I decided I would take an hour to see my dad today. It had been a week, and he always seemed to make me feel better. Grounding my anxiety.
I let my mind wander, breathing deeply. My nightmare. I had beaten it, kind of. It had still almost gotten me killed, but seeing Claire’s resolve, and then her in very real danger had silenced it. For the most part. Which was a huge accomplishment.
But thinking of my dad and the nightmare together brought back memories. He and my mom were — indirectly, of course — the reason I had the nightmares. Which made them sound like bad people, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Terry and Sarah Penrose were some of the kindest people I had ever met.
Remembering how focusing on my nightmare seemed to have helped me gain some self-control, I decided to try the same here, going back to the source of the nightmare itself. A jog would be the perfect time to do so, as I would be completely uninterrupted for the next fifteen minutes or so.
I grew up much as any middle-class American girl. Small neighborhood. Outskirts of the big city. Parents who worked hard but didn’t make a ton. And kids behind every door on my street.
That’s how I first met Claire.
She had been a neighbor and we had fast become friends at a very young age, getting into all sorts of trouble together over the following years. But when I was ten-years-old, my life had taken a turn… I remembered it now in full detail.
Claire and I were playing on the swings in her back yard. Her mom came out with a small tray of sandwiches and a smile — only to tease Claire with a small piece of paper in her other hand. A baby picture.
She had been pudgy, rosy cheeked, and looked like a little old man. I thought to myself — as they laughed back and forth — that I had never seen a picture like that before. Of me, as a baby.
I asked my parents about it that evening. They turned to each other, smiles still plastered on their faces, but their eyes didn’t smile. I began to wonder if I had done something wrong with my chores. But that wasn’t the case. They wrapped me up in blankets, hugs, kisses, and carried me into the living room.
After two cups of hot chocolate brimming with marshmallows, they finally stopped stalling, and told me a story. They had adopted me.
For years and years, they had tried to have a baby, but had been unsuccessful. They then tried adoption agency after adoption agency, even hitting up churches in their area, to see if anyone knew an affordable way for them to adopt.
But none of the answers helped them.
It was too expensive. My parents needed to take all three siblings or none — when they barely had enough money for one baby. Teenaged foster children that had gone through very challenging struggles, and needed one of my parents to stay home to watch over and supervise. But my parents couldn’t afford that reduction in income.
And they wanted a baby.
After years of trying, they gave up.
More than a year went by, when one day, a man from one of the churches they had approached called to ask if they were still interested or if they had found another solution. My parents hadn’t held out much hope, but agreed to at least go to the church.
Abundant Angel Catholic Church.
That was when they met Father David — the same man that now worked with Roland. But Roland wasn’t in the picture yet. That would come years later…
Father David told them a story, about finding me on the steps of their church in a rainstorm a few weeks prior. He had opened the door, found me there, and immediately took me in, making sure I was healthy while he worked out the legalities of what he needed to do.
The Vatican helped him take guardianship of me while he searched out potential parents.
And purely by happenstance, my parents had been near the top of the list, and the people ahead of them had already found other solutions. If they said no, he had arrangements to send me to an orphanage in Utah, of all places. So, Terry and Sarah Penrose became parents to a very young, white-haired toddler. And they had never looked back. Because there was nothing to look back on. No one had ever found an explanation for my appearance, but it was assumed that I was the progeny of a prostitute, or a druggie, or any number of sad stories.
But I was healthy with a bubbling temperament, and that’s all the Penrose’s cared about.
That night was the first time I had my nightmare, reimagining the things I had been told, but in a much darker light. Usually with shadows slipping through the darkness, or laughter behind me, or a sense of my biological mother being relieved as soon as she sat me down on the steps and banged on the door to the church.
Typical childhood fancy. Make something worse than what it was, when in fact, I had absolutely nothing to complain about. Terry and Sarah Penrose had been the best of parents. Not rich in coin, but what they lacked in deposit accounts at a bank, they made up for with their savings accounts.
Because for years and years, they had been investing a little bit of love into an imaginary savings account in their hearts, waiting for the day that they could give that savings account to their baby, even though they had long ago given up hope.
To be honest, I now considered myself to be the luckiest girl in the world. And to hell with my shitty past. Never had parents loved a child more than they loved me, and if they hadn’t told me, I never would have known. I wouldn’t have believed it if anyone else had told me.
That’s how much love they had in their savings accounts.
But… the fear still gripped me. Why had my biological mother given me up? Had I not been pretty enough? Had I behaved like a nightmare? Had she simply not cared for me? Had my father made her give me up? The possibilities were endless, but my fears stemmed from one facet of all of them.
Someone hadn’t loved me enough to take care of me, and that had to mean that for some reason I wasn’t good enough.
I had received help, seen psychologists, and as the years went by, studied my own self-help books in order to squash this feeling. Rationally, I knew it didn’t matter. But it never hit me at moments of rational thought. Only when I wasn’t looking. When surprised, afraid, overwhelmed, stressed, or caught off guard. That’s when it sucker-punched me.
Like my very own monster under my bed… in the dark bedroom of my mind.
I felt a small tear on my cheek and wiped it away. Not a tear of sadness, but… one of joy, remembering how much they had loved me, all the things we had done, trips we had taken. Biological or not, they were my true parents. My mother had died of cancer in my late teens, but if there was a Heaven, I knew she was smiling down on me now. I wanted to make her proud.
And with a slight stumble, I realized that I felt relieved. Focusing on their love had helped me. The nightmare still lurked, but it was almost as if remembering their love had locked the door on it. I could still hear it, scrabbling against the door, but it couldn’t reach me as easily.
I smiled.
And heard a crash from the alley behind me. I whirled instinctively, hand rushing to my chest. The church loomed up behind me, fifty yards away.
But that fifty yards may as well have been a mile as the monster smiled at me. A Demon.
She was cloaked in yellowish fog, and tucked against the wall as if wanting to stay hidden from prying eyes if possible. I slowly began to back up, thinking furiously. She smiled, or seemed to smile, the smoke shifting and eddying around her as she glided closer, matching me.
“Stand still or I will kill you here, in sight of your church,” she hissed in a low tone.
I stopped, hoping and fearing that someone from the church or the adjacent buildings would see the monster. The scent of rotten eggs slowly drifted my way, a gentle breeze having prevented me from sensing it before she startled me. “What do you want?” I managed.
She studied me, form rippling. Her breasts were much more prominent now, and her hips were visible, wide child bearing hips. “Cease your meddling, child. Or you shall meet your Maker.”
I ignored the sudden wave of goose-flesh ove
r my arms, and took a cautious step back. “I am not meddling. You have your piece of the spear. I have none,” I said, continuing to walk backwards. She was growing angry, her fingers slowly extending in white-hot claws
But I stayed to the center of the alley leading up to the back of the church. She would have to step out into the open, and I was ready to scream for all I was worth, or cast a big boom of magic that would draw people running from blocks away if I had to.
“Stay still, child. You’re in over your head. I have no quarrel with you, yet. But that can always change. Stop moving!”
I didn’t.
Instead, I turned and ran as fast as I could. She let out a roar behind me, and I darted to the right as a lance of flame flew past me, crashing into an invisible wall in midair, splashing over an unseen shield of some sort. I didn’t have time to question that as I pumped my legs faster, racing past the space where the fire had hit. I crossed the property line, darting back and forth, staring at the door to the church. Surely, a Demon couldn’t—
The sounds behind me had stopped, and the stench was gone. I risked a glance over my shoulder to see I was all alone. My eyes darted back and forth as I backed away, eager to get inside. Then it hit me. I had crossed the property line of the church. That’s where the fire had hit. The air directly above the property line of the church, almost as if an invisible dome rose up from that blessed line on the ground. I had thought the church itself would be safe, but hadn’t considered the property around the church. But it made sense. It had acted as a wall against her, even though I wasn’t religious. It had still protected me. I felt my ass bump into a wall and almost jumped out of my skin before realizing it was the door to the church. With one last look, I slipped inside, panting as I sank to the floor.
I definitely needed help. And I needed to warn Father David about this.
Chapter 20
I ran into Sister Agatha almost immediately. She looked scared to death. She must have heard the sounds outside.
“Oh, dear child. We tried to call you. I was preparing to leave to visit my family out of town, but I’m so glad the Lord brought us together first.”
I blinked at the onslaught. “What?”
“Father David was attacked last night. He’s in the hospital. Didn’t you check your messages?”
I shook my head, feeling numb. I had thought the missed unknown call had been another telemarketer. “Is he okay?” I asked, mind racing. “Take me to him. Please.” Roland couldn’t visit him. I was all he had. I needed to know what happened.
“Of course, child. I’ll take you myself.”
Thankfully, she had parked out front. She took my fear of the Demon as merely a result of the shock of hearing that Father David was hurt. I didn’t dissuade her, and didn’t see any Demons waiting for me. We reached St. Luke’s Hospital in less than five minutes since it was practically across the street, and were standing outside his room only minutes after parking. The waiting room had held several familiar faces, all from the church. They nodded sadly at me as I raced past them.
The nurse assessed me, glanced at the Sister beside me, and seemed to deem me trustworthy. “He was severely beaten early this morning. Luckily, the janitor found him in his office. He was awake, but delirious. He’s sleeping now, but I think he will make a swift recovery. He did sustain some serious damage to his ribs.” I nodded, lips tight as she opened the door. “Do not wake him.”
“Has… has he said anything?”
She studied me, deciding if I needed to know that information. The Sister’s presence sold her, because she answered as I stared at his motionless form. “He kept repeating help her, and I’m so sorry, Father.” She glanced at him, shaking her head. “Like I said, head trauma can bring about the most bizarre statements. I once heard a man — fully awake — telling me it was of vital importance that he speak to President Hoover. This was last year,” she shook her head sadly. “Don’t worry child. We’ll look after him. He needs rest to heal.”
Sister Agatha was sobbing beside me, clutching her rosary as she prayed under her breath.
“Thank you.”
“As long as you can be as considerate as the other guest he had, I’ll let you go in to see him.”
I was suddenly standing directly in front of her, holding her upper arm. “He had another guest?”
The startled look on her face slowly morphed to an understanding, but still displeased look at me gripping her arm. “Yes. Shortly after he arrived. A young man. He was here long enough to pray beside him, and then left. I watched him the entire time. You aren’t the only one to love this man,” she added softly.
I nodded, releasing her. “I’m sorry. This is just… unbelievable,” I whispered. Had it been Nate? Surely the Demon hadn’t come by. She had said a young man, but there weren’t any young men that worked for the church. A relative?
I realized the nurse had left, so I slowly approached Father David, wondering what the hell I was going to tell Roland, and how it was related to my troubles. Could it be a simple theft? I asked Sister Agatha this, feeling her standing behind me, still murmuring her prayers.
“The office was in shambles, and although the donation box was left untouched, several of the golden crosses Father David adored were missing from his desk. The police will find out for sure.”
I nodded, taking one last look at Father David. His face was scratched and bruised, and he had a bandage wrapped around his temples. “Can you have the police watch over him?”
“I will ask.”
“Thank you. Can you take me back, please?”
“Yes, my dear,” she said, placing an arm around my shoulders and guiding me away. I would call Roland on the way home. He had to know about this. Immediately.
Theft? Or the Demon?
I had no idea, but I did have suspicions…
Chapter 21
Roland hadn’t answered the phone. Claire had answered hers on the first ring, whispering angrily as she told me that whatever I needed to tell him could wait. He hadn’t been sleeping enough in her opinion, and whatever I would tell him would likely keep him up for hours. I knew she was right, so hadn’t badgered her about it. But I did make her promise to call me the moment he woke up. Having nothing else to do, I had decided to go train while I waited for him to wake.
I took slow, deep breaths, eyeing the empty stone room before me. Sweat dripped down my brow, and my hair was slick at the base of my neck, sweating under the weight of my thick ponytail. I had been training with weapons in the adjacent room for the past twenty-five minutes, losing myself in the forms that were ingrained into my memory after so many years. Anything to avoid thoughts of Father David.
I took another, deeper, breath, clearing my head, blocking out all sensory evidence but the cool, rough stone beneath my feet.
I fed my thoughts into a single image. That of a feather. A single white feather floating before a black velvet background. As thoughts, fears, and emotions buffeted me, I fed them into the feather, growing it finer, more detailed. The feather ruffled slightly with each onslaught until it finally calmed, slowly rotating in my mind.
All was calm.
I was calm.
My muscles tingled with anticipation, finely attuned to my surroundings, one with them, but separate from them. I watched my body as if a spirit looking down on it.
A light, pleasant, familiar chime pierced the silence.
Before the sound had time to cease, I moved.
I sprinted for all I was worth as the empty room began to abruptly change. A pillar of stone erupted from the floor, but I was already jumping for it, and as my foot touched the rising stone, I rode the momentum up a dozen feet into the air before flipping forward without looking ahead, sensing my surroundings with an inner sight I couldn’t describe. Habit. Muscle memory.
My feet landed lightly on a second pillar just as it finished rising up from beyond the first pillar. I paused, cocking my head slightly, and then dove forward at a minute signal. A st
one slammed down from the ceiling, hammering into the pillar I had just vacated as I drifted through the air like a puff of dandelion.
At least that was what I felt, weightless for a breath or two before I flung out my hands at a faint noise, latching onto a wooden horizontal pole that suddenly dropped down from above me. My momentum carried me forward, swinging one time before I let go to once again sail through the air. I caught the next beam just as it dropped from the ceiling, swinging entirely up and around until my body momentarily displayed a handstand on top of the second beam. Then I calmly folded in on myself in one practiced, controlled motion, leaving me crouching on the second beam where I had just been swinging. Any mistake in timing or instinct and I would fall.
I waited. For seconds or minutes, I wasn’t consciously aware, trained only to focus on my immediate senses, not time — the crashing stones behind and below me as they pounded into each other, ready to crush me if I had made a mistake. A faint steady grinding of gears controlled the arena, and I was aware of each minute sound — as familiar to me as a mother’s laughter would be to a child.
That thought threatened to derail my focus. You never heard your true mother’s laughter…
I squashed the thought with my newfound control — not perfect control, but enough.
Long familiar questions whispered in my ears despite my defenses. Why had I been abandoned? What kind of parents could do such a thing? Was something wrong with me? Was I not good enough for them? I forced it back down easier this time, but it was distracting.
Ridiculous or not, that last question always hit me at the worst possible moments, and it was why I doubted myself. Why I didn’t want to be a Shepherd. Well, one of the reasons, anyway. It was why I trained. To become good enough. Even though deep down I knew that question would return, and I would mess things—
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