Page 37 of Helsing: Demon Slayer (The Dragon’s Paladins #1)
B efore visiting his patron in the ICU for the Angelus prayer, Father Bekim stopped in the large conference room at the unfinished clinic that Mihàil had designated as a temporary chapel until a larger, freestanding one could be built next door.
It was a plain space, yet warm and welcoming.
Mihàil hadn’t wanted Father Bekim or any of his parishioners to wait on the separate building that Willem DeVries, the Elioud architect who’d joined their community last year, even now designed.
In addition to a small altar, crucifix, and tabernacle for the Blessed Sacrament, the room had a holy-water font, a credence table with sacred vessels, and a sanctuary lamp.
Around the room were small ceramic plaques depicting the Stations of the Cross crafted by local artisans using traditional techniques passed down through generations.
He was here, kneeling before the Eucharist in adoration and prayer, when the zonje entered.
Father Bekim felt her settle on her knees at his side, and then she slowly lowered herself to a prone position.
Although he couldn’t make out the words she murmured, their low hum moved across his skin, warm as the whisper of the Holy Spirit.
They were there, together, quiet and breathing in the Sacred Presence, when a soft tap at the conference-room door warned them that someone entered.
Father Bekim looked up to see the American Miles Baxter step into the room, his gaze going around the space before settling on Olivia Kastrioti.
Fatigue etched the man’s face in hollow lines, but the priest saw a look of concern, love, and respect flit across his features before he schooled them into his usual opacity.
The man was a cipher, but Father Bekim understood instantly that he cared for his superior.
That was a very good thing. The zonje would need all of the love, support, and faithfulness her community could give her in the days ahead.
Baxter waited behind the short row of chairs arranged in front of the marble altar, his hooded gaze revealing nothing as he studied the ostensorium displayed there.
It was a modern piece designed by Olivia with Father Bekim’s help, crafted from sleek polished platinum statue of an angel holding the luna and inlaid with mother-of-pearl and iridescent blue lapis.
A subtle harmonic glow embraced the luna and its holy contents.
Even without an expression on his handsome face, the American conveyed a feeling of deep unease and discomfort.
Interesting . Even with the supernatural evidence of the Elioud , their daemonic foes, and the specialized harmonic technology that had begun to transform their lives here in Fushe-Arrez and beyond, the man still held himself apart.
Father Bekim made a note to dedicate prayer for Baxter’s full change of heart.
At last, Olivia stood, rolling up to her feet gracefully even though she appeared as worn as Father Bekim, who’d seen more than five decades as Mihàil’s family priest. She held out her hand and helped him to his feet before turning back to Baxter.
“Have you gotten word from András or Ryan?”
He nodded. Olivia stilled, and Father Bekim heard her soft intake of breath before Baxter spoke.
“Better. Elias and Michael came across them on the road.” He paused and looked swiftly at Father Bekim before returning his gaze to Olivia and continuing.
“Abaddon and his Locusts ambushed them, my lady. Elias and his donats repelled them, but they had to abandon the Defender and bring Ryan and Dianne and the others on horseback. András just sent word via personal drone that they’ll be in Fushe-Arrez anytime. ”
Father Bekim chose to speak now before Olivia could say anything. “My lady, it is almost time for the Angelus. With your permission, I will bring the lectionary. God willing, we can all pray in thanksgiving for their safe return.”
Olivia blinked, looking almost overwhelmed for a moment with unshed tears misting her gaze. She nodded and cleared her throat. “Let it be done. And, please, Father Bekim, ring the bells to gather everyone from town. I’ll need to address them about what we’re facing.”
Father Bekim nodded. In all things, gratitude to God. It was his calling to lead that public expression for the zoti and zonje and their people.
Twenty minutes later Father Bekim stood outside the clinic on the site of the future chapel while the invisible harmonic bells rang for five kilometers around them, calling the faithful and the not-so-faithful alike to witness the arrival of the triumphant knights and their wards.
As he looked down the slope toward the highway that bisected his little village, Father Bekim’s throat thickened, and his heart was full.
The zoti and his lady envisioned so much for this little hamlet that the elderly Albanian priest prayed he lived to see even half of it accomplished.
The clinic and chapel, when finished, would comprise conjoined healing centers, the spiritual and physical blended in harmonic restoration.
This dawn, there was only the flat space that he stood on with a roughly graded terrace to the clinic on a nearby plateau.
Below him was a beaten path to the valley and the highway through Fushe-Arrez.
Across from them and on the other side of the highway stood the Kastriotis’ new home, a relatively modest limestone construction that served as the centerpiece of a small compound of buildings, including guesthouses for family and friends.
And beyond that, Mihàil’s modern security center, the Aerie, and associated training and living quarters for his warriors, Elioud and human alike.
Next to it, along the base of the sheltering mountain, stood the unfinished research and development center where the Elioud found incredible and myriad ways to turn their angelic gifts into real-world technology to benefit humanity, especially in its longstanding war against the Dark forces of the Fallen Watcher Angels, who sought power over Creation.
Beneath him villagers from Fushe-Arrez clustered on the raw earthen terraces that would form a natural amphitheater for outdoor Mass and other events.
Across the highway, security personnel and staff for the command center stood in tense expectation outside the entrance to the Kastrioti estate.
They would be able to hear him given the enhanced acoustics of the external harmonic audio mesh system, whose nodes covered most of the landscape for a radius of ten kilometers.
Olivia and the other Elioud stood a short distance away between him and the clinic, their expressions inscrutable in the early morning light.
Just behind the Elioud , the zonje ’s parents stood, Olivia’s mother holding baby Luljeta, next to a young nanny.
Father Bekim raised his leatherbound lectionary and began to read the first antiphon of the Angelus prayer.
Next to him, the candle that he’d lit and set on a small table wavered in the slight breeze, its flickering flame a symbol of divine protection.
The sound of his voice echoed against the mountain ridges—a profound invocation that stretched beyond mere words.
And then, hoofbeats. Elias and the donats crested the ridge above the road, Ryan and Dianne in their midst, weary but whole. András, Beta, and Edvard brought up the rear.
The golden light of dawn caught the knights’ harmonic sigils, sending flashes of brilliance across their battle-worn tactical gear as their breath and that of their horses misted the cold morning air.
The harmonic audio system amplified the collective gasp of all those gathered, their relief, awe, and unspoken reverence filling the stillness as Father Bekim continued to pray.
With more effort than he liked or would admit, Ryan pulled his jacket over his shoulders, still adjusting to the lingering ache in his side, not quite healed, but functional enough.
The moment he stepped outside the clinic after a week lying weak and helpless in a hospital bed, the mountain air hit him, crisp and thin—a reminder that time hadn’t slowed to keep pace with his plodding recovery.
Miles Baxter had demanded a full after-action report, but Ryan already knew the outcome: he was done being sidelined, done with IVs, done with physical therapy in hospital scrubs at the side of an overly concerned female therapist, and done with harmonic healing at the hands of his Elioud teammates.
He was upright, mobile, and mad as hell.
And he wasn’t waiting for someone to clear him.
Still, protocol mattered. If Miles wouldn’t stand in his way, someone else might. He didn’t want to have that fight, but if it came to it, he’d win.
Which is why he found himself standing outside Olivia Kastrioti’s office, knocking once before stepping inside without waiting for acknowledgement.
The soft hum of harmonic energy reverberated through the space, subtle, like an unseen pulse, reminding Ryan that everything in Fushe-Arrez bent to forces deeper than blood, bullets, or steel.
Olivia was already standing, palms pressed against her desktop, gaze focused on nothing and everything at once. The weariness in her posture was unmistakable, but when she looked at him, her spine straightened as if the burden had momentarily lifted.
“Ryan,” she said, choosing his first name over his last. That in itself was telling. And no pleasantries, just the weight of unspoken truths between them.
“Miles said I needed your sign-off to return to duty,” he said. He didn’t add that he was going back into the field whether or not his superior agreed.
Olivia exhaled, rubbing her temple. She looked tired, pale and drawn. She sat down and held his gaze with her steady one. “You’re not fully recovered.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He leaned against the chair across from her, arms crossed. “Unless you plan to remove me from command and throw me in the guardhouse, I’m going back to work.”