*Two Days Earlier*
Father Niccolo Paladina stepped off a bus and into air thick with the scent of cedar and wet earth. Everett sprawled around him—population thirty-five thousand, wedged between the dark silhouettes of Douglas firs and the gray waters of Puget Sound somewhere beyond. Though early in the afternoon, the heavy cloud cover smothered any sense of time.
To ward off a sudden gust carrying the salt-tinged marine air from the Sound, he clutched his coat tight to his chest and his teeth chattered. He'd grown used to winter weather and unfavorable climes but certainly not a fan of them.
He picked up his suitcase as the Greyhound shuttle pulled away from the curb, leaving him on the street alone. Then thankful he hadn't packed a lot of luggage for this foray because the sky promised rain, and he didn't want to spend a lot of energy lugging too much around the city with him.
With any luck, he wouldn't have to stay here in the state of Washington for too long before making the trip back to his home in Italy. He hadn't been in favor of making this trip at all, but when orders were orders, and when his superior gave him a directive, he didn't dare refuse. The Church had been the only family he'd ever had—had taken him in as an orphan boy of seven, fed him, educated him, given him purpose. He owed it everything. That debt made refusal unthinkable, even when the directive sent him to the far side of the world.
This made for only his second time coming to the States at all, and he wasn't much of a fan. From his education and studies, the priest understood that the States spread out across vast geographical zones and climates, but so far, he had visited Maine and Washington, and even though both struck him as beautiful and pristine in their own ways, he doubted he would willingly make a return trip. Maine had been too cold, and Washington had quickly turned out too wet, its perpetual drizzle seeping into everything like a living thing.
With a sigh, he began his trek down the road in the direction he hoped led to his hotel. The bus stop stood only half a mile from the place, but he hadn't brought a map with him and the streets remained unfamiliar. Dark and dreary, poorly lit, towering evergreens pressing close between the buildings like silent watchers—a fact which further frustrated him.
Niccolo had gotten sent here on behalf of the Vatican to meet with the local priest about Church business, and not the kind of business they wanted locals privy to, which meant it stayed only between himself and the priest, Father Jackson Reynolds.
Reynolds, a young man, had charge of a new parish—'new' to Niccolo meant anything built within the last hundred years—and had impressed a number of higher-ups during his education and training in Rome. Jackson went to the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome and had excelled.
Supposedly, he'd made a brilliant student with a bright future ahead of him, but he had committed a critical mistake in the last few weeks. An error that had brought Niccolo here to this god-forsaken town when he could have been eating in a street market near his home: Jackson had gone over the local bishop's head and contacted the Vatican to request help. Such a mistake should cost the priest his position and livelihood, considering the transgressions committed.
At least, that made for Niccolo's opinion on the matter; not that anyone asked for his opinion.
To go over the bishop's head exhibited unacceptable behavior, much less requesting an exorcist get sent to the town. The requesting of an exorcist, or even an evaluation of demonic activity like this, meant a big deal: an order of events existed for situations like this, and a chain of command through which communications went. And attempting to bypass links in that chain eroded the fabric on which the Church's trust had formed, and the fact that Jackson's insolence had ended up rewarded by Niccolo getting sent to talk to him irked Paladina quite a bit.
Not enough to transgress on his own, however. Niccolo intended to investigate the situation that had brought him here to the best of his abilities, of course, but he also intended to straighten the priest out about how situations like this should work. By all accounts, Bishop Glasser was a reasonable man overseeing a few Parishes in the area, and if he didn't believe that the situation warranted Vatican attention, then it probably didn't.
Which meant Niccolo prayed—desperately—that he would not find anything untoward within Father Reynolds's claims about demonic possession in Everett. His last true exorcism, the one in Manila three years ago, had almost killed him. He could still smell the sulfur and rotting flowers that had filled that cramped apartment, still feel the tropical heat pressing down on them like a physical weight. Father Vittorio—his mentor, the man who had taught him everything about this work—had died screaming in his arms. The possessed woman had twisted Vittorio's neck with her bare hands before Niccolo could complete the rite. He remembered the terrible crack of bone, the way Vittorio's eyes had gone wide with surprise, and then nothing. Niccolo had finished the exorcism alone, tears streaming down his face, his mentor's blood soaking into his vestments, and the demon's final words still echoed in his nightmares: "Your faith is hollow, Priest. You will never be strong enough." Since then, Niccolo had buried himself in investigation work—cataloging, verifying, debunking—anything that kept him safely behind a desk instead of facing another demon. *Dio, dammi forza.* He was not ready for that. He might never be. The admission should have troubled him more than it did. Instead, only relief at the comfortable distance investigation work provided.
But the Vatican hadn't sent a desk clerk to Everett. They had sent an exorcist—trained, ordained, however reluctant. That distinction mattered, whether Niccolo wished it to or not. Somewhere between Rome and this rain-soaked bus stop, a decision waited for him: would he keep hiding behind paperwork and procedure, or would he face whatever this town held the way Vittorio would have? He didn't have an answer yet. But the question itself marked something new.
Vittorio had been more than a mentor. For a boy who'd grown up without parents, shuffled between Church orphanages in Naples and Rome, Vittorio had been the closest thing to a father Niccolo ever had. The old priest had taught him Latin, chess, and how to recognize the difference between madness and true possession. Losing him had been like losing family for the second time.
Something about this town pressed against his skin—a heaviness in the air that had nothing to do with the marine layer. He dismissed it as travel fatigue and walked past a two-story building with a sign on the front that read: Labor Temple, and then made a right-hand turn at the next corner. He was beginning to fear that he had gone in the opposite direction from the bus stop but didn't see anyone he might ask for help. No choice but to continue forward.
The worst part about his trip here? When he reported such news back to the Vatican, they would, no doubt, give the young priest a slap on the wrists and forget his transgression had ever occurred. In many similar cases, such a wayward priest would get significantly more than a slap on the wrist, but his powerful friends merely wanted him to get chastised for his mistake rather than dealt with harshly.
Niccolo's jaw tightened, but to be honest, it remained none of his concern. The only reason it grated on him right now was exhaustion, hunger, and crankiness. Small droplets of rain pattered against his skin, and his jacket would be soaked before he made it to the hotel. Half a mile hadn't been so far to walk, but just now, he wished he'd simply paid for a cab. The only thing he cared about at this moment was checking into his room, finding food, and warming up for the evening.
He stopped walking and stepped under an awning when the rain suddenly came down in earnest, certain now that he had made a wrong turn at some point. Niccolo had glanced at his map on the bus, but he wouldn't consider himself familiar with the city by any means. Fairly sprawling, many of the streets blurred together. He set down his luggage and dug the map out of his pocket.
The wind whipped by every few seconds, flushing his long strands of black hair into his face and obscuring his vision. A frown creased his features as he brushed away his tangled mane. The cold rain ran down the back of his coat, wetting his skin. He had an umbrella packed in his bags, but digging it free only to be blown about by the wind didn't appeal much to him.
Focused on the map, he traced his finger across the streets and found his mistake. He had turned too soon and gone a few blocks off-course. The good news was that he now stood only a short distance from his hotel and just needed to backtrack a little.
Carefully, he folded the map and slipped it back in his pocket before walking once more. He nodded politely at a passerby, who happened to be out, but the man refused even to spare a glance his way. The stranger stared at the ground with a blank expression on his face, hurrying and leaning against the wind. This man, like Niccolo, just wanted to get out of the rain.
A few minutes later, he arrived at his hotel. A two-story brick building with faded red paint and a tired welcome sign out front. Old and worn and not at all aesthetically pleasing. He despised the exterior but warmed to the place when he stepped inside the antechamber. Warmth enveloped him, toasty and comfortable and quite clean. For a moment, he stood just basking in the warm air, letting the water drip off him.
A red-haired woman sat on a stool behind the check-in counter with a magazine open in front of her. She stood when he approached, folding her hands in front of her on the counter, and smiled at him. She had long hair and dimples and stood just over five-feet tall.
"Yes? May I help you?"
"I have a reservation," he said, setting his bag on the carpet and pulling out his wallet. He removed his ID.
"Name?"
"Last name, Paladina. First name, Niccolo."
She scanned the book in front of her. "I don't have any reservations under that name. Are you sure you have the right place?"
He bit back his annoyance—tired, hungry, and in no mood for complications. "Father Jackson Reynolds prepared the reservation, so it might be under his name."
She scanned again, taking an inordinate amount of time to review two pages of names, and then nodded. "Yes. I have a room under Father Reynolds. Looks like it is reserved for three days with a note that it might need longer. Is it just you tonight?"
"Yes," he said. Three days would give more than enough time to handle his business, he hoped. In fact, he hoped to get done in a day.
The woman turned around and pulled a key from a wall of hooks. She handed it to him.
"You'll find your room on the second floor. Two-oh-nine. Do you need any help getting your luggage up the stairs? We don't have an elevator, unfortunately."
"Not unfortunate," he said, accepting the offered keys. "Quite fortunate, actually."
She tilted her head to the side, confused. "Sorry, what?"
Niccolo doubted she'd ever heard anyone show happiness at the idea of a hotel not having an elevator, but in his estimation, putting something so wasteful in a two-story building was a travesty. Exercise and health had gotten lost with the new age of innovation.
He clarified, "I have no issue with your hotel's lack of modern privileges."
"Ah. We sort of have a reputation in the area for being old-fashioned, and it's not usually considered a good thing. Would you like help moving your bags up to your room?"
"No," he said. "I have just the one bag. Thank you, though."
"Of course."
"Would it be too much trouble to ask that you set an alarm for me?"
"Of course not. What time in the morning would you like for me to set it?"
"This evening, actually. I've had quite a long flight and would like to take a nap, but I have a scheduled engagement I would rather not miss. Would seven-thirty be acceptable?"
"Of course," she said. "I'll set it in the system, and you will receive a call."
"Pre-recorded?"
She hesitated. "Yes."
"Would it be possible if a human calls me instead? I'd rather get woken by a person than a machine. I, myself, am considered rather old fashioned as well."
She pursed her lips, visibly annoyed and trying in vain to hide it. "No trouble at all. It will be after my shift ends, but I'll leave a note to have Donald call you."
"Thank you. I'm sorry to be such a bother."
She smiled her most pleasant customer-service smile, one which Niccolo could tell wasn't genuine. "No trouble. Will there be anything else?"
"I don't believe so."
"Very well, Mr. Reynolds. Please, enjoy your stay."
He considered correcting her that Father Reynolds was the man who'd made the booking, and that he was Father Paladina, but then elected not to. He was a precise man, but rarely petty.
Niccolo carried his suitcase up the stairs and down the hall to his room. The décor of the hallway struck him as plain—a maroon color palette on the walls and carpeting that simultaneously grabbed attention and disgusted. The lights glowed soft and dim and very yellow. At the far end of the corridor, a painting hung crooked on the wall—a pastoral scene of a church surrounded by dark woods. He couldn't tell if the shadows in the trees were part of the artist's intent or simply water damage.
His room proved better, but not by much. The walls still sported an off-shade of red, and the carpet layered too thick, but at least it seemed less ostentatious. On a cursory inspection, the bed sagged in the middle, and he found mildew in the bathroom. His only consolation came from the fact that he wouldn't stay here for long.
He set his luggage on an armchair by the window, checked the thermostat to make sure it was set appropriately, and then turned his attention to the bed. Old and worn out—he couldn't help but imagine the thousands of previous guests who might have slept here. He wouldn't dare to sleep underneath the sheets, but perhaps on top of the blanket would prove acceptable.
Niccolo took off his shoes but left the rest of his clothes on before lying on top of the comforter. The bed sagged softer than he would have liked, but in his present state of exhausted jet-lag, he didn't much care.
Paladina closed his eyes and laid his head back on the pillow. Rather quickly, he fell asleep.
***
A ringing sound from the bedside table next to him awoke Niccolo sometime later. The hotel room had grown considerably darker than when he'd first laid down, and it took him a few moments to gather his bearings.
Outside, rain pattered against the window, coming down in thick sheets and blanketing him in a constant lull of sound. He rubbed his face, pushing himself into a seated position, and then he rolled his body toward the sound.
It came from the room's telephone, which meant it was probably his wake-up call. He could hardly believe it had reached that time already—he'd only laid down minutes ago. He fumbled for it, missing the handle a few times in the darkness, before finally knocking it loose and onto the table. Then he picked up the handle, groggy, and held it to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Uh … Mr. Paladina?"
"Father Paladina," he replied before he could stop himself.
"I was … uh … supposed to call you?"
"Was that a question?" He rubbed his face again.
"I had a note on my desk." The young man on the other end of the line sounded like a teenager. "It said to call you and wake you at this time. And, uh … well, wake up, I guess?"
"And I have," Niccolo said. "Thank you."
Then he dropped the phone back onto the stand and collapsed back onto the bed. If anything, worse from his short nap and wanted nothing more than to roll over and fall back into the comfort of sleep. The rain sounded gentle and relaxing, and the warmth of his lumpy bed had grown rather pleasant just now.
However, he had an engagement with Bishop Leopold Glasser that he couldn't afford to miss. Niccolo had called the bishop prior to his flight to Everett, hoping to get his take on the situation at hand and to explain his purpose for coming here. It would be improper to work behind the bishop's back, even if it were his duty on behalf of the Vatican, and he owed him at least the courtesy of explaining the situation in person.
Bishop Glasser had insisted they meet at his house, though Niccolo had remained unwilling to divulge the nature of his visit over the phone. He wouldn't speak of something so important over such a long distance, especially when he couldn't smooth things over in person. Paladina had no doubt that his business here would infuriate the bishop and undermine his authority; exactly what Niccolo didn't want to do.
Niccolo had, graciously, accepted the bishop's invitation to visit his home. So, he couldn't let himself fall back into blissful sleep on his lumpy bed and would need to get moving so that he wouldn't arrive late.
With a heavy sigh, the priest forced his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching out his tired body. He stumbled to the restroom, flicking on the light switch as he went, and splashed cold water onto his face. It helped a little, and he took a moment to study his reflection in the mirror. Tired bags hung under his eyes, and his hair was wild and tangled, but otherwise, he passed inspection.
Niccolo liked to think himself a handsome man, in his early thirties and dignified with a long face and striking black eyes. He kept his mustache trimmed and thin, wore his hair long, and spent a lot of time and effort maintaining his cultivated appearance, and—though he suffered from a modest amount of vanity—it translated into confidence.
He enjoyed standing out in a crowd.
Finished using the facilities, he turned off the light and headed out into the main room to gather his shoes and dig his umbrella out of the luggage. He had, of course, packed one for this sojourn, much the same as if he had been heading to England or somewhere else where it often rained, and he would have been surprised not to find occasion to use it on this trip. The priest hadn't dreamed he would need it earlier, though, and didn't intend to get caught off-guard a second time.
A few minutes later, he found himself back out in the rain in front of the hotel. A car sat waiting next to the curb for him, a black limousine, and the driver stood next to the passenger door with his arms folded. He wore a poncho, but he was soaked nevertheless. No doubt he had stood waiting there for some time for Niccolo to show.
The man had the practiced and blank expression of someone long used to serving important men without letting his emotions through. He didn't speak, but instead, opened the door and allowed Father Paladina to slide in to the backseat.
A moment later, they wove their way through the city of Everett, Washington, and beyond, heading for the private residence of Bishop Leopold Glasser.
The bishop lived about twenty minutes east of the city, up a winding road the driver called Old Hartford, in what he referred to as "the estate." Niccolo watched the city lights fade behind them as they climbed into the forested hills, the limo's headlights cutting pale tunnels through the darkness. The road narrowed. The trees pressed closer.
For some reason he couldn't explain, the hair on the back of his neck began to prickle. *Qualcosa non va.* Something was wrong.
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