Chapter 20
Twenty
Nathan
The time away from Hunter had been positive. At first.
The mate bond was a burden, no question. Nathan could sense Hunter’s frustration at their separation, but Nathan was a priest. He’d had years of training in meditation and prayer, and he found that, with some focus, he could isolate the bond.
Although he couldn’t sever the connection, he’d dulled the torrent of emotions flowing back and forth. It wasn’t perfect, but it was liveable.
He’d expected the connection to settle. After a week, though, the opposite was true. Every morning, he found the pull toward Hunter was stronger.
Nathan had hoped time would allow his mind to calm, to separate from the physical and from the bond and view the whole thing dispassionately.
That hadn’t happened. If anything, he was more desperate for Hunter now than a week ago. He saw the hellhound’s face everywhere, glimpsed his shadow around every corner and heard the whisper of his voice in the quiet of his mind.
That fucker.
Nathan was tired. Tired of his heart jumping with joy every time he mistook a random parishioner’s voice for Hunter’s. Tired of wondering if a phone call would be him on the other end. It was exhausting.
If only Hunter hadn’t been such an idiot. Nathan had been willing to break his vow, maybe even to open his heart to the demon. But at the first opportunity, Hunter had violated his trust.
Not only that, but Nathan still hadn’t figured out what to do about Father McDonagh.
Having seen the basement, he could no longer leave well enough alone. Had the pastor destroyed souls beneath Nathan’s feet? The thought ate at Nathan, gnawed at him like a gaping wound in his stomach lining.
But Nathan hadn’t found the chance—or maybe the courage—to confront the priest about it. They needed to have an actual conversation, where they both laid their cards on the table.
But was that the answer? What could he accomplish with that?
If what Hunter told him was true—and so far he’d not caught the hellhound in a lie—what could he do alone? Wasn’t he just putting himself in more danger?
All of it was a quagmire. His relationship with Hunter. The potential crimes of his superior. A total mess.
Between the hellhound and the corrupt pastor, all he could do was focus on the simple tasks in front of him. Serving his community. That’s what he had left.
Which is how he found himself here, in a multipurpose room lit with mind-numbing fluorescents, standing in front of a plastic banner featuring a cross, leading four very elderly nursing home residents in a semi-rousing round of Faith of Our Fathers.
Faith of our fathers, living still
In spite of dungeon, fire and sword,
O how our hearts beat high with joy
Whene’er we hear that glorious word!
Faith of our fathers! holy faith!
We will be true to thee till death!
Nathan wasn’t a particularly strong singer, and when Mrs. Albee descended into a coughing fit, the hymn sputtered and came to a ragged end.
He loved coming to Calm Waters Long-Term Care.
There were always a few folks who appreciated him saying Mass, and Nathan firmly believed communion was better received in the context of the liturgy.
Plus, there was something about the ritual of it all that was very centering, both for himself and, he hoped, the elderly residents.
Raising the plate of communion wafers, he began the most vital part of the Eucharistic prayer.
“On the day he was to suffer, he took bread—”
“Beware!” The word ripped out of Mrs. Albee like a gunshot, hurling itself at him from across the room. Nathan’s gaze went to her, finding her eyes half open and her arms splayed out, the expanse of her floral muumuu flowing out onto the adjoining chairs.
“Mrs. Albee?” If she was having a medical crisis, it was more important to deal with that than to finish the service. “Are you alright?”
“The servant of Heaven’s commands will present as a demon, and the demon present as a man of God.
” Mrs. Albee’s tone was odd now, otherworldly, as though her voice were doubled.
“Sometimes the tools of the Lord are twisted and strange. They may even be pawns of the Adversary. Do not reject them, for even the denizens of Hell serve the ultimate ends of the First, if they are true to their task.”
His tongue thick in his throat, Nathan found himself unable to speak, continuing to stare at the old woman.
He didn’t know Mrs. Albee well. She was new to the nursing home, although he had overheard one nurse say she often got “weird visitors.” Whatever that meant.
All he knew was that the words she spoke meant something. Something important.
“Do not push aside the help that is offered. And do not trust those who clutch at power while chanting the name of the Lord.”
With that, Mrs. Albee slumped forward, her chin falling to her chest.
“Mrs. Albee?” Nathan set down the communion wafers and moved to the old woman, putting his hand on her shoulder and gently shaking her.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at him with the adoration elderly Catholic women reserve only for their priests.
“Father Roy. You’re so handsome!” Her voice had returned to normal, devoid of any trace of the eerie echo. She gripped his forearm and smiled.
“Is Mass over? Is it time for cookies?”
Instead of heading back to the rectory, Nathan found himself walking along Cobbler’s Creek, a small brook that wound its way past the nursing home and into less-populated areas of the town.
Twigs snapped underneath as he strolled about twenty feet off School Street. Of course, School Street no longer had a school on it. And there were no cobblers in Purgatory either, he supposed.
The first shadows of the late afternoon formed a lattice on the blanket of leaves underneath his feet. The gurgling of the brook was like an echo of his uncertainty. Beautiful, but inconsistent.
As beautiful as the tableau of nature before him was, Nathan couldn’t stop ruminating on the events at the nursing home. Had Mrs. Albee really had some kind of visitation of God? It was as though she were speaking directly to him.
There was only one way to interpret her words. Trust Hunter. Be wary of Father McDonagh.
If he was honest with himself, he already trusted Hunter. To let the hellhound make his decisions for him? No. But to keep Nathan safe? Yes. To complete the tasks he’d been given? Absolutely.
And he’d been uneasy with Father McDonagh from the beginning. That had only grown more intense over the months and years. Truthfully, Nathan only tolerated him because of his desire for his own parish.
The trouble was, it had become clear to him he didn’t just want his own parish. He wanted this parish. St. Stephens was his home. The people there were his flock.
How to marry that with being a hellhound’s mate? He had no idea. Nor did he know what to do about Father McDonagh. The man was up to something, but Nathan didn’t know what. He needed information.
Maybe he should go back to Hunter. The hellhounds had resources that he—
“Father Nathan. You have the look of a priest in an existential quandary.”
Nathan’s head snapped to the source of the voice.
A man, standing a few feet downstream by the brook, his arms crossed and a crooked smile shining from his short-cropped beard.
His shoulder-length dark hair flowed in the gentle breeze, and he had a sparkle in his eyes that should have put Nathan at ease.
Should have.
Something about his him made Nathan’s gut flip in anxiety. The man had done horrible things. He was sure of it.
“I don’t have a clue who you are.” Nathan stopped where he was, wanting to keep as much distance between them as he could without being obvious.
“I’m sure you don’t.” The man looked Nathan up and down, clearly assessing him, although Nathan didn’t know for what. “People call me Bill.”
Dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a flannel shirt, the man projected a folksiness that wasn’t quite right. It contained a note of falsehood, like it was an act he was putting on for Nathan’s benefit.
“People call you Bill? Is that your name?”
“My name?” The smile faltered a little as Bill stepped toward Nathan, who had to stop himself from flinching.
“My name is another story. A name is a personal thing. Once someone knows your name, they can find your history. Which battles you’ve lost and which you’ve won.
Who you serve. And sometimes, in the service of the Lord, subterfuge is the best path.
After all, what matters is arriving at the correct destination.
Not whether you broke a few commandments along the way.
You need the power to accomplish the goals set before you. I am but a tool, after all.”
Nathan frowned, unable to parse the purpose of his words. “I don’t agree. We could argue it, but I’m not sure why we’d have a philosophical discussion out here.”
“It’s as good a place as any. Flowing water has always held power. It’s perfect for an important decision.”
“What decision is that?” This guy was pissing Nathan off. What was all of this babble? It was ridiculous, and not even particularly smart. Typical ends justifies the means stuff, the usual arguments for lightweight fanatics.
“You have to decide how far you’ll go to serve your Lord.”
With those words, Bill uncrossed his arms, and a few tiny sparks of turquoise light sprang from his fingertips, falling harmlessly to the ground below.
“You!” Nathan took a step back as the dots connected in his mind, unable to stop his displeasure from showing. “You’re the one I saw with Father McDonagh. The Franciscan.”
“Ah. I wondered.” Bill winked at him, which was an experience Nathan hoped to never have again. “I sensed someone watching, but McDonagh insisted it was nothing. He’s a fool.”
“What are you and he up to?” Nathan clenched his fists in frustration. “I don’t understand.”
“McDonagh is boringly simple.” Bill took another step closer, causing the hair on Nathan’s arms to stand up. He wondered if his hyperawareness of the man’s inherent danger was one of those mating gifts the hellhounds had mentioned.
“Simple?”
“Yes. He’s a cliché. Power-hungry. Lazy. Mostly interested in having a comfortable life and indulging in his utterly obvious desires.”
“What? What desires? What does he need power for?”
“To hide his boring crimes. All the obvious stuff: rape, trafficking. Some blackmail. Disgusting, but not unusual. But it’s fine. It makes him easy to use.”
Nathan glanced around. As the conversation had continued, the voice inside him screaming of danger had grown louder. It was now impossible to ignore.
They were in a secluded area, far enough from the road that he couldn’t make a run for it. Even if he did, there probably wouldn’t be anyone walking by, or even driving by, anytime soon.
“Use for what?” Despite worrying for his safety, Nathan wanted to know what exactly Father McDonagh and this unsettling man had been up to.
“Procurement.” As he said the word, Bill’s gaze took on a sharp, deadly quality. “If you wish to serve the Lord, you need power. And for power, you need souls. The purer, the better.”
“You…” Nathan trailed off as he considered the horror of the man’s words. Father McDonagh had been finding people? Innocent people? Souls for them to destroy?
Leaving their bodies to be turned into abominations like the creature at the bar.
Bill nodded. “That’s the sacrifice we make. We all serve Heaven in our own way, and for some of us, it requires power. Magic. The ability to make the impossible happen.”
Nathan still didn’t know what Bill was after, not really. Just vague ideas of power and serving God. But he knew Father McDonagh’s goals. His crimes.
And, if he believed this man, they were pure evil.
“I-I have to go,” Nathan said, turning to go, only to find himself frozen in place. Bill had raised his hand, and a ball of turquoise floated above his palm.
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
Nathan understood the attack was coming before Bill’s hand even moved. His body was no longer under his control, but even if it had been, he wouldn’t have been able to avoid the magical hit.
Instead, he spent the split second to open the mate bond and call out to the one creature who would do anything for him.
Hunter. Help. Please.
And then everything went black.