I analyze this beautiful, dangerous creature, feeling violated.
Haunted.
Stalked.
There’s no way she could. Not unless she’s some sort of mind reader, which of course would be ridiculous.
Unless she’s exactly what I imagined her to be. A being sent by either heaven or hell to wreak havoc on my life.
In a moment of blind, self-protective impulse, I throw all duty out the window and opt for self-preservation. “I want you to leave. Go. Get out of my church. Don’t ever come back.”
Athaliah blinks as if I’ve slapped her. Her confusion is real, raw, and the concern that follows leaves me addled once more. “But . . . but you won’t survive it. Not at this point. It’s”—she places her hand against the grate, brow furrowed—“too late for you at this point.”
What the fuck is she talking about?
No. Don’t care. Forget this shit. Forget all of it. I’m getting away from her if it’s the last thing I do. “Just go. Don’t ever come back in here while I’m holding service. Actually, at all.” I shove the curtain on my side open, all but stumbling out, and rush out of the nave as if the Devil’s on my heels.
She doesn’t follow me, but it damn well feels as if that’s the case.
What’s worse? That she does as I ask. She doesn’t come back.
And that’s when the test devolves into a true tragedy, beginning with horrors one can only imagine.
Chapter Four
The farmer’s market is blessedly empty today. It’s usually packed this time on a Saturday. The sun just began to set and I decided to head out late.
An entire day off wasted on bullshit.
Stop talking like that.
I mean, thinking like that.
Fuck!
Shame continues to grow. Alongside it, a mysterious physical affliction.
Or maybe it’s just a bug I caught, but since I’m losing my mind, I keep assuming everything relates to this.
To her.
To this trial that I haven’t managed to escape, even with her absence.
It’s been three days since I demanded it.
I have to admit: a part of me didn’t think she’d oblige me.
Every inch of me hates that she did.
And I mean that on a physical level. I’m either getting sick, as I said, or something else is happening.
Perhaps it’s supernatural. As spiritual and otherworldly as the many afflictions mentioned in the Bible.
Afflictions brought about by hellish creatures.
Now you’re just being ridiculous again.
Or am I? Really, just how literal is my faith? If I take everything I was taught to heart, then anything is possible.
My phone pings with a news notification. I spare a quick glance at the headline.
Number of mysteriously dead men found near the Upper East Side rises to thirty-five. Authorities remain confused as to cause. Foreign diseases ruled out.
Slipping it back into my pocket, I send up a prayer for whatever soul lost their lives now. As a rule, I usually don’t involve myself in the world’s affairs outside of running my church.
It’s not that I’m not allowed, just makes for a simpler life.
Or so I thought prior to Athaliah.
Even so, the case is starting to get more and more attention and more people are tuning in.
Men are being found dead throughout parts of Manhattan and the Bronx. Their cause of death is unexplainable, but their bodies are mared and partly exsanguinated.
It’s New York, though. As odd as the circumstances are, it’s also par for the course.
Hopefully the Lord helps the nightmare end soon.
I avoid a crowd of young women waiting in front of the homemade beauty products stall. I’m not oblivious to how one-by-one they turn to follow me with their gazes.
A few whispered comments are made, followed by the expected giggle.
I’m never unaware of the attention I get. Especially on my days off, when I wear regular street clothes—in this case, it’s a pair of jeans with a sensible beige button-down. My hair is held back in a half-bun, which is more proof of how unkempt I am lately.
Haven’t shaved in weeks, either. My beard is getting way too thick.
What I consider unkempt, however, might be considered fashionable in today’s world, and I’ve never had an issue attracting female attention.
An issue in and of itself considering I’m a priest and I’m supposed to shun it.
A bigger problem when suddenly I’m dying for the attention of one female who might just be the bomb sent to annihilate my spiritual vocation.
Stop thinking about her. As if I could.
I approach Mr. Amos vegetable stall. Most of the food cooked by the nuns is delivered, yet my weekly trips here are routine. I bring back fresh produce for their meals and help out my mother’s old friend while at it.
Mr. Amos is currently busy charging another customer, his back toward me. I smile at the sight of his slightly hunched over form, looking forward to—
Blonde at the corner of my eye.
I stop in my tracks, heart racing.
Oh, God. I’m hallucinating her presence now. Imagining—no, hoping that every blonde woman I see turns out to be her.
Furious with my weakness, I turn to prove to myself that it’s just some random woman with the same hair color . . . but it’s not.
It’s truly her.
Walking across the street, leaving a trail of mesmerized men in her wake.
I’m flabbergasted.
At the same time, I’m relieved.
Those men are spinning to stare at her with foolish longing, their expressions stunned.
Lost.
It’s not just me who’s weak in her presence.
I watch her heading toward the corner, her light beige overcoat flaring against the back of her bare legs.
For the life of me, I don’t know what in the name of God comes over me, but suddenly I’m rushing across the street in her wake.
Past the stupefied idiots that are practically drooling after her.
One of them beats me to it, a young, brash fool in a baseball cap. She cuts him a glance. I can’t see her face, but whatever it is stops him cold and leaves him mute.
Then, Athaliah turns the corner, and whatever evil impulse has me following her kicks into overdrive.
I hurry along, but maintain
