by Debra Dunbar
I shrugged. “He’s a bit weird though, you gotta admit. And the police found evidence in his backpack and in the cooler in the garage that leads them to believe Amanda wasn’t his first victim. I know you have a hard time seeing him as a killer, but people change.”
“I guess they do. Poor Amanda. Seems she was right after all, although the demon that got into her brother wasn’t the biblical kind.”
“Which is kind of why I’m here, Father.” I set down my tea and stood, lifting the edge of my shirt. “I want to show you this.
He came from around the desk, bending over slightly to look at the scar on my waist. “Skin cancer? Oh, my child! What is the prognosis?”
Well, that was better than assuming it was from kinky fire-play gone wrong. “It’s a demon mark. I’m hoping you know some way of removing it.”
Father Bernard went back to his chair and sat. He had one of those “not this again” expressions on his face. “Why do you think that’s a demon mark?”
He didn’t believe me. Evidently he figured Templars suffered from delusions, too. He was probably right, but not this time.
“A month ago I summoned a Goetic demon in order to gain information. Something far worse came through the veil, broke free from the circle, and marked me.”
The priest nodded. “Do you have any history of drug use? How often do you drink alcohol?”
“No drugs. Well, none except for the two Percocet a co-worker gave me instead of aspirin one day. I’m too poor to buy much alcohol beyond my one beer, but I eat out each night and we do have a few glasses of wine.”
Okay, that really did make me sound like an alcoholic. What was the cut off on that? I doubted it was fourteenish, okay maybe twenty, glasses of wine per week. And heaven forbid he ever visit my parents’ house where decanters of whisky and brandy were in pretty much every room—bedrooms included.
“Was the demon summoning after a few glasses of wine?”
The priest’s tone was kind and respectful, but I couldn’t help but bristle at the implication. “No! I wasn’t drinking wine with dinner then. I don’t think I’d had a beer in six months when I summoned the demon.”
He nodded, sipping his tea. “Has this sort of thing happened to anyone else in your family?”
He meant was there a history of paranoid delusions in my family. What could I do to make this guy believe me, beyond summoning Balsur right here into the church?
Wait, could I even do that? Probably not. There were some restrictions about demons and holy spaces, as I recalled.
“Father, we’re Templars. No one in my family is foolish enough to summon a demon. My dad believes it’s a lazy shortcut way to achieve knowledge. My mom is furious and ready to defend my soul at the point of her sword. We don’t do this sort of thing, but I did. My intentions were good, but I screwed up. I took a shortcut and now a high-level demon has marked me. He wants my soul.”
I could see a flicker of indecision in Father Bernard’s eyes. “Aria, the devil cannot take your soul unless you relinquish it to him. You’re a Templar. You’re God’s Warrior. You walk the righteous path. Of all us mortals, the devil will find it especially difficult to take your soul.”
The loss of a soul didn’t always happen by bargaining it away at a crossroads. Yes, some humans consciously gave up their souls for material or other gain, but damnation tended to be a slow, one-step-at-a-time process. Each decision moved a person closer to a fiery eternity, and that road to hell was very often paved with good intentions.
“I summoned a demon. I opened a door. That’s enough for a demon to mark my soul if he gets the chance.”
“But not enough to damn you,” the priest countered. “Repent, surrender your soul to God, and that demon will have no hold on you.”
Repent. I hadn’t been to confession in…well, I’d never been to confession. We were Episcopalian. When we confessed, it was through prayer—a direct link between us and God. I thought about starting a nightly foot-of-my-bed prayer routine. Would it really be that easy?
No, it wouldn’t. Because if I was honest with myself, I wasn’t truly repentant. If I needed to, I’d summon a demon again. I wouldn’t be forgiven the sin if I knew I’d repeat my actions. And there were other things I’d done that had tainted my soul far more than dabbling in ceremonial magic.
There were times when confession was a private thing between you and God, and times when it needed to be more of a therapy session with someone who was in-the-know about all things spiritual. This was one of that latter.
“Can I give you my confession? I’m not Catholic. Is that okay? As an Episcopalian you probably can’t give me absolution, but your guidance would be very welcome.”
Father Bernard gave me a quick smile. “Then we should probably discuss this here rather than in a confessional.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you or diminish your authority—”
He waved a hand to cut me off. “I’m not offended at all. You’re a Templar. I’m honored you came to me. God gifted you and your ancestors with strength and power, gave you His blessing to secure the Temple and protect Pilgrims as they walked a holy path. Yes, some who answered that call did not have God’s Word in their hearts, but most did. You are God’s Warriors. Catholic or not.”
I relaxed. Nine hundred years ago—on Friday the thirteenth—the Pope had declared us heretics, allowing secular rulers, mainly the King of France, to seize our holdings. Yes, there were Templars who’d been burned at the stake. Although many Templar families were still devout Catholics, we were English. Our family had shifted to the Anglican Church, and then the Episcopal Church, although that had more to do with regional politics than any bitterness over history. Our brethren in Spain and France had a good relationship with the Catholic Church. It was reassuring to know that we were still considered God’s Warriors, even though we’d chosen a different spiritual path.
Father Bernard smiled. “The past is the past, and you sit before me, a Templar in need. What can I do to assist?”
“I summoned a demon, Father. And I can’t guarantee I wouldn’t do it again. There are circumstances that necessitate quick information and sometimes you need to risk your soul to save others. The summoning that got me this demon mark? That I regret. I should have chosen a different option that time. But there may come a moment when lives are on the line. If it will save lives, I’ll do it again.”
Father Bernard steepled his fingers and rested his chin on the peak. “You say you should have chosen a different option that time, but you didn’t. Who’s to say there isn’t a different, better option next time? You can’t justify sin this way, Aria. As your father said, it’s a lazy path. It’s the easy way. And it’s so easy to justify your sin by pretending to be the martyr, by throwing your soul on the fire to save others. There are always other choices. There’s always a solution that keeps you from sin and saves your pilgrims, it just takes work to find it.”
Man, this guy was tougher on me than my parents. “Okay. Point taken. I can’t say I’ll never summon again, but I won’t rush into it and I’ll make sure I examine all the other options.”
He smiled, pleased. “Limiting your connection with the other side of the veil will weaken the demon’s claim on you.”
I squirmed. “But summoning isn’t my only sin. I fear that I’ve already darkened my soul.”
“You’re a Templar. Modern Templars do not judge, and they no longer kill humans. What could you have possibly done to darken your soul? Gambling? Those bottles of wine you drink each night?”
“I killed a man.” And it was glasses of wine, not bottles.
Father Bernard sucked in a breath. “I’m going to assume that you mean this metaphorically, because otherwise I’d need to report you to the police. So, metaphorically, what happened to make you kill this man?”
I took a deep breath. “Remember the occult gang last month?”
The priest shuddered. “Horrible. They were performing ritual killings.”<
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“Not just ritual murder, the last two victims were used for soul magic.”
I paused to let that sink in, watching the priest’s eyes bulge, his mouth drop open.
“Yeah. Soul magic. They didn’t have the appropriate item for this work, but a mage from D.C. did. He bargained the use of this soul trap for the death of three mages. At the end of the day, he contracted for the murder of the mages, chose one of the ritual murder victims. Four murders are on his head, two souls forever lost. Then he killed my best friend and tried to make it look like one of the ritual murders.”
Father Bernard shook his head. “A horrible, evil man. But surely he would have spent the rest of his life in jail, to face his eternal judgement upon a natural death?”
I clenched my jaw for a moment, trying to gain control of the fury that roared through me. I’d been haunted by my actions the last four weeks, but thinking of all Dark Iron had done made me angry enough to kill him again.
“There was nothing, no evidence that would have led to a conviction. The mages he worked with never saw his face. The soul trap wasn’t in his possession any longer. A search of his home would have revealed that he was practicing magic, but nothing more. He would have gotten away with it, gone on to kill again.”
“You don’t know that. And if there wasn’t enough evidence to convict him, how are you positive he was guilty?”
“One of the death mages had set up a meeting with the killer, and this man showed up. Plus my friend knew what he’d done, but a dead woman can’t testify.”
“Aria, you need to have faith. You’re a Templar. Justice will prevail. Sometimes that justice isn’t on our timetable.”
Others would have died. I couldn’t stand the thought of Dark Iron walking out of that room, smugly thinking he’d gotten away with murder. I couldn’t stand that he’d thought me too weak to stop him. Pride. And murder. And evidently laziness and impatience. It was all a lot of sin for my soul to bear.
Father Bernard was right. I had no faith. I couldn’t turn the other cheek and watch a murderer walk away to kill again. I couldn’t let five people’s deaths go unavenged. I couldn’t let Raven’s death go unavenged. And for all that, I was on the road to damnation.
“Thank you for your time, Father.” I stood, realizing that confession and penance wouldn’t help me remove this demon mark. The priest had said I was God’s Warrior. Well, if God needed a human with a sword, then He certainly intended me to use it. As Templars we were expected to have blood on our hands, we were to have faith that God would guide our swords. We were more Old Testament than New.
And if I burned for protecting my Pilgrims, for ridding the world of evil, for avenging those innocents who had been murdered, then so be it.
Chapter 14
RUSSELL FINDAL HAD changed in the last month—changed in a good way. The necromancer still had wary shadows about his eyes, but the tight lines in his face had eased somewhat. His brown skin had taken on ruddy undertones, as if he were spending regular amounts of time outside in the sunshine. His salt and pepper hair was still cropped close, but a short, tight-edged beard of gray made him look more the distinguished scholar than a summoner of the dead.
I probably would have been better off going to one of the mediums downtown, but I knew Russell, knew he was the real deal. Who knows how many women with a palm on their door I’d need to go through to find someone who honestly had a connection with the spirit world.
“How have you been?” I took the sweet tea he handed me with a smile, declining the plate of lemon wedges.
“Good. It’s taken me a while to find my feet, but good. I see Shay, I mean Bella, once a week.” A fond smile creased his face. “I always bring a toy for her. You know, a doll or a Lego set or something. This week I found some sculpting supplies and we spent the evening making little clay animals.”
His sister had been fourteen when she’d been murdered, and unfortunately she’d lain dead for over an hour before Dario was able to turn her. As a result, the young vampire had suffered irreparable cognitive damage. She was a fifty-four-year-old vampire trapped in a fourteen-year-old body with emotions and intellect somewhere around a child of four. She was all Russell had left of his family, and the reason he’d made his peace with the vampires and had decided to remain in Baltimore.
“Sounds fun,” I replied. It did. The idea of clay animals made me want to go hang out with my nephews for the weekend. “You still working at that warehouse?”
“Part time. Mostly I’m running a food truck down on Baltimore Avenue.” He grinned. “This guy owns six of them. Barbeque. He does all the meat smoking, and sends us out with the trucks. I like it. I get to meet a lot of people. It’s day work, which leaves nights I’m not at the warehouse free for my practice.”
And by practice he meant necromancy. Russell had hung a sign outside his row house, the familiar psychic palm along with his hours. “Business good?” I asked, wondering how much clientele he’d get in this residential neighborhood. He was pretty close to Camden Yards, so who knows? Maybe all the Orioles fans stopped by for a glimpse into the future of the team’s season.
“Mostly out-of-towners, although I’ve got some customers locally. Things have really stepped up now that all of the spirit workers and psychics are working together.”
Reynard had mentioned this, but it still surprised me. Psychics were an independent lot, not as likely to form big groups like other mages. They were friendly with each other and sometimes chatted over a glass of tea like Russell and I were doing, but there was never a leader, never a structured organization to their practitioners.
“So, I gotta ask, is that woman down by the Inner Harbor for real? The one who walks around the Constellation dressed as a gypsy, handing out cards?” I must have a dozen of her cards. She was quite a sales person, and very dramatic. I’m sure she made a fortune from the tourists, even if the cops were constantly running her off for soliciting.
Russell laughed. “See, that’s where things have improved. I’ve got nothing against people with minimal talent making a living, but they need to know who to refer people to when a client needs real help.”
“So all those people running the séances and ghost tours…?”
He shrugged, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his already sweet tea. “There’s good money in that, and a lot of them have reasonable skills. But if there’s a poltergeist tearing up someone’s house in Franklin Terrace, or a guy’s aunt in Federal Hill died without telling him where she hid the stock certificates, then Mr. Séance needs to know to step aside. And who to call.”
He nodded, a look of calm satisfaction on his face. “Doesn’t have to be me. There are some talented mediums who aren’t as public and work on the side. We all just need to know who specializes in what and feel comfortable making that call.”
It made sense. I sipped my tea and we continued chatting about the neverending construction on 895, whether that developer was really going to tear down Old Mall and turn it into upscale condominiums in the middle of the slum, and how the Ravens’ prospects looked this year. Finally, once a suitable amount of socialization had taken place, I pulled the fox figurine out of my pocket and set it on the table.
Russell’s gray eyebrows flew toward the ceiling. “Nice work. Old World work, I can tell from here. Does this practitioner have an eBay store? Because I’d love to order one of these.”
I waved my hand. “Family connection. I’m not sure if she takes orders or makes them for anyone outside the family, but I’ll check. It’s a lelek raktarban. I have a few of them, but this one seems to have attracted a spirit.”
His eyebrows threatened to vanish into his hairline. “May I?” he gestured toward the fox.
I nodded and Russell picked up the resin figurine, exclaiming softly as he examined it inches from his face. “There is indeed a spirit residing here, although he appears to be angry.”
Crap. I’d assumed based on my conversation with Gran that this was a helpful spirit
. “Angry? What can an angry spirit in a lelek do to me? Do I need to ditch it down the sewer drain or something?”
“Not angry at you, just angry. It’s often the case. Anger is a powerful emotion—one that is powerful enough to bind a spirit to this world and energize it to seek a vessel.”
I still didn’t like the sound of that. “So let’s say this spirit was killed by a drunk driver. Does that mean he’s only going to help me prevent drunk driving? Or hide my beer and wine? Or pester me to take revenge on the driver that killed him?”
Russell shook his head, setting the figurine back on the table. “Oh no. There might be a specific scenario that motivates him more than others, but he’s here to help you. And he chose you specifically. If he wanted to prevent drunk driving, he’d have attached himself to an addictions counselor or a bartender, or a member of MADD. There’s something specifically about you that attracted this spirit.”
Well, that was a relief. “Someone told me that the spirit is struggling to adjust to using the lelek as a vessel. How long do you think it will be before he’s able to do more than fall off the shelf and sit on top of books? What can I expect from him?”
“Sadly some never do master the use of their vessel. The fact that yours has managed to move around is a good sign. I can give you some ideas and exercises you could try that might help the spirit, but there’s no telling how much he’ll be able to do. Ideally he should be able to communicate with you, verbally or through other means, move about on his own, act as an intermediary between you and the spirit world. I’ve heard a few legends of spirits who could move back and forth across the veil. Whether any of this will happen in your lifetime or not, I don’t know.”
This was all so depressing. No wonder the spirit was angry. I’d be pissed too, trapped in a vessel and unable to communicate properly.
“Let’s try something right now.” Russell got up from the table and pulled a battered cardboard box off a nearby bookshelf. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to find out who this spirit is. Calling him by name will strengthen the bond between you both and help him learn to communicate with you.”
