This is a work in progress, and it needs a final review and edit. I’m posting it for chitz and giggles. Maybe some of you will enjoy it.
Our three-day job in Savannah turned into a four—then seven-week ordeal. We'd taken the excess payment from our CT job and paid off the last of our back-due rent and late fees from our time in Seattle. The landlord did what she could on the interest, but 3,800 bucks was owed. That left us with a small amount of working capital.
Our client, Dan of Dan's Garage, didn't have a suitable place for us to stay, so we rented a hotel room for four nights. On the morning of the third day, our station wagon decided to eat a piston. The resulting crash into a curb took out the right front ball joint. I knew as soon as we got out that the repair bills were going to be significantly higher than our remaining cash reserves.
"One step forward and two steps back," I mumbled in an addendum to a prayer of thanks for our not being injured. In half a block, I'd have been merging onto a highway full of traffic.
My wife's hand slid into mine, and she leaned against me. Her other hand gave me a tight hug. "There is always a reason," she said.
There always was a reason; it is one of the facts I've had driven home throughout my career. No matter our ups and downs, there was a grand plan behind it all.
We waited for the wrecker that Dan called for our car. The driver of the wrecker told us of a weekly flop house motel that would likely have room for us. On the positive side, it was closer to Dan's Garage. On the way to Dan's, he dropped us off and helped us get our few belongings out of the wagon.
The receptionist, a lady with straight-dyed red hair, stepped from around the counter, "Number three, that'll be your room sugars," she said. "My son, Stanag, will be home at 4:00 p.m. I'll have him show you where the tool shed is."
The hotel wasn't much—a dozen two-room suites with bathrooms and kitchenettes with hot plates and fridges. It's the type of Motel that was all over America's back roads up through the late 1980s. But, by the looks of this place, it's been struggling for a decade.
The hotel owner gave us a break on rent in exchange for helping out after her son returned home from high school. He and I tackled a lot of neglected maintenance.
***
It's nearly dusk, and finally, we've finished cutting back the kudzu, dead brush, and trees from behind the Motel.
"What's it like?" Stanag asked. "Out there, I mean. I've only lived here. Mom and Dad bought this place before he was reactivated."
"In some way, it is adventure, mystery, and endless sights to see," I mused, thinking of our recent road trips. My mind wandered up the incredible sights up the eastern US to Connecticut and out west to Seattle. My musings landed me in the basement that the Diocese lent my wife and me. "In other ways, Stanag," I said, "it is pure terror, evils waiting to steal more than your life.
"You left home early?" He asked.
"I was seventeen," I replied. "Chicago was bad before the demons arrived; it didn't get better when I was young," I said, looking at him. "My dad and sisters are still there and tell me it is better, but a young guy like me, well, I needed out."
I tossed some more debris we'd cut down into the drop box and watched Stanag. He didn't talk much or ask many questions, but the questions he did ask seemed to carry a lot of weight with him.
"Thinking about something?" I asked as he struggled to dump an armload of logs into a nearly full dumpster box.
"Yeah," he said. "Mom's putting the place up for sale; that's why we are doing this."
He dropped the subject while we picked up a few more loads of wood, twigs, and debris.
"I've been talking to a recruiter," Stanag said. "I'll be eighteen in a few weeks, graduation is around the corner."
"Have you talked to your mom?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said but didn't elaborate. "Let's call it a day; I want to shower before I head to Gary's for the game."
"I'll work a bit longer," I said.
***
Nine days and three drop-box dumpsters later, Stanag and I finished cleaning out the rear of the property.
"Any news on a donor engine?" Stanag asked.
"None," I said, wiping the sweat from my forehead.
"I'm going to get cleaned up and head to Gary's. The game's going to be awesome tonight," Stanag said with a bit of a twinkle in his eye.
"That look," I said with a chuckle, "what's her name?"
"Mildred," he said shyly.
I winced out of sight. That name has got to hurt, but hey, it's not any worse than Stanag. We part ways, and I head to our little suite.
***
"Dan called," my wife said with that quirky little smile of hers. "His cousin came through. They towed the donor car in this afternoon."
I stepped to the sink to wash up. "That's great news," I said.
"He doesn't know for sure yet," she said, "but it started up with a little bit of new fuel. "He recommends replacing the," she paused and slid a hotel notepad closer to her, "belts, water pump, pulleys, injectors, plugs, and wires."
I dried my hands and groaned, "Give me the bad news."
"Rough estimate," my wife said, "with the other repairs, brakes, both tie rods and ball joints, and installation of the free donor engine."
I closed my eyes and said a prayer, "Please, Lord, let it be under 4,200 bucks."
I'd traded some work, we have a little cash, more than we've had in a long time, but anything more than 4,200 would clean us out.
My wife got up and opened the fridge. She handed me a plate covered in tin foil and then pulled out a second plate for herself.
"Eat, Love," she said. "It will be all right."
I sat at the two-person table and uncovered my plate. It was a simple sandwich with a hard-boiled egg and some olives.
"I'm in awe of your optimism," I said.
"The homeschooling group in the church chat group reached out to me," my wife said between bites. "They want me to run a four-week art and choir camp."
I know my wife, and when her eyes meet mine, I am sure she is stalling.
"It's five bucks per class per student," she continued with cheer.
The more cheer my wife displayed, the more concerned I became over the cost of our vehicle repairs.
"The thing is," she said as I ate, "It's a four-week contract."
She's at the point where she's repeating facts; the bill must be higher than I expect. Her smile was genuine, and her cheer infectious, so the gloom and anxiety I had begun to build faded.
"How much," I ask after swallowing.
"Twenty kids per class, two classes a day," she explains with a grin.
"That's a chunk of change," I said. "But I was asking about the repairs."
My wife gave me a sheepish and guilty look, and I knew she understood what I'd been asking. She licked her lips and batted her eyes at me.
I laughed, and she smiled.
"Dan said it would be two and a half weeks, maybe three, to get the donor engine out, get parts for our old wagon, and do all the engine work. Another week to get the other repairs done," she explained with glances at her notepad.
I believe Dan's cutting us every break he can. I'm sure he could have it fixed in a jiffy if we had loads of cash, but we don't. On top of that, it's an old car, and we don't have the scratch to replace it with something large enough to continue doing the work we do.
I pinned my wife down with a stare.
"Sixty-eight hundred is on the low end," she said quietly. Glancing back down at the notepad, she said, "But 7,400 is more likely where it will land."
I didn't speak for a few minutes while my mind dealt with numbers and options. With her taking the homeschooling contract, it will be tight. During the days, I've found odd jobs all over the city. Some were Arbiter work, and some, like my evening work here at the hotel, were not.
"It's going to be tight," she said. "Gary's job is still there," she whispered.
It, Gary's job, has been a point of contention for us. Gary seemed like a good guy; we'd met him at church, but... I frowned.
"He's not that bad," my ever-intuitive wife said.
A knock at the door paused our conversation.
I got up and opened it. The red straight hair of Stanag's mother caught my eye.
"Oi," she said. "Glad I caught you. The back looks great. Once we get the bins out, I'll have you and Stanag start on the weeds of the side lots and the repairs to the pool."
I nodded, suspecting what this was. She'd done it every Wednesday evening that we've been here.
"You're staying through Friday?" She asked, and I nodded in affirmation.
"Looks like for at least four weeks," I said. "That's how long it will take to repair the car."
"Rent's due in my box Friday morning," Stanag's mother said and started to walk away. But she stopped halfway between our little doorway and the next. She turned back to me and said, "You know Gary? Right? The guy Stanag goes to for the games? When I picked Stanag up the other night, he asked me to put in a good word with you."
"I'll go see him," I said.
It probably wasn't because she put in a good word, so much as because the Lord opens doors. I may not want to do Gary's job, but it seemed like someone upstairs thought I needed to do it. I've exhausted all other freelance Arbiter work within the bounds of Savannah's bus network. It's time, I suppose, that I must check my professional pride and visit Gary.
I closed the door and heard a knock at the room next door. I turned to my smiling wife, who quickly hid her smile behind her sandwich.
"I've never done any work like that," I said quietly.
After I sat down, my wife's hand found its way across the table and held mine. That simple act is the kind of message that words are never sufficient for.
***
When I woke up early the next morning, the man I'd hoped to speak to was, to the best of my knowledge, halfway around the world. I didn't know how this conversation was going to go.
I grabbed my phone from the counter and scrolled through my contacts. For our division of the Order, for my old Arbiter group, my brethren and I relinquished our names. The contacts are simply phone numbers.
I tapped the dial button next to his number and waited for the tone to change. Six rings had gone by before I heard his distinctive "Hallo," the man once named Julian said.
"Hello," I said. "It's me."
The pause and silence between us were a rebuke of our past troubles and my decision to leave the Order.
"It's been what," my former prospect Arbiter classmate said, "Twelve years?"
"About that, yeah," I said. "I heard you were injured a while back."
"I was," he replied. "I heard you married out?"
"I did," I said. "She painted Melini's portrait." I paused, not out of memory of Melini but out of the joy, pain, and sorrow my wife and I shared the first time we met. "Pater Prelatus Brechet sent me there to preview the portrait."
"You left," he responded.
I suspect he wants me to admit that, in the end, it was my choice to leave, not the Order forcing me out. I'd known that when I left. I'd do it again.
"She's not Catholic," I said as a pathetic explanation, "We found out about the cancer during our marriage blood tests. It was a complete fluke that someone ran the wrong tests." I swallowed a lump that developed in my throat. "She's got a clean bill of health now."
The man who forfeited the name Julian whispered a prayer under his breath, and I quietly thanked him for it.
"Why call me?" He asked.
"Your injury," I prefaced. "Did you get light duty after that? I thought the rumor mill said you were doing community instructional training."
I heard him take a long drag on a cigarette, a habit it seemed he'd never kicked. I waited for him to respond.
He exhaled and asked, "I was with CI for three years; why do you ask?"
"My wife and I are trying to put something together," I explained. "It's freelance stuff for those who can't afford the Diocese. A local guy here wants me to do some classes for the elderly members of the community."
He remained quiet for a long time before he said, "Look, I'd have to run this up. I can't just give you materials..."
He left off with a pregnant pause, so I ventured, "But?"
"All the pamphlets and texts are available online," my former brother in the Swiss Guards said. "It's basic stuff to us, but for the laity, it's good to focus on the lexicon first. Make sure they understand the terminology. Then, you work them up to doing regular cursory inspections of the wards and blessings woven into their homes."
"What's not online?" I ask, searching for the missing link.
He laughed; it was that same little triple chuckle he was prone to during our training.
"Seven years of training," he replied, "and a dozen missions along with three or four years of experience under a Journeyman. You've got all that, regardless of not being in the Order."
"Thank you," I said. "I'll do some research and put together a plan before pursuing the contract."
"For what it's worth," he said slowly, "I'm glad someone is there picking up some of the slack. It's getting weird."
I wanted to ask more, but I knew he'd not say, and if he did, it would likely go bad for him with the Order's leadership. Magnus Opaki had said they had no more work for me.
***
"In conclusion," I said. "Tom, what's rule one?"
I pointed my hand to Tom Wild, a portly man with rosy cheeks.
"Observe," Tom said, "Draw it on paper, and don't poke at it."
"Right," I explained. "Whatever you do, don't poke at your home's wards and blessings." I smiled as I looked at the last class of the week. "A call to the Diocese for a check-up is far cheaper than a call to the Diocese for a guaranteed repair."
This week flew by. The first class was rough, but I covered all the bases. I'd done my best to prepare, but I am not one for public speaking. That night, I practiced my course on my ever-suffering wife.
Day two was noticeably better and more to the point, which reduced the time it took me to relay the information. I added some of their questions to my material to cover and prepare for the third lesson, which was later that afternoon.
The following two days, I had two classes a day, and as the last person filed out of their room with their little booklet of papers, I spied Gary, ushering them all out the main door and thanking them for coming.
A moment later, Gary stood beside me and said, "I think this week went well, and next week's schedule is booked up."
"I still can't believe I am doing this," I bemoaned.
Gary frowned and asked, "Are you too good for this?" His arms crossed, and his stance changed.
I blinked and chuckled. "Oh, good lord, no," I said. I pointed to the mural on the back wall. Gary, I'm doing this work, what I believe is God's work, here, in this little space, to people who can't afford to hire the Diosces every time their wards and blessings flare."
Gary's eyes follow my hand to look at the mural on the back wall of his little book slash game store's back room. It's a space barely large enough for ten chairs at the conference table. The rest of the walls are manufactured faux wood paneling, but the mural, now even my wife would say that was something.
"Isn't it something?" Gary asked.
"It certainly is," I said.
"It gets me in the mood to DM every time I host a game," he said with a big smile.
"It's perfect for that," I said. "A massive six-foot-high silver dragon overlooking a horde of gnolls is a bit unorthodox for my work."
Gary turns to me again, this time looking almost mad. I have a feeling he's defended his favorite hobby from church folks for most of his life.
I held up both hands in a placating measure, "I said 'a bit unorthodox,'" I reiterated calmly. Let me show you something," I pointed to my Valise. "It's going to blow your mind."
I'm not sure Gary's anger had lessened, but he at least seemed interested. I moved to my Valise and pulled out my wife's work.
I opened the sketchbook and explained, "This is my wife's Codex Arcanum." I smiled at him as I began to flip pages. There were hand-drawn images of the demons that my wife had drawn, followed by a summary of the traits each had that I'd filled in.
Ah, here you go, the Fae, "Here we go, the Fae of Norwalk," I said as I let Gary move closer to inspect. "She drew their human-like seemings, the mundane disguises they wore, and..." I turned the page, "and their true beauty."
The image of Margravine Gerd of Norwalk is a sight to behold, especially in her three forms.
"Is this real?" Gary asked.
"This was our contract before working for Dan's Garage," I explained. "They were holding court over the human dead at a funeral home," I said. "They turned it into a right mess," I chuckled, "but, in the end, I think it worked out equitably for both parties."
"So it's not just demons?" Gary said with awe. His eyes immediately flicked up to the majestic dragon on the wall.
I almost laughed but did not want to hurt his feelings. "This was a new one for me, but yeah, there are weird things out there. We don't know if it was the demons returning that allowed the weird things to pierce their veil or their return that allowed the demons to claw their way up from the depths."
The front door rattled, and Gary looked up, "Crap," he said, "It's game time. Let me introduce you."
Gary introduced me to eight people: three couples and two individuals.
"They don't like to wait; I better round up the love birds," Gary said.
"Love birds?" I asked.
"Stanag and Myldread," Gary said. "She spells it with a y, and d.r.e.a.d. You know what it was like to be that age, edgy angst." He poked his head out the door and shouted, "Oi, you two, get a move on."
A moment later, I nod to Stanag as he holds the door open for, well, edgy angst. She didn't go in for the whole goth look, but she certainly was pale and had dark hair. The upside-down cross she wore on the necklace almost made me roll my eyes.
"Stanag," I said. "Have a good time tonight."
"Um," Stanag stammered, "This is Myldread"
"Myldread," I said, using the correct inflections on her name. She didn't smile; in fact, the look she gave me was almost a sneer.
"Former priest," she said, and as Gary and Stanag headed to the back room, she whispered, "Or is it, failed priest?"
With that, she stepped past me and started after Gary and Stanag. This time, I didn't bother hiding it; I rolled my eyes.
***
I attended a Tuesday evening concert put on by the local homeschooling group. I'll be honest: My wife directed it; it was part of her Choir teacher contract.
It was, I think, like every other parent-child recital. If you considered the ages of the children and how long she's worked with them, well, it was outstanding.
What stood out were the dozen or so teens she taught. She'd broken them up into groups of three and had them harmonize the Coventry Carol. It was inspiring, to say the least.
I waited outside the rented multi-purpose space. I twirled a rose I'd just purchased from one of the homeschooling kids tasked with selling it to attendees.
My wife's arms wrapped around me from behind, and she leaned in and squeezed.
"How was it?" My wife asked.
I turned to find her smile bright and joyous. It is wonderful to see that kind of smile on her face once again.
"For a week and a half of lessons?" I asked. "It was spectacular. I enjoyed myself." I handed my wife the rose.
She accepted it with the shyness of a little girl. The twinkle in her eye and the grin let me know I'd done alright with the rose. We don't have a lot of money to spare, not with food, rent, bus fares, and upcoming car repairs.
"Thank you," she said and placed a peck on my cheek. "I wonder what I could do with a year or two as the Choir teacher."
I suppose at this time, my wife and I both still fantasized about a normal life, returning to the mundane modern world. Our daydreams of future civility, a home, stability, and all the joys that come with them were about to pass us by without our noticing.
I waved at Gary and two of his regulars. When Gary introduced me on Friday, they seemed a lovely young couple. I was surprised to see the man carrying a little girl in his arms.
"Oh, they must be Gemmi's parents," my wife said. She's a doll; her name is Gemma, but she likes Gemmi better."
"Gary introduced us last Friday," I said. "They are a pair of his regulars, Justin and Perri, I think."
I glanced around the space and pointed out another for Gary's regulars. "That's Brian," I said. He games with Gary also."
***
The rest of the week was busy. I taught two classes a day in Gary's back room and helped Stanag clean up the Motel's side yards. Next week, we are going to start painting the exterior of the building. We are only waiting on the cleaning company that his mother hired to pressure wash the outside.
When Saturday rolled around, I was looking forward to the weekend, but then I remembered my wife taught classes on Saturday. Sunday morning, we took the bus to mass, and we ran into Gary again.
"Ready for the week to come?" I asked Gary after shaking his hand.
"Oh," Gary responded with a long pause, "uh." Gary tilted his head to look behind my wife and me. He pivoted and twisted as if he were looking for someone.
"Did you lose someone?" I asked.
"Justin and Perri," Gary said. He shook his head and turned to me.
"Come to think of it," my wife said, "Gemmi wasn't in class yesterday."
"I see," I said to Gary. "Were you expecting them today?" I asked.
"Well, kinda," Gary said. "At the concert, they told me they were really looking forward to Friday's game night. It was supposed to be the kick-off of an epic battle, but they didn't show. I threw in a bunch of one-off fetch quests to better prepare the players, and we'll do battle next week."
"There is a nasty stomach bug going around the students," my wife said.
"I'm sure that was it," Gary said. "They must be really sick, as they didn't bother to text or call." He gave us a genuine smile and said, "It's another full week. Are you ready? I'll see you tomorrow."
***
Friday rolled around, and Stanag and I had finished painting the rear of the Motel. It was enjoyable teaching the young guy how to apply painter's tape and paper around the windows. He didn't do as well with the roller as he would have liked, but we got it done, and it looks good enough.
"It looks like crap," Stanag said.
"It's good enough," his mother responded. She turned to me and said, "Thanks for starting on the backside."
Stanag groaned as he looked at the side he painted.
"We'll wait until it dries and put another coat on it," I said.
"How come yours looks so much better?" He asked.
"We hopped a dozen apartments growing up," I said. "My dad always worked a deal with the super to do maintenance and repairs like this." I chuckled as I started to scrape the excess paint out of my roller, "Us kids were free labor. No matter where you go in life, this is a great skill to have."
"Can I be done?" Stanag asked his mom, holding up his paint-covered arms. "I've got the big game tonight. We're assaulting the castle and..."
"Go, " his mother said. Take a shower," she yelled after him as he ran off. "He has no idea how bad he stinks," she said with a laugh. "How that girl puts up with him, I don't know."
"It's getting serious?" I ask.
"For him, at least," his mother responded. "For her, who knows? She's a bit... prickly around me."
I chuckled, "She keeps calling me a failed priest."
His mom raised an eyebrow, so I explained, "We are not priests; we never were. My Order has always been part of the Swiss Guards."
***
Later that night, my wife and I were sitting in our room listening to her phone's recording of the students' latest practice. Her phone buzzed, and she looked up from her reclined position. Her hand reached out for her phone.
"Please," she asked, waggling her fingers like a magician.
I eased out from under her feet—the very ones I'd been rubbing—and went over to the small table and retrieved her phone. Once seated, she wiggled her feet to start the automatic husband-rubbing machine again.
"Mmmmhhh," she hummed with her eyes closed as I began rubbing again. "I'm not used to being on my feet all day with multiple classes." She rested the phone on her chest and seemed to soak in the continued foot rubs.
"How are the art classes going?" I asked.
"Crazy good," she replied. "There's some real talent in there. The kids are in the middle of a clay sculpture project." She giggled and smiled. "I had to put the kibosh on a few of the teenagers' projects; they were a little too provocative for the upcoming art show in two weeks."
I give my wife a gimlet stare, and she peeks at me from under her hooded eyes. "Teenage boys," she said with what I imagine as an eye roll.
I laughed, and she wiggled her feet.
Her phone buzzed again, and she glanced at it. Her eyes opened fully, and a moment later, she scrambled up.
"They can't find Gemmi's parents," she said. "She's been with her grandmother all week." She looked at me and said, "She's not been in school, so I asked one of her friends' mothers to see how they were doing."
The phone buzzed again, and she read the screen. "After school, she drove by their apartment, and the police were there." The phone buzzed in her hands. "They asked her about Justin and Perri. When the mom asked about Gemma, they said the grandmother asked for a wellness check earlier in the week."
Her phone buzzed again and then rang. My wife answered the phone and slid her feet off my lap. She pivoted and stood up. Our little weekly hotel room is not big, but between the 'uh-huh's, ah's, and oh-my's, I could tell it wasn't good news.
Ten minutes later, my wife hung up, crossed her arms, and leaned against me.
"The mom stopped by the grandmother's home and spoke with her while her daughter played with Gemmi," my wife explained. "The grandmother thought it was the flu. She was supposed to watch Gemmi all weekend, and they'd pick her up Sunday evening."
"She asked for a wellness check when she hadn't heard from them by Monday morning," my wife said. "The police went by, and said the place looked fine and that their car was gone, and they must be at work."
"The Grandmother called every day, but the police didn't get around to checking on the place until this evening," my wife said. "That's when they found out from this mother that Justin and Perri hadn't picked up their daughter from the grandmother. Now detectives are involved and at the grandmother's home. Gemmi's going to stay with her friend while the grandmother talks to the detectives."
***
Sunday mass is somewhat subdued. Everyone is wondering where Justin and Perri are. It is very unusual for them to leave their daughter for so long.
I spotted Gary and shook his hand.
"How are you doing?" I asked.
"Okay," he said. "I had to cancel the game on Friday. Some detectives stopped by, wanting to know if Justin and Perri had been there the Friday before."
"Poor Gemma," my wife said.
"Yeah," Gary said. "It doesn't look good, does it? They are just gone: cars, wallets, keys, phones, etc. Their apartment looked like they'd just stepped out to come to game night."
We all paused our conversation as others stopped by to chat with us for a few moments.
Gary turned back to me and said, "It's another full week. I'd thought the classes were going to taper off, but maybe this disappearance scared people."
"I'll see you tomorrow," I said.
Gary departed, and I looked around; something tickled at the back of my mind.
"Is there a problem?" my wife asked.
"No, not that I can put into words," I answered.
***
The painting went considerably better this week. Our pocketbooks, not so much. My wife and I had to pay the bill for the parts to fix our car. I don't fault Dan for that. We are an itinerant couple facing a massive bill to fix a car that might be worth half of that when working.
"Were you able to swing by the Garage and pay Dan?" I asked.
"Yeah," my wife said. "I think he was surprised we did, but he assures me that once the parts get here, our car will have a priority slot for the labor portion."
"I'm kinda liking it here," I muse. "We've settled into a routine."
My wife slid into my arms. She's so much stronger now than she was a few months ago. "I love you," she whispered. "I also like it here," she said. "The board at the school asked if I wanted to extend the contract another four weeks."
"Really," I said. "We could get an apartment," I mused.
She smiled as she looked up at me and then nestled her head back into the crook of my shoulder. A soft little melody escaped her lips, and we started to sway back and forth to her little hummed song.
"Wow," I whispered. "A real job. I'd have to get a real job. I can't keep teaching classes forever."
A knock at the door sounded. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. My wife and I parted. I walked to the door and opened it. Stanag's mother stood there, looking terrified and panicked.
"Gary called," his mother said with a blubber. Tears started to form. "Brian and Stanag didn't show up to the game. I dropped Stanag off at Gary's twenty minutes ago.
My phone rang; I knew without looking who'd be calling.
"Yes, Gary," I answered.
"Stanag, Brian, and Myldread are not here," Gary said.
A sinking feeling formed in my mind, and it took the second repetition of Brian's name for me to realize what I could not place after Sunday's mass: Brian had not been there.
I looked at Stanag's mother and mouthed, "Ride?" She nodded emphatically.
"I'll grab our stuff," my wife said.
***
Stanag's mother drove my wife and me to Gary's at breakneck speeds. We pulled into his shared lot a half dozen minutes earlier than we should have. Gary and his group of remaining gamers were waiting outside.
I got out of the vehicle and opened the other rear door for my wife. She passed me my Valise and her art supplies. I offered her a hand out of the car. She graced me with that quirky little smile of hers. We made our way to Gary and his Friday night patrons.
Stanag's mother was already there. I watched as she lowered her phone from her ear and said, "I dropped him off right here," her right index finger pointing right at her feet, "barely forty minutes ago."
"I saw Stanag get out of the car," Gary replied, "but he never entered the store." He turned to the rest of the players and said, "I'm going to put this session on hold. We are missing five players."
A round of well wishes and promises to stay in touch with Gary passed among the group. Stanag's mother gave out her phone number in case any of the other attendees heard from the missing gamers.
"Come in," Gary said. "I'll make some tea for everyone."
Gary held the door open, and Stanag's mother rushed inside and shouted, "Stanag, Stanag," as she moved through Gary's book slash game store.
Gary's store isn't a massive building; it's a dozen aisles and three back rooms. The first is the game room, which has a door to the other two back rooms. The second is Gary's office, and the third is the bookstore's stock room, which has a single bathroom and a small kitchenette.
My wife consoled Stanag's mother while I made tea. Gary was busy attempting to call Brian, Myldread, Justin, and Stanag's phones.
"I want to call the cops," Stanag's mother said as she accepted the mug of tea from me.
"I think we should," my wife said.
***
An hour and forty-five minutes later, we are still waiting for the police to show up.
"They said it would be twenty minutes," Stanag's mother griped.
I can't know for sure, but to me, it seemed like her fear for her son was rapidly replaced by anger toward the bureaucratic nature of large cities and their finite resources.
The front door rattled, and then a robust knock sounded on its glass. We all looked at each other.
Gary got up and said, "Must be the police; I'll let them in."
A moment later, I was able to make out a quiet discussion.
"Have you seen him?" Gary asked quietly but forcefully.
His tone led me to believe this wasn't his first time asking. I got up and moved closer to the front of the store.
"It's a simple question, Myldread," Gary said. "Have you seen Stanag this evening?"
"I don't like your tone," Myldread said with an air of petulance.
I rounded the corner of an aisle and looked at the young woman. Her hair was dyed darker, and her nails longer. She still wore that silly necklace, now with three, no, four upside-down crosses on it. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she seemed to be in a far more agitated state than that simple question warranted.
"You two have been hanging around each other," Gary said. "Doin' the googly eyes and suggestive banter between characters. You are nearly three hours late on a night when Brian and Stanag are missing."
Gary straightened up while Myldread's mouth wobbled a bit.
"I'll ask you again," Gary said. "Otherwise, we are going to wait here until the cops arrive."
"You can't keep me here," Myldread countered.
I glanced at the game room, and everyone had heard her. My wife and Stanag's mother looked at me from the doorway.
I put a little steel in my voice; it is the same intonation I use in my more confrontational work, "Answer the question. Or you can answer it when the authorities arrive," I said.
Her head whipped to me. It was an unsettlingly fast movement—something entirely out of character for a human. I glanced at the wards and blessings. They'd not been triggered.
She looked at me, from my toes to the top of my head. It was a look of appraisal, and from her feral-looking grin, I was found wanting. It was that malicious smile that gave me the last clue, that bit of information I'd not put together. Her teeth were stained dark, the gums swollen and bleeding.
"The failed priest speaks," Myldread said. She did her best to stand coquettishly in what I suspect was an effort to seem unworried. But for a girl so young, it simply looked pathetic.
I'd dealt with enough demons to recognize the behavior. Myldread didn't trip the wards, but this is straight out of a lust demon's playbook. Even a demon possessing a body would be barred entry from any window, door, or opening large enough for them to enter.
"Back away, Gary," I warned as much as commanded.
Myldread turned her whole body to me. She tried to rock her hips as she stepped away from the front door, but yet again, she didn't have the presence of vitality and grace that a woman would come by naturally. No, this looked forced, as if she were all knees, elbows, and left feet.
Myldread stepped past a display, trailing her left hand on it. Her movement lost the appearance of lust and became more confident—almost as if self-assured were a suit she could put on.
"I've been wondering if you failed priests are all that," Myldread said. "We hear things, you know—the boogeymen of the church, the hidden ones of the Diocese." She pauses, glancing from me to the wall. "There are more of us than there are of you."
"Get everyone into the back room, " I said to Gary without turning his way. "Get everyone out of here."
Myldread let out a warbling laugh as Gary closed the game room door behind him.
"As if," she said with a sneer.
I mirrored her movements; it wasn't long before I spied what I thought she was making for. A quick step to the side, and I am in a position to counter her. I raised my thumb to my lips and bit it. It isn't a whole lot of blood, but the amount makes no difference in the battle we are about to commence.
Myldread used one of her long fingernails to open up her palm; with another sneer and a sniff, she slapped her bloody palm against the Vatican silver wards that safeguard Gary's store.
Her ability to see the in-scrolled Vatican silver, let alone discern the Ward, proves that she is human. Demons cannot see, smell, or comprehend in any way Vatican silver. Had a demon crawled its way up through the floor and into Gary's store, the Ward would have held it in place with chains of Vatican silver, in the same way the demon in the lake house had been held.
No, Myldread was the worst kind of monster, a human one. I suppose, at this point, it matters little if she was a willing one or one converted to the cause.
I watched as the Vatican silver along the Ward started to glow, almost burning in the stonework that held it. I pinched my thumb and did my best to steady my mind. I do not know what I face; in all my dealings with the demons, I've never encountered this kind of thing. What had my former brother Arbiter called it? Weird, yes, this was certainly weird.
I pushed my thumb against the blessing ward, and as soon as I did, I realized how wholly unprepared I was for the evil that I found waiting for me.
***
My mind reels at the panoply of deranged minds in front of it. Through the Vatican silver, I've access to not one or two, but four demons and one human girl who seems giddy with triumph.
Avarice said, "I am the oldest and, in here, the most powerful of her benefactors."
Wrath replied, "You are not power." I felt a mental shove, and the will that was Avarice retreated, "You are the want of it." Wrath, the rage let loose upon a mind, flexed its metaphysical muscles and continued, "I am the implementation of power."
I felt it then, the subtle ego in the background. It's a whisper we all hear at some point in our lives. I've not faced one of its kind yet, but I suspect I will shortly.
While Wrath was busy explaining its superiority to Lust, Pride acted. I have to hand it to Pride; manipulating Wrath like that was masterfully done. The remaining three began an internal bickering fest as the mind of the girl, Myldread, shouted ineffectually at them.
Demons, I thought to myself, a possession? No, I can feel Myldreads will force itself against the Ward woven around this building. Combined with Pride's attack on the Ward, the pair were making significant headway into, well, I don't know. The closest thing I could come up with was that they were attempting to subvert the Ward and the Blessing of Gary's bookstore.
I layered my mind in the Blessing, my thumb was pressed against. I take comfort in the Vatican Silver inlays worked into the stone. I've confidence in this place like no other building I've worked in.
There is a surety that comes from teaching, a relearning of the basics and the intricacies of solid journeyman work. I've taught here for weeks, making multiple trips to the Ward and blessing each class. I know this place's strengths and weaknesses. I've put my will into this layering of silver defensive works twice a day for weeks.
I pulled my mind up short and told myself, "There is a difference between competence and confidence." I checked the influence of Pride and pushed back into the Blessing.
I felt the heat within the inscribed Silver bound to this building's stonework. The team of Myldread and Pride has captured, no, corrupted, one-third of this building's Ward against demons.
I needed a plan, one that Pride would jump at and Myldread would believe. That was the kicker: fooling a demon is one thing, but they do not cotton onto human ways of thinking. Convincing a girl, one who is likely jaded and cynical, is a different type of game.
A few desperate minutes later, I'd given up more ground. It was difficult trying to hold the Ward against two minds working in concert, even if those minds were inhuman and insane. Time and time again, my defenses were beaten back. I'm doing my best to hold the Ward while bolstering my will via the Blessing.
The mental slap sends me to my metaphorical knees. I dare not let my mind stay there stunned. I pull back, dodging and fleeing the long way around the building's Silver work as Pride's mental attacks chase my mind down the lines of Vatican Silver. I retreat, ignoring Pride's taunts and jibes to fight.
That's the flip side of a Pride demon; they are also self-doubt, self-recrimination, and self-loathing. I feel the waves of shame and fear as I let my mind retreat further and further down the line of Vatican silver inlays.
Myldread is there chortling, sniping, and poking fun at the failed priest running from its failures. It isn't long before my mind has retreated nearly the whole long way around the building's silver inlays.
I had thought about my timer here earlier at the behest of Pride, but I did my best not to think about it now. I've been here nearly every day for weeks. I've taught classes, I've taught people the basics, and one thing my Order of Arbiters knows is these wards. Specifically, for all its shine, the Vatican Silver isn't necessary.
Don't get me wrong; it is unimaginably helpful; if your enemy can't see the trap, smell it, heck, even comprehend it, you are better than one step ahead. It is those few steps ahead that Vatican Silver gets you.
But in reality, any old thing, like a mental construct, will do in a pinch. If the mental construct is sufficient, it will suffice for a trap, and I pray that neither Myldread nor her gaggle of demons will see it coming.
I've both of them chasing my mind now. I'm actively fleeing them up and down, in circles and diagonals. Dodging two beastly mental constructs is migraine-inducing, but I only need to do it a while longer.
I can feel the Vatican Silver under my thumb; it's painfully hot. I pray that I have the time and the will and that the burden I am about to shoulder will not be too great.
***
We are taught other Wards and Blessings. Oh, the public sees a ward and its distinctive iconography and believes it to be the entrapment ward. In truth, we rarely use other wards because the entrapment ward is the best first defense we have.
That doesn't mean the nameless men and women of my Order don't know, practice, and use other wards and blessings. Ward's and Blessings are classification iconographies, not a specific or singular pattern we use in the Vatican Silver inlays.
I chuckled to myself as my mind retreated to those last dozen corners. I don't know if my laughter carried through the in-scrolled Silver and Myldread caught wind of it, or if she was usually that cautious.
Myldread had the proverbial door slammed into her face. She screamed out loud, and her pained mental anguish was carried into the Vatican Silver inlays.
Pride, however, did not escape the binding. There is a difference between the chains our primary Ward uses to hold a demon and the binding Ward we can use to solidify a demon to a singular spot.
Doing such iconography is taxing, our bodies become the conduit for the wild magics humanity has no way of utilizing save for acting as a lightning rod.
"How," I heard Wrath roar. "We'd beaten him."
My head was dizzy, my mind was throbbing, and my knees were weak.
I felt Wrath's power build, but it was abruptly cut off. I watched Myldread crumple and fall to the ground. I staggered and nearly fell. I pushed my mind back out slowly, looking at the constructed binding I'd drawn while fleeing.
I couldn't believe that worked. Thank the Lord for Gary's silver dragons, I thought to myself. I didn't know why he spent the coin on a painting with real Silver in the paint, but I was happy for it.
I heard the entry door jingle and returned my mind to the here and now.
"She looks woozy," The first cop says. "The smoke in here is thick. Drag her outside."
There were a couple of coughs and an unpleasant groan from a female voice.
"I spotted another," the cop yelled over his shoulder. "Buddy, are you okay, come-mon? You're almost at the door."
I felt an arm slide around my chest and take most of my weight. "I got-choo," the officer said.
Two dozen steps, and I'm outside in clean, clear air. The Fire Department is already here. A moment later, I feel my wife wrap her arms around me.
***
In between coughs, I gasped, "Where is she?"
"Who?" the officer holding me up asked. "The girl my partner dragged out?"
I look about the parking lot, but I don't see her.
"Hey, Mike," the officer yelled out as he released me. "Where's the girl?"
"Ambulance," a voice from the other side of the fire truck yells back. A moment later, an ambulance rolls from behind the fire truck and heads down the road.
"Officer," I groaned, "That girl." I've got no voice left and nearly collapse in my wife's arms. A firefighter runs over and pushes a mask onto my face.
"Easy there, buddy," the firefighter says, "Deep breaths, deep breaths,"
I heard another firefighter yell out, "No fire, just smoke. Set up the fans to clear it out."
I looked up at my wife, and she was staring in the direction the ambulance had gone. I tried to stand, but the firefighter put a hand on my shoulder and kept me down.
"I need your pulse, BP, and to listen to your lungs," he said. "Sit tight, mister. Your girl is here with you; just sit tight."
My wife knelt and hugged me. A moment later, as my BP was being measured, I heard massive evacuation fans kick on and start to expel the clouds of smoke I'd failed to notice while trapping the pride demon.
Our battle had heated the wards to the point that they started smoking. I looked around as the firefighter moved off. Vast clouds of thick white smoke were being blown out the back of the building.
***
Already, the teams of firefighters were rolling up their hoses and gear. One of them, along with an officer, was talking to Gary. With my wife's help, I was able to stand and move out of the firefighter's way.
I made my way to Gary and the two other men. The officer turned to me and said, "This him?"
"Yeah," Gary said. "That's the man from the Diocese."
"He said the girl is trouble," the officer said. "Is that true?"
"Yes," I croaked. "I'm not sure what's going on with Myldread, and I'm afraid she might be responsible for the disappearance of four people."
The officer was about to speak, but the crackling of his radio paused him.
"4310," said a voice,
The officer reaches to his mic and thumbs the stud, "4310 over,"
"That 10-40 you are on," the dispatcher said. "We can't reach the medical that left your scene."
"According to witnesses, the person they are transporting, maybe 10-8, " he said.
"Armed and dangerous," Gary whispered, and at my look, he continued, "What? It can be boring in the shop on weekdays; I listen to the scanner app on my phone."
The other officer walks up, and our guy steps back to speak with him. A moment later, he waves Gary over. The trio talked for a while before Gary returned.
"They've got the fire department handling the investigation as an arson," Gary said with a frown. "The police have cars out looking for the ambulance that took Myldread."
It takes a good forty minutes to clear the store of smoke; even then, because it might be an arson investigation, we couldn't go in.
A firefighter comes out and walks over. "Mister," he said. "I think you dropped this on the way out when you stumbled." In his gloved hand was a sleek black phone with the Marine Corps logo on the back.
I stretched my hand out and accepted the phone. It wasn't mine; it was Stanag's.
"Thank you," I said, "Don't want to lose that."
I walk a little distance away to where Stanag's mother is sitting in her car.
"Do you know the passcode to his phone?" I asked.
"2-18-1980," she said. "The day his dad was born."
I nod and put the numbers in.
"What are you looking for?" She asked.
"Some way to figure out where he is or where the phone has been," I said.
"His watch," she replied. "He wanted it for years. It's one of them fitness watches. It tracks where he runs, times, etc. If he is in trouble, he'll turn it on.
I proffer the phone to his mother, and she flips through some apps and opens the page. She groans audibly. "It's syncing," she growls.
I put my hand out, and we shared a long stare between us. Stanag's mother looked at my wife, who responded, "Have some faith."
I nod to her as she hands me the phone. I slip it into my pocket and pull out my own.
"Did you grab our stuff?" I asked my wife.
"Yes, I have your Valise," she said, pointing to the corner by Gary's car.
I walked over to the car and pulled out my phone. I scrolled through my recent calls and found the number. He'd answered once before; let's hope he's feeling charitable.
***
The man who was once named Julian answered, "Yes?"
"You said things were getting weird," I remarked. "I've run across something weird." I took a couple of steps away from the fire engine and the noise of the fans. "A girl, maybe 19, had four demons bound to her. It wasn't possession; she tried to corrupt a shop's Vatican Silver Ward and Blessing."
There is a snippet from a vehicle's radio, then a long silence.
"What sins?" My former colleague asked.
"Lust, Pride, Wrath, and Avrice," I said. "You've run across this before?" That would be news to me.
Again, I hear the vehicle's radio for a brief moment before he puts his phone on mute. I wait while the others try and convince Stanag's mother to stay and wait. I twist and look over my shoulder; there is a near-hysterical look in her eyes.
The radio returns, "Yes," the man who used to be named Julian said. "It's how and what injured me. In my case, it was Gluttony. How badly are you hurt?"
"I am not," I said. "The girl; she's connected to at least four missing people. The most recent went missing as little as two hours ago."
He stammers, "How are you not hurt?"
"Pride," I said. "The Pride demon came after me while the others worked on corrupting the Vatican Silver scroll work and wards. It used depression, despair, and self-pity. They chased my mind through the Silver Wards and Blessings. The more it pressured me, the more I retreated. I lured it into a piece of Silver art connected to the in-scrolled Blessing."
"How?" he asked.
I chuckled, "I laid out a mental pattern of my best representation of Vatican Silver. I connected the Blessing to the static piece of artwork. I held the mental pattern as it chased my mind through the inscribed Silver. With my mind blocking the Blessing, even during a retreat, the others could not take complete control of the Ward inlay. We almost burned the building down." I paused and turned around to the group. "Once Pride was in the artwork, I cut my mental image, trapping it there. That knocked the girl and me out. She lost touch with the Ward first."
I waited for a moment, "I have to go," I said. "I've got a lead on the missing kid," I paused, "I wanted someone in the Order to know about what happened, should I fail."
"Where is your lead?" my former colleague demanded.
I thought about that question for a moment; there are two reasons to ask it.
"I am in town with two brothers from the Impetus Battalion. The local authorities notified the Diocese of a suspicious ritual killing ten days ago. They found the body of a man sacrificed on a bed and a woman slain in front of a wall of mirrors."
"Lust and Pride," I mused. I looked back over my shoulder. Gary was busy with the firemen, and my wife was working to calm Stanag's mother. I felt it then, as I had during my last meeting with Meleni and the first time I met my wife.
I was at a crossroads. The path I choose now will change my life, and with a heart-stopping realization, my wife's, too. I muttered a quick prayer and said, "I'm dropping you a pin. My wife and I are on our way."
"Thank you," he said, then the line went dead.
I let out an ear-piercing whistle, and heads turned in my direction. I looked at Gary and said, "Gary, I need your car."
My wife looked at me, and I nodded. She bent down and picked up my Valise and her Art case. I caught Gary's keys with my left hand and started towards his car.
***
I drove as my wife navigated. I was pushing Gary's car too fast; I knew it. But there was a growing sense of urgency and no small amount of doubt that I'd chosen incorrectly. I worried that sending my former Arbiter brother the pin with Stanag's watch's location was a terrible idea.
"The road past the next light," my wife said, "Yeah, that one." She pointed with her free hand, "the one that follows the river."
We flew, bounced, jolted, and swerved down the pothole-strewn dirt road. It was miles long and wound along the edge of the river's path. I nearly lost control a few times. Gary's little SUV was not meant for this kind of abuse.
"That must be it," my wife said, "over the little bridge."
I lifted my eyes off the road long enough to glance at an old fabric mill. The red brickwork monstrosity was surrounded by a rusted chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.
"It looks abandoned," I said.
We came to a stop near another small crossover vehicle. The rear bumper had a rental lot inventory sticker. My former Order has already arrived.
"We'll have backup," I said as I popped my door open.
My wife met me at the front of Gary's car and handed me my Valise. With a nod to each other, we stepped forward to the pried-open gate. As soon as we were through, the shadows seemed to close in, and the temperature dropped. I paused, knelt, and opened my Valise.
"It's not much," I said as I handed my wife one, "But it will be dark inside."
I twisted the cap on the penlight, and it turned on. My wife copied what I did, and we continued onward.
The main open space felt off, as if this place was from a time before. Then it dawned on me that it was from a time before—a time before Vatican Silver. We crept forward through the empty lot, closer to the building and the lone metal door.
A loud clang and a terrible scream reminded us that this was no Sunday exploration adventure. I glanced at my wife, and she nodded. We made the last few steps to the door. There was only a slight pause as she moved to one side of the door. With a grunt, she pried it open, and I stepped through.
***
Rust, grime, and cold permeated the darkness. Our little penlights did their best, but the shadows were thick and swallowed the environs back into their embrace as our lights passed over them.
There were marks on the floor. Some looked like footsteps, and others looked like drag marks. A second scream drew us up short. This one wasn't a sound of pain but of exertion. A moment later, I heard more clanging. The types of clanging the Impetus Battalion tends to favor.
My wife and I passed down the wide corridor; stacks of old pallets blocked the doors at the end of the corridor. We turned left into a narrower hall—a sense of claustrophobia crowded in on me as my wife scooted closer. The hallway branched off twice, once to the left and once to the right. They were small offices with broken doors. A glance in tells me there is nothing of interest in the dirty, unkempt spaces.
The larger double office door at the end is a different story. Its glass panes are broken, and only the wooden frame remains. I smelled it, though, the coppery scent of blood, the odor of entrails, stomach acid, and rotting meat.
"This is going to get ugly," I said. “Are you up for this?" I turned to my wife. Her bright eyes were wide with apprehension and fear.
She swallows hard, purses her lips, and nods. I turn back around and whisper, "Stay close."
I keep my light out of the worst of the gore on the floor as we step through the broken doors. Bloody boot prints and drag marks lead us past this place. I pray that my wife doesn't light up the wall.
There was a squeak and a gasp from my wife. I stopped and turned my head until I found what her pen light was aimed at. It was words, a few short words with scrolls and loops.
"Myldread the Great" was scrawled on the wall in someone's blood. There were little embellishments and flourishes I recognized. They were attempts to create a Ward and a Blessing out of human blood.
My wife had her hand up to her mouth as she panned her light over the rest of that wall. Myldread had tried to recreate the Ward in Blessing with things other than blood. She used entrails, feces, flayed skin, and thinly sliced organ meat.
My wife turned to the right and pushed her light over my shoulder. I was thankful I was there to catch her as she fainted. It wasn't a long spell, and by the time I'd gotten her back on her feet, I, too, had a good look at what had been done to Brian, Gary's other missing game member.
What wasn't eaten had been nailed to the wall in a pattern. No, nothing so rudimentary and as a symbol, but it was a pattern nonetheless. My wife heaved, and I held her as her stomach loosed its contents. The sound of fighting forced us to break the silent hug.
"Get Stanag," I whispered, "Get out. That's our goal."
I guided her through the opposite doorway and into the vestibule of the main factory floor.
***
Twenty feet in front of us, propped up against a wall, was my old comrade. His right hand was missing, and blood was dribbling out. His left ankle had a metal rod, ah, a crude spear, through it.
His head turned to us listlessly.
"Love," I said as I quickly quick-stepped to him, "stop the bleeding."
I opened my Valise and pulled out two tourniquets. I turned to find my wife right behind me. She opened her artist kit and pulled out a medic kit. Oh, what a woman I married.
"Artists at the commune OD'd a lot," she whispered.
I felt a push to my shoulder and turned back to my bleeding friend. His stump pointed to my Valise, and I nodded. I spun it towards him. He smiled, and blood poured from his mouth. I pointed my pen light at his face and saw the bruising starting to form. One eye was completely shut.
I reached down into my Valise and pulled out a multi-tool. I slipped it into my pocket. He pushed at my shoulder with his left hand even as my wife worked on his right wrist.
"I'm going to look for Stanag," I said.
***
It wasn't like this mill was all open space. In fact, it was more like a rodent's warren; the looms and thread feeders to the looms created a maze. Webs of old thread loosely hung as they blocked otherwise accessible areas.
I followed the paths of destruction. I don't say that lightly. The Impetus Order is heavy on the destroy mindset. Boxes, pallets, benches, and tools were strewn about. It looks like they were backing Myldread up and forcing her to retreat. She's used everything she could to fight them off.
Helping them wasn't my focus. Finding Stanag was. I watched for signs of him or where Myldread secreted him. No, I didn't know if he was alive. I suspected he was and prayed that he was, and most of all, I needed him to be alive. I'd as much encouraged him to pursue a relationship with this girl. I felt responsible; I saw his burgeoning relationship through the lens of my first crush. I had no concept of the horror that was awaiting him.
I almost missed the drag marks; they were hidden behind a toppled set of pallets containing massive rolls of decaying cloth. I scrambled over the musty fabrics and made my way into the stack.
There, down a hidden path, was Stanag, gagged, handcuffed wrists and feet to a massive pipe. His eyes go wide at the sight of me. I uselessly held a finger to my lips. I moved closer after a look over my shoulder.
The day, though, had made me wary of deceit. I bit my thumb open for the second time that day. I pressed it to his forehead and pushed my mind forward. I met nothing, no demonic will hitching a ride like Myldread, no subverted demonic possession of the shell that would have been Stanag.
"Nod if you are okay?" I said.
There was a curt nod, and he blinked at my light. Ah, that's how Myldread did it. Only one pupil responded to the light in his eyes.
"You were drugged," I said. "Did you drink anything?"
He nodded a second time.
I started flipping through the tool heads on my Leatherman. I found one, a fixed and thin Allen head. I twist the handcuffs, and Stanag groans as I push his wrists out of the way. She'd attached the cuffs with the keyhole in the wrong direction.
Stanag grunted and groaned as I tried my best to open one of his handcuff tumblers. It took longer than I'd have liked, but I eventually got one. A moment later, his other hand was free.
The sound of fighting is nearing our hiding spot again. Stanag looked in that direction and started to work the gag-free. I turned to his cuffed and bloody ankles. Opening these handcuffs was going to be more complicated, as ankles don't bend out of the way like wrists.
Stanag had to lie on his back, feet up in the air, while I tried and get my little tool into one of the handcuff's key slots. The fighting sounded much closer, and it did not sound like the Impetus Battalion was winning.
I didn't have time to be kind and gentle. I needed Stanag out of here before Myldread got any closer. I pried his legs apart, and Stanag let out a short cry and groaned. It gave me the space I needed. I leveraged the Allen into the keyhole, found the tumbler, and twisted. A leg fell free. The other one is out of the cuff a moment later.
I proffered my hand to Stanag and held my other finger to my lips. As I helped him up, the fighting started up again. It sounds like it is on the other side of the pallets of fabric that are hiding us.
I held us there as the fighting passed our hiding spot, but now I was very concerned. Myldread and her demons were between Stanag, me, and my wife. I gestured for him to follow and crept back out of the pallets. We are as quiet as can be; I don't think it made much difference. The noise of sword on sword and sword on armor reverberated through this hollow space.
I helped Stanag over the tumbled-down rolls of fabric. The sight that greeted us was not reassuring. Myldread stood facing us, a sword in hand. She was fighting only one of the Impetus Battalion.
"Another," Myldread barked with a laugh, "I'll happily flay another failed priest."
I saw it then; her sword wasn't hers; it was one of the Impetus Estocs favored by my former Order. It was glowing from the hilt and a little past the guard. My mind reeled at that implication. She was trying to subvert the wards and blessings of the Vatican Silver wrought within the blade.
***
"Love," my wife yelled out. "He won't move; he won't let me drag him out."
I looked past the dueling sword fight and saw in the distance my wife's pen light flashing at me. I hoped the Arbiter knew what he was doing.
The fight between Myldread and the Impetus Battalion member intensified. She pushed him, drove him, and hammered him. I saw it; I'd seen it many times in practice during my seven years of training. The man was beaten, and he knew it; he didn't have her skill with the blade. I watched Myldread’s eyes as she toyed with the man in armor.
She was lighter, more nimble, and far more precise in her attacks. The armor sapped the man from Impetus Order's strength, and even though he was significantly stronger than she, that only counted if he could land a blow.
Myldread had copied my playbook from earlier. She fled from her attackers, forcing debris, gear, and obstacles in their path. She's worn them out long before they even got close enough to use their blades.
"Wrath," I mumbled.
"What?" Stanag whispered.
His voice brought me back around to my immediate problem: getting him out of there.
"I need to get you out of here," I said.
A strangled cry, muted by a gurgle, cut me off. I whipped my head around and looked back at Myldread. Her estoc blazed with heat as its point rested between gaps in the shoulder armor of the Impetus Battalion man. The blood was leaking from his nose. He heaved once, and a fountain of blood flowed out of his mouth.
"Circle around," I said to Stanag, "Get to my wife, get the injured man out, get out of here. This is not a battle you can help with."
***
I stepped forward as the man fell to his knees. I caught him and whispered the last rites of our Order. With one hand, I closed his eyes, and the other took up his blade.
"Oh," Myldread said, "the twice failed priest wants to play."
It'd been years since I held a sword. It isn't the way with my side of the Order. I am, in many ways, an artist and more like my wife than I am my former lover, Meleni. I unbutton the heavy tailored coat my wife had bought me to use as a uniform of sorts. It, I knew, would be too restrictive when buttoned up.
I favored the saber over the Estoc when in practice. The estoc was Meleni's tool, not mine. I'd seen her broken blade and crumpled armor when her portrait was unveiled at the Vatican City Museum. Meleni went down hard, broken blade tip in one hand, the shortened and bent Estoc in the other.
Against the dead and possessed, the Estoc was king. Against the living, unarmored girl in front of me, I wish I had even a training saber. I swapped grips on the sword briefly, opening my palm. It wasn't a big cut, just one large enough to contact the silver wire wrapped around the hilt.
"Who is it now?" I asked, "Who is guiding you, Myldread? Is it Wrath? You've given in to rage and revenge? For what? What did these people do to you other than show you kindness and trust?"
She charged, and I pushed my mind into the Silver. I half-stepped back and deflected her first blow, shifted my balance in another half-step back, and deflected the second. I countered with the point of my Estoc, which she barely deflected, and we separated as she gratuitously twirled out of the way.
Does she think this is a film, a movie with a choreographed set of flourishes? I think I see the issue now; she's downed three so far without loss or injury. She's good, mind you, likely the influence of the Wrath demon.
She dove forward to the point of her half-blazing blade, aiming to skewer me. The blows came in fast, harsh, and with more precision than one like her should have. I'd seen her take down one of my Impetus Battalion brothers; I should have realized the demon Wrath significantly boosted her natural abilities.
I was relentlessly pushed back down the way Stanag had fled. Myldread was driving me further from my wife and escape. I use this time to scrape the rust off of my blade work. With every evolution of her attacks, she controlled more of that blade. When I first saw her, it blazed just past the hilt; a moment ago, it was barely halfway up the blade.
Now, more than two-thirds of the blade blazes with burning Vatican Silver in-scrolled wards and blessings. I deflected a blow from her with my blade. My mind shudders as if it were battered with a hammer. I nearly stumbled to the ground.
I deflected her opportunistic follow-up blow, and I watched as our blades touched. Mine landed squarely on the blazing portion of her blade. I saw stars as her blows hammered against my mind. I'd never felt anything like this. I've never heard about this happening; it was not taught in practice, nor was it spoken about.
I realized this was how she'd been able to daze and debilitate two of our Impetus Battalion after physically exhausting them.
I rolled out of the way as her third blow skittered off my blade and into a pallet of fabric. She left the blade there, and the roll of cloth started to smolder. She grinned, stepped forward, and front-kicked me in the chest as I began to get up. I was thrown back onto my ass and had to scramble to retrieve my lost blade.
I gasped for air as Myldread laughed.
"You are pathetic," Myldread said. "You'll die here, then I'll take my time with your wife. They'll all die here."
I wheezed and backed up. I deflected two half-hearted blows as Myldread cackled. Each of them felt like a punch to the head. Something, though, kept trying to break through to me. An old argument, one I had long ago with a woman now a Saint.
"Why the Impetus Battalion, Meleni?" I'd asked.
"Because, Ward's and Blessings are fine and good," She'd said. "But the blade, that is an extension, a marriage, between his will and mine. It is power manifested into a cutting edge, not a cage."
Meleni had proceeded to trounce me that session. We didn't talk for a week after that. In fact, it was probably the deciding factor that cooled our relationship. Back then, I couldn't understand why she'd wanted to stick her neck out for people.
Where I grew up, you didn't do that. Sticking your neck out was a quick way to get kicked about and taken advantage of. Now, though, here in this mill, in this fight, in this place half a world and a lifetime away, I understood.
I sucked in breath through my teeth and tried something I'd never thought of. I put my mental mass into the blade. I created a weaving of mental silver in-scrollment and layered it into the sword.
The blade hummed in my hand.
I spat some phlegm and said, "I am not them, Myldread."
***
I had called my wife a skald a while back, but at the time, I did so as a light jest, a play on terms for a combination of reasons, such as her love of singing arias for a choir as much as for her artistic talents.
I heard her way back here among the rows of mills, weaving machines, and fallen bolts of smoldering cloth. I suppose I underestimated the power of song, but my wife had not. In this way, she is as much classically trained as I am in my calling; art and music are hers.
"Your little bird has a horrible voice," Mydread said, gasping. "I'll cut it out of her last."
"You've failed, Myldread," I said. "The Diocese knows your name, what you look like, and what you've done. They will hunt you to the end of time."
With a renewed vigor, Myldread advanced. We'd been at this a while now, maybe a couple of minutes. I've learned to brace my mind against her mental attacks via her sword. My own Estoc hummed in my hand, waiting, ready to deliver that blow.
"Just die," Myldread screamed.
"I told you," I said, "I am not them. I am an Arbiter."
"So, fucking what," Mydread growled as her blade hammered against my own.
"I know Wards and Blessings," I mused. "I also know the blade. For all the strength and skill Wrath has given you, it has not given you patience."
I pushed more of my mind forward. I'd always driven myself to the end, leaving nothing behind. Doing such a thing now was doubly difficult; I had a wife to think of. It wasn't so much a concern for her well-being but a selfish concern that I'd be forced to live without her.
I heard her song, muted and muffled by the vast cavern-like space. I applied that will to my counters and blocks. It took a while for me to put Myldread on the defensive, and after a few blows, she took her first step back.
It wasn't easy. The fight between us had its share of ups and downs. It was two steps forward and one step back. The demon of Wrath seemingly had an endless fount of energy, its only limitation being the Myldread herself.
"I'm going to gut you," Myldread growled. "Then flay you like a fish. What power should I take next?" She asked.
My wife's voice was louder as we neared the toppled rolls of fabric that had previously blocked my path. The one that had been smoldering from her previous sword strike had caught alight. It's not a big flame, but the smoke was noxious.
"For my blade instructions, I had but one training partner," I said.
Myldread chortled and said, "I'll gut them after your wife."
"You misunderstood me," I replied. "My training partner is beyond your reach."
The sword in my hand hummed, almost in a fervor, as my attacks backed Myldread up. I want to say I saw the opening come three moves in advance, but that would be a lie. I did have a feeling, but it was my rusted instincts that carried out the two parries and a thrust.
Myldread screamed as the Estoc's tip slipped through her lead leg's Achilles tendon. My foot kicked her leg out from under her. I jumped back as her blazing blade swung at my ankles. My sword thrummed at the cutting edge, and then, that fight so long ago with Meleni made sense.
With a flick down of the Estoc and my mind focused on the edge, I took Myldread’s wrists from her. She screamed a note so foul that the building rang, and dust from the roof fell. Her blazing sword was stuck in a pile of debris. Unlike the dampened cloth, these caught alight.
I landed on my feet but was badly off balance. As I righted myself, I said, "My teacher was Saint Meleni."
The world knows that name. Myldread howled, stood up, and charged at me. Myldread shoulder checked me out of the way. She disappeared into the hazy smoke. With wounds like those, she will not survive long without medical attention.
I scrambled over the rolls of fabric moments before they caught fully alight. The fire was spreading surprisingly fast, faster than I thought it should for such a damp and dark area. I rounded the corner to find my wife, mid-song, and Stanag carrying the limp form of my former college.
With one toe, Stanag pointed to the ground.
There, in blood mixed with silver powder from my kit, someone had drawn a Ward. I recognized it immediately; this fire, with its unseemly appetite, was bound.
"What's it say?" Stanag asked.
I reached down and snapped my Valise closed; I pushed my wife's art kit to her and stood up.
"Gluttony," I said, "He bound Gluttony to this building. Let's move; we have to get out of here. Run!
"That's good, right," my wife said.
"In a way," I remarked as I kicked the broken glass door frames wide open. "It also seems to have given it control over this building."
"Like in the game," Stanag grunted. "This is its domain now."
I turned and looked back over my shoulder and shuddered. "As apt a statement as I would be able to come up with," I said.
We ran.
***
I stood near a hospital bed while my wife slept in a chair. I looked upon my former colleague. He was in bad shape. Two of the Impetus Battalion stood outside the private room. His orbital socket was broken along with his jaw. He'd lost a number of teeth. As best we could tell, Myldread had emerged from the shadows and hit him with a big piece of pipe.
The two in armor propped him up before giving chase to her. She lured them away with the prospect of gain, and in the confusion, all of them paid a terrible price. She'd led them on a merry chase before doubling back. She's stuck Julian's leg with a makeshift spear. When the Impetus Battalion chased after her a second time, she returned with one of their swords and took the hand he'd been using to draw a Ward and Blessing in Vatican Silver.
A knock at the doorway woke my wife, but it wasn't enough to wake my Arbiter friend.
"We burned it to the ground," Magnus Opaki said, slightly coughing. "We had to cleanse the bookstore with fire. There was no saving it. I did release some funds to compensate the owner."
I turned to look at him and nodded.
"I am thankful you were there," Opaki said. "He'll ride a desk for the rest of his life, but it is a life saved, and for that, I am ever grateful. Tell me, how is it you survived the battle against the soul-bound?"
"Soul-bound," I muttered. "Yes, that's what it felt like." I mused a moment before responding. "An argument long ago," I darted my eyes to my wife and then back to Opaki. "And this," I said, reaching for a cloth bundle.
Even through the cloth, the sword knew me; it thrummed in my hands. I presented it to Magnus Opaki.
He reached out for it, his eyes going wide. His hands never made it to the sword. He withdrew them.
"Tell me," did you ever touch Saint Meleni's sword after her death?
"No, Magnus," I replied.
His eyes bore into mine for a long moment, "Keep it," Opaki said. "It is like her blade.”
I gave Magnus Opaki a confused look.
“You've bound this blade to you," he said as a way of explanation.
A second knock and orderlies enter.
"We are ready, sir," one of them said.
"May God's grace go with you," Opaki said to me and, most of all, my wife. "We are transporting him to Rome for better care."
The man, who was once named Julian, did not wake as they packed him on a new gurney and trundled him out the door.
***
"It's nice to be back in Savannah," my wife said. "It's been four months; I wonder how the choir sounds."
Since Savannah, we'd had stable, if small-time, work, and our car was running like a champ. We are back today to say a final goodbye to a friend.
I pull up in front of the Motel, now with a sale pending sign. Stanag's mother and Gary wave at us as Stanag shoulders his backpack. A moment later, he slides into the back seat.
"Thanks for the ride," Stanag says.
"Did you say your goodbyes?" I asked.
"Yeah," Stanag responded with a sniff.
"Where to then?" I asked.
"Charlotte, southern Diocese recruitment center," Stanag said.
"Not the Marines?" My wife asked.
I watched him through the rearview mirror. He only shook his head; he'd made his choice, much in the same way I had, painfully.
Eighteen hours later, we all stood outside the recruitment center.
"Stanag, may his grace go with you," I said.
"Arturious," he said shyly. "My father named me. Mom preferred the nickname Stanag."
I proffered my hand, and he shook it. In five steps, he was through the gate. A new life awaited him.