"So she was telling the truth all along,” Vesper said, shaking her head. “The Devil made her do it."
Next up was NYPD Homicide Detective Andy Tomkins. The grizzled Asian cop was built like a linebacker, but his eyes were locked in a thousand-yard stare. According to the file, Detective Tomkins had suffered a mental breakdown following a grisly string of murders. The press speculated that the horrific nature of the slayings pushed the detective over the edge. Andara's report, however, suggested that there was indeed a supernatural component to these crimes. The demon controlling the killer had launched a psychic assault on Tomkins, attempting to jump into the detective before its host was shot down, and only Andara's swift interference had saved his soul. Detective Tomkins left the force on a disability pension and was still struggling to pick up the shattered pieces of his life.
I grew angrier with each file. The story was always the same. Demons targeted two types of people: the innocent and the heroic. The first group included kids and teens; the second was comprised of soldiers, cops, priests, and other folks the public looked up to. The purpose of a demon's unholy existence was to push people out of the light and into the dark.
That’s what had happened with the next person on the list. A picture of a handsome, smiling priest stared back at us, forming a counterpoint to a shot of the same man resisting arrest, foam dripping down his chin as if he were a rabid dog. Father Ambrose had tried to sexually assault a nun, and that was the least of his crimes. A demon had selected a respected man of the cloth and done everything in its infernal power to sully his reputation and shake the faith of millions through his public degradation.
At last, we reached the end of the document. The final survivor was a striking young woman who carried herself with a sense of confidence, almost an edgy cockiness. She evidently favored ripped jeans, black T-shirts, and a leather jacket. Her name was Nora Hill, twenty years old at the time the picture was taken.
This woman was no stranger to me. I’d assisted Father Andara with her exorcism. If I was honest with myself, I had wondered if Nora would be attending the retreat.
"Hey, I thought there were no girls allowed in your clubhouse." Vesper shot me a mock jealous look and elbowed me in the ribs. “Courtney Star and this badass-looking chick?”
“They’re all victims of possession,” I said. “Father Andara will have them reliving the worst moments of their lives. Trust me, the last thing on anyone’s mind will be romance.”
Vesper rolled her eyes. “I was teasing. I trust you, Mr. Kane. Go help these lost souls.”
My eyes lingered on Nora Hill's photo, though. I doubted that Vesper would have approved of my trip if she'd known the exact nature of my relationship with this woman. Not only had I witnessed Nora's exorcism, but five years earlier we'd also been lovers.
Chapter Four
The road cut through the New Mexico desert, a lone band of asphalt in an ocean of ancient rock formations and blinding sand.
I'd rented a Jeep as soon as I landed in Santa Fe, had spent about seventy miles on route 84, and was now fighting my way down a gravel road. According to the monastery's website, this abbey was one of the most remote in the world. They hadn't been kidding. Civilization seemed like a distant fever dream in this barren landscape, beautiful yet desolate. Mesas and high cliffs surrounded me. I might as well have been barreling across the surface of Mars.
As the wasteland lulled me into a trance, my thoughts turned to the past. Specifically, my history with Nora Hall. Even back then, I'd known it was a mistake to get involved with her. I'm not proud to admit this, but I have a weakness for beautiful, haunted women—as you might have noticed by now. Call it classic “broken wing syndrome.” Save the fair lady, win her favor. Shrinks would probably speculate it had something to do with losing my mother at an early age.
When our paths first crossed, Nora had been a young philosophy and psychology student with an unhealthy interest in the occult. One night Nora and her like-minded college friends conjured a demon. It didn't go well, to put it mildly. You mess with forces beyond human comprehension, you get burned for your efforts.
The demon slaughtered Nora's friends and hitched a ride in her body. From there the monster would have embarked on a bloody cross-country road trip if it hadn't been for Father Andara and yours truly. We stopped the beast, sent it back to the void. That should have been the end of the story, but as the priest reminded me, a successful exorcism was only the first battle.
Nora became a shell of her former self, a mere echo of a person, and she ended up spending the first six months following her exorcism at a private psychiatric facility. Her family was loaded and spared no expense. I should have moved on with my life, but Nora's beauty and vulnerability had cast a spell on me. Naturally, I checked in on her as soon as the shrinks released her from their care.
For three months, we were together.
But even during our honeymoon phase, trouble was brewing. Nora started pulling back, inch by inch. And then, one day, she told me it was over. She couldn't continue to have a relationship with someone who had also been touched by the supernatural. My entire life revolved around demons; Nora was trying to get away from them.
Which meant she also wanted to get away from me.
I hadn't seen Nora in five years. Wasn't sure how I felt about seeing her again after all this time. I'd always wanted the best for her, truly, and if this three-day stay in the desert could help her then I was all for it. I just worried that seeing me might open old wounds for both of us.
And I felt guilty for not mentioning our past relationship to Father Andara. Did he know about us? Would that knowledge have changed his mind about involving me? Probably no to the first question, and definitely yes to the second.
I was more than happy with Vesper, but Nora felt like unfinished business. I'd failed to help her move on from her terrible ordeal. If I could help her now… well, it was a second chance to put things right. Get some closure.
Keep telling yourself that, buddy, a voice whispered in my head. Do you really believe you can help these forsaken souls? Do you think that dredging up the past is going to do Nora any good?
I clenched my jaw and gripped my steering wheel, forcibly silencing the scoffing voice in my head, a voice that sounded suspiciously like my father.
I think someone is not being quite honest with himself. Getting bored on the home front and looking to reignite some old sparks?
“Shut the fuck up,” I said out loud as I floored the gas. Dust clouds spiraled around me.
The barren landscape was getting to me, that was all. There was a jaw-dropping beauty here, but the isolation seemed to strengthen the doubts in my head, turning up the volume on my greatest fears and insecurities. My life was the best—the most stable—that it had ever been. Mostly thanks to the woman I’d left behind in Malibu. I wouldn’t do anything to risk that.
Would I?
I could have fought harder to have Vesper join me at the monastery. Or I could have turned down Father Andara’s invitation when I saw that Nora would be there. Was I trying to sabotage my current relationship? Did the son of Mason Kane only feel alive when he got too close to the flame?
Mercifully, the monastery then jumped into view and freed me from these negative thoughts. The first structure to catch my eye was the church, about a quarter mile in the distance. A stone tower fronted a glass dome that roofed the church's main structure. Both the metal cross and church bell topping the tower shimmered in the unforgiving desert sun.
Jagged rock formations, high cliffs, and tree-covered mountains framed this sleekly designed house of God. There was something both humbling and inspirational about seeing a church in such a remote, otherworldly landscape.
As I drew closer, more structures came into view. I recognized them from the website I'd studied earlier. I was looking at the guest house and the monk's main living quarters. There was nothing else within miles, though. The online images had failed to do justice to the desolate
nature of the place. The next couple of days were sure going to be interesting.
The dirt road ended in an open stretch of barren land that fronted the monastery and served as the unofficial parking lot for visitors. My Jeep joined three other vehicles that had arrived before me: a Land Rover, a Ford Raptor, and a Mercedes G-Wagen. Strong cars with fat tires, a perfect choice for this harsh environment, just like my Jeep.
According to Father Andara's itinerary, most folks wouldn't drop in until tomorrow morning. As the co-host, I was supposed to arrive early, but some attendees had apparently beaten me there.
Would Nora be one of the early arrivals?
I turned off the engine and glanced at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. I wore a white button-down shirt that concealed the double-holster system containing my father's sacrificial blade and my Glock, with its rune-engraved silver bullets. The holster also held a small flashlight that sure came in handy when digging around in haunted houses late at night.
On my flight from Los Angeles to Santa Fe, the weapons had remained locked away in a steel suitcase. As soon as I had secured my rental car, the gear came out of the case. I would not allow the forces of evil to catch me off guard.
I’d wondered how the monks would respond to my weapons, but I'd be a fool to travel without them. My list of enemies had grown over the last few years. The void had my number, and it was only a matter of time before they would send their next agent of darkness after me.
I got out of the car and continued on foot up a flagstone path framed by cacti, agave, and brittlebush. High above, the sun was turning a fiery red, and bloody rays now painted the massive cliff formations in crimson.
A foot-high stone wall encircled most of the monastery to delineate the sanctuary from the surrounding wilderness. Jagged cliffs thrust into the cloudless sky behind the church, as if to remind new arrivals of the majesty of God's creation.
The first thing that jumped out at me as I drew closer was the pervasive quiet that hung over the monastery. It was hard to imagine that over sixty people called this place their home. But then again, the monks of this order prized silence, restricting social interaction to certain designated times of the day. Had I arrived in the early morning (early, in this case, being four a.m.), the chants and prayers of the monks would have greeted me, adding an even more surreal layer to the experience. As it was, all I could hear were gusts of wind and shifting sand.
I walked past the church, conscious of how loud my footsteps sounded in the silence. My guess was that the smaller of the two buildings was the guest house where I'd be staying.
As I zeroed in on it, I finally spotted a human presence in this desolate place. Three dark-robed, hooded monks fronted the larger living quarters to my right, their black garb forming a sharp contrast with the bright desert backdrop.
The three brothers of the cloth watched me in stony silence. I could practically feel their eyes boring into me, casting judgment. There was nothing warm or welcoming about their eerie presence.
Did my reputation precede me? I was used to people judging me for my father’s actions—although it still stung. Or perhaps they believed I was one of the possessed? Maybe this monastery was the wrong place for Father Andara's group therapy session, after all.
This thought was still swirling through my mind when the exorcist himself popped out of the guest house, a welcoming smile etched into his warm features.
Andara's expression almost instantly darkened when he noticed the three monks, and he shot them a withering look. They held his steely gaze for a beat before retreating into their living quarters.
"Looks like they're not too fond of visitors,” I said.
"Brother Norman, the monk who runs this place, is not exactly a fan of this project of ours."
I absorbed Andara's words, acutely aware that he'd referred to this retreat as "our project." I wasn't sure if I should feel flattered or disturbed. Once again, I wondered what I was getting myself into here.
“Is that going to be a problem?”
"Pay him no mind, Kane. Like all of us, the abbot must answer to the authority of Rome. I chose this monastery for a reason. It's far from any earthly distractions, and one can feel God out here. And the Vatican agrees with me."
I nodded but found it hard to push their cold, suspicious stares out of my mind.
"I think Abbot Norman fears we're inviting the Devil into his spiritual paradise. Come, let me show you to your room, and we can chat more once we're inside. Sound carries in the canyon."
I nodded and fell in step with Father Andara. We entered the guest building and passed a small souvenir shop in the main parlor.
The priest must have noticed my surprised look. "The monastery hosts hundreds of visitors every year, and the gift shop is one of their principal revenue sources,” he explained.
My eyes swept the gift store, noting the bibles, rosaries, wood carvings, and other religious items for sale. A monk was sitting behind a small desk at the back, diligently stitching a piece of leather.
Unlike the first group I'd encountered, this fellow was friendlier. He welcomed me with a nod and smile before returning to his work. I was relieved to see that the abbot's frosty reception might not be the norm in this place.
We passed through a doorway and navigated a colonnade that encircled the guesthouse's grass-covered courtyard. Marble statues of various saints were spaced around a reflective pool that dominated the calming space.
A haggard blonde woman sat on a stone bench near the small pool, flanked by an African-American man built like a refrigerator.
At first, I didn’t recognize her, but after a beat I identified the woman as Courtney Star. The former pop teen sensation once idolized by millions of admiring young fans now looked like a woman you might expect to find hanging around a truck stop after midnight. In fact, she looked far worse than she had in the file photo Father Andara had sent me. Little of her fresh-faced, girl-you-wished-lived-next-door appeal remained. I'd never been a big fan of bubblegum pop, but I took no pleasure seeing a once-bright star burn out.
"I told her she didn't need to bring her entourage. At least I talked her down to one guard,” Andara said, nodding toward the man beside Courtney. “Well, perhaps he counts as two."
The guard noticed us first, his intimidating gaze rivaling Abbot Norman's frosty reception. Then Courtney looked up. The haunted yet hopeful expression in those eyes convinced me I’d done the right thing coming here. This woman needed our help. I hoped I wouldn't disappoint her—or the others who had come here seeking relief from the nightmares they doubtlessly still endured.
We passed through another doorway and went up a spiral stone staircase that led us into the guest quarters. Each door we passed had a name tag on it, all of them belonging to the women in the files.
"The monks have a good system here," Father Andara explained. "Gents on the third floor, ladies on the second. By the way, I hope you brought your alarm clock. I assume you looked at their daily schedule, so you know the brothers rise early around here. They encourage visitors to attend daily mass to take part in prayers and psalms."
I raised an eyebrow at that. Did the monks expect me to sing in church with them? I couldn't carry a tune to save my life.
Andara continued, "We'll share their meals with them and help them with their daily chores in those hours when we aren't doing our work. We'll live like monks, and I hope that some of us will find the same peace the Benedictine brothers have carved out for themselves in this isolated corner of the world."
As he spoke, suddenly the thought of spending a few days out here didn't seem so bad. Back in the real world, the forces of darkness never seemed to take a day off—so neither did I. Not a week went by without some new, horrific case demanding my attention. Out here, though, both the materialism of Los Angeles and the punishing pace of my hectic life felt far away. I could easily forget the world and my place in it, giving myself over to a calmer, less demanding existence.
I shoo
k my head, stunned at my thoughts. Give it one more day and you'll be bored off your ass, I told myself. But another part of me wasn't so sure.
We climbed another flight of stairs and arrived on the floor reserved for the men. Andara continued his spiel, reminding me of nothing so much as an enthusiastic camp counselor.
"You got here with plenty of time to unpack, get cleaned up, and recover from your journey. Most folks will arrive later today or tomorrow morning. The plan is to introduce everyone during our first session, scheduled for one o'clock tomorrow."
"Sounds good," I said, and then hesitated. I was tempted to ask if Nora Hall was here already. I wisely resisted the urge and asked instead, "So what are your plans for the rest of the day?"
"Busy with last-minute preparations, I’m afraid."
"Anything I can help you with?"
Andara shook his head. "Just rest and save your strength for tomorrow. I have a feeling you might need it."
We arrived at my room. It was simply furnished, containing a wooden desk, dresser, bed, and rocking chair. There was no TV. Instead, a cross hung on the wall, and a Bible rested on the dresser.
The modest simplicity of the room was surprisingly calming. Even though I lived in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods on the planet, my needs were minimal and my tastes tended toward the simple. I didn't live in Malibu so I could flaunt the wealth I'd inherited from my father; I’d moved into the mansion for a far more sinister reason. I was as much a resident of my father's mansion as its guardian. Should some ancient evil ever arise from the underground temple, it would find me ready and waiting for it.
The Possessed (The Paranormalist Book 5) Page 3