The First Sacrament (The Demons of Stone Chapel Book 1) (16 page)

Demons were unpredictable. That's part of the reason why they were so scary. They could go from talking to you one moment to killing you the next, which is what I supposed Mr. Zarcotti was doing when he shoved me over to charge at Dante. I'd never seen him move so quickly before. A man his size wouldn't have been able to without help. The demon possessing him had to be powerful. So powerful that it managed to catch the world's greatest demon
hunter
off guard.

Dante hit the wall with a soft
oof
, Mr. Zarcotti's hands wrapping like beefy manacles around his neck. Warner the Coroner scrambled uselessly away from grappling men, yelling about how he thought Mr. Zarcotti was dead.

“Does he look dead to you?” I grabbed my gun and aimed it squarely in the middle of my former neighbor's back. I knew what I had to do. Pull the trigger. Kill him. Again. But shooting a possessed dog was different from shooting someone who used to make you spaghetti all the time. It almost felt like murder.

Almost.

Mr. Zarcotti wasn't Mr. Zarcotti anymore. He was a slavering behemoth whose body served as a vessel for a murderous demon. And for that, he needed to be put down.

“
He's coming
,” the demon said quietly. He gave Dante a shake. “
He's coming for you.
”

“Shoot him!” Warner the Coroner tripped over his own feet as he tried to make his escape. He fell flat on his ass, paling when Mr. Zarcotti turned his cruel gaze upon him.

Warner's cowardice gave Dante a chance. He slammed his elbow in Mr. Zarcotti's face, staggering the bigger man just enough to weaken his grip. Another hard right hook to the jaw and Dante was free, if only for a moment. He coughed and gasped and tried to get away, but Mr. Zarcotti was relentless.

He made another grab for Dante and that was when I pulled the trigger. I pulled it again and again and again, until I couldn't pull it anymore. In the seconds it took for those bullets to go from the barrel to his body, I felt a...
rush
. Not a thrill―I didn't get any enjoyment from it―but a surge of adrenaline.

I saved Dante's life and killed a demon in the process. Looks like my shooting lessons were finally paying off.

“Are you okay?” I returned my gun to its holster and went to check on Dante's hunched form. Mr. Zarcotti's twice dead body lay limp in a growing pool of blood beside him.

He wheezed into his sleeve. Bright red welts colored his neck. “Fine. I'm fine.”

A smattering of footsteps came banging up the stairs. Chief Morales appeared at the end of the hall, gun raised. “What's going on up here?”

“Uh,” I began sheepishly. This looked bad. “I―”

“She—she was doing her job,” Dante said. He cleared his throat, straightened his tie. “Saving me, as it were.”

I flashed him an appreciative glance. “Mr. Zarcotti was possessed. He, uh...came back to life, I guess. Attacked Dante. So I shot him.”

“You knew that guy?” Chief Morales asked.

“Yeah, I lived right in there,” I pointed to my apartment. “Mr. Zarcotti was my neighbor. He made awesome spaghetti.”

“Oh,” she lowered her gun. “I'm sorry.”

Me too. But I had to set my grief aside for now. Dante and I had a mystery to unravel. “We didn't really get the chance to look around, so...”

“Go ahead,” she said, “but make it quick. We're gonna be doing a press conference here in an hour. Mayor's dropping by.”

“We'll
definitely
be quick then,” I muttered.

“What was that?” She asked.

“Nothing,” I replied.

Dante clasped his hands behind his back and managed one of his fake smiles. Leave it to him to mind his manners even after nearly being choked out by a demon. “We'll be out of your hair momentarily.”

“Good.” She said. She narrowed her eyes at Dante’s throat. “You want that looked at?”

“No, thank you,” he said. “It isn't as bad as it looks.”

She shrugged, turning to go do whatever it was she did. Police Chief things. “Suit yourself. And put that body back where it came from.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I offered a lazy salute at which the good Chief rolled her eyes. She really needed a better sense of humor.

After she'd gone, Dante and I resumed our investigation. Having performed a hasty cleansing ritual on Mr. Zarcotti, we combed his gore-filled apartment for clues and
Warner the Coroner scurried off to change his pants or maybe call his mom.

Neither Dante nor I wanted to address the elephant in the room.

“So,” I said, growing tired of the bloody silence. I moved some papers around on Mr. Zarcotti's dining table to give the illusion that I was actually looking for something. “Who do you think is coming?”

Dante studied the seal on Marion's stomach. Burned flesh, puckered and black at the edges, formed in the shape of the symbol of the First Sacrament. “I don't know.”

“No guesses?”

He shook his head.

I didn't believe him. He always had his theories. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine.”

“Dante―”

“
Beatrice
,” he said. His voice was hard, his gaze harder. Darker. I decided that was due to the lack of light in the room. “Please. I'm fine.”

I pressed my lips together to keep myself from saying anything stupid. If he said he was fine, he was fine, right? I wasn't his mom. I wasn't his girlfriend. He didn't owe me an explanation. “Okay.”

We stared at each other for a few too many moments and the ensuing awkwardness built itself up like a wall between us. A really tall, invisible wall that couldn't be breached no matter how many times I tried. Dante didn't want to talk. Fine. He could be that way. I didn't care.

...Except I totally did.

In an effort to make myself
not
care as much as possible, I kept busy with Mr. Zarcotti's stuff while Dante dealt with the bodies. I sifted through old bills and badly printed cookie recipes, letters from Italy and sheet music from
The Marriage of Figaro.
Mundane pieces of my neighbor's life that were interesting to look at, but unhelpful in a murder investigation.

None of this stuff implicated foul play, the Prophet, or the mayor.

I gave up on the table and began looking around the kitchen. Piles of dirty dishes rotted in the sink and the coffee pot was full, but cold. I opened the cabinets―Mr. Zarcotti really liked his Raisin Bran―and took a peek in the fridge. I knew I wouldn't find anything there that would help our case, but I felt the need to look regardless. Philip Marlowe never left a stone unturned and neither would I.

“Can you please stop touching things?” Dante asked, writing something down in a little notebook with a little pencil like on a cop show.

I wanted one. A little pencil, that is. And maybe a badge. And a trench coat. “I'm looking for evidence.”

“I would rather you didn't,” he closed his notebook and tucked it away in the pocket of his slacks. He had the private detective outfit down to a science. Black slacks, black shoes, crooked tie, wrinkled shirt, leather suspenders, stiff upper lip.

But since Dante was a perfectionist, he didn't just stop at the outfit. He had the entire
vibe
. The grumpy sort of vibe that disallowed harmless investigation. “Why?”

“You're disturbing a crime scene and tampering with potential evidence.”

“If you didn't want me
tampering
with things, why did you bring me along?”

“I assumed you would be angry if you found out some other way.” His gaze drifted to Mr. Zarcotti’s corpse. “He was…good to you, wasn’t he?”

I nodded. Mr. Zarcotti was the only person in this building who ever bothered to give a damn about me and finding out about his murder through the newspaper would have broken me even more than shooting him did. “Can’t I just…just look around? I won’t touch anything else.”

Dante worked his jaw, reaching up to scratch his chin. “Fine. I need to go ask Chief Morales a few questions anyway. If you find something, let me know. And please―”

“Don't touch anything.” I waved him away. “Yeah, yeah. I know. I won't. Go ask your questions.”

He went. I exhaled, grateful for the distraction.

With the fridge and the table and the cabinets crossed off my imaginary crime scene investigation list, I wandered over to the “bedroom” to continue my search. It wasn't an actual bedroom, of course, just a couple of mattresses on the floor and a curtain to section it off. It was as close to the real thing any of us got here.

On the mattresses, the rest of
Figaro
was strewn, the pages crumpled and bloody. The sight of them made my heart hurt a little. Mr. Zarcotti would've hated seeing his precious operas like this.

Ignoring what I told Dante, I straightened the papers up (because Mr. Zarcotti would've wanted me to), and between the pages, I saw something that had paragraphs instead of music notes. Suspicion sufficiently piqued, I picked the page in question out and set the rest aside. It was an official looking document with the Mayor's signature stamped at the bottom.

“Dear Vittorio Zarcotti,” I read aloud, “I sincerely apologize for the misunderstanding. Funds have been allocated to your bank account to cover the damages. I'm glad we could settle this privately. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Signed, Mayor Michael Bishop.

Dante appeared in the doorway, looking less annoyed that I’d been touching things and more concerned about the letter. Glad he had his priorities straight. “Why would your neighbor be in contact with the mayor?”

“I have no idea.” I stared down at the letter. I wouldn’t be getting a good night's rest until I figured out what happened.

“We can look into it when we get home.” Dante said. “But for now we need to go. Bishop will be here soon.”

I put the letter back in its place among the sheet music, figuring Dante wouldn’t appreciate me confiscating evidence. “You sure you don't want to stay? Enjoy the show?”

He snorted.

“Not even for a minute?”

“Not even for a minute.”

Yeah, me either. I didn't want Candace Walker's next big story to be about me punching the mayor in the face. Because at this point, I wasn't sure if I could resist.

Seventeen

One quick Google Search later and the mystery of Mr. Zarcotti's Mayoral Correspondence was solved. And it was boring. According to the Stone Chapel Gazette's website, the mayor had accidentally rear-ended Mr. Zarcotti's car outside of the church last year. Instead of suing like I would have done, Mr. Zarcotti accepted a private settlement and that was that.

Since I had no other leads to pursue and no homework to finish (thanks to Max for the tutoring), I decided to spend my Sunday at the sanatorium. I hadn't been in awhile, and when I
did
visit, Rosie wasn't much in the way of company. She scowled at the ceiling, ignored my attempts at conversation, insulted my hair. Very un-Rosie like things which I chalked up to her demon.

I swear, every time I walked in there my self-esteem lowered about three notches.

When I walked through those double doors this time, I prepared myself for the same old song and dance. I'd sit at Rosie's bedside, she'd ignore me, maybe tell me how run-down I looked. Then I'd leave and we'd repeat the process next weekend.

Imagine my surprise when none of that happened.

Pam stopped me at her desk. She had that sad look in her eye. I hated that look. “I'm sorry, Beatrice, but―...She isn't being allowed visitors.”

“
Why?
” I demanded. We had a
schedule.

“I'm afraid I can't tell you, but no one has been allowed in,” Pam said. “Not even that nice pastor.”

“Brother Luke?” I hadn't heard from him in more than a month. Not since the day Demon-Rosie tried forcibly detaching my arm from my body. “He was here?”

Pam nodded. “He's been out sick for weeks. Guess he's better now.”

Huh. If anyone could offer some insight into the Rosie situation, it was him. “Where is he?”

“Last I heard, he was in his office.”

And he was. Good on you, Pam.

Brother Luke was scribbling something on a pad of paper when I knocked on the already open door. He looked up, blue eyes bleary. “Oh, Beatrice. Hello.”

“Hi,” I said tentatively. He looked...different. Shabbier. Thinner. Like a deflated balloon. “Am I bothering you?”

“No, I was just, uh,” he waved his hand at the pad of paper, then pushed it away. “Doesn't matter. What can I do for you?”

Poor guy. He even
sounded
deflated. I needed to introduce him to Dante. They could trade insomnia stories. “I was wondering if you knew what Rosie's deal was. Pam said I couldn’t go back there.”

At that, Brother Luke only sighed. “Rosemary isn't...She isn't Rosemary anymore, Beatrice. Do you understand?”

Uh,
no.
I didn't. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“She's Stage Four now,” he said. “Faustian Syndrome typically comes in four clear cut phases. A beginning, a middle, a decline, and an end.”

“And Rosie's at the end,” I said. I knew this was coming, so it shouldn't have been a surprise, but it was. A horrible surprise I really didn't know how to deal with.

Brother Luke gestured to the chair opposite his. “Sit down, please.”

Numbly, I sat.

“Rosemary is in solitary confinement at the moment,” he said. “For her safety and the safety of others. She attacked a nurse this morning.”

“
What? Why?
”
Did I even want to know?

He sank back in his chair, deflating further. “People in Stage Four are incredibly unpredictable. Violent. Moody. They have a tendency to lash at out whoever's near. They refuse to eat, refuse to drink―”

“―Because their demons are taking over. Yeah. I figured.” I'd went over the details of my best friend's assured, premature death a thousand times in preparation for when it actually happened. Those months Brother Luke mentioned before he got sick were over. Gone. The end. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

“I'm so sorry, Beatrice.”

I didn't trust myself to speak, so I nodded. Because that's what you did when dead people were brought up in conversation. You put on a brave face. Tried not to let them see you cry. Lived off of casseroles for a week straight.

I hated casseroles.

My breath shuddered in my chest. “Are you sure I can't see her? If she tried anything, I could―”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t.” He opened a drawer and withdrew an envelope, sliding it across the desk. “But she
did
want me to give you this. Said not to open it until you were ready.”

I wasn't ready. Not right now. “Thanks.”

Just like Pam had her Sad Look, Brother Luke had his Concerned Look. They were getting too predictable. “I'll try and talk to security, see if I can get you in to see her sometime soon. It may not happen, but...”

“Thanks.” I sounded like a sad, worn-out broken record. “Again.”

Cue the long I'm Sorry Your Friend Is Dying pause. Came with the Concerned Look.

Brother Luke shifted in his seat. “Beatrice?”

“Yeah?”

“She's suffering.”

“I know.” Standing, I reached for the envelope and stuffed it in my coat pocket. “I'm gonna go. My ride's waiting.”

My ride wasn't waiting. I just needed to find a good place to cry.

***

Max picked me up an hour later. He didn't say anything about the tears staining my cheeks or the red in my eyes. He was a smart guy. He knew enough to understand, enough not to ask. We went straight to his basement-lair upon returning home and binged on stupid YouTube videos and snack cakes. I buried my grief as long as I could, until the cakes ran out and the videos got boring. And then it all came rushing forth, a flood of Biblical proportions.

I sobbed for Rosie, for Mr. Zarcotti, for myself. I sobbed for lost dreams, for future memories, for lives cut short. I sobbed and sobbed and
sobbed.
I sobbed because I needed to, I sobbed because my chest ached with holding it in, I sobbed because I felt utterly helpless and profoundly alone. My best friend was dying and the only father figure I knew was already dead.

My life was awful. I deserved a good cry.

Max endured it like a pro. He kept his mouth shut and took me in his arms, let me get tears all over his brand new flannel. I buried my face in his shoulder and waited for the ache to pass. It didn’t. Maybe it never would.

“Sorry,” I sniffed, sitting up. “I usually don't―”

“It's okay,” Max said with a reassuring smile. He rested his hand on mine. It was a small gesture, but no less comforting. “You saved my life once. I figure this makes us even.”

I managed to smile back. “Thanks.”

Our gazes met, and in the quiet, something between us shifted. Not in the demon banishing/exorcism kind of way, but in the, uh...
emotional
way. I felt it in my stomach―foreign and scary and new. I saw it in his eyes―soft and blue and sweet.

Finally, I tasted it on his lips―warm and yielding and...
weird.

“Uh,” I pulled away. This wasn't what I wanted. I'd entertained the idea before, being with Max, but my daydreams were never like this. Our first kiss shouldn't have ridden in on the coattails of my grief. I wasn't expecting a fairy tale or anything, but this was wrong and weird and it shouldn't have happened. “What was―”

“Beatrice?”

Max and I swung our heads around in tandem to see Dante standing at the foot of the staircase. Oh my God.

Blushing furiously, I got to my feet. “What?”

Dante looked between Max and me, expression guarded and flat, then turned to head back up the stairs. “Never mind. We'll talk later.”

No, we
weren't
going to talk later, because we were going to talk
now.
I abandoned Max where he sat and caught Dante in the kitchen pouring a cup of coffee.

“Look,” I said before he got the chance to cut me off, “I don't know what your problem is, but you need to quit.”

He raised the mug to his lips, sipping the coffee black. “I don't have a problem, Beatrice.”

“Oh, is that right?” Sarcasm dripped from my voice like venom. “You're being an asshole, Dante, and I don't need it. Not today.”

Max appeared just in time to be my next target. “What's going on?”

I turned on him. “You're not off the hook either, Morrison.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Why did you kiss me?” I asked.

“What―”

“
Why did you kiss me?
”

“Because―because it seemed like a good idea at the time?” He fiddled guiltily with his necklace. “You were crying, I thought it'd make you feel better―”

I embedded my fingers in my hair, gritted my teeth to keep from screaming. “I didn't need you to make me feel better! I needed you to
listen
, Max! I'm not five, you can't just kiss me and make the pain go away!”

Max stared down at his shoes, silent.

Dante stared at me, also silent.

I continued on with my rant. It felt good. Better than crying. “I'm not a trophy. Neither of you can
win
me. I'm a
person
and I don't make my decisions based on which guy I want to please.”

Dante put his mug down on the counter. “Beatrice―”

I glared at him. “Don't.”

He didn't. Smart man.

“I have too much on my plate to worry about some sixth grade bullshit, okay?” My hands fell to my sides with a dull slap. “I'm not going to play these games with either of you. For all intents and purposes, I'm your
teammate.
That's it. Nothing else. Cool? Cool.”

With that, I made the dramatic exit I always wanted to make. Slammed the door to the TV room as hard as I could to enhance the effect. God, guys were dumb.

Aralia, who'd been sitting on the couch watching
Casablanca
, agreed. “Those two are
very
stupid.”

I flopped down next to her. “Tell me about it.”

Rising from his spot in front of the fireplace, Morgenstern came to rest his head in my lap. Okay, Maybe
all
guys weren't dumb.

Together, the three of us watched the movie while the fire crackled and a steady downpour of rain washed in from ocean. It was the most normal thing I'd done in weeks. No mention of demons, no crazy guys in top hats, no letters from dead girls. Just me, Aralia, and Mo.

When the end credits rolled an hour later, Aralia spoke. “For the record, Max fancied me when he first got here, too.”

I groaned. “Can we not talk about this?”

“Oh,
Beatrice
,” she sighed, reaching over to pat my head affectionately. “You'll figure it out one day.”

I made a face and stuck my tongue out at her like the mature adult I was.

She arched a brow, but a corner of her mouth twitched in a grudging smile. “Attractive.”

“I try,
darling
,” I mimicked her accent, scratching Mo behind his ear. He'd gotten the impression that I'd make a good pillow and jumped up on the couch in the middle of the movie. Evidently, I was comfortable, because he hadn't budged since.

“Do you enjoy mocking me?” Aralia asked, sounding offended.

“I'd never
mock
you,
darling
.”

“Oh, you're
so
clever.”

“
Indeed
, Ms. Spinosa,
indeed.
”

We burst out laughing despite ourselves. What an emotionally compromising day this had been. I laughed, I cried, I yelled, I kissed. Rosie would have loved hearing about it.

My laughter dried up.

Aralia’s soon followed. “Are you all right?”

I sighed. There wasn't really any good way to tell someone that your best friend was going to die soon. “Rosie doesn't have much time left. She was put in solitary confinement today. Attacked a nurse. They wouldn't let me see her.”

Aralia’s frown betrayed her sympathy, but it was promptly covered with her usual smirk. “Want to break in? I'll be the Bonnie to your Clyde. It'll be fun.”

“You have a criminal past I know nothing about?” I gave her shoulder a shove, grateful that she didn't go the Brother Luke route. “Let's hear it, Bonnie. How many banks have you busted?”

She twirled her hair with her index finger, looking coy. “Wouldn't be much of a secret if I told you, hm?”

“
C'mon
,” I was genuinely curious. “I've been living here for more than a month and I have no idea what you do or who you are. You could be a serial killer and I'd have absolutely no clue.”

“Wouldn't that be something?” She folded her hands in her lap, the light from the fire reflecting in her dark eyes. “What do you want to know?”