“Begone, foul beast!” I stab at Barthas with the crucifix, not actually intending to make contact, but the idiot lunges forward at the last moment to leer at me with his ten thousand teeth. The silver makes sharp contact with the edges of his physical form and he explodes into a shower of dank goo. They used to call it ectoplasm, but that was when nine-letter words were in vogue. Now the limited attention span of the average audience ensures that even goo is too long a word.
Car doors are slamming.
I pull the nearest item of clothing over my miasma smeared shirt. It was knitted by Mrs Monk, who as an avid craftstress has dressed almost the entirety of the parish at one time or another. Her latest creation is almost more of an abomination than the demon I just dispatched, but needs must.
I can hear American voices arguing in the driveway.
I run a hand through my hair, slicking the length back with miasmatic gel, and go out to greet my young guests. I have been anticipating this meeting for longer than I can say. I have been expecting it for the last five days.
Reliable as ever, Crichton has my two new charges standing in the foyer. A boy and a girl, twins. Both with red hair. Both with green eyes. Both with an air of unearned arrogance that so often accompanies the American. They stand before me as two spoiled entities equally in dire need of a sound thrashing.
I am a stranger to them, but they are in no way foreign to me. These are the wayward children of a dearly departed old friend, a woman I had not seen in a long time, but who nonetheless holds a special place in my soul to this day.
Jonah looks a lot like his mother did twenty years ago. He has the same wide but intelligent green eyes. If you mistake those for doe-like, you’ll soon regret it. His hair is red. Could never have been any other color. His mother chose a ginger like herself to procreate with. The boy has not been fortunate enough to take after his mother. Ivy danced through the world like a puff ball on a spring breeze. This boy crashes about with American brashness. His skin has been marred with piercings and probably several tattoos. He looks like what he is: a wastrel.
I turn my attention to the young lady, and for a moment I am transported through time. She wears her mother’s features like a mask, this beauty. She seems tired and perhaps a little scared. I am put in mind of a fawn startled on a summer’s eve. She has thick red hair flowing over her shoulders and an air of vulnerability that would make any gentleman worth his salt want to sweep her up and take care of her. If she is anything like Ivy, I am sure that weakness hides great strength.
It takes great fortitude to remind myself that this is a different person, an entirely unique soul. Her presence here is one of fate’s little jokes intended to torture us both for our respective sins, I am sure.
Jonah doesn’t bother to say anything. He is looking at his surroundings with a slight sneer, as if the efforts of my ancestors underwhelm him. I am sure he would prefer something more modern, something with blaring lights and changing colors. Not these staid walls with their solid histories.
Nina is brighter and more pleasant. She sticks out her hand toward me and gives me a relieved and grateful smile.
“Hi, Bryn. Thanks for having us.”
I shake her hand. It is light and delicate. I have a brief sensation of deja vu, as if I have looked into these eyes before. I shake it off. She is not her mother. Nobody could ever be her mother. And she is not here to be admired. She is here to be taught a lesson.
“You may call me father, or pastor, or sir.”
“Father? I thought you weren’t Catholic. Anglican, right? The ones with the scones? And the…” she gestures to my brightly colored sweater. “I thought it was the Catholics with a daddy fetish.”
We really do not need a commentary about fetishes at this point. I want these two to understand their place here, that place being quiet and out of the way as much as possible until they are free to leave and resume their wastrel lives.
I am not going to pretend that her resemblance to a young Ivy makes me stir in ways I shouldn’t. But I’m old enough to control myself. And to find immaturity unappealing.
“Nina, your room is upstairs. Top of the winding staircase. Jonah, you are up the other stairs and to the right, last door before the end. Go put your things away.”