Bare Bones (12 page)

“Um.” He shifted his weight again. The guy was buff. No way a dozen books were weighing him down. “Raven wanted you to have these. There’s more down in the car.”

He stood expectantly, waiting for me to invite him in. I was torn. I didn’t want him in my apartment, invading my sanctuary with his energy, looking around at all my stuff. He was Dark Iron’s second, and no matter his relationship with Raven I couldn’t see him as any more than an accomplice to the man who’d been my enemy.

But I couldn’t very well leave him standing in the hall, his arms full of books. Reluctantly I moved aside, opening the door wider.

Reynard walked in. Actually, he kind of loped. Or glided. He had an energy-efficient way of moving across the floor, gently setting the books on my table. The whole time he took in my room, a mixture of curiosity and caution flickering in his eyes.

His gaze landed on my sword and froze. I couldn’t help it. I picked up the bastard sword and drew it from the scabbard, spinning the sword hilt along my palm.

“You actually use that thing?” he asked.

My mind instantly flashed to a memory of my sword sliding through flesh, red flowing along the blade.

“Yes, I do use it.” The words came out harsher than I’d wanted. I’d spilled blood with this sword. I’d killed with this sword. And I wasn’t happy about it.

Reynard obviously thought my displeasure was toward him, not myself. He backed toward the door. “I’ll go get the other books.”

And now I felt a twinge of guilt. The sword went back in the scabbard with a quick, smooth motion. “I’ll give you a hand.”

Reynard had parked me in, his Volvo angled perpendicular to the rear of my car. There were two boxes in the back seat. He handed me one, then took the other, shutting the door with a swing of his hip.

“Who has Rocket?” I asked, wondering about Raven’s French Bulldog. This was killing me, having Reynard show up like this. My friend’s death was still a raw wound, and this visit was ripping off the faint bit of healing I’d been able to do in the last month.

“I have him.” Reynard stopped halfway up the stairs, turning to me. “I miss her too, Aria. When we were good, we were really good. And when we were bad…well the makeup sex was amazing. And we
always
made up. Always.”

I understood, yet I still envied Reynard the time he’d had with Raven as well as every item of hers he still possessed. Evidently I now had her library, while Reynard had her dog. I was pretty sure he had what she’d loved the most.

His blue eyes met mine. “We lived together the last six months. I loved her. I love that dog.”

I nodded. “You ever stop loving that dog, you let me know.”

Reynard’s mouth quirked up in a sideways, dimpled smile that never failed to break hearts. “I’ll
never
stop loving that dog.”

And with those words, I was suddenly okay with a man I’d always eyed with distrust. He might be a player, he might be Dark Iron’s crony, but he’d loved Raven. That much I was sure of. We put the boxes down on the table and Reynard dug in his pocket, pulling out a red silk bag.

“These are some amulets, and a couple rings. They’re not charged, but I thought you should have them.”

I took them with thanks, setting the bag on top of the books. “So, how are things with Haul Du?”

We’d never been close, and I sucked at small talk, but curiosity was killing me. What did they think had happened to Dark Iron? Who was running things now that he was gone? Were they all sitting around waiting for him to show up, like he’d just gone off on an unplanned vacation?

Reynard shrugged, looking just as awkward as I felt. “Things are okay. I’m running Haul Du until the group can vote on a leader. It’s been a month. If Dark Iron was going to come back, he would have at least contacted us by now.”

I was sure guilt was written all over my face.

“Oh?” Yeah. Because I could think of nothing else to say. I’d killed Dark Iron, letting the vampires cover it up. He wasn’t coming back—ever.

“I’m not surprised,” Reynard went on. “The Conclave was getting pressure from some mage in South America to proceed with a theft charge. Even if you’re innocent, nobody wants the Conclave sniffing around your business.”

I knew nothing about this Conclave beyond the fact they struck fear into every mage’s heart. I was envisioning they were like Templar Elders, enforcing some agreed-upon rules and regulations, only much scarier.

Besides, Dark Iron was hardly innocent. I wondered what the Conclave would have done if they’d discovered that in addition to theft he’d orchestrated the murder of four mages and personally killed another?

“Did you hear anything about what’s going on with the Baltimore group?” I asked Reynard. “I mean, I know all the members of Fiore Noir are in jail, but are there other mages who are stepping into the void?”

He shrugged. “All I heard was that there’s a group of psychics or something that have banded together, but they’re not a certified group.”

Again, I wasn’t sure how a group became certified, and what role the Conclave played in that. Were groups
allowed
to be unaffiliated? I knew Russell was a solitary practitioner of necromancy, but I couldn’t imagine any sizable group being able to practice without some kind of oversight.

I was such an outsider, and it hurt. I’d joined Haul Du excited to be working with others who shared my passion, only to be kicked out after eight months when someone had found out I was a Templar. After that, word had spread and suddenly I was a pariah to everyone practicing ceremonial magic. I looked at the boxes on my table. All this information, yet no one to help me learn it. I knew my limitations. I knew so little, and diving into these books without a mentor would be suicide.

Raven was going to help me. She’d promised to mentor me, to help rid me of the demon mark. I’d envisioned us working together, her teaching me what she knew about magic, me sharing with her the information we Templars knew, sharing the knowledge I had access to.

But Raven was dead. And I was standing in my apartment, looking at Reynard as if I were a lost puppy at the pound and he were a potential adopter.

Reynard pulled a card out of his pocket and set it on top of a box. “I know you don’t know me, actually I always got the feeling you wanted to put that sword of yours through my back, but if you have any questions about any of this give me a call.”

He opened the door, then turned to look at me one last time, his beautiful face serious. “I’m not Dark Iron. I might not be willing to let a Templar join Haul Du, but I’d be negligent if I turned my back while you summoned half of hell and let them loose in Baltimore because you didn’t know how to properly secure a gateway through the veil.”

It wasn’t the most stirring speech of friendship I’d ever had, but I’d take it.

S
T. MARK’S WAS
a little stone church in the Highlands. The gardens out back adjoined a neatly mown cemetery with tiny, crumbling markers. I made my way through the late-blooming roses and early mums to the rear entrance where Father Bernard answered at the first ring of the bell. The priest gave me a warm welcome, shaking my hand, inviting me into his office and giving me a hot cup of tea.

“Did you hear about Amanda Lewis?” I asked, figuring this would be a better conversation starter than jumping right into “I summoned a demon and he marked me.”

“No,” the priest wrapped his hands tightly around the mug, which had a brightly-colored, modern art cat on white enamel. “Did she find another exorcist? After you left she insisted I try a second time. I gave her the number of a therapist I know and urged her to come speak with me after the service this Sunday.”

“She’s dead.” Abrupt, but I’m not used to delivering this kind of news. “Her boyfriend found her, and identified her brother Bradley as running from the scene of her murder.”

Father Bernard stared, his tea halfway to his lips. “Dead? But why? Bradley didn’t seem to be on drugs. He had plenty of money—a trust fund set up when their parents died. He seemed to be getting his life together. I’ve known that boy since he was in diapers. He’s not a killer.”

I shrugged. “He’s a bit weird though, you gotta admit. And the police found evidence in his backpack and in the cooler in the garage that leads them to believe Amanda wasn’t his first victim. I know you have a hard time seeing him as a killer, but people change.”

“I guess they do. Poor Amanda. Seems she was right after all, although the demon that got into her brother wasn’t the biblical kind.”

“Which is kind of why I’m here, Father.” I set down my tea and stood, lifting the edge of my shirt. “I want to show you this.

He came from around the desk, bending over slightly to look at the scar on my waist. “Skin cancer? Oh, my child! What is the prognosis?”

Well, that was better than assuming it was from kinky fire-play gone wrong. “It’s a demon mark. I’m hoping you know some way of removing it.”

Father Bernard went back to his chair and sat. He had one of those “not this again” expressions on his face. “Why do you think that’s a demon mark?”

He didn’t believe me. Evidently he figured Templars suffered from delusions, too. He was probably right, but not this time.

“A month ago I summoned a Goetic demon in order to gain information. Something far worse came through the veil, broke free from the circle, and marked me.”

The priest nodded. “Do you have any history of drug use? How often do you drink alcohol?”

“No drugs. Well, none except for the two Percocet a co-worker gave me instead of aspirin one day. I’m too poor to buy much alcohol beyond my one beer, but I eat out each night and we do have a few glasses of wine.”

Okay, that really did make me sound like an alcoholic. What was the cut off on that? I doubted it was fourteenish, okay maybe twenty, glasses of wine per week. And heaven forbid he ever visit my parents’ house where decanters of whisky and brandy were in pretty much every room—bedrooms included.

“Was the demon summoning after a few glasses of wine?”

The priest’s tone was kind and respectful, but I couldn’t help but bristle at the implication. “No! I wasn’t drinking wine with dinner then. I don’t think I’d had a beer in six months when I summoned the demon.”

He nodded, sipping his tea. “Has this sort of thing happened to anyone else in your family?”

He meant was there a history of paranoid delusions in my family. What could I do to make this guy believe me, beyond summoning Balsur right here into the church?

Wait, could I even do that? Probably not. There were some restrictions about demons and holy spaces, as I recalled.

“Father, we’re Templars. No one in my family is foolish enough to summon a demon. My dad believes it’s a lazy shortcut way to achieve knowledge. My mom is furious and ready to defend my soul at the point of her sword.
We
don’t do this sort of thing, but
I
did. My intentions were good, but I screwed up. I took a shortcut and now a high-level demon has marked me. He wants my soul.”

I could see a flicker of indecision in Father Bernard’s eyes. “Aria, the devil cannot take your soul unless you relinquish it to him. You’re a Templar. You’re God’s Warrior. You walk the righteous path. Of all us mortals, the devil will find it especially difficult to take your soul.”

The loss of a soul didn’t always happen by bargaining it away at a crossroads. Yes, some humans consciously gave up their souls for material or other gain, but damnation tended to be a slow, one-step-at-a-time process. Each decision moved a person closer to a fiery eternity, and that road to hell
was
very often paved with good intentions.

“I summoned a demon. I opened a door. That’s enough for a demon to mark my soul if he gets the chance.”

“But not enough to damn you,” the priest countered. “Repent, surrender your soul to God, and that demon will have no hold on you.”

Repent. I hadn’t been to confession in…well, I’d never been to confession. We were Episcopalian. When we confessed, it was through prayer—a direct link between us and God. I thought about starting a nightly foot-of-my-bed prayer routine. Would it really be that easy?

No, it wouldn’t. Because if I was honest with myself, I wasn’t truly repentant. If I needed to, I’d summon a demon again. I wouldn’t be forgiven the sin if I knew I’d repeat my actions. And there were other things I’d done that had tainted my soul far more than dabbling in ceremonial magic.

There were times when confession was a private thing between you and God, and times when it needed to be more of a therapy session with someone who was in-the-know about all things spiritual. This was one of that latter.

“Can I give you my confession? I’m not Catholic. Is that okay? As an Episcopalian you probably can’t give me absolution, but your guidance would be very welcome.”

Father Bernard gave me a quick smile. “Then we should probably discuss this here rather than in a confessional.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you or diminish your authority—”

He waved a hand to cut me off. “I’m not offended at all. You’re a Templar. I’m honored you came to me. God gifted you and your ancestors with strength and power, gave you His blessing to secure the Temple and protect Pilgrims as they walked a holy path. Yes, some who answered that call did not have God’s Word in their hearts, but most did. You are God’s Warriors. Catholic or not.”

I relaxed. Nine hundred years ago—on Friday the thirteenth—the Pope had declared us heretics, allowing secular rulers, mainly the King of France, to seize our holdings. Yes, there were Templars who’d been burned at the stake. Although many Templar families were still devout Catholics, we were English. Our family had shifted to the Anglican Church, and then the Episcopal Church, although that had more to do with regional politics than any bitterness over history. Our brethren in Spain and France had a good relationship with the Catholic Church. It was reassuring to know that we were still considered God’s Warriors, even though we’d chosen a different spiritual path.

Father Bernard smiled. “The past is the past, and you sit before me, a Templar in need. What can I do to assist?”