McIntyre often required visits to churches, graveyards, and consecrated drive-thru wedding chapels. St. Philomene’s had nothing to keep her out.
But she didn’t immediately enter, even when Lincoln sidled through the doors. Elise watched the faces of the passing parishioners. More importantly, she watched their minds. All of them reacted to her presence—some with mild confusion, and others with outright disapproval at her eyebrow piercing, her unnaturally dark hair. Elise didn’t need to read minds to understand the combination of signals and facial expressions. They were wondering if she was mixed race, a punk, maybe a slut.
Between the bemusement and hostility, she sensed no recognition. If any of them had received the email with her picture, they didn’t connect the dots.
One woman didn’t react to Elise at all. Her head hung as she shuffled into the church, mind drenched with grief, clutching her purse to her chest. One of the victims’ loving family members, most likely.
Elise waited for another opening in the line of parishioners entering the church, then followed.
Despite the crowd, St. Philomene’s was filled with reverent silence. The pews were already completely occupied, leaving only standing room at the back. Lincoln was talking to someone near the wall, and Elise moved forward, tipping her head back to gaze at the rafters. The sun through the stained glass windows tinted the wood red, gold, green. Her skin ached with it.
Elise dipped her fingers in the font of holy water. It was cold enough to send a chill shocking up her bones, but it didn’t burn. It was blessed by man, not God.
She shut her eyes, remembering the cold waters of Heaven’s river. It had scalded. Stripped the flesh from her bones. Consumed her.
When her eyes opened, she realized that Lincoln was staring from across the room.
Elise dotted her forehead, her heart, her shoulders, and then flicked her fingers dry. Crossing herself was meaningless, but it gave her great satisfaction to watch Lincoln’s reaction. He was stunned.
She almost joined him under the windows, curious to see what kind of mass Father Night would deliver, but a figure walking through the back hallway caught her eye. He wore a black cassock with a white collar and a large wooden cross around his neck. She had seen that cross before. It was stamped with St. Benedict’s sigil—the patron saint of exorcisms.
Elise slipped into the hall.
Two priests spoke in front of an ornate door. The younger of them was dressed more casually than the one with the wooden cross.
“ Crux sacra sit mihi lux ,” Elise said. Her voice echoed in the hall. “ Non draco sit mihi dux .”
The priests turned to watch her approach.
“Excuse me?” asked the younger, who had to be Father Armstrong.
“ Vade retro, Satana. Nunquam suade mihi vana. Sunt mala quae libas… ”
“ Ipse venena bibas ,” Father Night finished with a deep frown.
If Lincoln Marshall was a good sheep of the flock, then Father Night was a shepherd armed with a flaming sword, braced to confront evil. His hair was a tangle of brown curls cut short, with a prominent nose balanced by thin lips and large eyes.
He was one of only two exorcists that Elise had ever known, and he was all too aware of how much that distinguished him from other priests. Where many of his peers regarded him as strange, extreme, and antiquated, he believed himself to be “special.” Father Night was a proud traditionalist, passionate in his faith and unforgiving in his judgments.
“Father,” she greeted. “Long time.”
The younger priest glanced between them, unsettled. “Do you know her?” he whispered to Father Night, quietly enough that she probably wasn’t meant to hear. Father Night didn’t respond. After a moment of chilly silence, Father Armstrong said, “All right, then. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Father Night inclined his head in acknowledgment, and his counterpart left.
Elise jerked her thumb at him.
But she didn’t immediately enter, even when Lincoln sidled through the doors. Elise watched the faces of the passing parishioners. More importantly, she watched their minds. All of them reacted to her presence—some with mild confusion, and others with outright disapproval at her eyebrow piercing, her unnaturally dark hair. Elise didn’t need to read minds to understand the combination of signals and facial expressions. They were wondering if she was mixed race, a punk, maybe a slut.
Between the bemusement and hostility, she sensed no recognition. If any of them had received the email with her picture, they didn’t connect the dots.
One woman didn’t react to Elise at all. Her head hung as she shuffled into the church, mind drenched with grief, clutching her purse to her chest. One of the victims’ loving family members, most likely.
Elise waited for another opening in the line of parishioners entering the church, then followed.
Despite the crowd, St. Philomene’s was filled with reverent silence. The pews were already completely occupied, leaving only standing room at the back. Lincoln was talking to someone near the wall, and Elise moved forward, tipping her head back to gaze at the rafters. The sun through the stained glass windows tinted the wood red, gold, green. Her skin ached with it.
Elise dipped her fingers in the font of holy water. It was cold enough to send a chill shocking up her bones, but it didn’t burn. It was blessed by man, not God.
She shut her eyes, remembering the cold waters of Heaven’s river. It had scalded. Stripped the flesh from her bones. Consumed her.
When her eyes opened, she realized that Lincoln was staring from across the room.
Elise dotted her forehead, her heart, her shoulders, and then flicked her fingers dry. Crossing herself was meaningless, but it gave her great satisfaction to watch Lincoln’s reaction. He was stunned.
She almost joined him under the windows, curious to see what kind of mass Father Night would deliver, but a figure walking through the back hallway caught her eye. He wore a black cassock with a white collar and a large wooden cross around his neck. She had seen that cross before. It was stamped with St. Benedict’s sigil—the patron saint of exorcisms.
Elise slipped into the hall.
Two priests spoke in front of an ornate door. The younger of them was dressed more casually than the one with the wooden cross.
“ Crux sacra sit mihi lux ,” Elise said. Her voice echoed in the hall. “ Non draco sit mihi dux .”
The priests turned to watch her approach.
“Excuse me?” asked the younger, who had to be Father Armstrong.
“ Vade retro, Satana. Nunquam suade mihi vana. Sunt mala quae libas… ”
“ Ipse venena bibas ,” Father Night finished with a deep frown.
If Lincoln Marshall was a good sheep of the flock, then Father Night was a shepherd armed with a flaming sword, braced to confront evil. His hair was a tangle of brown curls cut short, with a prominent nose balanced by thin lips and large eyes.
He was one of only two exorcists that Elise had ever known, and he was all too aware of how much that distinguished him from other priests. Where many of his peers regarded him as strange, extreme, and antiquated, he believed himself to be “special.” Father Night was a proud traditionalist, passionate in his faith and unforgiving in his judgments.
“Father,” she greeted. “Long time.”
The younger priest glanced between them, unsettled. “Do you know her?” he whispered to Father Night, quietly enough that she probably wasn’t meant to hear. Father Night didn’t respond. After a moment of chilly silence, Father Armstrong said, “All right, then. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Father Night inclined his head in acknowledgment, and his counterpart left.
Elise jerked her thumb at him.
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