“Bart, are you OK?” That was way too close to him for my taste.
“I’m good back here. Now I have an opening.” Before I could tell him to keep his head down, he opened fire.
I guessed his video games were really good training, because Bartholomew had pretty good aim. He kept the remaining two witches zigzagging and unable to fire back. Bob pulled into Saint Edward’s parking lot. We were looking around frantically for the gate. The witches were getting closer. From the driveway behind the church, a woman appeared. It was the lady in the green dress from confession.
She rushed to my window. “Isis, hurry. You need to get out.”
“We’re trying, but we can’t find the door.”
“Around the building, the door on the side of the rectory. Hurry. Once you go through, we’ll hold the door. We can keep them out at least for a few minutes to buy you some time. Hurry.”
“Thank you. I’ll pray for you.” I reached over and grabbed her hands. They were freezing.
“I know you will.” She squeezed my hand and winked.
I was surprised when I realized I meant it.
“Bob, hurry around the church, toward the priest’s house.” I pointed to the driveway.
Bob was a great soldier. He didn’t need to be told twice. He took the van around the church. Bartholomew was still firing at the witches. I wasn’t sure how many rounds he was carrying, but he kept shooting. We were on the other side of the church. The rectory, the house for the priest, was behind the church. Bob made his way around the driveway.
“Isis, please tell me you’re kidding.” Bob looked at me in horror.
“Oh God, there is nothing easy here. Bob, get us through that gate.” I had no words of encouragement for Bob. If we stayed, we would die. The gate was the back door of the rectory. A faint light radiated around it.
“Hold on, everyone.” Bob hit the gas, and Bartholomew and I screamed.
I’ve seen those videos where they tell drivers to relax during car crashes to minimize the impact. I’ve never met a person who followed that advice, unless they were drunks. Drunks were the only people who survived bad crashes. They were so limber, they were almost like Gumby. I did completely the opposite. My entire body tensed, and I closed my eyes. If we were going to die, I didn’t want to see it coming. I felt the surge of energy when we crossed the threshold, as the three of us screamed.
“Oh, wow, that was amazing.” I opened my eyes, and Bob was doing a happy dance next to me. We were in the middle of Beech Street, in front of the church facing Fifth Street.
“Isis. Bartholomew. Where are you?” We were back on earth, and Constantine was back on.
“Constantine, we’re in front of Saint Ed’s.” I had no idea how we were on the street, but I didn’t care.
“Finally. Everything was dead for almost thirty minutes, and then I heard you scream.” Constantine was talking pretty fast.
“Thirty minutes? Are you sure? We were gone less than ten.” That didn’t make any sense.
“Time is an earth concept. It doesn’t work the same in other realms. Anyways, what are you doing over there? You need to get back to the post office. I got you backup.” Constantine sounded way too proud of himself. I was praying he didn’t have any more ninja cats waiting for us.
“Isis, who are you talking to?” Bob was eyeing me cautiously. I had forgotten he didn’t have an earpiece.
“Sorry, Bob. Talking to our guardian. We need to head back to the post office, quickly.” I was looking around for more angry witches.
“You have a guardian now?” At least he started the van as he spoke.
“We both do. His name is Constantine, and he’s a five-thousand-year-old talking cat. Whatever you do, don’t call him kitty. He’ll poke your eyes out.” Bartholomew had moved up to explain things to Bob.
“Of course you have a talking cat that serves as your guardian,” Bob said very matter-of-factly, without an ounce of sarcasm in his voice.
“Isis, either he’s taking this really well, or he’s having a mental breakdown,” Bartholomew tried to whisper to me, not very well.
“Bart, you do know I can hear you. After everything I’ve seen this week, I’m ready to believe in aliens.” Bob was glancing at Bartholomew as he drove down Fifth Street.
“Definitely breakdown. Too much to handle all at once.” Bartholomew was looking at Bob, fairly concerned.
“Nobody is having a breakdown here. Not till we find a safe place for these people and lose those witches. Got it?” It was my turn to glare at the boys. They both nodded quietly. “Good. Now keep an eye out for those witches.”
“Do you think they followed us?” Bob was looking around everywhere.
“We have their precious cargo. They’re going to want them back. Not to mention they’re running out of time.” It was the magic hour, as photographers called it—when the sun had set but you still had enough light to give pictures a dreamlike quality.
The streets were still deserted, but it wouldn’t last. We needed to hurry. Bob was making sure not to draw too much attention to us. Not sure why he bothered; we were missing the windshield and had a giant hole in the back. We were less than a block away when the first witch appeared in front of us on Walnut Street. I opened fire. Shoot first; ask questions later. She raised her arm, and a shield blocked the bullets. Bob didn’t need any instructions. He took a quick right to avoid the witch.
“How did they beat us here?” Bob was looking around, confused.
“They couldn’t get through Saint Ed’s, so they probably went back to their door. Be careful, Bob. They could be anywhere.” With our luck, we could be heading straight for them.
Bob
