by Deanna Chase
She almost joined him under the windows, curious to see what kind of mass Father Night would deliver, but a figure walking through the back hallway caught her eye. He wore a black cassock with a white collar and a large wooden cross around his neck. She had seen that cross before. It was stamped with St. Benedict’s sigil—the patron saint of exorcisms.
Elise slipped into the hall.
Two priests spoke in front of an ornate door. The younger of them was dressed more casually than the one with the wooden cross.
“Crux sacra sit mihi lux,” Elise said. Her voice echoed in the hall. “Non draco sit mihi dux.”
The priests turned to watch her approach.
“Excuse me?” asked the younger, who had to be Father Armstrong.
“Vade retro, Satana. Nunquam suade mihi vana. Sunt mala quae libas…”
“Ipse venena bibas,” Father Night finished with a deep frown.
If Lincoln Marshall was a good sheep of the flock, then Father Night was a shepherd armed with a flaming sword, braced to confront evil. His hair was a tangle of brown curls cut short, with a prominent nose balanced by thin lips and large eyes.
He was one of only two exorcists that Elise had ever known, and he was all too aware of how much that distinguished him from other priests. Where many of his peers regarded him as strange, extreme, and antiquated, he believed himself to be “special.” Father Night was a proud traditionalist, passionate in his faith and unforgiving in his judgments.
“Father,” she greeted. “Long time.”
The younger priest glanced between them, unsettled. “Do you know her?” he whispered to Father Night, quietly enough that she probably wasn’t meant to hear. Father Night didn’t respond. After a moment of chilly silence, Father Armstrong said, “All right, then. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Father Night inclined his head in acknowledgment, and his counterpart left.
Elise jerked her thumb at him. “Green, huh? Teaching him to be an exorcist, too?”
His hand looped around the wooden cross at his neck. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met. You’re not one of my usual parishioners.”
Elise removed the sunglasses and tucked one of the arms into the neck of her shirt. Father Night hadn’t changed one bit in eleven years. There were a few more lines on his face, and a little more weight to his belly, but he was still every inch the uptight priest she remembered. The fact that he didn’t recognize her probably meant that he hadn’t been the one circulating her image.
“Eleven years ago,” she said, flipping her hair over one shoulder to bare the hilt of her falchion. “The haunting in the Cascades. You got pissed at me for performing exorcisms without getting permission from a cardinal first. I told you that I was a freelancer, and you said—what was it?” She drew the falchion and held it between them, not threateningly. Just to let him see the flat of the blade.
“Even freelancers can burn in Hell,” Father Night finished for her. Recognition sparked in his eyes. “Elise.” He took a second look at her, and a third. His gaze was incredulous. “How?”
“Long story. I need to talk to you.”
“Father?” asked the young priest, poking his head through the door.
Elise dropped the sword to her side. Father Night moved to conceal her with his body. “I’m sorry. This is important. Can you…?”
“Sure,” Father Armstrong said. “I’ll do the mass.”
The new priest ducked out again, and Father Night turned back to Elise.
“My office,” he said. “Now.”
Elise used to be a traveling exorcist. In many ways, Father Night had been her church-ordained counterpart. But while her nomadic ways had given her a habit of keeping no personal possessions, the priest had many keepsakes from his wandering youth. They decorated his office like an athlete might decorate his study with trophies: the horn of a chisav in a glass case, a basket gifted to him by the Washoe tribe on the bookshelf, and even the relic that had caused the haunting in the Cascades.
She picked up the relic with a faint smile. It was a bundle of twigs wrapped with twine, which had petrified into something resembling bone. Hard to believe that it could have harbored such an angry spirit. It felt powerless now.
“Don’t touch that,” Father Night said.
“Why? Worried about the spirit coming back?”
“No. I just don’t want you interfering with my personal effects.”
“Do I need to remind you who exorcised this thing?” Elise asked, fingering a gouge in the sticks. In the heat of the exorcism ritual, she had almost chopped the bundle in half. Her ears had been ringing from the explosion for weeks.
“Officially speaking, as far as the church is aware, I did the exorcism,” Father Night said. “And I went back to recover it, not you. Please.”
Elise set it back on his shelf.
Father Night’s windows were stained glass, too; they depicted stories from the Old Testament, like the great flood, Moses, and—much to Elise’s irritation—the Tree from Eden. The window behind his desk showed only a glossy red apple dangling from a leafy branch.
“How did you end up here?” she asked, edging around a beam of colored sunlight to perch on the edge of his desk. She meant Northgate in general, not the church in specific, although the building was definitely impressive. His office had been built into the bottom of the tower. An open spiral staircase led to the bell, presumably, but she couldn’t see it from the floor.
“I could ask the same of you,” he said.
“I’m here to investigate the murders.”
Father Night tensed, nostrils flaring. “The animal attacks?”
“Some people believe it’s a serial killer.” She lifted a hand to prevent him from making further protests. “It’s probably a werewolf, not demonic. It’s not in your wheelhouse. I’ll be gone again as soon as the threat is neutralized.”
“A werewolf?” he said. “Lord in Heaven.”
Annoyance prickled in her belly. “I take it you don’t have any information that could help me.”
He sank into his desk chair. “All of the funerals have been here. I have held the grieving families in my arms. Beyond that, I only know what information the police have released on the news.”
“Were all of the victims members of your church?”
“Yes. Everyone who lives in Northgate attends.”
“Everyone?” She lifted her eyebrows. You couldn’t throw a dagger in Las Vegas without hitting someone that worked at a casino, but finding regular churchgoers was like panning for gold in the sewer.
“These are good, God-fearing people,” Father Night said. “None of them deserve to die.”
“Even bad people don’t deserve to get eaten by werewolves, Father. It’s a hell of a way to go.” Elise knew that from personal experience—she had been mortally wounded by a werewolf attack when she was eight. Fortunately, witches had healed her, and she was immune to the werewolf curse. She walked away from the experience with nothing but unpleasant memories.
“What can I do to help?” he asked.
The last time that Elise had met Father Night, he had threatened to have her excommunicated—an act that would have made it impossible for her to exorcise an entire class of demons. This new, helpful Father Night was refreshing. Guess all it took for him to stop being an obstructionist asshole was threatening his flock.
“You should interview the families,” she said. “See if they know anything.”
“Out of the question.”
So much for helpful.
“What if they’ve seen something crucial?” Elise asked. “What if someone has the information I need to save Lucinde Ramirez?”
He frowned. “Who?”
Elise’s heart skipped a beat. There wasn’t even a spark of recognition in his eyes—which meant no Lucinde Ramirez had been attending his church.
She didn’t try to elaborate. “The families may be willing to tell you things that they won’t tell the sheriff’s de
partment—things that they think other people won’t believe. It could save lives.”
Father Night rubbed a hand over his jaw, considering. “We’ll see.”
That was probably the best she could hope to get from him. “Do you have any young, male, African American parishioners? Maybe brothers?”
“No, I’m afraid not. You might want to try the black church over in Woodbridge. They mostly keep to themselves.” His eyes narrowed. “Why? Do you have a suspect?”
“Just looking for people of interest. Trying to wrap things up as quickly as possible.”
Father Night studied her closely. “You’ve changed.”
“I love my straightening iron,” Elise said dully. He had known her with the auburn curls. Hopefully, he wouldn’t realize that more than her hair had changed.
“That’s not what I mean. Although, granted, it is a striking look.” First helpful, now polite? Shit, the apocalypse was probably coming. “You’re more sympathetic. You never cared about the people you saved. You only cared about stopping the enemy. But I see true compassion in you now, my daughter.”
“I’ve always cared,” she protested. The words rang false.
Elise had been slaughtering demons when most children were learning cursive. After seeing so much death, the victims’ faces blurred together. It was easier to focus on the killers, the goal of victory—not the grief of those who survived.
But things had changed, and the responsibility of it weighed heavy on her shoulders. She hadn’t chosen to start caring about people. It had been thrust upon her unwillingly, like the rest of her destiny.
“Would you like to confess while you’re here?” Father Night asked, placing his hand over hers on the desk. She was wearing gloves, but she could feel the warmth of his skin through the leather. “Your soul is burdened.”
She tried not to show how much those simple words made her heart ache. Burdened—she was more than burdened. She carried secrets that no human could ever be expected to possess and remain sane.
Gaze fixed upon the apple behind Father Night’s chair, she blew a long, slow breath from between her lips before speaking again. “Maybe later,” Elise said, keeping her face blank and voice impassive.
Father Night smiled. “You’ll know where to find me.”
CHAPTER SIX
Lincoln didn’t seem surprised to see Elise waiting for him in his cruiser this time. He drove two whole blocks without speaking, then abruptly stopped in front of a diner called Poppy’s. “Lots of shade for you here,” he said, parking under the red-and-white striped canopy that ran along the side of the building.
Elise slid the aviators down to squint over the frames. The restaurant gleamed with polished metal and art deco accents. “Here?”
“Best breakfast food in the whole county.”
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
Lincoln circled around to the passenger door and opened it for her. “Then you can sit with me while I eat.”
Poppy’s was a bakery as well as a diner. Entering through the side door, Elise and Lincoln had to side-step through racks of fresh baked bread to reach the dining room, which was rapidly filling with other church-goers. The only vacant spot was on a pair of red leather stools at the counter, which had been polished to such a shine that Elise could almost make out her reflection.
It was too dark to see inside Poppy’s while wearing sunglasses. “Keep them for now,” Lincoln said when she tried to return them. “Seems like you need the protection.”
Poppy’s looked like the home of an old woman that prowled antique stores the way that Elise prowled the darkness. A six-foot-tall wooden bear guarded the door to the kitchen, wearing a floppy hat and boa. Six clocks, all set to seemingly random times, hung from the opposite wall—one of which was shaped like a cat, with a tail that swung every other second. The tables were plastered with old newspapers, clippings from catalogs, and sewing patterns; the walls held so many shelves and knickknacks that it looked like the building might collapse under the weight of them.
The residents of Northgate seemed to treat the restaurant like they were all the family of the owner, too. They milled around the dining room and bakery, visiting one another’s tables to chat, laugh, and probably gossip, judging by the looks they shot Elise. Their minds buzzed with cozy familiarity.
Lincoln disappeared to make a phone call, leaving her stranded at the bar while people whispered. Elise met curious gazes with a hard stare of her own.
The deputy returned a few minutes later.
“I called the morgue. Since you’re awake, it seemed like a good time to look at evidence.” He caught Elise glaring at an old woman across the restaurant and sighed. “You better prove yourself worth this trouble.”
She had no interest in proving herself. Elise turned her glare on him instead. “Why did you bring me here?”
“I’m hungry,” he said.
A busty woman in a polka dot apron emerged from the kitchen, arms loaded with plates. This was, presumably, Poppy herself. It took her a long time to get back to the counter. Every time she dropped a short stack in front of someone, she seemed compelled to stop for a five-minute conversation.
Eventually, Poppy stopped long enough to give Lincoln a mug of coffee.
“Don’t tell me. I’ve seen the news, and I know you’ll want the usual,” she said, pinching his cheek before turning to Elise. “What about you?”
Elise opened her mouth to decline service, but Lincoln said, “She’ll have the same as me.”
“Coming right up,” said the waitress.
“I told you, I don’t eat breakfast,” Elise said. She also didn’t like it when men attempted to order for her. One of her short-lived boyfriends had attempted that a few months earlier and left the restaurant with a sprained hand and wounded pride.
Lincoln shrugged. “But this is the best breakfast.”
“That’s not the point. I don’t eat at all.” It was an obvious lie, but easier than telling Lincoln the truth—that she didn’t eat human food ever, for any reason. It was unnecessary and unpleasant. And he wouldn’t want to know what she did eat.
He also didn’t seem to care about her protests. “So you know Mikhail,” Lincoln said, referring to Father Night by his first name.
“I’m not interested in discussing my personal life.”
“Nobody here’s listening. Trust me. They’re too busy talking.” He sipped his coffee, and Elise watched him raise and lower the mug with a twinge of jealousy. Pie and milkshake? No thanks. But she could have downed an entire pot of black coffee on her own, just for the flavor of it. “Tell you what—if you answer a few of my questions, I’ll answer some of yours. One for one.”
“You don’t have any information that interests me. I only want to look at your files.”
“Aren’t you curious what Father Night is doing here?”
She was curious. “Fine. A question for a question.”
“How do you know him?” Lincoln asked, taking another sip of his coffee.
Totally straight-faced, she said, “We used to fuck.”
The deputy choked. Coffee sprayed over the bar.
Poppy reappeared instantly, wiping down the stainless steel and giving Lincoln a hard pound on the back. “Careful, boy,” she said. “What would your mama think if you died on my counter?” He couldn’t breathe enough to respond.
“I’d also like a coffee, Poppy,” Elise said.
“Will do.”
Lincoln waited to speak again until he could breathe, Elise had coffee, and Poppy was gone again. “You used to what?”
“Father Night and I worked together, in a manner of speaking. We’re both exorcists.” Elise gave him a thin smile. “Yes, he occasionally used to fuck me over, but not sexually—he just made my job harder. Don’t ask intrusive questions if you’re afraid of hearing the answers. There’s a lot about me you won’t want to know.” Without missing a beat, she switched gears. “Tell me what you know about Father Night’s presence
in Northgate.”
“The last priest that lived here—Father Davidek—was murdered five years ago. It was the most recent murder before the ones you’re here to…” Lincoln glanced over his shoulder. The five hundred pound lumberjack sitting on his other side was wearing a pair of Beats headphones. He definitely wasn’t listening. And everyone else was too far away to hear.
In any case, Lincoln didn’t need to finish the sentence for Elise to understand. She gestured for him to continue.
“Davidek was killed by a demon. A nightmare. That’s how I learned the truth, long before Senator Peterson was assassinated and the OPA started making crazy pronouncements,” Lincoln said. “Father Night was sent by the Vatican. He vanquished the nightmare, and stuck around after that. Said he likes the good people here.”
“What was a nightmare doing in Northgate?” Elise asked, drinking her steaming coffee in three big gulps. It was even more relaxing than smoking a pack of cigarettes.
Lincoln only shrugged.
Demons weren’t as common on the eastern side of the country as they were on the west, nor were they likely to haunt small towns. New York City? Yes. “St. Bumfuck-Nowhere,” as the werewolf had called it? No, not without a hell of a good reason.
“Are there more nightmares here?” Elise asked.
“I don’t know. What do they look like?”
“You would probably feel them, not see them. They’re dark spots, literally and figuratively. Their presence evokes fear. You might stand somewhere shadowy, start thinking about gruesome things, get the urge to run.”
“Not here,” Lincoln said. “There’s nothing scary about Northgate.”
“Murder is scary.” Scary for people who could actually die, anyway. Elise hadn’t put a lot of effort into testing the theory, but she was fairly certain that was one ailment to which she was immune.
With her coffee mug emptied, she felt antsy. She took out a cigarette.
Lincoln gave her a hard look. “Not in restaurants.”
Fuck me. Elise put the cigarettes away.
