Page 30 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

Micah

Chalk dust and frankincense filled my nostrils as I arranged the final place setting. The scent transported me instantly to childhood confessionals, to whispered sins and harsh penance. I inhaled deeply, letting memory sharpen my resolve.

Everything was almost ready.

The moth sat on the sideboard. I stroked its velvet wing with my maimed hand, drawing comfort from its familiar texture. The stump of my missing finger joint ached, a reminder of my covenant with Daddy.

"Soon," I whispered to the moth. "Soon he'll see how much I've learned."

I stepped back to take in the scene. The chandelier's light struck the silver, creating stark highlights on black place settings.

The white candles stood in black iron holders, their flames casting long shadows across pristine linen.

Red wine in a clear crystal decanter caught the light like liquid rubies. Blood waiting to be transubstantiated.

The entire setting was a study in contrast. Purity and corruption. Salvation and damnation. Light and shadow. A physical manifestation of the war that had raged within me since childhood, now externalized into an artistic statement.

I wish Daddy were here , I thought and sucked gently on my finger. It was a poor substitute for what I really wanted, what I knew I would need after tonight’s ritual.

The doorbell chimed.

I paused before opening the door, straightening my sweater. My pulse thudded steadily in my ears, not anxiety but anticipation. It was time to become.

I opened the door. "Reverend Morris! Thank you for accepting my invitation."

"Micah," he nodded, handing me a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling cider. "I remembered your grandmother mentioned you never acquired a taste for alcohol. I thought this might be an appropriate alternative."

The bottle gleamed in my hands, a polite gesture masking judgment.

I turned it slowly, watching light slide across its surface like oil on water.

The presumption. The casual mention of my grandmother.

The assumption I was still the cowering child he once tormented.

Each stoked the shadow inside me. It stretched languidly, recognizing its prey had arrived willingly.

"How thoughtful," I replied through clenched teeth. "Please come in."

He stepped into my apartment and took in the scene. The religious artwork on my walls, carefully selected reproductions of Renaissance masters depicting martyrs in their suffering. The modest furnishings suggesting humble means. The bookshelf containing theological texts prominently displayed.

All stage dressing. All lies.

Light from recessed fixtures cast his face in sharp relief, hollowing his cheeks and deepening the lines around his mouth.

The illumination transformed him momentarily into one of the skeletal saints from medieval paintings, death already claiming him though he didn't yet know it.

His silver cross caught the light, flashing across the walls like divine Morse code.

"You've made a lovely home," he offered, following me toward the dining room. "Your grandmother would be pleased to see you living so... respectably."

That pause implied respectability had been uncertain for someone like me. Someone broken. Someone requiring spiritual intervention.

"I hope to make her proud," I lied. "Please have a seat. Dinner is nearly ready."

As he moved past the sideboard, his gaze caught on my moth. "What an ugly little creature,” he mused.

My fists clenched, released. "A gift," I replied, the stump of my finger throbbing with phantom pain. "From an old friend."

“I’ve been meaning to ask you. What happened to your finger?” Reverend Morris settled at the table, arranging his napkin across his lap.

I instinctively reached to touch the healed wound, tracing the absence where flesh once existed. “We had…artistic differences. I was more committed to the final composition. It was too attached to the process.”

Confusion flickered across his features before he dismissed it with a slight shake of his head. Another sin to add to my ledger.

I moved into to the kitchen. "I've been reconsidering many things lately. Especially my spiritual path."

His posture straightened. The prospect of reclaiming a lost soul always excited him. Especially one he had personally attempted to save through exorcism.

"That's why I wanted to speak with you," I continued, removing the roast from the oven. "After seeing you at Professor Bishop's exhibition, I've been troubled. Questioning my choices."

He watched as I carved the meat. "The Lord works in mysterious ways. Sometimes He leads us down unexpected paths to find our way back to Him."

I arranged the slices on Reverend Morris's plate, rare meat bleeding crimson onto white porcelain.

My missing finger joint made the task awkward, forcing me to adjust my grip on the knife.

The adaptation came easily now, my body learning new ways to function under Ezra's patient guidance.

Daddy's voice echoed in my memory: "Your wounds become strengths when properly utilized. "

"Your professor's work was technically impressive," he continued as I placed the plate before him. "But lacking a proper spiritual foundation. Shall we say grace?"

“Of course,” I said as I took my seat, and bowed my head.

For an instant, I was sixteen years old again, pinned beneath his hands as church elders called for the devil to leave me. My heart raced, throat tightening.

My mouth went dry with the sudden, overwhelming urge to nurse at Ezra's chest, to find safety in that intimate connection. The phantom sensation of his nipple between my lips made my body ache with longing. How proud Daddy would be to see me now, turning predator into prey. The thought steadied me.

"Bless us, O Lord," he began, eyes closed.

I studied him as he prayed, noting the deep lines etched around his mouth from decades of pronouncing judgment. The slight tremor in his left hand suggesting early Parkinson's. The cords of his neck standing out as he bowed his head. Magnificent bone beneath aging flesh. A face made for revelation.

"Amen," he concluded, opening his eyes to find me watching him intently.

"Amen. Please, eat while it's hot."

"You've become quite the accomplished cook," he observed, taking a bite.

"I've learned a lot," I replied, thinking of Ezra's patient instruction.

Reverend Morris nodded, oblivious to the double meaning. He took a sip of the wine I had poured, a vintage Ezra had selected specifically for tonight's purpose.

"Excellent," he murmured, clearly surprised by the quality. "A special occasion?"

"The most special," I confirmed. "A night of transformation."

His expression softened, misinterpreting my meaning entirely. "I'm pleased to hear it. The first step toward redemption is recognizing one's fallen state."

I watched him take another sip, then another bite of meat.

The compounds Ezra had provided were tasteless, odorless, impossible to detect until their effects began manifesting.

First would come slight numbness in the extremities.

Then, growing difficulty with motor control.

Finally, complete paralysis without loss of consciousness or sensation.

Perfect for artistic purposes.

The candle flames reflected in his wineglass as tiny points of light suspended in liquid darkness. The same contrast appeared in his eyes, terror gradually surfacing beneath their pious surface. Light revealing truth within shadow. The beginning of revelation.

"Tell me, Micah," Reverend Morris continued, reaching for his wine again. "What aspects of Professor Bishop's mentorship have troubled your spirit?"

"Not his mentorship," I clarified. "My response to it."

His eyes sharpened, the same expression I remembered from childhood exorcism sessions. "Ah, the homosexual tendencies. We’ve grappled with that particular demon before, you and I.”

“Indeed, we have.”

“Young men without strong father figures in their lives often struggle with this sin,” he said, sawing through his meat roughly. “It takes a man of God to raise a man of God. Your grandmother understood. That’s why she had you in the church so much.”

I noted the slight tremor in his hand as he placed his glass down, the growing effort required to maintain a proper grip on his cutlery. The compound worked through his system elegantly and efficiently.

"Do you remember what you told me during those sessions?" I asked, my voice softening, becoming more intimate. "While the elders held me down?"

A flicker of discomfort crossed his features. The candlelight caught the perspiration beginning to form on his brow, tiny droplets glistening like sanctified oil.

"That pain opens the doorway to salvation," he replied, frowning slightly as he flexed his fingers. "That suffering purifies the soul."

"Yes," I agreed, watching his growing confusion as his fork slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers. "I've been thinking about that concept extensively. The transformative potential of suffering. The artistic possibilities of pain."

Alarm registered in his eyes as he attempted to lift his wineglass and found his hand unresponsive. "What's... happening?"

"Transformation," I explained, rising from my chair to stand behind him. My hand settled on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "Just as you promised all those years ago."

He attempted to stand but found his legs uncooperative, his body increasingly beyond his control. "What have you done?" His voice trembled.

"Created the perfect artistic conditions," I explained, moving around the table to face him. "You're experiencing a specialized compound that paralyzes motor function without affecting consciousness or sensation. You'll remain fully aware of everything that happens next."