The Deception Dance (36 page)

I find the strength to pull away, this is not a time for falling to
pieces. “Hi,” I say a little anti-climatically, “We
have to go, now.”

Stephen’s hands move from my hair to steady me at the elbows.
“I know,” He nods, “I’ll get the guns. But
first, I want you to meet someone.”

“If I don’t get out of here, the soul-bound...”

“I know,” He repeats and grabs my hand. “But you
need weapons. Don’t worry; now that you’re here, I know
what we have to do.” Stephen pulls me to one of the pews where
an elderly priest is kneeling, praying. I guess while we were
hugging, all the priests scattered to kneel and pray.

“Father Dixon...” Stephen interrupts.

The priest’s skin is such a dark mahogany color that the
wrinkles around his eyes look purple as he squints up.

“This is Raven Smith.”

The priest nods. “Hallo,” he says with a thick English
accent

“Raven, father Dixon is a
real
priest, and a friend.”
Stephen gestures to the space beside the elderly man. “Take a
seat. I’ll be right back.” Stephen just about pushes me
into the pew. My shorts make a squishing sound and I’m pretty
sure the motion flung water off my clothes and onto father Dixon.

I’m uncomfortable, itchy, everywhere my clothes are drying. I
turn my head when Albert and Nicholas’s argument turns into
yelling, but they quickly quiet. I lick my lips and turn back toward
the altar and the stained glass windows above.

A
real
priest... Stephen wants me to talk to a
real
priest? I squeeze closed my eyes and nibble on my lower lip.

“Does it work?”

I open my eyes and turn toward the shaky voice beside me, “Sorry?”

“Do your troubles improve...?” He points a willowy
finger, “When you chew on your mouth?”

My hand claps over my lips. I huff out a laugh and lower my hand,
“It’s a bad habit.”

“No, go ahead; don’t let me disturb your masticating. I
just wondered.” He smiles forward and breathes slowly through
his wide nose.

I comb my wet hair with my fingers tucking it behind my ears on both
sides. My fingers drip with water so I wipe them on my already soaked
shorts. “I think...” I glance at father Dixon, “Should
I...? Am I supposed to confess?”

“
Are you supposed to confess?”
He repeats under
his breath. “Hmm. In my experience of God and his teachings, a
man or woman is only
supposed
to confess if they desire to.”
He clears his throat, “Is that what you wish to do?”

“Um…”

“You are unsure?”

“It’s just...” I concentrate on my hands, “I
confessed my sins to a man I thought was a priest, and he wasn’t,
and it didn’t count.”

“Perhaps, it was not the false priest that you confessed to;
perhaps, it was God. Did you mean what you said in your confession?”

“Yes,” is my automatic answer, but immediately I know
it’s not true. I rub my hands down my face, “Maybe. You
see...” I peer over at him, “I’m still having a
hard time accepting and believing in all this Heaven and Hell stuff
even though the proof of it keeps trying to kill me... or kiss me.”
I exhale, “I guess I’m only just now starting to believe
in Heaven and Hell and God, I’m still so confused about all of
this.”

A papery hand is offered to me. I pause before I taking it; his skin
is as soft and insubstantial as tissue paper.

“Finding the lost sheep makes him...” He nods toward the
altar, “…happier than keeping all those who did not
wander. You see, Raven Smith, you might just now begin your belief in
God, but he has always believed in you. He will be here when you are
ready, and he will joyously welcome you home.”

I swallow. “I...”

A thud, a loud crack, and then a deafening smashing sound makes me
jump and turn to see the center window behind the altar shatter. Some
large object comes hurtling through, pushing a giant hole into the
stained glass and landing at the base of the altarpiece. The object
leaves a trail of dark liquid down the center of the sculptural white
trisection. An instant later, following the object, a figure climbs
through the window and clambers down the altarpiece.

“The lord is my shepherd,” Father Dixon whispers beside
me. His head is down and my hand is still wound around his. He
continues, “I shall not want.”

The figure, a man, bounds down the center aisle. He’s wearing a
torn and dirty mechanic’s jumpsuit, he’s gaunt and his
eyes bulge.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures...”

The man jumps onto the pew in front of us and crouches down. He’s
so fast, how did he get here so fast?

“He leadeth me beside the still waters.”

The man is...
can it be?
Crying. His breath comes out fast and
short, every part of him is shaking. He lifts up a knife, a kitchen
knife from the look of it. “I sold my soul...” he
hyperventilates while speaking in a thick accent, “…to
save my daughter from the carrion flu, and now the demons have my
son!”

“He restoreth my soul...”

The mechanic clutches the knife with both hands above his head. He
stares down at us. Why am I not moving? I should move… stop
him… run… something. A burst of sound erupts behind us
but I don’t... I can’t turn.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: for thou art with me...”

“I need to get my son back… I’m… I’m
so sorry!” He sobs.

There’s no shriek or scream from father Dixon as the knife
comes down. He does not raise an arm to stop the blows as the man
stabs him over and over again. The blade parts his skin like taught
tissue paper.

For some reason, my body won’t look or jump away, or scream, or
fight. As his warm blood splatters onto me, I just clutch father
Dixon’s soft hand until his grip slackens in mine. My hand is
slick with his blood and his fingers slip through my grasp. “Don’t…
don’t…” I whisper, way too late.

The priest slumps away on the pew. His whisper is just audible over
his murderer’s panting, “I forgive you.” His eye
twitches and neck jerks to gush blood onto the pew and floor. He has
a few more spasms and splattering, before he stops moving.

A warm drop of liquid drips down my cheek. For a moment, I think it
could, possibly, be a tear; but, when I wipe it away with my clean
hand and examine my fingers, I see it’s blood.

I lift my gaze to the knife I already know is poised above me. The
mechanic is standing now. His blade no longer shakes, gripped between
both of his blood dripping hands. His red-rimmed eyes shine as they
stare into mine.

I’m boxed in, the pew on three sides and Father Dixon on the
other. The opening to the aisle, between the side-wall and the next
pew, is at an awkward angle. More bloody tears course down my face.

“Raven Smith...” He whispers, as if he just noticed me.
He demands, “Forgive me!”

“No way!” I twist and dive for the aisle as the blade
plunges. I slam into the floor, my knee shoots with pain but I don’t
feel the bite of the knife. I scoot and crawl into the aisle.

Fingers seize a handful of my hair by the roots and jerk my head up.
He’s so fast.

I scramble to my knees, flailing, kicking, and elbowing back wildly.
My shoulders raise and chin tucks as low as his grip will allow; no
way am I giving him a clear shot at my throat.

My elbow finds something tender and he, for an instant, releases his
grip; it’s enough for me to twist and punch him in the groin.

He buckles over long enough for me to stand up. His knife is only
held in one hand and he’s distracted, I could probably fight it
from him...

Albert jumps from a pew, twists in the air, and lands behind the man,
his large hands reaching to both sides of the man’s head.

The man slashes the knife out so fast the blade is a line of gray
streaking the air. It’s only arcing for an instant, a slash
from one side of my neck to the other, too possibly fast to dodge or
even block. But the knife doesn’t open my throat as it should.
I grab for my neck, but an arm, an arm is wrapped around me. I feel a
tear in the white shirt from wrist to elbow, bleeding profusely.

The bloody arm clamps around my shoulder and I’m yanked back
into someone’s chest.

Albert’s baseball-mitt sized hands take both sides of the
soul-bound’s head and give it a quick twist. There’s a
loud crack; the knife drops and is quickly followed by the mechanic,
who jerks once then collapses, smacking a pew on the way down.

The arm around me tightens, dripping copious amounts of blood down my
arms and shirt.

“Nicklaus!” Albert says lunging toward us.

I’m pulled away quickly by the bloody appendage, as if he’s
now trying to shield me from Albert.

“Nicholas,” Albert articulates, “You’re
bleeding. The man is dead, let go of Raven. I need to wrap up your
arm.”

I try to peer back at Nicholas but his grip around me doesn’t
give.

When I turn back to Albert, Stephen appears from the back of the
church. His arms are overflowing with clothes and weapons, which he
drops at Albert’s feet. He swipes up a white cloth from the
pile and holds it out to me.

“Press this to the wound,” Stephen’s voice is so
even and calm I just blink at him for a moment. He waves the bandage
again and I take it. To Albert he says, “Go get bandages.”

Albert doesn’t blink; he’s off before I press the cloth
to Nicholas’s arm.

Stephen’s gaze darts to the soul-bound at his feet, then father
Dixon’s corpse. He closes his eyes and exhales. But the moment
his eyes re-open he’s jumping down and deftly sorting his
weapons.

The cloth soon has no absorbency left and the blood continues to
pour.

“Stephen,” I choke out, “I
need another cloth.” The moment I speak, Nicholas’s grasp
tightens around me. I whimper unintentionally from the pressure.

Stephen jumps up from the pile with another cloth and, weirdly, a
plate. “Put the old one on here,” He bobs the plate
toward me.

I do as he says and replace the old cloth with the fresh. Some
pounding sounds from behind make me jump, but I still can’t
look.

Albert returns with a red bag and skids to a stop almost kicking the
soul-bound’s body. Even after he takes out the bandages it
takes both Stephen and Albert to pry Nicholas off me. The moment his
hand detaches from my arm Nicholas seems to slump onto his brothers.

Albert drags him to the pew opposite of Father
Dixon’s, and helps him sit.

Nicholas doesn’t look over at me, he
hasn’t said anything or even looked into my eyes, but he
stopped that knife with his own arm. I should say something; but what
can I say? ‘
Yo,
thanks
for that
?’ I don’t think
so.

While elevating Nicholas’s arm and
pressing gauze to the still gushing wound, Albert explains, “The
soul-bound broke the lock on the door and attacked, while that one
desecrated the church by murdering Father Dixon and attempted to
kill...”

“We don’t have time for
explanations,” Stephen snaps as he stands. “Fix up
Nicholas as fast as you can then you two climb out the window. I need
you to clear and defend a space for us, at least ten yards in each
direction.” He steps over the soul bound and holds out a thick
black vest. I slip my arms through; it’s probably bullet proof,
the padding is so thick. There’s also a holster with two
gleaming pistols under each arm.

“Do you know how to shoot?”

“No,” I say.

“Then, you’ll need this,” He
wraps a belt around my waist and a long sheathed sword hits my leg,
it’s heavy. “They’ll have a hard time taking that
away from you.” To Albert, “Are you finished yet?”

“He’s lost a lot of blood,”
Albert objects.

“Would you rather leave him here for
the...”

“I can fight,” Nicholas rasps
unconvincingly. Then stronger, “I can fight!” He manages
to stand and without a look our way passes his brothers to march for
the broken window.

My throat feels tight.

I watch Nicholas’s forced steadiness as
he clambers up the blood-slicked altar with one arm; he slips for a
second at the top, but catches himself with his injured arm and an
obvious wince. He’s going out there to fight a demonic horde…
like that?

I shake my head; I can’t look at him
anymore.

The church has a strange tension after Albert
loads himself up with guns and follows Nicholas out the window. The
quiet murmur of voices and a chaotic beating on the front door are
the only noises echoing through the apse. The banging evens out,
reminding me of a beating heart. I peer behind me to see what
happened to the other priests, they haven’t moved from their
kneeling praying positions.

“What will happen to the priests...?”
I whisper, “…when the demons break through?”

Stephen stares intently into my eyes, “Do
you really want to know?

I shake my head. No, I don’t want to
know, not now, not ever.

I glance back at the pew where Father Dixon
lies, “I didn’t even...”

“Not today, Raven. Today is not the day
for mourning. Today is the day we ice over who we are and do what
needs to be done. Tomorrow, if we’re alive, we can look forward
to crying and screaming and smashing furniture, understand?”

“Yes.”

Stephen picks up a canister of salt and the
plate with the bloody bandage.

“You’re taking that?” I point
to the plate.

He nods, “This is a blood offering.”

“
What
?”