. Still, we didn’t learn much from Mr. and Mrs. Barley, so we had to follow every lead no matter how hopeless it might look. We couldn't let any more people die.
“I’m not sure. Maybe. We’ll know soon enough.” We pulled in to another run-down lot, but this didn’t look like the last house, worn by years of owners too old to put the work into maintaining it. This was a doublewide trailer with beer cans littering the front yard. A huge German shepherd barked at us the moment we left the car and approached the door, lunging at us until the chain choked it, pulling it back with a whine.
That didn’t stop the dog from barking. In another life I would have been scared, but I wasn’t that timid little witch anymore. I let my inner wolf blaze in my eyes and stared down the dog, growling until it whined and dropped to all fours, rolling on his back in a submissive pose.
I scratched his head as Curtis looked on wide-eyed. “That’s badass," he said. "I wish I could do that.”
Adrenaline from the wolf pumped through me, and I smiled. “It is pretty badass.”
Billy opened the door and glared at us. “What the hell do you want?” He noticed his dog, panting in joy under my belly rubs. “What the hell did you do to Cujo?”
Cujo. How original. “He’s a nice dog,” I said, ignoring the stench of piss and beer and bong water wafting from this hovel. Focus on what's nice. “Nice trees around here. I’m Rose and this is Curtis. His cousin was killed the same way your sister was, and we heard you might have seen what did it?”
Billy’s bloodshot eyes widened. “Ah, man, that sucks. I sure as hell saw something. Come on in.”
I didn’t want to step foot in his house—and I use the term house lightly—but what choice did I have when we needed information? My wolf senses never shut off completely. Even in human form I had a heightened sense of smell… and, boy, I wished I didn’t as the rancid decay of Billy’s dwelling assaulted me. I gagged, hiding it with a cough, as he gestured us to his ratty, torn up couch. I eyed it suspiciously and sat on the very edge, hoping we didn’t catch anything contagious while here.
Billy walked to a cooler stuck inside his broken refrigerator. Classy. He held out a beer. “Want one?”
I shook my head. “No, we’re good. Thanks. Can you tell us what you saw? We heard it was an animal?”
Billy perched a barstool and took a deep swig of his beer, wiping his mouth on his arm and burping. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
I was not in the mood for games and it occurred to me we should have brought Sam. Her mind-reading abilities would come in handy right about now. “What do you mean?”
He took another swig, emptying the can. "It looked like a wolf, but…" His eyes darted around as if someone might be listening.
Curtis leaned forward. "But?"
Billy grabbed another beer and chugged before setting it down. "But it had red eyes," he said in a hiss. "Huge teeth. And it was bigger than any wolf I'd ever seen."
I suddenly had the urge to giggle. It was like being inside a morbid, drug-infested retelling of Little Red Riding Hood. Fighting the urge, I instead asked, "Where'd you see it?"
He lit a cigarette, but one puff and I could tell there was more than just tobacco in there. I was going to need a shower after this.
"A grove deep in the forest,” he said. “Me and my sis used to go hiking there. Good place to smoke a few joints and chill, ya know? It was bitchin’ in the daylight, and we wanted to see it at night. So we did." He paused. "It didn't look bitchin’ no more. Smelled like pig shit and ass. Smelled like a fucking demon, yo."
My pulse quickened, thoughts of my demon father and my trip to the demon realm causing a visceral reaction in me. "A demon?"
He nodded. "That's what it was."
If he was right, and I wasn’t convinced he was, this could be seriously bad. "Can you show us where you saw it?"
Billy shook his head and took another hit of his joint. "I can't go back there."
"Please,” I begged. “We want to find this animal."
“Wasn’t no animal. I tolds ya. It was a demon straight from hell.”
“Right,” I said. “We need to find this demon before anyone else gets hurt.”
He squinted his eyes at us. "And then what?"
"We can kill it," I said. "For your sister."
That seemed to convince Billy. "Okay. Let's go, yo." He pulled out a rifle from a closet, which did nothing
to reassure me. "It’s gettin’ dark. The demon may have come back."
EIGHT
Man Delights Not Me
DRAKE
Man delights not me. No, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.
— William Shakespeare, Hamlet
FATHER PATRICK PULLED out a thick book filled with velum-like cream paper that seemed ancient. It was bound in carved brown leather inlaid with gold and handwritten with a quill pen and black ink. At least, I imagined it had been a quill pen. The edges of the pages had intricate images with more gold inlay.
He set it on the table in the secret library and flipped through the pages until he reached the image of a wolf standing on two legs, part man and part beast, holding a helpless woman in the air with one claw.
"Lycans are designed to kill," Father Patrick said.
"Designed? Like someone made them?” I asked.
"Yes," he said, his face grim.
"The Church?" I couldn’t fathom this. I wasn’t Catholic, despite Father Patrick’s best attempts to save my soul. Growing up in foster care, the old priest had been the only stable father figure I had, and his Church the only real home I knew, but his religion never quite settled in me. Still, I had a hard time imagining the Catholic Church as Enemy Number One. "Designed to kill who?"
"A special kind of being." Father Patrick turned another page, showing an image of a man with wings. "Nephilim," he said, pointing to the picture. "The offspring of angels and humans."