by Zoe Cannon
When the priest called everyone up for Communion, Doug stayed where he was. He watched the priest, noting the way he lingered for a second or two with a few of his royal subjects. The chosen ones were always women, but not the obvious choices, the younger ones who had clearly spent time in the mirror asking themselves just how much cleavage was too much for church. No, the ones the priest graced with his attention were invariably old enough to have started losing the bloom of youth, but not old enough to have ceased to miss it. Doug saw it happen half a dozen times over—the priest’s hand brushing the heirs, the pause of a second or two as they held each other’s gazes a little too long. Every time, the women returned to their seats and their families looking a shade more satisfied with their own places in the universe.
He watched the women until the priest dismissed the congregation. In unruly lines, a church’s worth of people filed out, corralling their errant children as they asked each other, “Wasn’t that inspiring?” and, “Have you heard the news about so-and-so from down the street?” Everyone except Doug. He stayed where he was. A few short minutes later, he was alone in the once-crowded room, and no sound echoed off the walls except the priest’s footsteps.
The priest walked up to him. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“You have not,” Doug said evenly.
“A pleasure to meet you. I’m Father Petrakis.” He extended a hand to Doug.
Doug didn’t take it.
After a moment, Father Petrakis dropped his hand to his side. The smile on his face dropped along with it. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Doug stood. His height intimidated most people, so he wasn’t surprised when the priest took a step back. “I was hoping you and I could have a conversation.”
He spoke in mild tones, his voice its usual low rumble. It had taken on the cadences of his truck, these past few decades. After all the time he had spent traveling back and forth along the roads, he had found that the cab of his truck was by far his favorite vantage point from which to see the sights. The truck was an extension of him, by now. He had been surprised, but not displeased, when he had noticed himself starting to sound like it, the way some people started looking like their pets. For all he knew, maybe he was beginning to look like it too, growing taller and broader and more likely to make men like Father Petrakis take an unconscious backward step when they saw him.
If Doug was a truck, carrying his burdens without complaint for as long as it took, Father Petrakis was a sleek sports car, like the shiny fresh-off-the-lot black Ferrari sitting in the church parking lot after all the other cars had driven home. So it was no surprise when he quickly regained his composure, and became king of this place once again. He discreetly checked his watch, but not so discreetly that Doug wouldn’t notice. He wanted Doug to know who had the power here.
“I normally prefer to make appointments,” he said coolly, “but I suppose I have a few minutes. What’s weighing on your mind?”
“Not what,” Doug said. “Who. Leigh McMurthy. Jasmine Wilder. Martha Pratt. To name just a few.”
A flash of nerves crossed Father Petrakis’s face. “Yes, I know them. They’re all long-time members of my congregation. What about them?”
Doug didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He watched Father Petrakis, and didn’t look away.
Father Petrakis squirmed visibly. He lowered his voice, and hunched in toward Doug as if he were telling a secret. “Nobody in this world can be expected to resist temptation all the time. So I’ve enjoyed a few nights with a few lonely women. Find me one person in this town who hasn’t done far worse.”
“Those women hadn’t,” said Doug. “Not before you came along. Interesting thing, that.”
Father Petrakis scowled to cover his growing look of apprehension. “And you’re going to tell their husbands if I don’t cooperate, is that it? What do you want, money? Name your price. I have it.”
Doug nodded. “So you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The upper edge of the priest’s collar was wet with perspiration.
“That’s a nice car you’ve got parked outside,” said Doug. “The house you bought last month on the coast of Spain is even nicer—it seems you’re planning an early retirement. And I hear your niece just started private school. I’m surprised her parents would be able to afford that, with her mother working as a grocery clerk and her father unemployed.”
His dark look couldn’t hide the fear in his eyes anymore. “I didn’t take a penny of it from the church, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I know you didn’t,” Doug assured him. “I also know who you did take it from.”
Father Petrakis wiped his palms on his cassock. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“When the devil’s emissary came to you,” said Doug, “did you have the slightest moment of doubt before you sold out the very people you had promised to guide? Or was the lure of wealth too strong even for that?”
Father Petrakis turned and tried to run. Before he had made it two steps, Doug extended a hand. The church doors slammed shut. A heavy iron bar crashed down, locking them.
Slowly, carefully, Father Petrakis turned back to face Doug. When their eyes met, he stood frozen in Doug’s gaze, eyes wide with animal fear, taken from the top of the food chain to terrified prey in the space of an instant.
“You were given a list.” Doug slowly walked toward Father Petrakis as he spoke. “A list of women who had as yet evaded hell’s grasp, women who were likely to be receptive to your advances. You checked off names one by one—setting up private meetings, catching their eyes at the right moment, letting touches go on a little too long. You lured them into a sin they would not have sought out on their own. And whenever you brought one of them into your bed for the first time, a tidy sum of money landed in your bank account the next morning.” Doug gave a thin smile. “Say what you will about the forces of hell, they do pay promptly.”
“You can’t…” Father Petrakis stammered. “How do you…”
“They promised other things, too. A life of luxury in hell once your time on earth is done—an eternity of the finest earthly pleasures. A reward reserved for those who do the devil’s will. If you were so easily swayed, I imagine your faith was already waning, and you were afraid you were bound for hell one way or the other. You probably thought that if you would end up there anyway, you might as well enjoy it. Am I close?”
“Who… who are you?”
“Someone who was like you, once,” said Doug, with the faintest hint of a sigh. “In the beginning, serving God was my only purpose and my only joy… in theory. But I was jealous of my brothers, who had greater responsibilities and higher status. I let my bitterness grow, until it hardened into an impenetrable shell, separating me from the one I served and trapping me within.
“And yet I still couldn’t see how far my path had diverged. Not until I took a place that was not meant for me, leading heaven’s soldiers into battle in my brother’s stead. We suffered painful losses that day. As for me, I was given a choice: remain in my self-created prison for eternity, alone with my guilt… or wander the earth hunting down those who had let themselves become lost the way I was once lost, and offering them a choice of their own.”
He shrugged off his jacket, and let it slide to the polished floor. As it settled around his feet, his wings unfurled, the feathers lightly dusting the pews as they stretched out in either direction. The patterns of light cast by the stained glass turned muddy as the church walls and floor took on a crimson cast. His wings were a pristine white that fit with his dingy clothes about as well as a clown wig would have, but the glow they spread through the room was the red of fresh blood.
“I am the Archangel Uriel,” he said, as the light of his wings spawned shadows where none had been before. “And I am here to offer you a choice.”
Father Petrakis had fallen to his knees. His face, bathed in the red glow, was full of shadowed crags tha
t hadn’t been there a moment ago.
“Your first option is this,” said Uriel. “You will give back everything hell ever gave you. Donate it to the charity of your choice—anonymously, of course. It doesn’t matter to me what worthy cause you choose, so long as you put the money to use working against the forces you briefly served.”
“Of course, of course,” Father Petrakis babbled. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it right away.”
“You will take time to think about what originally called you to this vocation,” Uriel continued. “Then you will recommit yourself to your work. You will live out your days guiding God’s people with a sincere heart.”
“Yes, yes, I will. I can do that.”
“And when your life comes to an end,” said Uriel, “you will take the place of the people you chose to lure to hell. You will receive no place of honor, no promised luxuries. Only the eternity of suffering you would have given every soul on your list.”
Father Petrakis blinked up at him as the words cut through his babbling. “What?”
“Do you not agree that this is fair?” Uriel’s voice was mild.
Father Petrakis shook his head. “You don’t have the authority to take away what they promised me. A deal is a deal.”
“Once I free your targets from the devil’s grasp, your deal with him is null and void. All you will be left with is the natural consequence of the bargain you made. And freeing them is easy enough to do. They made the choice to accept your advances, but they were being manipulated by forces larger than themselves. Allowances can be made; choices can be offered. Theirs will be minor, and I imagine they will accept.”
“You said I had a choice too,” said father Petrakis, voice shaking. “What’s my other option?”
Uriel reached into the pocket of his worn blue jeans. His hand found the hilt of his sword. He drew it from the pocket that was too small to hold it—a blade of pure obsidian, one that drew the light into itself without reflecting it back.
“The second option,” he said, “is that I kill you here and now. And then you and I will let God decide your fate.”
Father Petrakis’s face crumpled in confusion. “Didn’t you say I was going to hell no matter what, after this? You said it was the natural consequence of… of what I did.”
“Ordinarily, yes.” Uriel held up the sword. “But when I was given this task, I was also given certain tools to aid me. This sword cuts through all bonds. When it pierces your heart, it will be as if your deal with the devil never happened. But whatever was in your heart that caused you to accept that deal… that will remain.”
Father Petrakis looked at the sword, and swallowed.
“Just as the bond of your ordination will be severed,” Uriel continued. His voice grew a shade softer, a difference almost too small for Uriel himself to perceive. He didn’t know whether the priest was capable of hearing, in his current state. “But the part of you that made you choose the priesthood… that, too, will remain.”
Father Petrakis tore his gaze away from the sword. He looked down at the floor. “If it’s not already gone.”
“Make your choice,” Uriel said levelly.
It took Father Petrakis a moment to find the strength to look up again. He glanced over his shoulder at the door before his eyes found the sword again, as if drawn there against his will. “Isn’t there a third option?” he asked. “I could find some way to atone for what I did. The way you’re doing.”
“I was given two options,” said Uriel. “You have been given the same. You can live out the years remaining to you, with your ultimate fate certain… or, if you think there is still a spark of goodness in your soul, you can give up those years in exchange for redemption.”
Father Petrakis’s kingly demeanor was long gone. He blinked too fast, like he was on the verge of tears. He glanced toward the door again, and with that look, Uriel knew what he would choose. The man was going to try to outrun his fate. And he would fail, as had everyone else who had made the same choice.
A deep disappointment spread through him, as it always did at this moment, when someone made that final turn down the wrong path. He always hoped the people he found could be saved, even though so few of them could.
But then Father Petrakis turned back to him, and met his gaze head-on—something he had been told was an unnerving experience. The priest took a deep breath. “Do it,” he said, almost managing to control the tremble in his voice.
“Are you sure?” Uriel asked, not wanting to hope.
Father Petrakis gave a shaky nod. “When I was young and stupid, I… I did some bad things. Things that should have landed me in jail, except nobody found out. I wasn’t even out of high school, and my part in the world’s story was already written—I was one of the bad guys.” His voice was less polished now, as he fell back on the cadence of his youth. “Then, at graduation, my great-aunt pulled me aside. Permed hair, smelled like mothballs and too much perfume, you know the type. I had seen her maybe twice before in my life. She said she had a message for me, straight from God. Now, I thought there was only one thing God would have to say to me, and that was that he had washed his hands of me. But no, she said he was calling me to become a priest. She said if I did, I would do a lot to help people. I would make a difference.
“She had probably just had a crazy dream after too much pineapple pizza. But I figured, what else was I planning to do with my life? So I applied to seminary. I figured they’d tell me to get lost. Instead… well, here I am. Although I never did get around to making a difference. I might have helped a couple of people here and there, but for the most part, they all listened to the sermon every week and then let it flow right back out their ears the moment they stepped into the parking lot.” He let out a long, low sigh. “Maybe that’s what wore me down, in the end. Knowing I wasn’t getting through to anyone. Maybe I figured if they were all damned in the end one way or the other, it didn’t matter if I helped them along and got something for myself in the bargain.”
On shaky legs, he rose to his feet. His eyes were fixed on the sword, like he couldn’t look away. He took a baby step forward.
“I don’t know what my great-aunt really heard,” he said, “or what she saw in me that day. Maybe none of it was real. But if it was, I’d like to think whatever made her say that to me is still in there somewhere. And if it’s not, if I’m destined to be the bad guy after all… well, then I might as well leave this world now, before I can do any more damage.”
Uriel met the man’s eyes just long enough to be sure he meant what he said. Then he nodded slowly. He raised the heavy blade, the weight a familiar burden.
“Wait!” Father Petrakis held up both his hands, as if to block the swing of the blade.
Uriel paused.
“I’m sorry.” Father Petrakis looked away, abashed, then met Uriel’s eyes again. “It’s just… the money. Can you make sure it finds its way to some good cause? I never got the chance to make a real difference like my great-aunt imagined, but I can do that much. Will you do that for me?”
“I will,” Uriel promised.
Father Petrakis drew in a long breath, and slowly let it out again. “All right. I’m ready.” He closed his eyes.
Uriel finished his motion, raising the sword above his head in the ritual motion that helped him gather the strength for his task. Then he lowered it to his chest, extended straight out in front of him, the tip level with the priest’s breastbone. With a single practiced motion, he drove it straight through the man’s heart.
The light that bloomed from the place where sword met flesh was the same deep crimson as his wings.
Father Petrakis’s eyes flew open. He stared up at the ceiling as his back arched. Red light poured from his eyes, his mouth, the wound of his heart. It spilled out over him, growing brighter and brighter, until Uriel couldn’t see his body anymore, only the light.
Then, all at once, it disappeared, and Uriel was left in the dark. All that was left was a body impaled on his sword, slum
ped forward, jaw hanging limply open.
Uriel tilted the sword down. Father Petrakis’s body slid to the floor.
He would never find out the man’s ultimate fate. He would never know whether there had still been some spark of goodness left in him, or whether his heart had been corrupted past saving. But he would always wonder. The same way he wondered about all the people he had met over the centuries.
His sword was clean, with no gleam of blood. He tucked it back into his pocket. The pocket should have been much too small. For the matter, the weapon should have sliced straight through the denim. But it never did. He didn’t feel the outline of the blade against his leg, or see the hilt when he looked down at himself. For all intents and purposes, his pocket was empty.
He picked up his jacket and pulled it over his shoulders, tucking his wings underneath. He drew his hat down lower over his eyes. He bent down to close the priest’s eyes, then strode the rest of the distance to the door and grabbed hold of the iron bar.
“It looks like there was a third option after all,” said a voice from behind him.
Uriel let the bar fall with a hard clang. He turned around.
And there was Father Petrakis. Or a smudged image of him, cast in a dim gray glow. The light of the stained glass passed through him.
“When the sword pierced my heart,” he said, “I felt myself being tugged away. But I also knew I had another choice. I can’t put my finger on how. I just… knew. I could stay here, unseen, keeping an eye on my congregation from a new angle. Seeing the things people don’t show when they know someone is watching. And doing what I can for them, when and how I can.” He smiled, an echo of the face he had worn when Uriel had first seen him. Master of his domain. “The impression I got was that I’m in this for the long haul. But I’m at peace with that. You can make a difference by doing one big thing… or you can do it a little at a time. And I have a lot to make up for.”
