by J E McDonald
“Oh no!” Aubrey shouted, reaching out to catch it.
She missed and watched helplessly as the butt of the accidental weapon bounced off his forehead. The momentum of her trying to catch it knocked her off balance, and the ladder tipped…tipped…
“Whoa!” she gasped, grabbing onto either side to steady herself. Too late. The ladder kept tipping—right toward the man.
She tumbled down, unable to stop herself. Strong arms wrapped around her ribs, spinning her away from the falling ladder. She flinched against him when it crashed to the floor with a bang.
Then silence fell, but for the clicking of her clocks and soft music mocking her clumsiness.
Her clammy hands gripped his shoulders. “Oh my God, if the drill had landed the other way, I could have killed you.” Breathless, she looked up at him. “The bit could have gone straight into your eyeball.” She’d almost killed a man in her store. That was a call she never wanted to make to Lucas—or any police for that matter. “Please don’t sue me,” she whispered.
Warm, strong arms around her body, the man supported her, the tips of her toes only touching the floor. When he leaned away, their gazes met again. Puzzled eyes searched her face. His eyes. They were a beautiful shade of blue, icy but warm at the same time. This close to him, she could see amber encircling his pupils. Blue and amber. Such an unusual combination. His woodsy scent enveloped her, making her heart race at top speed.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, swallowing. “Are you okay?” She brushed her fingers over the red bump forming on his head. They both sucked in a breath at the same time. Tingles shot up her arm as he squinted at her, then he blinked like he was seeing her for the first time.
“You need a keeper,” he murmured, setting her away from him, his voice so low and gravelly, she shivered.
“Are you applying for the job?” She straightened her shirt, then winced. “Did I say that aloud?” Why did she always have to do that? Blurt the first thing that came into her mind without thinking too hard about it? A nervous laugh escaped her. She pressed her lips together to stifle the sound.
He hesitated, staring, then pushed through the front door, leaving her to gape after him. I really hope he doesn’t return with a lawsuit in hand.
“Have a nice day,” she called belatedly, the door already closing behind him.
She watched as he strode down the sidewalk, athletic purpose in every step. The man was built, and she couldn’t take her gaze away until he disappeared from sight.
The window in front of her fogged, a sad face appearing in the glass. “I know, I know,” she muttered to Finn, righting the ladder and picking up the mess of macrame plant holders. Next came the drill and hooks, then she stacked everything neatly beside the window. “I’ll do my best not to almost kill the customers in the future.” Her business relied on return customers and word of mouth—and that man was definitely not coming back.
But her body was still warm from where he’d held her.
And those eyes. She’d never seen such an alluring combination of colors before. There was something in those eyes she couldn’t describe but felt some affinity toward. Kindred spirits? It was hard to think she had anything in common with a guy who looked big enough to crush her and barely uttered a word. Even as the thought surfaced, another shiver of awareness shimmered through her with the memory of her body slamming into his.
Shaking off the sensation, she headed to the front counter. She’d finish hanging the plant holders when Stella returned. No more attempted murder for me today, please and thank you.
Her phone sat where she’d left it, and she clicked the button to turn it on. After a brief hesitation, she touched the icon for Simmer, ready to sign up for an account.
If she was already having fantasies about a mysterious dude who looked as likely to rob the place as buy something, then it was time for her to get laid.
2
Roman wrenched open the door to his pickup truck, trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. Jumping up into the driver’s seat, he slammed the door, then gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead, not really seeing the view in front of him. Under his jacket, the knives holstered to his ribs felt especially heavy today.
“Did you find her?” The small voice drifted to him as Moe uncurled from his spot on the floor, the darkest part of the truck. “Did you find the Orphan Karle? Yes?” The little demon hopped up on the passenger seat and circled three times before settling, his purply gray skin stretching over a bony frame the size of a small child’s. “Time to kill her now, yes?”
“No,” Roman replied immediately, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. It may have been the reason they’d returned to Wickwood. It may have been what Roman thought the ultimate sacrifice meant in the prophecy, to kill a human—either that or his own demise. But everything had changed the moment Aubrey Karle had touched him.
The image of her face filled his head. Liquid brown eyes, the same color as he liked his coffee, creamy and sweet, were framed by auburn hair that came to her chin. When she’d fallen from the ladder, landed on him, he’d felt curves and softness under her jeans and T-shirt. Her minty breath had touched his, and he’d wanted to keep hold of her—had to force himself to set her away from him.
When was the last time he’d held a woman? He couldn’t remember.
“Is the orphan stronger than Ro?” Moe asked, his head lifting to peek out the window for a moment, the short, translucent hair covering his body trembling in excitement. “Must Ro find his biggest and nastiest weapons to do the job? Yes?”
“No.” Roman’s hands gripped the steering wheel so tight they ached. The scar on his wrist itched with every word the demon spoke. “It can’t be her,” Roman whispered to himself. It couldn’t be. She’d touched him, and he’d seen her soul.
Bright. A bright soul that gave him no pain.
He couldn’t harm an innocent. But what of the prophecy? What of the promise that the Orphan Karle would bring hell on Earth? And with the autumnal equinox only two weeks away…
Moe shifted from the window, his big yellow eyes filled with confusion. “But Ro said—”
“Enough,” Roman bit out, and regretted it as soon as the word left his lips. The demon squeaked, the color of his skin darkening, and hopped back down to the floor.
It wasn’t Moe’s fault Roman had been charged with the job of stopping the destruction of Wickwood. He shouldn’t take it out on the little demon, no matter how much the weight of the task bore down on him.
“Moe’s sorry, yes, very sorry for making Ro angry.” The small voice came from the shadowed section of the floor. “Moe will pledge fealty and accept punishment, yes. We should find a volcano.” The demon perked up at his own suggestion. “Throw Moe in. Yes. A nice warm volcano.”
“No fealty,” Roman said, setting his forehead on the steering wheel, tempted to bang it a couple times. He’d never take Moe’s will away from him with a pledge, no matter how many problems that would solve. “And there aren’t any volcanoes around here anyway.”
“There are some in Hawaii, yes. Volcanoes are very hot. The Nature Channel said so. Would burn Moe’s skin right off the bones, yes.”
A sigh escaped Roman as he started the truck. “We’re not going to Hawaii. I’m not going to throw you into a volcano.”
“Why, Ro? Why would you not do this for Moe?” The demon’s tone turned petulant as they pulled away from the curb. He jumped back onto the passenger seat and circled three times before settling. “A punishment suitable for making Ro angry, yes.”
“No.” For a moment, it looked like the demon would argue, then he settled in the circular shape he liked to rest in.
Letting out another sigh, Roman focused on the road as they headed out of the familiar streets of old downtown. He’d grown up here and had tried to leave more than once. But the damn city had its claws in him and wouldn’t let go. No matter where he traveled, no matter how far he went, he always found his way ba
ck to Wickwood for some reason or another.
The tree-lined boulevard gave way to a residential area, the spires of the Gothic church towering in the distance as he turned onto a bridge. The closer he got to Our Lady of Sacrifice, the more tension crawled up his spine. He hadn’t returned to the church in close to a decade, preferring to receive his instructions by text, but this time he couldn’t put it off. Even though the upcoming meeting should have preoccupied his mind, his thoughts kept returning to Aubrey Karle.
Could the prophecy be wrong?
He’d never heard of such a thing. Once a prophecy was spoken, the words would come to pass. Or so he’d been told. He’d never had a prophecy spoken of him until three weeks ago.
When he’d heard the words, Roman had known this might be his last job, that the Orphan Karle might be the one to finally take him out.
If the drill had landed the other way, I could have killed you.
The thought had crossed his mind. If the drill had been pointed in the other direction and an inch lower? Game over. To have faced numerous demons in the past ten years, then to be taken out by a home improvement tool…
Perhaps the prophecy was true after all.
When he’d stepped into the antique store, he’d had one thing on his mind: if he took out the orphan now, then she’d have no chance to bring hell on Earth. It had taken him under a minute to find the store’s weaknesses. The front windows were too large to do anything during the day. He’d have to follow her later to finish the job. If the prophecy came to pass, then all of Wickwood would be sucked into Hell. He had to stop it. Even if that meant ending the life of a human instead of the demons he usually dispatched to the other side.
Except, she touched him and he saw the bright of her soul. The truth of it made his shoulders feel like he carried the weight of a thousand prophesies.
Our Lady of Sacrifice loomed before him, the cathedral’s spires reaching to the heavens above. Roman parked in the visitors’ lot at the side of the building and turned off the engine before turning to Moe. “You’re going to have to wait here.”
Moe peeked through his window. Beside the church was a park and a playground where a few young children and their mothers played.
Roman could see where his mind headed. “You can’t go to the playground. You can’t be seen.”
“Moe will keep hidden, yes.” To prove his point, he changed his form to match the upholstery, his greyish mauve skin and the little shorts he wore blending in almost seamlessly, invisible until he shifted, creating a translucent ripple effect in the air. “They will not see Moe, no.”
“Not today,” Roman said in a firm voice, opening his door to hop out. “There are too many people there.”
“Yes, people. Bite-sized ones.”
“You can’t eat people,” Roman replied, an ache forming in his temple.
“What about the furry things attached to strings? Yes? The people are holding them for Moe to taste. Like lollipops. Yes.”
“No dogs either,” Roman said, resignation filling him. “You can’t eat people’s pets.” He’d told him all this before. Multiple times. The request to eat living things was becoming more and more frequent, setting Roman on edge. He reached behind the seat and took out a plastic bag filled with treats to toss it at Moe. “That should keep you occupied.”
Moe let out a delighted squeak, then dug around in the bag to pull out a package of black licorice. “Occupied, yes. This is much better than furry lollipops. Yes.”
On another sigh, Roman closed the door and looked up at the church. Weekday mass would be over by this time of day, the front doors probably locked. Rubbing the tension out of his neck, he walked around the side of the towering stone building and strode to the rectory attached to the back.
With uneasiness in his chest, he knocked on the solid wood door. A minute later a nun answered.
“Roman Milone,” he said when she looked at him with questioning eyes.
She nodded, then opened the door wider for him to step inside. He ducked his head so he wouldn’t hit the low door frame, then scanned the foyer. The priests’ residence hadn’t changed much since he’d been here last. Still the same dark oak furniture. Still the same striped wallpaper. The familiar scents of furniture polish and incense saturated the air.
“This way,” the nun said, tilting her head toward the back of the rectory, her hands tucked into the front of her habit. “You’re lucky. He’s awake right now.”
They stopped outside a door, and she knocked.
“Enter,” came the soft voice of the man on the other side.
Roman braced himself and stepped inside. The nun shut the door quietly behind him. The room was small, only a double bed, a dresser, and a side table with one lamp. What drew his eyes was the old man, frail under the bed covers. The last time he’d seen Father Robertson, he’d seemed fit and healthy. Now he looked to have aged two decades in five years, his bald head covered in liver spots and the flesh of his face sunken and sallow.
But the worst thing in the room was the smell of death in the air. Roman had been around it enough to know.
His trip to Wickwood wasn’t just about stopping the prophecy, it was about visiting a friend for perhaps the last time. A man who’d given him purpose when everything in the world around him seemed meaningless.
Technically, Jude had been his guardian when Roman was orphaned, but his father’s best friend and partner abandoned him to Marissa Klassen, an administrative assistant of the church, the day after his father had died. Mrs. Klassen, an elderly widow who turned into a grandmother-type figure to him, attended mass every Sunday. Roman had sat quietly through the rites and creeds, listening to the hymns, standing and kneeling when he was supposed to, but never really present for any of it. Even as a child, he’d been empty inside, the death of Grant Milone taking every bit of light from him.
Every Sunday it would be the same thing, the quiet of mass followed by parishioners funneling out the front door, where Father Robertson would say farewell to the congregation at the top of the wide, stone steps. He always remembered everyone’s name and made sure to meet their eyes when he wished them a lovely afternoon. When the groundskeeper for the church passed away, Father Robertson asked Roman if he wanted the part-time job. He’d been in high school at the time and needed money for school clothes. After school and on weekends, Roman did yard work. Raking leaves, shoveling snow, keeping the hedges trimmed and the flowers watered, it gave him focus and purpose when nothing else seemed to.
“Cancer is a bitch, isn’t it?”
Father Robertson’s words snapped Roman out of the past. He realized he was staring. The old man let out a thready cackle, then lifted a hand to the chair beside the bed.
“Come. Sit. Stay with me a while.”
Roman sat, his eyes fixed on the crucifix on the opposite wall instead of the priest’s thin legs beneath the blankets.
“I couldn’t stand the hospital anymore,” Robertson said when silence stretched between them. “If I’m going to die, I might as well do it from the comfort of my own home, don’t you think?” Another cackle emerged. It quickly turned into a cough. Roman reached to offer him the glass of water beside the bed.
“Thank you,” Robertson said after taking a sip and handing it back so Roman could set it down.
He felt the priest’s eyes on him, but didn’t know what to say. What should he say to a dying man? The death Roman encountered on a daily basis was usually quick and violent, not this version, drawn out and painful. When Robertson had told him a few years ago about the bone cancer, Roman wondered if the priest’s work had done it. Every exorcism Robertson performed tired him, decaying his body in the service of saving others.
This wasn’t the first time Roman thought he might suffer the same fate. He knew being around so much evil changed a person. It had happened to Jude. It had happened to his father. It was only a matter of time before it happened to him. He’d either be weakened enough to make it easy for a demon to pi
ck him off like his father, or he’d be tempted by evil like Jude. Either way, Roman didn’t foresee a promising end for himself.
“Still quiet as ever.” A ghost of a smile crossed Robertson’s face. “You were never one to fill the silence. But I’m glad to see you, even if it’s only for a moment.”
Roman opened his mouth to say he’d be back, then closed it again. The truth was, he probably wouldn’t, and Robertson didn’t deserve his lies.
“I’m glad you came,” Robertson went on, “because when you’re faced with your own death, you want to atone for the things you’ve done. No matter if you thought it was the right thing to do at the time or not. I knew I asked too much of you, but with your talent, with the way you were led here, how could I not? It was God’s intervention that brought you to us.”
Roman stiffened. He knew it wasn’t God who’d brought him to the church. He knew it because he’d been there the day his father died, the day a demon stabbed Grant Milone in the heart and his blood had coated Roman’s hands at only six years old.
Then Jude abandoned him.
God had nothing to do with it.
The memories of what happened that day flashed through his mind, quick, startling images that increased the tension in his neck. The light in his eyes father’s eyes going out. The demon’s massive hand wrapped around his wrist, burning his skin. Black circles on the floor and ceiling. The demon’s voice, hissing and guttural, vibrating though him.
“You’ve taken my son away from me, and I have claimed yours.”
Jude, there too late to save Roman’s dad, screaming at the demon in some language he hadn’t understood.
Then it was over, nothing to be the same again. The scar on Roman’s wrist itched in remembrance.
Robertson’s voice pulled him back to the present. “But you were too young for what I asked of you.” A light cough escaped him. “Barely sixteen, and you accompanied me on your first exorcism. I—” The priest stopped and coughed again before continuing. “I should have known better. I’m sorry.”
