The First Sacrament (The Demons of Stone Chapel Book 1) (6 page)

He blinked, as though what I said didn’t quite register, then his eyes widened as the meaning settled in. “Beatrice? From Armageddon Now?”

“That’s me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story.”

I explained it on our way back to Dante’s study. The dog―whose full name was Morgenstern―followed silently at our heels, his tongue lolling from his mouth. Within the first few moments of conversation, I felt at ease talking to Max. He listened to what I had to say, never interrupted. I’d gotten to the part about Aralia and her pancake cravings when we arrived at Dante’s door. Something like disappointment nagged at the back of my brain.

I wasn’t used to having someone to talk to, someone I didn’t have to hide things from. I loved Rosie, but I often kept things from her for fear of bringing her demon out. As far as I knew, Max was Max. Smart. Good with dogs. Cute. Normal.

I needed a little more normal in my life.

“There you are,” Aralia said as Max and I stepped into the study. Dante remained in his chair, eyes closed, arms crossed over his chest.

“Is he sleeping?” I asked no one in particular.

One of his eyes opened. “No.”

Feeling properly scolded, I sat down to finish our little talk. I hoped having Max here would give me a boost, a vote of confidence. He could vouch for me if necessary. Aralia could, too, but I doubted she would. Her giving mood had waned since we got here. She seemed more intent on putting me in my place than anything else.

Morgenstern loped to Dante’s side and the ghost of a smile played upon his lips. He scratched behind the dog's torn ear and in turn, Morgenstern rested his sleek head on his master's lap. They made quite the pair.

“So,” I began, but Aralia cut me off.

She glared at Max. “Did you remember my wine?”

He sighed. “It’s in the―”

“I need to speak with Beatrice alone, please,” Dante said over the both of them. Subtle authority laced his words. Neither Aralia nor Max protested, though Aralia muttered something on her way out and Max offered me a reassuring smile as he closed the door.
You’ll be fine
, that smile said,
Dante’s a reasonable guy
.

Or maybe I was delusional and that smile was one of cruel mockery.

“I’m very sorry about your friend,” Dante said when his associates’ footsteps could no longer be heard. The sincerity in his voice surprised me. He didn’t know Rosie. He didn’t know me. But he was sorry all the same. “Faustian Syndrome is not a forgiving disease.”

I chewed my bottom lip, skin prickling with anxiety. “Thanks.”

Being alone with Dante wasn’t like being alone with Max. Dante’s presence filled the room, demanded my full attention. He didn’t need to wear a crown to be a king. His tone, his looks, and his movements all attested to his power. His chair was his throne and this house was his castle and I was a peasant begging for his favor. He seemed a fair ruler thus far. If I was lucky, we’d keep it that way.

“Hunting isn’t something to charge into,” he said, stroking Morgenstern's fur. “There’s a reason why it’s illegal.”

Yeah, yeah. The whole legality debate. A hot-button issue for decades now. Those in favor argued that more hunters meant more dead demons. Those opposed cited the inherent danger hunting came with, threw around a bunch of scary numbers regarding hunting related deaths, and argued that no one should be allowed to do it unless they had special training. Training very few people were allowed to engage with. Which was where Dante came in. I hadn’t a clue about his credentials—no one really did, we just knew he was good at killing things—but he hadn’t gotten arrested yet, so I assumed he was doing something right. Besides saving us all from certain doom.

“How do you do it, then?” I asked. “Have the cops ever come after you?”

He propped his elbow up on his desk, once again resting his head in his hand. The man needed some coffee. “We’re federally authorized.”

“Federally authorized?” I’d read on Armageddon Now that those permits were a real pain in the ass to get.

“The government has given us permission to hunt and kill demons. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You can’t sell the parts?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Good talk.

I cleared my throat. “Did you think about what I said?”

He shifted in his seat, stoic expression completely unchanged. “I did.”

This was nerve-racking. “And?”

“I sympathize with your situation,” he said, “but it would be irresponsible of me to enable you any further.”

“
Enable
me?” I repeated incredulously. “You're making me sound like a drug addict!”

He frowned. “That was a poor choice of words.”

Damn right it was. “I thought you said I was impressive?”

“You are,” he agreed. “Especially since you lack experience. But what happened to you at the church is too dangerous to risk repeating.”

I could’ve told him that. “All the more reason to help me. I need to be prepared if it happens again.”

More silence. I fidgeted in my seat, waiting for his refusal with a growing sense of dread.

But instead of a refusal, I got a business card. Wordlessly, Dante opened a drawer and passed it to me. It was just a number. No name, no address. No catchy slogan.

“That’s my personal number,” he said. “I can’t offer you the kind of help you want, but if something like the church happens again—if
anything
happens, please call me.”

I stared down at the card, swinging wildly between wanting to keep it or throw it in the garbage. He was willing to help me with whatever stupid problem I had, but he wouldn’t give me a few hunting lessons?

“I don’t know if you were drawn to the church for a reason,” he continued, “but you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and given everything that’s been happening in the city lately, that isn’t a good thing.”

“So you gave me your business card?”

Another tired almost-smile. “I gave you twenty-four hour access to my personal line.”

“Why?”

“Because you need it.”

“I don’t need...” The only reason why I was sitting here was because I needed him. Crap. “Never mind.”

He blinked. I sulked. The dog panted.

This “talk” was getting us nowhere. It was late. We were both exhausted. And he was pissing me off. If I wanted to have a pointless conversation with someone, I’d have gone home and talked to Marion about my overdue rent.

Irritated, I stood up, stuffing the card in my back pocket. “It’s late. I’m going home. Thanks for the card, I guess.”

“Beatrice,” Dante said, stopping me short. He
almost
looked apologetic. “I wish I could help.”

Yeah, well, if wishes were horses, beggars and potentially homeless broke girls like me would ride.

“Tell the others bye for me. Wait, don’t tell Aralia. She won’t care.” I could feel his gaze on me as I walked to the door. The urge to flip him off was overwhelming.

There was a fluttering noise―like the shuffling of papers―then the scrape of his chair against the floor. “Of course. Have a good night, Beatrice.”

“Uh-huh,” I muttered, defeat weighing heavily on my already burdened shoulders. But as I exited the study and eventually the house, that defeat hardened to raw determination. I couldn't afford self-pity. I didn't have the time nor the patience for it.

Furthermore, I didn’t
need
Dante. I didn’t
need
Max. I definitely didn’t need Aralia. I exorcized that demon from its body all on my own. I was
impressive
, damn it.

Impressive people didn’t need anyone.

Except it was one in the morning and Stone Chapel was a faraway blip on the horizon. A jagged line of lights miles away from here. And I didn’t have a car.

I stomped my foot in the grass, frustration reducing me to toddler levels. Just when I thought I was done with that whole self-pity thing...

Whispering a string of curses that would've gotten me slapped with a Bible back at the orphanage, I grabbed my cell phone and dialed the number printed on Dante's business card.

His answer was immediate. “Yes?”

I looked up at the starless sky, wondering what sick joke the universe would play on me next. “I need a ride home.”

Six

After a long ride, a hot shower, and a couple hours of restless sleep, I spent the remainder of my Sunday catching up on homework. Not the most fun thing in the world, but it kept my mind off
other
things. As reluctant as I was to admit it, I was still shaken up from my botched attempt at a “hunt.” I jumped at every noise, and in the quiet, I swore I heard the whispers of the church in my ear. To add insult to injury, Rosie called me numerous times, but I didn’t pick up. I wasn’t ready to talk to her quite yet.

Morning fog segued to afternoon sunshine. Golden light filtered in through my window, creating a warm patchwork on my floor. I finished one assignment on the ramifications of World War II and started another on the depictions of Hell in the
Inferno
. The irony did not escape me. I stopped halfway through it and worked on math instead.

I was tired of Dantes.

I’d gotten a good chunk of my work done (excluding that stupid English assignment) when the clang of the church bells echoed throughout the city, indicating the end of the day’s services. I shivered. That noise was going to haunt me.

Swapping my hunting supplies for school supplies, I stuffed a stack of folders and notebooks into my backpack and went to stretch my legs. I hadn’t checked my mail in a week. My box was no doubt overflowing with bills and credit card offers.

Mr. Zarcotti had similar ideas. My across-the-hall neighbor and I exited our apartments in sync, closing our doors with accidental harmony. He laughed a deep-bellied laugh that made me want to follow suit. I liked Mr. Zarcotti. He was a stout first generation immigrant from Italy with a bushy beard and a love of opera. I’d never seen him without his suspenders and bow tie. Today was no exception.

He clasped a bulky hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Ah, Beatrice.
Buon pomeriggio!
”

“Afternoon, Mr. Zarcotti,” I said as brightly as I could manage. On a scale of one to highlighter yellow, I was at a dull orange.

He noticed, of course. When he found out I was living here on my own, he insisted on acting as my de facto father. That meant free meals of homemade spaghetti, invasive questions about my personal life, and knowing when I wasn’t as fine as I told him I was. “What’s the matter, my dear? You look very tired. Have you been sleeping?”

No. “Yeah.”

He squinted, unconvinced. “Have you been eating?”

Barely. “Uh-huh.”

I don’t think he believed me, but he grinned nonetheless. “Very good. Where are you going this fine afternoon?”

I told him and together, we went downstairs to the bank of PO boxes tucked in a nook by the front door. Mine was full. No surprise there. Mr. Zarcotti got a letter from his sister back in Rome. He shouted loudly in Italian and gave the envelope a kiss, then hurried me back up the stairs.

“Come, come, Beatrice,” he said excitedly. “Let us go read our mail!”

I wasn’t nearly as enthused. The majority of my envelopes were stamped with red urgent labels and overdue stickers. Except for one. I pulled it out of the stack. My name was written in small, scratchy script on the front, and that was it. No return address, no stamp, nothing to identify who sent it.

“What is that?” Mr. Zarcotti asked.

“Nothing,” I tucking the mysterious envelope between my cell phone bill and a timeshare offer.

We parted ways at our respective doors. I locked mine behind me, then sat down on the couch, finding the envelope and ripping it open. Inside was a piece of folded paper and a check. Being the cash strapped degenerate I was, I went for the check first. It was plain and unassuming and made out to one Ms. Beatrice Todd for…

Three thousand dollars. Courtesy of Dante Arturo.

“Oh my God,” My fingers trembled as I unfolded the note that came with it. The same writing on the envelope was scrawled inside, a short explanation that I couldn’t help but read in Dante’s cool, infuriatingly calm voice.

The money from the demon you killed, as Aralia promised. And something extra for your troubles. Hope it helps.

- D.

Three thousand dollars. He was handing over three thousand dollars to someone he barely knew like it was pocket change. A small portion of it was from my kill, sure, but the rest of it had to be from a personal account. Was it hush money? Did he think I was going to give him away, betray his hiding place? Or was it charity? Was I his good deed for the week?

I didn’t feel right accepting what I didn’t earn. Cash strapped or no, I wasn’t anyone’s charity case. Not anymore. Dialing his number, I put my phone to my ear and waited. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. His voicemail kicked in.

I hung up. “Not a good time to avoid me, Arturo.”

Now what? I could cash the check, take the money I needed, and give the rest back. Thanks but no thanks. Seemed to be my only option. Sighing, I put the check back in the envelope and put the envelope on top of my microwave in lieu of the cluttered mess that was my kitchen table. Less chance of losing it there.

The rest of my day went by slowly and uneventfully, but when day collapsed to night, paranoia came surging back like an unwelcome house guest. It didn't help that Marion came pounding on my door at an ungodly time asking after my rent, effectively scaring the ever loving crap out of me. We argued, I begged, and he shoved his finger in my face and said that I had until the end of the week to pay or else he was going to throw me out. Fun stuff. Even more fun was what happened when I finally convinced myself to get some sleep.

***

It was dark and I was cold. I laid awake on the couch, staring up at my ceiling, counting the fissures in the plaster to pass the time. One, two, three, four, four and a half, five―Wait. What was that?

I sat up.

My heart hammered in my chest. The noise, it sounded like claws, dragging along the floor. Every second the scraping lasted, the more my panic grew, congealing in my stomach like a flu. I waited. Listened. Held my breath. A siren blared in the distance, a gust of wind rattled at my window. I waited some more. The scratching stopped.

This was getting ridiculous. I was letting my fear rule my life. A fear that shouldn't have even existed. What happened at the church was scary. What happened with the dog was scary. Meeting Dante and Aralia and Max was scary.

But it wasn't worth this. I needed to chill. Get some sleep. School tomorrow. Detention. Ugh,
detention.
Had it really only been two days since I punched Jason Clark? It felt like an eternity ago. The Beatrice Todd who walked out of Stone Chapel High School on Friday was not the same one who went demon hunting an evening later on Saturday.

No, I'd changed.

I felt as though I'd been ushered into something much bigger than school, much bigger than overdue rent, much bigger than my life as I had lived it on Friday.

It was Monday now. 2:35 AM, according to my phone. And that, I think, is what scared me the most. Who knew what it would bring? More demons? Death? The ultimate destruction of the universe?

Okay, maybe not that last part.

I laid back down. Counted the cracks again. The repetition calmed my nerves.

I got to fourteen when I heard it.

The growling. A low, menacing noise that sounded exactly like the dog I’d encountered at the church. Only that dog was dead. Aralia killed it. I was safe here in my apartment. I was just imagining things. That's what I was doing. Imagining things. The growling wasn't real, it was a figment of my paranoia. So was the scratching. I was fine, everything was fine. Inhale, exhale. Breathe in, breathe out.

I closed my eyes.

Five hours later, I felt something dripping on my face. Something warm, something sticky, something that dribbled down the bridge of my nose and stopped at the parting of my lips. It tasted like...

Copper.

All at once, my panic came flooding back. I wiped at my nose, knowing full well what I'd come away with.

Sure enough, there it was. Smeared on my fingertips like a bright red warning sign. Blood.

The source?

A giant summoning seal that took up my entire ceiling.

Wiping furiously at my mouth and nose, I threw off my blood-speckled blanket and jumped to my feet. I stumbled, caught myself on the wall, and heaved.

My apartment looked and
smelled
like a murder scene. Blood dripped on the couch, the floor, the kitchen table, the sink. The damp stench of death permeated the air, moldy and rotten. My eyes watered, sickness rising in my throat.

“Oh my God,” I choked out, pulling my shirt up over my nose to block the smell. My life was turning into a bad slasher film. I half expected the serial killer to pop out of the shadows at any moment, and at this point, I think I would have preferred that over whoever or
whatever
did this to my apartment.

Gagging, I edged around the blood spatters as best I could to dig my phone from out between the couch cushions. I checked the time. 8:45 AM. Shit. I was late for school.

…But maybe school wasn’t a good idea right now. I had a demonic symbol painted in blood on my ceiling with no clue as to how it got there. I liked to think that was grounds for an absence.

Mind made up, I took a handful of steps toward the sink. I didn’t get far. A low cawing noise startled me from moving around the couch. I looked down. Standing on the floor a few inches away from my feet was a massive crow. Beside it laid the picked-over corpse of a mangy dog. A mangy dog with spikes jutting out of its back and another head sprouting out of its neck.

I could handle the blood, I could handle the symbol, but this?

Nope. I was done.

Slapping my hands over my mouth to block a scream―and maybe some vomit―I staggered away from the gory scene and dialed Dante's number. He picked up after the first ring.

“Hello?” He sounded just as tired as he did the night before.

“Dante?” I said. “It―it's Beatrice, I―”

“What happened?”

The crow gave one last raspy caw before it spread its wings and flew out the window. The glass was busted out. “I—I think I need your help.”

Again.

Happy Monday.

***

“This was here when you woke up?” Dante asked.

I never thought I'd have the world's most famous demo
n
hunter and his merry band of detectives standing around my apartment, but here they were.

Dante looked exhausted. Sharply dressed, yet exhausted. The coat he was wearing reminded me of Sherlock Holmes. If I were in a joking mood, I would've asked him where his hat and pipe were, but since I was having trouble standing, let alone
talking,
I saved that joke for another day and sat down on the couch.

I felt like I'd just gotten off the world's worst (best?) roller-coaster. I
hated
roller-coasters.

“Are you okay?” Max asked as he sat down beside me.

I stared at my feet.

He rested a hand on my shoulder. “We're going to find who did this, Beatrice.”

I believed him. They'd done nothing to make me doubt them. If anything, they showed me the light I'd been too stubborn to see. I wasn't cut out for this. I wasn't a hunter. I wasn't Aralia, who poked around the flayed corpse like it was nothing. I wasn't Dante, who dealt with this sort of thing every day and never cracked under the pressure. Hell, I wasn’t even Max, who looked kind of sick to his stomach but still decided to come anyway.

I was arrogant. Desperate. And now I was paying for it.

Aralia straightened up, wiped her hands on a rag she'd stuffed in her back pocket, and gestured for Dante. I watched helplessly as he went to her. Went to the
thing
that caused my current meltdown.

“This transmutation is sloppy,” she said. “The dog is newly possessed. There’s no way the entropic process could have accelerated so quickly. Whoever did this clearly didn’t care about the end result.”

Dante didn't say anything for a moment. My stomach lurched. I was beginning to hate his silence. It usually meant that things were somehow worse than what they appeared to be. Ugh. I didn't know if I could handle worse.

“That’s because the goal here wasn't successful transmutation,” he said finally. “It was for shock value.” He stood, gaze meeting mine. “Someone wants you out of here
very
badly, Beatrice.”

Oh, great
.
Why
me?
What had I done to deserve this? Plenty of idiots went hunting! I wasn't the first and I wouldn't be the last, so
why
was
I
the one getting almost-possessed by a church and having dead animals planted in my apartment like Christmas gifts? It wasn't fair.

“Hey, don't cry,” Max pulled me in for a hug. He smelled nice. Like soap. A pleasant change from blood and death. But that didn't mean I wanted him hugging me.