by Keri Lake
“Damon, can I talk to you for a second?” he asks in a heavy Spanish accent.
“Of course.”
“About a week ago, I heard a loud clatter. It startled me right out of my bed. I saw you in the backyard. ” As he goes on, I feel my pulse quicken, and my skin prickles on a rush of adrenaline. “You had a shovel. And you were digging a hole.”
Mind racing for an excuse, a reason I would’ve been in the backyard after nine o’clock, I cast my gaze away, hoping he can’t see the panic bubbling to the surface.
He turns to me, his brows set with disappointment. “Have you ever seen me sleepwalk before?”
Confusion slaps me in the face as I stare back at him, trying to tease out what he’s asking me. “I’m sorry, what?”
“By the time my brain finally caught up to what I was seeing, there was nothing there. You weren’t digging, and the only hole was the one the septic company dug a week before. I realized in that very moment that I must have been asleep. Then just last night, I woke to find myself standing in the kitchen with a half eaten orange. And it made me wonder, how long have I been doing this? How long have I walked around in my sleep?”
“I’ve … never seen you sleepwalk.”
“It’s the strangest thing.” On a laugh, he shakes his head and pats my shoulder. “Whatever would you be digging a hole for in the backyard?”
“A grave?”
He laughs harder, while mine lacks mirth, and he continues on toward the church. “Oh, one more thing, Damon. LaRonda asked me to let you know that they found the missing girl. She apparently discussed her with you.”
“Yes, we did talk about her. I’m happy to hear she’s home. I found that story to be very troubling.”
“As did I. Her mother asked us to bless the apartment for protection.”
“I didn’t … I wasn’t aware they were Catholic.”
“They’re not. LaRonda suggested it. I thought, since you had a hand in helping the child—”
“What do you mean?”
“LaRonda said you passed out fliers and helped put the word out.”
“Of course.”
“Its stands to reason, you should be the one to bless the apartment.”
“Of course.” All that comes to mind is the little girl identifying me as the man who killed her captor, and the look on Bishop McDonnell’s face, just before I’m defrocked and the police drag me off.
“Is everything all right, Damon?”
“Yes, of course.”
I blink out of my musings, his question snapping me back to the present. “I, um … I’ll take care of it.”
From his pocket, he draws out the address on scrap paper and hands it to me. “She’s expecting you sometime today.”
The sobering thought of seeing the little girl again, and having to face the memory of her being held in that cage, is enough to quell the urges of this morning. I take a quick lunch, and as I drive to the apartment where I dropped her off only a week ago, cold spikes of nervous energy hammer through my blood.
I nab the book of scriptures beside me, along with holy water, and make my way up the stairs.
LaRonda and another woman that I recognize from the news report as the girl’s mother, greet me at the door, but Camila is nowhere in sight.
“Father Damon, this is Luisa, Camila’s mama.” LaRonda sets a hand on the short, pudgy woman standing beside her, whose eyes carry shadows behind the kind smile she offers.
“Thank you for coming, Father.” Like most who aren’t entirely familiar with the church, she keeps her hands clasped in front, back stiff, as if she’s unsure how to behave in front of a priest.
Out of respect, I try not to be too touchy-feely, not that I am by nature, anyway, but keeping my hands at my side works for me. “Tell me what’s going on here.”
Closing the door behind me, Luisa guides me to the couch, where all three of us sit around a coffee table that holds pictures of a man drawn in crayon, with angry red eyes, holding some kind of stick in his hand. “Since the night she came home, Camila just … hasn’t been the same. She doesn’t eat much. Doesn’t sleep. She wakes up from nightmares.” A hiccup of a sob interrupts Luisa, as she wipes away tears, and LaRonda wraps her in a hug. “There’s this … man. He looks like some kind of demon. She calls him the Bad Man. She says he kept her in a cage, and he did bad things to her. Things she won’t tell me, or the doctor. She says an angel saved her. An angel in all black.” Luisa’s body shakes against LaRonda’s, as she sobs into the other woman’s shoulder. “I just want the nightmares to go away and my daughter to feel safe again.”
The weight of guilt damn near crushes me as I sit across from the woman, wishing I could tell her everything. That I strangled the demon. That I dragged him across church grounds and stuffed him inside a hole, never to be seen again. Instead, I give a slight nod and say, “Let’s start at the entrance of your home.”
Giving the sign of the cross, I push off the couch and watch as LaRonda nudges her friend to stand, as well. Luisa awkwardly follows mine and LaRonda’s motions, seeming both nervous and, perhaps, a small bit hopeful. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
“Amen,” LaRonda says, hands clasped in Luisa’s.
I hold the book of prayers along with the holy water, and bow my head. “Peace be to this house and all who dwell here in the name of the Lord.”
“Blessed be God forever.” Again, LaRonda intones for both of them.
After sprinkling them with holy water, I cross the room, coming to a stop in front of the front door, and say a quick prayer, then dab the holy water onto my finger and draw the sign of the cross on its wooden panel. From there, I make my way to each room and sprinkle the holy water with a blessing, aspersing it everywhere, until I reach a smaller room with pink walls adorned with paintings of princesses and castles, which I assume belongs to Camila.
Once inside, I find more pictures lying on the floor, drawn in remarkable detail, of a girl in a cage and a man jabbing a pole into it. Presumably the one he used on her. Another shows her tied to a leash, as the man walks her around like a dog. A third shows another man, dressed in all black, holding a rope. Still another depicts the man in black holding his arm out, with the other man dangling from a rope, the droop of his head indicating he’s dead. Suddenly, I’m relieved I opted to leave my collar in the car that night, or I’d be staring down at the evidence for a murder trial. In the final picture, the man in black is hugging the little girl.
“This is her angel.”
I glance back to find Camila’s mom standing behind me, and in the corner of the room, Camila stands fidgeting, the occasional crack of a smile telling me she’s happy to see me. She darts across the room and wraps her arms around me, while her mother watches with tears in her eyes and a look of confusion on her face. Confusion I wish I could erase, to make sense out of why her daughter seems so content with me.
“She’s … happy to have you bless our home,” Luisa offers, as though she needs to explain this affection.
From my pocket, I pull out a bottle of Holy Water and kneel down before Camila. “To help with the bad dreams. Let me show you.” I dab the water onto her finger and show her how to make the sign of the cross, and I say a prayer specifically for her. Hand stroking down her hair, I’m taken back to the times when I sat beside Bella, on nights after she woke from nightmares. How much small gestures of comfort and safety, of reassurance that there were no monsters, meant to her. “Do this each night before you sleep.” I cup her jaw, brushing my thumb across her cheek. “All things will be made new.”
The smile she offers doesn’t meet her eyes. It’s tired and lackluster, but genuine. It’ll be a long while before she’ll truly smile again, I suspect. “Can I tell you a secret?” she asks, and at my nod, she sets a hand on my shoulder, lips to my ear. “I haven’t told anyone you’re my angel.”
Her comment brings a smile to my face, and I take her small hand in mine. “You’
ve nothing to worry about anymore, Camila. The bad man can no longer hurt you. This house is protected.” With a wink, I plant a kiss to the back of her hand and she gives me one more hug, before I push to my feet.
At the front door, her mother glances back toward Camila’s room. “I’m not the religious type, you know. I wasn’t born into the church. I mean, I believe in God, but … I don’t know. I somehow feel comforted having you here. It’s … strange.” Rubbing her hands together, she cracks a smile through her frown. “I can see Camila feels the same. It’s not like her to be so … comfortable around others. Yet, she seemed … very happy to see you. Thank you for doing this, Father Damon. It means a lot to us.”
With a nod, I set my hand on the door. “The blessing should help with the nightmares, but if it doesn’t, it may require more.”
“Father …” She bites her lip. “People who do these things … God makes them pay, right?” Eyes watering, she wipes the tears from her cheeks and sniffs. “Even if the police don’t find him, God will make him pay for this?”
I cast my gaze from hers, unable to look her in the eyes and give her the peace she’s seeking, because I’m a coward. A lying bastardly coward who fears becoming a man without purpose more than anything else, including setting this fretting mother’s mind at ease. I’m an abomination to everything I represent. So my response to her is nothing short of robotic. “But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death.”
With what is clearly a feigned smile, she reaches out for my hand and squeezes. “Thank you, Father.”
14
DAMON
I should be at Saturday vigil, in place of Ruiz, and preparing for Sunday mass. Instead, I’m sitting outside of Ivy’s apartment, watching her move from one room to another, like some kind of stalker. The poison has taken over me. My little pécheresse has ensured that not a single moment exists where I’m not thinking about her spread out before me.
I want to forget her, pretend what happened between us was some warped distortion of reality, but her name is a vine, wound around me as tight as the cincture I wore during morning mass, when I swore I could still taste her on my tongue.
Watching her silhouette through the sheer curtains, the curves I can clearly make out from the road, I see her feed her arms through sleeves, as though slipping on a coat, and a deeply rooted anger twists inside my chest at the thought of where she might be off to for the night.
I can’t let her go to him. I refuse to sit by knowing she’s with another man, entertaining him for the sake of her freedom. It’s wrong, the way my mind, mired in these perverse, licentious thoughts, refuses to relent this sense of possession. As if she belongs to me. Was made only for my torment and no one else’s. It’s wrong, and yet, by my body’s own impulse, I exit from the car and jog across the street, up the stairs to her door, which swings open just as I reach for the knob.
“Oh, my God!” She presses a hand to her chest, eyes wide with surprise and maybe a small bit of fear. “Father, what are you doing here?”
I glance down at where shiny, skintight pants disappear into high boots that’re hiding beneath the knee-length hem of her coat. It’s a sight that leaves my tightly nipped restraint precariously hanging by a fragile thread.
The door behind me clicks, and I turn to face a petite, older woman, with pin-straight black hair and glasses.
“Iby, you okay?” she asks, holding up what looks like a sewing needle. “Dis man isn’t bodering you?”
“Yes .. I mean no, Mrs. Garcia. I’m fine. Thank you.”
The woman’s eyes trail me up and down before her brows wing up. “Ooh. He’s a handsome one.” Shooting me a wink, she backs herself in the apartment, but takes a moment to stare before closing the door.
“She’s watching through the peephole, isn’t she?” I ask, turning to see Ivy tighten the jacket around her.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, not answering my question.
Lifting my gaze to the room beyond tells me she’s probably alone. “Can I come in?”
“I’m leaving, actually.”
“I’ll only be a minute.” Not quite, if my body has any say in the matter, but I tell myself that’s not the reason I’m here. Without permission, I push my way inside, breathing in that feminine scent from before. Like an aphrodisiac, it lulls me deeper into those tangled vines of lust. “Where are you going?”
Closing the door behind her, she doesn’t bother to follow me into the room, and instead stands with her arms crossed, looking pissed off. “I already told you.”
“It’s warm. You won’t need a jacket.”
Huffing with irritation, she whips it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor and exposing an outfit beneath that makes my dick lurch. Her perfect, round tits peek through small holes cut out at the chest, the nipples standing tall and erect, sending a zap of agonizing pain to my groin. An open-breasted, full body, black latex suit clings to her curves, and the zipper at the crotch creates what looks like the only point of access. Must’ve taken forever to get that thing on.
I nod toward the painful distraction of a suit, one that has me balling my fists at my sides in a poor attempt to keep from smoothing my hands over it. Wondering how it would feel pressed against my body. “You planned to take the rail wearing that?”
“All part of his torment. I suppose, if I get raped on the way, he’ll probably ask me to describe it all in detail.”
The very thought enrages me, and I want to tell her, if she were mine, I’d kill a man who put his hands on her without asking. But I’m not supposed to think that way, because she isn’t mine. And I’m not supposed to be standing in the middle of her apartment, trying to leash my own self-control, while that outfit taunts me like devils whispering in my ear to ravish this woman.
I glance away, desperate to reel in the appetite brewing deep inside of me like a monster starving for depravity. “I came here to keep you from seeing him.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s wrong.”
“Yeah, well, you’re also going to tell me that it was wrong having a priest go down on me, so what does it matter?” She crosses her arms beneath her breasts, pushing them higher, and I imagine how perfectly they’d fit in my palms. “I already told you, if I don’t do this? He harasses me to no end. Considering I left the desk unmanned for a good half hour last night, my boss won’t be too keen on getting an anonymous email from some asshole, with pictures of me posing nude.”
“He has nude pictures of you?”
“He keeps them on hand, in case he needs to use them.”
“This guy’s a piece of work.”
“A piece of shit, is more like it.”
Rubbing my thumb across the palm of my hand to calm the trembles, I try not to imagine another man’s hands all over that suit, marking her with his fingerprints. “I don’t want you to go.”
“Why? Why do you care?” With her breasts still on display, I find the words difficult to form, as I let my eyes wander everywhere she isn’t part of the view.
“I don’t want him touching you.”
She snorts and swipes her jacket up off the floor. “Sorry, Father. You don’t get to call the shots. No deal? No promises from me.” Slipping her arm into the sleeve, she’s ignoring my request, evident when she nabs the keys from the console table beside her.
I lurch forward, stopping short at the thump against my chest where her palm hits. “I don’t want you seeing him tonight.”
“Too bad. I don’t want to deal with the consequences of not going.”
“Did last night mean nothing to you?” I ask through clenched teeth, furious at the idea that I’ve obsessed over this woman all day, while she’s thought nothing of me.
The fire in her green eyes smolders as she stares back at me, into me, damn near through me. “Last ni
ght meant everything to me. It’s the first time a man has ever made me feel good doing those things.” Shoulders sagging, she lowers her hand from my chest and takes a step back. “Unfortunately, it was with a priest, so I guess I’m shit out of luck in that respect.”
“And do you enjoy being with him? Letting him do these things to you?”
“No. I dread every second I spend with him.” The sweep of her tongue across her lips draws my attention to the red of her lipstick, making me wonder how it would look smeared across my dick. “He isn’t you.”
Desires ratcheted and out of control, I push her against the wall behind her as that fragile thread finally snaps, and I accidentally knock over a vase set atop the console.
Ignoring it, she tilts her chin back, jaw hard with pride, and licks her lips. “What are you going to do, Father? Punish me?”
Wearing a brief snarl at the thought, I dip my head and take one of her exposed nipples into my mouth, suckling her breasts with enough fervor that she cries out and her nails dig into my scalp, only goading me on. “Did you touch yourself after?” I rasp against her plump flesh and pinch it between my teeth, inciting another squeal and a jerk of her body.
“All night. All morning. And just before you got here.”
Taking both breasts in hand, I squeeze them together, burying my face in her deep-set cleavage and groaning, before I take the other nipple into my mouth. I’ve no right to be frustrated with her, but I am. I’m jealous of the surrounding walls that bore witness to her climax, and her fingers that brought her to that place without me. “You’re a bad girl, pécheresse. You must repent and accept punishment for these transgressions.” Without giving her a chance to respond, I reach down and unzip the crotch of her suit, listening as each tooth of the zipper unravels my control. Once open, I stare back at her as I run my finger over the bare flesh there, watching her eyes roll back and her lip catch between her teeth.
“Please, Father. Don’t leave me the way you did last time.”