TWENTY
Angela pulled into the gravel car park of the old church, with its simple gardens and patchy lawn mowed within an inch of its life.
The doors stood open on the small weatherboard building, even though the Sunday service had long finished. For a moment, she sat in the car with the engine ticking, staring at the stained-glass windows depicting angels that caught the afternoon sun.
She rolled her shoulders, as if resetting into the version of herself who used to handle messy things for a living.
Sadly, that woman didn’t exist anymore.
Not properly. But maybe this would help her get back on track.
Angela got out of the car and headed inside.
The cathedral smelled the same of old wood, candle wax, and that particular polish that fought against the dust that never quite learned to behave.
Her boots echoed too loudly in the vast space she hadn’t visited since her mother’s funeral. The day her faith had quietly packed its bags and left the building.
Amazing how the rest of her beliefs followed, one by one. Some quickly. Others slowly. Like dominoes, she’d pretend were still standing until they were stripped back so badly that she hardly believed in anything anymore—let alone herself.
She slid into a pew near the front and propped a boot on the bench ahead of her.
As a kid, she’d never been able to reach the floor from these seats. Swinging her legs, until her mother’s hand landed on her shoulder, to whisper shh while smiling like she wasn’t really annoyed.
Now Angela’s feet rested easily.
The realization hit in the strangest way that…
She was a grown-up. A capable adult, meant to have a handle on her life.
Yeah, right?
Instead, she was sitting in a church with a pouch of kitchen salt in her handbag and an athame she no longer left home without.
She looked down at herself: jeans, scuffed black boots, her favorite belt—now bearing unmistakable teeth marks—a white singlet and shirt. Very holy, her mother would’ve said of her devout couture. But she was here.
“Angela?” The male voice came softly from behind her.
She dropped her boot off the pew as if she’d been caught stealing communion wine.
Turning, she faced the priest in the black suit and white collar. “Father Michael?”
He smiled, that same familiar smile with his blue eyes crinkling, and his dark hair threaded with silver. “It’s been a while, my child.”
She was on her feet to wrap her arms around him in an instinctive hug. Father Michael smelled like fresh spring air, clean linen, and old smoky books, like time hadn’t touched him the way it had touched everyone else. “You never change.”
He laughed. “That’s generous. You, however…” His gaze softened. “You look just like your mother.”
That hit harder than she expected, creating a lump in her throat that she struggled to clear.
“So,” Father Michael said gently, as his eyes flicked to her bare fingers. “Married yet?”
“Happily single, thank you.” She sighed in defeat, collapsing back onto the pew. “And why are these seats still medieval torture devices?”
“To keep people awake during sermons,” he said, sitting beside her.
She snorted.
“So, what brings you back to this house?”
She hesitated because she may not have visited this place, but she saw Father Michael regularly for most of her life on the street and in the store.
The reason she dared to cross the threshold of this place was she needed some sort of biblical response to the truth that sounded so unhinged, when she’d spent most of her adult life making sure she sounded sane. “I need a new perspective.”
He studied her like he always did, as if he were listening to the sentence underneath the sentence.
“I stopped smoking,” she said for no particular reason other than to fill the empty space.
“Good,” he said. “When did you start? Because I’ve never seen you smoke.”
“Rebellious teenage phase. Mostly when drinking.”
He smirked at her as his eyes sparkled. “I remember picking you up from school after that bottle of red wine you and some others got into, instead of attending gym class.”
“Seriously?” She covered her face, feeling the heat radiate through her fingers. “Why would you bring that up?”
“You were sixteen,” he said fondly. “And furious that the universe hadn’t bent to your will.”
“Still am.” She hated how that sounded.
“No boyfriend?” he asked lightly.
“No. Even though everyone keeps trying to fix that.”
“I imagine your Aunt Claudine would be the chief offender.”
She shrugged.
“Claudine means well.” He shared an amused smile. “How many times has she been married now?”
“Five.”
“I’ve always liked Claudine; she sees the fun in life and doesn’t care what others think.”
“I do. Because I just want to be normal.” And having her outrageous aunt escorted from school by security was one of those moments when she had wanted to hide under the desks and die. It didn’t help that she still lived in the same area, where people never forgot.
“You were never normal,” he said gently. “You’ve always known that.”
She crossed her arms. “I’m weird.”
“Gifted,” he corrected.
She rolled her eyes. “Aunt Claudine says that too.”
“I know. We’ve both been there in the past.”
Like now, how they sat in silence, side by side like always.
Back when he’d become her responsible adult after Aunt Claudine had been banned from entering the school grounds.
It was enough for the guilt to scratch at her for not attempting to visit Father Michael more often.
But then he had this incredible knack of showing up when she needed him, too.
And she was here because he might have the answers she needed. “Father… do you believe in magic?”
“There are many kinds,” he said carefully. “Too many for one afternoon’s conversation.”
“But you do speak of evil.”
He nodded once.
“I’ve met that evil,” she whispered. “I saw it. Smelled it. Touched it. And,” she paused, licking her lips, then forced the words out through a strained throat, “last night… I killed it.”
He turned fully, facing her. “Tell me, little one. You know it won’t go anywhere.”
And so she spilled all in a free-falling confession.
Except she wasn’t asking to be forgiven; she was asking to be believed.
She talked about the Black Cloaks. The alley.
Their smell. What salt did. The blades. And Zarek—not the part where he was a friend or a stranger either, but the fire and the ash.
Including how her body had moved on its own accord without listening to her mind.
By the time Angela had finished, she was gripping the edge of the pew like it might run away from all she’d said.
“What have I become?” she asked quietly.
Father Michael was silent for a long moment. Then, he calmly asked, “What happened to this man?”
“He vanished.” She huffed, sitting back crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “After I’d spent hours helping him, he ghosts me, just like that.”
“Do you care for him?”
She swallowed. “More than I should. And I’m crazy for doing so.”
Father Michael gave a quick grin. “You’re not crazy, Angela.”
“Are you sure?” She was pretty freaked out over this entire situation, even considering setting up a special shelf at the bookstore just to sell salt.
“Yes, evil exists,” he said softly. “So does good. They don’t always announce themselves in polite forms.”
“And me?”
“You are exactly who you’ve always been.” He reached into his pocket and held out a small medallion. “Wear this.”
She noticed the figure etched in silver. “Is that the Archangel Michael?”
“You remembered.”
“He was always my favorite.”
His smile deepened a fraction, to even warm his eyes.
“Keep it close,” he said. “Not because it will protect you, but because it will remind you of who you are. If you feel yourself slipping into—”
“One of my panic attacks?”
He smiled gently while unfolding her fingers, letting the medallion and chain fill her palm, then folded her fingers over it, where he held it with both hands. “All you do is hold it and breathe as a way to center yourself. Can you do that for me?”
“Meditate,” she muttered. “Right. Okay.” At this point, she’d try anything. She slipped the slender chain over her head, where the cool metal settled against her chest.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He squeezed her hand. “Balance isn’t peace, Angela. It’s tension held with purpose.”
She frowned. “You’re doing the riddle thing.”
“I’m saying your friend—”
“Non-friend,” she corrected automatically. “He doesn’t even qualify as an acquaintance.”
Father Michael chuckled. “Fine. Your non-friend… may be the kind of man who was never taught what to do with how he feels.”
More riddles. Only now her mind supplied Zarek’s handsome face, his sullen silence, and the way he’d left without a word.
“Great,” she muttered, “so I’m the emotional regulator.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, thanks for listening. I mean it.” She felt better, even standing taller to brush herself off. “I’ve got one more place to visit.”
Father Michael crossed to the floral display near the altar, returning with two white roses. “Take these for your mother.”
She hugged him harder this time. “Thank you.”
“And Angela?”
“Yes?”
“Listen before you strike.”
What did he mean by that? “I’m not a violent person.” Which is why she struggled to understand her need to strike out like she’d done last night with the Black Cloak.
“I know. You’re one of the good guys.”
“I like to think so.” At least she felt better than when she’d arrived. With a wave, she headed back into the light, doing her best to forget what’s-his-name.