Page 13 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

Something is here.

I breathe in the sweet, cloying undercurrent of rot beneath the perfume of basil and thyme. On closer inspection of the patch beside me, plants thrive with glossy leaves, but others are limp, mottled with brown spots, curling as if trying to shrink from the world. I use my boot to nudge a weighted leaf, waking more flies. Only this time, they don’t swarm into my face. They buzz and turn in circles on their bed until each one faces me. Staring.

Goosebumps erupt over my flesh.

Flies are bad in summer, yes, but this seems a little … excessive.

I turn, locate Zeke not far behind me, and give a curt nod toward the rot and flies I’m illuminating with my torch. Immediately, he straightens. His hand moves to his pistol, ready to draw.

We have not had time to replicate Helwinga’s spells discovered in Romania. We still need to test out their limitations against our enemy. Leila’s relic may be the only gun capable of annihilating demons, but Wesley is the only one knowledgeable enough even to know where to begin replicating the bullets. Thea is helping, but her expertise is stretched thin. For now, we have only the standard spells, blessed weapons, and bullets carved with Enochian spells of protection. I have my exorcist travel kit jammed into pockets: a prayer book, stole, holy water, cross, and salt. They will buy us time, but won’t save us.

If Leila hadn’t alerted Zeke to the fish incident, we might not be taking this threat so seriously.

“You sense something?” he asks.

I close my eyes, slow my breathing, and open myself to the prickling awareness that’s haunted me for decades. The sensation of crawling ants coming and going over my body is only the precursor to the main event. I feel them pulse outward, crawling over dirt and foliage until they connect with a cold vein running beneath the earth, a hollow that was once alive, that feels familiar … a storm of nothing.

Something has been here.

Something hungry.

I move quickly along the rows, careful not to break the fragile stalks with my boots, tracing the origin of the unease now with my vision. The fading sense is strongest by the far wall, where moonlight pools on a patch of dead grass beside the compost and chicken coop. A circle of dirt is freshly disturbed, as if an animal had dug its way out rather than in. I kneel and press two fingers to the ground. The soil is colder than the stone wall behind it. Like ice.

The distinct click of a pistol cocking announces Zeke’s arrival, and just like that, as if the evil is not happy for the intrusion of someone not of our kind, flies emerge from the dirt. One, two, ten crawl over my tattooed fingers. They multiply fast, but I flick the dead weights off and slowly stand. Within seconds, the shallow hole is filled with writhing, circling, buzzing flies. They crawl into position and aim their thousand eyes at us and then grow still. Silent.

Watching us as we watch them.

“Fuck me,” Zeke breathes. “That’s not normal.”

“No. It is not.”

“Can’t shoot ‘em.” A pause. “That won’t work, right?”

“No.”

There is an exorcising spell to create a stream of fire from holy water, using a cross wrapped in something flammable, like cloth.

“Do you still carry your lighter?” I ask.

He nods, fumbles in his pocket, and pulls out his metal lighter, tangled with the rosary beads I gifted him a few weeks ago. My heart tugs at the sight, at knowing he still values my counsel despite his earlier words.

He quickly detangles the objects as I wrap my purple stole around my cross. Purple. The same color the Church assigns to both reconciliation and exorcism. I can’t decide whether it’s the Vatican’s dark sense of humor or its oldest confession—that the two rites are not so different after all. I inwardly groan at the thought of losing another, but I don’t have time to cut strips of fabric from my clothes. Probably should have thought about that before setting off tonight.

Once secured, I douse it with holy water. Only when I have the lighter ready and the wrapped cross aimed at the nest, do I begin speaking the spell’s Latin words.

“In nomine domini⁠—”

“Light that fucker up,” Zeke mutters.

“—exi ab eo, spiritus immunde.”

I continue through the spell’s words and then strike the lighter’s flint. Fire ignites, heat flares, and a rush of something works through my veins. The nest goes up in flames.

I used to try to name that feeling. Tried to judge whether it was good or evil, but now I simply stare as the nest burns and the flies quietly submit to their fate. All I can think is that I’m thankful the same thing didn’t happen to me when I was ordained. For if it did, then I would have known God had forsaken me.

“Is it Famine?” Zeke asks quietly.

“I don’t think so.” I pause, recalling the odd sense of familiarity with the evil. Like calling to like. “It’s demonic, but I think a little different.”