The Bishop's Legacy (World of Shadows Book 3)

by Lincoln Cole

  He wondered how she saw him. What must he look like today? His hair and beard must be shaggy and unkempt with strands of gray mixed into the black. He imagined his face, but with eyes that were sunken, skin that was pale and leathery. Doubtless, he looked thinner, almost emaciated.

  He was also covered in blood, the smell of which would be overpowering. It disgusted him; he hated how his daily ritual left him, battering his body to maintain control, yet he answered its call without question.

  “Do you remember what you told me the first time we met?” the Reverend asked finally, facing Frieda again.

  “We need your help,” Frieda said, ignoring his question. “You’ve been here for a long time, and things have been getting worse.”

  “You quoted Nietzsche, that first meeting. I thought it was pessimistic and rhetorical,” he continued.

  “Crime is getting worse. The world is getting darker and…”

  “I thought you were talking about something that might happen to someone else but never to me. I had no idea just how spot on you were: that you were prophesizing my future,” he spoke. “Do you remember your exact words?”

  “We need your help,” Frieda finished. Then she added softer: “I need your help.”

  He didn’t respond. Instead, he said: “Do you remember?”

  She sighed. “I do.”

  “Repeat it for me.”

  She frowned. “When we first met, I said to you: ‘Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.’”

  He nodded. “You were right. Now I am a monster.”

  “You aren’t a monster,” she whispered.

  “No,” he said. “I am your monster.”

  “Reverend…”

  Rage exploded through his body, and he felt every muscle tense. “That is not my name!” he roared, slamming his fist on the table. It made a loud crashing sound, shredding the silence, and the wood nearly folded beneath the impact.

  Frieda slid her chair back in an instant, falling into a fighting stance. One hand gripped the cross hanging around her neck, and the other slid into her vest pocket. She wore an expression he could barely recognize, something he’d never seen on her face before.

  Fear.

  She was afraid of him. The realization stung, and more than a little bit.

  The Reverend didn’t move from his seat, but he could still feel heat coursing through his veins. He forced his pulse to slow, his emotions to subside. He loved the feeling of rage but was terrified of what would happen if he gave into it; if he embraced it.

  He glanced at the hand in her pocket and realized what weapon she had chosen to defend herself. A pang shot through his chest.

  “Would it work?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer, but a minute trace of shame crossed her face. He stood slowly and walked around the table, reaching a hand toward her. To her credit, she barely flinched as he touched her. He gently pulled her fist out of the pocket and opened it. In her grip was a small vial filled with water.

  “Will it work?” he asked.

  “Arthur…” she breathed.

  The name brought a flood of memories, furrowing his brow. A little girl playing in a field, picking blueberries and laughing. A wife with auburn hair who watched him with love and longing as he played with their daughter. He quashed them; he feared the pain the memories would bring.

  That was a pain he did not cherish.

  “I need to know,” he whispered.

  He slid the vial from her hand and popped the top off. She watched in resignation as he held up his right arm and poured a few droplets onto his exposed skin. It tingled where it touched, little more than a tickle, and he felt his skin turn hot.

  But it didn’t burn.

  He let out the shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  “Thank God,” Frieda whispered.

  “I’m not sure She deserves it,” Arthur replied.

  “We need your help,” Frieda said again. When he looked at her face once more, he saw moisture in her eyes. He couldn’t tell if it was from relief that the blessed water didn’t work, or sadness that it almost had.

  “How can I possibly help?” he asked, gesturing at his body helplessly with his arms. “You see what I am. What I’ve become.”

  “I know what you were.”

  “What I am no longer,” he corrected. “I was ignorant and foolish. I can never be that man again.”

  “Three girls are missing,” she said.

  “Three girls are always missing,” he said, “and countless more.”

  “But not like these,” she said. “These are ours.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Rescues?”

  She nodded. “Two showed potential. All three were being fostered by the Greathouse family.”

  He remembered Charles Greathouse, an old and idealistic man who just wanted to help. “Of course, you went to Charles,” Arthur said. “He took care of your little witches until they were ready to become soldiers.”

  “He volunteered.”

  “And now he’s dead,” Arthur said. Frieda didn’t correct him. “Who took the girls?”

  “We don’t know. But there’s more. It killed three of ours.”

  “Hunters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Michael and Rachael Felton.”

  “And the third?”

  “Abigail.”

  He cursed. “You know she wasn’t ready. Not for this.”

  “You’ve been here for five years,” Frieda said. “She grew up.”

  “She’s still a child.”

  “She wasn’t anymore.”

  “She’s my child.”

  Frieda hesitated, frowning. He knew as well as she did what had happened to put him in this prison and what part Abigail had played in it. If Abigail hadn’t stopped him…

  “We didn’t expect . . .” Frieda said finally, sliding away from the minefield in the conversation.

  “You never do.”

  “I’m sorry,” Frieda said. “I know you were close.”

  The Reverend—Arthur—had trained Abigail. Raised her from a child after rescuing her from a cult many years earlier. It was after his own child had been murdered, and he had needed a reason to go on with his life. His faith was wavering, and she had become his salvation. They were more than close. They were family.

  And now she was dead.

  “What took them? Was it the Ninth Circle?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Our informants haven’t heard anything.”

  “A demon?”

  “Probably several.”

  “Where did it take them?” he asked.

  “We don’t know.”

  “What is it going to do with them?”

  This time, she didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

  “So you want me to clean up your mess?”

  “It killed three of our best,” Frieda said. “I don’t…I don’t know what else to do.”

  “What does the Council want you to do?”

  “Wait and see.”

  “And you disagree?”

  “I’m afraid that it’ll be too late by the time the Council decides to act.”

  “You have others you could send.”

  “Not that can handle something like this,” she said.

  “You mean none that you could send without the Council finding out and reprimanding you?”

  “You were always the best, Arthur.”

  “Now I am in prison.”

  “You are here voluntarily,” she said. “I’ve taken care of everything. There is a car waiting topside and a jet idling. So, will you help?”

  He was silent for a moment, thinking. “I’m not that man anymore.”

  “I trust you.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “I do.”

  “What happens if I say ‘no’?”

  “I don’t know,” Frieda said, shaking her head. “
You are my last hope.”

  “What happens,” he began, a lump in his throat, “when I don’t come back? What happens when I become the new threat and you have no one else to send?”

  Frieda wouldn’t even look him in the eyes.

  “When that day comes,” she said softly, staring at the table, “I’ll have an answer to a question I’ve wondered about for a long time.”

  “What question is that?”

  She looked up at him. “What is my faith worth?”

  ◆◆◆

  The Reverend—Arthur, he reminded himself; his name was Arthur—sat on the red-velvet chair inside the private jet, high in the clouds and traveling at several hundred kilometers per hour. He felt out of place, sickened by the luxury and ostentation of this trip. He’d spent the last five years living in his roughhewn cell, and it had become his home.

  He missed it, the cell with its lumpy mattress and low ceiling. It had become his sanctuary, a place to hide away from the world. Things had gotten to be too much for him to handle, and the utter simplicity of the cage took away his choices. It took away his free will and his ability to make mistakes.

  Out here in the real world, mistakes were all he had left.

  He looked out the window at the clouds and saw his face reflected there, but this time, it was more like the face he remembered. He’d shaved off the beard and cut his hair, and now he was wearing comfortable and light clothing. It would be cold in the mountains where he was heading, but he didn’t fear the cold.

  The onboard phone started to ring through a little speaker built into his chair. He stared at it curiously for a second and then pressed the green button to accept the call.

  “Arthur?” Frieda asked as she was connected.

  Her voice boomed through the jet’s speakers, causing him to wince. He found the volume controls and turned it down to a more acceptable level. He hadn’t realized just how peaceful his cell had been without loud noises.

  “I’m here,” he replied.

  “You should be landing in just under an hour. We will have an escort ready to—”

  “No escort,” he said. “Just a car. I will travel alone.”

  “You should have someone with you in case—”

  “No escort,” he reiterated, cutting her off once more.

  She was silent for a moment. “Very well,” she agreed finally. “Did you find the supplies I left for you?”

  He glanced at a cardboard box on the chair beside him with a frown on his face. “I did.”

  “I know it isn’t much,” she said, “but I can’t make this trip common knowledge. I’m already pushing my luck with the jet.”

  It was definitely not much: a small caliber revolver, a few vials of holy water, a satellite phone, and a pair of short knives…none of the more powerful implements he’d used while he’d still been a Hunter serving the Council.

  Then again, the one absolute thing he’d learned over the years was that those items had been a crutch. The only true weapon he’d had in his battles against evil had been his faith.

  Something he’d lost long ago.

  “You won’t tell the Council?” he asked.

  “No,” Frieda replied. “They would never approve.”

  “How many of them wanted me dead when I went into the cell?”

  “Arthur…”

  “How many still do?” he asked.

  She sighed. “They are fools for not trusting you.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe you’re the fool.”

  She was silent for a long moment. “When you arrive at the airport we’ll have a car waiting. The GPS is already set, and it’s the last known coordinates of Rachael Felton’s phone. It’s up in the mountains out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “What were they doing there?”

  “It isn’t clear,” Frieda said. “Rachael called us the day before she died and said she and her husband were chasing something powerful, and they said it was time sensitive as though it had an agenda. They picked up Abigail for backup and said they would report back to the Council once everything was taken care of. But they never did.”

  “So you sent a team?”

  “The Council sent a team to check on them,” Frieda corrected. “And when they found the bodies…”

  “You came to me,” he finished.

  “The Council is still debating its next steps. They think Rachael acted rashly by not calling for more backup, and they’re trying to blame this on her. By the time they make a decision it will be too late.”

  “All right, Frieda,” Arthur said. “I’m doing this for Abi. But you need to make sure my cell is ready for me when I get home.”

  ◆◆◆

  As soon as the jet landed, Arthur stretched out his body and breathed in the cool mountain air. He allowed himself a few seconds to savor it before walking toward the waiting car. The airfield was empty except for his jet.

  There were a few people watching him in suits, but they said nothing as he approached. He ignored their mixed expressions of awe and hatred and climbed into the waiting car

  He had spent seven hours trapped on that jet being flown halfway across the world to the Rocky Mountains. The sun hadn’t yet risen in the sky by the time he landed. The red, ominous glow in the clouds warned him that a storm was approaching, but he didn’t have time to wait around.

  He headed off into the mountains, following the GPS, and for the next several hours lost himself in the simple act of driving. It had been so long since he’d sat behind a steering wheel that it was almost cathartic.

  He was forced to park alongside the road in a ditch and make the last leg of his journey on foot. It was a five mile hike into a cold and dark forest. His body burned from the exertion, and he loved the sensation. The walk gave him time to clear his mind and prepare himself for what he might find.

  He didn’t need the GPS to tell him that he’d arrived at the right location.

  The bodies were torn to shreds, dried blood everywhere. Arthur could tell immediately, however, that the Council’s foot soldiers had been mistaken about how many people were killed here in this clearing.

  There were only two bodies.

  It was a forgivable error with how mangled and disfigured those two were. He stood in a clearing, miles from civilization in any direction. Organs hung from tree limbs, entrails were ripped apart and scattered across the ground, and both heads were missing.

  More than that, neither of the two heads were Abigail’s, nor any dismembered body parts her shade of skin. She wasn’t lying here mixed in with the dead, which meant she might still be alive.

  She might be alive…

  He had come here full of hatred, wanting nothing more than to avenge his adopted daughter and destroy whatever had taken her life. Frieda had manipulated him, knowing he would agree to this mission because of his love for Abigail. They both knew he relished the opportunity to punish whatever creature had harmed her.

  But, if Abigail was alive and there was even the slightest chance of saving her…

  The realization gave Arthur pause, and he felt a stirring of something he hadn’t experienced in a long time: hope.

  The Reverend patted the loaner pistol at his side—a snub nose revolver that looked like a peashooter—and headed through the trees. He had a few other implements with him, including the knife and a vial of holy water, as well as the satellite phone, but he didn’t bring much else.

  The phone was off for now: anything technological had a tendency to fail around the supernatural and was more of a burden than anything else. He’d considered leaving it behind as well but decided to hang onto it. He was supposed to report in every hour and give Frieda a status update, but that definitely wasn’t going to happen. This wasn’t about her, and it sure as hell wasn’t for her.

  Instead, he followed the tracks.

  Those tracks weren’t even hidden: broken branches, scraps of discarded clothing, and dried blood. Arthur felt like he was being led somewhere rather than c
hasing something. Never a good sign. After killing two members of Arthur’s order, this demon had to know there would be retaliation. Whatever Arthur was dealing with, it wasn’t afraid of him at all.

  He walked for a few hours, stepping lightly and feeling his body limber up as he went. The air tasted perfect. He’d grown used to the stale oxygen from the caves, piped in through the elevator shaft and having an oily, metallic flavor. This air tasted of trees and nature. He hadn’t even known how much he missed clean air, and he could feel it rejuvenating his soul.

  He paused at a tree line looking over an empty mining town. It was built into the side of a hill and consisted of around twenty dilapidated buildings. The tracks led him here, and he knew the demon was somewhere in the town, waiting for him.

  Squat houses that were rundown, decrepit, and overgrown with vines surrounded a broken down church. This was an old country-store town, abandoned in the woods and falling apart in the preceding years.

  Four spikes adorned with heads were standing in front of the church. Each had an expression of horror and served as a deterrent: a warning.

  He remembered how a sight like this would have bothered him when he was a younger man. Two of the heads were the missing Hunters, and the other two he didn’t recognize. When he was younger, knowing that this creature had killed his friends would have made him furious enough to charge headlong into the church and start blasting everything in sight. The depravity of it would have bothered him.

  The only thing that bothered him now was how little he cared.

  A mist hung in the air as the sun rose, dew clinging to his boots. He felt a breeze of wind and tasted moisture. It was quiet in the clearing, filled with foreboding.

  He walked through the overgrown street toward the church. Broken shutters and roof tiles littered the dirt road as he went. It felt like a ghost town: empty, uninviting, and threatening.

  The sun flitted through the trees overhead. It was eerily quiet, not even birds or insects chirping. They could feel the supernatural presence, the sheer wrongness of it, as easily as he could. Even the forest could sense something was amiss.

  The church was bigger up close, built on a hill and dwarfing the buildings around it. Part of the ceiling was caved in and it was covered in mold and vines. He guessed it to have been built in the middle of the nineteenth century. It must have been abandoned not long after.