Thou Shalt Not Suffer…Exodus 22:18
A solitary figure paced the parking lot behind the church. Half-boy, half-man, he walked back and forth with jerky steps; his thoughts were in turmoil.
Father knows best. The Father, and the Son…
The teenager shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket in a gesture of frustration. He should have been allowed to help. He should be there with Marie. He loved her, and it was her fault his father had sent him away. The years of habitual obedience to his father’s authority were difficult to fight against, but his resentment was strong enough to make inroads on that tendency.
His father.
Something green and oily snaked into his thoughts, and he closed his hand around the hunting knife he carried whenever he could. It was a prized possession, one he’d coveted for a year before he’d saved enough to buy it, and its leather handgrip was worn to his touch. It comforted him. He would use it on anyone who tried to get rid of him again, anyone who thought they could take Marie away from him.
Father doesn’t get to have her. He squelched the thought immediately. That was disgusting. His father didn’t understand, that was all. He didn’t understand that Marie was his, that he loved her and didn’t care if she was different or strange. He was a man now, and it was time his daddy realized that. He could make his own decisions.
Tommy let go of the clasp knife, and felt behind his back for what he’d tucked there earlier in the evening. His car was parked around the corner; he’d drawn his money out of the bank that afternoon.
He was ready.
He sidled into the shadows of the church anyway. His father would be finished praying soon; Tommy was still obedient enough not to want to interrupt. But the side door would still be open. He skulked along the row of bushes that ran, neatly trimmed, under the stained glass windows at the side of the church.
It had gotten chilly, now that the sun had been down some hours. Logan squinted up at the moon, gauging the time, and with a final glance back to make sure none of the crowd was following him, he set off back towards the church.
The streets, like those of any small town, were deserted at this hour. He didn’t look up until he was walking down the dark drive leading to the church parking lot. Then he suddenly realized that there was light—too much light—and he could sense people nearby. Jerking his head up, he saw that the light was coming from within the church. He saw a figure moving in the shadows of the bushes beside the church and his eyes narrowed.
Little small-town punk. It was none of his business, but somehow he didn’t like the idea of ignoring it. It wasn’t just a single person, either; as he neared the front doors of the church he could tell that the other people he’d become aware of were inside as well.
The front doors of the church were padlocked shut, their wrought-iron handles chained together. Logan growled in frustration and moved stealthily around the side of the building, towards the place where the shadowy figure had disappeared. There was a side door to the church and as he moved towards it, he passed a window that opened onto the main room of the edifice. The glass was colored and it made the room within look wavy and unfocused, but he could see someone—no, two people—in front of the room where the altar would be.
He hesitated as he reached the door. It’s a church, for chrissakes. People pray in ‘em. Probably there was nothing wrong and he was just going to be calling attention to himself for nothing. But his instincts insisted otherwise, and he cracked the door open to look inside.
The door was at a lower level than the main floor of the room inside; he was peering up through a small stairwell through another wrought-iron railing. Much of the room was in shadow, but the front of the church was lit. A girl knelt before the altar, her hands clasped and her head bowed as if in prayer. Behind her stood a man in a black coat, holding up a large black book.
“And the Lord said consecrate yourselves therefore, and be holy, for I am the Lord your God.”
Logan stopped short with a hand on the door. This didn’t look like anything bad.
Then, as he watched, the man put the book down at his side and drew something from one pocket. He leaned forward and Logan thought he was going to embrace the girl, or perhaps place something over her shoulders.
“Daddy?”
The man froze, his body hunched over the girl as though to hide her. “Tommy. I told you to leave. Now go!”
“I can’t do that, Daddy. Not without her.” The younger man’s voice was tremulous, but determined, and automatically Logan glanced at the girl to see her reaction to her—boyfriend? He really had no idea, but in any event the girl didn’t move from her position. He heard footsteps from somewhere outside of his line of vision. “Just finish and let us go.”
The man turned his head, and Logan saw with a shock that his face was red and twisted with emotion. “I said go. Go home. Go home, Thomas. I will speak to you later—“
“No.”
The preacher’s head jerked back and his eyes squeezed shut. “God damn you, boy, get the hell out of here!”
It was shocking, both the words and the sudden lashing change of tone. Logan was startled enough that he didn’t move for a moment, and the sound echoed through the large room. The man jerked his head again, once, twice, as though he was trying to shake something off. Logan saw his eyes open, and he expected to see the man turn on his son. He still wasn’t sure what this was about, but he wasn’t about to leave now.
Instead the man’s hands went back to the girl’s shoulders, went around her in an oddly protective gesture. It wasn’t until her head jerked back that Logan realized with a start that he’d tightened something around her throat. Then he didn’t stop to think through any more details; he just shoved the door open with a thrust that slammed it back against the wall. “Hey!” He didn’t bother with the stairs; he seized the top rail of the stairs and simply vaulted himself up and over.
The man turned to stare at him with wild eyes, dragging the girl around with him, and now Logan could see that her hands were tied to the rails of the altar. The man’s face twisted as he saw the intruder. “Who—who’s there? Get out!“ He shrieked as Logan, never breaking stride, struck his hands away from the girl and sent him staggering backwards into a row of pews.
Logan caught the girl before she could fall to the floor. Some kind of rough leather cord was around her neck; he pulled it loose, but something strange happened—a wave of dizziness swept over him and for a second he felt an almost vampiric draw on his strength and breath. What the hell—? He jerked his hand back and saw the girl’s eyes flutter and open. She coughed painfully and closed her hands around the rail she was bound to, holding herself up. Her eyes came up and met Logan’s. He saw fear in them.
“Who are you?” Her voice was choked and hoarse.
“You—you are trespassing here!” The man in the black coat stood behind her, raising the hand that still held the Bible. The girl gasped at his voice and Logan knew she was just as frightened of this man as of him, if not more. “I command you to leave.”
“The hell I will.” Logan rose to his full height menacingly. “Not till I find out what’s going on here.” He looked at the girl. “You all right?”
“Whoever you are, you will leave this church. I am the priest here.” Logan could see veins literally standing out on the man’s head, he was so overwrought. Then his eyes moved. “Tommy! Get away from here.”
Before Logan could do anything else, someone was on him from behind. Fuck. Forgot all about Tommy. He had time just to think that before a heavy weight struck him and an arm was around his neck, trying to bring him down. He threw the attacker off, turning with a roar to face his assailant before the pain really hit him. He reached down and felt the hilt of a knife protruding from his side.
The boy facing him couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen; he was wearing a letterman’s jacket and had the freshly-shorn, hard-scrubbed look of a small-town athlete. For an instant, as he felt the blood pulsing out around the blade, Logan was grimly aware of the triangle they formed: himself, wounded and outnumbered, the father, redfaced and half-staggering as he raised the Bible above his head, and the son, flushed with adrenaline and anticipation of triumph.
The unpleasant grin on the boy’s face faded away as Logan reached down, yanked the knife out of his body and slowly reversed it in his hand as he began to advance.
“What are you, some kinda freak like her?” The boy stumbled backwards and dodged behind a row of pews.
“You get away from my son!” The preacher’s eyes, still wild, registered the way the wound closed up even as Logan turned. “You are the devil! You are one of the multitude—“ His hand came up to his own throat. As Logan watched, his eyes bulged out and he staggered backwards. The tense standoff dissolved into what would have been farce if it hadn’t been so pathetic.
“Daddy!” The little punk was frozen in place, clearly afraid to come anywhere near Logan, and the blood in his cheeks had vanished, leaving him pasty and pale. “Marie—you call that here? Get up, girl—you gotta send it away.”
“What the hell is going on here?” Logan snarled, but no one answered him. This is insane. “You—are you okay?” Logan addressed that to the girl. She didn’t answer either; she looked terrified, but he wasn’t sure if it was of him or what was happening.
“Who are you?” The boy was edging toward his father.
“None of your business.” Logan advanced another step. “Why don’t you just get out of here?” He jerked his head toward the now-silent man. “Both of you.”
The boy took that as tacit permission to sidle down the row towards his father, but before he could get there, the man made a choking noise and toppled forward. His son abandoned caution and ran to him, catching him just before he fell from his knees to the floor. “Daddy! Please, you gotta help me.”
“Oh, God…” A moan came from the girl, whose eyes were locked on the afflicted man. The preacher’s eyes were rolling back in his head and his chin jerked up several times toward the ceiling. With his hands still clutching at his own neck, it was a grotesque parody of a prayer. Then his body went limp and his son’s arms lowered him gently to the floor. In the same movement, he reached behind him and pulled a gun. He held it, shaking slightly, pointed towards Logan. “Get out of here.”
“Put that thing down, kid.”
“You get on outta here! I know what you are. You’re the devil, I know it—” His eyes squeezed shut and he began muttering frantically. “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name—”
“Your father ain’t gonna help. Put the gun down.” Logan took another step forward and the gun went off, the boy’s eyes opening even as his lips continued to soundlessly mouth the prayer. The girl screamed. Logan felt a jolt and a burn as a bullet slammed into his shoulder and blood pulsed out to darken his white t-shirt, already bloodied at the waist. Everything seemed to slow down.
Logan turned his head, looking down at the wound. He rotated his shoulder, shaking off the pain, then raised eyes glazing with fury to his enemy. The boy tried frantically to recock the weapon.
The bullet fell to the floor as Logan’s body healed around it and rejected it as foreign. He began his advance again and at the second step he released the claws. The boy’s arms dropped as he stopped making even a pretense of attempting to fire again. “Jesus Christ—what are you?”
“Drop that gun, kid, and you walk away. You don’t…” He raised one hand. “You’ll find out what the devil really looks like.”
“We weren’t doin’ anything wrong. Daddy, he was trying to save her soul.” The gun rattled to the floor. “You—them things come outta your hands. Jesus Christ.” He looked down towards the girl. “Marie—you call him off me, you gotta call him off.” Logan reflexively glanced back at the girl; she hadn’t moved from where she knelt by the railing, her head now buried in her arms again, though this time he didn’t mistake it for genuflection. The boy took advantage of his distraction to bolt for the side door. Logan had no intention of following him anyway. The boy turned at the door and screamed “Agent of Satan!” Then he was gone, disappearing into the night, and in the sudden silence of the room Logan could hear the muffled sobs of the girl at the altar.
He glanced around. The preacher was certainly dead. The best thing he could do was to get out now, drive as fast and as far as he could. It wouldn’t take the boy long to rouse the town and then there’d be hell to pay. Someone else could take care of the girl. He retracted the claws and turned to go.
The choked sobs continued. He took two steps towards the side door. Stopped. Hesitated. Cursed himself inwardly for a fool. Then, before he could change his mind, he turned swiftly and went to kneel beside her.
Her hands were over her face and she was sobbing brokenly. She wore a long dark skirt and a white blouse that he could now see was torn and hanging loose around her body. Her long, reddish-brown hair fell in a tangled mess over her face.
He reached for her hands, intending to untie them, but as soon as she realized he was there her head jerked up and she scrambled backwards as far as she could. “Don’t you touch me.” Her voice was husky and rough, like it hurt her to talk, and he could see the angry red mark around her throat where the cord had bitten into her flesh.
“I was gonna untie you.” She was young, a teenager herself. “You want help?”
She shook her head. “Who are you?”
“Doesn’t matter. Look, you don’t want help, I gotta get out of here.” He still held the boy’s knife in his hand; with a quick movement he cut through the ropes that held her wrists to the railing and then stood up. “Can you get home all right? You shouldn’t stay here; that kid’ll be back with a mob in ten minutes.”
“Oh, my god.” She’d turned her head and seen the preacher lying brokenly on the floor. “Oh, my god. Is he—” She brought her hands up to her chest and Logan saw that although he’d cut her free from the railing, the rope was still knotted around them. She sank down until she was sitting on the ground. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”
Logan moved in between her and the body. “Don’t look at it. Just get out of here.”
“Oh, my god.” Another moan escaped her. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to call you. Please, just go. Please, Jesus, I didn’t—“
Oh, for chrissakes. “You didn’t do anything. Look, kid, I didn’t mean for that to happen, but he was hurting you.” He crouched down again and set the knife down on the floor. “You’ll be fine. Just tell the cops what they were doing to you.”
“I can’t,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Don’t be stupid. They ain’t gonna think you did this.”
“Yes they will,” she said. Her face had gone completely white. “They’ll kill me.”
Logan decided she was in shock. He reached towards her bound wrists again and she kicked out to move backwards, away from him.
“Don’t touch my skin! Don’t touch me! I’ll hurt you.” She sounded panicked.
Logan drew back. Not just ‘don’t touch me’ this time, but ‘don’t touch my skin’. Something clicked in his mind: the ritual, her words, the strange feeling he’d had when he pulled the cord from her throat—he got it. “Your skin? You’re a mutant?”
She just stared at him. “I’m possessed.”
“You’re—“ His sensitive ears picked up the sounds of men shouting, still a few blocks away, but getting closer. He looked around and saw a blanket lying on the floor. He grabbed it and held it out to her. “Come on. We gotta get out of here. They’re coming.”
She closed her eyes and her lips moved silently in a prayer of her own, he supposed. But there wasn’t time to discuss theology, so he threw the blanket over her and picked her up bodily, hoisting her over one shoulder. She went limp in his arms as he strode out the side door and carried her to his camper. He was careful to keep the blanket between himself and any potential bare flesh; he doubted she could really hurt him, but after that jolt he’d gotten earlier there was no sense in taking chances and anyway, she’d been violated enough. He yanked open the side door and more or less dumped her on the floor inside. He slammed the door behind her and ran for the driver’s seat. He started up the engine, not bothering with headlights, backed up as quickly as he could without detaching the trailer from its moorings. With a screech of protesting tires, he peeled out of the parking lot and down the about-to-be non-deserted street.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Confrontations and choices.