1. Virgil
VIRGIL
1 993 Savannah, GA
One Year Ago…
After the incident, I left Italy and returned to the States. I wallowed in self-pity and then self-destruction assuming alcohol would help me get my ass down to the hell where I belonged. When I attempted suicide for the third time, and failed at that as well, I figured living was my purgatory. Praying for redemption was useless, asking God for anything was useless. He'd left me a long time ago, as most soldiers were left behind to handle shit on their own.
I sought refuge in a rectory, hidden away in a hole where no one could ever see me. Where I could be forgotten. It wasn't until a mother was brought in, six months pregnant and suffering from hallucinations, that I was finally called back to my duties. It turned out, the same motherfucker who had killed Lucia had finally found me, drawing me out with an unborn baby.
Needless to say, neither the mother nor the baby survived. And I wish I could say I could have saved them, but the demon didn't give me a chance.
Instead, as soon as it saw me it had only one word for me.
"Gotcha!"
And with a snap of her neck, she had fallen to her demise.
I grew angry. Angry with God, with the Devil, and with myself for allowing this demon to haunt me. Taking the few items I had to my name, I began to move from town to town. I tracked whatever darkness lingered in the shadows, leaving it to the Vatican to deal with, but never staying long enough to finish the job. I didn't want to lose more lives, so I left it for someone else to deal with. I didn't belong anywhere, and the idea of finding some kind of home—or worse, some kind of purpose—was honestly laughable.
Living just became a blur, that is until Bulldog Jameson showed up.
There had been word roaming around of the Royal Bastards MC, their reputation hard to ignore in certain dark circles. They weren't saints by any stretch, but they weren't your run-of-the-mill outlaws either. They operated in the grey veil, riding the fine line between freedom and chaos. When I saw Bulldog's hulking figure step into the run-down church where I'd been hiding out, I knew my days of working alone in the shadows were pretty much done.
In my drunken stupor, I lifted the half-empty bottle of whiskey and pointed at him from my perch on the cold, dirt-ridden floor. "If you come seeking penance, I'm not a fucking priest," I slurred at the menacing shadow that approached me.
"Virgil, right?" His voice was rough as if he'd been chewing on gravel for years, and his eyes were sharp, calculating as they sized me up in an instant.
I didn't say anything at first. Just nodded. I'd learned not to speak unless I had to. Words had power, but silence held its own kind of weight. It forced people to say what they needed without wasting time.
Bulldog leaned against the back pew, crossing his arms. He wasn't here to confess. Not to me, at least. "I haven't been inside one of these in a long time. Hell, it would take forever to forgive all my shit."
"If you didn't come to confess or pray, what are you doing here?"
"I got word of a strange priest roaming my neck of the woods. One that roamed the line between good and evil."
"Mostly evil," I snarled.
"Well then, believe it or not, we speak the same language."
"And what the fuck makes you think I want to speak to you?"
"Because I know you ain't got nowhere to go and nothing to do. I also heard you're just the man I need for this specific job."
"If it involves blessings and guardian angels, you've got the wrong man…I'm no fucking priest."
He nodded in understanding. "Somethin''s been stirring in my club. And after talking to Spectre, I'm convinced it's not somethin' we can handle on our own."
Spectre's name got my attention. The man was practically a legend among those who dealt with the supernatural—cursed, haunted, but never broken. We'd crossed paths a few times, didn't really trust one another, but the respect was there. So if Spectre had seen something out of the ordinary, then there was no denying it.
"He said you would be able to help track it. But I gotta say you're not an easy fucker to find."
"Who said I wanted to be found? I'd say you got lucky. I'll be gone by dawn."
"I guess Spectre was wrong about you," he was about to leave when the curiosity got the best of me.
"What did Spectre tell you?" I grunted as I stumbled to my feet, the old church's stained glass windows blurred as I attempted to regain the little bit of sobriety I had left.
Bulldog continued, "We've had...incidents, if you want to call them that. Heavy footsteps late into the night, brothers acting like they're losing their minds, seeing shit that isn't there. I can't shake the feeling that whatever demons we had on our back before...they may have left a mark. And now karma's coming back for us."
I could tell by the way he spoke that Bulldog wasn't a man who believed in this sort of thing easily. The world of demons and exorcisms wasn't on his radar until now. Something had spooked him enough to seek out help, and not just any help.
"I asked around about you. An old priest over at St. Teresa gave me your whereabouts," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Said you weren't just any exorcist. Said you were a hunter. Someone who can take care of what's left behind."
I exhaled slowly, the weight of his words settling in. "So you're not looking for an exorcist, you need a hunter?"
Bulldog smirked. "That's what I said. And from what I've heard, you're the best at it."
I glanced around the dimly lit church, the crucifixes and candles offering no real comfort. It had been years since anyone called me the best at anything. Mostly, I was just a man running from his own hell. But if Bulldog was right, and there was something bigger happening with his club, it might require more than just prayers.
"Why me?" I finally asked.
He straightened up, moving closer. "I don't believe in ghosts, Virgil. But when Lucifer pays one a visit, you realize quick that this is bigger than just a haunt. I need someone who knows how to deal with the supernatural. I also need someone to keep my brothers in line, someone who can look after 'em... spiritually."
I raised an eyebrow. "What the hell does that mean?"
"Within a motorcycle club their are ranks..."
"I'm well aware," I nodded.
"One of those ranks is spiritual."
" A Chaplain. You want me to be your Chaplain?"
Bulldog's grin was more of a grimace as he shrugged. "Maybe. You've got anywhere else to be?" He asked, his eyes glancing about the old abandoned church, its walls crumbling. "You might not look like a holy man, but neither do I. What I need is someone who can hunt the things that go bump in the night and make sure my brothers don't lose their souls in the process."
I didn't laugh. I knew exactly what he meant. In a place like the Royal Bastards MC, faith wasn't just about God. It was about survival.
"I'm not on call. I go where God needs me to go. And your little club isn't fit for the likes of heaven."
"You're right. We don't belong there. We belong in the pits of hell with the rest of those demons you're chasing. But I've got hellhounds on our trail, brothers leaving their souls behind and becoming Reapers, and I've got Lucifer on both mine and Spectre's back, so I need to keep my brothers safe. Unfortunately, you're my last hope."
I nodded slowly, realizing what was being asked of me. I wasn't just being hired to exorcize a demon or hunt down a threat. I was being brought in to protect these men from the darkness within them and outside of their control.
I suddenly had a gut feeling God had something to do with this job. As if it was the right move, a door opening. Or maybe it was just my drunken head that was a mess, but I agreed to it.
"When do I start?" I asked.
Bulldog's eyes darkened, his tone grim. "Tonight."