The First Sacrament (The Demons of Stone Chapel Book 1)

by Duncan, Lex

  Max called this phenomenon “jumping.” The transfer from one body to another. Nothing but a handful of iron pills, a symbol drawn out of chalk, and my own stubborn will keeping the demon from invading mine next. The tiniest cracks in my defenses had the potential to be fatal. I needed to focus.

  “Exorcizo te sanguine ferrum per virtutem crucis,” I began. With every word I spoke, a dark energy grew inside of me like some foreign black hole, sucking everything else away but the ritual. This energy sewed itself into the marrow of my bones and set my blood to a boil. Wind gusted through the trees, but I could barely feel it. “Exorcizo te sanguine ferrum per virtutem crucis.”

  The atmosphere around me seemed to shift, as though nature itself was responding to my chants. The thunder was louder, the lightning brighter, the wind stronger. Pressure built between my eyes, pushed against my wall of concentration, but I fought it back. This demon wasn’t going to win. It was going to get the hell out of this dog’s body and leave me alone.

  The storm roared to a climax as I shouted the last incantation. My fingers curled around the hilt of my dagger, raising it up over my head. “Exorcizo te sanguine ferrum per virtutem crucis!”

  Following Max’s instructions, I drove the dagger down into the dog’s corpse to finish the rite. The storm tempered as soon as the iron of the blade met the flesh of the demon. I opened my eyes. Was that it?

  “How dramatic,” British Lady murmured, inspecting her nails. She sounded bored. “Shall we go? I would like to avoid getting my hair wet.”

  Wait. This wasn’t what I was expecting. “How do we know the demon’s gone? Shouldn’t there have been, I don’t know, a receipt or something?”

  “For God’s sake, it’s done,” the woman said. “Now hurry up and gather your things. We’re going to get breakfast. I’m in the mood for pancakes.”

  We couldn’t go for pancakes yet. I needed to skin the demon, harvest its marketable parts. I told the woman so and she assured me someone else would take care of it.

  “How do I know you don’t want it for yourself?” I asked. The profit I could make from this dog was huge. Entrusting it to someone else was a risk I wasn’t sure I wanted to take.

  “Because I don’t work the black market, darling.” The woman zipped her jacket the rest of the way up. “Though I have many contacts who do. I will have one of them do transport and you will get a hefty portion of the money made. This is a generous offer, considering you weren’t the one who killed the beast in the first place.”

  It was a generous offer. Too generous. “Are you going to screw me over as soon as I agree?”

  “You’ve caught me on a good night,” she said, flipping her glossy hair over her shoulder. “I don’t much care if you agree anyway.”

  I looked at the dog, then back to her, then at the dog again. If I had to be completely honest with myself, I had no idea where to even begin working the black market. I knew I wanted to hunt for money, but that was about the extent of my planning. Now here British Lady was, offering to do my work for me. All I had to do was trust her. A tall order without much in the way of alternatives. So, against my better judgment, I stuck my hand out for her to shake. “Fine,” I said. “You have a deal.”

  ***

  We ended up at a twenty-four hour diner by the docks. The same one I’d gotten fired from two months prior, Sawyer’s Seaside Dive. It was embarrassing coming back here, doubly so when our waitress recognized me. Stiff small talk was exchanged, orders were placed, coffee was poured. British Lady and I were the only patrons for now. It’d get busier in later hours, when people too drunk to drive wandered in for a post-binge snack. I pitied our waitress. Night shifts were the worst.

  “My name is Aralia Spinosa,” British Lady took a sip of her coffee, made a face, then put it down. “Your turn.”

  Mine sounded bland in comparison. “Beatrice Todd.”

  Aralia smiled, tight-lipped. “How quaint.”

  Why did I feel like she was mocking me? “Uh, sure.”

  “What compelled you to hunt, Beatrice?” She settled back against the cracked faux-leather of the booth, eyes locked on mine. Rain battered the windows like bullets. “Looking for a way to pay for college? A fix?”

  My lip curled. A fix. “I’m not a junkie. But I have my reasons.”

  “Everyone does,” she said.

  “What about you, huh?” I asked. “You looking for a fix?”

  “I have my reasons.” A corner of her mouth tugged upward in a smirk. “Though I’ve had decades of practice, darling. You, however, need help.”

  Decades of practice, huh? She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. She had to be lying. “I appreciate you not letting me get eaten and all, but I don’t need your help.”

  “Which is why you nearly got yourself killed and drew the seal the wrong way.” She looked annoyed. This was becoming a pattern with us. I spoke and she got irritated. “Silly me. Of course you don’t need help.”

  Our waitress saved me from having to come up with a decent retort. She placed a plate of pancakes in front of Aralia and an omlette in front of me, along with our check. I didn’t bring any money.

  Aralia must’ve noticed my dilemma and waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll pay. Just eat. You’re terribly bony.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said through a forkful of egg.

  We lapsed into silence. Listened to the hum of an old radio in the kitchen, the storm outside. Our waitress lounged behind the cash register, scrolling through her phone, and the cook came around from the back to pour himself some coffee. It was such a normal experience, jarring after what happened at the church.

  The church. I’d had a bad feeling about that place from the start and tonight proved that my feeling was valid. Something was definitely wrong there. Maybe Aralia knew what.

  “Did you…feel something at the church?” I asked, halfway through my omlette.

  She cut the remaining bits of her pancakes into neat little pieces. “What do you mean?”

  I glanced out the window, catching my haggard reflection in its smudged surface. I didn’t know how to explain it. The sensation of another malicious presence invading my body, implanting ideas so heinous that it made me sick to think about them. The inexplicable pull that entranced me one moment and snapped away the next. Demons did the same things when they inhabited a body, but a building? A church?

  “I’m pretty sure it tried to possess me,” I said quietly, tearing my gaze from the window.

  A flicker of concern flashed across Aralia’s flawless face. She placed her fork on her plate with a soft clink. “The church?”

  “It was like it was luring me to it,” I said. “I was walking down the street and, suddenly, I was walking toward the church. I saw it and it just―I couldn’t fight it, you know? I had to go to there no matter what.”

  “And when you got there?” She asked.

  Now we were getting to the fun part. “My brain went…fuzzy. I wasn’t thinking right, I wasn’t in control of my own body. I kept having these thoughts―”

  Without warning, Aralia stood and stepped out of our booth. “Excuse me, Beatrice. I have to make a phone call.”

  “Uh, okay?” I wasn’t done, but whatever. I waved the waitress over and had her refill my coffee. A couple of tipsy guys who looked like they belonged in a frat came stumbling through the door, ogling Aralia as they passed.

  She offered them a murderous glare in return, slipped her phone in pocket of her dress, then hurried back over to me. “Change of plans, Beatrice,” she dropped a twenty dollar bill on our table. “We’re going to visit a friend of mine. Perhaps he’ll be able to help you with your church problem.”

  “Who’s this friend?” I asked as we ran through the parking lot to her car. It was an expensive Italian convertible with a name I couldn’t pronounce. I felt bad that I was getting rainwater all over its fancy leather seats.

  Aralia gunned the engine and took the exit the bus did to get to the sanatorium. “You�
�ll see. I’m sure you’ll like him. Most people do. Sort of.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  Wearing an expression like the cat after the canary, she guided the car out of the city and through the pitch-black of the Maine countryside. It always struck me as strange, being so far out here. Like I was being transported to another world, walking through the wardrobe to Narnia. I was a city girl at heart. The noise, the filth, the energy, I thrived in it. The country was too quiet. And it had way too many crickets.

  Instead of turning left to the sanatorium, we swung a right toward the coast. Clusters of windswept pine trees crowded the cliffs and the ocean churned with the rhythm of the storm, waves smashing against the rocks. On clear nights, the moon hung above, covering the landscape in a cloak of shimmering silver. Tonight, nothing but darkness.

  We made another turn down a winding road branching off from the main highway. Waiting at the end of it was a house, a beautiful, yet decayed Victorian mansion you'd see in an antique magazine at the doctor's office. A small forest of trees huddled around it and at the center of its circular driveway was a fountain choked with weeds and ivy.

  “Here we are,” Aralia parked in front of the house and smiled like she had a secret to tell. “Come along, Beatrice. Time to meet my friend.”

  Given the state of his living quarters, I would have guessed her friend was Norman Bates or Nosferatu.

  I was wrong.

  Five

  The house was even more of a wreck up close. The steps leading up to the door creaked noisily when we climbed them and the wrap-around porch was missing a board or ten. Weeds grew in every crack and crevice they could find, browning with the changing seasons. The grime-smudged windows offered no hints as to what was inside, and the doors hung on rusted hinges. I wouldn’t have believed anyone lived here if Aralia hadn’t told me otherwise.

  Little did I know, the rot of the exterior was hiding an unbelievable interior. I felt like I was guest-starring on The Addams Family.

  Staircases dominated either side of the foyer, wrought-iron banisters matching the chandelier that hung down from the high ceiling. The floors were made of dark wood and candelabras replaced conventional electric lighting, giving the room a soft, warm glow. Below the balcony the staircases joined to make was a sitting area, furnished with elegant velvet couches and a coffee table.

  “The couches were my idea,” Aralia said, hooking an arm around mine. She steered me up the stairs. “This place was so dreary before I got here, I don’t know how he was able to function.”

  She paused, gaze flicking over to catch mine. “Then again, that’s Dante for you. Forever brooding away in his study like some sort of bitter recluse. Poor man.”

  “Wait, what?” I threw my hand out to grab the railing, stomach cramped with terror. “This is Dante Arturo’s house? You’re kidding me. You’re totally kidding me.”

  Aralia cocked her head to the side as if she had no idea what I was talking about. “Why would I be kidding, darling? I said I had a friend who could help you with your church problem, and here we are.”

  “Oh my God.” Rosie was going to freak when she heard about this. I was in Dante Arturo’s house. Dante Arturo, the man who was beloved by millions and reviled by millions more. He was a real-life superhero, the Anti-Christ, the end all, be all of demon hunters. And I was in his house.

  Aralia tugged me up the rest of the way. “Oh, Beatrice, you’re so predictable.”

  “Why did you bring me here?!” I sputtered, trying to pry myself from her with minimal success. She was stronger than she looked.

  “To help you,” she led me down a darkened corridor and stopped at the first door on the right. She gave it a knock with her knuckle, then opened it a bit. “I have her. Can we come in?”

  “Yes,” the voice which I assumed to be Dante’s said. “Come in.”

  His study was small in relation to the rest of the house. Shelves brimming with hundreds of old books were built into the walls, broken in the middle by a fireplace. His desk was littered with papers and half melted candles. The man himself stood behind it, tall and lean.

  Aralia grabbed my shoulders and pushed me front and center. “Here we are, love,” she said. “The girl I told you about on the phone. Her name is Beatrice. Isn’t that adorable?”

  He didn’t seem to think so. His eyes, a dark shade of cinnamon brown, examined me with a sort of guarded curiosity. A black thermal clung to his torso, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to expose his dark olive skin, complimented by the coal color of his long and messy hair. His lower jaw was lined with a fair amount of scruff, giving the impression that he hadn’t shaved in a while.

  “Beatrice Todd, yes?” He asked.

  My cheeks burned. Hot people made me nervous. “Yeah, um―”

  He gestured to the chair opposite of his. “Sit down, if you would. Provided Aralia will let you go.”

  “I take offense to that,” Aralia said. She let me go anyway. “I’ll have you know that Beatrice and I are friends. Aren’t we, darling?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, doing as Dante requested. “Great friends.”

  “See?” Aralia leaned against one of the bookshelves, smirking triumphantly.

  Dante ignored her and sat down in his own chair, focusing solely on me. This kind of undivided attention wasn’t something I was used to. Usually, when anyone like Dante spoke to me, it was to sell me discount exorcisms or to get in my pants. Pretty sure he was a solid no on both accounts.

  “Aralia said she found you outside the church, along with a demon. Is that correct?” He asked.

  I folded my hands in my lap to keep them from fidgeting. “Yeah. It was this huge dog. It didn’t have eyes and its sockets were sewn shut. Pretty gross.”

  “She also said you successfully purged it from its physical body,” he continued, watching me closely. “That’s…very impressive.”

  Dante Arturo called me impressive.

  “She drew the seal the wrong way, though,” Aralia chimed in unhelpfully.

  Dante shot her a sharp look, then went right back to focusing on me. “What did you feel upon approaching the church?”

  I hesitated. It wasn’t what I felt, but what I thought. Suicide, blood at the altar, sacrifice. You know, the usual.

  “Ms. Todd?” He prompted.

  “It wanted me to kill myself,” I whispered. The words sounded odd coming out of my mouth. Saying them out loud made them concrete. Real. I couldn’t avoid it anymore. “Sacrifice myself. I don’t know.”

  This gave him pause. He slouched in his chair and the clock on the wall marked the passing of time with loud, staccato ticks. His silence wasn’t helping my nerves. If what happened at the church troubled him this much, what did that mean for me?

  At last, he spoke, candlelight dancing across his angular features. “Beatrice, if I ask you to do something for me, will you do it?”

  So we were on a first name basis now, and he wanted me to do him a favor. Okay. He was supposed to be one of the good guys, depending on who you asked. I could trust him. I hoped. “What is it?”

  “Stay away from the church,” he said.

  I could deal with that.

  “And stop hunting.”

  Ah, there it was. The catch. “I can’t.”

  He stared at me. Probably wasn’t used to being told no. “Why not?”

  “I need the money,” I replied, gaze straying to the papers on his desk. Some were bills, some were letters. Others were sketches. Complex diagrams of various types of demons and their anatomy. They were obviously done by an expert. “Did you draw those?”

  “He’s a regular da Vinci,” Aralia said, flipping through a book she’d taken from one of the shelves.

  Dante sighed, resting his head in his hands and rubbing his eyes. I hadn’t noticed how exhausted he looked until now. His broad shoulders drooped, eyes ringed with dark circles. Somehow, his tiredness added to his appeal. He may have been a big celebrity, but he nee
ded a break like anyone else. It was a weirdly comforting notion.

  “Have you considered a different job?” His hands dropped but his head was still bowed.

  I knew I was being a pain in his ass, but I couldn’t back down. This money was too important. Rosie was too important. “Waitressing wasn’t cutting it. I have bills to pay.”

  “So do billions of other people,” Aralia swapped her book out for another. “Mr. Arturo, for example, needs to pay the water bill.”

  I twisted around in my seat, annoyance rising to indignation. “My problems are more serious than a damn water bill.”

  She didn’t look up from her book. “You haven’t the slightest clue as to what you’re dabbling in, Beatrice.”

  “Then teach me!” I struggled to keep my voice at an acceptable volume. “You don’t understand, I need this money. I don’t care how illegal or dangerous hunting is, I have to do it.” I stopped, realizing how bratty I sounded. Hot tears stung at the backs of my eyes. No, I was not crying in front of them. “Please.”

  Dante lifted his head. Outside, the storm tapered off to a drizzle. “Many who hunt die, Beatrice. Or worse.”

  “I didn’t die tonight, did I?” Those tears threatened to roll, but I choked them back. Images of Rosie―my Rosie, not the possessed one―flashed in my mind. “Don’t you have someone you’d do anything to protect? Even if that person won’t be around much longer?”

  He was quiet. I took that as my cue to continue.

  “Well, I do. Her name is Rosemary Barrett and she has Faustian Syndrome. Her doctors say she’s got a couple of months left to live, but if I don’t pay the bill, they’ll send her to some other hospital to die. Away from me. And if I don’t pay rent, my landlord’s going to kick me out of my apartment.”

  God, my life sounded even worse out loud. It was pathetic. At least my tears dried up. “I don’t want your pity,” I said. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. All I want is a chance. Teach me how to not get killed long enough to keep my friend in the sanatorium, and I’ll leave you alone. I’ll give you a portion of what I earn. Anything, you just―you have to help me. Please.”