by Deanna Chase
It was probably the best apology he would give. Elise accepted it with a small nod. He stepped back, sloshing through the lake to disappear on the other side of the mist.
Elise staggered to the shore. She was drenched and sore, but her throat burned with tears, not pain.
She was composed by the time she reached Rylie, who looked stricken. Nashriel hadn’t come back yet. “You didn’t kill him, did you?” Rylie asked, stepping into the shallows, as if about to swim after him.
Before Elise could respond, the water stirred again. Nashriel emerged from the lake, streaming water from his hair, and extended his fist toward Elise. His fingers were wrapped around the hilt of her falchion.
Her nerves leaped. If he had accidentally cut himself with it, then their tenuous ceasefire wouldn’t matter. He would be dead.
She took it carefully. “Thanks.”
He nodded once.
It took three tries for Elise to thread the sword through her hair and into the spine sheath.
“What were you thinking?” Rylie demanded as the angel pulled his shirt off, squeezing the water onto the grass. His torso was sculpted perfection.
“Sorry,” Nashriel said. “Please don’t tell Summer of our conflict. She would be…frustrated with me.”
Rylie rolled her eyes. “As long as you’re done being a jerk, your secret’s safe with me.”
Footsteps rang out in the night. Seth and Abel jogged up the road together, stopping at Rylie’s side. “Look at this,” Seth said, shoving a piece of paper into her hand.
The Alpha unfolded the paper. It was a typewritten table, with the gridlines drawn in ballpoint pen. There were dates down the first column, names down the second, and locations on the third.
“Is this a schedule?” Rylie asked.
Elise plucked it from her hand and read the names. She didn’t recognize most of them, and several had been scratched out, but one of them was both legible and recognizable: Bob Hagy, the most recent murder victim. “Where did you guys find this?”
“It was inside the Bible, tucked underneath the pentacle,” Seth said.
Elise’s eyes dropped to the bottom of the list. There were still two dates left. The last date had three names—three people that Elise didn’t recognize, because they hadn’t been killed or kidnapped yet.
No, wait. She did recognize one of the names on the final date. Brick Gere was the cashier at the gas station that she had visited when arriving in the county.
The next date was less than two weeks away. It only had one name on it.
“Mikhail Night,” Rylie said, reading out loud. “Hey, isn’t that one of the priests at St. Philomene’s?”
Father Armstrong had a list of victims, the dates they had been killed, and the name of his fellow priest at the bottom.
“It’s a hit list,” Seth said.
Elise was already moving toward the vehicles. The motorcycle’s key was still in the ignition, so she climbed on and started the engine. “I’m going to find Father Night,” she said. “Rylie? You coming?”
The girl nodded, but she didn’t climb on the motorcycle. She shucked her sweater, kicked off her shoes.
“I’ve got your back,” Rylie said.
She shifted, ignoring Seth and Abel’s protests.
Elise peeled out of the sanctuary, and Rylie chased.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Seth had left his cell phone in one of the motorcycle’s saddlebags. Elise tried to call Lincoln while she was stopped at a street corner, but his phone rang and rang without answer.
Rylie gave Elise a questioning look. The weight of the werewolf’s furred body against her leg was strangely comforting. “Just looking for backup,” Elise said. “Forget about it.”
She dropped the phone in the saddlebag, and they began to move again.
They were twin beasts in the night, swift and sleek and growling. With her body arched over the moonlight-soaked motorcycle, her thighs welded to metal and leather, Elise felt like she and the bike had become a single animal—another member of Rylie’s pack, restricted only to where the wheels could take her.
Rylie led her on the back roads to Northgate, letting the motorcycle get within inches of her tail but never quite touching. She didn’t tire. They didn’t have to stop until they reached the church.
Elise skidded to a halt next to the pile of shutters, planting a foot on the ground and keeping her hands braced on the handlebars. The mobile homes behind St. Philomene’s were unlit—for all appearances, empty. If Elise had allowed herself to drift into darkness, she could have known instantly if anyone was watching them, but she didn’t dare turn incorporeal.
The wolf paced the lawn, nose to the ground.
“Anyone home?” Elise asked.
Rylie shook her head—a strangely human gesture for something four-legged and furry.
Elise almost departed around to search for Father Night elsewhere, until she noticed a dim light glowing through the stained glass windows on the back of the church. A shadow moved in front of it. Father Night’s office was occupied.
She dismounted, drawing her sword with a whisper of the obsidian blade against leather. “Stay close.”
Rylie nudged Elise’s knee. The nose was warm and leathery on her bare skin, reminding Elise that she was still only partially dressed.
“I’m not going to waste time finding pants that fit. Father Night’s in danger,” Elise said.
The wolf made a gesture that almost looked like a shrug—a twitch of her head, a flex of shoulder muscles. It should have looked ridiculous on her. Like a dog doing some dumb pet trick. Instead, it was deeply unsettling, like a human was briefly superimposed over the beast.
Elise opened the door to the church, and the wolf slipped through first, paws padding against the floor. She followed Rylie’s ghostly shape into the cathedral. Rylie stuck her nose into everything: skimming the seats of the pews, under the font of holy water, behind the confessional.
The stained glass windows were even more beautiful at night, lit by the milky light of the swollen moon. A blue haze seemed to cling to the pews. The entire cathedral glowed with the faintest touch of magic.
Rustling noises came from the other side of Father Night’s office door.
Elise looked askance at Rylie, who jammed her muzzle to the crack underneath the door and whuffed.
“Do you smell Father Armstrong?” Elise asked. Rylie shook her head. “A demon?” Another shake. “Anything?” But still, Rylie shook her head.
A werewolf’s senses were beyond keen. Rylie could probably smell the one clove cigarette that Elise had smoked two weeks ago. If there was someone inside of the office, she should have smelled it.
Elise ran a hand up the doorframe. Much like she had found at the sheriff’s office, there were tiny runes scratched into the wood. Someone had warded the church with magic powerful enough to thwart an Alpha werewolf’s nose. Somehow, she doubted it was one of the nice Christian parishioners.
But there was definitely someone inside. Elise heard a deep voice humming tunelessly and the rustling of papers.
“Stand back,” she said.
Rylie stood against the wall, head lowered, forelegs bent, prepared to leap.
Elise shoved the door open.
Father Night looked up from his desk, surprised. “Elise?” His eyes landed on her bare legs first, then her bare falchion. He stood. “What’s going on?”
She scanned the office, prepared for attack. None of the keepsakes from Father Night’s earlier adventures had been moved. The dim corners of his office, untouched by the light from his lone desk lamp, were empty of lurkers. His closet stood open. There was nowhere that anyone could hide, or even surprise him from behind, unless they jumped out of the bell tower. But it was quiet above.
“Where’s Father Armstrong?” she asked, stepping inside. Rylie hung behind the door where the priest couldn’t see her.
Father Night frowned. “I haven’t seen him since Sunday. He’s been visiti
ng family.”
Convenient. Elise wondered how many of his “family” were murderous cultists.
“Do you believe him?” she asked.
“Of course I do.”
“How long have you worked with him?” Elise asked, sheathing her sword and glancing out the door one more time. Rylie sat on her haunches beside a pew like a particularly large, feral golden retriever, waiting for command.
Elise pushed the door shut to help conceal her from Father Night’s eyes.
He quickly caught onto Elise’s train of thought. “Do you think he’s involved with the murders?”
Elise dropped the schedule on his desk by way of answering, then folded her arms, waiting for him to read it. She watched his face carefully for a reaction. Father Night skimmed the page.
He was silent for a long time, as if reading and rereading.
“Where did you get this?” he finally asked.
“A hollowed-out Bible in Father Armstrong’s house. He was hiding it along with some occult tools—a pentacle, a bell, some magical runes.”
Father Night’s brow furrowed. He tapped one finger against the page. “Bob Hagy… The missing man.” His fingertip slid to the bottom of the list. “My name is on this, too. What do you think it means?”
It means your cooling corpse is going to show up missing a few key pieces in a couple of weeks.
“Here’s my working theory,” Elise said, pacing in front of his desk as she chose her words carefully. “Father Armstrong’s a priest, but not the Christian kind. He’s in a cult. They’re preparing for something big and ugly, something that needs a lot of power behind it. They’re using human sacrifice. The correspondence with moon phases is a requirement of the spell—it has nothing to do with werewolves.”
“You believe that this is a list of their victims.” He pushed the paper away from him. “You think that Father Armstrong will come for me next.”
“Or else he’s Santa Claus and I’ve stumbled on his naughty list.”
Father Night didn’t even crack a smile. “Richard and I have worked together for months. I’ve been teaching him demonology.” He seemed to flounder for words, making sweeping gestures with one hand. “I can’t imagine that he could be involved with some kind of…witch cult.”
And Elise had never suspected that James, her former partner and lover, would have betrayed her to God. It was impossible to know the darkest, most hidden parts of another soul, no matter how many years you knew a man.
“I’m going to find him and ask,” Elise said. “I think he has a girlfriend. Maybe someone else in the cult—someone that’s recently spent the night at his house. Have you seen any women with him?”
“A girlfriend?” It looked like the idea of it was almost as offensive to him as being a witch. “I don’t know. We don’t often socialize outside of work. Parishioners visit him as often as they visit me, but I can’t imagine he’s had a relationship with any of them. Father Armstrong’s a good man, Elise.”
His persistent denial was starting to grate. “Okay. Fine. He doesn’t have a girlfriend, he’s not in a cult, he’s not going to kill you. Guess I’m wasting your time.”
Elise moved to open the door again, but Father Night stopped her. “Report him to the sheriff. She’s a good friend of mine. She’ll take care of everything.”
The sheriff was obviously so good at taking care of everything that Lincoln had felt he needed to hire outside help to solve the murders, too. “Until I figure out what’s going on with Father Armstrong, it’s not safe for you to stay in the church. Is there somewhere you can go?” Elise asked.
He frowned. “I have friends. Do you really think it’s necessary?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Her lips peeled wide. Smile or grimace, she wasn’t sure. “Want to bet your life on it?”
Father Night lifted his hands in surrender. “I’ll relocate tonight.”
A knot in Elise’s chest relaxed.
“Great,” she said.
“If you find this so-called cult, you need to tell me,” he said. “They’ve been killing my parishioners, people I consider to be friends, and I want to do anything I can to bring them to justice.”
She considered the offer, glancing around his office at the memorabilia that he had collected as a roving exorcist. He was almost as well-traveled as Elise, and nearly as accomplished. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll keep you informed.”
He gathered a few things from around his office—some papers, a journal, a jacket. “Richard,” he murmured, disapproval twisting his mouth as he followed Elise out the office door. “I just can’t believe…” Father Night stopped short. He stared at Rylie. “Why is there a dog in my church?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
If having a leather-clad woman spending nights at Lincoln’s home wasn’t enough to spur gossip among the bored citizens of Northgate, then having a half-naked woman show up on a motorcycle was definitely going to get lips flapping.
Elise and Rylie had escorted Father Night to a friend’s house in Woodbridge, then returned to the church to find that Father Armstrong’s mobile home was still unoccupied. Rylie was going to send one of her pack over to keep watch on the house.
That left Elise with nothing to do but figure out why Lincoln Marshall wasn’t answering his phone.
Blowing through the mountain roads on the pack’s motorcycle was exhilarating. The narrow twists and turns had been too dark for Elise to see what was two feet ahead of her, much less around the corners, and she had to rely on pure reflex to keep herself from flying off the tight corners. She didn’t slow in Northgate, either—she wasn’t exactly worried about speeding tickets, and normal jails wouldn’t hold her. She cut a straight line through town to Lincoln’s complex and killed the engine.
Elise didn’t bother knocking on Lincoln’s door. The sound of the motorcycle’s engine had surely woken up Mrs. Kitteridge, and the less the old bat saw of Elise, the better.
The kitchen screen was unlocked, and the door stood open. She slipped inside.
“Lincoln?” Elise said softly. The clock on the stove filled his kitchen with a faint blue glow. The time blinked midnight. The power must have died again.
The living room emanated a golden haze, like the lamp next to his recliner was on. But Lincoln didn’t reply when she repeated his name.
She found him sitting on the couch wearing nothing but his uniform slacks and standard-issue loafers. Even slouching with his shoulders hunched and legs extended in front of him, the bricks of his abdomen were hard, defined ridges. His hand dangled over the arm of the couch, crucifix pinched between his forefinger and thumb. A brush of gold hair covered his pecs.
The phone on the table beside him was off the hook, and silent. The cord had been yanked out of the wall.
Lincoln lifted his head at Elise’s approach. His eyes were shadowed by the lamp. Unreadable. Whatever he thought of her appearance in the tattered shirt and underwear, he didn’t show it.
“Shitty day,” Elise said. It was a statement, not a question.
Lincoln grunted his agreement.
He looked like a dog that had been kicked one too many times. Empathy wasn’t one of Elise’s talents, but she could tell when life had beaten a man down.
She didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t want to hear why Lincoln looked so miserable, or why he had disconnected his phone rather than take her calls. It could only be bad news. Being exorcised, having James track her down, the fight with Nashriel, and her frustrating inability to track down Father Armstrong was all the bad news she could handle for one night.
“I’m borrowing your shower,” she said.
Lincoln grunted again.
Elise shed her clothes on the way to his bathroom. His home, whether or not he liked it, had become her base for the duration of the investigation, and everything new that she had purchased at the consignment shop was still on the desk in his office. She grabbed a new outfit before ducking into the bathroom.
Before she b
ecame a demon, Elise used to like showering in the dark. Standing under the faucet without her eyesight improved the acuity of her other senses, reducing Elise to nothing but the place the water contacted her skin, the rushing in her ears, the heat of the spray. It was a unique way to meditate and relax.
But now her eyesight was too good to enjoy the sensory deprivation. She had to settle for shutting her eyes, tilting her head back, and letting the water course over her.
She had been mere yards away from James that evening. He had been closing in on her, rushing to her side, though the open bond had made it feel as if they stood within one another’s skin. He was the one that had pulled her out of Hell after she was exorcised. He had sounded like he feared losing her—as if he hadn’t lost her years ago.
It had almost been like old times, back when she still believed that James was a good person. Someone who really cared about her.
Elise had once loved James with all of the raw, earnest emotion of a teenage girl—as much as she could feel such a thing, anyway. She had been sixteen when she fell under his lies, and he had been twenty-eight. An adult. Someone that she thought she could trust.
They had been a formidable team, Elise and James. She had been the sword, the weapon that delivered the killing blow to demons, and he had been the witch that wielded her. The mind, the heart, the conscience. They had toppled demonic overlords and belayed apocalypse together. They had been more than partners, more than friends.
For ten years, Elise thought that her feelings were one-sided.
For ten years, James had loved and dated and fucked other women, while spending his nights hunting demons with Elise.
For ten years, he had lied to her.
And then everything had fallen apart.
The bathroom door hushed open, shifting the air in the bathroom. Elise opened her eyes to see the shower curtain stirring. A shape moved on the other side.
Lincoln pushed the curtain aside. He was wearing the slacks belted tightly around his trim waist. The crucifix gleamed at the hollow of his throat now.
