Chapter Thirty-Four
Theodore
"F-Father Thompson."
I barely manage to choke the name out before Azizi's teeth have left me and Kolfina has fluttered to the side, unwilling to have the man at her back.
"I knew you were drenched in sin, Theodora Villin," the father says, a wicked sneer twisting the wrinkles around his lips like a knot in a tree, "but to lay with a demon so proudly? You are further gone than even I believed."
Am I? I have always thought there was no further I could fall in his eyes.
My entire life has been making up for some unknowable mistake he’s accused me of, and yet nothing has ever been good enough for him.
To suggest there was even a chance of forgiveness in his eyes, that now is the moment he’s decided me a lost cause entirely, surprises me.
Then again, he has never seen me with a vampire's fangs in my throat or her hand between my legs.
"I beg your pardon," Azizi interrupts from behind me, her voice entirely too calm and collected for the fear racing through me, "but I do believe you are trespassing, Father."
The man scoffs, clutching his Bible in one hand and his rosary in the other, holding them in front of him as if they were armor to fight back the sin that permeates from the walls of the Widow's Chateau.
"This is God's land," he spits, raising his chin in defiance, "and it is my duty to send you back to Hell where you belong, demon. "
Azizi doesn't seem that bothered by his threat, in all honesty.
She hums, wrapping her arms more securely around my waist and resting her chin on my shoulder.
"Is that so? And what, dear Father, do you plan to do to me?
Your silly holy symbols and pathetic prayers will have no effect on me.
I might not be able to step foot on sacred soil, but you are on my land, Father.
You are in my den. You have no power here, nor does your so-called God. "
Something twitches on the father’s face, his eyes widening, his lips trembling.
It takes me a moment to put a name to the expression, as it’s such a foreign thing to see on him.
Fear. I have never known him to be anything but stern and cruel, and yet here he stands, clutching his symbols and quaking in the doorway.
That primal hunger inside me purrs, baring its teeth and drooling on the floor as it watches from its cage. Good, it says. Fear us. They taste so much better when they are afraid.
But while fear is the temptation of beasts, so is it too the food of the holy.
"You will return to Hell," Father Thompson says again, holding his rosary out with a fierce determination. “I will purge you from this place, God as my witness.”
Pain scorches between my shoulder blades as his fear morphs into something else.
Something terribly familiar that makes my breath hitch in my throat and my heart stop beating.
I can feel Azizi's arms tightening around me, grounding me, but even so, I know what is coming before the words leave the man's mouth.
I could recite the prayer in my sleep, each word and intonation seared into my mind and my dreams just as his cross is seared into my skin.
It may be a rosary clutched between his trembling fingers instead of a crucifix, but the Lord cares not what symbols are used when carrying out His holy vengeance. He cares only for results.
"Most glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies, Saint Michael the Archangel," he begins, his voice strong and echoing like the trumpets of the End, "defend us in our battle against principalities and powers, against the rulers of this world of darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places. "
Azizi scoffs behind me, but I can barely hear it over the roaring of God's fury in my ears. Her arms are suddenly too tight, too restricting. Hands grasping my hips, my wrists, my shoulders. Fingers yanking at my hair to hold me down while I thrash and scream.
Someone tells him to stop, threatens to tear out his tongue if he insists on continuing. He does not listen.
"In the name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord, strengthened by the intercession of the immaculate virgin Mary, Mother of God, of Blessed Michael the Archangel, of the Blessed Apostles, Peter and Paul and all the Saints, and the powerful in the holy authority of our ministry, we repulse you, Devil. "
My throat burns, though I've not uttered a sound. My fingers ache, though they claw at nothing but air. Wetness drips from my face, and for a moment, I wonder if the father has thrust a bottle of holy water at me until I taste the salt on my tongue.
The cold at my side flickers and disappears. Azizi's warmth begins to fade as her grip loosens.
I scramble for her wrists, terrified of floating away should she let me go. I reach my other hand for Kolfina beside me, but I find only warm, dry air.
"What have you done?" the vampire demands, her voice cutting through the pain and the fear and the memories.
There is a danger there beneath her words, so much so that Father Thompson stutters to a halt.
I watch his knuckles turn white around his Bible.
Watch the bob and swing of his rosary in the air between us.
I want to tear it from his fingers, I want to hear them snap and break beneath the force.
The cold returns, and I look over to see Kolfina flickering in and out of view. Her eyes are wide with fear, her nails clawing into her throat until they tear the skin open, sand and seaweed pouring from the wounds. Her hair is drenched and dripping, her cheeks sunken and her gown ripped.
She is a picture of terrifying beauty and resplendent decay.
"M-May thy mercy, Lord, descend upon us, as great as our hope in Thee," Father Thompson continues, though he takes a half step back when Azizi tries to lurch from my grip again. I do not look away from Kolfina to see her, but I can feel the terror in the shaking of her hands, feel her worry for our flower when she draws in sharp breaths she doesn't need. If not for my hold on her, if not for her being the only thing keeping me on my feet, I’ve no doubt she would have torn the father’s throat out already.
"Stop," I whisper, my voice cracking, unused to speaking up against the man. "You're hurting her."
"We drive you from us, whoever you may be. Unclean spirits, all Satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions, assemblies and sects."
My beast roars in my head, so loud that I am sure the others can hear it. It tears at the inside of my skin as Kolfina tears the outside of hers. Desperate, hungry, furious.
Protect. Avenge.
Eat.
Eat.
EAT.
"In the name and by the power of our Lord Jesus Christ, may you be snatched away and driven from our holy world. God the Father commands you. God the Son commands you. God the Holy Ghost—"
I am on him before I realize I am moving. One moment I am releasing Azizi's arms. One moment I am staring at Kolfina's flickering image.
Then I am Hunger.
Father Thompson cries out as the beast tackles him through the doorway, reveling in the way the priest's head smacks loud and harsh against the stone steps. It digs blunted human claws into the man's hands and wrists, tearing at the damned book and tossing it away.
"We said stop," the Hunger growls between our bared teeth, bending the father’s fingers until they snap, forcing him to release the rosary he clutches so desperately to. "You hurt what is ours. Now it is our turn."
He trembles beneath us, and we can feel his heart thundering against our palm as we wrap a hand around his throat. Yet still he does not stop.
"G-God the Holy Ghost commands y-you. Begone, S-Satan! Inventor and master of all deceit, enemy of man's sal-salvati—"
"Sal-sal-salvation?" the Hunger mocks him, laughing as our grip grows tighter and tighter. "What use is salvation when the one giving it is not worthy himself? What use is salvation when we do not want to be saved?"
He is still moving his mouth despite the lack of full words being released. Still praying. Still begging.
There is true fear in his eyes now, the same fear I know was reflected in mine all those years ago when our positions were reversed. When it was him who knelt over me, still muttering prayers and repulsions as he shoved the burning crucifix into my back.
I have no crucifix, but the beads of his rosary are smooth and heavy in my hand. A reminder. A threat.
I release his throat, and when he arches beneath me, when he parts his lips to suck in a desperate breath of air, I shove the beaded jewelry between his teeth and watch him sputter and choke on them.
"Where is your god now, Father?" The words are barely more than hisses and ragged growls as they force their way through my human throat, but I know he understands them. "Where is he to save you? Where is he to repulse me as you have so begged him to do?"
He tries to spit the beads out, tears spilling from his eyes as the metal cross at the end slices at his fragile gums. I cover his mouth with my hand to keep them in place and pull Azizi's penknife from my pocket, still freckled with bits of charcoal and lead.
His frantic gaze catches it as it glints in the moonlight, and his wild thrashing only grows stronger. It takes everything in me not to be thrown off completely, but my Hunger is strong. Stronger than his righteousness by far.
"We warned you not to hurt what is ours," the Hunger says, ignoring the man's hand as it claws at anything he can reach—my face, my throat, my arms. My blood wells to the surface, but the Hunger ignores it.
"We told you to stop. So many times, we told you to stop.
Asked. Begged. Pleaded. Prayed. God was not there for us, so why should he be here for you? "
The penknife punctures the skin beneath his chin with the ease of a needle through silk. Sliding through muscle until it catches on the bone of his jaw.