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What the Hell? What the Hell did I just do? One minute I was dropping to my knees for Father Marcelo, feeling that all-too-familiar, all-too-consuming warmth between my legs, the slick wetness dripping past my panties, down my thighs, and the next, my lips were wrapped around his thumb as if it was . . . something else.

My chest squeezes, and my face feels like it’s on fire. I have never wanted to stop existing more.

Another voice in my mind says, but . . . he didn’t pull away .

I—I haven’t heard . . . felt that voice for a long time. It’s my voice. My voice . The one I muted when I turned eleven. The one I muted after my mother’s view of me changed from child to woman. The one I smashed deep, deep down, and never let speak.

She’s back—err, I’m back.

I don’t know why now. Maybe it’s my attraction to Marcelo—my first real attraction to a man on more than just a surface “he’s nice to look at” level. Maybe it’s the masked man making me feel like I deserve a life more than this .

Maybe it’s the raging spouts of desire I suffer through every few days.

Whatever it is, it scares me. I scare me.

I can’t have this voice, this voice that wants and thinks and feels. This voice with a voice.

The brown walls of the church hallway crowd in around me. It was the same hallway Father Marcelo and I stood in yesterday—alone. Where his bedroom waits at the end.

I need to breathe. I need air. I can feel the smoke from the frankincense wrap around my throat, strangling me, filling my lungs and smothering me. I need—

“June!”

I turn to see Father Marcelo slamming through the door from the sanctuary, sprinting toward me. His body moves like an actual god, muscles shifting, chest pumping.

But before I can start drooling over him, a small, clawed hand grabs my ankle.

A scream escapes my lips before my mind finishes processing what it’s actually looking at. With tiny, sharp-pointed teeth, the face of a baby smiles up at me. It’s cherub-like, with a curl of blond hair, pink cheeks, and giant blue eyes . . . only, with pupils like that of a goat—actually, his entire lower body is goat-like, with hooved feet and matted, curly brown fur. Like that satyr from Narnia . But unlike Mr. Tumnus, an obscenely long and pointed erect . . . member . . . protrudes from the tufts of fur. The monster’s smile widens as I see him— it —and the clawed hand reaches higher, shoving my skirt up my calf.

I feel its claws on my skin, and take a few steps back—away—but, suddenly, I’m surrounded. It’s not like they just appeared, but more like . . . like they just slipped into my periphery. As if they’ve always been here, and I can just see them now.

I scream again as another hand digs its claws into my skirt, but Father Marcelo is on it before it can get any closer. He kicks the beast away, a silver rosary wrapped around his hand. He’s speaking in another language and in the chaos of everything, I can’t tell if it’s Spanish or Latin.

But whatever he’s doing, it’s working—the cherub-faces are disappearing into plumes of black smoke that smell like rotten eggs.

Father Marcelo doesn’t give me another moment to process. He grabs my hand and pulls me with him, jumping over and weaving between more of the demons. All the while, he continues with the prayer.

I glance behind me, feeling the ghost of more claws grabbing my skirt, claws on my calves. But instead, I completely forget how to breathe.

Behind us is a large, shadowy mass. The same shadowy mass I glimpsed yesterday. I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me, the masked man weaving into my brain and confusing me.

But this is . . . real .

I can barely make it out, but I see broad shoulders, nails like talons, dark hair, and large, curving horns. The figure is easily seven, maybe eight feet tall, and it sucks the air and light right out of the room.

Thank God it’s not looking at us. It’s busy attacking the cherub-faces, grabbing them and squeezing them into more of those black puffs.

“My room,” Father Marcelo grunts, “has an exit to get outside.” Just like the door into this hallway, Marcelo slams himself against the door to his quarters, pulling me through and slamming it behind him. I stumble to the hardwood floor, breathing heavily. Or, trying to.

It’s more of a rapid wheezing.

My vision is tinged with darkness, but all I can do is try to suck down air. It tears my throat, a sharp, twisting pain forming in my side. I keep breathing in, but there is nothing coming out.

Father Marcelo drops to his knee in front of me and cups my face. “Breathe, songbird. You need to breathe.” He takes a deep inhale through his nose, and releases through the mouth. “Now you.” Together, we breathe in, hold, and breathe out. Then we do it again.

I’m shaking uncontrollably. His hands are the only thing keeping my brain from rattling, but slowly my lungs don’t feel like they’re shriveling to raisins, and the black around my vision ebbs. The room is bright and warm, with a small living room and kitchenette. It all looks like it belongs in a cottage, not a catholic church. The couch looks worn; there’s a single table in the kitchen with two chairs, and two doors—one leading to the bathroom, and the other into a bedroom. His bedroom.

I shift my eyes back to him, and he gently squeezes my cheeks.

“Good?”

I nod, taking another deep breath.

“What was—”

He presses his thumb against my lips. “Not here. Outside—I’ll tell you everything outside.” Father Marcelo quickly stands and holds both hands out for me.

It’s now I see—they’re calloused and scarred. His knuckles bulge in odd angles, scar tissue built upon scar tissue.

This man . . . he’s more than a priest.

And . . . I know it wasn’t another trick of the mind.

I know . . . he called me songbird.

Father Marcelo called me songbird, just like the masked man.