Vigil: An Urban Fantasy Thriller Page 2

  After the feeding, Faith wrapped Nicolette up in bed silks and hugs. She couldn’t decide which of them needed comforting the most. She lost track of time as they lay there huddling in the cave. Eventually Nicolette fell asleep, despite the early hour and the dragon’s loud snoring. Faith supposed that too much stress had overloaded the girl’s system.

  No longer feeling the need to keep up appearances, Faith sobbed. She had learned on her first day why the dragon had brought her home. That’s why she knew it would never let her go.

  Dragons, she’d learned, can only eat two kinds of food: food presented to them by virgins, or the virgins themselves.

  Chapter 3

  “Il y a un demon dans l'église,” the little old lady read.

  “What?” Peter asked.

  “There’s a demon in the church,” Stefan translated. His listened as Adrienne, the church secretary, continued. “The bishop of Lille confined it there in 1366.”

  They sat huddled in the archive rooms of the old village church. Peter had seen many old, beautiful churches during his quest across Europe. He’d never seen one this large or beautiful in a village so small.

  “I thought you said we’d never find the answer in old books,” Peter told his friends.

  “Most of the time we don’t,” Gabriel answered. “You know what the one big exception is?”

  Peter shook his head.

  “The archives of old churches. You know why we find answers there? Because churches keep good records. You know why nobody else has found them before?”

  “No,” Peter admitted.

  “Because they’re boring as crap,” Stefan chimed in. “We found these buried between the baptism record of Simon Valjean and the wedding certificate for Adam and Belle DuPont. Truly fun stuff.”

  He returned to the parchment and read aloud.

  “The locals called it La Velue, the ‘hairy one.’ They record that it devoured livestock, terrorized the villagers, and wilted crops with its breath.”

  “Wilted?” Peter asked. “I’d have said burned.”

  “Evidently it can do that, too,” Stefan reported.

  “Oh really?” the Knight asked sarcastically.

  “How do we kill it?” Conor asked, refocusing the discussion.

  “It doesn’t say,” Stefan reported.

  “Obviously the locals never did kill it,” Gabriel noted.

  The German cleric nodded in agreement.

  “It says the beast killed the fiancé of a local hero. He…” he checked the text and conversed quietly with Adrienne. “He pinned the beast down by its tail and held it there while the local priest performed some kind of binding ritual. Then they built a church on top of it to keep it trapped.”

  “Of course,” Conor whistled.

  Peter scanned his friend’s face questioningly.

  “Want to clue me in?”

  “Dragons are actually demons in another form,” the Irishman reminded him. “They can’t set foot on hallowed ground.”

  Gabriel frowned at them.

  “No, that’s not quite right,” he noted. “Minor demons can’t set foot on hallowed ground. The major ones can, although it pains them. And if it can manifest as a dragon, we’re not talking about some irritating little imp or gremlin.”

  “That’s why they needed a binding ritual,” the Friar noted. “Something to enhance the effect.”

  “Like what?” Peter asked.

  “I don’t know. It seems like it played some role in the dedication of the church.”

  Adrienne interrupted him with a string of French. Stefan gave her a shocked look and asked her a question. They took turns pointing at portions of the delicate manuscripts as they continued a brief discussion. Eventually, Stefan pulled his face away from the texts and returned to English.

  “I stand corrected,” he told them. “The ritual didn’t play a part in the dedication of the church. The binding ritual was the dedication of the church.”

  The implications took a moment to sink in.

  “They bound a demon,” Peter asked incredulously, “by dropping a church on it?”

  “Sure looks that way,” Gabriel answered.

  “Almost literally,” Stefan agreed.

  “How’d it get loose, then?” Conor asked.

  Stefan posed the question to their host.

  “Je vais te montrer.” She waved for them to follow her.

  “She’ll show us,” Stefan translated.

  Adrienne led them out of the small office and through the vestibule.

  “Regardez.” She pointed into the sanctuary. A large, gaping fissure cut through the rear pews. Roughly eight feet at the widest, its length ran nearly two thirds of the way across the public room. Adrienne let loose a torrent of information.

  “She says it came out through the fissure first,” Stefan repeated. “But now it’s found another way in and out. She doesn’t know where. She says a blonde American girl came and made the fissure to let it loose.”

  The companions traded looks.

  “Abigail Covington.” Peter only stated what they’d all thought.

  Adrienne continued her rant.

  “She says the dragon came out and terrorized the town for a night. Then it disappeared. They thought it had left them for good, and they tried to go on like it never happened. Then in late November it came back.” He paused for a moment. “She says the beast carried a blue haired girl with it.”

  “Faith!” Peter exclaimed. His spirits rose. “Is she certain?”

  Stefan relayed the question.

  “Oui. Très certain.” Peter didn’t need the translation.

  “Don’t get your hopes too high,” Stefan cautioned. “She says nobody’s seen the girl since.”

  “Fair enough,” Peter answered, tempering his enthusiasm. “But at least we know for sure that we came to the right place.”

  Conor returned to practical matters.

  “So how do we kill this thing?”

  “I have no idea,” Stefan told them. “Nothing touched it in Georgia. Even the Sword proved of limited value.”

  “Can we re-bind it?” Gabriel asked.

  “Maybe,” the Friar answered. “But I’m not sure how.”

  “What if we rededicated the church?” Peter suggested.

  “We can’t,” Stefan answered. “The church can’t be rededicated unless it’s been profaned. That can only happen if enough of it is destroyed, or if the bishop redesignates it for secular purposes. Abigail wreaked havoc here, for sure, but she doesn’t appear to have profaned the church.”

  Adrienne started chattering again. Stefan listened intently, following her gaze on the parchment. Then he took his glasses off and pondered.

  “Well?” Conor asked him, irritated at the delay.

  “The archives imply the ritual binding may not have been a spell at all. It may have been a mass. Specifically, the Easter Vigil.”

  Conor considered the idea.

  “That makes a kind of sense,” he allowed. “Can we do one and reseal it?”

  “Maybe,” Stefan replied. “We could certainly try.”

  “Anybody else think it’s a weird coincidence that today’s Holy Saturday?” Peter asked.

  One by one his companions all nodded.

  “It is the holiest mass of the year,” Stefan noted.

  “Just so long as we all agree that it’s weird.” Peter sat back in his chair, less than mollified.

  “We’d have to finish before dawn,” Stefan noted.

  Connor grunted in displeasure. “I don’t like going in at night,” Conor declared.

  “Last time you pushed for a night assault,” Peter reminded him.

  “Last time we went in against golems,” Connor pointed out. “Dragons are different. They can see in total darkness. And we’ve never done more than fight the beast to a draw. I’m not crazy about handing it yet another advantage.”

  “We don’t need to kill it,” Gabriel pointed out. “We just need to keep it
busy, and keep it under the church.”

  “And we need to get Faith out,” Peter noted.

  “And get Faith out,” Gabriel agreed.

  “Ok,” Conor agreed with a sigh. “How long will it take?”

  “With no baptisms or confirmations? About two and a half hours.”

  “The local weather station pegs sunrise on Sunday at seven fifteen,” Gabriel chimed in.

  “So back it up to quarter to five to give us enough time,” Conor computed.

  “That’s cutting it close,” the Friar noted.

  “Yeah,” Conor agreed. “But when things go wrong, I want at least a chance of cleaning up the mess in daylight.”

  Gabriel grunted an acknowledgement.

  “Do we have everything we need?”

  “I always have my field kit,” Stefan noted. “Technically, that’s all we ever need, even for an Easter Vigil. But the church probably has finer supplies on site. Better to use those if we can.”

  He spoke to Adrienne briefly. The secretary confirmed that she could acquire the necessary items.

  “We’ll need some candles and a fire out front, to do the vigil properly,” he added.

  “Easy enough,” Conor replied.

  “Don’t forget the six demon bag,” Peter joked.

  His companions stared at him.

  “Wind, fire, all that kind of thing? Big Trouble in Little China? Kurt Russell?” Nobody caught the reference. “Never mind.”

  “Then all we need is the priest,” Conor continued.

  “Why can’t Stefan do it?” Peter asked.

  “I can, but Conor’s right. It’s better if we find the parish priest. We'll need Stefan in other capacities. He can fight.”

  “So what happened to the pastor?”

  Adrienne hung her head in shame.

  Chapter 4

  Peter wondered what the locals thought of them as his motley crew made their way down the village streets. They probably looked like some kind of crazy street gang. He hoped they didn’t run into any police. Four intimidating foreigners would probably not receive a warm welcome - or the benefit of the doubt.

  After a brief discussion with the secretary, Conor had decided to go headlong down the intimidation road. He’d donned his old British Army fatigues and a vest of combat webbing. He’d loaded both with every piece of visible kit he could round up.

  Gabriel had swapped out the tailored suit that he normally wore for a dark brown leather jacket. But he’d kept his trademark ten gallon hat and snakeskin boots, and augmented them with a pair of pearl handled revolvers worn at his waist.

  Peter stuck with the same jeans and t-shirt that he always wore, but he’d strapped the Sword to a baldric and hung it at his waist. Even Stefan had cleaned up his Augustinian habit and brought along the staff he normally carried only for formal occasions.

  On the other hand, Adrienne marched at the head of their procession. Stomping proudly with her head held high and aloof, she wore the same frumpy outfit she’d worn in the library. Somehow that only left her looking even more intimidating than the rest, in that way that only little old church ladies can pull off.

  From the reactions of the very few locals they passed, Peter guessed that the church lady phenomenon had spread internationally. He certainly felt glad that he wouldn’t be on the receiving end of whatever she dished out. In their terror, nobody even seemed to notice the men behind her.

  They approached a large but old house in a middling state of repair and stopped before a bright red door. Conor pounded on it three times with his fist. A middle-aged Italian woman opened the door and looked them over. Peter wondered if they’d overdone it. When she let out a whimper, he felt certain they had.

  Chin held high and aloof, Adrienne pushed past the lady of the night and led the march inside. The others followed behind solemnly. Nobody asked how she knew the way.

  It didn’t look like a brothel to Peter. On the other hand, he’d never thought much about what a brothel should look like. He’d certainly never visited one. Even so, it didn’t live up to his expectations. The lights shone at full force, colored like daylight; not red. The room gave off an airy, even cheerful air. And it smelled good, rather more like a gentleman’s parlor than a house of debauchery.

  But mostly it was just too clean.

  Muffled noises of lust surrounded them as they passed through the hall. Every now and then, a courtesan would poke her head out of her room in curiosity.

  The first popped back into her room quickly and locked the door behind her. The second opened the door fully and stared the men up and down with a smile as they passed. She pressed herself against the doorframe seductively, and her clothing left little to the imagination. She winked at Peter and made a lewd gesture. He turned a shade of red brighter than her bustier and looked away.

  The old church secretary stopped at a door on the left, just shy of the end of the hallway. She drew herself up to her full five-foot-two height, thrust her chest out, and pounded loudly on the door. Passionate grunts transformed into a feminine giggle, followed by a teasing voice that Peter couldn’t understand. A gruff male response cut her off.

  The door opened to reveal a tall, raven haired French beauty, naked as the day she was born. She looked the men over, clearly not intimidated in the slightest. She took a deep drag from her cigarette and blew the smoke upward, away from their faces. She gave Gabriel a seductive smile. He grinned back at her and touched the brim of his hat with a nod.

  “Quentin!” she called out behind her. “What have you done this time, you naughty boy? They’ve sent Americans after you!”

  The dark haired prostitute stepped out of the doorway and allowed them to enter. Peter had no idea where she produced the business card from, but he watched her drop it in Gabriel’s jacket pocket as they walked by. She formed her hand in the shape of a telephone receiver and brought it to her face, mouthing the words “call me” to the old Texan. She added an extra sway to her hips as she strolled away nonchalantly.

  Peter forced his gaze away and his attention back to the task at hand as he stepped into the small but luxurious room. In the dim candlelight he could make out the form of a man, huddled under the covers. He and Gabriel strode forward to flank the bed. They each grabbed a corner of the bedding and pulled, revealing the pale, trembling, naked man underneath. He took one look at Conor and sobbed.

  Father Quentin Delacroix didn’t look like much of a priest. For that matter, he didn’t look like much of a man. His current occupation of the fetal position made it hard for Peter to get an accurate gauge, but he guessed the man to be about five and a half feet tall and maybe a buck fifty soaking wet.

  His shaggy hair needed a trim, but not as badly as the scrabble of beard that hadn’t so much grown as not been shaved for days. The bags under his eyes reached Druish princess proportions. Peter could smell the liquor on his breath – cognac, he guessed – from three feet away.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked them in heavily accented English.

  “I have come to hear your confession,” the Friar informed him. “So that you may perform your duty and say Easter mass this this Sunday.”

  The man gawked at him and hung his head in sorrow.

  “I cannot do this thing you ask,” he told them sadly, “for I have no more faith.” He curled even tighter and wailed.

  For a moment Peter felt pity for the man. Then he remembered the villagers terrorized by a dragon, the little girl the dragon had taken, and the parishioners who hadn’t had mass in months. They needed a priest. They needed this priest.

  His pity dried up quickly.

  Stefan never had any pity to begin with. The Friar stepped forward and smacked the little man hard across the cheek. When the priest cried out and turned away, the German struck him again across the other cheek.

  “You know as well as I do that the power comes from the Lord, not from us. Your faith, or lack thereof, is irrelevant. Your duty awaits you.”

  “It�
��s just an excuse,” Gabriel told them quietly. “Look at him. He’s terrified.”

  “Of course I’m terrified!” Father Quentin retorted. “There’s a dragon in the church!”

  “We know,” Peter answered. “It's why we're here.”

  “You're insane,” Quentin retorted.

  The cry of the dragon called to them from outside. Peter's hair stood on end as he rushed to the window, trying to catch sight of it. Another cry followed as his friends filled in behind him.

  “I don't see it,” he told them. He turned toward the door, ready to rush downstairs. “Keep an eye on Quentin, I'll -”

  He stopped cold. The priest had taken advantage of their distraction and bolted.

  “Shit,” Conor swore.

  The raced back through the hallway, down the stairs, and out the door, but they were too late. The priest had disappeared, and so had the dragon.

  Chapter 5

  Stefan stepped forward and lit the bonfire. He’d swapped his typical Augustinian habit for liturgical vestments – white to match the Easter season. The team gathered around as the blaze grew. The massive, medieval church towered above them as they checked their gear one last time in the firelight.

  “I told you he wouldn’t show,” Conor declared.

  They’d searched most of the day for Father Quentin, but it had proven pointless. He’d gone to ground. Nobody in the village seemed to have any idea where he’d disappeared to. Stefan told them to have faith, but Conor insisted the little man had skipped town in a fit of cowardice. Peter had hoped the priest would show for the main event, but he hadn’t held his breath.

  “It’s time,” the Irishman added.

  Stefan opened his prayer book and crossed himself, ready to begin. Gabriel placed a hand on his arm. “Wait,” the Texan told them, gazing into the darkness. They followed his gaze.

  Adrienne led a procession of locals down the hill. The villagers quietly joined the foreigners around the fire. Peter recognized the parents of the girl the dragon had taken. He even recognized one of the courtesans from the brothel. The girl’s father stepped forward from the procession.

  “We have come for the Vigil,” he informed them in flawless English.