Page 11 of Exorcise Me (Hotter than Hell)

Three days without Lucien felt like an eternity.

I moved through my apartment like a ghost, hyper-aware of his absence in spaces he’d so thoroughly occupied.

The kitchen seemed too quiet without his humming.

The couch too empty without his languid sprawl.

The shower… well, the shower held memories I couldn’t think about without blushing.

I’d spent these days in a strange limbo.

Father Finnegan had left several messages, his tone growing increasingly concerned, then stern.

I hadn’t returned them. Instead, I’d buried myself in research, pulling out old seminary textbooks, cross-referencing them with historical accounts and, daringly, non-church-approved texts on demonology.

The picture that emerged was fascinating and disturbing.

So much of what I’d been taught was simplified, even sanitized.

The rigid categorization of demons as purely evil beings bent on corruption seemed at odds with older accounts that presented a more complex picture—demons as tricksters, teachers, even occasional allies to humans they favored.

My phone rang again, Father Finnegan’s name flashing on the screen. For the fourth time that day, I let it go to voicemail. I couldn’t talk to him yet, not until I had sorted through my own thoughts.

My gaze drifted to the honey jar sitting on my coffee table, where I’d moved it for easy access—or perhaps as a form of temptation, a constant reminder of my power to call Lucien back.

I hadn’t used it yet, though I’d come close several times, especially late at night when doubts crept in and loneliness pressed heavily on my chest.

What if he doesn’t come back? whispered an insidious voice in my mind. What if you call and he doesn’t answer?

I pushed the thought away. If there was one thing I’d learned about Lucien in our short time together, it was that he kept his promises.

A knock at my door startled me from my musings. For a wild moment, I thought it might be Lucien, ignoring his own dramatic instructions in favor of simply knocking like a normal person. But the knock came again, firmer this time, with a rhythm I recognized all too well.

Father Finnegan.

I considered not answering, but that would only delay the inevitable. With a deep breath, I moved to the door and opened it.

Father Finnegan stood in the hallway, his weathered face drawn with concern and something harder—disappointment, perhaps, or suspicion. He wore his clerical collar, a silent reminder of his authority and my place in the hierarchy of the church.

“Noah,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “May I come in?”

I hesitated only briefly before stepping aside. “Of course.”

He entered, his keen eyes scanning my apartment with the practiced scrutiny of a man accustomed to looking for signs of spiritual disturbance. Did he expect to find pentagrams drawn on my floor? Black candles? A demon lounging on my couch?

“You haven’t been answering my calls,” he said, turning to face me as I closed the door.

“I needed time to think,” I replied, moving past him to clear the books and notes from my coffee table. I subtly moved the honey jar to a shelf, out of his direct line of sight.

“Three days is a long time for thinking.” He sat in the armchair, leaving the couch for me. “Especially when you’ve missed assignments and appointments.”

I hadn’t realized how many obligations I’d neglected in my self-imposed isolation. Guilt prickled at me, but I pushed it aside.

“I’m sorry for not calling,” I said, sitting on the couch—Lucien’s couch, my mind unhelpfully supplied. “Things have been… complicated.”

“So it seems.” Father Finnegan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “The Wellington girl is doing well, by the way. The doctors diagnosed her with epilepsy. She’s on medication now.”

Relief washed through me. “That’s good news.”

“Is it?” His eyes held mine. “And if the seizures were merely a symptom of possession? If the demon has simply gone dormant to avoid detection?”

“Or maybe she just has epilepsy,” I countered, more sharply than I intended. “Maybe not everything unexplained is supernatural. Maybe sometimes people just get sick.”

Father Finnegan’s eyebrows rose at my tone. “This isn’t like you, Noah. You’ve never questioned the reality of demonic influence before.”

“Maybe I should have.” The words came out before I could stop them. “Maybe we’re too quick to see demons everywhere we look.”

“And maybe,” he said carefully, “you’re now too quick to dismiss their presence because one has clouded your judgment.”

I stiffened. “What does that mean?”

He sighed heavily, suddenly looking every one of his sixty-plus years. “Who is Lucien, Noah?”

My heart raced, but I kept my expression neutral. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Father Finnegan’s voice hardened. “Not after all these years. Not after everything I’ve taught you.” He gestured around the apartment. “I can feel it, you know. The lingering presence. This place has been touched by something inhuman.”

Touched is one way of putting it, I thought inappropriately, heat rising to my face as memories of exactly how my apartment had been “touched” by Lucien flooded my mind.

Father Finnegan mistook my flush for shame. “So it’s true,” he said quietly. “You’ve allowed a demon into your life.”

I stood abruptly, pacing to the window and back. “It’s not what you think.”

“Then explain it to me.” His tone softened slightly. “Help me understand what’s happened to you.”

I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw genuine concern beneath the disapproval. This man had guided me through years of doubt and questioning, had patiently answered my endless “but why” questions when other teachers had dismissed them. He deserved honesty.

Or at least, as much honesty as I could safely offer.

“I’ve been… researching,” I said carefully. “Looking deeper into demonology. The original texts, not just the seminary interpretations.”

“I can see that.” He nodded toward the stack of books I’d moved. “Those aren’t seminary-approved texts.”

“No, they’re not. And that’s the problem.” I sat back down, leaning toward him earnestly. “Everything we’re taught presents a simplified version. Demons are evil, angels are good, humans are in between. But what if it’s more complex? What if demons, like humans, exist on a spectrum of morality?”

Father Finnegan’s expression grew troubled. “This is dangerous thinking, Noah.”

“Is it dangerous to seek truth?” I challenged. “Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do as people of faith? Seek truth, even when it’s uncomfortable?”

“Not all truths are meant for human understanding,” he countered. “Some mysteries belong to God alone.”

“That’s a convenient way to shut down questioning,” I said before I could stop myself.

His eyes widened at my boldness. “You’ve changed,” he said finally. “And not for the better.”

The words stung more than I expected. “Or maybe I’ve grown. Maybe I’m finally thinking for myself instead of just accepting what I’m told.”

“By whom?” Father Finnegan asked pointedly. “Whose voice are you really listening to, Noah? Your own? Or something more insidious?”

The question hit uncomfortably close to home. How much of my recent questioning was genuinely mine, and how much had been influenced by Lucien’s presence? But even as the doubt formed, I knew the answer. These questions had always been within me. Lucien had simply given me permission to voice them.

“I need to find my own way,” I said quietly. “My own understanding.”

Father Finnegan was silent for a long moment, studying me with the careful scrutiny he usually reserved for potentially possessed objects. Finally, he stood.

“I cannot force you back to the path, Noah. Faith must be chosen freely.” He moved toward the door, then paused. “But I can warn you. Whatever entity has attached itself to you—this Lucien—it does not have your best interests at heart. Demons cannot love, Noah. They can only corrupt and destroy.”

He’s wrong, I thought immediately, remembering the tenderness in Lucien’s touch, the vulnerability in his eyes when he’d almost confessed his feelings. He’s wrong about Lucien.

But I said nothing, merely nodding to acknowledge I’d heard him.

Father Finnegan sighed, hand on the doorknob. “When you’re ready to come back—to truly commit yourself to your calling again—my door is open.” His eyes softened slightly. “Until then, I’ll pray for your protection and clarity.”

With that, he left, closing the door quietly behind him.

I stood in the middle of my apartment, a strange hollowness expanding in my chest. For the first time in my life, I felt truly alone—cut adrift from the institution that had shaped my entire existence, separated from the mentor who had guided me through my most difficult questions.

And without Lucien, I had no anchor to this new, uncertain territory I found myself exploring.

Almost without conscious thought, I moved to the shelf where I’d placed the honey jar. The late afternoon sunlight caught it, turning the golden contents into liquid amber—the exact shade of Lucien’s extraordinary eyes.

I held it up to the light, heart pounding.

“Lucien,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. Then, louder: “Lucien.” A deep breath. “Lucien.”

For a moment, nothing happened. The apartment remained still and silent, and a cold fear gripped me. What if it had been a joke? What if he’d never intended to return?

Then the air shifted, a familiar scent of cinnamon and smoke filling the room, and Lucien was there—standing by the window as if he’d been there all along, golden light painting his sharp features, his amber eyes fixed on me with an intensity that stole my breath.