Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (27 page)

He stepped back. “You said you wanted to wait. You wanted to finish school first.”

“I’ve changed my mind. Please.” She tugged at his shirt, pulling him to her. She unbuttoned it and then her nipples were hard points against his skin. He moved to push her away, but the feel of her in his hands gave him a rise.

“I want a baby. Your baby,” she said. “Now.”

“You want to be a barrister. You’ll not finish if we do this.”

She was tugging at the front of his jeans now. He felt the button pop open under her fingers. “I don’t care.”

“I do.”

“Do you, now?” She gave him a wicked smile and licked his neck. It sent a lightning-quick charge through his body. When her hand probed inside the front of his jeans, suddenly nothing else mattered. “Do I have your attention?” she asked.

“Aye. You do, it seems. Firmly in your grasp.” The familiar banter gave him a warm comfortable feeling that burned away all the long months of tension between them.

“Well, then,” she said. “Would you rather spend the evening arguing?”

He decided that the taxi’s choke could wait one more day.

Chapter 19

Paris, France

November 1976

A steady tap-tap-tap of dripping water echoed from the tunnels until one of the junior priests pushed the massive iron-bound door closed, leaving two priests to guard the catacomb entrance. Creaking wooden folding chairs and hushed whispers haunted the chilly room. For reasons of security, the Convocation of
Milites Dei
was taking place in a section of the Paris catacombs located beneath a famous cathedral. Father Murray glanced at the walls created from stacked human bones and shivered. One hundred priests from various European Archdioceses occupied the chairs, and at the front of the room sat a row of elderly men wearing bishop’s skull caps, sternly facing the audience. Not all present wore priestly robes—some wore suits, depending upon how positively the Catholic Church was viewed in their area and how much freedom obvious members of the Church were permitted.

Father Murray scanned the low-ceilinged room and once again was hit with the enormity of the challenge before him. In all the years that he’d been a member of
Milites Dei
, this was his first Convocation, and it would more than likely be his last. It was both thrilling and unnerving.

The junior ranking priest who had closed the door now swung a thurible as he made his way down the center path between the rows of chairs. At once, burning frankincense blanketed the smell of damp, ancient rot and the press of too many people packed into a small space. As he watched, Father Murray caught the profile of a severe-looking woman when she turned her head. She was seated in the front row facing the bishops. Her brown hair was caught up in a tight French twist. He was about to ask Father Thomas if he knew anything about her when a bell rang and everyone in the room stood up for Cardinal Sabatini.

Father Murray felt a trickle of sweat trace an itching path down the center of his back.

“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this, Joseph?” Father Thomas whispered.

Nodding, Father Murray didn’t speak. He’d prayed for guidance during the months before the Convocation and had come to the same conclusion time and again. The risks didn’t matter, lives—whether or not they were human—did. He’d spoken to both Father Thomas and Bishop Avery and while both were supportive of an investigation neither were willing to risk anything further. Therefore, the responsibility of approaching the Convocation would remain firmly on Father Murray’s shoulders.

After conducting a blessing for those present, Cardinal Sabatini began a discussion of the administrative aspects of the war—the casualties, the lack of new recruits which in turn led to an announcement regarding the addition of the Order of Saint Ursula to
Milites Dei
. The woman with the French Twist got up and approached the Cardinal in the midst of a whirlwind of objections.

“Silence!” Cardinal Sabatini banged his fist on the wooden table in front of him, his excitement making his Italian accent more prominent. “I will not tolerate disruption. This action has been ordered by His Holiness, the Pope.”

Father Murray saw a pained expression flash across the woman’s face. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the reception or the Cardinal’s tone. As for himself, Father Murray was stunned.
Milites Dei
had existed for centuries and had never before included females among its ranks—not even in an administrative capacity. It was considered too dangerous.

“The Order of Saint Ursula has been inducted into
Milites Dei
,” Cardinal Sabatini said, “and will be treated as respected members. A small unit is to be assigned within each Archdiocese. The first will be based in the United Kingdom next year. Sister Catherine, you may speak.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence.” Sister Catherine’s accent was American, and she was dressed in a conservative black suit with an ankle-length skirt. Even so, Father Murray found it difficult not to stare. She wasn’t wearing makeup or jewelry but retained an understated beauty. Her build was athletic, and her stance, confident. “I speak for my sisters within the Order of Saint Ursula when I say that we intend to fulfill our duties and responsibilities as well as our male counterparts. We feel we have unique advantages—”

Someone coughed and another man laughed. To her credit, Sister Catherine didn’t acknowledge either.

“—which will be a boon to the service. Thank you.” She returned to her seat with a dignified nod of the head to the Cardinal.

“With that,” Cardinal Sabatini said, “we turn to the respected representative from the Archdiocese of Rome.”

Another long discussion resulted, this one regarding the state of the secrecy of the Order, supplies and various other administrative issues. Commendations were given to various members for bravery, but Father Murray’s mind wandered to how he might approach the idea of a truce with the Fair Folk. As much as he’d prepared, he wasn’t entirely confident. As the meeting drew to an end, Father Thomas elbowed him.

“This is it,” he said. “Now or never.”

Father Murray raised his hand. “Your Grace, if it is permitted, I would like to address the Convocation.”

Cardinal Sabatini nodded his bald head. “You may do so, Father… ah….”

“Father Murray, Your Grace. From Northern Ireland.”

“Ah, yes,” Cardinal Sabatini said. “Please come forward. I understand you have been experimenting with the idea that some children of the Fallen might be… salvageable. A most controversial and dangerous position given the history of the Fallen.”

Sweating, Father Murray stood up with his heart pounding in his ears. There was a metallic taste in his mouth.
This is it,
he thought. “Yes, Your Grace. It is my work with one such individual that brings me here today.”

Cardinal Sabatini looked confused. “Yes?”

“Due to my interactions with the subject and those associated with him, I’ve come to the conclusion that he is not a son of the Fallen.”

“He is human?” Cardinal Sabatini asked. “The Spotter was mistaken in his assessment?”

“Yes and no, Your Grace,” Father Murray said. “I believe the Spotter was mistaken. However, he was correct in that the subject is not human. It is my belief that he may be a son of one of the Good Folk.”

The line between Cardinal Sabatini’s eyes darkened. “I don’t understand.”

“He is one of what the people of Ireland refer to as the Good Neighbors.”

“A fairy?” An elderly bishop at the end of the row asked. His voice was crisp and British, and it framed a perfectly mannered contempt. “Fairies aren’t real.”

“I beg the Convocation’s indulgence,” Father Murray said. “But I believe that the Church may have been short-sighted in categorizing all paranormal entities as demons, ghosts or fallen angels. I wish to make a study—”

The room erupted in shouts and arguments. Several members stood up and were waving their arms. Not all the objections were in English.

Cardinal Sabatini pounded the table with his fist again. “Silence! There will be silence!”

The voices died away.

“Father Murray, you propose that fairies exist?” Cardinal Sabatini asked, looking down his long nose. “This is preposterous!”

“I merely request the Convocation’s approval to investigate the matter. I feel it is important—”

“You waste our time, boy,” the English bishop said. “Chasing fantasies of children. Next, you’ll tell us leprechauns are real.”

“But what if it is possible that these creatures exist? We might count upon them as allies in our war.”

“I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous in all my life,” an American bishop said.

“If there is even a small amount of uncertainty,” a bishop with a French accent said, “then I believe it is worth investigation.”

“We must be cert—”

“No!” The English bishop stood up. “I won’t stand for this ridiculous, childish—”

“Childish? It’s childish to question whether or not we’re making a serious mistake? Assassinating an entire people merely because we cannot admit to being wrong is beyond unethical,” Father Murray said. “It’s diabolical!”

The Cardinal was once again banging on the table in front of him. “Silence!”

This time it took several minutes for the room to grow quiet.

“Father Murray, you are to refrain from such outbursts,” Cardinal Sabatini said. “The matter has been brought before the Convocation and will be considered. The presbytery now convenes this Convocation. Go in peace.”

“That didn’t go so well,” Father Murray said, sitting down.

“What did you expect?” Father Thomas asked. “You practically called Bishop Wilkinson an advocate for racial extermination.”

Father Murray said, “I suppose I could have phrased it better.”

“You must watch yourself, Joseph,” Father Thomas whispered. “You can’t continue on this way. It won’t work. You’re committing career suicide. All for nothing.”

“It isn’t for nothing,” Father Murray said. “I’m right. I know it.”

“Well,” Father Thomas said, “you’d best start proving it. Otherwise, we’ll be facing serious problems. This isn’t just going to come down on you now, but Bishop Avery as well.”

Father Murray watched the delegates exit the room. A few of them glanced in his direction—most of the looks weren’t friendly. The room was nearly empty when Sister Catherine stopped at the end of the row in which they were sitting.

“For what it’s worth,” she said. “I thought you had a point.”

“Thank you,” Father Murray said.

“Hope you have better luck than we’ve had,” she said. “It took ten years to change the Cardinal’s mind. And as it stands, my Order will only participate in an administrative capacity.”

Father Murray felt his mouth drop open. “I thought—”

“It’s for show mostly,” she said, frowning. “We’re to free up the men who will fight. Isn’t that a kicker? Still, it’s a start.”

“Are you there?” Father Murray whispered to the trees in the back of the cemetery outside St. Agnes’s Church, feeling ridiculous. “Bran?” It was dark under the frigid branches of the ash tree in spite of a full moon peering out from among the clouds. He’d made two attempts to reach Bran to no avail, and he was about to give up when a wind gust clattered the tree branches, and a chill crawled slowly down his back. He got the feeling he wasn’t alone just before he spied movement near the big Celtic cross in the center of the churchyard.

“This had best be good, priest.” There was no sign of Bran, only his voice floating hollow on the wind.

“I brought my proposal before Bishop Avery as promised.”

“What proposal?” The voice was more solid now, but Bran still didn’t make an appearance.

“The truce. It took some time but I was able to speak before the Convocation.”

“And?”

Father Murray sighed. “It will take more time than I’d hoped. They refuse to believe you exist as separate entities.”

Cold laughter echoed between the gravestones, containing layers of bitterness and anger that had been distilled for years—perhaps even centuries.

Moving nearer to the stone cross, Father Murray said, “I wish I had better news. There are those among the order who might support my position. But I need more time.”

“Time is all that I have, priest. Regardless of what happens. You, however, are another matter.”

“Let me bring Bishop Avery to you.”

“No.”

“The killing has to stop,” Father Murray said. “There must be an end to it.”

“There will be an end,” Bran said. “It won’t be one either of us will like. But there will be an end, I assure you.”

“Please. Give me another—”

“You had your chance, priest. Do not call upon me again. I will kill you if you do.”

Father Murray walked around the Celtic cross and found no one there. He laid a hand on cold limestone, the rough surface scratching his palm. “Please. We must not give up. For the sake of your son—if for no other reason.”

The wind rustled the dead leaves among the graves.

“They know who he is. They know where he lives,” Father Murray said. “Now that I’ve angered the Convocation, I don’t know how much longer I can protect him.”

“Was that a threat?”

Starting, Father Murray turned to see Bran standing directly behind him. His eyes glittered red in the darkness, and once more Father Murray wasn’t sure he liked having Bran so close.

“It was meant only as a warning.”

“A warning,” Bran said, frowning.

“There are members of my Order who don’t agree with what I’ve done. They believe I should have—” Father Murray stopped himself and swallowed. He may be on sacred ground, but he was far from safe.

Bran’s eyes narrowed. “Speak, Joe Murray, priest.”

A curious tingling sensation brushed against Father Murray’s skin, and he felt a sudden need to continue. For a brief instant he recalled reading about the use of names among the Good Neighbors, and fear raised the hairs on his arms before he dismissed it as mere superstition. “Bishop Avery supports my decision regarding Liam as does my direct supervisor. However, there are those who are pressing for action.”