Chapter 7

Seven

Stone saints gazed blindly down from the vaulted ceiling. Long dead and forgotten, their blank eyes watched Michaels walk the length of the nave to what had once been the altar.

This converted fifteenth-century church was Michaels’ home and had been for the last two hundred years. Save for relocating the skeletons beneath its tombstone floor, he’d kept most of the original features, including the large golden crucifix that hung high in what was now his bedroom.

It might have been a residence these days, but it still stood on consecrated ground. Michaels had made sure of that. Requested regular blessings from local clergy maintained its holy status. He’d added his own warding glyphs and protection spells to the ancient walls and now this was his sanctuary; a place that no dark soul would dare to enter. It was one of the few places he could relax.

He whispered a prayer and continued to the vestry.

Its small wooden door was deceptively thick, bound with iron and protected with yet more security sigils. He raised one hand and uttered the words which set the gears unseen grinding into motion to withdraw fat bolts.

He descended the chilly stone staircase beyond to the crypt. It was a chamber distinctly older than the church itself, a remnant of an earlier building, with tombs that dated back to the dark ages.

Its cold stone vaults held the bones of eminent knights and priests, but also something much more surprising. Michaels touched the upright slab of a tombstone, and it swung aside to reveal the entrance to a tunnel.

This was something Michaels had added himself: his ossuary . He took a deep breath and stepped over the line of salt that marked its boundary and made his way to a spiral staircase that descended further still. The stairwell walls glittered with thousands of ornately carved crystal jars, each one glowing with shades of purple and amber. Some burned brightly as he passed, while others flickered like a guttering candle.

Down he went, years of demon captures passing at his shoulder as he descended. Each was sealed with wax and marked with a rune. These were the dybbuk, a repository of spirits collected from the worst of humanity. Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, their inner demons amongst those of many other lesser-known tyrants, resided in this chamber. Demons that had taken possession of mortals and used them for their own devices. Dark souls that preyed on the weaknesses of men.

Michaels felt the demon spirit move inside the reliquary in his pocket, as if it could sense its fate. There was no escaping the magical bindings, and lodged here, behind the wards Michaels had installed, it would remain trapped for eternity. He stood the jar it at the end of the last populated shelf.

A wash of satisfaction pulled briefly at the corner of his mouth. One more down.

He sat down on the cold flagstones, pulled out his hip flask and took a swig of the whiskey inside. He shouldn’t enjoy it, it was a sin after all, but it smoothed the rough edges. Thousands of dybbuks had been captured during his time on earth. He scanned the shelves to take them in. It was a literal army of the damned. These days, he counted himself among them.

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