by Danae Ayusso
I was leaning towards stroke still.
“No, I promise,” Father O’Malley said then a choked burst of amusement broke past his lips.
I dismissively waved him back towards the bema. “Father, don’t turn it into Christmas and Easter service all rolled into one,” I warned. “I’ve had a really rough day, and I just want to go home and take a bath.”
He smiled. “Of course, thank you.”
“Yup,” I said, popping the P as Volac did when being a pain in the ass, then slid into the empty pew in the back row, but wasn’t surprised when the angel slid in next to me.
Was it hours or days? Most likely it was just minutes, but it felt like an eternity sitting there with the annoyingly rude, Allah praising, daddy issues-ridden, purist of heavenly bullshit, card carrying member of fundamentalism of the extreme conservatives, hippy—seriously, what did he have against shoes—angel that was staring at me.
I tried to ignore him, but there were only so many times that a girl could file her nails in an attempt to preoccupy them self before she fucked up her French manicure.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Why are you staring at me?” I hissed through clenched teeth, my attention on the condemned man evangelizing with renewed spirit and purpose; the dying never ceased to amaze me with the lengths that they would go through to simply delay the inevitable.
“I’m trying to figure you out,” he said under his breath in that deep, raspy voice of his that made me want to stab him repeatedly while I forced myself upon him at the same time; my therapist would have been extremely disappointed with me at that moment. She’d call it regression, but I’d call it misguided and questionable ambition and lapse of better judgment.
“And how is that working out for you, Chief?” I asked indifferently.
Thankfully he turned his attention to Father O’Malley. “It is not,” he eventually mumbled.
“Sucks to be you,” I said and smiled despite myself.
When did I become so petty? And for my next trick, I will turn myself into a hair pulling, shin kicking, rock throwing, seven-year-old girl on the playground. Seriously, what am I doing? I should have repoed this soul by now and been home. I should have never downloaded in public. I should have never taken on this batch, high priority or not. And most importantly, I shouldn’t be sitting here.
And yet I am.
“If this,” Chief said venomously, “is some elaborate way for you to repossess for your own amusement, to make that man of the cloth look ridiculous like a lamb to slaughter to fulfill some kind of sick demonic perversion that you are harboring, I will kill you.”
I looked over at him and laughed, drawing the attention of everyone in the chapel. “You and what army, Chief?” I teasingly sang.
“You are testing my patience,” he warned.
“And that concerns me how?” I smooched my lips together at him and he glared at me. My head snapped forward. “What are you looking at?” I snarled at the congregation that had turned around to regard us.
Chief looked at them then raised an eyebrow.
They turned around and Father O’Malley resumed his soapbox worthy spiel.
“Why then?” Chief asked softly.
“Why what?” I asked just to annoy him and he growled under his breath. “Chief, I’ve had a shitty day, and it’s seemingly getting worse and worse by the minute. Case in point, I’m sitting in fucking church listening to a sermon.”
He shook his head, obviously not understanding my pain in the least.
“Just look at my damn heel,” I groaned, feebly trying to get the two pieces to magically go back together; I was a demon, not a damn Brownie. “I had to take this jacked up batch in order to make up the money that I lost with my last repo. Just because I shot him in public doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t be paid full for the repo! He punched me, not the other way around, and he ran when I tried to talk to him like a totally mature adult. How is the end result remotely my fault? I let him have his last moments in the park with his goddamn family, waited around for over two hours so they could have their Family Chanel bullshit hug-fest and to say goodbye, and then when I try to go the mature route, he tells me to go to Hell and runs. Then he punches me in the head! I’m not supposed to take that personally?!
“Oh wait, it gets worse!” I informed him with faux enthusiasm. “Since they’re screwing me over on issuing full payment, because in their opinion shooting an asshole, mind you which was totally justifiable, in public isn’t considered repoing with tact, now I can’t afford those goddamn Jimmy Choos I wanted and totally have the perfect outfit for.” I pouted. “Why is it that the damn repo girl, that’s just trying to make ends meet like everyone else, gets shit on because she was simply doing her job? While being helluva more considerate than her job description says that she has to be. Blame it on the fact that I have internal sexual organs, but I like to think that I try to make it as painless as possible. I give a bit of respect and, I know it’s asking for way too much since they’re the ones that have fucked up and lost their souls, the benefit of the doubt. That’s fair, right? No. I get hit, spit on, called every goddamn name in the book, and treated like some kind of leper with a real funky Jezebel smell rolling from between her legs.” I sulked down on the pew and pouted. “It sucks and is totally unfair.”
Somehow I turned repossessing souls into a therapy session with the creepy angel next to me. There was seriously something wrong with me. I couldn’t even begin to put into perspective of how messed up this was. It was wrong on so many levels that I didn’t know what to do, and I really didn’t know what to think. The only thing I knew was that it was wrong; it felt wrong, everything about it was wrong, but something about it felt right.
How was that even possible? Does that even make sense? Why would something that I knew was wrong feel as if it was right and what I needed without even knowing it?
If this jerk tries to charge me for taking up his time with my problems, I’m so kicking his ass.
“You,” he said under his breath, “are very strange.”
At least he didn’t say fucked up.
I shrugged and studied my hands. “I guess, but I’ve been called worse.”
“I suppose you have,” he agreed and left it at that.
Eventually Father O’Malley said goodbye to the last of the angels lingering—obviously they knew what I was—and he joined us.
“So what now?” Father O’Malley asked.
Damn it. Why is he making it so easy?
I sighed; I really didn’t want to do this. I looked at the large gold cross with the miserable looking man hanging from it above the altar. “Did you want a body found or only ashes?” I absently asked.
Father O’Malley sat on the other side of me and looked at his hands. “Whichever you prefer,” he said.
It was a nice thought, but not really something I could decide for someone. Offering what I had was a violation of some rule or something I was sure. “Father,” I whispered and closed my eyes, “I cannot choose for you. It isn’t even supposed to be offered, especially to humans, but I know that you are a good man and had your reasons for doing whatever you did that brings me to your door step.”
“Aren’t you going to ask why I did it?” he whispered.
I shook my head. “I’ve heard every reason you couldn’t even possibly imagine: end to war; cure for a plague; for love; healing of a child; a sandwich,” I laughed at the last one—Capone was rather funny when locked up.
Father O’Malley patted my knee and my eyes snapped to him. “I hope it was a very good sandwich,” he said with a smile. “It was for faith. I sold my soul for faith.”
This man is insane.
“For my entire life, growing up in Northern Ireland in poverty, seeing death and war all around me, I couldn’t understand or imagine why we were here. If this was all that the world was, if this was all that was meant for me, what was the point of even being born? I prayed every night, every day,
sometimes ten-times a day, but not for salvation or for peace or happiness. I prayed for faith. I needed to know that there was a reason for everything, and that there was a bigger picture and purpose than what I was seeing. Then my prayers were answered while I was staring into a pint of the black stuff. A woman sat next to me at the pub and told me that she could give me the faith that my life was lacking. But it would cost me my soul. For ten years I could live an existence filled with faith and purpose in exchange for my soul. At the time, I didn’t think it was much; it wasn’t as if I was using it. So I agreed and woke up the next morning with a feeling that I have never had before. It wasn’t hope or happiness; it was something else that went beyond those. It was faith that there is a reason for the madness, and I knew what I had to do. With my last decade of life in this world, I was going to help give that faith to others.” He looked over at me and smiled. “That was twenty years ago.”
Wait what? He made a deal with a Soul Shark, a disgusting breed of bottom feeder much like Loan Sharks in Eden, and he got an extension?
“I don’t understand,” I whispered and wiped away the tear that was rolling down his cheek for him.
Father O’Malley smiled at me. “You are not the first repo man to cross me path, but I know that you will be the last and I am okay with that. Ten years ago an angel came to repo my soul, and much like you, he saw that I was a good man. He went to his bosses, if that’s what you call them, and asked to purchase the contract. They denied his request, but it was negotiated that I was permitted an extension as long as my soul stayed pure in the eyes of the Lord.”
I nodded, but that made absolutely no sense...it did but it didn’t. Pure souls of either light or dark were worth ten times more: priests, clerics, holy men, priestess, mambos, and so forth. This repo should pay well, but at the same time I felt horrible that I had to do it.
Damn it. I hope I’m not getting a conscience or something. That would suck and make my job so much harder.
“It is,” I whispered then swallowed hard, trying to clear my throat, “in my experience, that people find solace in knowing that their ashes are in the wind. Knowing that their earthly body has been freed and is still gracing the earth, but is no longer under the restraints of the laws of man, god or demon, gives them a sense of peace before the end.”
Those were the words of an amazing priestess that I repoed four-hundred years ago. It was a knockdown, drag out fight of biblical proportions, but in the end I won and she respected that I was, what she called, a formidable adversary, and bowed down before my blade. We hung out drinking wine together all night. The stories she told me were beyond anything I could have ever imaged experiencing myself, and I envied the life that she had lead, and a small part of me wanted to cry over her death, especially considering it was by my hands. But as the sun rose, I became the repo man again. She smiled at me, nodding that she was ready, and I drove a demonic blade through her heart.
Sometimes I hated my job.
Father O’Malley nodded. “I think I like the sound of that very much.”
I took his hand in my and pulled him into Edom.
He looked around confused.
“It isn’t what you thought it was going to be, is it?” I laughed softly at the expression on his face.
“It looks the same,” he admitted, eyeing everything.
“There are subtle changes,” the angel whispered, suddenly appearing on the other side of the condemned man. “The prayer candles for the votive offering are black instead of red and clear.”
“Oh,” was all the priest said, looking over at them. “Angelus, thank you for everything, and for allowing me the opportunity to give faith to others when they had none.”
Wait. This angel is the other repo man?
“I am sorry I could not do more,” Angelus said in that level tone of his and looked away from the priest.
Father O’Malley smiled at me. “I’m ready.”
I turned his hand over in mine so it was palm side up. A demonic dagger appeared in my free hand and he gasped causing the angel to visibly stiffen. “Forgive me,” I whispered then pricked his fingertip. I closed my eyes and winched when the hissing black blade sliced through the thin membrane that was his skin, drawing a tiny dot of blood then I pulled his soul from his vessel and into mine.
Tears streamed down my cheeks then fell to my hand, making little puddles of ashy mud on my skin. “I need some pie,” I whispered, turning to the angel next to me, but he was gone. “Gee thanks, that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, you chick shit bastard!”
A violent wind blew my hair around me, and the ashen form of the vessel of Father O’Malley blew away. Layer by layer it was pulled away by the wind until nothing remained. The doors flew open and the rolling cloud of ash blew out them then the doors slammed shut behind it.
I shook my head. “I seriously picked the wrong century to stop drinking.”
Thirteen.
That’s how many human souls I had repoed in over six-hundred years.
Thirteen.
That was it. I didn’t remember any of their names other than that of Father Liam O’Malley. Most likely that was because I repoed his soul only seven-days ago, but I had a feeling that it was more than that. It was something he said.
Faith.
The young man traded his soul to a Soul Shark for ten measly years of having faith. That was the dumbest thing I had ever heard, nearly as stupid as Capone and his sandwich request. But at the same time, it was completely understandable; what was there to have faith in anymore?
It honestly pained me, all the way to my heart. That had never happened before. Obviously the bitter angel was upset by the human’s death. He took the ashes to spread across NYC I’m assuming, and he risked his life to save him ten-years ago. It made me curious as to how he was able to get the contract extended. That was practically unheard of.
Father O’Malley had me questioning myself without knowing it.
Did I have faith? Faith in what was the real question. I didn’t believe in religion. I didn’t believe in anything other than myself because I was the only thing that had never let me down. What was there for a demon to have faith in? On one level I had faith in the system since my soul was tied to it in a matter of speaking. Was marginally trusting a big corporation that was more corrupt then the hierarchy of Hell considered having faith in something, or was it trust by default since my life was in their hands?
Damn it. I don’t think I know what faith is.
“So what do you think?” Loke asked then shook my shoulder, trying to get my attention.
Shit, I didn’t realize he was talking this whole time.
“About what?” I reluctantly asked then cringed, preparing myself for the hysterical queen fit he was about to throw.
His mouth fell open with a popping sound. “Please tell me you’re kidding?!” he shrieked. “I’ve been talking to you for an hour straight! What is with you? Are you on drugs or something?”
“Or something,” I admitted and pulled my mobile out of my pocket and checked the message that had just come in: HUB AT NOON.
“Now what are you doing?” he demanded. “You better be ordering me a male order booty call or something because you so owe me. I thought we were best friends, like a-sexual soul mates of common interests. It isn’t every day that you find a friend that you can check out men with. I’m hurt,” he pouted and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Homo-wan Kenobi, chill like a vill for a minute before a house falls on your sister, and some jealous winged monkey throws a bucket of water on your flaming ass,” I said then looked up at him and his mouth twitched, trying to keep from smiling. “What is the problem that you’ve been throwing a diva sized tantrum for an hour about?”
Loke threw himself across the couch then maneuvered his head to my lap. “Well, I was telling you, for the past hour,” he made a face, “that I’m thinking of switching teams.”
My mobile slipped from between my fingers and
smacked him in the face.
“Ow,” he complained.
“Are you trying your hand at tricking?” I asked. “We had an agreement, remember? No tricking Zee.”
My best friend had completely lost his mind! There was no way in hell that the one-man gay pride parade was going to start liking girls. If he hadn’t liked them in more than twenty-thousand years, there was no way that he was just going to start now.
He dramatically sighed. “No. It’s just that I can’t apparently find a gay man anywhere, it’s like they’re hiding.”
“Wait, what? This is NYC and you can’t find someone to play hide the bologna with?”
“Nope,” he said, popping the P.
“Seriously, you can’t find anyone to ride the Norwegian stallion?” I pressed.
“It’s been a week since I’ve gotten any play,” he said with a huff. “It’s like straight sausage fest at the clubs. It’s horrible. Please tell me that all of the fabulous gay men, I’d settle for the not so fabulous ones at the moment, are away on some gay sabbatical that I didn’t hear about.”
I remember when my problems were that damn frivolous and self-centered.
Oh how I envied Loke’s ridiculous not-so-world shattering problems in Loke-Land.
“Sweetie,” I said and tried to keep from laughing, and absently caressed his head, “there are no straight men. Only men who haven't met Loke yet. You will be a one demigod assault on heterosexual marriage!” I assured him.
“You think?” he asked.
I nodded.
“That would be awesome.”
“Yes it would,” I agreed.
He looked up at me. “So what’s your problem? You’ve been moping around for days. I can totally understand that you’d be über pissed about ruining that outfit and shoes, but come on, it isn’t like you don’t have a room turned closet filled with designer duds. Some even have the tags on still!”
