Blood of Saints

by Maegan Beaumont

  “Nan naega jangnim hadeolado, dangsin eul bol geos-ibnida,” he said quietly. For some reason, the words made her uncomfortable.

  “No fair,” she said playfully, resorting to what worked between them. “You know I don’t speak Korean.”

  “My apologies, yeon-in, I tend to forget there are actual limits to what you’re capable of.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a wicked half smile. “It was your walk—it’s always been full of purpose. Like you’re perpetually charging into battle. I’d know it anywhere.” He reached over and powered up the glass partition that separated the front seat of the limo from the back. As soon as it was closed, he continued. “Eun is worried about you,” he said, reaching into the breast pocket of his suit. The movement pulled the crisp cotton collar of his shirt away from his neck to reveal the flat, sinewy scales of a dragon inked into his skin.

  “Just Eun?” she said, falling effortlessly into their old rhythms, and he smiled.

  “There is no point in worrying about what you can’t control, is there?” He removed the red silk pouch and the gap fell closed, hiding the tattoo completely. “With this comes a warning.” He held it out to her. “My poor cousin still holds onto hope that you’ll actually listen to her.”

  She reached for the pouch, frowning. “I listen.”

  “Yes, you listen—but rarely heed,” he said, his hands reclosing over the pouch before she could take it from him. “His prolonged banishment will have angered your Gae Dokkaebi. Made him dangerous.”

  “Tell Eun I said thank you,” she said, forcing her mouth into a reassuring smile. “And not to worry about me so much. I’ll be okay as soon as this is all over and I can go home.”

  Song nodded once before placing the pouch of tea into her outstretched hand. “There is another solution, yeon-in,” he said softly, his fingers closing around hers while his other hand reached out to skim fingers along her jawline. “Let me take you home … your real home.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined it. Returning to San Francisco under Song’s protection. He was head of Seven Dragons, the Korean mob’s most powerful family. Even a man as connected as Livingston Shaw would think twice before crossing him. She could go back. To Val. To Riley and Jason. Strickland. It would almost be like she never left.

  Almost.

  She reached up, closing her hand around Song’s to pull it down, holding it in her lap. “Michael is my home.”

  “Eun says he is your senteo.” Song rocked back in his seat, pulling his hand from hers. “Your center—that he holds you still. Keeps you balanced,” he said, that wicked smile going sad around its corners. “Fills the empty places inside you.”

  She smiled. “As usual, Eun is right.”

  His dark eyes glittered, something unreadable passing quickly across his face. “All I see is someone who has stolen you from the people who love you and places you in harm’s way, time after time.”

  “He can’t steal something that already belongs to him, Phillip.” She shook her head, holding her hand up to stop him when he started to speak. “And no one places me anywhere. You of all people should know that.”

  He chuckled softly. “I care deeply for you, yeon-in,” he said, leaning toward her. “And I know you care for me. You know I can protect you. Come back. Not only to me but to everyone who—”

  “Michael and I are married,” she said quietly. Reaching into her shirt, she pulled out the length of chain Michael gave her before she left. Dangling from it was the platinum band.

  As soon as he saw it, Song slumped back against the seat. He was a lot of things and she’d wager he’d done a lot of horrible shit, but if she knew anything about Phillip Song it was that he lived by a strict code of honor. Being another man’s wife made her untouchable. She tucked the chain away before reaching for the door handle to let herself out. “Thank you for coming all this way to bring me tea,” she said, giving him one last look.

  “Naneun dangsin-eul dasi bol su jiog eul geol-eossda geos-ida,” he said, watching her go.

  “Still don’t speak Korean,” she said bending over to look at him through the open car door.

  Phillip inclined his head, giving her another slight smile. “I know,” he said, before closing the door between them.

  Fifty-seven

  The church parking lot was empty. Even though he’d switched cars, he drove past the lot. A single car would be noticed. Remembered. He’d made it this far by being careful. By listening. Paying attention. Following the path that had been laid for him.

  Just keep doing what I tell you, boy, and we’ll both get what we want.

  He parked about a hundred yards away, on the soft shoulder of the road, leaving the car where it mingled with the trucks and hatchbacks belonging to the fieldworkers that dotted the landscape. He hurried toward the church, hands jammed into the pockets of the jacket he wore despite the oppressive heat, head ducked to keep his face hidden beneath the bill of a faded U of A ball cap he found in his back seat. To a passerby, he’d look like one of those fieldworkers, hoping to make confession.

  Is that why we’re here? Wade laughed, the sound of it ringing in his head, grating against his nerves. Are you here to confess your sins, boy?

  “No,” he said, answering the question only he could hear. “I’m here to punish him.” He yanked the door open, standing in the slice of bright light he’d created for no more than a moment before he stepped inside, letting the dark church swallow him whole.

  Standing still, he gave his eyes a few moments to adjust. Shapes and figures pulled themselves from the dim. The silhouette of Saint Rose herself, face turned upward, crown of roses settled on her head. The pew where he’d used to sit while he watched the Father attend his flock.

  Listening to their troubles. Giving them counsel. A shoulder to lean on … to everyone but you. Almost like he couldn’t stand the sight of you. Like he knew what you were, even back then.

  He gritted his teeth to keep himself from answering out loud.

  It only hurts because it’s the truth, boy.

  Finally adjusted, his gaze found the confessional. The door to the booth was still closed, the tall pillar candle beside it lit. Father Francisco was still inside, waiting out the last few minutes of confession in silence.

  He approached quietly, slipping inside the neighboring booth before locking the door. Respecting the collar while hating the man who wore it kicked up a whirlwind of conflicting emotion inside him. Giving in, he took off the hat that hid his face, setting it on the bench beside him. The partition covering the window that joined the booths slid open almost instantly, the soft clack of it making him smile. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned … again.” The smile widened into a grin. “We both know how long it’s been since my last confession.”

  There was a quiet intake of breath behind the screen that separated them, the only indication that the priest had heard him. That he knew who he was and what he’d done.

  “Her name was Margaret. She was a veterinary assistant from El Centro. Young this time. Pretty, in an awkward sort of way,” he said, relishing each word. The wounds they inflicted. “When she was a little girl, she was in a car accident with her father and older brother—”

  “Please,” the priest said sadly. “Please, stop.”

  “They both died but she survived. Three days in the snow before she was found. Three days trapped in a car with her dead brother and dead father before she was saved.” He looked down at his hands, rubbing his fingertips together. Still feeling the warm slip of her blood between them. “That made her a miracle, didn’t it, Father?”

  “Please.” The word was croaked at him now, harsh and low. “Please, I’m begging you, stop this—”

  “I can’t.” He raised his gaze, settling it on the shadow that sat beside him behind the screen. “I won’t. Margaret was chosen. Given a gift,” he said, his hands tig
htening into fists. “I submitted her to the canon and she was proved unworthy—just like the rest of them.”

  “You have to stop this madness,” the priest demanded. “There’s a woman, an FBI agent. She was here today. She knows who you are.”

  “She knows who I am?” Laughter bubbled in his throat. “That’s funny. But I didn’t come here to talk about her. I want to tell you about Margaret.”

  “You’re insane,” the priest said, sounding broken.

  “Maybe … but let’s stay on track, shall we?” he said, peering hard at the priest’s shadowy profile. “Our Margaret wasn’t a virgin but I think I can safely say the things I did to her—”

  He watched as the silhouette in the neighboring booth jolted in its seat, lunging for its door a second before it was flung open. He listened as the priest tumbled through the doorway, the candelabra clattering to the floor.

  Go after him.

  He kicked the door to his own booth open to see Father Francisco stumbling into the front pew, the toe of his shoe snagging against its corner. He fell, sprawling across the floor a few yards away. He was stunned, his mumbling mouth pressed against the cool tile floor.

  “—forgiveness, Lord. Please forgive me.”

  “Forgive you?” he said, using the toe of his own boot to turn the priest over. “That’s a little selfish, don’t you think?” He crouched down, reaching out to finger the thin trickle of blood that painted the corner of the man’s mouth. “Aren’t you going to offer me forgiveness, Father? Don’t I deserve absolution?”

  The priest’s eyes widened in surprise before they narrowed into a glare, defiant and terrified. “You are worthy of neither.”

  The words angered him, but only for a moment.

  You don’t need his forgiveness, boy. You’ve got me.

  “You’re right.” His mouth twitched upward when the priest shrank away from him as he stood. “I don’t need him,” he said, a moment before he lifted his foot and brought the sole of his boot down onto the priest’s face.

  Fifty-eight

  When Sabrina drove away from the station, she half expected Phillip to follow her. He didn’t. Instead, his chauffeured car peeled away almost instantly, turning left while she turned right. The red silk pouch he’d given her sat in the center console, the delicate scent of the tea Eun hand-blended for her drifted upward. Tempting her.

  Who do you think you’re foolin’? We both know you aren’t gonna drink it, darlin’. You need me.

  As soon as the words came, she rejected them. “Like I need a fucking hole in my head,” she muttered, her remark greeted by laughter.

  I’m the only person who knows him. I’m the only person who can show you the way.

  “You’re not a person.” Sabrina pulled off the pavement and into the dirt parking lot that surrounded Saint Rose of Lima church. “You’re not here. You can’t tell me anything I don’t already know.”

  We both know that ain’t entirely true. I might be dead but I’m not gone, and I’m as real as you are.

  She slammed the car into park and cut the engine. “If you don’t shut the fuck up—”

  Alright, alright … just calm down, darlin’. You don’t want to go in there all riled.

  The words were a warning—either from her subconscious or the dead man inside her head—that experience told her she should heed. Looking around, she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The squat stucco building in front of her looked quiet. Almost deserted. The main door was cracked open—a slice of black against the bright heat of the afternoon. By modern standards, the chapel was primitive. No electricity meant no heating or cooling. Father Francisco and his patrons would be careful to keep it closed against the oppressive heat of the late Arizona summer.

  Apprehension prickled against her scalp. She got out of the car and looked around again, casting her gaze past the empty lot that surrounded her. In the distance, cars and trucks lined the shoulder of the road, waiting while their owners worked the fields. Scanning the fields, she watched the men and women as they stooped and crouched, moving with almost surgical precision as they cut, pulled, and tossed their bounty into baskets and bags. None of them seemed out of place and none of them paid her even the slightest bit of attention.

  Whatever waited for her was waiting inside.

  Careful, now …

  The words echoed softly, so close she could almost feel the mouth that delivered them brush against her ear, cautioning her to move slowly. She closed the distance to the church, approaching the cracked door until she stood on the other side of it. Sounds drifted through it. Dull thuds, coupled with a soft squelching. Harsh breathing punctured with muttering.

  Sounds like someone’s havin’ themselves some fun.

  Her hand found the grip of the Kimber .45 that rode her hip as she turned sideways to ease through the opening, her body’s width forcing it to open wider, the wedge of light doubling as it shot through the dark chapel. The sounds were suddenly cut off. Whoever was inside knew they were no longer alone.

  Better shake a leg, darlin’.

  She yanked the Kimber clear of its holster, bringing it up as she charged forward, leaving the sun behind. Spots danced in front of her eyes while they tried to adjust to the sudden lack of light. “Stop,” she bellowed as she ran though the atrium and down the center aisle of the church. A dark figure shot across her vision, streaking from one side of the room to the other, followed by a sudden burst of bright light as he pushed his way through the side door that led to the prayer garden.

  She started after him, lengthening her stride as she rushed blindly up the center aisle of the church. That’s when she found him, nearly tripping on the outstretched arm splayed across her path.

  It was Father Francisco—or at least she thought it was him. The blood-splattered clerical collar was his only recognizable feature.

  “Oh God …” She dropped to her knees, one hand gripped around the Kimber while the other fumbled into her jacket pocket to find her phone. “Hang on, okay? Jesus, just hang on,” she said, eliciting a groan from the figure beside her. She stabbed her thumb against the keypad while she listened to the labored breathing of the man on the floor, blood bubbling and whistling through his ruined nose, his mouth nothing more than a jagged maw, teeth broken and scattered on the blood-smeared ground around them.

  Takes a lot of rage to stomp someone’s face in. I’d know, wouldn’t I?

  “What’s up?” Church’s tone reached out and grabbed her, shaking her back to reality.

  “He was here. He was here—” She took a deep breath, casting her gaze toward the man she knelt over. His face wasn’t just flat, it was caved in, flesh torn and split from repeated blunt force blows. “Send an ambulance. He—Father Francisco.” She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to remain calm. “Hurry.”

  Sabrina ended the call on a tidal wave of questions, letting her phone clatter to the floor beside her. “Stay with me, Father,” she said, her free hand reached out to find the priest’s. “Help is coming.”

  Fifty-nine

  Within minutes, she heard the frantic wail of the approaching ambulance. Five minutes after that, paramedics burst in, carrying what looked like toolboxes, shouting at her to get up. To get away and give them room to work.

  Sabrina did as she was told, sitting heavily on the front pew a few yards away, face tipped toward her shoes. There was no use going after the attacker. He was long gone by now. Preserving the crime scene rated a distant second to saving a life. Once it was all said and done, she’d have nothing more to go on than a half-formed impression of the perpetrator and no real way of proving that the attack had any connection to their case.

  You’re battin’ a thousand, darlin’. I knew you were a bit rusty coming into this but, Jesus—

  “Agent Vance?”

  She looked up to find Detective Santos standing over her
, notebook held in his hand. She wasn’t a cop right now. She was a witness and he wanted her statement. “I arrived at approximately five o’clock. The parking lot was empty but the front door to the church was ajar. I found it odd so I approached with caution.” The palms of her hands felt like they’d suddenly sprung a leak. “I heard … sounds coming from inside the church,” she said, rubbing the flat of her hands against her pant legs.

  “Sounds?”

  She looked up to find Santos watching her closely. The squelching sounds came back to her. Soft and wet, followed up with the sound of heavy footfalls. “Stomping. Cursing. It was obvious that someone was in distress, so I drew my weapon and took the door.”

  “Without calling for backup.” Santos glanced up from the mini-pad he was scribbling on. Instead of looking angry, he looked like he understood.

  “There was no time,” she said, shaking her head. It was a necessary question. One that had to be asked in order to cover all their bases, but it still grated. “When I entered the church, the assailant ran through the side door and into the prayer garden. I started to pursue but …”

  “Is that when you discovered—” The words seemed to stick in his throat and he cleared it before continuing. “Father Francisco?”

  “Yes. He’d been badly beaten and I feared that without immediate medical attention, he’d die. I terminated the pursuit in favor of staying with the victim and calling for assistance.”

  Beaten? Our boy stomped ’im near to death. I think I saw boot tracks on the ol’ padre’s forehead.

  Santos nodded. “Can you describe the suspect you saw fleeing?”

  “Five-ten. Medium build. Dark clothing …” It was a bullshit description, one that fit two-thirds of the population, and giving it made her angry. In other words, she didn’t see shit. “Where’s Vega?” she said.

  “I have a car sitting on his house.” Santos shook his head and sighed. “Far as I know, he hasn’t left since that stunt you pulled at the station.”