Vigil: An Urban Fantasy Thriller

by Russell Newquist

  Faith put a gentle hand on Peter's shoulder.

  “He's been nearly as much a prisoner as I was,” she told him.

  The knight visibly relaxed and lowered his blade.

  “What hold does it have on you?” he asked.

  “I came exploring in the caves,” the priest answered between sobs. “After that stupid girl came and freed the demon. It left, you see. It had been gone for weeks. So I explored. I wanted to know what lay underneath my church. And I found the treasure. Oh, God, I found the treasure.”

  He hung his head low, and for a minute Peter could get no more out of him. Then he continued.

  “Greed always was my sin.”

  Peter waited quietly while Father Quentin composed himself. Faith gave him an admiring look as he maintained an outward patience she clearly didn't share. But, on the inside, he seethed.

  Finally Delacroix continued. “What would it hurt if I took just a little? There was so much.”

  “I've seen it,” Peter told him gently. “It’s definitely tempting.”

  The little man barked a sharp laugh at him. “You haven't seen the tenth of it. I hadn't either, then.” The priest took another, much shorter pause. This time he managed to keep himself together. “So I took some. Just a little. Well, just a little at first.”

  “You went back for more, didn’t you?” Peter kept his voice quiet and gentle.

  “Yes,” Quentin whimpered. He couldn’t meet the young man’s eyes. “Necklaces and earrings and bracelets. Pretty things. It…” he hesitated.

  “It paid for the ladies,” Peter finished. It wasn’t a question. “Your other sin.”

  “Yes,” the priest confirmed.

  “And then it came back,” Peter continued.

  “And then it came back.” Quentin agreed. “And it knew. It found me. I tried to resist, but I couldn't. It had some kind of hold on me.” He hung his head in shame. “And now this has started.”

  He gestured at his face. Looking closer, Peter finally realized what had bothered him about it. The priest's face had begun to take on a serpentine form. He sucked in a sudden breath.

  “You're becoming one of them, aren't you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Quentin answered.

  “One of what?” Faith asked.

  “The drakes. They're not baby dragons at all. They're lost souls.”

  The priest nodded.

  Peter sheathed the blade and stepped forward, offering the Frenchman his hand. “Come on,” he told the priest. “We need to get back upstairs, but the caves behind me have collapsed. I assume you know another way out?”

  Father Quentin sobbed again. “But it's not gone. It's never gone. It'll know, and it'll destroy me. Don't you understand? I can't fight it! Nobody can fight it.”

  Peter fixed a level gaze at him, his deep blue eyes locked firmly on the priest's. His quiet voice radiated confidence as he gently patted the Sword at his waist. “I can.”

  Puzzlement crossed over Quentin’s face. “What is that?” he asked in awe.

  “The Sword of an archangel,” Peter answered.

  “Mère de Dieu,” the Frenchman whispered under his breath. He crossed himself. And then something changed in the little priest's demeanor. He didn't stop trembling, and he didn't quite stop sobbing. But his posture straightened and his chin lifted.

  “We can fight it,” Peter continued. “Me and my friends. And you. But we need you. I need you to show me the way out of here. I can’t fight it from down here.”

  Delacroix reached out and clasped Peter's hand. The knight hauled him to his feet. The Frenchman took a moment to dust off his black clothes, straighten his white collar, and wipe his face. “This way.”

  He stepped off into the hazy light. Peter strutted after him, projecting an air of cool confidence that he didn’t completely feel inside. But he maintained the facade for the sake of his companions. It seemed to work. Faith held tight to Nicolette and followed after them into the night.

  Chapter 16

  Peter couldn’t even see a floor beneath him. The kobolds had disappeared, but so had the tunnel walls. A dim, red light filled the air. His mind drifted back to the strange spiritual realm where he’d faced the trials before receiving his Sword. Back in November he’d found himself in a place that seemed half dream and half astral projection. For a moment he wondered if he’d made it back there.

  That impression didn’t last long. Wherever - whatever - he’d gotten to now, it felt fundamentally different than the place where he'd faced the trials. In the other place, he’d felt calm and at peace. Here, every hair on his body stood on end. In that other zone, he’d met up with what he could only think of as a kind of spirit guide - Katie Covington, the spirit of his friend Michael’s dead fiancée. Here, he only found emptiness.

  The panic on Nicolette’s face drove home his own need to keep calm. Thankfully, Faith managed to stay collected, too. Following their example, the little girl kept herself together although it took a clear effort.

  “Where are we?” Peter mused out loud.

  “You are nowhere,” came the answer from behind him. Peter snapped his head around to the source. His blade and stance followed a mere heartbeat behind. Then he relaxed.

  “Pilosus!” He breathed a sigh of relief as he lowered his Sword and stepped forward. “I’d been looking -”

  “Peter, no!” If Faith’s call hadn’t cut him off, Nicolette’s shrieks would have. The being before him gave a sharp, cynical laugh. Peter raised the Sword again.

  “You’re far too trusting, Sir Knight.”

  “That’s him, Peter. That’s the Peluda.”

  “Peluda. Pilosus.” The demon shrugged. “It’s all the same thing, really. You mortals use far too many words.”

  Peter let out a deep sigh and cursed himself for his stupidity. His rusty Latin confirmed it. “Pilosus. Hairy.”

  The Peluda just laughed even louder.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Peter told him defiantly. “My friends will finish the ritual soon and repair the binding. You’ll be banished back to your slumber.”

  The laughter now bordered on maniacal.

  “You foolish child. The ritual can’t be repaired - not by your church!” he spat out the last word. “Pagan magic put me to sleep. Your church just sealed me in. Your stupid friend Abigail started the process to set me free, but she didn't complete it. Can you imagine the pain of being forced away from a binding like this? But not for much longer!”

  “You’re still bound here,” Peter realized. “That's why you came home.”

  “That end's tonight,” Peluda cackled. “Your friends are busy upstairs finishing what she started. Do you think I’d honestly allow this nitwit to learn my secrets? Your mass can’t repair the binding. It can only undo it!”

  “How?” Peter asked, confused. “How can a holy mass set you free?”

  Peluda only laughed, but Father Quentin’s face turned to ash.

  “Oh no,” the priest whispered.

  Peter set his gaze on the Frenchman, but Quentin refused to meet his eyes. He just kept muttering, “no,” over and over again.

  “And now, I have work to do!” Peluda excused himself.

  Peter answered him with a charge and sliced quickly with his Sword. He moved as fast as he ever had. But by the time his strike swung home, the Peluda simply wasn’t there. Laughter echoed around them as the blue light faded away and the firmament of the caves returned around them.

  “You’re too late, Sir Knight. Soon - very soon, now - I will be free!” The words came from nowhere and everywhere.

  Peter wheeled on the little priest. He took three quick steps forward and smacked him hard across the face. That pulled Quentin out of his state of shock. He blinked at the knight, his mouth gaping open. Peter took both of the priest’s shoulders in his hands and shook the man to lock in his attention. Finally Quentin met his eyes.

  “What’s he talking about?” Peter asked.

  “Don’t you understan
d?” Quentin whined back at him. “It’s been his plan all along. All along. We’ve all walked right into his trap!”

  * * *

  The second wave of kobolds almost overwhelmed them right away. Somehow, Gabriel managed to compose himself and rally the parishioners on his side to hold the line. He hoped and prayed that Conor had held on his side, or it would all be over soon. As they held fast against the onslaught, he decided that his friend must have stood firm. Otherwise they’d all be dead already.

  “How many of these things are there?” he asked nobody in particular.

  Gabriel didn’t speak French, but he understood enough to know that the old man next to him called out a number in response.

  “That was rhetorical!” he barked back.

  Individually, the tiny sprites didn’t even rise to the level of an annoyance, much less pose any serious threat. Their advantage had come only from overwhelming numbers. Now that his ragtag team had gotten the mob under control, the fight turned quickly in their favor. One by one they whittled down the horde that pressed against them until only a handful remained. Gabriel allowed himself to relax just a little.

  He immediately regretted it.

  Stefan's scream pierced straight to Gabriel's soul. The Texan's body reacted instantly. He found himself halfway to the altar before he'd even fully comprehended what his eyes took in. A cohort of the evil sprites had pushed past everyone and swarmed toward the cleric.

  Deacon Dan stood over the fallen friar, wielding one of the heavy altar candles as a cudgel. Two of the beasts lay twitching on the floor, a testament to the deacon's courage. He fought mightily against three others, wielding the silver candlestick as a fiery club.

  Still, the sixth had gotten through and found his target. Gabriel fished another harpoon out of his quiver. He took aim and clicked the trigger, launching the harpoon from across the huge chamber. It flew true and crunched home between the kobold's shoulder blades, just below the neck. It died instantly. The Texan finished his charge, coming to Deacon Dan's aid. Together the two Americans made short work of the remaining sprites.

  But the stray kobold had already completed its mission. Stefan lay on the floor, convulsing. A red flower of blood spread across the breast of his white vestments. Gabriel dropped to his knees. He struggled to hold his friend still to prevent him from injuring himself further. Conor slid in beside him, already digging the giant first aid kit out of his back.

  “What’d they hit him with?” the Irishman asked.

  Gabriel shook his head. “I don't know.” Together they turned to look at the dead kobold. The sword in its hand would've been but a long dagger in either of theirs, but it had been enough. A sticky black goo dripped off the end. The Texan sucked in a breath. “Poison.”

  Conor nodded at him as he set to work dressing the wound. Choosing the option least likely to go wrong, he administered an adrenaline shot. The convulsions intensified for a moment and then stopped completely.

  “Shite,” the Irishman cursed. He’d chosen poorly. He searched for a pulse. “His heart’s still beating, but it’s weak.” The bleak report sunk everyone’s spirits.

  Conor dug through his medical kit, looking for something else to try. Meanwhile, Deacon Dan began a prayer. Given Stefan's condition, Gabriel suspected the latter might do more good.

  Chapter 17

  “We’ve got to get upstairs,” Peter declared. “Now.”

  “How?” Faith asked. She managed to keep the despair out of her voice, but Peter could see it clearly in her body language. Thankfully, Nicolette missed it. The little girl keyed off of Faith more than she did off the men. Peter didn’t think they could afford to have them both panic.

  “You heard her,” Peter demanded of Father Quentin. “How do we get out of here?”

  “I don’t know!” the Frenchman cried. “I’ve never been anywhere like this before. It makes no sense.”

  Peter wanted to shout back at the panicked Frenchman. Instead, he forced himself to calm down. Satisfying as it might prove, verbally abusing a pathetic old man wouldn’t get them any closer to freedom. He’d save that for later, after they’d found their freedom.

  “Everyone start searching,” he instructed. “Walk slowly. Feel in front of you as if you’re in the dark. See if you can find a wall and follow it to some kind of opening.”

  He acted before he’d even finished explaining, following his own advice. The adults followed his lead. Faith even translated his idea into French for the little girl. Nicolette seemed to see it as some sort of game and jumped into the task with enthusiasm.

  “I found something!” Faith called out. Her hands brushed against something firm. Peter moved in next to her. He felt cold, hard stone beneath his hands.

  “You go left,” he told her. “I’ll go right. First one to find an opening, holler. Keep your hands moving up and down like this, so that you don’t miss anything.” He demonstrated as he shuffled off to his right. Faith followed his lead, moving in the opposite direction.

  She keeps her head on her, he thought. I like that.

  They progressed slowly, trying to be thorough. Even so, it didn’t take long for despair to set in. It soon became obvious that the wall they traced arced the wrong way. They finished the process for good measure after outlining some kind of structure that occupied the middle of the room.

  “Interior wall, not exterior,” Peter confirmed. “Weird that we can see right through it.” He waved his hand at Quentin. He clearly saw the priest roll his eyes in response, despite the solid walls that stood between them.

  “No weirder than being in a place where we can’t see any walls at all, or even a floor,” Faith noted.

  “Fair point,” he allowed.

  “Now what?” Quentin asked.

  “We look for another wall,” Peter answered. “But we mark this one, first.” He extracted some chalk from his vest and marked the floor all the way around the invisible barrier.

  “Now we’re good.” He moved off in another direction, shuffling slowly again. Faith, Nicolette, and Quentin radiated out from the central object. After a few minutes of shuffling into the emptiness, he called out in frustration. “Bah! I’ve got nothing.”

  His voice gave a strange echo, but he heard no other reply.

  “Faith?”

  No answer came.

  “Quentin?”

  Again, he heard only silence.

  “Nicolette?”

  The distinct lack of a childish French voice unnerved him.

  “Well that’s not good.”

  He decided to turn back the way he came. Then realization hit. Without a frame of reference, how could he find the way he came?

  Peter held his feet in place and craned his neck. He couldn’t see any sign of the rope marker.

  That’s OK, I can figure this out.

  As best as he could remember, he’d gone straight forward. He should be able to go straight back. He held his right foot in place, still pointing away from the group. Carefully moving to his left, he placed his heels together. Finally, his feet pointed opposite directions. Theoretically, his left foot now showed the way back.

  He carefully oriented his body to match his calculated return route and started moving forward. He went much faster this time. He hadn’t hit any snags on the way out, so there shouldn’t be anything invisible for him to trip over on the way back. And he already knew there weren’t any walls in the way.

  Peter let out a yelp when he banged his shin on a hard rock surface.

  “What the heck?” he called out into the void.

  Had he gone the wrong way? He thought back through his actions. He didn’t see how he could have. And yet clearly he’d messed it up. He strained his eyes as he scanned a circle, but he couldn’t see any signs of his companions - or the rope, either.

  He let out a deep sigh and berated himself internally. With absolutely no visual cues to home in on, of course he hadn’t gone straight. He probably could’ve managed it if he’d truly stopp
ed to focus on keeping a perfectly linear course. But he hadn’t - he’d just trusted himself to keep true.

  “Faith?” Peter called out, as loud as he could. He cycled through the other names again for good measure. His heart beat faster with fear. Frantic breaths threatened to turn into hyperventilation. “Faith!”

  He knew that if he couldn’t get himself under control, panic would overtake him. Despite his usual base level optimism, despair settled upon him like mist. He closed his eyes and struggled to control his breathing.

  It’s this place, he told himself. It’s doing something strange to me. He determined not to allow it to win. He ran through breathing exercises he’d learned in the dojo. The sinking feeling in his stomach didn’t go away, but at least his heart rate and breathing started to slow. It took every bit of effort he could summon, and it didn’t happen quickly, but he did finally calm down.

  OK, think it through. What do I do now?

  Peter figured he had two options. He could stay still hoping for the others to find him, or he could start a regular exploration pattern. The former wasn’t really an option. Faith and Nicolette would be relying on him. And nobody could rely on the priest. He’d have to find them if he wanted to get out of this strange place.

  He opted for a modified spiral pattern. He took ten paces forward; then turned left as close to ninety degrees as he could manage with no frame of reference. After fifteen paces, he turned left again. Twenty paces later, he turned left again.

  Five minutes later, he sat down in frustration.

  I don’t have time for this.

  He pondered again, and then smacked himself on the forehead. Under the circumstances, it should’ve been obvious. But he couldn’t think of a good prayer, and he’d never been particularly good at improvising them. Eventually he settled on a prayer to Saint Anthony, finder of lost things. After all, he was well and truly lost at the moment.

  He closed his eyes and recited the prayer he’d learned in childhood. For good measure, he said it twice more. Three seemed like a good number - three for the trinity. He said it loud and strong, pouring his heart into it.