Page 5 of Exorcise Me (Hotter than Hell)

The exorcism was, as Lucien had predicted, largely unnecessary.

The old Victorian had serious plumbing issues that caused the pipes to knock and groan.

The “ghostly apparition” the teenage daughter had seen was easily explained by headlights from the street casting shadows through the curtains.

The cold spots were due to poor insulation.

But I performed the blessing anyway, sprinkling holy water in each room, reciting prayers that now felt strangely hollow on my tongue. The family seemed comforted, and that was what mattered, I told myself.

Father Finnegan observed my work with his usual stoic expression, offering a nod of approval when we finished.

“Well done, Noah,” he said as we walked to our cars. “Though you seem distracted today.”

I tensed. “Just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

That much was true, though I couldn’t tell him it was because I lay awake each night, hyperaware of the demon lounging on my couch just beyond my bedroom door.

“Hmm.” Father Finnegan studied me, his weathered face creased with concern. “You’ve been missed at morning prayers this week.”

Guilt twisted in my stomach. I’d been skipping the daily 6 AM prayer sessions at the seminary, telling myself it was because Lucien kept me up late with his endless questions and debates. The truth was more complicated.

“I’ve been doing private devotions at home,” I lied, the words leaving a bitter taste.

“I see.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Noah, remember what I taught you about maintaining spiritual barriers. This work we do—it exposes us to dark influences. Without proper protection, even the strongest among us can be led astray.”

If only you knew how astray I’ve already gone, I thought, picturing Lucien in my apartment, probably rearranging my spice rack again while singing along to whatever pop music he’d discovered this week.

“I’ll be more diligent,” I promised, the lie coming easier this time.

Father Finnegan clasped my shoulder. “Good. We have a more serious case coming up next week. I’ll need you at your best.”

I nodded, trying to ignore the dread pooling in my stomach. “Of course.”

We parted ways, and I drove home in silence, my thoughts a chaotic mess. What was I doing? Harboring a demon, lying to my mentor, questioning everything I’d been taught to believe…

By the time I reached my apartment, I’d worked myself into a proper crisis of faith. I fumbled with my keys, dropping them twice before managing to unlock the door.

The smell hit me first—something rich and savory that made my mouth water instantly. Then music—soft jazz playing from the small Bluetooth speaker I rarely used. And finally, the sight of Lucien in my kitchen, his back to me as he stirred something on the stove.

He’d rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle. His hair was slightly mussed, as though he’d been running his hands through it. He was humming along to the music, swaying slightly, completely at ease in my space.

Something in my chest tightened painfully.

“How was the ghost hunt?” he asked without turning around. “Did you save the poor humans from their faulty plumbing?”

“How did you know I was back?” I set my bag down, too emotionally drained for his sarcasm.

“I can sense you,” he said simply. “Your energy has a particular… signature.” He finally turned, and his mocking expression softened when he saw my face. “That bad, huh?”

I collapsed onto a kitchen chair. “It wasn’t bad. It was exactly as you said. No demon, no ghost, just a old house with bad pipes and poor insulation.”

“Yet you performed the exorcism anyway.” It wasn’t a question.

“It brought them comfort,” I said defensively.

Lucien turned back to the stove, giving whatever he was cooking a final stir before lowering the heat. “Comfort based on illusion isn’t comfort, Noah. It’s delusion.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” I snapped, the stress of the day finally boiling over. “What exactly is this—” I gestured around my apartment “—if not an illusion? You, playing house with me, pretending we’re just two roommates instead of—” I stopped, my throat tight.

“Instead of what?” Lucien’s voice was dangerously soft. “An exorcist and a demon? Natural enemies?” He turned fully, leaning against the counter. “Or two beings who might actually be becoming friends?”

Friends. Was that what we were? The word seemed simultaneously too much and not enough.

“I don’t know what we are,” I admitted, the fight draining out of me. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

Lucien studied me for a long moment, then moved to the refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle of wine—one I definitely hadn’t purchased—and poured two glasses.

“What you’re doing,” he said, placing a glass in front of me, “is growing. Questioning. Thinking for yourself instead of regurgitating doctrine.” He sat in the chair opposite mine. “It’s uncomfortable. Growth always is.”

I took a long drink of wine, letting the rich flavor wash over my tongue. “Father Finnegan says I’ve been ‘exposed to dark influences.’”

Lucien’s laugh was surprisingly genuine. “Well, he’s not entirely wrong about that.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “Though I prefer to think of myself as a chaotic influence rather than a dark one.”

Despite everything, I found myself smiling. “You’re certainly chaotic. What did you do to my bathroom?”

“I organized it! Your skincare routine was abysmal. Those products should never be stored together.” He leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “And don’t pretend you don’t love that face scrub I added. Your skin is glowing.”

I touched my cheek self-consciously. I had been using the mysteriously appeared products, and my skin did feel better.

“You’re changing the subject,” I accused, though without heat.

“No, I’m changing the energy.” Lucien took a sip of his wine. “You came home carrying the weight of your doubt like it’s a sin. It’s not, Noah. Doubt is the beginning of wisdom.”

“Is that a demonic proverb?”

“It’s a human one, actually. Though we have a similar saying in my realm.” He swirled his wine thoughtfully. “Roughly translated: ‘Certainty is the refuge of fools and tyrants.’”

I considered this. “The seminary teaches that certainty in faith is strength.”

“Of course they do. Certainty doesn’t ask questions.” His amber eyes seemed to glow in the dimly lit kitchen. “But you’ve always had questions, haven’t you, Noah? Even before me.”

It was true. I’d always struggled with the absolutes of my training. The clear divisions between good and evil, saved and damned. The world had always seemed more complex to me than the seminary’s teachings allowed for.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Lucien said, graciously changing the subject again. “Go shower. You smell like incense and repression.”

I rolled my eyes but stood, grateful for the momentary reprieve from heavy conversation. “What are you making, anyway?”

“Coq au vin. With actual vegetables, not those sad frozen things you call food.”

“Show-off,” I muttered, but there was no bite to it.

His smile followed me as I headed to the bathroom, tension slowly unwinding from my shoulders.