Fear the Wicked (Illusions Series Book 2)(13)

Smoothing his palm over my forehead, he smiled. Sure that it was beautiful as always, I couldn't tell with how blurry his image had become. "I don't know when Satan corrupted you again, but I'll rid you of him. Starting tonight, we'll begin again. And this time, I'll have the backing of the family to watch me. Now that they know we're married."





JACOB


I was invisible where I stood. Surrounded by the city, people milling around me, they made wide circles to remain out of my sphere. My boots were planted to the newly powerwashed sidewalk, my eyes glaring up at the intricate carvings on wood doors that were polished to a gleaming shine. Six broad steps rose up before me, a silver handrail running up their middle promising safety and a helping hand to the unsteady who climbed. I didn't need that damn rail, didn't care whether the doors were polished or rough, because, inside, the parish would still be ugly.

Not ugly in sight, but ugly in spirit. No. I knew the treasures that awaited the weary inside. I knew the serenity of the stained glass, the flicker of candles. The artwork that stole the breath from the lungs of the faithful. Every damn image would be more depressing than the next as we were blamed for the pain of our Savior.

Even though I was standing there as people moved around, in front, in back, to my sides, I was really falling down a long, black tunnel leading me closer and closer to the truth of my life.

The serpent had always been so sneaky.

It spoke to me within shadow, slithering back just enough to let me think I could be saved. And here again, it waited patiently for me to go inside, walk between the pews, find a seat and stare at the symbols of a God who had never listened. I knew while I sat there and regretted each action, each thought, each hidden desire that was another lash of the whip across Christ's body, evil would sit beside me and laugh.

Only this time, I had a different mission. I wasn't running to God for salvation, I was running to him for revenge. The serpent was welcome to tag along, welcome to coil himself languorously around me.

I moved forward, and like a school of fish parting for a shark, the people around me changed their paths to avoid being anywhere near me. The mindless sheep going about their day knowing better than to approach a man doomed to the fires of Hell.

Taking the steps two at a time, my hand wrapped around the large handle of the door, my forearm clenching and releasing as I turned it. The well-oiled hinges gave no indication I was walking inside, the serenity and silence finding me instantly. A faint scent of incense lingered in the air, the flicker of candles just barely noticeable in the distance. I walked forward until I was standing at another doorway, my eyes wide and staring at the large open space before me.

One man sat in a pew to my left, his head bowed and shoulders hunched. I watched him for several seconds, followed his movement as he swung a hand down to lower the kneeling bench, lowering his body as he held his posture in silent prayer. Pitying him for his ignorance, for the desolation he would feel when he realized the being to which he prayed didn't care, I stepped farther inside to see if any other person existed in the room.

Just one. The priest. Father Timothy Simmons from what the plaque said near the front doors. The name wasn't familiar to me.

Cutting a hard right, I weaved between the pews until I was close to where he stood. Watching him light certain candles and blow out others, I knew he was lighting new prayers and extinguishing old ones. The practice wasn't maintained in every modern day parish, but some still held to the older ways.

Clearing my throat, I drew his attention in my direction. His eyes widened almost instantly. "Are you Jacob or Jericho?" he asked. I may not have known him, but he certainly recognized me.

"Jacob. How did you-?"

"You bear a striking resemblance to your father," he answered before I could even finish the question. "Have you left your own parish to come visit mine?"

"I'm not a priest anymore."

His brows pulled together. "Let's sit and talk. I happen to know you're a long way from home."

Long way from home? Hardly. More like I'd returned to it, even if I had no desire to stay. This city had been my home for the first eighteen years of my life. I'd spent twelve at the parish in the Appalachians, and all the time in between I was lost. I was lost at that moment once again, floating on some turbulent breeze that ensnared me and dragged me back here.

The priest sat in an empty pew at the front, twisting his body around to face me when I lowered down next to him. His dark brown hair was cut short to the skull, hints of grey peeking through to denote his age. His tan skin was unlined, however, unmarred by age or time, his brown eyes observant and focused. I assumed he was of Hispanic descent, possibly Italian, but I couldn't be sure. Most striking was his demeanor. Although calm and collected, he had a fire about him that was obvious in the manner in which he moved, a purpose that I could only conclude came from the God he worshipped. Not all priests were as conflicted as I had been, and his purity of character was a blatant truth in the manner in which he spoke and moved. Unhurried, this man knew without doubt it was his task to lead the weary to what he believed was the light.

"Your father was quite proud of you," he said without giving me even a second to remind myself why I was there, without giving me the opportunity to collect my thoughts. "He told me you'd been ordained, but couldn't remember the name of your parish."