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“Marcelo,” a soft, shaky voice whispers. I see my mother, lying on the white tile flooring, her dark hair spread around her like wilted petals. Her eyes are blank, staring at me—no, past me. I’ve lost count of the seconds since she stopped breathing.

“Marcelo.” I hear again. The voice is behind me, but . . . I don’t want to turn from my mother. If I do, that’ll be it. She’ll really be gone with the Lord. I know she’s in Heaven, in a better place next to God—there is no question she won’t be there. But . . . but I’m a selfish creature. I want her here with me .

“Marcelo!” the voice says harshly, but still, I don’t turn.

Instead, I feel something hot and wet spill on my toes. Wait—not spill but spread. I look down, breaking the one-sided eye contact between my mother and I. Below me is blood. It’s so . . . vibrant, like the sangria my mother makes on Saturday mornings. Like guava in the pastries she picks up for me at the bodega. Like the color of her cheeks, when my father asks her to dance in the middle of our kitchen.

It’s her blood.

I jolt awake to the sun creeping into the motel room, the ceiling fan spinning loose on its axis, and the covers fisted in my hand. It’s six a.m., later than I wanted to wake up. I rub my tanned, dry palms together, warming them from the night, and reach for the rosary on the bedside table.

I left Miami yesterday morning, and drove all day—and most of all night—till I got out of Florida, through Georgia and the Carolinas, and stopped somewhere in the middle of Maryland.

I can’t even remember how long I’d been in the car, but I didn’t even shower when I arrived at this dump. I just flopped onto the bed and slept.

After morning prayers, I get up and strip my clothes as I near the bathroom. I need to wash the road from my skin before I do it all over again. The water is steaming hot, stinging the bruises and cuts all along my right knuckles, where the tattoo of a cross sits on my index finger, and where the metal rosary was wrapped two nights ago.

I stretch out my hand before shutting the water off and toweling myself dry. Then I adorn my collar and throw all my things in my duffle bag before heading out the door.

My prized possession, the gleaming cream 1967 Ford Mustang, sits as though she’s waiting for me. Priests take an oath of poverty when becoming ordained, but I don’t see my purchase of her as an “unnecessary extravagance.” I’m a traveling exorcist after all, and I need a way to travel.

I hop in the car, her cold, white leather seats sending a chill up my spine, but the moment I hear the thrum of her engine, my blood sings.

Which I need right now. After twenty years, the dreams have never stopped. And each time they come for me, I’m not ready. They’re still too much.

I whip out of the motel’s parking lot and drive a little too fast for the back roads I’m on. But I need the thrill. It’s also part of the reason I’ve taken up my work under the mask and my career as an exorcist. I need the thrill. So many of the stupid decisions I made as a teen stemmed from this need. Now, I know how to hone it. How to use it for the good of others.

It’s been hours of being on the road. The day was bright and warm, turning into a cool, dark-blue night as I finally passed the sign for Belmouth . I call Father Rodrigo. Like always, he doesn’t answer, but I know better than to toss my phone aside.

I know, in just three . . . two . . . one . . .

Ring.

Father Rodrigo always calls me back just after he doesn’t answer. He’s too busy to answer the first call but never too busy to call back. Especially for me.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, mi hijo ?”

I put my phone on speaker and toss it onto the dash, driving with one hand on the wheel and the other scratching at my chin.

“I’m in Belmouth. It’s smaller than I thought.”

I hear him gruff on the other end. “And full of tradition. You need to be careful there.”

“Careful? I hunt and exorcise demons, Padre . I think I’ll be fine.”

“Not you, pendejo . Your words. Your ways. Your beliefs. Not every priest is as open as you and I.”

Don’t I know it .

“Do you know anything about this . . . what’s his name again?”

“Father Callum. And no, not much. He’s been the sole priest in the parish for just over twenty years. Which is why I warn you to watch your tongue, Marcelo. Do not go spouting your distaste for the Church and the Word. You need to complain and vent, you call me. Remember what happened in Jersey.”

Fuck Jersey.

I clench my fist around the leather steering wheel, just thinking of the politics of the Church and how much I detest them.

“You’re lucky we don’t revoke your priesthood, Marcelo.”

The words still piss me off.

“I won’t,” I grit out. “Anything more you can tell me? About the demon or Belmouth in general?”

The town is . . . quiet as I drive through. Granted, it’s a Tuesday night, but as I navigate through Main Street, most of the stores look like they are for lease or have only one or two people within.

Father Rodrigo’s voice hums on the other end of the phone. “There was a convent there, but it burned down in the seventies.”

“Natural fire or arson?”

“Reports say natural. But who knows what the truth is. Many of the Sisters went to work in other convents after that, but none had anything to report.”

I drum my fingers on the wheel, taking it all in. Something about the convent doesn’t feel right. And something about this town feels off. Dark. Watched.

“How far was the convent from where the cathedral sits today?”

“Across town. You think it’s connected to the demon?”

I shrug, though he can’t see me. “Not even saying there is a demon. But have Rowan send me the building and town schematics when he gets a chance. Both, for now—and one from before the fire.”

Shortly after taking his vows, Rowan became Rodrigo’s main assistant. Rodrigo’s hope is that he one day takes the reins of not only his church, but of his duties over the exorcists as well. So now, Rowan’s our everything man. Whatever we need out on the road, we call him.

It fills me with pride, to know how far he’s come since Rodrigo took him under his wing. Rowan never let anyone tell him he wasn’t a good Catholic just because of who he was attracted to, but he was afraid the Church wouldn’t accept him as a priest. A gay priest, damned, they’d say—but he was the best damned priest I’d ever met. He was the one who encouraged me to take my vows after he and Willow saved me from the dark place I dug myself into after my parents.

Fuck. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken to either of them. I need to call . I remind myself. She’s going to be pissed at me.

“I’ll have him do that,” Rodrigo says on the other end, bringing me back to now, back to Belmouth. “He’s going to be pissed you didn’t see him when you were in town,” he confirms, as though he read my thoughts. The bastard knows me too well.

“I can already imagine Willow’s fury.”

He chuckles. “In the meantime, remember you are representing me. Don’t let the parish know what you’re there for and call me if anything.”

I grab the phone. “I will. Gracias, Padre .”

“ Vaya con dios, Marcelo. ”

“ Y tú también. ” I hang up and throw the phone into the passenger seat just as I pull up to a wooden chapel, calling itself a cathedral. St. Mary’s Catholic Church sits surrounded by trees. It’s larger than I thought a small-town church would be but not a standard cathedral by any means. A circular stained glass window sits high on the face of the building, illuminating the scene of Jesus holding a small lamb in his arms. It’s stunning for a space that seems so small, so ordinary. The bright colors of the piece seem illuminated as the dark wood of the church dims into the darkness of the night.

I park my car in one of the parallel spots just outside the church, don my collar and a long black coat, and step outside into the crisp Massachusetts breeze.

It’s only September, but already the air is biting and thick with the coming rain. The trees are already beginning to change to vibrant reds and yellows, but the deep greens are still sprinkled throughout.

I take a preliminary glance around the church before entering, seeing it for myself before Father what’s-his-name gives me his own tour. Taking the small path up to the church, and then behind it, I check the windows for the scent of sulfur, for drafts that might weasel their way through to the cathedral, for the nearby street lamps that could create what some might consider light anomalies.

No sulfur but no drafts either.

The building is quiet within, and I can just barely make out the pews through the windows with the exit lights on.

As I step closer, I hear a scuttle directly beside me. It sounds like claws on concrete, and I immediately turn around.

I curse as a black mass dashes past, leaping onto the window’s edge and then the massive green dumpster beside it, coming toward me at eye level. The mass hisses, and only then do I realize it isn’t a demon, but an alley cat. It’s larger in stature than most house cats, but sturdy—not fat. The little devil is all black, with golden eyes and a small tuft of white at his collar. My attention snags on his claws, spread wide and clinging to the dumpster, like a little lion ready to pounce. El diablo indeed.

The cat swipes at me, and I just barely dodge to escape it. Little fucker. I hiss back at the cat.

I round the building and stand once more at its entrance. The cathedral looks . . . normal. Nothing outwardly demonic. If anything, it looks clean and proper, like something from a movie set. Small and quaint.

It’s just after eight p.m., and just beyond the dark wooden doors, the parish is silent.

The door creaks open as I push it. But it’s just that—a creak. There is still no sign of a demon. No smell of sulfur.

“Hello?” I call out. It echoes around the church, bouncing on the dark wooden pews, up to the domed ceiling, through the sanctuary where Jesus is spread on the crucifix, and up into the small balcony above the Holy Father, where an ornate organ sits. The gold of the pipes catch my eye, the ivory keys, the espresso-colored wood. It’s beautiful. Just like the crucifix, and just like the window.

I make a mental note to ask about the budget for this place and how it was funded. Surely, the diocese wouldn’t pay from their pockets for a church in as small a town as Belmouth. Not with Boston and New York City and all the rest of New England available right there.

Maybe it was the fire at the convent. They built this place with the insurance money. And if so, was that the plan all along?

Exorcists are trained to see every possibility other than demonic possession. Rule everything out and then we can continue. I have seen too many “possessions” stem from the sins of man. Mothers believing their children are possessed when really they are just traumatized. Men claiming possession to get away with touching someone in their parish.

It’s disgusting.

A door opens beside the sanctuary and out walks a tall man, dark blond hair slicked back, and a soft smile. “Father Marcelo, I presume?” The man hurries to me down the aisle of the pews, his pale hand already outstretched.

I nod, firmly shaking his hand. “Father Callum, yes? You have a beautiful church here.”

He grins widely, and it lights up his whole face. Callum is the picture of a perfect priest—reserved, joyous, kind. I’d say he’s probably in his mid- to late-fifties. He definitely takes care of himself, but isn’t cut like he goes hard at the gym every day. His black slacks are modest, a little gray from wear, and his shoes are scuffed all around the toes, which tells me he isn’t a big spender. His clean-shaven face tells me he cares about his appearance, but the grays combed through his blond hair indicates he doesn’t care about his appearance for his own sake—no, there is no pride here—he cares about how he represents himself to his parish.

A spiritual leader through and through.

But I know first-hand, no picture is as it seems. There is always more. Depth, secrets, truths. So, what are Callum’s truths?

“I am so grateful to have you here to help us with our little . . . problem.” He huffs a breath. “Shall I—”

I drop my bags to the floor and slump into the nearest pew, lifting my ankle onto my opposite knee. “Tell me why you think your parish is being possessed by demons, Father.”

My eyes don’t leave Callum’s. Not as they falter for a moment, waiting, watching.

It is my common tactic, be friendly when I first greet them, and then drop the bomb of my true personality.

It’s a tactic that reveals something about my fellow priests every time. The look on their faces when they realize they’ve been duped. When they realize they’ve entered a war of dominance. When they realize they have to walk on eggshells around me, if they’re hiding anything.

It’s my first test. Will they succumb and fight me for power? Will they become stumbling messes with something to hide? Or will they be grateful someone is finally here to help?

Callum’s eyes, and the falter within, tell me everything I need to know about him. The man is pussy-whipped. And the pussy in question? The Church, maybe. God. His parish. Maybe his damn self. But the flinch of fear is so much better than the flinch of pride and greed I usually see.

It tells me that maybe the man before me isn’t lying. Maybe there are demons here.

Maybe.

Callum clears his throat and his shoulders slump. “It’s bad, Father. I’ve been receiving complaints of odd visions, strange dreams. In just the last month, I have had triple the amount of people come to me for private prayers than I ever have.”

“What is the parish claiming are in their dreams?”

“A mix. All the carnal sins.” Callum sits in the pew in front of me and turns toward me. “And some have even been seeing things, here, in the church.”

“Like what?”

He shrugs, letting the joyous mask slip a little more. In truth, the man just looks tired. Behind his smile lines are dark bags under his eyes, a pimple on his chin.

This man is stressed.

Callum runs a hand down his face. “Shadows, things I can’t even give a name to. Blood running down the walls. Their faces distorted in the bathroom mirrors. All sorts of profanity.”

I nod, listening, digesting. “And you, Father? Have you seen things?”

His dark eyes hover on me as he presses his lips together and slowly, almost painfully, nods. Callum sighs again, stretching his hands over his knees. “I—I live here. On the property. At night, when it’s empty, when I do my final round, I sometimes see things.”

I don’t speak. I wait for him to continue.

“Shadows, mostly. Probably a trick of the eye. But sometimes— sometimes , I see more. It’s my dreams I am worried about most. They are so vivid, so real.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “What are you doing in these dreams?”

“Sinning. All kinds.” He pauses and looks to the floor. “Please don’t make me elaborate, Father. Not at night.”

I nod.

“I want more information. But . . .” I stand and shove my hands into my pockets. “I have been on the road for two days. I think everything can wait till morning.”

“Excellent. I’ll show you where you’ll be staying, and after Mass, I’ll give you a proper tour and tell you everything you need to know in order to begin.”

As he stands, I lift my bag over my shoulder and do another once over of the church.

But there is nothing to see.