The First Sacrament (The Demons of Stone Chapel Book 1) (30 page)

***

Hours later, I forced Dante to take a nap.

We didn't try the kissing thing again. We didn't talk. We just laid there. I waited until his breathing evened out, I waited until his eyes closed, and then I waited some more.

I waited until I fell asleep, and when I woke up, light no longer filled the window. Sleet beat against the glass, tree branches scraping like claws at the siding. A fire filled the hearth and the TV was on, tuned to Channel 10 News.

Rubbing the grainy feeling from my eyes, I sat up. Dante's hand fell from my shoulder.

“What time is it?” I asked. My mouth was dry, my tongue like sandpaper against my teeth.

“9:38,” he said quietly. “Channel 10 News has a special report for us.”

I hated it when he got all cryptic first thing in the morning. Evening. Night. “What's that mean?”

He pointed to the TV.

Candace Walker stood in front of a warehouse in a poncho, the wind whipping the plastic hood against her face. Every time she peeled it back, the wind would gust and the plastic would adhere to her cheek like a second skin. After some off-camera scolding from her producers, she gave up and got reporting. “Good evening, Stone Chapel, I'm Candace Walker for Channel 10 News reporting live from the old Harker Meats warehouse on Barton Avenue. As many of you may remember, the bodies of five people were found murdered and mutilated here two and a half months ago with the killer still at large. Though there have been no leads on the case, a new discovery has been made.”

Turning against the wind, Candace pointed to the warehouse and the camera panned over to follow. It zoomed in on the front of the building, where police officers tried to keep the growing crowd back. People strained across the caution tape, desperate for a glimpse of the―

I gasped. “Oh my God.”

“As you can see,” Candace narrated as the picture sharpened into focus. “There appears to be a variation on the summoning seal drawn in what is feared to be
human blood
on the front of the warehouse.”

Dante leaned forward, hands clasped on his knee. The camera lingered on the symbol, a runny rendition of the seal of the First Sacrament, then panned away to show Candace as she reported the rest of the story. The mysterious seal had been found by a dockworker an hour ago, investigators from the Department of Demonology had been called in to identify it, details were sparse at this time, et cetra.

“Should we go down there?” I asked. Dante and I both knew no one at the Department would be able to identify the mystery symbol. They'd just be wasting time. Theirs
and
ours.

He stood, checking his cell phone. “I suppose
I
should have been down there an hour ago. Chief Morales has called ten times in the last thirty minutes.”

“What, I can't go?” I needed more crime scene experience. And an excuse to actually use the permit he got me.

“It could take hours,” he said, “and you have school tomorrow.”

“I could skip?”

“Beatrice―”

“I'm kidding.”

Mostly. I’d already been held back a year and if I missed any more school, Vance would probably hold me back again. If I didn’t drop out first.

“I'll be back as soon as I can.” Dante headed for the doors. “Don't wait up.”

Like I planned on it. Despite my desire to use my permit, I was pretty tired. If he wasn't going to let me help, the least I could do was catch up on my sleep. Our nap didn't help much. “Before you go, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“What did your dear old dad want?”

He scratched his jaw, unshaven as ever. I suspected this was partially due my comment about liking it the other day. “To drop by an invitation to this party he's having. He insisted that we go. All of us.”

Yeah, because I definitely wanted to attend a party being thrown by the demon overlord. “When is it?”

“Four weeks and two days from now.”

Four weeks, two days. The winter solstice. Brilliant. Mayor Michael Bishop, professional Satan puppet, truly was a master of subtlety. “I guess we're going then, huh?”

“I guess we are,” Dante said. He grabbed his coat off the rack and shrugged it on. “I'll be back.”

When he was gone, I returned to the couch. I tried to sleep, but the image of the seal on the warehouse had burned itself onto the backs of my eyelids. Dante told me the First Sacrament involved manipulating demonic forces to give life to something new. Something powerful.

If so, what was Amarax trying to create? A new Dis?

Vaena said the old one was dying. Killing to create a new one seemed logical. Twisted, but logical.

And then we had the mayor to consider, that sneaky asshole. Operating under Amarax's thumb for months. No wonder he hated Dante so much. He needed him out of the way to take over the city. But that was before I showed up. He hadn't been counting on me. Or Aralia. Or Max. Together, we'd stop him. Together, we'd defeat Amarax and usher in a new era of peace for Stone Chapel.

Together, we'd go to that party. And together, we'd win. We'd win because I was sick of losing. We'd win because Dante deserved a break.

We'd win because people needed us to. Whether they believed it or not.

Thirty-One

School was abuzz with last night's breaking news. Between it and all the murders, people were finally starting to get worried. A thin, but noticeable strand of anxiety wound its way through the halls, embedded itself into classroom lectures. In biology, Ms. Kepler skipped her lesson on metaphase or whatever it was to talk about advanced demonic physiology. At lunch, representatives from CADP handed out flyers detailing exactly what one should do upon encountering a possessed person and/or animal. The same list of bullet points we'd learned in third grade. Nothing that would actually
help.

Everyone was so ignorant to the truth. The real truth. They read those fliers and believed the words written there would save them. They rested their hopes on the backs of the government, the police, the clergy. No one knew about Henriette’s letter. No one knew Elias committed atrocious acts of human sacrifice at the church. No one knew because everyone in this city had been lied to for the past two hundred years by the same people they trusted to protect them. Real history was exchanged for fabrications printed in our textbooks, spoken in our lectures, adapted into our lesson plans.

I tried telling my English class that maybe we should be careful about what we took for the truth. They told me I was being insensitive to the families of all the recent murder victims.

Had I not met Dante, I would have gotten mad, too.

November became December and that strand of anxiety grew longer, tighter. After Thanksgiving, Candace Walker began reporting nightly about the city's demon situation and even called Dante a couple of times for statements. The rest of us did what we could to prepare. Aralia warded the house (again), Max kept his Armageddon Now readers informed with daily “Demon Watch” posts, Vaena learned to shoot a gun, and I tried to go about my life as though the Winter Solstice wasn't a day away. I worked out, trained with Dante, ran with Mo, and since I didn't have anything to wear, went shopping.

“I don't care if we're all going to die, we're at least going to look good doing it,” Aralia said. She held a long red dress up to my shoulders and made a face. “No, that won't do. It clashes with your hair.”

That was the fifth one she rejected for me. “Is this really necessary?”

“This is an elegant affair we're going to, Beatrice, of course it's necessary.” She shook her head disapprovingly and put yet another dress back. Pretty sure it had bows on it. “What about this purple one?”

“Um, excuse me, ladies?” A nervous looking sales clerk skirted the edges of the rack. “I'm sorry to bother you, but is one of you named Beatrice?”

Aralia pushed dress after dress aside, pausing at a green one with frills. I shook my head and she shoved it over. “You're going to have to like something eventually. You can't go to this party wearing the rags you usually wear.”

Hey, now. That was uncalled for. “I don't wear rags
.
”

“Ladies?” The sales clerk lifted her finger. “Could you―”

“Oh,
really?
” Aralia scoffed. “What d'you call that getup you've got on now, hm? Gertrude Goth joins the military?”

“Just because I'm wearing combat boots―”

“―And a jacket you no doubt bought from a surplus store. And all that
black―”

“―
You're wearing black, too! And what’s wrong with the surplus store?”

“Yes, but at least I make it stylish―”

“Ladies!” The sales clerk stepped between us. She batted the wisps of hair from her eyes and huffed. “Your
friend
is making a mess of our displays, see?”

I followed her accusatory point to the front of the boutique. Vaena sat on the ground cradling a mannequin in her arms. She stroked its bald head, scratched at the hollows where its eyes should have been. The rest of the mannequins were knocked over, their clothes in disarray. A few passers-by stopped to stare in disbelief. One man tapped on the glass like he was observing a shark in an aquarium. Vaena hissed.

“Every time we go near her, she―”

“I've got her,” I said.

You take the demon girl out for one measly hour and she makes a mess of the winter collection display. Dante was definitely going to be hearing about this.

“If you don't get her under control, we're going to have to ask you to leave!”

The horror, the
horror
.

Rolling my eyes, I went to sit on the platform next to Vaena. The man who knocked on the glass before poked his buddy in the ribs with his elbow and they shared a good laugh.

I flipped them the bird.

“These remind me of
kazraach
,” Vaena said.

“The mannequins?” I asked.

She nodded.

Huh. I guess they did look a little alike. Tall. Pale. Unnaturally skinny. “Do
kazaraach
model clothes, too?”

She shook her head. “No.
Kazraach
hunt.”

“Hunt what?”

“Whatever Papa wants.”

“What did he want this time?”

“I don't know.”

Damn. It was worth a try.

I stood. “Okay, well, that mannequin isn't a
kazraach
and that angry lady over by Aralia is going to get really mad if we don't clean this up.”

“She called me an animal.” Vaena's lip curled. “I don't like her.”

“I know you don't,” I said, “but we have to clean this up. You don't want your brother to hear about this, do you?”

The threat of Dante's disapproval was enough to get her on her feet.

Mumbling something in demonic, she helped me reposition the (now naked) mannequins. I gathered the clothes she'd torn and tossed them behind a particularly large potted fern. We'd be long gone before anyone noticed they were there. Hopefully.

“Gertrude Goth reporting for duty.” I saluted Aralia as Vaena and I joined her at the racks.

Aralia grabbed my shoulder. “What about this one?” She pulled a dress out and held it up to my chest like she had the last. “It's black. Your favorite.”

“And it'll match my ward,” I said, pulling the dark fabric around my waist. It was long enough to be appropriate but short enough that I wouldn't be tripping over myself. A layer of black lace covered the silky body of the dress and a thick black ribbon cinched the middle. The lack of sleeves was great for all the nervous sweating I'd be doing, too.

“You simply
have
to try it on,” Aralia said, shoving me in the dressing room, which was really just closet sectioned off by a curtain.

I checked the time on my phone. Dante asked before we left to pick up his suit at the dry cleaners. “Wait, don't we have to―”

“No talking,” she pulled the curtain shut. “Put the dress on. I'll go find you some shoes.”

“Yippee,” I said, suddenly coming face to face with myself in the smudged surface of the mirror. Same Beatrice. Same red hair. Same nose. Same freckles. New calluses on her hands. New fire in her eyes.

And then there were the things the mirror couldn't see. The confidence. The determination. The fury. The hatred. Months ago, I looked at myself in a mirror and saw a zombie. Now I saw something different. I saw a fully realized human being who struggled and loved and lost and fought with everything she had.

I liked her much better than the zombie.

Begrudgingly peeling my clothes off, I stepped into the dress and pulled the straps up over my shoulders. I checked the mirror again. Straightened my skirt.

The Apocalypse might have been upon us but at least I looked good for it. Better than good. I looked
great.

“Well?” Aralia said.

I pulled the curtain back and struck my best Sylvie Karlov pose. Smoldering femme fatale meets awkward eighteen year old with coordination issues. “You like it?”

She grinned, clapping her hands as she did when she got excited. “Oh, darling, it's perfect!”

“Yeah?” I turned to look at myself again.

Vaena appeared in the mirror behind me. “Very pretty,
versmaash.
”

My smile faded. She was wearing her brunette wig today. Clothes she stole from my closet. They were too big for her, hanging off her still scrawny body in dark folds. She usually wore sunglasses to conceal her eyes but she'd taken them off for this. If she hadn't, I might have mistaken her for Rosie. The real one.

The dead one.

“You're sad,” she observed, chewing her nails. “Why?”

I shook my head. “It's nothing, Vaena. I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” she backed out of the dressing room while Aralia pushed her way in.

She waved a pair of heels in my face. Tall ones.

“I can't wear those,” I said. “I'll break my neck.”

“Oh,
Beatrice
,” she put the heels on the floor. “Go ahead. Put them on.”

“Didn't I just say I can't wear those?”

“You shouldn't limit yourself like that.”

“I like to think of it as self-preservation.”

“Just try them on. Once. For me.” Her tone was light but her expression was sharp. She wouldn't be taking no for an answer.

Sighing, I squashed my sock covered feet into the heels. They lifted me up a good three inches. I wobbled unsteadily, grabbing onto Aralia's arm for support. “See? I told you I can't wear these.”

“Don't they make you feel powerful? Like you could stab a man with them.” She fixed her hair in the mirror and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Look at you, Beatrice, you're almost as tall as me now.”

That much was true. I only had to look at her at a forty degree angle as opposed to a ninety degree one. “That's nice, but I'm still not wearing them.”

Her wistful smile crumpled at the edges. “You can't wear your boots to this party. I won't allow it. And neither will the dress code.”

“I don't see why I'm supposed to care,” I said. “Bishop isn't worth these heels. Or this dress.”

Aralia patted me on the shoulder. “Bishop isn't worth the air he breathes, but we're all making sacrifices today.”

Hopefully not in the literal sense. “Can I take these shoes off now?”

“Fine, but we're finding you some decent flats.” She withdrew a credit card from the pocket of her jeans and passed it to me. “Pay for the dress and I'll get your shoes. Then we'll go get Dante's suit.”

“And food?” Vaena asked, examining a bra she found on the return rack.

Aralia sighed. “Yes, Vaena. And food.”

Her chapped lips curled in a pleased smile and she put the bra on over her clothes. “Good. I want this. I like it.”

The sale's clerk, passing by us on her way to the cashier's desk, stopped so fast that if we were in a cartoon, she'd have had her own sound effect. “Um, excuse me? Are you planning on buying that?”

“Yeah,” I said before Vaena could start hissing again. “And this dress.”

Aralia appeared from the shoe section of the boutique with a box. “And these.”

“Wonderful,” the sales clerk said. I imagined the relief rolling off her in little squiggly cartoon lines. “I can ring you up right over here.”

I changed back into my usual clothes and brought the dress up to the desk. Aralia swiped the card she'd given me and when she did, the sales clerk gasped.

“Dante Arturo?” She looked at us, then looked at the card. “What
―
”

“We're friends of his, darling,” Aralia said. “May I have my receipt?”

Star-struck by a piece of plastic, the sales clerk ripped our receipt from the dispenser and handed it over. “Here you are.”

Aralia and tucked both the card and the receipt away in her pocket. “Thank you.”

“Is he really going to that party tomorrow?” The sales clerk asked as we headed out the door.

I stopped. “How do you know about that?”

“Everyone's talking about it. They say it's supposed to be the party of the year!”

The party of the year. The party of the century. The party to end all parties. This woman had no idea. “Do they? Huh. Cool.”

“Is he going?” She pressed.

“Yeah,” I said, “he's going.”

“And so are we,” Aralia grabbed me and whisked me out the door. “Goodbye, darling. Thank you for all your help.”

A fresh batch of clouds chugged across the already dour sky. Cars buzzed down the cobblestone streets and the wrought-iron lamps flickered on in preparation for the storm. We were on the east side of the city, a few blocks from Cromwell University. Where the rich people sheltered themselves from the rest of us. It looked nice, like a life-sized model of a quaint Victorian village, but demons lurked here like they lurked anywhere else. They writhed in the shadows, searching for new victims. To believe otherwise would be stupid. Foolishly optimistic.

Especially now.

Optimism brought us this far, but it was realism that would get us through. The chances were good that this party tomorrow would be a trap. An elaborate scam constructed by Amarax to throw us off guard. We had to accept the fact that one of us could get hurt. That more people could get killed.