Unholy Bad Decisions (Not Quite Dead #1)

Chapter 1

Father Gabriel

It’s a night like any other. Moonlight streaks in through the stained-glass windows, broken by the drifting clouds. It looks like it might rain, which is just as well since I don’t have to go anywhere tonight.

As usual, I walk around the pews, making sure no dust clings to the old wood and the colorful rugs. I like to keep my church clean because it’s an expression of the state of my soul, of my inner balance and quiet, of my humble life.

Yes, I like it simple like this. I have my routine, the people who count on me.

Behind the small building I call home sits a small garden too, where I grow herbs and a couple of seasonal vegetables.

People bring me eggs, fruit, meat… most of the stuff I need in order to survive, and I don’t need to pay a dime for it.

I, Father Gabriel, lead a good, peaceful, and fulfilling life.

After checking that I’ve locked up, I retreat to my quarters.

A narrow corridor to the side of the altar with stairs at its end leads me to the second floor, where my office is.

Behind my desk is a keypad-controlled door.

I input the code and enter the dark lounge.

At one end is a couch and a TV, and at the other is my kitchenette.

The rest of my quarters comprise a hallway, a bathroom, my bedroom and a utility room, all in all just under 700 square feet.

I take out the leftover stew from the fridge.

While I eat, I skim through passages from the Bible as the news blabbers on in the background.

When I’ve finished dinner and have washed up, I glance at my laptop, which is sitting precariously on the couch’s armrest. Catching up with the priests from the nearby towns over video will to have to wait, I’m afraid.

Tomorrow’s service will be full, and I’ve got that wedding in the afternoon, too.

I move to my bathroom and quickly shower, then pass out the moment I am under the blankets.

I shoot up in bed, suddenly awake. Sweat covers my brow, and my hands feel clammy. My body shakes as I try to catch my breath, a task made harder by the bout of disorientation that surges through me.

Where am I?

I look around the dark room, the outlines and shapes blending together.

My breathing hitches and quickens, piercing the silence.

A knock on my window draws my attention.

A branch of the great oak outside my church scrapes the glass, reminding me that I really need to get someone in to trim the tree.

Tomorrow. Now I need to rest.

A glass of water later, I try to fall asleep again.

But I can’t. My mind is too agitated and my body is too restless.

Shit, I hate when this happens. I rub my eyes and sigh.

There is only one thing I can do so I don’t look and feel like a zombie at tomorrow’s service.

Instead of sleeping at—I tap my phone’s screen, frowning at it—two a.m. in the morning, I toss on my black lounging robe, slip on my trainers and head downstairs.

With the Bible in hand, and gritting my teeth, I beeline for the confessional. Unlike what I normally do though, I don’t sit inside the priest’s compartment.

“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. I dreamed of him. Again.” I sigh, rubbing my forehead and neck.

It’s a little silly to confess to nobody, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

“The little shit just doesn’t give up. He visits me at night, when my guard is down.

This time he wore a pink jockstrap with the American flag on the front and a fluffy bunny tail attached to the back. ”

This is ridiculous. Not to mention unseemly for a man of my standing. I’ve been doing so well all these years, too. I turned a new leaf. I really don’t need this on my head.

The click of my tongue echoes in the silent hall.

I am a man of faith, for goodness’ sake.

I’m dedicated only to God, and I really just meant well when I helped the young blond man a couple of weeks back.

The guy looked so troubled, so lost, so cold in his battered-up clothes, and I…

Well, I am a priest. A servant of God, here to guide his subjects.

It’s my job to help people, even if it’s the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere on my way back from the gas station.

A throbbing along the right side of my face causes me to inhale deeply.

Like the good Samaritan I am, I plucked the guy from the road, turned around and drove back into town, checked him into a hotel and gave him some money for food and clothes.

I didn’t ask him questions, and I most definitely didn’t take the pretty thing up on his offer for a blowjob.

No matter how irresistible those light blue puppy eyes were.

And, heavens, were they begging for it. But I resisted, as hard as it was, because priests just don’t give in to carnal desires.

I grit my teeth. “I did everything right, and what do I get in return, huh? I keep dreaming about that blowjob!”

“Ooh, do tell me more, Father,” a lilting voice says from behind the screen.

Ice shoots through my entire being. Who? How? Why the hell is there someone inside my church? I locked up! And that voice… I know that voice even if I pray every fucking night to forget it. The sweetness dripping from it, the cadence—

“Also, you might want to duck. Now!”

Huh? My mind blanks. “Wha—”

The stained-glass window shatters with an ear-piercing cry as the wall opposite the confessional explodes, splintering into thousands of wooden pieces, glass, brick and concrete.

Eyes wide and heart banging, I toss my arms over my head and duck, narrowly escaping a collision with the flying debris.

It rains on me and strikes the wall of the confessional, creating cracks and dents and making it scream in agony.

Jesus Christ. Did someone drop a bomb on us? What the fuck is going on?

The cold night enters the church unobstructed, caressing my skin with its icy fingers. My ears ring, my lungs burn with the effort to keep my body oxygenated. The moon, visible through the giant hole in the church’s side, shines a path through the dust and chaos.

I can’t believe my eyes. Half the wall is missing! There’s a fucking hole where it was! “What the…”

Fear stabs my stomach, sharp and merciless. I run my hands all over my head, thanking every god and deity that it’s still on my shoulders.

“Sorry about this, Father,” that pleasant voice says, sounding a bit spooked and breathless. “But you don’t happen to keep some of your guns around by any chance?”

Christ almighty. I touch my forehead, chest and shoulders even if I know that no Holy Spirit is going to help me. What the hell have I gotten myself into and how?

“Why would I have guns?” I grind out, almost tripping over my silk robe as I vault over the destroyed confessional.

I freeze for a moment, squinting into the dust. I hear voices outside.

Three, no, five distinct ones. I strain my ears, trying to catch what is being shouted.

When I do, my blood turns to ice. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I haven’t heard this language in years, and I like it that way. There is an excellent reason for that.

The blond man is crawling and coughing among the bits of wall and wood on the floor. Before my brain can process what I am doing, I grab his arm and break into a sprint toward the altar, dragging him there with me. It’s more instinct and reflex than anything else.

A growl leaves me, sharp as a knife in my chest. “What have you done?!”

I only catch a glimpse of the guy’s shit-eating grin and familiar light blue eyes as I maneuver him and myself out of the way of falling debris.

“Well, I got into a bit of trouble, and you are the only one who can help me? But let me tell you, you are not an easy man to find! Seriously. I’d almost given up when I randomly ran into you that night.

Only I didn’t know it was you until I spoke to the hotel manager.

He told me you were the priest, and I wanted to thank you, so I looked you up.

Something seemed off though, so I did some more digging and eventually put two and two together.

” He gives me his thumbs up. “I’m something of a newbie hacker protégé. ”

I groan. A wooden beam collapses somewhere behind us. My church is done for! The damage repairs will cost thousands of dollars. And how the fuck do I even begin to explain what happened when I’ve got no fucking clue? Who the fuck is this guy and what the hell did he bring to my doorstep?

I crouch behind the altar and feel for the telltale bump as more dust surrounds us. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

The man coughs, flailing his arm to clear up the air around us. Then he leans in, blue eyes sparkling. “You’re Nikolas, no? Nikolas Stavros? The La Croce Nera mercenary, who everyone thinks is dead? Or…” He bites on his bottom lip, fear crossing his face. “Shit, did I get the wrong person?”

I don’t believe my ears. My heart pounds fast and loud, and my blood thrums. This is… This can’t be…But how—

I’m suddenly a live wire, ready to short-circuit. My past is behind me, has been for many years now. No one here knows the name Nikolas Stavros—I left it behind with everything else that tied me to my old life.

I focus on the destruction inside the church, inhaling slowly to recenter myself. It does nothing, my body coiling tight. Why the fuck is this annoyingly attractive young man spewing such nonsense? How does he know about me?