Battle for His Soul

by Theresa Linden

  Brother Maurus stopped at one of the desks and rummaged through the top drawer. “Ah, tape.” He held up a roll of transparent tape.

  “What about masking tape?” Jarret opened a drawer. “Masking tape holds better. Put some on the corners of the table, under the tablecloth.”

  “Oh!” Brother Maurus’s eyes popped open. His eyebrows rose. “The wine. I forgot to put the wine in the refrigerator. I should’ve done that already.” He hurried from the office. “Come help me.”

  “Really? You’re gonna trust me with wine?”

  The monk flew down the steps and began scanning the wooden shelves of wine across from the elevator. “What kind did you drink?”

  Jarret followed. “I don’t know. I grabbed a couple bottles. It was red. I think it was Syrah.”

  The monk pulled three bottles from the shelf and handed them to Jarret. He grabbed three more and flew back to the stairs. “Did you like it?”

  “Yeah.” Jarret laughed. “You sound like you approve.”

  “No, no, you are too young to drink so much.”

  Brother Maurus stopped at a little refrigerator next to a tall metal cabinet. “Besides, ‘We read that monks should not drink wine at all, but since the monks of our day cannot be convinced of this . . .’” He glanced over his shoulder, smiling at Jarret. “‘. . . let us at least agree to drink moderately, and not to the point of excess, for wine makes even wise men go astray.’” He took the bottles from Jarret, stuck them in the refrigerator, and straightened up. “That is from the rule of St. Benedict.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Jarret grinned.

  “When you’re older, you come back. You can taste different wines.” He led the way to the door.

  Jarret laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, Brother Maurus.” He held the door for the monk.

  They crunched down the gravel path back to the picnic tables they had arranged around the old oak tree. Brother Maurus glanced at him a few times before saying, “You said you do not belong here. Where do you belong?”

  “What? I don’t know. I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “You ask Jesus. He will show you. And don’t feel trapped, Brother Jarret.” He stooped and retrieved one of the tablecloths from the grass. “You won’t be here much longer. Try to find a way to enjoy yourself, a way to get some benefit from your visit here.”

  Jarret’s conscience pricked him. He used to say that to Keefe before every trip with Papa. “While Papa’s taking care of business, let’s see what we can get for ourselves.” But he knew the monk didn’t mean it in the same way.

  “Hey, I never did figure out . . .” Jarret scooped up the other tablecloth and spread it on a table. “That night of the storm, how’d you know I was down there in the tunnel?”

  “Hmm.” Brother Maurus had been turning the roll of tape in his hand, looking for the end. He stopped and scratched his head. “I went to check on something outside because of the rain, and I saw a flicker of light in a winery window. I thought nothing of it at first. It was dim. Maybe my old eyes played tricks on me? But it continued to bother me, so I went to check. I was looking around the cellar when I saw the most amazing thing. It was like an apparition.”

  Jarret grinned and came over to get the tape. “Oh yeah?”

  “I saw the figures of the Virgin Mother and of Our Lord surrounded by heavenly light.” His half-moon eyes lit up. Then he laughed. “Of course, as I approached, I realized it was only the statues we keep in the cellar. They were sitting on a cart, a lantern behind them.”

  Jarret busted up laughing and dropped the tape. “I put those there.”

  “Still, I see it as God bringing me to you. Don’t you?”

  He stopped laughing and shrugged.

  “Sometimes the Lord whispers. We ought to be open to His inspirations, no matter how small they seem.” He whizzed around the table, sticking tape balls on the corners and covering them with the tablecloth, working as if he had always done it that way. “I’ll miss you when you go, Brother Jarret. I enjoy your company.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BATTLE & PRAYER

  Monettello

  Teenagers shuffled into Saint Michael’s church by twos and threes and fours, their loud talk and laughter turning to whispers and straight faces as they stepped through the vestibule. The majority of them belonged to the parish youth group, the Fire Starters.

  Monettello and Cyabrial waited near the vestibule, greeting guardian angels.

  “Blessed be God,” Monettello said, bowing his head to Peter’s guardian.

  “Blessed be God forever.” Peter’s guardian had his sword drawn and only sheathed it once well within the church.

  Dominic strode through the doors next, a Bible tucked under his arm. His guardian had been whispering intently to him but stopped to exchange a greeting. “Praised be Jesus Christ.”

  “Now and forevermore,” Monettello and Cyabrial said together.

  Monettello turned his gaze to Keefe. Keefe knelt in the third row, his head bowed with the intensity of his prayer, hopefully discerning his vocation.

  “Has he received his calling, then?” Cyabrial said.

  “He has. But he has yet to accept it. Worry over his twin keeps him from responding to the call. He wants to do the right thing. Either Jarret converts and supports Keefe’s calling, or Keefe must come to realize that answering God’s call will do more good for everyone. Yes, I am concerned for him. Many have let the affairs of the world keep them from their vocation. I do not want to see this happen to Keefe.”

  Monettello and Cyabrial neared their charges, who sat on either side of Peter.

  “I’m so excited the Franciscans agreed to join us,” Caitlyn whispered to Peter as she made a sweeping scan of the church. “When will they get here? Why didn’t they come with you?”

  “Six friars? In our little car?” Peter said, forehead wrinkling. “They have to wait for a ride. Do you know they don’t even own a car? They have a car they use back in Minnesota, but ‘they’re traveling on the generosity of others.’” He used air quotes as he repeated something his father had said. “Can you imagine that?”

  “Sure. We’re supposed to trust the Lord in all things.”

  “People were made to work, take care of themselves.” Phoebe dropped into the pew behind Caitlyn, Keefe, and Peter. She slumped back and folded her arms. The blue streaks in her hair appeared green under the yellow light streaming in through a stained glass window. “I don’t believe in relying on others for your daily needs. Emergencies, sure. What else can you do? But not your daily things.”

  Keefe rose from his knees and glanced at Phoebe as he sat back.

  Caitlyn faced her. “Well, it gives them the opportunity to actively trust in God’s providence, and it gives others the opportunity for charity. So everyone gets the chance to glorify God.”

  Phoebe smirked. “God made us to work. It’s right there in the Bible. Don’t ask me where.”

  “They do work.” Caitlyn sounded defensive. “They do God’s work. How can they go around preaching the Good News and helping people if they have nine-to-five jobs, too?”

  Kiara slid into the pew with Phoebe. “What’re you guys talking about?”

  “The monks,” Peter said.

  “They’re brothers,” Phoebe and Caitlyn said together.

  “Oh yeah, cool,” Kiara said, her voice soft and eyes round. “I can’t wait to meet them. Can you imagine giving up everything to serve God? It sounds adventurous.”

  Caitlyn nodded in agreement. Peter rolled his eyes. Then they both turned to face the altar.

  Keefe had heard her too, judging by the flicker of his gaze, but he made no other show of it. Perhaps the very idea tumbled around his mind at that moment: giving up all to serve God.

  “I could never give up my freedom,” Phoebe whispered to Kiara, “. . . give up having a husband.”

  “You don’t even have a boyfriend,” Kiara whispered back.


  “So. I will when I’m ready. The way I see it, why should I shop when I’m not ready to buy?”

  “Don’t you want to get some experience?” Kiara asked. “Then you have a better idea what kind of guy you want to marry.”

  “Oh, I already know that. I don’t need to date to figure that out. Don’t you know what you want?”

  “Well, I . . . I . . . sort of.”

  “I think you should have that in mind, at least, before you jump into dating. It’s flattering, having a guy like you and all. But a girl might be tempted to compromise on what she really wants. Not me. I don’t play that game.” Phoebe slumped down farther in the pew and turned her face to the altar, but she had the unfocused gaze of one deep in personal thought.

  Caitlyn leaned back and, looking over Keefe’s bowed head, caught Peter’s eye. “Have you heard from Roland?” she whispered.

  Keefe glanced without making eye contact.

  “Nah.” Peter whispered, too, but his voice carried. “He called once when they first got there. Jarret’s probably got him tied up in some secret room. Did you know they were staying in a mansion out there?”

  “Really? I wonder if it’s bigger than their castle,” she said. “And I wonder what they do every day.”

  “Probably the same things they do here. Roland slinks through the shadows, if he can find any in Arizona, and Jarret finds ways to hurt and humiliate him.”

  Caitlyn glared. “You’re terrible.”

  In an instant, Hursk came from out of nowhere and leapt onto Keefe’s shoulder. He had become somewhat bat-like in appearance. His wings had grown thin and bony, his teeth sharp like spears, and his nose smashed-looking.

  Monettello took a stern posture and flicked him away, but not before Hursk had whispered poison to Keefe.

  Keefe nudged Peter with his knee. “Isn’t Roland your friend?”

  Hursk peered at Monettello through beady black eyes then laughed behind a clawed hand. Though he had weakened since Keefe’s conversion, he still managed to rile Keefe with justifiable anger.

  Peter faced Keefe and grinned when he saw the hard look in his eyes. “Well, sure, he’s my friend. But Jarret’s not. And they’re about as different as day and night, black and white, fire and ice, peanut butter and—no, that one won’t work, because those go together.”

  “Roland cares about Jarret.”

  “So? I don’t have to like him. He’s . . . evil.”

  Armed with a three-inch shiv, Hursk swooped to Keefe.

  Monettello lifted his wings and stepped toward the demon.

  Hursk perched, digging claws into Keefe’s shoulder. He bared his spiky teeth and hissed at Monettello.

  Monettello lifted a hand to flick him away again, but then—

  Grudge, a stocky greenish demon, appeared and gimped up to Peter, a dozen demons in his wake. The demons, small but lightning-quick, raced to and fro, whispering lies and tempting the teens to boredom, apathy, vanity, presumption, despair . . . They had a habit of showing up when a great good was about to be accomplished.

  Monettello and the other guardian angels drew swords.

  Chaos ensued. Angels beat back demons only to find them leaping up again, pouncing on a victim, and turning quickly for the fight.

  Keefe’s jaw tensed. “Jarret is not evil. He’s . . . Well, he needs help, some direction, prayers. Haven’t you heard of loving your enemies?”

  Unbeknownst to them, a sword clashed over their heads.

  “Mmm.” Peter rubbed his chin. “I have a hard time with that one. What exactly does it mean? Love your enemies? Besides, there’s nothing I can do to help him. You’re his brother. Maybe that’s your job.”

  Grudge had managed to plant a seed in Peter, which, at present, his guardian could do nothing to uproot, due to Peter’s stubbornness.

  “You can still pray for him and not bad-mouth him,” Keefe said, his voice rising, “especially not in front of me.”

  Peter leaned toward Keefe, a sneer on his face. “Oh, I’ll pray for him alright. But haven’t you heard, some demons only come out of a person with prayer and fasting?”

  A demon gasped. A few jerked their faces to Peter, slowing in battle.

  How did he know?

  Did he believe it?

  Don’t tell the others.

  No. They didn’t like people to know about that method, seeing as how it had always been quite effective.

  Keefe shot a wicked glare. “He’s not possessed.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “You guys!” Caitlyn reached past Keefe and smacked Peter’s arm. “We’re here to pray. You can argue later.” She shouted the last two words as the others in the church grew silent. Her face reddened, but no one paid her any attention.

  The Franciscan friars had finally arrived. Sandals shuffling softly, they processed down the main aisle. One by one, they genuflected and filed into an empty pew near the front. They knelt at once to pray.

  A demon shrieked, “He comes!”

  The battle paused. A few demons fled without waiting for confirmation. Others lost their edge in fighting, and every one of those that remained came under the control of an angel.

  The teens knelt. Angels fell prostrate. As Father Carston stepped into the sanctuary, demons begged for freedom, making promises they would never keep in strangled voices too hideous for a human to endure. “Please, please, let me go. I will never torment another soul. Only do not make me look upon . . . Him.” A few demons gained permission to flee but others were forced to remain, to kneel, to watch, to confess, “Jesus Christ is Lord.”

  With great reverence, Father Carston brought out the Blessed Sacrament for adoration.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  PLAN B

  Jarret

  Wearing only a towel, Jarret stood in front of the bathroom mirror and looked himself over. He had a lean, muscular body and a strong, angular face. Why would any girl choose wimpy Roland over him? After flexing his biceps, he decided that he needed to get back home to his weights. He ran his hand over his chin. Maybe he should shave the stubble, just sport the hint of a mustache. And he could always leave his hair down. Selena might like—

  Forget Selena!

  He had spent the whole day walking through the neighborhood in the heat, trying to clear his mind of Roland, Keefe, Papa, and her. By the time he felt his skin cracking under the relentless sun, his head had cleared, so he’d directed his steps back to the Zamoranos’ house.

  When the mansion came into view, Rufino’s screen door swung open. So Jarret had stopped and talked with him awhile. He was tempted to ask Rufino for a joint but decided against it. He’d never smoked pot before and, besides, Rufino would probably nark him out. But he did ask to borrow his car, the old green clunker in the dirt driveway. After parting with a few bucks, the keys were his so he returned to the Zamoranos’ to get cleaned up. Maybe he’d try his luck at a bar.

  Jarret fixed his hair back, decided against shaving, and stepped out of the bathroom.

  There, at the little table in the corner of the bedroom, sat Roland. Strangely, he wore a light-colored shirt. Eyes on Jarret, he closed his laptop. “Hey, Jarret. I was wondering what happened to you.”

  Jarret opened a dresser drawer. “Oh yeah, why’s that?”

  “I don’t know. You’ve been gone all day. Papa and Juan wanted to take everyone to some kind of museum and dinner. Desert Museum or something.”

  “Why aren’t you with them?” Jarret grabbed tan cargo shorts and started dressing.

  “Me? I don’t know. I wanted to go, but— Where’ve you been?” Was that worry or suspicion in his tone?

  “Walking.” He opened his side of the wardrobe for a shirt when it occurred to him— “Hey, are you wearing my shirt?”

  Roland’s hand shot to his chest. “I didn’t think you’d mind. So you were out walking in this heat?”

  “Yeah, I mind.” He yanked a red t-shirt from the wardrobe. “You could ask first. And you know
I’d say no.”

  “Well, I was going to pick one up last night. But I— Why didn’t you wake me?”

  Jarret looked him over. Did he suspect? “I tried. I guess you were exhausted. That’s what you get for waking up at four every morning.”

  “I don’t get up that early.” His bottom lip stuck out in a pouty way, making him look five years younger.

  “Whatever. Don’t blame me for your little nap.” If Roland suspected, what would he say? What would he do? Would he tell Selena? Coward. He wouldn’t do anything. He probably wouldn’t even bring it up.

  Roland stared. “It’s too bad we didn’t get more of that rain, huh? I watched it fall over the mesas way out on the horizon.”

  Jarret breathed easy. “So, what’re you gonna do now with everybody gone?” He snatched his cell phone, wallet, and the keys to Rufino’s car. Then an idea came to mind, a way to have fun and maybe get Roland in a little trouble.

  “I don’t know. What’re you going to do?”

  Jarret grinned. “Let’s go catch a thief.”

  “What?” Roland’s steel-gray eyes flashed with a gleam of distrust.

  Jarret strutted to the table and leaned his palms on it, moving into Roland’s personal space. “I know you want to find the thief. You’ve wanted to ever since you heard things were stolen.”

  His forehead wrinkled. “Well, I—”

  “Well, nothing. Come on.” He gave a nod in the direction of the door to the hallway. “I got Rufino’s car.”

  “What about Papa? Shouldn’t we tell him—”

  “I’ll call.” He tapped his cell phone. “I’ll tell him we’re going shopping.” He smiled, amused at Roland’s incessant worry over doing the right thing. “Bring your smartphone. We’ll need it.” He strutted to the bedroom door, expecting Roland to follow.

  “What are your plans, exactly?” Roland came up behind him, stuffing his phone into a shirt pocket.

  Jarret yanked open the door. “I’ll tell you my plans in the car.”

  Ellechial

  Ellechial and Nadriel followed their charges down the staircase.