The exactness of all the things left for me, as if the demon who kept me knew my every secret, was precisely why I knew I was still in hell. This was all a trick of Lucifer.
Even the priest, as he heard my confession, looked at me as if my ravings of demons, of the black abyss, were only a trick of my mind.
I wept when I told him why I was here, that I had killed a man who had followed me home from work and left his body in the snow. That I was damned. His eyes grew sad. “Chadwick Parker died in 1923. That was practically one hundred years ago. What you blame yourself for... it isn’t possible.”
“You’re not listening to me!” And that had to be part of the torment. Those kind eyes so full of pity as I paced and told my story day in and day out. “I’ve been locked away. There was this book full of entries written in my hand. A box full of notes about demons and hell.”
“You were released from the sanitarium, into the care of your husband and his staff. He loves you, and he’s concerned, which is why I was called upon. You’re very much alive, and though not many may find Manhattan to be heaven, it is a far cry from hell. At least for most.”
Pointing—the glass of my windows bright with morning sun, where people walked in multitudes, where I watched them in utter confusion for days—I cried, “This is not the right world!”
Where were the slender cracked roads and cable cars? Everything from my view was paved and shiny. My eyes took it in with such precision, despite the fact that this room loomed high over the city. Women wore trousers! Men failed to make way for them. Nothing, at least the room that was slowly turning into an odd amalgamation of this new world and my former apartment, smelled like cheap cologne or piss.
“You have the influence to change the world. Wealth beyond measure. The donation made to the diocese will go far to rebuild crumbling churches, extend community outreach. This world is not right, I agree. Change it.”
“You don’t understand what I’m saying…” Because he would not listen. According to him, Vampires weren’t real; there was no desecrated church at the heart of the city filled with evil.
And I was falling for kind, brown eyes. The soft tenor of a patient holy man. One who had offered absolution, the Eucharist, the blood of Christ. I was falling for the trickery.
Because this was hell.
“Father Patrick, I think it’s time for you to leave.”
I knew he used the door, as I could see him holding it for our guest, but I had been so frustrated, so distracted, that I failed to notice just who had come into my room. Rocking back in my chair, out of it so quickly it toppled, I was at the window, wringing my hands, desperately trying not to look directly at the father of evil.
“Ahh, Vlad. Good morning to you.” The older clergyman stood, shuffling toward the door. Pausing to add, “We’ve read through more of the book of John. She had questions I’ve yet to address. Considering your theology expertise, perhaps you can enjoy a discussion together on John’s finer points.”
“Noted.” Vladislov gestured toward the door, polite yet brooking no refusal. “Leave.”
Not once had the priest questioned such rudeness. It seemed much more than daily prayer could be bought for whatever sum the diocese enjoyed at Vladislov’s expense.
Rebuilding churches.
When the door clicked shut and it was just the two of us, he offered a smile. One I could feel, for I still only showed him half my face and tried my best not to look.
He spoke aloud to my private thoughts. “The catholic faiths do love their glitter. I agree the fortune should be spent on the message, not the architecture where limp men try not to ogle the patrons.”
Dry lips parting, I dared to defend. “Celibacy keeps the heart close to God.”
“But my heart is here.” Fingers carded through my hair, the length cut as short as it had been my last night at the Super Club selling cigarettes. Bobbed and angled to land with a sweep at my cheek. A comforting familiar thing in a world of absolute strangeness.
Such as how the man could cross a room so quickly I had not seen him move.
I used to scramble, in those first days when he’d touch me. Cower and cry. I used to feel a heartbeat of pain between my legs, recalling what a demon had done to me in a room Father Patrick had sworn never existed. A room I would understand if only I would keep taking my medication.
Now, I just froze and waited for torment.
In its place, I got a kiss. One on the top of my head. A kiss and a soliloquy. “The book of John was actually written by a woman. When the Christian biblical canon was compiled—the various known gospels sorted through—only four were chosen to tell the message and story that best suited a clear agenda. Her name was stricken, and John was given credit in her place. Isn’t that fascinating? The account of the disciple who loved your Jesus the most was written by his wife. Which brings me back to the topic of celibacy. He was not celibate.”
I could feel myself splitting down the middle already. “Please.”
He took my hand in his, the hand of a man. Veins upon the back, large and warm. Not burning-hot, coal-black inferno.
In place of talons were trimmed nails.
But I knew what he was underneath.
“Would you prefer I came to you that way?” The whisper at my ear was intimate, unwelcome, and sent a shiver down my
