On Unfaithful Wings (36 page)

Halfway to my goal, I noticed the man looming beside the ruined organ. He might have been a statue for all he moved, but the glint of candlelight shining in his eyes told me otherwise. He seemed to sense my gaze upon him and moved into the light. As he did, I saw he had someone else with him. The uncertain light revealed more as he took another step toward me.

One arm encircled Poe’s waist, his other hand grasped her by the throat. I didn’t want anything to happen to her, or to Trevor, but it was the sight of the man towering behind her, holding her, that made my heart forget to beat a couple dozen times.

Azrael.

“Icarus,” he said in a drawl both free of accents and rife with them. “The time has come for you to come home.”

It took a second to shake off the feeling of surprise and dread. By the time I did, Father Dominic had already plunged his knife into my back.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

My body tensed as the knife entered me like a rough lover, but while my energy disappeared like air escaping a balloon the first time I’d been stabbed, this time my limbs swelled with inexplicable power. The priest wrenched the blade free, twisting it on the way out, its edge grinding against my spine. I sucked in a shuddering breath, gritted my teeth against the burning sensation in my back, and savored the rage exploding through my body.

He wasn’t ready for the roundhouse backhand I surprised him with, catching him full force to the side of the head. The impact sent him reeling, giving him no time to consider poking me a second time. Warm blood ran down my back and into my skivvies, the feel of it feeding the anger swirling in me, building it to a crescendo like a spring river pounding against a dam.

Father Dominic regained his balance as I drove my shoulder into his mid-section. The knife tumbled to the floor. I took half-a-second of satisfaction at the sound of the blade hitting the carpet but didn’t allow myself to savor it given my opponent looked like an extra from
Night of the Living Dead
and knocking the wind out of him probably wouldn’t slow him. His fists hammering my kidneys and the fresh knife wound in my back proved it. I rammed him into an overturned pew, and then threw my shoulder into his bread basket a couple times.

I straightened to admire my work and saw the inverted cross carved in his forehead come at me with no time to dodge, crunching against the bridge of my nose sending blood gushing down my face. My head rang like a tuning fork as the impact staggered me.

The priest took advantage of the opportunity, grabbing a fistful of lapel in each hand and lifting me into the air; my toes dangled uselessly three inches above the floor. Through blurred vision, I saw Azrael standing beside the altar and my nerves jumped. Trevor stirred minutely, looking like someone waking with a monster hangover after a late night. With Poe still pinned against his chest, the fallen angel moved closer to Trevor, within arm’s reach. Seeing him so close to my son forced me back into action despite my foggy head and the ringing in my ears. I clutched the priest’s wrists, wrestled to free myself, but his grip was solid.

The altar disappeared from view as Father Dominic threw me across the room. My ass hit the floor, the police handcuffs in my back pocket jamming painfully into my cheek, and slid on the mess of torn psalms, stopping when my back smacked the corner of a pew, sending a fresh jolt of pain from my newest knife wound. The desire to sit a minute, let my head stop spinning, got vetoed when my spidey-sense tingled in overdrive.

I rolled to the right. The dead priest’s foot hammered the floor in the area my balls just vacated.

So that’s how it’s going to be, is it?
The Marquis of Queensbury’s rules out the window in favor of the Marquis du Sade’s.

Scrambling out of the way, my hand happened upon a thick bible still possessing most of its pages; I hurled it at his head in an attempt to buy myself time to gain my feet. The good book burst into flames midair, falling to ash before it reached its target.

Nice trick, but not good for me.

He brushed the debris from the front of his vestments, smearing ash with the blood and God-knows-what-else on it, and strode toward me. I crawled away, sputtering blood from my lips, but he grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and slammed me onto my back, bearing down on me, giving no opportunity to defend myself. His knees pinned my arms at my sides, immobilizing me while his fingers found my throat. I squirmed beneath him, my muscles burning as desperation sent lactic acid through my limbs.

The priest leaned forward, leering, willing me dead; inches separated our faces. The smell of him oozed into my pores, a different odor than at the jail--still the scent of turned earth, as if he’d recently vacated an open grave, but this time the other stink seemed more seared flesh than burnt toast. If his fingers weren’t wrapped around my neck, I’d have gagged.

My eyes rolled, searching for something to use as a weapon, to hit him with, or stab him, or shoot him, whatever. Chunks of wood splintered off the corner of a pew lay nearby, but my hands trapped beneath his knees kept them tantalizingly close but unreachable. I wiggled and shrugged to no avail. He leaned closer, lips pulled back in a blood-stained sneer, drinking in every second of my agony, waiting to savor my final breath. I stared back at him, cringing from the smell. At least in my final minute I’d show him the little boy who’d grown up in fear of him was gone. If the outcome of our meeting would be my death, I’d die like a man.

But if I die, Trevor dies.

A bolt of panic shot through my body, stiffening my limbs. The priest looked intense, greedy, like a starving man about to bite into Dickens’ Christmas goose. It was the same sort of look I’d seen on his face when I was a child and it reminded me why I hated him.

A line of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth threatening to drip on my cheek. I stared up at him, my back teeth grinding together hard enough I thought they might break, when I felt a light pressure on my face, like someone had dropped a pillow there.

Father Dominic’s expression changed. His perverted grin drooped, his eyebrows raised; the fire blazing in his eyes dimmed. The hatred and rage and triumph mixing on his face disappeared, shifting to surprise--and not the kind like when someone gives an unexpected gift, more the I-found-a-snake-in-my-sleeping-bag kind of surprise.

Panic bled away, forced from my being by a surge of energy beginning in my chest: a feeling too intense to be my lungs pleading for air. The sensation spread like a drop of ink on a square of paper towel, filling my groin and spilling down my arms and legs, numbing the multiple points of pain in my back, my limbs, my face. The desperation caused by lack of breath vanished.

Something seeped out of the priest’s face.

It curled from his nose and mouth, a wisp of smoke reminiscent of agent orange dissipating from a vacant trench. His surprised look deepened and the pressure on my throat diminished. For a moment, I shared his astonishment and wanted to turn my head away, but as the vapor found its way into my nostrils and throat, realization seeped into me along with the mist. Against his will, with no effort on my part, I was harvesting the priest’s soul.

I didn’t know I could do that.

Father Dominic guessed what transpired about the same time I did. He released his grip on my throat and jumped back, tearing his gaze away, stopping the flow. It felt like someone used a hanger to remove a piece of my brain through my nose. I scrambled to my feet, not bothering to waste time gasping for air or wondering if he should have been able to extract himself like that. The advantage belonged to me now and I wanted every inch it gave me.

The priest stood three yards away, body coiled to spring. The look of surprise had melted from his face and he averted his gaze studiously from mine, making eye contact for only fractions of a second at a time. The soul-gathering thing that he’d interrupted before it got rolling had startled him, but the element of surprise was gone. He’d be ready next time.

If I could figure out how to do it again.

We circled one another--dogs looking for an opening to go for the other’s throat. I passed within a couple of feet of the pointed chunks of pew lying on the floor. Bending over to grab them would leave me open to attack and, if he got behind me, I was fucked. Still, I needed them. The priest’s strength was too much for me. If we kept going head to head, I’d likely end up missing mine.

I jitterbugged to the right, away from my goal, then feinted toward Father Dominic, hoping to make him commit to an attack. It worked. He lunged and I dove away, rolling across the floor and coming to my feet with a makeshift stake in my hand.

“Come on,” I yelled finding my breath.

Over the priest’s shoulder, I saw Azrael watching, his face placid and unemotional, Poe unconscious in his grip. Trevor shifted but his eyes remained closed.

Hold on, Trev.

An animal growl brought my attention back to the priest. His face changed, twisted: his jaw bulged with muscle, nostrils flared. His forehead pushed forward like Cro-Magnon man, eyes sinking under a ridge of bone but still not meeting mine.

“Your time has come, Icarus Fell.” His clenched teeth looked as though they’d lengthened and grown pointier.

The temperature in the room sky-rocketed. Torn hymnal pages and scriptures strewn across the floor at my feet burst into flame, forcing me to dance back. The priest advanced, his fists engulfed in flame, the fire spreading to every piece of paper, jumping to the broken pews like it had a mind of its own and a voice to urge him on. I scurried away as he surged toward me, his heat igniting the stake in my hand, but I held on. As he reached me I spun away, hit him across the back with both arms using my strength and his momentum to carry him forward into the wall. By the time he regained his balance and turned, I was already in his face.

I forced his right arm back against the wall and plunged the stake through the palm of his hand, pinning it in place. Before he grabbed me with his free hand, I jumped back out of reach. He screamed with pain and rage, first pulling at his pinned hand, trying to free it, then swinging wildly at me, throwing kicks that fell short. The stake held him but, with his not-of-this-world strength, I didn’t think it would be for long. I had to secure his other arm.

The pain of my bruised ass reminded me about the handcuffs I’d liberated when Poe rescued me from jail. I pulled them out of my back pocket and bounced them on my palm. Even in the scalding room, the metal felt cool, the weight of them reassuring. I crouched like a basketball player ready to defend, waiting for an opening. Father Dominic swung at me a few more times, then reached for his pinned hand again. I darted in.

I grabbed his wrist and wrenched it away, slamming the cuffs on. His teeth gnashed dangerously close to my ear, the pointed canines clicking together less than an inch from my lobe. He fought against my grip, tried to keep me from pulling his arm away like we were engaged in a whole-body arm wrestle.

Flames spread from his burning hands, climbing the sleeves of my coat, reaching for my face like an attack dog doing his bidding. The smell of smoldering flesh--disgusting and exciting--urged me on. This time the stench didn’t come from some dead guy but from my own burning flesh.

The priest was strong, but I had weight and leverage on my side. I stretched his arm back and slipped the other end of the cuffs around a pipe running from a radiator, locking it down. His head jerked toward me, to bite or head-butt me, but I dodged and stepped away.

He thrashed against the wall, screaming profanities, but the stake and cuffs held while I calmly patted out the flames before they found their way to my cheeks. Pain rolled in waves along my arms, throbbing with the beat of my pulse, but I kept the agony from my expression, kept it from him.

Instead, watching him pinned to the wall in the same pose he’d made me stand in punishment all those times, I smiled.

“Let me go.” Flaming spittle flew from his lips as he screamed; I stepped back to avoid being set ablaze again.

“Come now. Don’t be cross.”

A sound behind me drew my attention, but I kept my eyes on the struggling priest.

“Ric?”

Trevor’s voice. A cold knot of fear clogged my throat.

“Hang on Trev,” I said over my shoulder. “I’ll be right there.”

With the last word, I rushed Father Dominic, grabbed the sides of his head and tilted his face toward mine. I had to get to Trevor, but I couldn’t trust a heating pipe and piece of broken pew would hold this monster. I had to end it. Now.

The flames surrounding him scorched my hands but I held on. A little burnt flesh was small price to pay for my son’s soul. The priest closed his eyes, unwilling to look into mine, so I jammed my thumbs into them. He gnashed his teeth, fighting hard, but I pried his eyelids open. Our gazes met, leaving him unable to look away.

Finally, after all these years, he was mine. Vengeance was mine.

His face slackened with naked fear as the light pressure on my face returned followed by the surge of energy through my veins. Seconds later, the mist bled from his face again--his soul, essence, spirit: whatever--and this time I was ready for it. It floated near my nostrils and I inhaled deeply, pulling it out faster. It filled my head first, making it feel light and swollen, a glass ball floating on the ocean. Pictures trampled my thoughts, memories not belonging to me.