"Come out, come out, wherever you are!"
Father Paladina knelt in his uncomfortable position beneath the staircase, eyes closed and struggling to control his breathing. Each gasp sounded like the cracking of a tree branch, and he couldn't fight down an occasional sob of terror. His heart beat in his ears, and his veins were about to burst open.
"I can smell you, Priest. I know you didn't run far. Where are you?"
The voice came from upstairs in the local priest's office. Niccolo's pulse hammered so hard his vision pulsed with it. Nausea churned in his stomach, every muscle locked tight. His body shook, and bile rose in his throat.
"We both know how this will end. If you come out now, I'll do it quick. If you make me come and find you, though …"
Niccolo struggled to control his breathing as hot tears ran down his cheeks. He reached into his front-right pocket for the single item he kept there. His rosary, which he held between his fingers and pressed against his lips, praying as hard as he could for the strength to deal with whatever was happening to him.
Not to overcome it, though. Part of him—if he were honest, a large part—knew he was about to die alone in this church, and the only thing he prayed for was the strength to die well.
After all, right now, not only his life hung in the balance: so did his everlasting soul.
"This basement has no exits. I know this church. This is my church. Not yours," the man—if still a man—said from just upstairs. "I never thought I would actually get to kill a priest here. This is delightful!"
What is he waiting for? Niccolo's hands trembled against the rosary. Tim Spencer—or whatever controlled him—enjoyed taking his time. Every muscle in Niccolo's body ached, and he had to fight to keep from sobbing. Why is he doing this? Why is he waiting up there?
He'd been hiding under the stairs forever—or less than a minute. Time had lost all meaning.
"We're having fun, aren't we, Priest?" Tim asked.
Niccolo couldn't contain a shudder, and the movement caused his shoulder to bump against one of the boxes behind him. The noise it made wasn't that loud, but to Niccolo, it rumbled like an explosion in the stillness of the basement.
If his pursuer heard, though, he didn't let on. Tim hummed to himself as he took his first step down the staircase. It creaked heavily underfoot, and Father Paladina winced when dust fell on his head.
Another step; the sound of the boot on the stairs sounded like a nail in the priest's coffin. Tim kept on coming, humming a tuneless tone, until the father could see muddy boots in front of his face.
"Priest? You know I'll find you. You can't hide from me."
Niccolo's whole body trembled, and the man had called it true. His hiding place offered nothing—weak, pathetic, exposed. As soon as Tim reached the bottom of the staircase, he would spy Niccolo. The priest had backed himself into a corner and had nowhere to go.
He shouldn't have stayed here at Saint Joseph's Cathedral alone. Should have gone with Father Reynolds to his home; splitting up had turned into a terrible idea, and one that might well cost him his life.
Father Reynolds's life, too. The realization struck like a fist. Jackson had gone home, but no doubt, whoever had sent this creature after Niccolo had gone after him as well. Father Paladina hadn't warned his friend of the danger. He regretted that, now. Jackson had no way of defending himself and knew nothing of the danger. Niccolo had led him like a lamb to the slaughter.
Tim Spencer reached the bottom step, and Niccolo could see his back through the gap in the risers. He had nowhere to run and no possible way to get out of this. It was over. He was about to die.
He should at least face his death head on.
As a servant of God.
The rosary's beads dug into his palm. He had a choice—the same choice Vittorio had made in Manila when the demon turned on them. His mentor had not cowered. Had not begged. Vittorio had stood and spoken the rite until the very end, and Niccolo had spent three years hiding behind a desk, ashamed that he hadn't done the same. No more hiding. If this basement was to be his tomb, he would meet his end on his feet, with the words of his faith on his lips.
Easier said than done, however. His body struggled against him. The priest forced his wobbly legs to move and rose from his crouched position, stepping out from beneath the stairs to confront his pursuer. Tim heard him and turned.
"Well, then. There you are." The man grinned and bared his teeth. He was more feral than anything. "Well done, Priest. Found a little courage after all. Are you ready to meet your maker?"
Father Paladina opened his mouth to speak, to pray, but no sounds would come. His voice had abandoned him, and the words he'd studied and practiced for years caught in his throat.
"What? Cat got your tongue?" The man stepped closer to him and continued to grin that insane grin. "Let me get you started: Our Father, who art in heaven …"
"Vile abomination, you don't belong here," Niccolo muttered. "By the power of Christ, I compel you." He held up his rosary, hand still shaking. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I order you to leave this place."
The man stopped moving forward, his grin fading. "You think that will work? You, of all people, think that a prayer could compel me to just drop everything and leave?"
Strength surged through Father Paladina's chest as the words poured out of him. The demon was lying, and the words did have impact. They straightened his spine, steadied his breathing—despite everything, he did not stand alone. The prayers and his faith held the man at bay.
Maybe he could get out of this alive. If his faith held up.
"You do not belong here, creature. Return from whence you came. Through the power of Christ, I demand that you leave this holy place."
A long moment passed, the only sound Niccolo and the man's breathing. The priest held his rosary forth, hand unwavering and back tall. They stared at each other, locked in place, as the seconds ticked by.
"Silly priest," the man said, finally, his grin returning. "Don't you know you have no power here?"
The man reached up and grabbed the rosary in Father Paladina's hand. A sizzling sound filled the basement, as though flesh burned, and the metal heated against his palm.
It's working. The thought blazed through Niccolo's mind. The holy symbol burns him. Everything I was taught, everything I believed—
Tim stepped closer, pressing the cross against his forehead. The metal burned Tim's skin where it touched, and he burst into a wild and maniacal laugh.
The rosary burned him. Niccolo watched the flesh blacken and smoke where the cross touched Tim's forehead, watched the demon press harder into the pain, laughing, always laughing. The sacred symbol worked—it burned with holy fire, exactly as the texts described, exactly as Vittorio had taught him.
And the demon didn't care.
Twenty-five years of faith. Twenty-five years of prayers and devotion and absolute certainty that God would protect his servants. The rosary in his hand was not a symbol—it was supposed to be a weapon, blessed by the Holy See itself. The demon's flesh burned and blistered and still Tim pressed forward, still that terrible laughter echoed off the basement walls.
Father Paladina released his grip on the rosary and jerked back in disgust. The man let it fall to the floor, a sizzling chunk of metal, and there it lay.
The cross hit the concrete and the sound was final as a coffin lid. Niccolo stared at it—the melted, ruined thing that had been his only protection. The demon's forehead bore an angry burn in the shape of the crucifix, raw and weeping, and Tim wore it like a trophy. Like a joke.
Everything I believe. Everything I am. It means nothing to him.
The words from his training echoed hollow: *The power of Christ compels.* But did it? The rosary had burned. The prayers had been spoken correctly. Every ritual performed exactly as prescribed. And here stood the demon, grinning, untouched by anything that mattered.
If the sacred couldn't stop evil—if God's own symbols burned but didn't repel—then what did that mean about God himself?
"How does it feel?" The man took another step closer to Father Paladina. Still grinning that sick and toothy grin. "How does it feel to know you are truly alone?"
He reached forward, grabbing the priest around the throat and squeezing. His grip was iron, crushing down on Niccolo's windpipe.
"How does it feel to know that God has abandoned you?"
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