Chapter 17
Dust felt rude for entering the house of a God he was sure didn’t exist, like he’d broken in. Especially after someone who had dedicated their life to ‘Him’ had invited him in. But this chapel was different to others. Impressively so. With so many spells and wards carved into the walls, some of which he’d never felt before, he soon felt at ease; they were strong, had been set by a man of sincere power, and that strength reminded him of being in the Solution. They also confirmed the rumours that members of the Church were learning magic, which heartened Dust even more; it was about damn time the Vatican brought their power to bear.
Comforting as they were, the wards wouldn’t be enough to hold off concerted attacks from harriers. If the town were in as much trouble as the Father said, there must be something else keeping the danger at bay. Dust scrutinised the chapel and felt channelling and amplifying spells around the pulpit; if he guessed right, the Father was fortifying the chapel with his soul, a very dangerous magic.
The Father stepped in front of Dust. “This way,” he said.
Dust cast another glance at the pulpit then followed. He was led into a hovel at the back of the church, a glorified cupboard with a small bed, a swollen bookshelf and little else. Light struggled into the room as the small window set into the wall was boarded up, like every other pane of glass in the chapel. A faint, warm breeze from the broken window hit Dust the moment the door was opened for him.
Dust went in first. Father Kilkenny squeezed in after him. There wasn’t enough room for the two of them to stand comfortably so the Father sat on his bed. Not that priests bedroom needed room for more than one.
Uneven joints closed the door. Then Father Kilkenny’s face gained a decade; fatigue soaked into dark pools beneath his eyes, eroding deep wrinkles down his cheeks and causing his face to slacken. He couldn’t hold himself together now he didn’t have to. If he had been fortifying the chapel with his soul then it was understandable; he’d been almost killing himself night after night.
“Tell me about the harriers, Father,” Dust said kindly.
The priest took a minute, gathered his thoughts. “It started only recently and without warning. Jesus but we were unprepared. Crucifix doesn’t get attacked, you see; the Lord’s power has kept us in the Badlands but not of them, if you catch my meaning. The hills help as they’re filled with iron, the Lord’s metal.”
That was a common superstition. In Dust’s experience, iron was just as good as steel. “How did the harriers attack?”
“They command demons. That first night, their monsters descended onto Crucifix like a plague. They came in the guise of children; a host of them walked into Jimmy’s tavern, scaring the Hell out of the locals even before foul wings burst from their bodies. Then they started to… to feed, to eat.” Hot anger gave him energy enough to hiss, “They ate my flock.”
“The first thing I knew of it was when people started pounding on the chapel door. I was able to get most of the town in before the demons could get to them and fended off the damned things with prayer.” Shining tears formed in the corners of his wrinkled eyes. “We lost six people that day. For a town like Crucifix, that was a massacre.”
So the Father thought prayer was fending the demons off. Dust saw no need to dispel that notion either. Besides he shouldn’t waste time, regardless of what he’d said to Naismith. “Go on.”
The priest’s tears fell through the deep grooves in the Father’s face like tumbling corpses. He idly wiped them away and continued. “The next day, I put wards up and promised people that they would be safe. So they slept in here. And the demons came again. I didn’t see what guise they wore that time but I didn’t need to; they were violent and sickening, twisted and determined as they battered my walls. The Lord’s protection barely held but it did hold; the demons left at sunrise without tasting blood.
Dust didn’t want to sit through Father Kilkenny’s whole life story. But the thought of hurrying him along caused his tattoo to warm; he had to listen to this.
Father Kilkenny sighed. The sun must have disappeared behind a cloud because the room darkened further. “Then, on the third night, the harriers came along with their demons. They sounded human – angry, arrogant, cruel – and brought big irons like the one you carry.” The priest pointed to Dust’s normal gun. “They shot the bejesus out of the chapel as those demons attacked. Two more people died. Good people. People I knew…”
Dust put a hand on the priest’s shoulder to soothe him. But his mind was elsewhere. Why would harriers only attack at night? Why not constantly hammer the chapel with their ‘demons’? But then, if Dust were pulling at loose threads, how could mercenaries even control the Father’s ‘demons’ in the first place? They had to be cultists rather than harriers to do so. Except, again, cultists would have battered the church until their skin was raw and their bones broken, would kill themselves to earn the favour of their Gods. Cultists would never allow the town a whole day to recover.
Dust decided to yank that thread. “And they didn’t ask for anything?”
Father Kilkenny looked up. Though he was framed in shadow, Dust saw his eyes were filled with pain, his face pale. The hands that had held his head quivered. It seemed the priest was about to let go of something that had been gnawing at him. “They did. That night they asked for something, demanded it, and they’ve been after it all this time. Thankfully no-one else understood the demands but this whole town has been pummelled for it. The people I tend have died for it. It was only that third night that they worked out I have it and they’ve tried to get at it, and me, ever since. I think that’s the only reason more people haven’t died…”
“What’re they after?” Dust asked, curiosity rising as the same rate as his dread.
“A Word. Perhaps the most powerful Word ever taken.”
All thoughts of Penelope left Dust. He had to quell a strange sense of excitement. “How’d you get a Word?”
The Father took a deep breath. “A woman snuck into Crucifix and came straight to the church to claim sanctuary. Margaret, her name was. It was the Lord’s will that she came to me. She was covered in a large black cloak, a pale face staring out from dark velvet. As soon as I closed the door behind her, she dropped the cloak. Dust, I’ve never seen anything like it; she was covered in fresh scars and patterns, forms that I know to be sinful and ungodly. She was bleeding from her groin. And something… bulbous and demonic had been grafted onto her shoulders, something that shook and writhed as she fell to her knees and screamed for forgiveness.”
Dust knew what the self-mutilation meant. “She was a cultist of That Which Sins.”
To his surprise, Father Kilkenny shook his head violently. “No, this was much bigger than that. Have you ever heard of the ‘Vessels of the Gods’?”
“No.” It didn’t sound good though.
Father Kilkenny gave him a small nod. “I’m hardly surprised. I doubt that… Never mind,” he said. Dust wanted to press him but his tattoo warned him not to. “The ‘Vessels of the Gods’ are people invested with the essence of the archdemons of the Triangle; they are the opposite of Saints, who know the Lord. Through painful ritual, long-term prayer or some horrible sacrifice, a cultist or a priest or whoever can become a Vessel.”
Dust turned his head to one side. “Why?”
“Does evil need a reason to happen? There are benefits for the individual though, I suppose; great strength, magic and power that they could never had controlled otherwise. But there’s a more important reason for doing it, from the demons’ perspectives anyway; the Vessels exist in order to one day create an Avatar.”
An Avatar? The Triangle were trying to build an Avatar? He knelt beside Father Kilkenny, his heart chilled by the thought. “So Margaret-”
“Margaret was a Vessel of That Which Sins. One of five, she told me. And she would surely have helped form an Avatar for the demon if she’d not escaped.”
“Then why did she come to you?”
He winced, took another deep breath; the memory seemed painful. “Apparently, That Which Sins recruits Vessels by tempting them into deviance, by pushing their wills and their bodies to their limits. Sadly, most are unable to resist. But Margaret told me that some regret falling. And that regret eats away at the control That Which Sins has over them until eventually they lose their faith in it. Most are unable to live with what they’ve become and kill themselves but Margaret… she was raised Catholic. Dust, she came to me for absolution.”
Dust frowned. “She wanted to confess her sins?”
“She did,” the Father confirmed with a weak nod. “She asked me a theological question first; if she somehow made herself forget her sins, could she still get into Heaven?”
“What did you tell her?”
“I… I couldn’t have been more off-guard; this isn’t something you get trained on before they hand you the collar, you understand. I said that a person would have to know the sins that they had committed in order to atone for them but that the Lord might forgive someone twisted by dark powers like her if they confessed their sins before forgetting them. She seemed… happy with that answer. Then she asked to give her confession.”
“You heard it then?” Dust asked.
The Father took a moment to reply. “I did. All four hours of it.”
Dust blew air out through his lips in sympathy and squeezed the Father’s shoulder again. That was why recalling this hurt; that would not have been a pleasant four hours for the Father. More than its fellow gods, That Which Sins asks for perversion and horror from her followers. The Father probably hadn’t been born into the Church, he would’ve had a life before all of this and so would’ve been somewhat subjected to the darker side of life, but even then he wouldn’t be ready to hear the earnest confession of a penitent cultist of That Which Sins.
“I think I see where this is going,” he said, trying politely to hurry this along. “So when she was done…”
“She pulled the Word out of herself. Right in my chapel. Just… trailed off as she recounted leaving the cult and… It was…” Father Kilkenny went pale and looked away. “Do you know what’s involved in taking a Word?”
Dust’s tattoo warmed. He shook his head. “I’d guess it involves magic, self-sacrifice.”
Father Kilkenny’s brow furrowed. “Do you know what a Word is?”
The surprised, perhaps condescending tone, irked Dust. “It’s someone’s memories, taken from them voluntarily to form a source of power. I’ve got one I took from myself.”
“Really? May I see?”
Dust didn’t react as he didn’t like flashing his Word around. But the longer he tried to avoid showing the Father, the hotter his tattoo became. When it was a roaring fire on his thigh, he relented and unholstered the other gun, flicked the mechanism open and caught the enormous cylinder in one hand.
“Sure,” he said, holding the other gun out to the Father.
Cautiously, Father Kilkenny took the cylinder from him. He held it up to the light and examined Dust’s Word, with its red roots and constant, faint thrumming. Then he turned the cylinder in his hands and squinted at its base.
“I see,” Father Kilkenny said slowly. “Well that’s an interesting sight, to be sure. And an interesting turn of events too. But I’ve got to tell you, Dust, that you’ve got the wrong idea about what a Word is. It’s more than a collection of memories.”
He offered the cylinder back to Dust. Dust took it and slotted it back into his weapon. “What is it then?”
“It’s a part of a soul. When you take a Word, you tear out a piece of your soul. And that Word,” Father Kilkenny pointed to Dust’s gun with a pale finger, “represents quite a large portion of your own soul, Dust.”
Dust looked down at his gun, the gunmetal and the inscriptions dull in the low light. The revelation didn’t stun him as much as the fact that it had been a revelation at all. How could he not know what a Word was? Why was that not in his inherited knowledge of the Dixie Problem? And why had no-one in the Solution told him about this?
“You look troubled,” Father Kilkenny said. Then he laughed. “Here’s me, concerned about you when my town is about to be destroyed by monster and harriers. Lord but I can be daft sometimes.”
“I’m fine,” Dust said, holstering his gun. “So they want the Word because it’s part of the soul of this Vessel?”
Then he heard himself. If Words were parts of a person’s soul, and a Vessel’s soul was imbued with the very essence of That Which Sins in the hope of making it corporeal… then what the Father held was actually a part of That Which Sins. It was a guarantee that That Which Sins could never form an Avatar. And it could be used for much, much more…
Everything clicked into place then. This was why the cult had hired mercenaries; if anyone else knew that they had lost part of their god’s soul then all Hell would break loose. The cult’s leaders would be disgraced, hunted, and every cult of the Triangle would be crawling across the Badlands to find what they’d lost. So they’d had to keep it a secret. And That Which Sins would notice if they stopped their normal activities so they’d had to bring in outside assistance…
That was why the attacks only came at night; the eldritch creatures these mercenaries were using would be most malleable then and so even novices could dominate them into returning to the cult without devouring the Word. The mercenaries were probably using some malignant artefact to control the creatures but they wouldn’t be adept enough to make it work during the day. And they weren’t allowed to attack without the creatures in case they took it into their heads to keep the Word for ransom.
“You see why I’ve been protecting it with everything I’ve got,” Father Kilkenny said.
“I do.” Dust stood and put his hand to his forehead. “Do you know what that Word means?”
“What do you mean?”
“What could be done with it…” Dust’s mind raced with the possibilities. A smile stretched across his face. “Almost everything given to this Margaret will be in that Word; with it you could kill That Which Sins. ”
Father Kilkenny shook his head. “I don’t care about that; it is for the Lord to concern Himself with whether those demons are destroyed or not. I just care that it’s not in hands of that cult, that Crucifix is safe…” He took a deep breath. “And for the safety of Penelope Chalmers, even though I’m blackmailing you and your friends. Which I’m not proud of.”
Dust nodded but his mind was racing too quickly to pay attention to the Father. Of course, killing one of the Triangle wouldn’t be a permanent victory; the Dixie Problem would remain, albeit weakened, and the cults dedicated to That Which Sins would inevitably transfer to worshipping Melting Flesh or Omnis. But the creatures of That Which Sins would all die and it would strike a blow, have those who worshipped the Triangle running scared.
It would give people hope again.
“I know I’m not being kind. And I know that you could just take the Word from me now if you wished.” The Father’s eyes shot down for a moment, indicating that the Word was either under his bed or the floorboards. “But please help us. Help us then take the damned thing with you.”
A strange feeling jolted through Dust, a tingling and a thudding in every part of him. It was something he had never experienced before, like having a dead leg throughout his body. He tried to move and shake out his limbs but found he had no control over his body. Whatever the feeling was, it centred on his lips and demanded that he say two words, an acceptance that could not and would not be resisted.
“Of course,” Dust said.
The feeling disappeared immediately. Dust did his best to not show his discomfort.
Father Kilkenny looked relieved. He clasped his hands together and offered a silent prayer to the sky. “Thank the Lord. And thank you Dust.”
What had that feeling been? It… it seemed like it had come from his tattoo. If so, it was the first time that it had compelled him to do something. Resistance must’ve decided to take a direct part in this… so this Word was perhaps more important than he’d thought. Dust couldn’t help but feel chilled at having been controlled though.
“Might I make a suggestion?” the Father asked.
“Sure.”
Father Kilkenny stood and put his hands on Dust’s shoulders. Dust noticed that they were about the same height and build, differing only in how worn their faces were. Outside, the Father had seemed taller but in private he looked smaller, weaker.
“You should consider using this Word for your weapon. I saw what Margaret had to do to pull the Word from herself and it made me question everything I thought I knew about the soul; it was horror incarnate, a magic that should never, ever be performed.”
He paused, collected his thoughts. “Given what this Word is…” The Father pointed to Dust’s other gun and his fingers shook. “Well, the power of it means that you’re missing a significant portion of the man you ought to be. Just… think about that. Sometimes a man has to take care of himself to do what’s best for the world. Consider it for me, as part of our deal, okay?”
Dust glanced down at other his gun then back into the Father’s unwavering green eyes. He had to wonder what the process for withdrawing a Word was. But he didn’t have time to waste coaxing that from the Father.
“I’ll consider it,” he said.
Father Kilkenny examined him for a while longer then dropped his hands to his side. “Good. Good. We’d best get started then. There’s an absolute Hell out there, thinking about us, so we’d best start thinking about them.”
Dust nodded. “We had.”
Father Kilkenny took a deep breath, pulled life back into his face and went to leave. But Dust needed to know something first. “What happened to Margaret?”
“She died,” he said after a pause. Dust couldn’t see his face but it sounded as though he were talking through a grimace.
That made sense; pulling so large a portion of her own soul out would be an enormous strain on her body. “I’m… sorry to hear that,” Dust said.
Father Kilkenny shook his head. “Don’t be. Margaret found the peace she was looking for. That’s what the Lord tells me in my heart anyway.”
With that, he left the room. Dust watched him go, suspicions forming, and then cast a look around the bedroom. There was something worth protecting in here, something so important that he’d felt the hand of Resistance for the first time. The lives of this town were absolutely worthy of his protection but hiding somewhere in that room was the chance to actually kill a twisted god.
Or, he reminded himself, a way of regaining his full soul. Though in Dust’s mind there wasn’t much competition between the two options.