by Declan Finn
Deus Vult
St. Tommy, NYPD Book Six
Declan Finn
Contents
Newsletter
1. Visitation
2. Your Mission
3. Walking the grid
4. Behind the Wall of Downey
5. Hell Spawn
6. The Evil in the Walls
7. Cardinal Tape
8. Beyond Bullets
9. The Exorcist
10. Death Cult
11. The Essex Horror
12. Infernal Affairs
13. The Dreams in the Summer House
14. Campus of Shadows
15. The Doom That Came to Dunwich U
16. Deal with the Devil … But Only at Gunpoint
17. House in the Mist
18. The Last Statement of George Matchett
19. Whispers in Darkness
20. A Shadow over Essex
21. At the Cliffs of Madness
22. The Call of Tiamat
23. Unleash Heaven
24. Crusader
An Excerpt from Honor at Stake
Review Request
Acknowledgments
About Declan Finn
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Dedicated to all those who fight the good fight, no matter what.
Because God wills it.
1 Visitation
My name is Detective Tommy Nolan, and I am a Saint.
More importantly, I am father to two beautiful daughters and a son who becomes more colorful by the day.
I held one of them in my arms. My two-month-old daughter, Grace Gabrielle Nolan, squirmed and laughed in my embrace, nuzzling me, trying to bury herself deeper in my body.
I sat back on the front porch swing and held her close. I was strangely content.
Perhaps it wasn’t that strange. The front porch was to a New England summer house owned by our local Medical Examiner, Doctor Sinead Holland. It had a few acres of land, and the edge of the property line wasn’t a fence, but a treeline. While it wasn’t summer, it was still early spring. The air was crisp but pleasant.
“She’s a cuddler,” my wife, Mariel, stated as she sat next to me. Mariel had long, wavy chestnut brown hair, round, deep-brown eyes, a pleasant heart-shaped face, and a healthy olive complexion. She wore a red and white floral cotton midi dress that set off her figure very nicely. Her Espadrille wedges were her pride and joy, giving height without sacrificing comfort. But she could wear a burlap sack and I’d still want to keep making babies with her.
She also looked out at the kids playing in the yard. Though “playing” was a strange word for it. My son Jeremy threw things up into the air, while our newly-adopted daughter, Lena, proceeded to hit them with objects that she tossed with her mind.
Yes. Lena tossed them with her mind. A telekinetic teenager wasn’t the strangest thing that I had ever come across in my life—or even the last two years—and it was less supernatural and more science fiction. Only without the fiction. A friendly neighborhood theologian (yes, there are such beings) says such things are called preternatural, not supernatural.
“Pull!” Lena called, her thick Polish accent making it sound like pool.
Jeremy threw a fistful of grapes into the air. A box of toothpicks to Lena’s right sprang to life as a collection of them darted out like shotgun flechette, each grape speared by a single toothpick.
Then, as much as to show off as to not waste food, Lena plucked each grape out of the air (with her mind) and piled them on a plate on her left.
Mariel laughed at the display. “She’s fitting in well.”
I smiled at her, then at Grace. “It helps that we have a flexible definition of ‘normal.’” I leaned down to touch the tip of my nose to Grace’s. “Don’t we, Gracie?” I asked her.
Grace giggled. I touched my forehead to hers. “Headbutt of love.”
Mariel wrapped an arm around me and leaned into me.
It was idyllic.
The front door opened, and my partner, Alex Packard, stepped out onto the front porch. He wore khakis and a matching polo shirt. He covered a yawn as he looked out at the children playing. He ran his hand over what little hair he had left. “Well, Tommy, I have to hand it to you. You know how to collect colorful characters.”
I ignored my partner. Sardonic, sarcastic, and cynical were his default positions.
Mariel lightly nudged him with her foot. “Oh, leave off, Alex. You like her, too.”
Alex shrugged casually. “Sure. She’s a nice kid. And she hasn’t made my brain explode. Which is even better.”
Mariel sighed, dismissing Alex’s comment. I said nothing as I focused on the bundle of joy in my arms. Grace was such a strangely perfect little baby. I didn’t remember Jeremy being anything like that when he was born. He had been eager to get out of the womb and came out swinging, his little fists latching on or touching something—usually as fast as possible.
Besides, if I replied to Alex’s comment, I might have to mention that when I had first found Lena, it had been only a few feet from what was left of the men who kidnapped her. They had each been horribly murdered. Lena had done it with her mind. Though to say that they didn’t have it coming would be a lie. But spreading that around would have only served to make people touchy around her. Just a guess on my part.
But in the two months since I had brought Lena home from Europe, she blended in like we had raised her from birth.
Jeremy and Lena ran up to the house. Jeremy wore a black sweatsuit. Lena wore a frilly pink dress that we could barely get her out of ever since we bought it—she’d seen it in the store, fell in love with it immediately, and would have slept in it if we didn’t suggest that it might be ruined. She beamed as she ran after my son, showing how pretty she really was.
Jeremy ran up with the plate held up in front of him. “Look what Lena did!” he boasted on her behalf.
I nodded. “I saw. Very nicely done. Really good aim.”
Lena beamed. She even bounced a little.
Alex smiled sardonically. “Hey, Jeremy, I thought you didn’t like girls.”
Jeremy looked at Alex like he took offense. “Lena’s not a girl,” he said in her defense. “She’s awesome.”
I smiled at them both. “Come on guys, let’s go inside. I’m cooking omelets.”
The children cheered. Alex smiled sleepily. Mariel kissed me on the cheek before she got up to join them.
Jeremy stopped, pivoted to face me, and asked, “Daddy, what’s Mary like?”
I stopped halfway to standing up. I frowned and furrowed my brow. “Um … personally? Why do you think I would know?”
“Well, who visited you before you got your superpowers?”
I paused, confused, cuddling Grace close to me. “I met John Paul II last month. Does that count?”
Jeremy frowned, confused. “In stories, I’ve read, someone shows up before you get the charisms. So who talked to you?”
“Sorry … no one did.”
Jeremy blinked. “Huh.” He shrugged, and we went inside.
Doctor Sinead Holland was already up and setting the kitchen table. I guess I’m predictable, I thought. I had spent the last few days getting up, walking to church for 6 a.m. mass, and coming home to find the house alive, awake, and ready for food.
Sinead smiled at me. She was a pretty brunette with brown eyes that always caught the light. Her background was Northern European, up near Norway, giving her high cheekbones and eyes that were nearly Asiatic. She wore a green and red madras cotton shirt (a few years old) and some loose faded jeans, plus a straw sunhat with wide green band. Her shoes were Israeli army issue, which are sturdy enough for farm work and go with any out
fit. She managed to look polished despite “dressing country.” Her words, not mine.
“Good walk this morning, Tommy?” she asked knowingly.
“It was good,” I said, as always.
I hadn’t actually told anyone I spent my mornings at church. Everyone figured it out already, but everyone had allowed me to not discuss it.
It wasn’t that I was embarrassed to go to church, but I didn’t want to talk about my visits to church. My relationship with God had become both simple and complex at the same time. He had granted me charisms in abundance—powers and abilities that came directly from God, and only manifested by Saints. I had a box in the trunk of my car directly powered by God. The ring on my finger was a mystic rock that had real-world effects to heal humans and hurt demons—it might as well have been the Ark of the Covenant.
Everyone else thought it was obvious that I would be a canonized a saint. While I’ve stopped trying to talk them out of it, I didn’t have another explanation. While I wasn’t complaining that my son thought I was a superhero, or that I had been able to defeat the forces of darkness multiple times via the grace of God Himself, my constant question was, Why me?
The only answer I kept getting was, Why not?
As I cooked breakfast on the stovetop, operating four fry pans at a time, Alex entertained the kids with yet another magic trick. He kept giving me vague hints that it had saved his life at least once while I was away, but we hadn’t gotten around to discussing that yet.
Alex held up an ace of spades. “This one really isn’t a magic trick. This is an ordinary playing card. Nothing special about it. Touch it, feel it, don’t bend it out of shape, though. The edges aren’t modified in any way, shape or form.”
Once Lena and Jeremy finished examining the card, they offered it to Sinead. The good doctor smiled, raised her hands, and shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ve seen this trick.”
Jeremy shrugged and handed it back to Alex. Jeremy leaned back against Lena, and she leaned into him.
Alex placed a grapefruit at the center of the table and leaned back in his chair to create a little more distance. He lined up the grapefruit with the card and snapped his wrist forward. The card sliced into the grapefruit, driving half of the card into the fruit.
Alex brought the chair down with a thump. “It’s literally all in the wrist!”
Lena laughed and clapped. “I want to do it!”
Lena looked at the pack of playing cards on the table. The top card shot off the deck and sliced into the grapefruit at one end and halfway out the other.
Ten other cards shot out one after another, turning the grapefruit into a pincushion of playing cards.
Alex looked from the grapefruit to Lena. “Show-off.”
Lena merely smiled at him. She and Jeremy shared a high five.
I said nothing and kept cooking.
Then the doorbell rang.
I turned the heat down low on all the burners with my left hand and grabbed my gun with my right. Alex was already out of the chair and grabbing his gun. It was before nine in the morning, so it wasn’t the mail. And this was a summer home. It was rare for anyone to be here. If we were lucky, it was someone looking for an empty house to rob or squat in. If not…
Alex looked at Sinead. “Does anyone know you’re at home?”
She shook her head. “Only my husband, and he’s not due in for a few days.”
Alex and I moved to the door. He braced himself to the side, and I had my hand on the handle. I was torn between checking the peephole and just opening the door so we could get the drop on whoever was on the other side.
This wasn’t paranoia. This was Tuesday.
“Detective Nolan,” came a British accent through the door. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t shoot me.”
The stress left my body but entered my soul. It was one part of my world I hoped would never again come near my daily life and threaten my family.
I opened the door, and there stood Father Michael Pearson, a terribly average-looking priest. He was of medium height, with a sturdy build. The build was deceptive since I had seen him in hand-to-hand combat. Pearson wore typical black-on-black-on-black for his pants, shirt, and jacket. He was bald, mid-forties, with a closely-cropped brown beard. His eyes were brown and warm and friendly, hidden behind glasses with black frames so thick they looked like they had been borrowed from Clark Kent.
Except Pearson was my partner when I worked missions for the Vatican. I only saw him when something world-destroying needed to be stopped or when the fate of millions hung over a pit.
Pearson smiled at me. “Detective Nolan, you’re needed.”
2 Your Mission
I walked Father Michael Pearson into the dining room and introduced him. “He’s my partner abroad.”
Packard smiled and offered Pearson his hand. “I’m the partner local. He get you in any trouble?”
Pearson gave a flicker of a smile. “I’m afraid I’m the one who brings trouble to him.”
Lena charged in and threw herself at Pearson, hugging him around the waist.
I looked at Packard and said, “They’ve met.”
Packard arched a brow. “Obviously.”
I introduced Pearson to the rest of my family and friends. He was good-natured and polite to everyone. They continued to chat as I finished cooking.
“So,” Mariel said in a tone I could only call suspicious, “how did you qualify to be Tommy’s partner?”
“I have a certain set of skills.”
Jeremy said, “You don’t look like Liam Neeson.”
Pearson smiled and waggled his brows. “Different set of skills.”
I came out with three plates and handed them out to Mariel, Jeremy, and Lena first. “You want to explain what you’re doing out of your jurisdiction?”
Pearson smiled and shrugged. “My jurisdiction is God’s.”
“You know what he means,” Mariel said darkly.
Pearson blinked, taken aback at her tone. “I’m sorry, did I say something –”
Mariel leaned over the table. “My husband keeps collecting scars,” she growled. “From injuries that would have killed him had he not been six places at once. You think I like it that you’re anywhere near my husband or my children?”
I had a sudden tingling in my palms, where I had two of the scars she mentioned. I had enough new scars from my London trip to look like I had a recurring case of stigmata, including one in each foot and my side. I was close to collecting a whole set. This didn’t even count the scars left behind from a Rikers Island riot where prison bars had been torn off and speared through me like a butterfly being pinned to a wall.
To say that Mariel was less than thrilled with new scars was to put it mildly.
Pearson blinked, confused. “I’m sorry, I was under the impression that you were supportive of your husband’s –”
“I am!” she snapped. She leaned over the table so far, I worried her hair would get in her breakfast. “I just want him to have a partner that also supports him. I’ve seen no evidence that you’re good for anything but bringing him trouble and plenty that you’re good at getting him into it. Now what. Do. You. Want?”
Mariel leaned back and dug into her omelet, stabbing it while staring daggers into Pearson. She’d rather be stabbing Pearson.
Alex leaned over, and stage-whispered, “Yeah, Tommy, I don’t think Mariel likes Pearson.”
This was putting it mildly. Mariel was sweet and kind and loving. She would casually have a shotgun at the dinner table, but she would be friendly and pleasant throughout dinner until the zombies showed up at the front door. That happened.
This Mariel? I hadn’t seen her this upset since a Deputy Mayor insisted that I would be thrown in jail for throwing the last Mayor into Hell.
Okay, he was dragged, but let’s not be picky.
Pearson nodded slowly. I left the table to retrieve more plates. He kept talking as long as he saw me through the opening between the kitchen a
nd dining room.
“There is a nearby Passionist monastery. I presume that you’re familiar with them?”
I came out with plates for Sinead, Alex, and me. I sat and shrugged. “Catholic religious. They focus on the Passion, obviously. They preach missions and retreats. They teach people how to pray. Sometimes, they assist local churches. They don’t open schools and universities, except seminaries for bringing people into their institution.”
Pearson nodded. “And they have many members that are exorcists.”
Alex cringed, thinking about our first demon. “Aw crap,” he muttered. “Not again.”
I dug into my plate. I had sauteed the onions and the mushrooms on different pans, then threw them in with the hash. It worked nicely. “Okay, so what’s the problem at the local Passionists? Did they lose someone in the course of an exorcism?”
Pearson took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Not exactly. They lost…everyone. The entire monastery. Early reports state that the exorcists were murdered first. Then the rest of the monastery was slaughtered. The entire building has been desecrated to Hell and Back.”
Alex frowned. “Literally, I’m sure.”
Pearson sighed. “And these are just the early reports. We’ve gotten as much input as we can from the boots on the ground, but there is only so much that a local priest can get away with at a crime scene. There’s only so much the local Bishop will authorize, or risk.”
Sinead frowned. “That doesn’t sound like something that the Pope would tolerate.”
Pearson smiled. “Pius XIII? He’s not tolerating it. That’s why I’m here. And since Tommy is also here, the mission—should you choose to accept it—
