“No, I didn’t. I said car crash. It wasn’t an accident.”
A bolt of heat shot through my chest. My father had died in a car crash while driving my mom to the hospital when she was in labor with me. The other driver came out of nowhere, plowed into them, and then disappeared. We never made it to the hospital: my dad was pronounced dead at the scene, and my mom delivered me by the side of the road. I didn’t like hearing that car crashes weren’t accidents—that they were somehow preordained . . . or planned.
A side door opened with a scrape, and I jumped. A priest and a nun walked in.
“Hunter,” the nun called. “We need to check in at the Priory for the night.”
“A priory, like full of monks?” I whispered as Hunter stood up. I suddenly did not want her to go. Crazy or not, I felt comfortable with her, like she had more in common with me than anyone I’d ever met.
“No, the Priory Hotel,” she answered. “It’s great. Nice, comfy beds.” She told them she was coming, and then turned back to me. “Remember, churches and temples are always safe. Any house of God. They can’t follow you in.”
To my dismay, she started walking away. I stood up. “Who? Who can’t follow you in?”
“Demons,” she hissed.
I got a chill down my back. I didn’t believe in werewolves or vampires, but demons were another story entirely. The idea of evil personified wasn’t too hard to swallow, especially if you ever watched the evening news.
“Demons? Like evil spirits?” I asked.
“No, like hairy beasts with claws and wings. They only look like that right before a kill, though. The rest of the time, they look like humans. Well, super good-looking guys, actually.” She looked over her shoulder. The priest and nun were heading back out the door.
“Why do they look like normal guys?”
“Not normal—hot, gorgeous guys,” she corrected me. “It’s how they gain trust, recruit humans to help them, and move around undetected. Listen, you probably don’t have anything to worry about. It’s not like they’re everywhere. They tend to stay in big cities where their crimes blend in. I have to go. Here.” She pulled a pen and scrap of paper out of her purse and scribbled on them. “It’s my number. Call me anytime and I can tell you more. Especially if you find something from your mom.”
Then she turned and dashed out the door to catch her ride.
As soon as Hunter left, the church filled with such an emptiness, it made my ears buzz. I still had to deliver the muffin basket, so I turned sideways and swung my feet up onto the bench so I could see more of the church while I waited. As I scanned the outline of benches, I was startled to see I wasn’t alone. A boy about thirteen years old with messy, dark blond curls was sitting in the very last row.
“Hello?” I called out.
He stared straight ahead as if he didn’t see me. It was actually hard to see him. He was covered in a light mist that seemed to emanate from his skin. As I squinted to get a better look, he disappeared, slowly fading away in his seat. I rubbed my eyes. He was gone. Great, another hallucination. At least this one wasn’t being murdered by wild dogs in front of me.
I slunk down to lay across the pew like Hunter had, hoping the new position would shield my obviously overwrought brain from any more imaginary sightings. It felt weird at first, and then strangely comfortable.
I stared straight up at the wooden ceiling and tried not to think about demons, but it was impossible. My mind whirled with images of hairy beasts, my mom fighting them, her “accident” . . . I shook my head. I couldn’t go there. Not yet. It was still too raw.
I have never been able to shut my brain off, especially when it’s in overdrive, and I was miserable at meditating, but I had to do something. I could feel pent-up emotions—grief, fear, rage—straining to be let out of the box I had locked them in. I remembered reading once that a simple form of meditation was studying an object in front of you. I gazed at the heavy iron and glass lamp hanging directly over my head. I followed the curves with my eyes, tried to stay focused on the rippled panes, but instead found myself wondering if it would kill me instantly if it fell, or if I would survive.
What is wrong with me? I’m trying to clear my head, and all I can think about is my brains splattered on the pew? I must be seriously damaged.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and decided to try again. I opened my eyes and stared upward. Suddenly, the lamp started swaying. I jolted upright like I’d been electrocuted. The priest was standing in front of me.
My heart was pounding, but I quickly determined that the lantern wasn’t falling, that the wind probably blew in when the priest opened the door, and that it wasn’t a sin to lie down on a pew.
“Sorry to startle you,” the priest said. Why did people keep saying that to me? I thought. And why am I so easily startled?
“No, no, it’s . . . I . . .” I had no idea what to say.
“It’s fine. We encourage people to use St. Mary and St. Finnan however they like,” he said. “I see you’re practicing Hunter’s ‘holy nap.’”
“I wasn’t trying to sleep!” I protested.
He smiled. “Och, I know, Maren. I was only joking with you. I’m not sure if you’re used to our humor in Scotland yet, but it’s a wee bit dry. Quite unlike our weather.”
“You know who I am?” I asked.
“Hunter told me your name was Maren, and from your American accent and your lack of a tourist’s camera, I can only surmise that you are Maren Hamilton,” he answered.
“Small town,” I said.
“Quite,” he answered. “But that’s exactly the way we like it. In any case, I’m very pleased you’ve come.”
“I’m not here for services or anything,” I explained. “I’m just dropping off muffins from my grandmother.” I handed him the basket.
“That’s wonderful. Please thank her for me. And you’re welcome here anytime, for Mass or not. We’re happy to offer sanctuary to anyone seeking peace.”
Sanctuary. How weird that he used that word.
“Can I ask you a Latin question?” I said. I might not be able to get to the library, but maybe the priest could translate the title of my mother’s journal. Hunter’s warnings were freaking me out.
“Of course.” He nodded.
“What does ‘Arcēs Daemonium’ mean?”
“Well, arx is a stronghold or a fortress. And daemonium means demon,” he said. “So it would be ‘demon strongholds.’ Why?”
Demons. My stomach dropped.
“Do you believe in demons?” I asked back. “Are they real?”
“I’m afraid so.”
I expected that answer from a priest, so I decided to push him a bit. “Have you ever seen one?”
Before he could answer, the peal of church bells echoed against the walls. He seemed relieved, and wasted no time in making his exit.
“Would you look at that? Late again! It was a pleasure meeting you, young Maren, and I do hope you’ll forgive me, but I have to run.”