“No, but it might change our approach to information gathering,” Fel says.
I watch as she types furiously into her cellphone. Organization is the way she deals.
We continue to toss about theory as Sacha drives to a small parish in the middle of nowhere. We pull up in front of a tiny white church that couldn’t hold more than a hundred people max. I arch an eyebrow. She steps from the car, and I’m shocked by the protection surrounding the building.
“These are powerful wards.”
“Faith can work magic all its own, and the man who cares for this place has a deep belief.” She smirks. “He also knows a thing or ten about magic.” She leads us around the side of the steepled structure and knocks at the door. It opens to reveal a man in his late fifties to early sixties. His skin is tan from working in the sun, and his face is a road map of kindness from its crow’s feet in the corner of his eyes to the laugh lines. His green eyes are warm, and his silver hair is threaded with the lingering memories of faded black strands.
“Ms. Sacha. You’ve come to see me again, and you’ve brought friends I see.”
“Father Axson, this is Louella and Felicite Esçhete.”
“The honor is mine, ladies.” He gives a slight bow.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Father.”
“As much as I enjoy your visits, I get the impression from your clothing this is an urgent matter?”
“Yes, sir,” Sacha says.
“Please, step into my office.” He holds the door open as we step inside a
nd leads us through the well-loved interior with wooden pews and floors shined to a high gloss. The building has aged beautifully. There’s a warmth in here that newer churches often lack. I peer up the aisle at the altar and feel the desire to take a moment to pray and reflect. There’s power here in these walls and the man we’re following. We gather in the tiny office, pushing three chairs close together across from the small oak desk with neat stacks of paperwork, a cross, and a gold nameplate with F.R. Axson written on it.
The walls are full of official documents, and photos of him with his parishioners and fellow priests.
“What can I do for you young ladies?” Father Axson asks.
“We’ve got demonic troubles, Father.”
He straightens. “I need to know everything.” He sits quietly while we fill him.
“Do you have the sigil?” he asks.
“No, but I can draw it,” Sacha says.
He opens a drawer in his desk, rustles through the papers, and hands her a blank sheet of loose leaf. She sketches the sigil. Hope blooms in my chest.
“I don’t know this by heart, but I can search the archives. You’ll be targeted now. You have to be dutiful in your faith.”
“What can we do to protect ourselves, Father?” Sacha questions.
“Keep holy water and holy objects near you at all times. They’ll bolster your faith and weaken the demon. The demonic try to break you down. Be aware of your surroundings and moods. They creep in a little at a time, chipping away at our reserves, isolating us, and ultimately devouring our souls.”
“Do you have any idea why they might be collecting these particular items?” I ask.
Father Axon shakes his head. “It’s impossible to say without knowing who we’re dealing with. Many of these demons have their specialties. Certain things can add to their power. For instance, a lust demon will be drawn to places, items, and people centered on lust. Think of it as fuel and batteries.”
The more we learn, the further we feel from solving this case. My head is crowded, and my soul is heavy.
“Thank you for looking into this, Father,” Sacha says.
“As soon as I find anything, I’ll contact you,” he replies.
I’m on autopilot as he walks us to the front and fills three bottles of holy water. “May God be with you as you fight this evil. People like you give an old man past his prime hope.”
“You’re not that old, Padre,” Sacha says.