“This is a big-ass funeral,” Heath says as he hops down from his seat and surveys the cars parked along the narrow, curving, residential street as far as we can see. “You sure you’re ready to give a eulogy in front of all these people?”
“They asked for me,” I point out, closing the passenger door.
“I bet they did,” he says, cracking a grin. “I wonder whose idea that was.”
“That’s irrelevant,” I say, straightening my collar in the reflection in the window.
“I still think it’s funny that you don’t drive,” he says, leaning an elbow on the hood of his truck and watching me.
“I’m from New York,” I say, the answer coming automatically after years of practice, slipping as effortlessly as the truth from my lips. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either.
May I be forgiven this sin of deception.
I check my sleeves, making sure they’re even.
“You nervous about speaking in front of the rich and famous?” Heath asks.
To him, it must look like I’m fussing, not as if I’m remembering the muffled thud of a body folding over a car’s hood.
Thou shalt not kill.
“I wouldn’t call anyone in this town famous,” I comment as we start for the expansive, manicured back lawn of the lavish Dolce home.
“I heard the governor is going to be here,” Heath says.
We arrive at the back lawn where they’re holding the memorial service. The Dolces have wide connections, and there are people from all areas that the family patriarch influenced, from the local government and his businesses to his personal friends and the Church.
The Finnegan boy veers over to greet us, saying hello to me first.
I grip his hand firmly, searching his distracted face. “How are you holding up?”
“I get by with a little help from my friends,” he says, holding up the flask that dangles from his other hand.
“Isn’t it a little early to be getting wasted?” Heath asks.
Colin turns to my companion. “It’s never too early to get drunk at a funeral,” he says with a smile that never touches his eyes. “How’s my little cuz?”
Heath hesitates, but then he slaps his hand into Colin’s and clasps it when the younger boy offers. “I think you got that backwards,” he says with a nod, though his gaze remains troubled.
We make our way to the front. People are still milling, but most of the chairs are full. Royal Dolce comes up to introduce me to his partner, a girl who looks like nothing but trouble. Then again, most kids their age are. It seems an incongruous match, but it makes sense somehow. I’ve known Royal since he started attending services at Thorncrown. Over the years, I’ve watched him grow angry, bitter, and despondent, but lately, I’ve watched him change. He’s matured into someone calmer, someone who might show love to a girl like the one with whom he’s settling into his seat.
“Hey, Colin,” says Duke Dolce, striding over to the boys still standing close by. “I need to talk to you.”
“So talk,” Colin says, taking a swig from his flask.
Duke glances at Heath and back with a frown. “Not here.”
Colin throws his arm around Heath. “Anything you got to say to me, you can say in front of my cousin.”
I watch them from the corner of my eye, since I wasn’t aware that Heath was close with any of the distant relatives he has around town. He has enough first cousins that I forget he’s part of the troubled Finnegan family too. I like to know where all my congregants reside in the web of Faulkner families that’s woven through Thorncrown, but I keep a special eye on the boys under my watch.
“I didn’t mean him,” Duke mutters, and I just catch the meaningful glance he directs my way as I’m shaking hands with another mourner.
“You think he cares?” Colin asks, chortling with laughter. “He doesn’t give a fuck. He’s not one of the good guys. There are no good guys. We’re all fucked.”
Duke scowls. “Yeah, but it’s about… Baron leaving town. You saw him last.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Colin says, not bothering to lower his voice. “Even if you fold your hands all prim and proper like a little bitch and say your prayers every night before bed, God doesn’t pick you. He can’t hear you. He’s not on your side because He doesn’t exist.”
“You don’t know that,” Duke says.
“Probably not the time, Colin,” Heath warns.
“You know it’s true,” Colin says. “You don’t believe in Him either. I know all about my little heathen cousin. But guess what? It doesn’t matter. In the end, we all die alone.”
“You’re drunk,” Heath says. “Let’s go sit down.”
“Who’s that kid?” Colin says, swinging his flask toward a skinny little girl skipping along the perimeter of the lawn.
“Don’t even look at her,” Duke growls.
“I was just asking,” Colin protests. “Why, you saving her for later?”
Duke lunges for him, and I just have time to step in and intervene before it comes to blows.
“Take him to sit down,” I order Heath, holding Duke off with a firm hand.
“Are you okay?” I ask him, turning to grip his shoulders so he can’t indulge in the violence he obviously craves.
“I don’t blame you,” Colin calls over his shoulder, laughing and goading Duke as Heath drags him away. “I got a few marked for when they’re off the clock too.”
I squeeze Duke’s shoulders. “How are you holding up?”
He strains to follow the scent of chaos for a moment, then relents and shifts his focus to me. “Fine,” he says, shrugging me off. “What’s a funeral without a drunk asshole making a fool of himself?”
I nod to the vacant seat in the front row, between his brother and sister, each with their respective partners. Duke’s lone chair sits empty, without a companion seat for a partner or even his twin.
“Come talk to me after the service,” I murmur to him. “Or any time.”
“Sure, Father,” he says, then reluctantly heads for the chair. Every seat is full, and the remaining townsfolk who came to pay their respects have congregated around those seated.
“Yo, Dante,” says a voice off to my left. I turn to see the misfit Delacroix boy loping across the lawn, the last to join.
Oblivious to the crowd and the solemnity of the moment, he offers a big smile and strides up to shake my hand. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he says. “I quit my job—again, I know—but I wanted to ask about yours.”
“About the priesthood?” I ask, drawing back in surprise.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I thought maybe I’d join.”
“Can this wait?” I ask, arching a brow and cutting my gaze toward the crowd.
“Oh, sure,” he says, seeming to notice for the first time that we have an audience. “For sure. Thanks, Daddy Dante.” He drops a wink before ducking back to join those standing around.
Having diffused the moment’s tensions, I step up to deliver the eulogy. Afterwards, the family, friends, and associates of the dearly departed come up to mourn his death and speak on his life. The wake is held at the family home, but the burial will be back in New York. I try not to think about that as I sit listening to the town’s powerful elite pay their respects. I never go back there, not even in my mind.
When it’s over, the attendees mill around, picking at the food, drinking, networking. That never stops in these circles, not even for death. They won’t be so crass as to say it aloud, but already someone is laying the groundwork to fill the void left by his absence. Probably several people jockeying for position, vying for the empty spot he left at the table.
Across the lawn, I spot a lone figure, a lost lamb, her red hair swept up into a severe knot, her pale skin in stark contrast with the simple black dress she wears. Unlike her school uniform, she can’t adjust this one in an unflattering manner or wear socks pulled to her knees. Without thought or intention, my feet carry me in her direction. Before I reach her, though, she’s edged her way over to where Royal Dolce is talking to someone at the end of a long table laden with hors d’oeuvres.
“Hello, Mercy,” I say, nodding to her when she pulls up short and looks around anxiously.
“Father,” she says, relaxing visibly. “That was a lovely service.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. You’re looking lovely today.”
“Oh,” she says, letting out a little self-conscious laugh and tugging at the hem of her dress. “I don’t have much that’s suitable for a funeral.”
“I’d say you did very well,” I say, smiling down at her and popping a canape into my mouth. She gulps, watching me chew. Her dress is conservative, with a modest neckline and a cut that stops just above her knees, but it hints at her womanly figure better than her usual, ill-fitting attire. It strikes me that her hiding might be intentional, and I make a note to talk to her about it at a more appropriate time, to coax her to cherish the body God gave her in all its glory. The thought has my cock stirring, and I turn my attention back to the food to distract myself.
Just then, the person talking to Royal walks away, and Mercy steps in. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she says.
“Thank you,” he says, smiling an empty, automatic smile at her, the one he’s giving to every person finding him to offer condolences. “Thanks for coming, Mercy.”
As if drawn by the threat of another man in her orbit, Saint appears at her elbow.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
She shrinks, and I frown at him, but he doesn’t notice my presence.
“Hi, Saint,” Royal says, holding out a hand like a robot. “Thanks for coming.”
“Yeah, sure,” Saint mutters, barely glancing at him, not offering so much as a word of sympathy before pulling Mercy past me, letting another guest step in to speak with Royal.
“You’re being rude,” Mercy protests.
“I thought I told you not to talk to that guy.”
“You told me not to talk to any guy,” she points out.
“So you do remember,” he says. “And you’re just disobeying to get attention.”
“It’s a funeral.”
“Well, you’ve got it,” he says. “You have my attention. What do you want now? Punishment?”
“No,” she protests. “I was just offering sympathy.”
“I’m sure he’ll get plenty of sympathy play without scraping the bottom of the barrel to find you.”
“Saint,” I warn, my voice a low rumble.
Without answering, he turns and stalks off. Mercy hurries after him, hanging her head in shame.
“That looks like it went well,” Royal says, apparently having overheard some of the conversation between accepting condolences.
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose under my glasses.
Angel steps up to shake Royal’s hand. “Sorry for your loss, man,” he says. “Gotta be a tough one.”
“Thank you, Angel,” Royal says, going instantly back into business mode. “And thanks for coming.”
“Hey, I heard your brother can get things done online,” Angel says, craning his neck. “He around here?”
Royal scowls. “No.”
“Really?” Angel asks, drawing back. “Oh, damn. That’s harsh. Know when he’ll be back?”
“Never, if he’s as smart as people say,” says a female voice on my other side.
I turn to see a thin blonde girl who doesn’t attend Thorncrown, picking up a canape.
Royal scoffs. “You think Baron’s afraid of you?”
“He should be,” she says lightly, popping the food into her mouth.
“He doesn’t live here anymore,” Royal says coolly, turning back to Angel. “I don’t know when he’ll be back. If you need anything urgent, I recommend Nathaniel Swift.”
Angel’s brows rise. “You’re rec’ing your brother’s competition?”
“That’s not really how hackers work,” Royal says, the corner of his mouth rising the slightest bit.
“Yeah, okay,” Angel says with a sigh. “My dad says he’s shady, but my cousin gets shit from him. I guess I’ll have to ask for a hookup.”
“If you don’t want to use him, your dad’s probably the next best option,” Royal says.
Angel shakes his head. “Nah, not this time. Thanks, though.”
Royal greets someone else, and Angel turns and sees me. His face cracks into a big grin, and he throws an arm over my shoulder. “Hey, Father S,” he says. “Want to introduce me to one of your devout followers?”
“Not my followers,” I correct. “A follower of Christ.”
“Sure, Pops, whatever you say,” Angel says easily. “But I’d bet at least half the chicks at Thorncrown are there for you more than God.”
“Nathaniel is a man.”
“So, even a priest isn’t above eavesdropping,” Angel says, looking delighted. “And don’t worry, Father. I’m sure a few of the guys are there for you too.”
“Nathaniel wasn’t a member of the church until he started school there,” I say. “I’m not sure he’s a devout follower of anything except his own path.”
“Good to know,” Angel says. “So, you gonna hook me up or not?”
“I suppose I could,” I say, nodding to where the younger boy is hovering at the periphery of the crowd, alone as usual. “He’s just over there.”
“I know who he is,” Angel says. “I’ve seen him around plenty. Just never talked to the kid except in passing. Kind of a scrawny looking thing, isn’t he?”
I shrug, and Angel removes his arm from my shoulder to grab a cocktail shrimp and pop it into his mouth, looking quite smug. Aside from Royal Dolce, practically everyone at the party is ‘scrawny’ compared to Angel—or at least smaller than he is.
“It would be wise not to underestimate him,” I say, then add, “Or anyone else, for that matter,” when my gaze finds the black-clad figure of Mercy in the crowd again. She hovers at the periphery, alone like Nate, but on the far side of the lawn.
My lamb.
I fight the urge to go to her, to introduce her to someone, so she’s no longer alone. Or to scoop her into my arms and carry her away from everyone, keep her for myself.
That is what would be unwise.
To be alone with her. To underestimate the effect she has on me. To stray from my path for a single taste of forbidden fruit.
I have gone hungry for so long.
Would one small taste be such a bad thing?