His Something Beautiful

Feeling like a pariah had never bothered him much. It was the new and not fun loneliness that was beginning to grate. There was no use crying over the proverbial spilt milk, however—he’d known how it was going to be.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

X_art His Something Beautiful art

June, 2016

Thank you doesn’t begin to cover it.

John 14:2

******

Chicago

May, 2016

He missed his connection, which had the domino effect of missing the other two. When he walked through the Sisters of Mercy Hospital doors, he was almost three hours late.

At the reception desk, two elderly women were making some kind of decoration, stringing little American flags together. By their fierce whispers, they were having a disagreement. When Marcus passed by, they both looked up. He gave them a charming smile. And then winked. They simpered and smiled back but didn’t ask if he needed assistance.

It was just as well. He hadn’t been too concerned about getting to room 602, but he had been about getting into the hospital itself. What with the way things were going in the States, he figured the hospital might have guards and metal detectors and if it had been the latter…

Luck was with him, though. That and the fact that Sisters of Mercy was one of the more minor hospitals in the area and probably couldn’t afford metal detectors, never mind guards. He sailed on to the lift bank with no problem.

The ride up was interesting. Only six floors but it seemed to take forever. For some reason, the ancient car stopped at every floor though he was the only rider and no one else got on. It had to be an electrical issue but he couldn’t help but think there was some higher power that was stalling the car, trying to keep him from reaching his destination.

He was startled to find that he was nervous. His fingers kept squeezing the strap of his rucksack; he kept bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was also scared. Not because of his old antipathy to hospitals but because he wasn’t sure what he was going to find in room 602. It had been over four weeks, after all. He’d kept himself apprised of the situation via his spy and the news, but anything could have happened in-between times. Anything probably had and when he stepped out into the sixth floor, dread and fear choked his throat.

According to his spy, the floor was now almost empty. There was a single patient on the other side of the wing and a rotating staff of four. It hadn’t surprised him, the information. He’d counted on the probability that the hospital, fearing liability and the safety of the other patients, would have cleared everyone out. He’d been right and as he made his way from the lifts, he was reassured by the tomb-like quiet.

So, yeah, the halls were reassuringly empty and the room was easy to find but he’d messed up, nonetheless because he’d been worrying about the wrong thing and so much for planning, so much for snooping. Sitting in a chair by the door was a guard. Overweight by at least a stone, the man was wearing a grey uniform complete with a gun and billy club. He was also bored, if his expression was anything to go by—he was reading a magazine, his chin propped on one meaty fist.

Heart in his throat for an entirely different reason, Marcus turned and went back the way he came. He had two options: retreat and wait a few more weeks or stay and figure out a way through.

He returned to the lift alcove but instead of heading back down, he went over to the narrow windows.

Last week, he’d done a cursory walk-by at night. He’d been focused on the hospital itself and nothing else. Now he pressed his forehead to the warm glass and stared. Down below, a line of oaks was leafing out. Beyond, the greenish-blue lake mirrored the late afternoon sun. Even though the area had seen better days, the view from this height lent an air of beauty and tranquility to the neighborhood. Beauty and tranquility—such an odd contrast to what was waiting for him back down the hall. It should be cold outside, grey and gloomy. More fittingly, the sky should be raining black ash and filled with smoke, reflecting the struggle not seven meters away.

Marcus sighed because he was stalling for time. His options weren’t two at all—there was only one and he had to see it through.

Still, he needed to be cool, he needed to be crafty—this could all work out if he just took his time. He’d go down to the cafeteria and make the call. Then he’d get some tea and wait.

***

Americans really were gullible. Charming and engaging, but still, gullible. While loitering in the cafeteria, Marcus managed to make friends with a few RNs, male and female. They were all too eager to talk to a man with an accent and a former nurse to boot, albeit from the other side of the pond. By the time he was done buttering them up with half-truths and full-out lies, he had the scoop on the ‘patient upstairs.’

He found out that they were all afraid to go to the sixth floor. That when they had to, they wouldn’t go between seven and eight. The security cameras weren’t working and the guard changed shifts at seven, though the replacement was always late.

He learned that the patient was docile, doped up first on sleeping pills and then lithium and then valproate when the former hadn’t proved effective and they’d found the patient wandering the halls, muttering about the demon inside. The valproate had worked for the most part but the attending hadn’t been satisfied so he’d decided to turn to a stronger antipsychotic.

Marcus knew most of this, but it was somehow worse, listening to his new friends smile and share stories as if gossiping about a dog they were going to put down.

When he made noises to the fact that he needed to get back to his sister because she was probably awake now, he was given a round of, ‘good lucks’ and ‘have a safe trip backs.’

This time the ride upstairs wasn’t much of anything. Talking with the RNs had settled him down, convinced him that what he was doing was right, was necessary. When he stepped off the lift on the fifth floor, he kept going until he found a unisex lavatory on the far side of the wing. Quickly, he removed the gear from his rucksack and changed clothes, transforming himself from a nobody into an orderly. His costume wouldn’t pass muster if anyone looked closely, but he was betting they wouldn’t—it was Friday, the staff would be tired from the week’s work and looking forward to a drink or dinner.

Straightening the shirt to hide his crucifix, Marcus got out the rope and his good knife and stuffed them into his pockets. He looked at his watch: six-fifteen on the dot. Perfect.

He left the room, this time avoiding the lifts, choosing the stairs, instead.

Feeling a bit silly, he opened the door and peered into the hall. The corridor was empty of everything but carts and wheelchairs. Good.

Hurrying now because it was almost time, he strode around to the other side of the wing, slowing down when he rounded the corner. The guard was still there. Without missing a stride and muttering a quick prayer to St. Christopher, Marcus cached the rucksack on a nearby trolley and grabbed a stack of towels. His heart was beating like a drum. It was a good thing the human audial sense was so bad or the guard would hear him coming a mile away.

As if to prove him wrong, the guard looked up just then. Marcus waited until he was within smiling range, then nodded and gestured blandly to the door with his towels.

The guard huffed and stood up. “Everything okay in there?” he asked, flipping the lock.

Marcus had practiced for days, using strangers as unknowing guinea pigs. Still, his voice was a bit high when he answered in what he hoped was a passable American accent, “Not sure. We’ll see.”

The guard shrugged and sat down again. “I don’t get it. All this money to guard a fruit loop. What a waste of taxpayer money.”

“Most likely,” Marcus said, baring his teeth as he slid into the room. Taxpayer money. The guard probably cheated on his wife as well as his taxes. He probably took bribes and lied to get ahead. But it didn’t really matter. After three long weeks of planning, Marcus was here and he tossed the towels on a chair and went to the bed.

The sun was almost down now and the growing darkness outside was a strong contrast to the sickly blue light inside. The usual devices and machines surrounded the only bed and the only occupant. Marcus stepped closer, tiptoeing as if walking on eggshells. Having been here and done that, he’d expected the worst, but even so, this was different. He had to swallow against a suddenly dry mouth because strapped to the bed by wrists and ankles, the so called ‘fruit loop’ was staring up at the ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes.

At this point, the wrong word or touch could send the afflicted over the edge, so he sat on the bed, his movements slow and gentle. There was no response and his heart plummeted. Keeping the anxiety and tenderness from his voice because both were a weakness he couldn’t afford, he slipped his hand over the wrist cuff and leaned low, whispering brokenly, “Oh, Tomas.”

***

He had to hurry. Getting Tomas free of the cuffs had taken much longer than planned and he had to hurry. He’d accounted for a rough fifteen seconds to remove each restraint but they had buckles that were stiff and uncooperative. One especially just wouldn’t budge so he resorted to cutting the straps attached to the bed. It wasn’t perfect but it would have to do. He’d cover Tomas with a blanket and—

Bright noise broke the quiet and he ducked. Stupid. He’d been expecting it, after all, but it was so loud, wailing in this silent place in a strident shriek. The sound was followed by voices and shouts. He ran to the door and opened it. The klaxon was still blaring and the emergency lights were flashing. The guard was nowhere in sight though a nurse bolted down the hall, probably making for the stairs at the far side of the floor. Damn it. Kat was at least ten minutes early. He’d told her to wait until he texted. He should never have agreed to bring her into this. Too late and he hurried back to the bed.

“Tomas,” he said, not bothering to keep the urgency from his voice; it didn’t matter now. “Come on. We have to go.”

There was no response but Tomas closed his eyes, then opened them again.

“That’s right,” Marcus murmured, pulling Tomas upright. It was like handling a very large rag doll. “I’m here and we’re going, but you have to get up now.”

Tomas swallowed, his chapped lips pressed together. He turned his head.

“Yes, it’s me,” Marcus said. “We have to go. Please.”

Tomas frowned and opened his mouth, mumbling, “No.”

He drew the thin blanket back. “Yes.”

“No.”

“There isn’t time for a discussion, Tomas.” He couldn’t hear anything save the alarm, but it wouldn’t be long before the guard remembered his duty and returned. “C’mon,” he added, curving his arm around Tomas’s back, shoving aside the rest of the covers.

Tomas’s shins were covered with bruises and there was a wide bandage on his thigh. Marcus ignored the sight, ignored the rage that burned his chest; he tugged Tomas’s legs over the edge of the bed. “I’d prefer you to be fully conscious for this,” he muttered, stretching a long arm to pull the wheelchair closer. “But we must do what we must do.” Rocking back, he gathered Tomas to him and then got to his feet. “Oof. You look like a skeleton—how are you so heavy?” He turned and guiding Tomas to the chair. He stumbled at the end and Tomas dropped into the seat with a soft moan.

“I’m sorry.” Marcus grabbed the blanket. “I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you later when you’re well.” He covered Tomas with the blanket and turned to the door. “You can punch me or…”

Fuck.

Preoccupied, he hadn’t noticed the door opening, hadn’t noticed the guard standing in the doorway, one hand on his holstered weapon.

“Everything okay?” The guard asked, shifting from foot to foot as his eyes darted around the room.

Marcus nodded. He could salvage this. He knew people, knew the guard wasn’t sure what was going on, knew how to use that doubt and automatic respect for authority. “I should be asking you the same.”

“It’s the fire alarm. We’re looking into it.”

Marcus gripped the chair handles. “Then, let’s go.”

The guard looked over his shoulder, then shrugged nervously. “I’m not su—”

“Look,” Marcus interrupted, pushing aside panic as he pushed Tomas towards the door. “Let’s talk about this on the way down, shall we?” He kept going, forcing the guard back. The corridor was empty. “We can have a chat in the crisis center, right?” He had no idea if there even was a crisis center but it seemed logical. However, the point was moot because he’d spoken too fast and his accent had slipped. So much for his shot on the American stage, he thought with resigned black humor as the guard’s expression changed.

“You’re not an orderly,” the guard said, unsnapping his holster. “Who are you?”

Before Marcus could speak, the guard came forward, fumbling for his weapon. “All right, buddy. You’re com—”

The guard stilled and then, like a slow motion bit of film, his arms flew up and he lurched back into the room as he lost his footing. He fell and it was only then that Marcus realized that Tomas had kicked out, causing the guard to fall.

“Bless you, Tomas,” Marcus whispered, reaching out to lock the door. “You’re going to unhappy when you realize what you’ve done but I’m grateful.”

The next part should be easy. Thanks to Kat and her spy work, he knew where to go and how long it would take. He turned from the main desk and hurried down the hall to the sky bridge, grabbing his rucksack as he went by.

***

His plan, as he’d related it to Kat, had three points of difficulty which were all continuums of the first. He could get Tomas off the floor, down to the lobby and through the front doors. But Tomas’s very photogenic face had been in every newspaper for the last seven weeks. There was no way someone wouldn’t recognize him.

It had been Kat that had come up with a solution. With a little instruction, she’d shown him what to do. He got Tomas on the lift, then blocked the doors with his rucksack. He knelt. Tomas was out again, slumped to one side. “Tomas?” There was no response but he got to work—he didn’t need Tomas awake for this.

He was done in less than two minutes. With the fake beard, the black watch cap, and the boots, Tomas looked like any other thirty-something. Other than the closed eyes and chapped lips, of course. “Come on,” Marcus said, pulling the rucksack free and tucking the blanket around Tomas. “A lady is waiting for us.”

***

The reception area was chaos, filled with staff, visitors, and a hell of a lot of police officers. Though the open front doors were like a siren call, Marcus took his time, waiting for his opportunity. It came in the guise of a Mexican family of seven; he attached himself, hiding behind them as they slowly made their way to the door.

It shouldn’t have worked but it did. Out in the cool evening air, he breathed an unsteady sigh of relief. A brief honk caught his attention and he kept going to where Kat waited in the SUV. When he got close, she climbed out and hurried to meet him.

“Jesus on a stick,” she muttered, glancing nervously at the hospital entrance. “You said there would be a few cops. That’s a whole precinct in there.”

“Yeah, well, it was a surprise to me, too.”

“He looks like shit,” Kat muttered, touching the chair’s armrest. “What the hell did they do to him?”

“You mean in the five days since you last saw him?” It had been something he’d tried not to think about, too afraid that the dark thoughts would lead to rash and dangerous decisions. “Daily doses of a range of chemicals designed to keep him quiet. Visits from shrinks, doctors and priests with never a moment of true rest.” He locked the wheels and then opened the back door and slung his pack inside. “Is anyone watching?”

Kat glanced around again. “No, but you better hurry. They’re coming back out.”

“Here we go…” He bent and grabbed Tomas and hauled him up and out of the chair. It was awkward and he knew he was hurting Tomas but it couldn’t be helped.

“I put his clothes in the back where you said.”

He stuffed Tomas into the car with a whispered, “Sorry,” and then a louder, “Did you toss your mobile?”

“Hell yeah. What about yours?”

“I’ll get rid of it as soon as we’re on the move.”

“I took the SIM card out of mine. And wiped it down.”

“Don’t worry. If they manage to trace the purchase, it will come back to me.” He arranged Tomas’s legs and he was done. “You won’t be involved.”

“Says you.”

He smiled. “Can you lose the wheelchair?” Feeling as if he had a target on his back, he went around to the other side and got in next to Tomas. Thank God for tinted windows. The officers had been joined by firefighters and paramedics; they milled about in front of the entrance as if unsure what to do next.

Kat climbed into the car. “They’re looking over here.”

“That’s okay,” he said calmly. “You altered your license like I said, yeah?”

“Yes. It better work.” Kat put the SUV in gear. “They’re still looking.”

“It will, and don’t worry. We’re just family taking our sick brother home. Don’t avoid their gaze; keep your head turned a little towards them.”

“Jesus,” Kat muttered as she pulled away, following the curve of the roundabout. “Do either of us look like his family?”

“Well, our step-brother, then.” Kat drove too fast on the curve and Tomas slid sideways, hitting the door. Marcus pulled him upright, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “You and I look alike; we could be related.”

“Except for our ages. There is no way I’m your sister. Or his.”

She turned onto State Street and headed north. In five minutes they’d be on westbound 290. After that… “Uncle. I’m your Uncle Peter, here from the old country. The accent is a perfect cover.”

“Oh, my God,” Kat said, shaking her head. She sounded as if she was going to either laugh or cry. “Why am I doing this?”

“Hey, I said no, but you insisted.” He reached for Tomas’s hand.

Kat clenched her fists around the steering wheel. “Yeah, I did. I’m such an idiot.”

Tomas’s hand was cold and Marcus held it against his thigh. “No argument here.”

“Jerk,” Kat muttered under her breath. “Hey?”

“Yes?”

“You’re sure no one was in surgery or anything like that bec—”

Marcus reached out and gently clasped her shoulder. “There was no one in surgery, Katherine. Sisters of Mercy is mostly a mental hospital, remember? There wasn’t anyone in surgery. There wasn’t anyone in what passes for their A & E department. You didn’t hurt anyone.” He looked back. “And no one is following us. Everything is fine.”

Kat nodded and quickly wiped her eyes. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “Did you see her?”

He let Kat go, he let Tomas go. He’d packed Tomas’s clothes only yesterday and he picked up the duffle bag, unable to remember if he’d included the grey sweatpants or the dark blue. “Did I see who?”

“His sister.”

He stilled and looked up. “Olivia? She’s at the hospital?”

“She walked through the doors right after I called in the fire alarm. Does she know?”

He returned to his task, this time thoughtfully. “No, but why tonight? She always visits at eight in the morning.”

“Stalker much?”

He grinned. He’d found the sweatpants, grey, at the bottom of the bag and he pulled them out along with a black t-shirt. “It’s probably just a coincidence.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“Of course there is; life is full of random moments.” He touched Tomas’s shoulder. “Tomas?” Like before, there was no response, but now it was a good thing—they’d be lucky if Tomas remained unconscious for the rest of the two-hour trip. “I need to get you dressed.”

He gently pulled the blanket and boots off. Tomas’s arms and legs had looked bad before, but in this half-light, the bruises seemed more like post-mortem damage, as if Tomas had died days ago. Quashing a shiver, he untied Tomas’s gown and pulled it off. Tomas made a sound, a soft moan. “I know,” Marcus murmured. “It’s cold but you’ll warm up soon. I promise.” He pulled the t-shirt on.

“Do you want me to turn up the heat?” Kat asked.

“Please.” He should change Tomas’s underwear, but Kat was watching in the mirror and somehow he couldn’t. Tomas wouldn’t care but it felt wrong to expose him that way. Besides, the only thing that Sisters of Mercy had done reasonably well was hygiene— he thought he could smell soap and shampoo as he tugged Tomas’s sweatpants on, one leg and then the other.

“Have you done this before?”

“Do you mean, have I had to clothe semi-conscious human beings before?” he said with no small level of sarcasm, reaching around to tug the sweatpants up. “Yeah, sad to say, that is a skill set I can list on my CV.”

“Smartass.”

“You got that right.”

“How is he?” Kat asked.

He stuffed the gown in the bag and got out a pair of socks and runners. “I’m not a doctor, you know.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Katharine, they shackled him to that bed so they could pump him full of medicinal crap. He’s got bruises all over him. He’s got a sore on his thigh that might be infected. I don’t know.” It was an awkward angle, but he managed to get Tomas’s runners on.

Kat didn’t say anything for a moment, and then she asked, her voice suddenly small, “Marcus?”

“Yeah?”

“Is he still, you know, in there?”

The last thing was Tomas’s sweatshirt, the one with the faded Loyola logo and as he pulled it over Tomas’s head, his hands grew tender in spite of himself. Tomas had been through hell, before the hospitalization and after. “I don’t know,” he finally said, feeling the answer echo hollowly in his chest and belly. “I don’t know.”

***

The two-hour drive turned into three, thanks to construction on the expressway. He and Kat had a conversation about it that had turned into a disagreement and then an argument. He wanted to stay the course. Kat said they should take the side streets because there had to be roadblocks out by now. Just as their discussion was getting truly heated, the traffic cleared as if by magic and they were able to pick up speed again.

***

It was almost ten when they got to the turnoff to Deer Lake. It wasn’t quite what Marcus had expected. He’d hoped for something easily navigable but what he got was a flat land and a lot of trees that hid the occasional house. As they took turn after turn, Marcus’s unease grew. “There is no way I’m not going to get lost out here. Everything looks the same.”

“You won’t be driving. I’m doing it all, remember?”

By the tone in Kat’s voice, she was just as tired as he, but he couldn’t help a snide, “Except for those times when you have to be back home, which will be most of the time. Remember?”

“I got you a new phone and programmed the directions to the stores and gas stations. I programmed in my number and my mom’s.”

Well, that took the wind out of his sails. He sat back. “Oh.”

“You’ll be fine.”

He snorted at the repetition of his own words and then jumped when Tomas moved and jerked, his arm rising like a puppet on a sting. “Tomas?”

Kat took a quick look over her shoulder. “Is he awake?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. It’s prob—”

Tomas jerked his arm again, this time striking Marcus’s chest. “Hey,” Marcus murmured. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re with me and—”

Tomas opened his eyes and then groaned, a shockingly loud sound in the confined space.

“Jesus,” Kat muttered.

“It’s okay,” Marcus tried again, speaking louder. Sweat had broken out on Tomas’s forehead.

“Marcus?” Tomas mumbled.

“That’s right,” Marcus soothed, “it’s me. I’m here wi—”

Tomas fumbled for Marcus’s hand. “Marcus,” he said again, his voice worn and weak, but full of terror. “It’s here. It’s in me.”

Kat swore again and Marcus glared at her before murmuring, “No, there’s nothing in you, Tomas. It’s just the drugs that they—”

“No!” Tomas shouted, straightening up with frightening speed. “Esta aquí— Esta aquí en mí!”

“Listen to me—there’s nothing i—”

Tomas jerked free and began to mutter, “Dios te salve, María…”

It was happening. He thought they’d have more time but four weeks or no, Tomas’s body and soul were resilient and strong, and it was happening. “Kat? Pull over.” He grabbed the duffle bag and hauled it onto his lap.

“What? We’re alm—”

“…de gracia, El Señor es contigo.”

“Pull over!”

Kat jerked the steering wheel, coming to a sudden stop. Tomas fell sideways and Marcus had to let go of the bag.

With one hand holding Tomas up, he fished around blindly, snarling softly, “Damn it, damn it…” as he searched for the one thing Kat had promised she’d bring. He couldn’t find it and if she’d forgotten it… “You got the kit out of my bag, yes? The black one with the—”

“…es el fruto de tu vientre…”

“The rubber band around it?” She turned, one arm over the seat. “Of course I did. It’s in there. I put it—” She reached out. “Give it to me.”

“Jesús. Santa María …”

“It’s all right,” he said, relief cooling the back of his neck as his fingers touched a familiar object. “I’ve got it.” He dropped the bag and opened the kit. Nestled inside were ampules, alcohol swabs and two syringes, one partially filled.

“What is that?”

Tomas was rocking now, hand fumbling against his breast. It took Marcus a moment to realize that Tomas was searching for his non-existent crucifix. Jesus.

“… nosotros pecadores…”

“Marcus? What are you giv—”

“Lithium.”

“You’re drugging him?”

“…ahora y en la hora…”

“He’s already drugged. Unless you heard incorrectly.” When she didn’t answer, he turned, demanding, “Kat?

“Yeah, that’s what the doctor told Olivia. They’d started him on that risperdone two days ago.”

“‘Risperidone,’” he corrected softly, adding, “Then we’re okay.” I hope. It had been a mistake putting on the sweatshirt—he couldn’t get it off quickly and Tomas wasn’t helping—his arm was like a block of wood. “Get back here—I need you.”

“Dios te salve, Maria.”

Kat jumped out of the car. “What do you want me to do?”

“This sweatshirt needs to come off, at least the sleeve.” He tugged on Tomas’s arm again with the same result. “You couldn’t be a ten-pound weakling, could you, Tomas? That’s what all that physical exercise gets you, muscles like cement.”

“…es contigo.” Tomas answered, gaze fixed on the seat in front of him. “Bendita tú eres entre todas…”

“Father Tomas,” Kat said, covering Tomas’s hands with her own. “Can you let go?”

Tomas blinked.

“Once more, Kat,” Marcus breathed.

Kat leaned closer. “Father? It’s me—Kat.”

Tomas stopped rocking. He turned his head to look at Kat, his litany dying. He licked his lips. “Katharine?”

“That’s, right,” Kat soothed, giving Marcus a quick glance. “It’s me. Can you help us? Marcus needs you to help us.”

As Kat spoke softly, Tomas relaxed, his muscles softening at the same time. Marcus worked quickly, freeing Tomas’s arm from the confining sweatshirt, disinfecting his bicep with the alcohol. Tomas gave no sign that he knew what Marcus was doing, even when the needle slid in.

Injection completed, Marcus withdrew the needle and waited. The drug wasn’t swift but it was effective—like ice melting in hot sun, Tomas’s eyes gradually closed and he slumped back.

“Holy crap,” Kat muttered when Tomas was fully out.

Marcus cracked a smile. He’d been mindlessly stroking Tomas’s forearm with his thumb; he made himself let go. “My thoughts exactly.”

“What now?”

He sighed. He’d lost count but it was probably over thirty hours since he’d last slept and he’d averaged a couple hours a night during the weeks before. He really needed to get some rest or he too was going to collapse. “Now, we get him to your lake home and then to bed. After that we’ll take it as it comes.” He put the syringe away, then set Tomas to rights.

“That’s not much of a plan.”

“It’s all I’ve got, Katharine.”

Kat nodded and added quietly, “Maybe we can get you some sleep while we do all that waiting.”

“Thanks.”

They were back on the road a few minutes later, both of them silent, each lost in thought.

***

The Rance’s house wasn’t so much a lake home as a lake mansion. Sitting at the top of a low rise and surrounded on three sides by foliage, the house was two stories high and painted grey with white trim. He could just make out the lake through the bushes, a slip of lighter grey against the black.

Marcus got out and went to the top of the rise, his hands on his hips. It was cold and his breath swirled about his face. “I thought you said it was small?” To the right was another home, half-hidden behind a line of pines. Off to the left was another house but it was much farther away. All he could see of it were lights that flickered through the silhouetted trees.

“It is.” Kat raised the rear door and began pulling luggage out. “Can you give me a hand?”

He shook his head and went to help her. “Are the rooms as big as the house? It’s going to be a bitch trying to keep him contained, never mind away from the windows. You do have neighbors, you know.” He lifted the stolen wheelchair out and unfolded it.

“I cleared the downstairs TV room,” Kat answered evenly. “It’s small and has its own bathroom.” She closed the door. “It doesn’t have any windows and I switched out the doorknob for a locking one. It took me an hour.”

“Hmph.” And then, because she was trying and he’d been less than gracious, he blunted his tone, “That was rude. I should be thanking you—I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

They stared at one another for a long moment, Kat with her palm on the back of the SUV, he with his hands on the wheelchair.

And then she smiled, a rueful but honest smile. “I have a feeling it’s gonna get worse before it gets better so don’t thank me yet.” She locked the car with a push of a button. “Besides, I owe you. The both of you.”

He nodded, hearing the unspoken, ‘My family is still around because of you.’ “Then let’s get to it.”

***

It was work lowering Tomas into the chair and then into the non-accessible house. They ended up carrying him up the steps to the waiting wheelchair. At one point, Tomas’s arm hit the wooden balustrade with a dull thud. Kat laughed, a sharp, nervous snicker that she apologized for immediately after.

The house was a maze of big rooms that let onto other big rooms, all surrounding a three-sided courtyard. The TV room was near the back of the house, accessed by a long corridor. Marcus breathed a sigh when Kat opened the door. It was on the small side with a sofa on the left, a narrow bed on the right and a bathroom in the corner. “Did you drag the bed here all by yourself?”

“Well, I could hardly ask for help, could I?”

Together, they got Tomas on the bed with minimal effort. They stood there, looking down. Tomas, thankfully, was still unconscious.

“He doesn’t look so good,” Kat said.

“It’s just the drugs.” Marcus bent down and pulled Tomas’s shoes off. “He’ll be okay.”

Kat nodded to the cuffs still wrapped around Tomas’s wrists and ankles. “And those?”

“They stay on for now.” At Kat’s look of disbelief, he added, “They’re for his protection as much as ours. If he hurt one of us—I mean truly hurt us—he would never forgive himself.” When she just glared, he threw her a bone. “Okay. I’ll take them off for now, but they’re back on if he gets violent.”

Kat’s expression softened. “Thanks.”

“I’m not doing it for you.” Not really, no matter what I said.

“I know.”

“Are you hungry?”

She nodded. “I could eat.”

Marcus took off his jacket. It might still be spring outside, but the house was pleasantly warm. “Will you fix us something while I take care of him?”

“Yeah, sure.” Kat jerked her thumb. “I’ll make some soup in case he’s hungry later on. The cell and the keys are on the cabinet.”

“Thank you.”

He waited until she had left and the door was closed before he glanced around.

Kat must have remembered the set-up for Casey because not only had she managed the bed, she’d also provided folding tables, towels of varying sizes and a stack of bed linens. On one of the tables were the things he’d requested by name: a basin and hand towels, a glass for water, and a first-aid kit. She’d also supplied a green leather Bible, something he hadn’t asked for. He picked it up. He had his own, he had Tomas’s—there was no need for this one, but it was sweet, her thoughtfulness.

He set the Bible down, and then rolled up his sleeves. “All right, Tomas, let’s get you comfortable.”

It was like handling a manikin. He was used to caring for the unconscious and the barely sensate, but this was different and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know why.

In a way, all his past exorcisms had been clinical and removed. Once engaged, he’d been focused on healing the afflicted’s soul and caring for the physical manifestations. He couldn’t say that focus had been disinterested—little Gabriel was a perfect example—but he hadn’t been invested, not on this level.

Now, as he pulled Tomas’s sweatshirt off, he wished for that same distant disinterest because it hurt all over again, seeing Tomas’s bruises and wasted muscles. One mark along Tomas’s bicep was particularly ugly and he stroked it lightly, feeling sick. It was new, still a mottled red—he’d done it himself while he was getting Tomas out of the hospital. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, touching the edges of the bruise. “I should have defied Egan and come for you weeks ago. I should have done something.” Mea culpa, Tomas. Mea maximus culpa.

“Okay,” he said, straightening up, wiping his eyes and pushing away guilt. “I’m going to take these off.” He reached for the nearest cuff. The buckle was still a problem and he bent over it, working the stiff leather.

“Why they thought they’d need these is beyond me,” he said conversationally. “You were so doped up, they could have hung you upside down and you couldn’t have done anything about it.” He shrugged, wondering what made him think of that, say that. Exorcists had once tortured and sometimes murdered the victims of possession, sure it would drive out the spirit. He’d read the books and seen the illustrations. Upside down hanging had probably been in there somewhere.

Those days weren’t far behind, he reminded himself. People were still murdered due to the mistaken belief they were possessed. So cruel, so foolish. Many things had advanced over the years but human beings, not so much, and he shook his head. “That’s what you get for wandering the halls, I suppose. For myself, I would have used a bed sheet.” The leather finally gave way and he pushed it through the buckle. “At least, that’s what I used in the past, that and sisal rope. These days when I start an exorcism, I’m prepared. No more sheets and rags for me.” There—one down, three to go.

“By the way,” he murmured, reaching for Tomas’s other wrist. “I washed your sheets so you’d have something fresh to come home to. You’re such a neat freak, Tomas. I knew it the minute I stepped inside your flat. No dust on the tables and shelves, no clothes strewn about…” The second cuff was even stiffer and he got out his multi-use knife. The screwdriver would make a perfect, if miniature, pry bar.

“Now I, on the other hand,” he continued, “am not neat. Father Michael used to have fits whenever he visited my room at St. Aquinas.” Under and up, he applied pressure, lifting the leather. “‘No wonder your faith is in free fall, Marcus,’ he’d say. ‘Clean this place up and you’ll be closer to God.’” Marcus grinned. “Believed in the old adage, ‘cleanliness is closer to godliness,’ did our Father Michael.” Eureka—done and done.

As if to make up for the trouble caused, the last two cuffs were off in a jiffy. While he removed them, he continued with his mindless chatter, “I’m joking, of course, but I could tell you stories of those priests that would curl your hair if it wasn’t already a little curly.” He tossed the cuffs on the small side table and turned his attention to the material wrapped around Tomas’s wrists and ankles. Thankfully, the nurses at Sisters of Mercy had done a good job—the fragile tissue was whole and unbruised. “Most of them were okay but some were truly lost. I doubt they’ll ever be able to leave the facility and that’s probably a good thing.” He re-wrapped everything and sat back with a sigh.

He was sweating, he realized, as if the room was a hundred degrees. He was also stroking Tomas’s ankle with his thumb, another unconscious motion, small but not innocent. Perving was one thing, but perving while the recipient was drugged up? He hadn’t fallen that far, thankfully.

“All right,” he said, standing and then pulling the covers up. “It’s rest for you, my friend.”

Turning to go, he hesitated and then knelt by the bed. He made the sign of the cross and said a quick, silent prayer for healing. When he was done, he rose and straightened the comforter again. “I hope you’re not too hot. If you are, just give me a whistle.” No response to his joke, of course. It was stupid, talking as if Tomas could hear him, but he couldn’t help adding, “I’m going to get something to eat. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Feeling a heavy weight on his back as if he were being watched, he pocketed the mobile and the key, then left the room, making sure to lock the door.

***

Marcus found Kat in the kitchen, her head in hands. Her mobile was by her elbow and even from the distance, he could see that she’d been looking at pictures of her family. “Everything okay?” he asked.

She jumped and then pasted on a smile as she turned her mobile off. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Really?”

Her smile was more genuine when she assured him, “Yeah, really.”

“Good. Did you eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

He went to the stove. She’d heated up soup of the chicken noodle variety. Next to the stove was a plate of cheese sandwiches. He opened cupboards until he found the dishware. “How’s your mum?” He got out plates and bowls and then hunted down the spoons.

“She’s…” Kat trailed off, her smile dying. “Casey says she can’t sleep.”

He poured the soup into one bowl and then the other. “That’s fairly normal. It might take some time but she’ll get better.” Sandwiches on plates and he was done. “Soon, you’ll all remember it as some bad dream. You and Casey might even forget—it all depends.” He carried a plate and bowl to the table and set them in front of her.

“Is that what happened to Mom? When she was little, I mean?”

“I suppose. Kids are quick to move on.” Too late, he realized what he’d said and she picked up on it in an instant.

“But adults aren’t?”

Marcus went back for his food. “I think the mind has the ability to forget the intolerable. Survival instinct, I would imagine. Kids are better at it than adults, but your parents are going to be fine.” He sat down and nodded towards Kat’s meal. “You’ll eat that.” She started to object, but he interrupted her, “You’ve been under a great deal of stress. Stress leads to exhaustion and exhaustion leads to bad decisions.”

She grinned, just barely, and pulled the bowl closer. “So you’re Yoda, now?”

He picked up his spoon. “I’m about as Yoda as you’re ever gonna get.” He raised his hands, then cleared his throat as Kat picked up her spoon.

Kat looked up and then put her spoon down. They said grace, each word taken on a new meaning, especially ‘…and these Thy gifts…’ Angela’s and Casey’s recovery had been a gift. Tomas’s would be the same.

The meal was simple but good. Kat had put some kind of sweet mustard in the sandwiches and Marcus had to stop from wolfing it down.

“Marcus?” Kat said when she was almost finished with her soup.

“Hm?”

“Back in the car, it sounded like Father Tomas is possessed but you told me he wasn’t.”

He nodded and glanced up. Funny. What with one thing and the other, he hadn’t really looked at Kat, not truly. She wasn’t wearing any make-up and her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail. It made her look young and frail. “He’s not. There was a moment I’d thought we’d lost him but…”

Shrugging was his only response to the remembered horror of the very end, when Tomas had staggered away from the demon, his eyes rolling back. Marcus had thought the worst had happened, had thought the demon had leapt from one body to another like some cheap horror flick. It hadn’t been that at all, though Tomas believed otherwise. “The mind is a tricky thing. By our very calling, we’re required to have faith in the super natural. But what we say we believe and what we actually do are two different things.”

“You’re saying that Tomas doesn’t believe in God?”

Marcus pushed his bowl to the side and leaned forward. “No, not at all. Tomas’s faith is deep and true, but priests are just men when all is said and done. Our faith is tested again and again—sometimes we fail, sometimes we don’t. Most of us will never face what Tomas faced. He had no means of comparison or experience to draw on.”

“But isn’t that what faith is?”

He smiled. “In theory, yes.”

Kat frowned. “And that means?”

“That Tomas’s faith in himself was shaken to the core. He was unprepared and now he’s lost inside his own mind. When the hospital mistakenly sedated him that first day, they set off a chain reaction, driving him deeper in, if you know what I mean.”

Kat thought about that for a moment, and then said quietly, “I was reading up on the drugs they were giving him.”

He knew what was coming. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

“A lot of them cause the very thing they’re supposed to cure.”

“That’s true. Antipsychotics have been known to make a person, well, psychotic.”

Kat’s frown turned to a glare. “It’s screwed up.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“How did you get it, the lithium?”

He shrugged again. “I’m not going to tell you that.”

“Because?”

Because the less you know of Lester and Cherry, the better, God rest their souls. “Because it doesn’t matter.”

She actually huffed, but then nodded. “All right. Why did Bishop Egan let the doctors do whatever they wanted? Why didn’t he let you help?”

He picked up his spoon and turned it this way and that way to the light as he thought about what to say and how much. “The bishop,” he finally said, “plays by the rules. Until he actually saw for himself, he didn’t believe possession was a fact.”

“But doesn’t that mean he trusts you more? Now that he knows?”

He smiled at his own tiny reflection. “Actually, it means he trusts me less. He does not like me at all.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t play by the rules. Because I belong to the arm of the Church that he distrusts and can’t control. Because it’s easier for him to repudiate the things that scare him. Embracing the unknown is not in his nature.” He shrugged. “I can’t be sure, however. It could be any or all or none of those things.”

“That’s not really an answer” Kat made a sharp, frustrated gesture. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He sighed and set the spoon down. He didn’t want to tell her, but whatever—she of all people would understand. “If you must know, the bishop discovered how I felt about Tomas and decided I was a danger to his immortal soul. That’s why I wasn’t allowed in the hospital.”

Kat stared at him, her eyes wide and sad. “Oh,” she finally said. “I didn’t know.”

“There’s nothing to know. It’s not reciprocal, my feelings, and though I’m a lost lamb, Tomas is not.” The last bit was a fudge, but she didn’t need to know that.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’.”

“You’re a priest.”

“Lost lamb, remember?” He pushed away from the table. “Besides, I’m not really a priest. I’m going to check on Tomas. You should go to bed.”

He made to get up but Kat leaned across the table and grabbed his arm. “That was a stupid thing to say,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven.”

She swallowed. “You know about me and Julia, right?”

He nodded. “I do.” He really hadn’t, not the details, but it had been easy to glean those from the thing the demon had told them and the things the Rances hadn’t.

“I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but if you need to talk…” She shrugged and let go.

He smiled. The day I take advice from a spoiled brat… But no, that wasn’t fair. On the outside, Kat was superficial and shallow, but on the inside she was anything but. In her innocence and belief in her own rights, she’d done a stupid thing. But she’d also rallied around the family after Casey had been taken. She’d helped her parents and grandmother cope, so he nodded his thanks and then stood up. “I’m off. If I need you, I’ll call.”

“I’m going to sleep on the sofa, just in case.”

He didn’t bother telling her that as the next hours would be the most quiet, she might as well sleep in her room—she wouldn’t listen. “Do you need help locking up?”

Kat shook her head. “I already did. And…” She held her phone up. “My parent’s fancy security system will warn me if someone tries to break in.”

“Then, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You hope.”

He smiled but her awkward joke hit the wrong note and as he left the kitchen, the words echoed like a bell, growing stronger not fainter.

***

Tomas was as Marcus had left him, flat out, under the covers, eyes closed.

“Tomas?” he whispered, bending over. There was no response, no flutter of eyelids, no involuntary flinching. That was normal. Tomas was drugged up, knocked out cold. No one was inside, watching from the sidelines.

Unsure if his own insistence was belief or a simple ward against superstition, like whistling past a graveyard, Marcus picked up the basin and went to the bathroom. He washed up and then rubbed his jaw. He needed a shower and shave but mostly he needed sleep. He filled the basin with a finger of water, then turned off the light. He set the basin on the table and crossed to his nominal side of the room

Changing dirty clothes for fresh in front of Tomas was kind of weird and he almost returned to the bathroom for privacy. He reminded himself that Tomas was out like a light. He reminded himself that nakedness was a part of life and nothing to get worked up over and he wasn’t naked, not really. Still, it felt inappropriate and borderline sexy and he had to push away the shallow fantasy of stripping naked in front of an awake, appreciative Tomas. It wasn’t much use, the repudiation, and when he was done, clothed but barefoot, he knelt and said his evening prayers and then an additional prayer requesting grace.

“Well,” he said to his sleeping partner as he crawled onto the sofa and pulled the blanket up. “I think you’ve got the wrong end of this particular stick. This couch is much more pleasant than that bed looks to be. If you want to change places, now’s the time.”

Silence of course, and he grunted and turned on his side, facing the bed. He tucked his hand under the pillow.

Like Kat, when he’d heard that the doctors were switching to risperidone, he’d sat down in front of Tomas’s computer and done some research. Knowledge was power, he’d told himself, unprepared for his own reaction when he’d read the list of side effects and dangers. From the modest to the extreme, the possibilities were many, with the extreme being very bad, indeed. Of course, Tomas had been given at the most, three or four doses. Instant response aside, it was probably too few to matter. If it wasn’t— Well, if it wasn’t, then it would be a miracle if Tomas came out of this with his mind intact.

But that was their whole raison d’être wasn’t it? Miracles, the unknowable and untestable? Walking without fear in the dark, certain the light would come and all would be revealed, all would be well? The thought eased his mind and when he closed his eyes, he was actually able to drop off.

***

He slept lightly, falling in and out of shallow sleep. When he heard a moan and a thump, he was up and at Tomas’s side within seconds. “Tomas?”

This time he got a response, a slight wince and a shudder. He felt Tomas’s forehead with the back of his hand—warm but not hot. Good. “Tomas?” he said again, “if you can sleep some more, go for it. We don’t have any place to be.”

Tomas opened his mouth and licked his lips.

“Right,” Marcus said, reaching for the basin and dipped a towel in the water. He wrung it out, then pressed it against Tomas’s mouth. “When you’re up and at ‘em, I’ll give you a little water but just a little—long experience says you’ll throw it up if I give you too much.”

Tomas winced once more as he tried to open his eyes.

“Hey,” Marcus said, leaning close.

Tomas blinked and then blinked again. “Marcus?” he muttered, his voice faint and dazed.

He smiled. It was too much to hope for, but Tomas’s tone seemed confused, not terrified. It could it be that easy, could it? “Yeah, it’s me.”

A single heartbeat of time and Tomas’s expression altered, giving Marcus only a second to react. With a grunt, he dropped the basin as Tomas lashed out, catching him across the jaw. He recovered and pressed Tomas down, using his own weight as an anchor. It wasn’t enough. For a man stuck in bed for almost a month, Tomas was strong and he bucked Marcus off and then hit him again.

They grappled, both silent, each trying to get the upper hand. It was his fault, Marcus thought as he struggled to contain Tomas. He should have never listened to Kat about the restraints and this was what—

“Fuck,” he grunted as Tomas shoved and then rolled. They landed on the floor. He hit one of the folding tables with his elbow and it fell with a crash.

The overhead light came on and a soft, shocked voice said, “Oh, my God.”

“Kat—get the cuffs,” Marcus said through gritted teeth. He rolled until he was on Tomas again, imprisoning him with arms and legs. “They’re on the side table.”

Kat scrambled over them, reaching for the restraints as Tomas snarled, almost panting with rage. “Come on, Tomas,” Marcus urged, “it’s just the drugs. No es un demonio. This is—”

Tomas drew a breath and tried for a head butt, but Marcus was prepared and he jerked to the side.

“Here.” Kat knelt, cuffs in her hands.

“We’re gonna have to do this quick,” Marcus said. Tomas was eyeing him. “He’s waiting for his chance. Do his right arm first.”

Kat crouched down and began the process with shaking hands as Tomas bared his teeth and tensed his arms. It was like holding steel and Marcus murmured, hoping it would distract Tomas, “When you’re yourself again, you’re going to be so sorry you did this. I know you will. Kat? How’s it going?”

“It won’t quite… There.” She sat up. “I’m done.”

“His other arm, please.”

It was harder because they were mashed up next to the bed, but Kat managed, partly because Tomas was losing strength. He was still tense, still glaring, but his muscles were weakening, just like before. “That’s right, Tomas, sleep. I know you want to hit me again and I promise you can, but later. For now, just sleep.”

Kat straightened up. “What now?”

“Now, we tie the rope that’s in my bag to one of the cuffs, then thread it over and under the bed.”

Tomas gave no sign that he knew what was going on but Marcus wasn’t a fool—he didn’t move an inch while Kat got the rope and did as he instructed.

When the rope was tied off, they got Tomas up on the bed and then bound, a much easier task because Tomas was almost out again.

“Now his ankles,” Marcus said.

“Jesus,” Kat swore as they finished. Tomas was unconscious, his head tipped to one side. “Is it going to be like this the whole time?”

“Hopefully not,” Marcus replied.

She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “That’s not a reassuring answer.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

Kat gathered the sheet and bedspread and covered Tomas. “Should we take him back to the hospital? Maybe a different one?”

He’d pondered that very question more than a few times over the past two weeks, coming to the conclusion that the treatment was most definitely worse than the cause. Looking at Tomas now, at the circles under his eyes and bruised flesh, he wasn’t so sure. “Let’s give it forty-eight hours,” he compromised. “If he’s not improved by then, we’ll talk it over.”

She nodded and together, they cleaned up the room.

***

Whenever Marcus remembered those next days, it was just bits and pieces, flashes of recollection like the after-images left by a strobe light.

Day one: Everything is going well until he brings Tomas back from the bathroom to where Kat is waiting. Tomas tenses and stills. Before Marcus can shout a warning, Tomas strikes Kat on the temple. She falls back and Tomas lunges for the door. Marcus’s only recourse is to tackle Tomas to the bed. He lays on Tomas, letting Tomas’s own weakness do the job for him. He and Kat bind Tomas again. When they’re done, he tells Kat to see to her injury. She leaves and he gets a cool washcloth and strokes Tomas’s face and arms, speaking in Spanish all the while.

Day three: The day is sort of good but the night is not and Tomas can’t sleep. He’s staring up at the ceiling, muttering the rosary over and over again, his fingers clutching his phantom crucifix. Exhausted because he’s been up for the last twenty-three hours, Marcus switches out the chairs, choosing a big, comfortable chair from the living room. Then he goes to the Rance’s book shelves and takes the first book he sees. He returns to Tomas and sits by his bed. The book is, ‘To Kill a Mockingbird.’ As he begins to read, ‘When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem…’ Tomas looks over. After the second page, Tomas’s hands are still. After the fourth, he’s asleep.

Day six: Though it’s only been a week on half medication, Marcus thinks the worm has finally turned. Kat goes home, wanting to be with Angela and Casey. Tomas is quiet and when Marcus asks if he’s hungry, he actually says yes. They eat lunch—a cup of soup for Tomas and a sandwich and fruit for him. Later when Tomas is asleep, Marcus removes the restraints and puts the key on the table by the unused Bible.

Day seven: Tomas manages to eat a solid meal without throwing up. He spends most of the day sleeping but it’s real sleep, not drugged. Marcus does a load of wash and spends the afternoon on the Rance’s terrace, alternating between dozing and staring at the lake. Tomas sleeps well that night and Marcus does, too—when he wakes at dawn, he feels like a new man.

Day ten: Another good day. Marcus reduces the lithium to a tenth of a dose. Tomas sleeps the day away. Restless, Marcus decides to take a walk and have a smoke. He tells himself that it’s okay to leave for fifteen or twenty minutes but he manages five. He returns to the house, running because he’s positive that Tomas has relapsed and done something stupid. When he hurries into the room, he finds Tomas asleep, curled up on his side. Feeling like a fool, he goes out to the living room and collapses on the sofa.

***

He shifted in the chair. Finally, they were getting to the good part—Nancy was just about to investigate the Topham’s cottage in an effort to find the missing will. That’ll show those mean Tophams Marcus thought, and he snickered as he recrossed his legs.

“What is that you are reading?”

Marcus jumped so violently that his elbow hit the side table—his teacup fell to the ground, landing on the soft rug. “Damn,” he swore softly as he got to his feet.

“Sorry,” Tomas said, pushing up so he was resting against the wall. “Is it broken?”

“No, it’s fine.” He got the washcloth and patted the rug, grateful that it was a muted pattern of leaves and flowers. He tossed the cloth in the basin he hadn’t used in days and sat the cup on the side table. He sat down and looked at Tomas. They stared at each other, he and Tomas, long seconds of nothing. “How are you feeling?” he finally asked.

“I’m not sure.” Tomas nodded towards the book. “What are you reading?”

Marcus grinned and held the book up.

Tomas squinted. “The Secret of the Old Clock?” he said doubtfully. “What is that?”

“A ridiculous mystery written for girls back in the thirties.” Marcus stretched out his arm and gave the book to Tomas. “It’s hilarious. Full of mystery and intrigue and improbable situations.”

Tomas frowned as he examined the cover and a few of the inside pages. “Why are you reading this?”

“Because it was there.”

Tomas glanced up at him, throwing him that look, the don’t be ridiculous, Marcus look that always made Marcus want to respond in the most inappropriate of ways. After a moment, Tomas gave the book back and closed his eyes. He rubbed his wrist. “I’m so tired.”

“I know.”

“And I’m shaking.”

“I know,” Marcus repeated, sitting back because he wanted so very much to cover Tomas’s hand with his own. “It’s just tremors from the drugs. It’ll wear off soon.”

“What drugs?”

“Lithium, mainly.”

Tomas opened his eyes. “Lithium? What happened? I can’t remember what happened.”

“You were involuntarily hospitalized by your sister after you hit your head during that last exorcism. Olivia thought you’d been possessed and convinced the hospital to drug you.”

Frowning, Tomas took that all in but his next questions surprised Marcus, “And Casey and Angela—they are both truly healed, yes?”

He nodded. “Truly. They’re recovering at home.”

“How is Henry?”

“As well as could be expected, considering.”

“‘Considering,’” Tomas repeated softly, looking down at his hands. “I think I remember Kat. Was she here?”

“She was indeed.” Marcus gestured with the book, taking in the room, the house. “She had to go home for a bit but she’s coming back tonight.” At Tomas’s silent inquiry, he added, “This is the Rance’s vacation home.”

“How did I get here?”

“Me and Kat brought you,” he hedged, crossing his legs.

Tomas frowned. “They let me go? I don’t remember signing a release.”

He’d planned for everything but this moment and he suddenly wondered how Tomas was going to take the news. Would he be mad, relieved, grateful? It was too late now, so he just said baldly, “You didn’t. I kidnapped you.”

Tomas raised an eyebrow. “Come again?”

He shrugged. “I kidnapped you,” adding because Tomas wasn’t saying anything, “I had to, Tomas. They wouldn’t let me near you. Egan had washed his hands of you and they’d started dosing you with a powerful antipsychotic. I had to.”

“All right,” Tomas said slowly after a moment. “I understand. I think.”

“The Church doesn’t know, of course. The Chicago Police Department does, however.”

“Marcus.”

Tomas’s tone was sad, accusative, and Marcus waved the book as if that meant anything. “They had you on twenty-four hour guard. I had to do something.”

“You didn’t hurt the guard did you?”

“No,” he said cautiously, drawing out the word. “I didn’t, but you did.”

Tomas straightened up. “I did not,” he reproached sternly. “I would never hurt anyone.”

Marcus leaned on his elbows. “You didn’t hurt him. You just tripped him. You really don’t remember?”

“I really don’t.” Tomas squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead. “I remember someone strapping me down to a table. I remember a nurse with a blue sweater. I remember—” Tomas opened his eyes, now wide and startled. “I remember I hit you.” He examined Marcus’s face and then leaned over and touched Marcus’s jaw, turning him to the light. “I hit you, yes?”

Contending with the twin urges to lean in and away, Marcus held his breath. “You didn’t hurt me. It wasn’t your fault.”

Tomas sat back. “Still…”

“Tomas,” Marcus said, needing to get this right. “I knew something like it would happen. I just didn’t expect you to be so strong. You should have been a boxer—you’ve got a mean right hook.” He smiled to show he was teasing.

It made Tomas laugh, albeit weakly, and he shook his head. “Next time I’ll pull my punches.”

“Next time, I’ll duck.”

They smiled at each other in another moment that went on too long. Marcus broke it by clearing his throat and saying, “Well, it’s getting to be dinner time. I should—”

“Marcus?”

He paused as he was getting to his feet. “Yeah?”

“I was never possessed, was I?”

He smiled, knowing this was another thing he had to get just right. “Never even a bit. The drugs messed with your head, that was all.”

Tomas sighed, heavy and long, telling Marcus how worried he’d been. “And the police. Are they looking for you?”

“Why? You gonna turn me in?”

Tomas’s face darkened. “Of course not. I just…” He shrugged. “You know.”

It almost hurt, the fact that Tomas was that worried about him. “Maybe they’ll let me off for good behavior.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No…” He stood up. “I didn’t. Do you need to use the loo?”

Tomas glanced away and then said, “No.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“All right,” he said slowly. “Don’t try to get up just yet, okay?”

“Okay.”

He hesitated, then left the room and closed the door. He was halfway down the corridor when a thought struck him. He turned back around. When he opened the door, he found Tomas on his feet, ash white, holding on to the chair as he swayed. Marcus tossed the book on the bed and caught Tomas as he fell. “Damn it, Tomas,” he muttered as they staggered together. “What the hell are you thinking?”

“Need to get to the police. You need to cleared of any charges.”

“Oh, for— Do you honestly think they’ll listen to you right now?” He lowered Tomas to the bed. “They think you’re crazy. They think I’m a criminal.”

He got Tomas under the covers tugging them up tight because Tomas was shaking like a leaf though his face and throat were damp with sweat. “You can’t even stand right now, how the hell are you going to get to the city?” He reached for the washcloth and pressed it gently against Tomas’s forehead. “What were you thinking?”

Tomas reached up and covered Marcus’s hand. “I didn’t realize…”

“Yeah, well, the next time you feel like going for walkies, warn me first. You’ve been on your back for the last six weeks. Except when you were tripping cops.”

Ignoring that last bit, Tomas squinted up at him. “Six weeks?”

He moved on to Tomas’s cheeks. Covered with a ten day-old beard, Tomas’s jaw was nonetheless sharp, his throat thick and beautiful. “Hm, mm. That’s why I said, ‘Don’t get up, Tomas.’”

“I thought it was four days. Maybe five.”

Marcus sat back, concentrating on Tomas’s words and not how vulnerable he looked with his wet skin and wide, lovely eyes. “Nope, and now I’m off to make dinner. This time listen to me—do not get up. No te levantes. Okay?”

Eyes closing, Tomas nodded. “Yeah, okay. No more getting up.”

“All right.” He was at the door when Tomas called out to him.

“Marcus?”

He turned back around. “Yeah?”

Without opening his eyes, Tomas smiled, “Thank you.”

“De nada,” he said, shutting the door gently. His hands were shaking, a fine tremor that traveled up his arms to his chest.

Shit.

***

It took several false starts to get dinner going but he finally managed. Halfway through, as he was standing at the stove stirring a pot of barley soup, he heard the door to the garage open and shut. “Kat?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

He turned the burner down as Kat came into the kitchen. Arms full of grocery bags, a pack on her shoulder, she was dressed for the rain, wearing a heavy coat and jeans. “Here,” he said, reaching for the bags. “You should have let me know.”

“It was just that last leg. What’s burning?” She dropped the pack on the chair and began to sort the groceries.

Marcus helped, removing eggs, milk and cheese. “Soup, and I do know what you mean. This house is big. But then,” he shrugged, adding with a smile because they’d had this conversation a few times already, “it’s what you’re used to.”

“We’re not that rich,” Kat said. She went to the stove and picked up the spoon. “How do you burn soup?”

“By being very distracted.”

She looked over her shoulder, frowning. “Is he worse?”

“Actually, no, he’s much better.” All the groceries were lined up on the table and he folded the bags into neat squares. “He tried to get up so he could turn himself into the coppers. That was fun.”

She dropped the spoon. “What?”

He handed her a box of pasta. “Yep. Tomas’s sense of moral good might be more of a problem than his delusions.”

Kat put the pasta away in a cupboard and started on the canned goods. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

He had. He just hadn’t thought about it too much because it hadn’t mattered. Tomas had needed to be away from those idiots with their needles and drugs—anything else had been immaterial. At the time.

“Will they try to arrest you?”

“Possibly. Probably.”

“Marcus.”

He could take chiding from Tomas, but not from Kat. He nodded to the door. “Dinner’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes. Just soup and sandwiches again. Why don’t you go say hello to him?”

Kat put the last of the groceries away and then nodded, “All right.”

Marcus sighed as soon as she was gone. It would be all right. He had renewed pull with the Church—they wouldn’t let him go down for this. After all, he’d saved more than the Rance’s—he’d saved their rising star.

***

He heard the laughter before he pushed the door open with his shoulder. “What’s all this, then?”

Kat jumped up. “It’s my turn to say you should have called me.”

“It’s all right.” He set the tray on the cabinet and glanced over at Tomas. “What’s so funny?” Tomas was sitting up; he’d changed into a long-sleeved t-shirt and the grey sweat pants.

Tomas said, “Katharine was reminding me of our last conversation. Before all the…” He gestured vaguely.

“Yeah,” Kat added, carefully carrying a bowl of soup over to the bed. “The night Father Tomas smacked me down but good.”

Tomas took the bowl with a little moué. “I wasn’t that mean.”

“No,” Kat said, her smile dying. “You weren’t. You were very nice, considering what I’d just said.”

“And what was it you said?” Marcus asked as he handed a bowl to Kat and got one of his own. He sat on the floor and gestured towards the chair. “You take the chair.”

She hesitated, looking around. “Are you sure?”

He crossed his legs. “Very.”

“All right,” Kat said, curling up in the chair. “Let me know if you want to switch places.”

“My old bones will be fine here,” Marcus said. “Now, tell me what you said.”

“Well,” Kat began with a quick look at Tomas. “You have to remember that I was kind of out of at the time, but here’s what happened…”

***

“And you really said that?” Marcus asked Tomas, his head cocked. “You said, ‘Keep your damn hands out of his face?’” He’d finished his meal and was leaning back on his arms, legs stretched out.

Tomas grinned. “I think it was more like, ‘Will you please not do that?’”

“No,” Kat said, shaking her head as she scraped the last of the soup from her bowl. “You said it exactly like that. ‘So keep your damn hands out of his face.’” She grinned. “You even pointed your fork at me.”

“I’m sorry,” Tomas said. “That was rude.”

Kat shook her head again. “No, you were right. It was awful what I said and did. You embarrassed me, but you were right.”

Marcus bent his legs and clasped his arms about his knees. “Shame is a very powerful motivator.”

“Yeah, well, it worked on me,” Kat said with a shrug.

He glanced at Tomas, then asked gently, “Did you ever apologize to your father?”

Kat looked down and shook her head. “No.”

Marcus leaned over and bumped her leg with his shoulder. “It will make you feel better if you do.”

She looked down and nodded, her hair falling in her face. “I need to get the rest of the stuff out of the car.” She gave them a half-smile and stood up.

“I’ll help.” He started to rise but Kat gestured him back down.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I’ve got it.” She gathered up the empty dishes and put them on the tray.

“Katharine—” Tomas said.

She stopped and smiled. Her face was a bright red and her eyes were shining. “It’s okay, Father. I’m glad you’re better.”

Before they could say anything else, she was gone.

“You should go after her,” Tomas said.

“No,” Marcus said with a shake of his head. “That particular abscess has burst. She’ll take care of it.” Kat had left a bowl, the napkins, and the remainder of the sandwiches.

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m long familiar with shame and the release thereof. Right now she’s calling Henry to tell him she loves him. He’ll tell her that he loves her, too. He’ll forgive her. It’s what parents do.” He raised the plate. “Are you still hungry?”

Tomas shook his head. “No. It was very good, though.”

“It was just soup, bread and cheese.”

Tomas shrugged. “Still…”

“Right,” he hedged, needing to fill the moment with chatter. “I have to wash up and do a load of laundry.”

“Oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

Tomas shrugged and then picked up a book hidden in the folds of the bedspread. “I was hoping you could read some more.”

It was the Nancy Drew mystery he’d left earlier. “Your glasses are in the bag.”

Tomas shrugged. “I like your voice better than mine.”

Marcus grinned though the bit of nonsense warmed his belly. “Well, if you can stand the suspense, then so can I. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be back.”

***

Chores finished and laundry in the machine, he returned to Tomas. He read until Kat joined them around nine. She didn’t slink through the door, but she didn’t stride in, either. With a quick glance at Tomas, Marcus set the book down and then held his arm out.

She hesitated and then didn’t, bending over to give him a swift hug.

“All better?” he asked.

Kat nodded and then still without a word, drew back and went to the foot of the bed. She sat down. “Where were you?”

He picked up the book and began to read.

***

As if a counterbalance to the good day, Tomas had a nightmare that night.

The crash woke Marcus from a dream of breaking a stained glass window. Bleary-eyed, unsure if he was still dreaming, he rolled off the sofa and hurried to the bed. “Tomas?” Tomas had kicked off the covers and his feet were entangled in the sheets. “Tomas? You’re dreaming.”

“… siento, Abuelita. Lo siento…” And then, much louder, ‘Déjame solo!’

It didn’t take a brainiac to deconstruct what Tomas was dreaming about and Marcus sat on the bed, feeling the dull ache of the familiar. He’d been so sure they were past this. “Hey,” he said, “Tomas, c’mon, it’s just a dream.” Gently, he gripped Tomas’s shoulder and shook him. “Hey.”

With a gasp, Tomas woke up and looked around in confusion. And then he sighed. “I was dreaming.”

“Yes.”

Tomas rubbed his eyes. “About my grandmother.”

“So I gathered.” He let go of Tomas’s shoulder. “Was she hard on you?”

Tomas shook his head. “No. She was proud of me.”

He sat back and folded his hands together. “Ah.”

Tomas frowned. “What does that mean, ‘ah’?”

“Just that I know Catholic grandmothers. I bet you hadn’t gotten through your first year before she was picking out her dress for the coronation.”

“That wouldn’t have happened until I was seventy, at the earliest.”

“That sounds like a past tense.”

Tomas reached for the sheet. “Can you move, please?”

Marcus got up and helped Tomas, then sat back down. “Well?”

“What my grandmother wanted for me and what I want are two different things.”

“Hm,” he said, nodding. Confidences in the dark were dangerous, sneaky things but he had to ask, “What do you want?”

Tomas touched his own chest, right in the middle where people used to think the heart was. “I don’t know anymore.”

Marcus thought on Tomas as he’d first known him—confident, righteous, so beautiful in his belief in himself. “I so get that.”

Tomas smiled and then, shockingly, reached out and touched the back of Marcus’s hand. “Tell me again.”

Marcus frowned and then understood. He turned his hand so their palms were pressed together. “There’s no demon in you, Tomas. There never was.”

Tomas sighed and nodded, this time with a glimmer of a smile. “I keep having to ask you that.”

“I don’t mind.” You could ask me every day until the end of the world and I still wouldn’t mind.

“I’m sorry for waking you.”

“It’s okay.”

“Maybe you can sleep in tomorrow.”

“Maybe.” He stood up, pulling free. It was too dark to see well, but his imagination didn’t need light to see the contours of Tomas’s body, the way his legs were slightly parted. “Can I get you anything?”

Tomas shook his head. “No. I’m fine.”

He nodded and then turned away before he could say anything else, do anything else.

***

He wasn’t sure about Tomas, but it took him a long time to get back to sleep. Dying for a smoke, his mind kept insisting on replaying the conversation, Tomas’s response and the way it felt, that light touch. Finally around two, he got up and tiptoed to the bathroom. The Rances kept only a few medications in the cabinet, mostly anti-bacterial ointments and sunscreen. They did, however, have pain pills, the kind mixed with a narcotic. Not a fan of sedatives, Marcus took two and washed them down with water from the tap.

Soon, sooner than he would have thought, he was drifting off, the image of Tomas spread out before him following him into sleep.

***

It was a bird’s song. A high, chirping lilt that went on and on, sometimes up, sometimes down. Maybe a lark or a chickadee or even a robin and it was that confusion that finally woke Marcus up. He grunted and tried to move, finding he couldn’t. He raised his head. He was lying on his stomach with one hand under his chest and the other trapped beneath the pillow.

He pushed and then sat up. It hadn’t been a bird, but the mobile that Kat had given him. He debated ignoring it, but it might be important so he dug the mobile out of his pocket and scrolled to the missed calls menu. There was only one, a text message ad for a timeshare in Bucktown, wherever that was. Sneering at the presumption, he deleted the message with relish and then tossed the mobile on the sofa.

Interruption aside, he felt good. His arms and legs felt as heavy as bowling balls and his head was a little stuffy, but that was about it. Scrubbing his head, he got to his feet. Tomas’s bed was empty and the door was open.

Hoping Tomas was in the kitchen and not on the lam, Marcus went to the bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like crap. There was a long crease down the side of his face and another on his chin. It was like someone had taken a rake to his face. Wonderful.

Smirking slightly at his own vanity, he stripped off his clothes and turned on the shower.

***

Expecting to find Kat and Tomas in the kitchen, he was surprised to find them not. He went to the dining room and then living room and finally out to the terrace. There they were, sitting at the table, both facing the lake.

“Morning,” he called out. They turned as one.

“Finally,” Kat said. “I was gonna call 911 if you didn’t get up soon.”

He pulled the chair out, wincing at the whine of metal on stone. “What time is it?” He sat hard, his legs giving out. He should go back in for his sunglasses—it was so bright out here.

“Almost two,” Tomas said. “How are you feeling?”

“Two? Wow.” He ran his hand over his head again and glanced at Tomas. “How am I feeling? I should be asking you that, but I won’t—you almost look like yourself.” And Tomas did—his skin had lost that dry, powdery gleam and the whites of his eyes were clear. He’d showered, shaved and changed clothes—he was wearing jeans and a maroon t-shirt that said in faded white letters: Loyola est 1870. “How are the tremors?”

Tomas held up his hand. “Gone.”

“And the headache?”

Tomas touched his temple. “Gone, too.”

“And he ate a complete breakfast and lunch,” Kat said in a sarcastic, singsong voice. “Other than a little wobble here and there, he’s fine.”

“Yes,” Tomas said, glancing quickly at Kat and then back at Marcus. “I was thinking I should go for a walk. Will you go with me?”

“Are you sure? You just got up.”

Tomas shrugged. “We can’t stay here forever and I want to be strong when I face Bishop Egan. Falling on my ass in front of him would not be a good thing.”

“All right,” Marcus said slowly. “No ass falling, but just a short one, okay?”

“Yes, okay.”

Kat picked up the plates and then gestured to the stairs. “That path goes north around the lake. It’s the easiest route and you won’t run into any houses for a mile or two. Watch out for the marshes—it can get pretty soggy out there.”

Marcus stood up but Tomas didn’t.

“Don’t you want to eat something?” Tomas asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Because I’m not in any hurry.”

He touched Tomas’s shoulder, just a graze that could be considered an accident. “And I’m not hungry. Let’s go.”

***

The stairs, as Kat had said, led down the slight hill to a trail that circled the lake. It wasn’t wide, the path, but it was fairly smooth and easy going and that’s mostly what Marcus cared about. The other little things, like the occasional brush of Tomas’s hand and the smell of his aftershave—those things he tried to ignore, just as he tried to ignore that this was what couples did, go for strolls around pretty lakes.

“It’s pretty here,” Tomas said, pushing a tree limb out of the way.

“It is?” God should strike him dead for being such a liar. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Tomas stopped, forcing Marcus to stop, too. He waved his hand. “How can you not notice this? It’s been in front of your nose for a week now.”

Stung, Marcus shrugged. “Two weeks, and I’ve been a little busy, you know.”

It wasn’t meant to be anything much, but the comment hit in the wrong way and Tomas’s expression changed.

“I’m sorry,” Tomas said. “For worrying you, I mean.”

“It wasn’t a problem, Tomas. I told you that. It’s not like I’ve anything better to do.” Another lie. When he’d realized why he was kicking his heels, ignoring call after call from Rome, he’d recognized his hesitation for what it was, understood what he was sacrificing. At the time, he’d told himself it was for the greater good, that a sane Father Tomas was another soldier against the coming war. At the time, it appeared he was just a big a liar as he was now. “It’s all right.”

Tomas started walking again. “I know, but you are already in trouble with the Church.”

“My problems with the Church go way beyond ‘trouble,’ and they started a long, long time ago. None of which is your fault. Besides…” He plucked a short branch off a tree and began to twirl it back and forth. “…any work I have, will wait another week or two.”

Tomas didn’t say anything for the longest time, and then he murmured, “I suppose you mean the demon.”

Marcus held the branch up. The leaves were a lovely spring green. Against the sharp blue of the sky, he could see the delicate veins that covered the surface.

“Marcus?”

“Can we not talk about that now?”

Tomas stopped again, this time to look back at Marcus. After a long moment, he nodded shortly. “If you wish.”

“I wish.”

They continued on in silence and maybe it was the soporific peace of the place or his own sluggish mind, but he wasn’t paying much attention to anything. When Tomas tripped and then stumbled with his arms outstretched, it was a complete surprise.

Swearing under his breath, Marcus lunged and caught Tomas around the waist. He looked around. “Where’s a convenient bench when you need it?” he muttered. Tomas was shaking again, not as bad as before, but still…

“Over there,” Tomas said. “I can sit on that log.”

“It’s probably crawling with ticks,” he answered, guiding Tomas through the weeds to a fallen tree.

“Ticks are out of season now,” Tomas replied, sitting down with a thump.

“What, you’re a naturalist, now?” He could still feel the muscles of Tomas’s waist as if they’d imprinted on his palm and fingers.

“No, just three years working with a youth camp at Holy Name.”

“Oh.”

Tomas snorted and then began to laugh. “Sorry,” he said, smiling up at Marcus. “I’m sorry, but you look so grumpy right now.”

Marcus couldn’t help but smile in return. “I feel grumpy right now. I took some sleeping pills which I realize now was a big mistake.”

“I’m glad you did,” Tomas said, his laughter changing to something less happy. He patted the log. “Sit with me.”

The log was less than a meter long, which meant no room, but Marcus sat anyway.

“I hate that you are so stressed out because of me,” Tomas said with a shake of his head. “I hate that you lost sleep over me.” He rubbed his hands on his jeans. “I hate that you might be arrested because of me.”

“I didn’t mind. I don’t mind.” They were sitting too close together and Tomas’s arm and thigh were pressed against his own. He’d move away but there was no room and no graceful way to do it.

“Does nothing ever bother you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you face demons all the time. God has even touched you. How do you survive that?”

“You’ve seen me work. It’s not magic. And I screw up all the time.”

“I know,” Tomas answered, reaching out to take the little branch from Marcus’s unwitting grip. “But it is almost that, isn’t it? What you do is a kind of magic, yes?”

“Spiritual, yes, magic no.”

“I suppose.”

Talk about magic—Tomas was twirling the branch the same as Marcus had only now the movement was hypnotic, entrancing. He felt as if he could sit here all day, on this uncomfortable slab of wood, cold on one side and warm on the other. If Tomas was here with him, he could do it. He could do so many, many things.

And then he shook his head in an attempt to dispel the sudden fantasy of traveling the world with Tomas, of helping the possessed and terrified. It was a month’s old desire, perilously seductive, especially given that he and Tomas were on the lee side of recovery. He couldn’t afford to slip up, not now.

He took the branch back from Tomas, as if that would help. Of course it didn’t and when he spoke next, he wasn’t quite thinking clearly, “In any case, I would have done so much more. It’s what you do for people you lo—”

Too late he heard his own words and he stuttered to a halt, the shock of exposure finally sweeping the cobwebs from his brain. He opened his mouth to make some sort of excuse but nothing came out.

“Marcus?”

He’d faced all manner of demons, even the most vile, but the terror he felt was different and he was on his feet, staring out at the lake. The sun was shining on the water, reflecting back at him, making his eyes burn. “We should get back. You’re tired.”

“Wai—”

“Don’t.” He looked down at his hand—he’d forgotten the branch. It was now nothing more than a mess of crushed leaves and split bark. “Don’t,” he said again, this time adding quietly, “please.”

After a long, painful silence, Tomas got up. “Very well,” he said, his mouth working. “I’ll leave it alone for now, but do not imagine this conversation is over.”

‘What conversation?’ Marcus wanted ask but didn’t. He just tossed the branch to the ground and said, “C’mon. Kat must be worried.”

***

Like it had to be, the walk back to the house was silent, the air between them chilling to the point of frosty.

Marcus trailed behind Tomas but only because he wanted to be there in case Tomas tripped again. Tomas did not trip. With his shoulders back and his head high, he strode up the path as if on parade. It was, of course, too much and by the time they got to the steps, he was pale and Marcus could see the effort it took to climb the short flight of stairs.

They were halfway across the terrace when Tomas stumbled. Without a word, Marcus caught him and slung his arm over his shoulder, arm wrapped around his waist. Tomas didn’t object but he hardly could—he was wheezing as if the walk had actually been a hard run around the lake. When they got to the room, Marcus released Tomas and said, “I’m going to find Kat.” Tomas gave no sign that he’d heard.

Be that way, Marcus snarled silently as he left the room, stomping down the hall, going the roundabout way to the living room. He went to the window, not seeing anything as he began to pace. Ridiculous. It should be him that was angry. Tomas had no reason, no call. So he didn’t want to talk about the fact that he had the hots for another priest? That it was a kind of minor hell, having Tomas right there in front of him, knowing nothing would happen but unable to stop the crazy fantasies?

Who’d want to talk about that, especially to the person that the crazy fantasies were centered around? What had he been thinking? Maybe he was the one that needed to—

“Wow, what happened out there?”

He turned. Kat was standing in the threshold with the laundry basket piled high with clothes.

Kat’s smile died when she saw Marcus’s face and her tone was subdued when she asked, “What happened? Are you all right?”

He sighed, consciously straightening up, deliberately tamping down the pointless anger. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he said and then went over and took the basket from her.

“I can do that.”

“‘Busy hands are happy hands,’ or so Father Sean always told us.” He went to the sofa and sat down.

She followed him. “Did you guys have a fight?”

“Father Sean is dead.”

“Jesus, Marcus.”

He shook his head as he shook out a towel. “Yeah, okay—no, we didn’t have a fight.” He shrugged, adding, “Well, yeah, we did, but not that kind.”

Kat wrapped her arms around her knees. “What kind was this kind?”

He shrugged and folded the towel.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. It was stupid.”

“Hm, mm.”

He set the towel on the sofa and then reached for another. “Kat?”

“Yeah?”

He folded the towel in half and then again. “I need a little air.” The folds were all wrong and he shook the towel out so he could do it again. “Would you mind if I went into the village? I won’t be gone long.”

“Of course,” she said, already nodding. “I was going to suggest it but figured you knew what you could handle.”

He snorted, the tension in his chest and throat already easing. “I’m not sure I’ve ever known that.”

Kat uncurled and then crossed her legs. “It’ll be fun.” She reached in the basket and brought out one of Tomas’s t-shirts, the grey Loyola one that was too small and showed off Tomas’s shoulders and biceps. She folded the shirt in neat, quick movements. “I’ll see if Father Tomas will help me with dinner and then we can watch a movie. The Black Swan is on—maybe he’ll like that.”

Marcus smiled, just barely. He’d seen the movie and doubted very much that Tomas would enjoy it. “I’m sure he will.” He tossed the towel on the pile. “You can call him, ‘Tomas,’ you know. He won’t mind.”

Immediately, Kat shook her head. “No way. He’ll always be Father Tomas to me.” She started in on a pair of black jeans, his own by the looks of them. “Now you, on the other hand, will always be ‘Marcus.’”

This time his smile was true. “Why is that?”

She shrugged. “I guess because you don’t seem like a priest.”

They were almost finished—he took the last hand towel, folding it absently as he asked, “What do I seem like?”

Head cocked, Kat examined him as she began stacking the laundry. “I don’t know—a cop, the scary kind.” She squinted. “Maybe a drug dealer or a musician.”

He grinned, remembering the boys at the scene of one of the first murders. How long ago that seemed. “I can’t say I’m pleased with either of the former, but I’m definitely flattered by the latter.”

Kat grinned. “My keys are on the table by the door. There are a couple bars on Grand and another on McKinley.” She put the laundry in the basket, then stood up and tucked the basket under her arm. “They’re kind of boring. If you get really hard up, try the Blue Bucket in Springhill.”

He smiled quizzically. “The ‘Blue Bucket’? What on earth does that refer to?”

“Like I know? It’s a dive. The other places are brew pubs.”

He shrugged. “Dives, I can take. Brew pubs, not so much.”

“Thought so,” Kat said over her shoulder as she left the room.

***

The oddly-named Blue Bucket bar was a mile west of US 12. He found the place easily enough thanks to Kat’s directions and the mobile’s GPS. When he walked through the door, he almost sighed. Soft blues played in the background and the air was tinged with smoke. Grinning at the No Smoking sign, Marcus strolled up to the bar and looked around.

It was a Friday night, so he would have expected the place to be busy but it was almost empty. The bartender was watching a show on a portable telly. A couple in the corner had eyes only for each other. A man sat next to the window; above him hung a photo of a big fish. At the other end of the bar was another man, this one wearing a baseball cap. He nodded when he met Marcus’s gaze.

“What can I get you?” The bartender asked without moving an inch.

“Whatever’s on tap.” Even if it’s weak, American beer.

The bartender got up with a sigh.

Marcus took a seat, wanting to sigh. It felt good to be out of the house. As big as it was, it was too close at times. It also, God help him—was good to get away from Tomas and the things he made him feel.

He wasn’t used to being cooped up just as he’d never been much for all of the Church’s rules, written and unwritten. Some priests took the strictures too far, becoming simulacrum of men, not the real thing. For himself, he’d tried to live within the spirit of the laws with varying degrees of success. The celibacy tenet was a thousand year old mistake as far as he was concerned. God didn’t care if he had sex with another human being—he was sure of it. The vow of poverty was a necessity because the Church wasn’t big on paying him a living wage. The only inviolate tenet, the one he was fully committed to even after being kicked out on his ass, was his faith in the holy trinity and God’s perfect love. Well, that and the strength of the Virgin. Mother Bernadette and her acolytes had opened his eyes in that regard.

“Here you go.” The bartender came over and set the pint down. “British, are you?”

Marcus nodded. “From birth.”

The bartender grunted and returned to his end of the bar.

Marcus sipped the beer. It wasn’t bad. Not great, but not bad.

“You new in town?”

Marcus turned towards the voice and found the fish man coming towards him, pint in hand. “Just here for a week or so.”

“Yeah?” The man pulled out a stool and sat down. “On vacation?”

One of the other things that Marcus loved about Americans was their endless curiosity. Some would call it an obnoxious trait, but he found it charming. “Not really. I’m here caring for a friend.”

“Yeah?” The man nodded. “That’s nice. Friends are nice.” He turned on the stool to face Marcus. “You married?”

Marcus grinned. The man was a little younger than he was, less fit, and quite pissed. “No, I’m a priest, so…” He shrugged.

The man raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly, as if expecting the answer. “A priest in a bar? Huh. That’s something you don’t see every day.”

“I suppose so.”

“Where’re you from?”

“Leicestershire, England, originally.”

“Huh,” the man said again; he clearly had no idea where Leicestershire was. “What’s it like there? Is it nice?”

Marcus tipped his head, thinking about it. “It is,” he said after a moment. “It’s flat with a lot of forests and rivers.”

“My family’s from around those parts,” came another voice, this one from the man down at the end of the bar. He picked up his drink and moved over until he was sitting on the other side of Marcus’s new friend. “From Nottingham, a long time ago.”

Marcus nodded. “Nottinghamshire. That’s just north of Leicestershire.”

The man in the baseball cap nodded sagely. “It’s where Robin Hood lived.”

By now, the couple and the bartender had joined them; they all nodded and said, “Oh,” because everyone knew who Robin Hood was.

Holding back a smile, Marcus said, “I’ve been to Sherwood Forest.”

That did it. They all leaned in like children listening to a bedtime story. Not wanting to disappoint them because the reality had been less than imposing, he began, “The forest itself is made up of several different, very ancient forests. It’s dark and…”

***

By the time Marcus left the bar three hours later, he had invitations to dinner with Bill, coffee with Steven and Marie, and a recipe for Southern beer-battered brats from Jack the bartender. When he pulled away from the curb, he wasn’t surprised to find them in the door, waving him off.

He would, of course, not follow up on the invitations, but he might try the recipe—he loved to cook though he tended to make a mess in the kitchen. During his short stay at Tomas’s place, he’d made a few meals. After one such time when he’d tried his hand at a Mexican-style omelets, Tomas had come into the kitchen, looked around at all the bowls and pots and pans and said, ‘I didn’t even know I had that many dishes.’ Tomas had enjoyed the meal, though, eating every bite, saying several times how good it was.

Tomas.

Halfway through the evening, Marcus had felt a jolt, like someone had punched him in the gut. He’d realized that while he’d been chatting up his new friends, he’d been thinking of Tomas. The thought had triggered another and he’d suddenly wished that Tomas had come to find him. That it had been Tomas sitting by his side, listening to his stupid stories. The wishes had been a stone in his heart, a familiar, worn out feeling. It had been just like those months after being sold to the Church—lost and lonely and so homesick he thought he was going to die.

He felt it still and he rubbed his stomach. Damn Tomas, and damn his own loose tongue.

***

The lights were on when he pulled into the Rance’s garage.

He didn’t tiptoe in, but neither did he stomp. There was no one in the kitchen, nor in the living room and taking a chance, he went upstairs. He followed the faint strains of music, coming to a stop in front of the door at the end of the hall. Kat was in there listening to a pop song, something low and indistinct. Feeling like an interloper, Marcus knocked on the door.

The volume lowered and the door opened. “Well,” Kat said with a smirk, “did you get some air?”

She was wearing tight black leggings, a fluffy oversized sweatshirt and pink socks. “Much air was had, thank you very much.” He dropped the keys in her hand.

“And much beer?”

“That, too.” Her bedroom was much simpler than the one in the city. The walls were bare of anything other a few framed pictures that looked staged. No knick-knacks on the dresser, no books on the shelves.

She followed his gaze, then said, “I was gonna go downstairs to see if there’s anything on. Wanna come?”

He’d planned on fetching his sketchpad and pencils and finding an isolated spot to draw in. It suddenly sounded bleak and a little juvenile, as if he were hiding from Tomas and that wasn’t the case. “Didn’t you and Tomas watch a movie this afternoon?”

“No,” she said, with a little frown. “He wasn’t feeling well so he went to bed. Was that okay?”

“Of course—he’s not an invalid. And I would love to watch a movie with you.” He stepped back and gestured gallantly, “After you.”

“So,” Kat said as they walked down the hall. “I thought priests couldn’t drink.”

He cocked his head. “Whatever—or more precisely, whoever—gave you that idea?”

Kat shrugged. “No one. I just thought it was a rule, like the celibacy thing.”

“The ‘celibacy thing’, as you call it, was an edict set down a long time ago. Modern clergy are rethinking it.”

“Yeah,” Kat said, “my mom and dad talked about it last year after that big meeting they had in Rome.”

“The Synod of Bishops.”

“Yeah, that one. They said the Church is thinking about letting priests marry.” Kat frowned and then said tentatively, “Isn’t that against God? I mean, he said it was an abomination, right?”

“No, it’s a manmade rule created by a group of priests during the Council of Elvira. Before that it was pretty much come as you are.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.” They were on the stairs now and he added, “But to answer your other comment, there are a lot of doctrines a priest must adhere to but alcohol isn’t one of them. What do you think the priest is drinking during the Eucharist?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “I forgot about that.”

He grinned and then intoned, “…for this is the chalice of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant,’ though to be fair, some priests I know despise wine so they use grape juice.”

Kat laughed and then covered her mouth with her hand because the sound had been loud. “They do not.”

“They do, too. One, a priest by the name of Timothy, gets cases of it wholesale at his local market.”

She shook her head, still smiling. “I don’t believe you but it’s funny.”

Now on the main floor, he hesitated; Tomas’s room was just down the hall. “I should probably check on him,” he said, suddenly worried that Tomas had left without telling Kat. He wouldn’t have, though, mostly because he couldn’t have. Unless he had gone on foots… “You go on ahead.”

“Yeah, okay. I’m gonna make some popcorn. Do you want anything to drink?”

“Sure. Just no grape juice.”

Kat rolled her eyes and they split up, she, to the kitchen, he, down the hall.

There were no lights under the door and he opened it carefully. “Tomas?” The room was dark but he could just make out the lump on the bed and he drew a deep sigh of relief. That’s what worry got you. A big fat nothing. He closed the door and went to find Kat.

***

They ended up watching a horror film called Drag Me to Hell. He’d been surprised at Kat’s choice but she’d assured him that she wouldn’t be scared because a friend of hers had told her it was really good.

The movie wasn’t horrible but there were a few scenes that made him snicker and one that had made him laugh out loud.

“It’s not that bad,” Kat argued, throwing a piece of popcorn at him from her corner of the sofa.

He caught the popcorn and then threw it at the TV. “Rewind that bit—I have to see it again.” He waited until Kat had complied, then said, “No exorcist in their right mind uses a goat as a vessel to hold a demon. It’s ridiculous.” He laughed again as the goat, now possessed, started talking.

“What are you watching?”

Marcus didn’t jerk or jump but his stupid heart did both, leaping at the sound of Tomas’s voice. Kat paused the movie and they turned to find Tomas walking slowly across the dark living room. “Just a bad Hollywood flick. How are you feeling?”

Tomas waved Marcus’s concern away as Kat sat up and said, “It’s not bad. It’s about this girl who’s cursed by this witch and she’s trying to figure out how to break it.”

“It’s bad,” Marcus corrected, watching Tomas come round the sofa. “We can change the channel if you want.” He straightened up, making room in the middle.

“No,” Tomas said with a small yawn. “It’s fine.” He hesitated, then pushed aside one of the sofa’s many pillows and sat down. “Is that popcorn?”

Kat nodded and gave him the bowl. “We’ve got orange juice and beer.”

Tomas grimaced and shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“The movie is kind of scary,” Kat warned. “Are you sure you don’t want to watch something else?”

Tomas turned to Kat. “I participated in several exorcisms, Katharine, the first of which I heard my dead grandmother speak and saw your sister fly about the room. I think I can handle a movie involving a goat, a witch, and a curse.”

Marcus grinned; so did Kat. “Suit yourself,” she said and then started the movie.

Earlier, Marcus had removed his boots and socks so he could put his feet on the sofa. He was wearing jeans and a shirt but still, he felt half naked, sitting next to Tomas. It somehow didn’t help that Tomas was also barefoot. The latter lent an air of false familiarity like it had out by the lake, as if they were an ordinary couple, doing ordinary things. The feeling grew on him while the movie progressed until he lost the thread of the plot and he almost dared not move in case he accidentally touched Tomas.

And as for the popcorn, that was out. With Tomas holding the bowl on his lap, the idea of reaching over sent Marcus’s normally florid imagination into overdrive. And, imagination being what it was, the harder he tried not to picture rooting around, the clearer the image became.

Tomas, for his part, seemed oblivious. He and Kat ate popcorn and talked about the movie and the characters, speculating on who was going to die next and in what fashion.

When the movie ended with the girl inexplicably being pulled down to a fiery pit through a fissure in some train tracks, Marcus wanted to ask how and why it had happened, but couldn’t.

“So I guess the moral of the movie,” Kat mused as the credits rolled, “is the next time an old lady with an accent asks you to do something, you should probably do it.”

Marcus snorted and added, “Or at the very least make sure you kill the possessed goat while you still can.”

Kat stood up. “You’ve got a thing for that goat, you know that?” She reached for the bowl.

He stretched out his legs and sighed. “Yeah, you got my number.”

“I don’t want your number,” Kat answered and then, a little surprisingly, she kicked his shin and gave him a swift smile. “I’m going to bed. Can you make sure to turn out the lights?”

He smiled up at her. “Of course.” Tomas hadn’t moved and was staring at the TV.

Kat picked up her empty soda can and put it in the bowl, then glanced at Tomas. “’Night, Father.”

Tomas visibly started. He looked up and smiled. “Goodnight, Katharine. I hope you sleep well.” His smile widened. “You know, you can call me ‘Tomas.’ ‘Father’ seems so formal.”

Kat shook her head. “No way. I’ve already had that discussion today.” And then she was gone, popcorn bowl and all.

“What does that mean?” Tomas asked with a frown after Kat had left the room.

Marcus shifted so he could face Tomas. “I suggested the same thing earlier and she gave me very non-specific reasons as to why she wouldn’t.”

“What does that mean?” Tomas asked again.

“You’re her priest. You’ve heard her confessions and given her absolution. That requires a kind of emotional separation.”

Tomas nodded after a moment. “I suppose I can see that.” He turned slightly. “Why does she use your first name, then?”

He brought his feet up on the sofa. It was a clear, defensive position and he hoped Tomas didn’t realize it. “Because she says I don’t look like a priest and therefore it’s not weird.”

Tomas frowned. “She said that? What do you look like?”

“According to Kat, I either look like a criminal or a rock star.”

Tomas frowned and then suddenly smiled, repeating. “I can see that. You don’t look like any priest I’ve ever met.” He shifted, too, turning to face Marcus, one crooked leg on the sofa. “Did you have a good afternoon?”

“It was okay.”

Tomas pulled a pillow to his lap. “I thought about coming after you but I didn’t know where you’d gone.” He began to tug on the pillow’s fringe. “Where did you go?”

“To a bar.”

“What did you do?”

“Do you mean did I get pissed?” He was suddenly angry for no good reason. “No, I did not.”

Tomas raised his head. “That’s not what—”

“Because I just needed to get out of the house after two weeks stuck—”

“I know, Marcus, I just wa—”

“Oh, I get it,” he interrupted once more, the anger cooling into something very near rage and he leaned forward, his head tipped to the side. “You mean, did I go there to fuck someone?”

Tomas straightened, his eyes wide. “No, of cour—”

“Contrary to what you believe Tomas, just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I need to go out every—”

Quick as quick, Tomas dropped the pillow and leaned forward, covering Marcus’s mouth with his hand. “Will you shut up so I can talk?”

Barely able to breath but not because of Tomas’s hand, it took him a moment to nod.

Tomas sighed and then released Marcus and sat back with a sigh. “That’s not what I meant at all and you know it.”

Still feeling Tomas’s touch, Marcus could only growl, “Then what was it?”

“I just wanted to tell you, to explain…” Elbow on knee, Tomas picked up the pillow again. “I talked to Kat this morning.”

Puzzled, he nodded. “I know you did. You had breakfast and lunch together.”

“No.” Tomas said, staring down at the pillow. “What I meant was, she told me what you said about Egan. Why you weren’t allowed to come visit me in the hospital.” He looked up and this time his face was a mask of non-emotion. “She said you consider yourself a lost lamb because of—” Tomas broke off and shrugged. “You know.”

Marcus had to rein in his immediate response. It had taken him years to come to terms with his sexuality and to have it chatted about so casually… He could care less that Tomas knew because celibacy or no, he had never exactly hid behind a mask of heterosexuality, but this measure of guilt, this level of discomfort could only mean one thing. He just hadn’t expected it from Tomas, that was all. “And?”

“I was surprised,” Tomas said, glancing back down, pulling on the pillow’s fringe once more. “But at the same time I wasn’t. If you know what I mean.”

“You’re repeating yourself.”

“Marcus.”

He frowned, lost as to what was happening until Tomas slowly looked up and then just as slowly, touched the top of his bare foot.

Marcus stilled, even his very breath, trying to catch up with the moment, unsure what was happening and—

Oh.

Tomas leaned closer and curled his fingers, his thumb resting on the curve of Marcus’s arch.

Anger, sweet and necessary, burned across his skin and he wrenched free. “No.”

Tomas actually looked offended. “No? I thought—”

“You thought that I’m another Jessica, that you can just take what you want?” He slid off the sofa. “Forget you’re still a priest, forget that I’m gay, do you honestly think you can jump in my bed and then, what, go back to who you are in the morning?” He felt sick. “That’s not how it works, Tomas. You made a vow.”

Tomas started as if he’d been struck. “So did you.”

“That’s different.”

“How is it different? In the bar, you sai—”

“I know what I said.” A moment of weakness when he’d thought, ‘Why not…?’

“Then why do you—” Tomas shook his head, then looked off to the side. “Is it me?”

Christ. “No, it’s not you.”

“I thought this was what you wanted.”

“What I want doesn’t matter. What you want most certainly does and if you think I’m going to sit there and let you do this because you’re coming off a powerful antipsychotic, because your world has been turned upsi—” He stopped talking, needing a moment because Tomas was looking up at him like a supplicant. “No.”

“This isn’t a sudden thing and it’s not because of the drugs. I—” Tomas shook his head. “I came about this all wrong but you surprised me today and I didn’t know how to react.” Tomas reached out, palm up. “But, Marcus, I know now.”

Tomas wasn’t being cruel—Marcus had to remind himself of that. You don’t know how you look right now, how beautiful and needy. You’re not being cruel, you’re not. “I don’t believe you,” he whispered, drawing on the few reserves he had left. He bent forward, remembering this from before, faced with Tomas’s confusion and disbelief, with his own. “I don’t believe you.”

The moment was thick and awful, broken only by the sound of a nearby cricket and the creak and groan of the house itself.

“So,” Tomas said, squaring his shoulders, his expression hardening. “You don’t believe me. What a surprise.” He rose, forcing Marcus to take a step back. “I’m going to return to Chicago tomorrow. You can do what you will.” He made to go, then stopped. “You know, for a man so invested in the spiritual,” he said without looking around, “you have an astounding lack of faith in anything other than God and demons.”

Dumbfounded, Marcus could only watch Tomas stalk away.

***

It was almost midnight. He needed to either make up a bed in the living room or call it for the defeat it was and return to the room. But it was pretty out here on the terrace with the waning moon and the bright stars. He’d seen a few comets and what had to be a satellite skating across the black, almost too tiny to notice.

Unfortunately, as pretty as the night was, it was also very cold and he was starting to shiver. There was nothing for it, and he got up and went inside, padding through the house, checking the doors, making sure all the lights were out. Done, he hesitated at the head of the long hallway. Yes or no, stay or go. In the end, still bruised, still staggering down the slope of his own desire, he returned to the living room and pulled a knitted throw off an armchair. He curled up on the sofa, assuring himself that it was better this way. In the morning, Tomas would be gone. In the morning, he would decide then what to do.

***

Marcus didn’t sleep well. He woke up while it was still dark, sure he’d heard a car engine. Cocking his head, he listened hard, only hearing the furnace as it warmed the house. He dozed off, still listening. When he woke again, the big room was grey with the coming dawn; he rolled over and pulled the throw over his head and went back to sleep.

The third time was the charm and he roused with heat on his face and the smell of coffee in the air. He opened his eyes. It was still early but it was sunny outside, another beautiful, prosaic Illinois spring morning.

He got up, feeling a thousand years old, and went to the kitchen. There was no one about. There were, however, two notes in the middle of the table, one folded and one not. His tape recorder anchored the corner of the unfolded note. He frowned and touched the recorder’s buttons, then leaned over to read:

Gone for a walk. I’ll be back by noon. T

So, for whatever reason, Tomas hadn’t gone home.

He told himself it meant nothing and picked up the other note, the folded one. It was addressed to Marcus and was from Kat. She’d written in a dark pink pen:

I’m going home for a while. Casey wants me to go with her to her new therapist. I’ll be back tomorrow. I think the tape recorder is yours. I found it under the car seat.

Kat

He read it again. So that was why Tomas was out in the woods and not on his way to Chicago. Marcus touched the tape recorder once more and then went to make a pot of tea.

***

Tea, toast, and the warming sun out on the terrace was a good way to start the day. Marcus sat at the table, not thinking much of anything as he took in the view. A boat slipped across the water leaving a faint wake. A bird was singing and flitting about in a nearby tree. Off to the right, the neighbors were having an argument. Their voices weren’t loud enough or clear enough to hear details but he caught something about, ‘…the car!’

Marcus cracked a grin and ate the last of his toast.

It really was pretty out here. Most of his work took him to congested cities and towns, and even then, rarely did he have the time to sit and just be. He should thank Egan and Olivia for hospitalizing Tomas so that he’d have to break him out and abscond with him.

Abscond.

It was such a delightfully archaic word; he should use it more often. Bishop Egan, you left me no choice—I absconded with Tomas because you were going to make him crazy and I couldn’t have that. Cherry and Lester, I’m sorry that I absconded with your lithium but you really should have locked your caravan up more securely. I’m going to miss the hell out of you, by the by. And finally, damnably, Tomas, when I leave, the most important part of my heart will be left in your keeping because you absconded with it without even realizing it.

So pathetic, this situation he now found himself in. He’d taken such care to deny attachments, helped along by the twin excuses of vows and occupation. Tomas would have done well to follow the same but, then, his mentors should have steered him clear of the Church altogether. Tomas could have been anything, gone anywhere save that his grandmother had laid the groundwork a little too well. The fact that Tomas was truly devout wouldn’t have helped, sad to say. Combined with his beauty and intelligence, he would have been the perfect student—his professors must have been dazzled.

Marcus grimaced, shoving away the uncomfortable image of some old priest pawing away at Tomas. They all weren’t like Father Sean. Not every seminarian had it as bad as he.

Mood thoroughly soured, he got to his feet and went to lean against the balustrade. The boat was gone. On the far side of the lake, he could just make out a person walking along the trail. They were wearing a red jacket and walking a dog. Every so often, they picked up a stick and threw it and the dog would chase after.

He sighed, the happy site making his mood even worse. Where was Tomas? It had to be close to noon. Two hours was a ridiculously long time for a walk, now that he thought about it. Especially if one had been ill. Maybe he should take a stroll in the opposite direction and catch Tomas up. Of course, that was assuming that Tomas had walked north and not south. It would be stupid to go haring off but Kat had been right about the marshes—he’d seen them with his own eyes, long, flat spits of land that looked deceptively crossable.

Tomas wasn’t an idiot. He wouldn’t take a route that would put him in danger. He would turn around and if he got tired, he’d rest. It would be all right.

Not convinced but unable to do anything but wait, Marcus went back to the chair and sat down.

***

The next few hours crawled by at a snail’s pace. Marcus tried to keep busy by sketching the trees that surrounded the house. He’d hoped that the familiar distraction of art would help like it always did. It did not and when he realized it was almost one-thirty, he tossed the pad of paper down almost angrily and went to stand by railing again.

He began to pace, wondering what to do. He could call the police, but that could easily open a whole new can of worms. He could call for a cabbie and ask to be driven around the lake. But the streets were like a maze and some were private. If Tomas was out there, possibly injured, going door to door would be fruitless.

He was working up a steam, feeling helpless and trapped, when the sound of a car coming up the drive made him stop in his tracks. He hurried off to the side of the house and stopped. A big black SUV had pulled into the drive. Standing by the open passenger door was Tomas. He was holding a couple grocery bags and smiling as he said something to the driver. Marcus couldn’t see through the darkened glass, but he thought the driver was a young woman. She leaned over and said something. Tomas smiled again, then stepped back and closed the door. He waved and the car pulled away.

So, Tomas hadn’t been lost in the woods, dying—he’d been out making friends.

Feeling the return of anger, now sharpened by anxiety, Marcus crossed his arms and called out, “Noon, was it?”

Tomas jumped, his smile dying as if it had never existed. “I wanted to call but I didn’t have the number and I don’t have my cell.”

Marcus shrugged. As excuses went, it was a pretty good one. “Who was your friend?”

Tomas began to make his way down the slope. “A women I met in town. We got to talking and…” He shrugged again as if that said it all.

“Did anyone recognize you?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it.”

Marcus shifted from foot to foot. “I was worried.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“You did, in fact, not.”

Tomas pressed his lips together. “Then I’m saying it now. I’m sorry for worrying you.”

They were a meter apart, the spare space seeming to be miles. How had it come to this? All told, he’d known Tomas less than five months. That wasn’t long enough for him to grow so attached, so dependent. Right? Of course, it could be a sympathetic holdover from Tomas’s fall from grace, from his own. It could be the natural feelings of a caregiver.

It wasn’t any of those things, he conceded as he let go of anger. It was simply love, and love made one do crazy, idiotic things. He nodded to the grocery bags. “What’s in those?”

If Tomas was surprised by Marcus’s response or lack thereof, he didn’t show it. He raised the bags and said, “I thought I might cook tonight. Since we’re on our own.”

The words sparked a fantasy of standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the stove, of sitting side-by-side on the terrace with the stars above… Lust curled warm in his stomach and he squeezed his arms tight. “I didn’t know you could cook. You never did much of it before.”

Tomas shrugged and began walking again, passing by a little too close. “You don’t know everything there is to know about me, Marcus.”

Eyebrow raised, Marcus murmured, “That’s undeniably true,” and followed.

***

Dinner didn’t get started right away. Saying the walk to town had worn him out, Tomas took a nap. Instead of going to the room, however, he went to the terrace and stretched out on the lounge. Marcus hesitated only a moment before joining him with his drawing pad. Tomas fell asleep quickly and Marcus began to draw. He finished up the trees and then started in on the big cement urns that stood at the top of the steps. Finally, feeling like a thief approaching a door that might be booby-trapped, he began to draw Tomas.

Before, when he’d investigated Chicago, St. Anthony’s, and Tomas, he’d kept his distance, seeing only the cursory shape of Tomas and not the intimate details. Now, familiarity helped him get the curve of Tomas’s cheek and the strong angle of his jaw just right. It helped with the faint creases around Tomas’s mouth and at the corners of his eyes.

If only the angle was better—he’d like to draw Tomas from straight on but anything was better than nothing. He was running out of paper and light, anyway. If he’d been thinking, he would have packed paints and not just pencils—umbers, siennas and yellows for Tomas’s skin, violets and blues for his hair and the shadows under his eyes and throat. If he had a camera, he’d get some pictures because then he’d have Tomas with him always.

He drew a few more lines and then sighed, vexed by his own forgetfulness. Of course he could take photos—he had Kat’s mobile. He got it out of his pocket and snapped a few pics. They weren’t any good, he thought as he scrolled through them. Blurry and overexposed, they gave the suggestion of Tomas, not the real thing.

“Who called?”

He looked up. Tomas was awake and staring at him with clouded eyes. “No one. Just took a few snaps.” He nodded towards the lake. “Of the view.”

Tomas held out his hand. “Let me see.”

He could just put the mobile away. He could just say no. But it was ridiculous. He wasn’t a teenage girl, mooning over her latest crush, so he handed the mobile to Tomas.

Tomas went through the photos and said nothing. When he was done, he raised the mobile and said, “Turnabout is fair game, yes?”

“I think it’s ‘turnabout is fair play,’ but yes, it is,” Marcus answered. He hated having his picture taken, but this was Tomas and it was so hard saying no to him…

When Tomas was done he held the mobile out.

“Oy,” Marcus muttered as he gazed at the photos. He looked so old, as if the events of the last four months had spanned forty years. The last photo was actually okay even though his eyes seemed sad and lost.

“What, ‘oy’?”

“I look so old.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Don’t look up, he warned himself as he flushed with pleasure at the compliment. Don’t do it, and he didn’t. He pocketed the phone and sat back.

“Are you hungry yet?”

“Getting there,” he answered, eyes fixed on the lake.

“Then…” Tomas pushed to his feet. “I better get cracking.”

***

“What are you making?” Marcus asked, watching from the door as Tomas began to pull things out of the refrigerator.

“I was thinking of fish but that can make the house stinky and it’s not my house, so I thought stir-fry. Chicken or beef?”

“Beef,” he answered only because Tomas needed the protein and iron. “Do you want some help?”

“You can chop up the vegetables, if you wish.”

“Sure.” He loved the way Tomas pronounced ‘vegetables,’ emphasizing every syllable. That was nothing new, of course—he loved the way Tomas pronounced most things. “Care for some music?”

“Sure.”

Marcus pushed away from the doorjamb and started the recorder. The tape whirred past a bad spot, and then Al Wilson began to sing: ‘These are the eyes that never knew how to smile…’

Humming along, he went to the cupboard that held the prep equipment. He chose a cutting board and a colander, then picked a knife from the block and held it up to the light.

Tomas glanced at him. “How do you know where everything is?”

“I’m a snoop, remember?”

“I forgot.”

He washed everything and sat it all in the colander. “You’re telling me you haven’t done your share of snooping?” There was no answer and he looked over. Tomas was holding back a grin as he sliced the beef in long, thin strips. “I take that as a yes.”

“That is a yes.”

He returned to his veggies and picked up a pepper. “What kind of spying have you done?”

“The usual.”

“Bathrooms, bedrooms, and library?” The music began to slow down—he’d forgotten the cord and the batteries were at least four months old.

“Maybe. Those three rooms tell everything about a person.”

“Interesting that you didn’t include the kitchen. That says a lot about a person, too.”

“I told you, I don’t have time to cook.”

“Yes, you told me and I—”

“Said that there’s always time to take care of the body.”

Suddenly and with a pang, he missed those early days, even though there’d only been a few to miss—sitting at Tomas’s table in the kitchen, his desk in the refectory, getting to know him, appreciate him.

“Marcus?”

He put on a quick smile and began chopping the carrots. The tape player had completely stopped. “Hm?”

There was a long nothing, and then Tomas murmured, “Never mind.”

They worked in silence after that until everything was in the pan. Standing by the stove, Tomas leaned against the counter and stirred. Marcus sat down and pulled the recorder to him. It had a long, new crack on the side. Some glue or tape would take care of that.

“Where did that come from?”

Marcus glanced up. Tomas was watching him from the side of his eyes. “Where did what come from?”

“The tape. Where did you get it?”

“I think a better question would be when did I get it.”

“All right, when?”

He pushed the buttons, one after the other, depressing none fully. “From a friend.” Friend—such a bland word, meaning nothing, meaning everything.

“So I assumed.”

“All right,” he said reluctantly. He’d never talked about this with anyone other than God and that conversation hadn’t gone over too well. “When I was first at St. Barts, I met a boy, older, but no less terrified. This tape was his. His mum had given him a whole set before she’d left him on the church’s doorstep.”

“What happened to him, this boy?”

He cocked his head, unable to look up. “St. Barts happened. Father Sean happened.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, he managed four years until it got to be too much. He ran away on his eighteenth birthday.” A summer day which had started out perfectly, the two of them meeting in their spot by the river for a swim and then…

“And you?”

“I stayed. I had a calling. He, as it turned out, did not.”

“So,” Tomas said quietly. “He was your something beautiful.”

Marcus nodded, still afraid to look up, the memories choking his throat.

“I am sorry.”

He shrugged and forced a smile. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. It was a long time ago. I survived.”

“Did he?”

He hid his grimace. “If you can call it that. He’s living in Birmingham with his wife and five children.”

“Oh.”

He nodded. Oh.

“You made the right decision.”

“How so?”

“If you hadn’t, how many souls would now be lost?”

It was a familiar thought, brought out during the times when loneliness and need were like an itch he couldn’t scratch, but to hear Tomas say it… He cleared his throat and stood up to got out the plates and wine glasses. “Where do you want to eat? Kitchen, dining room or terrace?”

“I was thinking out by the fire pit.”

He turned. “They have a fire pit?”

Tomas grinned. “See what you miss by only looking in bathrooms and bedrooms?”

Once again, there were dark circles under Tomas’s eyes and his skin was dull and papery. This time, however, the slight faults somehow enhanced Tomas’s beauty and Marcus could feel the connection between them, hard and resolute as if made of diamond or steel.

Tomas’s smile changed, becoming less mischievous and more sad. “Marcus?”

“Yes?”

“What are we going to do about this?”

He didn’t pretend confusion. “I have no idea.”

Tomas nodded as if expecting the answer. “My thoughts exactly.”

***

The fire pit, as it turned out, was on the north side of the house, the central point of a separate little patio. It was a pretty space, protected by a privacy screen made of latticed metalwork. Tomas turned on the fire and they sat at the cafe table, said grace and then ate. The food was delicious, though when he complimented Tomas, he just got a shrug and a, ‘How hard could it be?’

After they’d finished, he found two lounge chairs in a wooden storage cabinet and set them by the pit. He picked up their wine glasses and asked Tomas to join him.

They sat there looking up at the stars, not speaking.

Marcus had never been too fond of stargazing. When compared to the immensity of the night sky, this world always seemed so fragile, so pointless. He shivered and drew his feet up.

“What is it?”

He wrapped his arms around his legs. “When I was in Mexico City trying to help Gabriel—” He glanced at Tomas and gave him a crooked smile. “Or not helping, as the case may be…” He turned back to the sky. “…I would take my breaks on the Garcia’s little balcony. It was always so startling to me, looking up at the stars, realizing how little and insignificant we all are.”

“Proportion isn’t always an accurate measure of reality, Marcus.”

He turned again. “Really? Science tells us that by the time the light from our nearest star reaches the earth, four years have gone by.” He shook his head. “Four years, Tomas. Gabriel barely had twice that.”

“I know.”

“So when I look up, I have to not see the longevity of some things and the brevity of others. I have to remind myself that those I save are grateful. That I haven’t condemned them to a life eked out in years of pain and suffering, one that, conversely, is going to be gone in a heartbeat.”

“They will go to heaven, those you saved. It is God’s will.”

“Right,” he said, scrubbing his damp eyes as he twisted around. “God’s will.” He started to get up but Tomas was too fast, reaching out and grabbing his arm.

“Wait,” Tomas said. “That was a thoughtless answer.” He tugged Marcus back down, then sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the lounge. “Of course, you worry whether you made their lives better or worse. Of course, you want them not to suffer anymore.” His grip tightened. “But, Marcus, it isn’t up to you, what happens next. That’s the responsibility of the redeemed and of God. Anything else is just hubris.”

Captivated by Tomas’s low voice as much as his words, Marcus couldn’t move. “You’re right,” he said after a moment. “It’s a vanity to expect otherwise.”

Tomas cocked his head. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that it’s a burden you can choose to carry or not. No one is out there blaming you for their lot and if they are, they need to have a talk with Jesus.” Tomas smiled and loosened his grip. “And if they still insist on being foolish, just send them to me.”

The moment was careening out of control and he wanted to draw back. Instead, he found himself leaning closer, murmuring, “What, you’ll beat them up for me?”

“Well,” Tomas answered with a little shrug. “Maybe not beat them up, but I’ll give them a talking to.” He hesitated, then stroked the inside of Marcus’s wrist.

“Tomas.”

“This is what I wanted to tell you the other day,” Tomas said, “that you are not alone, especially not in this.”

“And Jessica?”

Tomas frowned. “We both know what happened. I made my petition to God. I was forgiven. You told me you had, as well.”

He had. After he’d realized what had happened, he’d said, I understand and, we’ll make this right. “And now it’s my turn, is that what you’re saying?”

Tomas shrugged.

“This is how it starts, Tomas,” he urged. “This is the root of it.”

Tomas slid his hand up Marcus’s arm. “Do you mean sin?”

He loosened Tomas’s grip and leaned back. “No, I mean the demon. Never mind that celibacy is a dangerous, unnatural anachronism. Never mind that I know my attraction to my own sex is not an aberration. It will use this. It will use what is in us, you can be sure of it.”

Tomas stilled. And then straightened up. Gone was any hint of softness or desire; in its place was a familiar, blank shock. “Do you mean to say that you think it is in me?” His voice was rising, growing louder. “You said it never was. You said— Usted dijo que—”

“Christ.” Marcus turned to face Tomas and cupped his head. “No, that’s not what I meant.” He stroked Tomas’s temples with his thumbs, making his touch light and reassuring. Tomas was shaking, a possible reaction to the cold night air or remembered terror. “You are not possessed. You never were.” If nothing else, Tomas’s reaction said everything, and a decision Marcus hadn’t known he was making formed and solidified. “I promise.”

Tomas nodded. “Yeah, okay.” He took a deep breath and visibly tried to smile.

Marcus cocked his head. “Better?”

“Yes. Better.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Good.” He made himself let go. He made himself sit back. “Hey, Tomas…?”

Tomas drew a deep breath and looked up. Like a cloud covering a bright sky, his expression changed. He clasped his hands together and said in a low voice, “You’re leaving.”

It wasn’t a question but Marcus nodded. “Tomorrow or the next day. The demon is on the run and the Rance’s don’t need me anymore.”

“And neither do I.”

“And neither do you.”

If he expected Tomas to cajole or plead, he was disappointed. With a sharp, single nod, Tomas sat back in the lounge and said, “I understand.”

He cocked his head because he knew that stubborn tone. It meant that Tomas didn’t understand and he didn’t accept it but there was no way in hell he was going argue the point. That stubbornness was one of the things Marcus loved about him—Tomas’s refusal to accept failures, even his own.

“Marcus?”

He followed Tomas’s example and sat back, stretching out his legs. “Yes?”

“Where are you going when you leave?”

“I have no idea.”

“Back to Mexico?”

“Maybe. Maybe to Rome, if they’re still talking to me.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah.” It really was getting cold; they’d have to go in soon.

“Marcus?”

“Yeah?”

“Where have you been? In the world, I mean.”

“Pretty much everywhere.”

Tomas turned his head. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

Tomas shrugged. “I’ve never been anywhere. Except for Mexico, of course.”

His arms almost ached, that’s how much he wanted to reach over and pull Tomas to him. Nothing between them but cotton, flesh, and the line in the sand neither could cross. “That’s a lot more than most Americans, I would think.”

“I suppose.” Tomas turned his head slightly. “What has been your favorite place? I mean, considering everything?”

“Considering everything, Chicago, of course.”

Tomas actually rolled his eyes. “Seriously.”

“Seriously.”

He thought Tomas would answer with another quip; instead, he smiled a singularly sweet smile and said, “Oh.”

Don’t, Tomas, Marcus thought bitterly. Don’t give me your sadness and your sweetness and your confusion—they’re the only things that have the power to change my mind. “And you?” he countered, clearing his mind of everything but surface feelings of being cold and tired. “Where’s your favorite place?”

Tomas thought on that for a while, then said quietly, “I don’t know. I don’t think I have one.”

***

By mutual, silent, agreement, they got up soon after. Marcus collected the dishes while Tomas turned off the fire pit. They washed up the same way, slowly, methodically, as if performing a ritual.

Marcus said he had to check the doors, really wanting to give Tomas time to prepare for bed. Doors locked and lights out, he returned to the TV room, walking slowly. Odd to think that he’d been living in this house for less than a month—he felt comfortable and at ease here, as if this were his home and he was going to his room.

That ease disappeared the moment he crossed the room’s threshold. Tomas was already in bed, back against the wall with a book on his lap. He was wearing his grey Loyola t-shirt and his reading glasses; both were far sexier than they had a right to be. Without pause, Marcus fled by turning to the bathroom and shutting the door. It was too late to go sleep on the sofa in the living room, he told his mirror self. He’d look like an idiot. He just needed a moment, maybe five or ten minutes. If he stayed in the bathroom long enough, Tomas would be asleep by the time he got out. Mirror Marcus answered with a roll of eyes and a snide, ‘Coward.’

Hiding turned out to be a futile exercise—when he came out of the bathroom, Tomas was still sitting up in bed and the book was still open.

Feeling as if he was on stage and acting out a scene that required nonchalance, Marcus went to his side of the room. He unlaced his boots, head down, concentrating on nothing at all. “What are you reading?”

“Our old favorite.”

He frowned and glanced over. Tomas was holding the book up. “The Mystery of the Moss Covered Mansion. Nancy Drew again, is it?”

Tomas nodded. “It’s very odd. Who names a girl ‘George’?”

He half smiled, half frowned. “Come again?”

Tomas pointed to the cover. “See this girl? The one with the dark hair? That girl’s name is George.”

“Maybe it’s short for ‘Georgia.’”

“Maybe.” Tomas examined the cover. “It’s very odd, though.”

“I knew a girl by the name of, ‘Emerson.’” He peeled off his socks and stuffed them in his boots.

Tomas smiled. “‘Emerson’?”

“Hm, mm. Her parents were very fond of the poet, presumably.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Why do I do what?” He’d sleep in his jeans and t-shirt; it was safer that way.

“You always put your socks in your shoes. Why do you do that?”

The blanket he’d been using smelled musty; he should have washed it and the other linens—that would give Kat less to do. “Force of habit. I’ve been to a lot of places that have crawly things that thought my boots would make a perfect home.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Marcus?”

“Hm?”

“Will you look at me?”

Marcus’s heart jerked and he raised his head, feeling every vertebrae in his neck. Gazing at Tomas was like gazing at the sun but he made himself do it.

Tomas had set the book on the side table and was resting his hand on the bed. “Come here.”

“I better not.”

With precise movements, Tomas took off his glasses and laid them on the book. “No. You don’t get to do that. You had your say; now I am having mine. They aren’t new, my feelings for you. And, I know you want me the same way.”

“Tom—”

“No. If you’re going away—” Tomas swallowed and then smiled an unhappy smile. “If you’re going away, I want something to remember you by.”

“My stellar conversation and presence wasn’t enough?” he muttered, a last-ditch attempt at humor.

Tomas didn’t smile. “No, they weren’t.”

His hands clenched on the blanket. “And your immortal soul?”

“My soul is fine. My soul is whole.”

He took a deep breath, struggling against himself, answering weakly, “It’s a mistake.” It won’t be any good, anyway. I’ve been too long alone, too centered in my own self. “It really is.”

Tomas shrugged and then said a tiny, overused word: “Please, Marcus. Please.”

So, there was one other thing that had the power to change his mind and almost without will, he found himself on his feet and moving towards the bed, crossing that uncrossable line. He stopped when his shins hit the mattress.

This would quite possibly push him over the edge. He’d been toeing the abyss for so long. Gabriel’s death had left him teetering—having Tomas and then renouncing him would almost be worse. Heaven and then hell, because he knew himself well enough to know if he let himself have this, he’d miss Tomas until the end of his days. Who in their right mind would ever want that pain, that suffering? But the point was moot. There was no way he was going to stop, not while his stomach was burning with desire, not while Tomas was looking up at him like that. Still… “Tomas? Are you sure about this? I mean, really sure.”

Tomas raised an eyebrow. “You do realize I went to seminary, yes? That I was instructed to test myself and my devotion to God—how many women do you think were in my classes?”

That wasn’t quite the answer he was hoping for, and an ugly streak of irrational jealousy vied with the tiniest of self-doubts. He opened his mouth to question and temporize but Tomas took the matter in hand by literally taking the matter in hand—he reached up and slipped his finger under the cord of Marcus’s crucifix and pulled it free. Then, slowly and deliberately, he tugged Marcus down.

Christ.

No wonder Jessica wrote all those letters. No wonder she’d come back again and again, unable to let Tomas go. It was because of this, the sweetness of Tomas’s kiss, not skilled or practiced, just raw and a little messy, perfect in its imperfection.

Head swimming, palm on the wall for support and unwilling to relinquish Tomas for a moment, Marcus got onto the bed. He knelt over Tomas and straddled his hips.

‘Yeah, okay,’ he wanted to say as he slipped his hand under Tomas’s shirt and got a rough sigh as a reply. ‘I get it. I understand and if I ever meet you in the flesh, Jessica, I’ll tell you my…’

Tomas bit him.

Just a nip of sharp teeth on Marcus’s lower lip that stopped his crazy train of thought. Like a match to waiting tinder, the heat that had centered in his belly spread like wildfire. In a hot daze, he wrenched away and pulled off his own shirt, watching as Tomas did the same. Trousers, sweatpants, and shorts and they were both naked and he was sliding on Tomas, stretching out, unable to muffle his slight gasp.

“Marcus?” Tomas whispered.

“I’m all right,” he answered into Tomas’s chest, kissing Tomas’s skin blindly, acknowledging the terrifying, glorious notion that it was quite possible that everything he’d ever done, everything he’d ever been was preparation for becoming this Marcus, the one who loved this Tomas.

Blasphemy only not, not really, and he stroked Tomas’s side, down and down, resting the backs of his fingers in the warm hollow made by Tomas’s hipbone.

Tomas moaned and muttered something in Spanish, slurred and soft, and then reached up to curl his fingers around Marcus’s crucifix.

No, Tomas. There’s no hiding from this, from him,’ and to prove his point, to prove that he wasn’t just as scared, he leaned sideways and slid his hand between their bodies.

Tomas gasped and pushed up, spreading his legs to make room.

Oh.

…and again, oh, as he slid greedy fingers around Tomas’s cock and shifted his hips. Oh, as Tomas grabbed his hand and pressed, guiding, forcing.

Oh, as a faint, ambient sound gathered strength inside his head. Familiar but not, he was sure he’d heard it before, this noise that wasn’t quite noise, only he couldn’t think where because the hum was transmuting into a song, a chorus of nothing. He followed it, thrusting now, trying to find the rhythm, caught by the raw joy in Tomas’s blown smile and bright eyes.

He wished he could share it with Tomas, this wonder, and he tried to do just that but the noise amplified and burst white across his vision. He arched. Lost, nerves catching fire, he covered Tomas’s hand and cradled the crucifix, coming with a cry. Too soon, too soon, the white sound already fading to black while he faded with it.

Routed, remade, he managed to not fall as Tomas came, only a step behind.

***

He didn’t know about Tomas, but given his own limited experience, that had been something else.

“Wow.”

Weakly, Marcus grinned, his face pressed into the curve of Tomas’s breast. “You took the words out of my mouth.” Tomas was lazily petting his bicep, right over the tattoo. He wanted to purr. He should have been born a cat—he’d had enough lives. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll answer that as soon as I can think again.”

Marcus breathed a laugh, and then kissed Tomas’s collarbone in apology when Tomas shivered. “Sorry.” Reality and everything beyond was pushing against the hazy bubble of happiness but he ignored it.

“It’s okay.” Tomas sighed and ran his hand down Marcus’s back. “And yes, I am all right. Better than all right.”

“Good.” He craned his neck, looking up. There was a bite mark on the side of Tomas’s neck and his hair was sticking out on one side. Marcus reached up and combed it flat, then stretched and kissed the side of Tomas’s mouth. He lay back down. “Am I too heavy?”

“No. Marcus?”

“Hm, mm?”

“When you go— If I’m asleep, can you not wake me?”

Right. So much for fantasy, so much for keeping reality at bay. Expecting anything but that, it took him a moment to work through the pain that had lanced through his chest. “I’ll even tiptoe.”

Tomas stroked Marcus’s arm once more, and then turned off the light. “Thank you.”

***

Marcus didn’t leave right away. He slid off Tomas and pulled the covers up and then—as if this was their post-coital ritual, something they’d done over and over again—they turned as one. He pressed close behind Tomas and wrapped an arm over his waist. Tomas’s hair smelled of shampoo and smoke and Marcus had to stop from kissing the back of his neck, from starting all over again.

***

He waited until a little after two, and then got up. Like an automaton, he packed his gear and changed his clothes in the bathroom. Back in the room, he was turning in a circle, making sure he’d gotten everything when he stubbed his toe. He swore viciously under his breath before he could think not to. Frozen, he listened for the rustling of the sheets but nothing came.

He left the room, carrying his boots, rucksack and duffle bag.

His plan didn’t include much beyond leaving, but when he sat at the kitchen table to pull on his boots, he glanced at the tape recorder. It was just an inanimate object. It wasn’t accusing him of more than just running.

Sighing, he tore two, ‘You’re All Out Of:’ sheets from the pad on the fridge and got out a pen.

He wrote a note for Kat and another for Tomas. Kat’s note was longish, explaining the whys and hows. He thanked her for all she’d done and promised he’d repay her someday. The note to Tomas was brief by necessity, just a few words, because really, what was there to say? He wasn’t sure if the words even existed to explain what Tomas had done for him, given to him, when he’d forced him back into the world. As for the rest…

He cleared his throat reached for the recorder. He hesitated once more, palm on the cool plastic. The tape had been his companion for almost forty years. It had gotten him through bad times and hellish times, an anchor and reminder that life wasn’t all pain, that love existed, even for him. He didn’t want to leave it behind, but if he couldn’t stay, if he had to step aside so Tomas could be who he needed to be, he wanted to offer some part of himself, something more tangible than a few bruises and a couple bite marks.

So he picked up the recorder, set it on the table and placed Tomas’s letter on it.

Done, he took a deep breath and hitched up his gear.

***

Using the mobile’s GPS, Marcus walked steadily. Just as steadily, he kept his mind free of everything but the grey road before him. The constant urge to turn around was like a hand at his throat and he’d walked at least a mile before the pressure eased. He had been—he was surprised to find—mentally repeating, You can do this, you can do this… like one of those ridiculous self-affirming mantras one saw on late night telly.

At just past five he reached the still-mostly asleep village. The diner’s parking lot was full but the other shops were closed and there was no one on the road. Needing a sit-down, he wandered up Main Street until he found a bench by the petrol station. He switched from GPS to Google and searched until he found the only bus map and the only bus stop. It was about a half a mile away, an easy walk. The problem was the timetable—the first bus arrived at ten and didn’t return to the city until eleven. Six hours to wait and no good place to do it in, given that he was low on funds.

Wondering if he could afford a meal and the bus ticket, he dialed a number he’d learned by heart years ago. As he waited for the call to ring through, he crossed his legs and gazed up at the pale grey sky. The call was answered with an abrupt, “Yes?” and Marcus smiled. “So you made it out alive?” There was no answer and he added, “Where are you?”

There was another moment of nothing and then Bennett answered, “At lunch. Where the hell—”

Bennett cut off. Marcus heard the sound of wood scraping and a low mumble.

When Bennett came back on, his voice was tight with anger. “And now you’ve stooped to kidnapping, have you?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“The hospital had cameras, Marcus. You were very clearly seen wheeling Father Tomas out of the lobby and into a black vehicle.”

He lost his smile. “And the driver? Did you see him?”

“No,” Bennett conceded. “We couldn’t tell who it was, nor could we see the license plate. We had no idea where you were, no idea what you’d done with him.”

He sighed. At least Kat was safe. “What did you think I’d done? Spirited him out of the country?”

“Knowing you, anything was possible.” Bennett paused briefly, then added more calmly, “He looked ridiculous, by the way. That beard and mustache wouldn’t have fooled a child.”

“It did the trick. That’s all I cared about.”

“Marcus—why?”

Marcus rested his arm along the back if the bench. “I had to. You wouldn’t and Egan wouldn’t. I had to get him out of that place. I had to help him.”

“That wasn’t my choice. You know that.”

“Yeah,” he said reluctantly because Bennett was an idiot but he wasn’t monster. “What’s happening?”

“Meaning?”

“Don’t play with me, Bennett.”

Bennett huffed an irritated sigh. “All right. Yes, I talked to His Holiness, and yes, he agreed that we have a problem.”

Marcus straightened up. “He actually believes you?”

“Of course, he does. We all do. It’s just…”

“It’s one thing to profess, another to truly believe,” he finished for Bennett. “Do you have a plan?”

“For now, we’re establishing a network to monitor the situation. His Holiness will meet with several world leaders. Nothing explicit will be said, of course, but they need to be made aware of what’s going on.”

“Talk about true believers,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw. “They’ll laugh you out of the room.”

“Hence the lack of explicitness,” Bennett said quietly.

Marcus tapped his fingers on the wooden slats. “And me?”

“I want you in Pamplona as soon as possible. I’ve a report of another incident. I sent Father Paulo but he’s hopelessly out of his depth.”

“Who’s the afflicted?”

“A girl by the name of Serena. Her mother brought her to church three days ago. Apparently, the girl’s parents thought she was making it up to avoid school so they waited almost a week. She’s in quite a desperate state.”

“And how do you propose to get me out there? Hot air balloon?”

“No, you’ll fly. I’ve cleared your name with US authorities and transferred money to your account in Rome.”

Huh. “You were that sure that I’d come back?”

When Bennett spoke again, his voice was light, almost joking. “I had no doubt, Marcus. It’s who you are. It’s what you do.”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to be known that well, especially by someone like Bennett. “And Father Tomas?”

“He’ll need to chat with Bishop Egan and make his confession. After that, we’ll see.”

“You’ll do more than ‘see,’ Bennett. You’ll make sure he’s all right. None of this was his doing—none of it.”

Whatever he’d let slip in his tone, Bennett picked up on it immediately. “You haven’t compromised yourself, have you Marcus?”

He smiled bitterly. ‘If by ‘compromised,’ do you mean did I fall head over heels like falling down a well?’ “Of course not, Bennett,” he lied smoothly. “It’s just that Tomas was instrumental in saving the Rance family and I want you all to remember that. He’s special.”

There was another long moment of silence and then Bennett said, “All right. I’ll put pressure on Egan. Father Tomas will be reestablished at St. Anthony’s.”

Marcus closed his eyes briefly. “Thank you.” Thank you for not pressing the issue. Thank you for doing the one thing that I can’t.

“Don’t thank me. Just get to Pamplona. Stop this trickle before it becomes a flood.”

Marcus didn’t say that they might be too late—Bennett already knew. “I’ll be on a plane by early evening.”

“Good. And can you please return whoever’s mobile this is to them? I know it’s not yours; you’re not a thief, Marcus.”

Marcus grinned and answered by hanging up.

So, Pamplona and another demon. Another demon without Tomas by his side. His smile died. There was nothing he could do about it. He and Tomas were on different roads and if those roads had converged for a while, so what? Tomas would move on and up, it was inevitable. When he became bishop or even cardinal, the Church would be better for it. The world would be better for it.

Holding that small crumb tight to his heart in an effort to allay the waiting grief, Marcus stood up. Time for breakfast, time to plan. Time to talk a trusting American into taking him back to Chicago.

***

Coda

Mexico City

August, 2016

One hand clutching his meager groceries, the other outstretched to skim the lush bougainvillea that cascaded over the stucco walls, Marcus trudged up the steep road. He was tired but elated. This fight had been short and savage, meaning his victory would be proportionately long and sweet.

Mrs. Rodriquez was on her stoop, sweeping as usual. He nodded to her. She smiled and nodded back. He liked her, though they hadn’t spoken anything beyond Buenas tardes and buenas noches. She was thin and tall with striking, pale blue eyes. He always wondered where she got her coloring from, but had never had time to ask. Now that he was done and young José was free, maybe he could invite her to tea.

Things were quieting down. He had no new cases lined up. Maybe he’d be allowed a respite because the past few months had been busy. One case after another, he’d travelled from Spain to Prague and then Ireland, and finally, back to Mexico City. He wouldn’t mind a holiday, a chance to unwind and relax. He could take a trip and visit London or Paris. Or Chicago.

With grim predictability, his thoughts strayed to a certain priest in south Chicago. He quashed those thoughts before they could become anything but transient memory. It never did much good, but he tried anyway.

He hadn’t had word of Tomas in over a month. Well, thirty-eight days to be exact. Bennett had kept him up to speed, informing him when Tomas had been re-installed at St. Anthony’s. When Tomas’s Homeless to Houses program had been adopted by the Chicago area churches with only slight modifications. Tomas was doing well, if a little subdued, according to Bennett.

It didn’t mean anything that he hadn’t heard much beyond that. He’d spied, of course, using the spotty internet provided by the local parish. St. Anthony’s website had been updated, announcing the holiday schedule. On the home page, there was a new, blurry picture of Tomas saying mass. Marcus had been almost grateful when the connection had given out, bent over his mobile as he’d been. Pathetic, pointless, and if anything had happened, Bennett would let him know.

When he got to his building, he opened the gate and then smiled. The jacaranda had dropped more petals and it was like walking over a fragrant blue carpet. Up a short flight of stairs and then across the first courtyard that led to the second. His neighbor, a man by the name of Francisco, was just leaving. He saw Marcus and then crossed himself, muttering a prayer, head down.

Like Mrs. Rodriquez, he hadn’t spoken much to Francisco. Unlike Mrs. Rodriquez, he doubted they’d be sitting down to tea anytime soon. The entire building knew who Marcus was and why he was here, the result of which, they avoided him like the plague. It hadn’t been his doing, but José’s mother had talked.

He shrugged and got out his keys. Feeling like a pariah had never bothered him much. It was the new and not fun loneliness that was beginning to grate. There was no use crying over the proverbial spilt milk, however—he’d known how it was going to be.

Good mood spoiled, he was passing into the shadow of the balcony overhang when his mobile rang. He opened it up, wishing once more he hadn’t returned Kat’s, because this one was crap and never got the ID right. “Hello?”

“All I want to know is this: have you gone completely crazy?”

Eyebrow raised, Marcus said, “Speak of the devil.” He backed up, sat on the low stucco wall that enclosed the courtyard, and tipped his head to the lovely afternoon heat. “How are you, Bennett?”

“Never mind how I am. I want to know what you’re up to.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I just finished with the Diaz boy.” When he got upstairs, he was going to eat the fruit he’d just bought on the wide porch and then fall asleep in the sun. “He’s fine, by the way.”

“I expected nothing less, and I’m talking about what you’ve done,” Bennett answered. “I just got off the phone with Bishop Egan.”

Marcus straightened up, all thoughts of fruit and siestas gone. “Is Tomas okay?” When Bennett didn’t answer, he barked, “Bennett, is he okay?”

“So,” Bennett said, his voice dropping to its normal register, “you don’t know.”

“I swear Bennett, if you don’t tell me right—”

“He’s fine. I think. He has apparently quit. Egan said he left a week ago. Just up and quit with no warning.”

Marcus closed his eyes and bowed his head. Tomas, what have you done?

“Marcus?”

“Was it the woman? Jessica?”

“He was involved with a woman, too?”

He grimaced. “What do you mean, ‘too’?”

There was a short silence and then Bennett said, “No, as far as I know, he wasn’t involved with a woman.”

Good. Things being as they were, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to take a ‘yes.’ “There must have been a catalyst. Have you talked to his assistant?”

“Egan did. Apparently, she was just as surprised. However, the sister told Egan that it was your fault. That Ortega changed after he met you.”

“I have that affect on people.”

Bennett sighed. “Marcus, have you seen him?”

“No, I haven’t, Bennett. I had no idea he was leaving the Church.”

“It’s not as drastic as that, though Egan won’t hear reason. He kept going on about how much money they’d invested and they have to start all over again now that Ortega has decided his future lies in another direction.”

Feeling a jolt of crazy hope, Marcus asked softly, “And what direction would that be?”

“He’s decided he’s to be like you, an exorcist. He told Egan he had a new calling and didn’t need to be a priest to do it. And that God wouldn’t care if he wore a collar as long as his heart was true.” Bennett sighed again. “I can only assume that childish inanity was your doing.”

Marcus stilled. Too tired to pay much attention to his surroundings, he’d completely missed that the mail had come. It was never reliable to begin with; he tended to get whole bunches at a time, mostly adverts for timeshares and letters to previous occupants. Today, there was so much that it was spilling onto the stoop. And onto a package that was sitting on the stoop. He never got packages. Ever.

“Marcus? Are you—”

“Bennett,” he interrupted slowly, just as slowly getting up and going over to the door. “I haven’t seen him. I had no idea he was thinking about quitting.” He picked up the box. “I’ll call you later. Probably tonight.” Absently, he snapped the mobile closed on Bennett, mid-stutter, and stuffed it in his pocket.

The box wasn’t heavy and had clearly traveled far—the brown paper wrapping was torn and re-taped in places. The original address was to his rented flat in Ireland. It had been crossed out and his new address in Mexico had been written underneath in what looked like Father Patrick’s hand. The return address was smudged and stained, but he could just make out 1201 East 67th Street, no 303, Chicago, Illinois, 60615, United States.

Heart beating thick and sluggish, he gathered the mail and went inside. He kicked the door closed and—somehow needing light and sunshine—went straight through to the flat’s balcony. He sat in the only chair and dumped everything but the package onto the table. Stupidly, his hands were shaking as he opened it.

Inside, there were three items: a CD player enclosed in bubblewrap, a book—The Clue of the Whistling Bagpipes—and a folded piece of paper. He opened the note, almost wincing as he read:

Marcus,

I am thinking that you never got my letters or my messages and that’s why you haven’t responded. At least, that is what I am assuming. I obtained your current address from Father Patrick in Ireland. I am leaving on the fifteenth. Whatever happens after is up to you. The book and CD player are for you. As you seem to be helpless with technology, I decided an iPod would be too much. I hope the player is something beautiful for you.

Yours, T

He read it again, imagining Tomas’s grin as he wrote, ‘helpless with technology.’

“Ha-ha, Tomas,” he whispered with a smile, setting the letter down to scrabble through the rest of the mail. He found another letter near the bottom of the pile, originally addressed care of Vatican City. This time, he read with no caution, only growing anticipation:

Marcus,

I’m not sure this will get to you and I’m starting to feel stupid, writing letters that will never be read. My sister once accused me of writing to Jessica because it was a way of hiding our relationship. You made fun of me for almost the same thing. It wasn’t shame or hiding—I like to write because it first helped me with my English. Later on, I realized I liked it because when I do, my thoughts become permanent. So here I am making my thoughts permanent, telling you that I have become two men. The old Tomas goes through the motions of mass and confession and prayer. The new Tomas watches cynically from the sidelines, wondering if any of it is doing any good. Did I once help exorcise a demon from a young girl’s soul? Did I really do the same for her mother? Right now, it feels as if I hadn’t, as if it were all a dream.

I can see you now, smirking because I’m questioning everything, including my role in the Church. I know I still have a vocation but it is seeming, as the days go by, to be the wrong one. I’ve made my confession twice to Bishop Egan but both times, he said it’s PTSD and stress from my hospital stay. He told me to devote myself to my flock and to pray harder.

The funny thing is, as I write this I am re-reading my own words and a realization has come over me. It’s not PTSD or stress. I am on the wrong path. I can feel it. God led me to you which means I am meant to be with you. I know this as surely as I know anything. To be together with you in whatever capacity you choose is what God wants for me. The rest of it doesn’t matter. You said a demon would use my feelings for Jessica against me and you were right. But that was because I was ashamed. I’m not ashamed of my feelings for you. They are right and true and they make my soul right and true. I know that, too.

So odd. When I started this letter—the last, I’d promised myself—I felt old and used up. Now I feel young and energized. I’m not sure what I’ll do next. I have decisions to make but the noon bell just rang and I have to run. I’ll write again soon.

Underneath was another line of copy, faint as if Tomas had written it, then erased it only to write it again:

Since you gave me nothing but a verse, I’ll give you the same: Ruth 1:16-17

Marcus turned his face to the sun hot sun, picturing Tomas sitting at his desk, writing as St. Anthony’s lovely bells rang out.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to weep. Mostly he wanted Tomas right in front of him so he could kiss him and tell him—

Ruth 1:16-17.

Yes, he said silently. Yes, Tomas, I will be your Naomi if you’ll be my Ruth. Where I go, you’ll go, and you’ll be by my side forever and ever, even after death separates us.

Dazed at the sharp turn his life had just taken, jubilant for the same reason, Marcus scrubbed away the tears that weren’t there and picked up the CD player. There was much to do. The fifteenth was yesterday which meant Tomas would be here any time now. He needed to clean the flat, including the sheets and towels because Tomas liked to have things neat and clean.

Before all that, though, he’d start dinner, something they could keep on the stove—they weren’t going leave this flat for days if he had anything to say about it. Soup or some sort of casserole would be best.

Still in a daze, he turned the CD player over and over, trying to figure out how to open it. He finally found the latch on the side and the lid popped up. Inside was a disk and on the disk, Tomas had written, ‘For Marcus.’

He closed the lid and pushed play. And then grinned as the upbeat tempo of drums, trombones and trumpets broke the silence. Darrell Banks and Open the Door to Your Heart. Perfect, Tomas, perfect.

As Darrell began to sing, Marcus collected the mail and went into the flat, softly crooning:

…Stretch out your arms

Let the lovelight shine

On my soul, baby, and

Let love come running in…

fin.

****

“Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay.
Your people will be my people and your God my God.
Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried.
May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if even death separates you and me.”

****

Notes:

I wrote the bulk of this immediately after 'Lamb.' Sadly, there was a certain paragraph that was giving me fits and I ended up drawing the whole thing out and adding bits from the rest of the episodes. I did acknowledge some canon character deaths, but it's an AU, taking place sometime after episode 9. If anyone feels like correcting my poor Spanish, I won't be insulted:)

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