Thirty days.
Help him, God, he begged. If he is to die, help him to make the best of that. Now that the last barrier is being removed, help him rediscover his humanity. But though he wished for the best for his dark companion, he knew Gerald Tarrant’s stubbornness well enough to guess that such a prayer was futile. The habit of nine hundred years was not a thing to be discarded lightly. And the Unnamed had indeed remade him to suit its own special hunger; the Hunter still required blood and cruelty to live, every bit as much as Damien required food and water. How did you fight a thing like that? How did you win redemption against such odds?
I’ll get you through this, he promised silently. Somehow.
He prayed there would be a way.
“He’ll see you now, Reverend Vryce.” A servant in Church livery opened the door of the Patriarch’s study as he approached; another stood at attention by the outer door, prepared to serve the Holy Father’s every whim. In the distance Damien could hear the cathedral bells signaling the call to evening service. It all seemed normal, so utterly normal ... but it wasn’t. He knew that. The rules had changed, and while the men and women who served the Patriarch might not yet be aware of it, it made his own game doubly dangerous.
What did Tarrant do? he thought desperately. As he walked across the polished threshold, he felt his stomach tighten in dread, and as the door shut softly behind him, he was aware that his body had gone rigid as if expecting some physical punishment. That wasn’t good at all. Even the old Patriarch would have noticed such a thing, and as for the new one.... He tried to relax, or at least mimic relaxation, and then dared to look up at the man. His superior. God’s servant.
A sorcerer?
The Patriarch was dressed in his accustomed robes, but they hung about his lean form in deeper folds than before, accentuating his thinness. His face was ashen and drawn, and the circles under his eyes spoke eloquently of sleepless nights. Whatever change Tarrant had wrought, it had clearly not been an easy one for the Holy Father. But he had survived. In their bed of wrinkled flesh the man’s clear blue eyes stood out like jewels, and they fixed on Damien with a strange, calm sort of power. It wasn’t at all what the priest had expected, and therefore it was doubly unnerving.
“Reverend Vryce.” The Patriarch bowed his head ever so slightly, a formal greeting. It was a far more mild reception than Damien had expected, and he tried not to look flustered as he returned the gesture. What was going on here? “Have a seat.” The Patriarch indicated a tufted chair set opposite his desk. Damien hesitated, then moved forward and sat as directed. Was this some other creature that had taken over the Holy Father’s body? In that moment it seemed that anything was possible.
Then the blue eyes fixed on him, and the fae stirred between them, and he saw what was truly behind that measured gaze: not calm, nor any other kind of human peace, but a pain so intense that it hovered near the brink of madness. And he knew in that moment that he had seen it because the Patriarch had wanted him to see it, that the man’s natural power would have masked such a weakness from Damien’s sight unless he willed it otherwise.
He began to shiver, deep inside, without quite knowing why. He had prepared himself for the Patriarch’s rage, or worse; how was he supposed to deal with this stranger?
The Holy Father sat down opposite him, behind the broad mahogova desk, and for a moment said nothing. Damien was intensely aware of that stern gaze fixed on him, studying him, assessing him. At last the Patriarch said quietly, “I believe we have some things to discuss.”
Damien nodded stiffly, but said nothing.
“Your recent activities.” He paused, perhaps waiting for a response, but Damien didn’t dare commit himself without first knowing how much the Patriarch had discovered. “Your journey of a night ago,” he prompted. Damien felt his throat tighten in dread but he said nothing. At last the Patriarch leaned forward and accused, “A trip through Hell, Reverend Vryce, to rescue its darkest prince.”
“How do you know that?” The words were out of him before he could stop them. That would never have happened with the old Patriarch, but this man unnerved him in ways his former self never had. “Where do you get such information?”
The Patriarch leaned back in his chair. There was an infinite weariness about the movement that made him seem suddenly fragile, as though a strong word might cause him to shatter into a thousand fragments. “I have dreams,” he said quietly. “Visions of the truth, that take place in real time. I thought once that they were clairvoyancies. I thought that God had blessed me with a gift-or perhaps cursed me-so that I might serve my people better. Now . . .” He paused; a muscle tensed along the line of his jaw. “Now I know them for what they are. Visions crafted by a demon, to herd me along his chosen path. He thought me blinded by my faith, and thus never tried to hide his marks. Only now ... I see them. Now I know.”
“And you trust these dreams?” He had expected anger in response-at least a hint of it-but the hollowed face was maddeningly calm, perfectly controlled. Whatever terror raged inside the Patriarch as a result of the changes Tarrant had wrought, he kept it well hidden. “Thus far all his visions have been true, at least as far as I can test them. But that could change at any moment. Perhaps it has now.” He leaned forward and placed his arms upon the desk. “I saw you call a demon for a guide and then walk through Hell, all to save the soul of a man that God himself reviles. Was that a true vision, Reverend Vryce, or a demon’s lie? You tell me.”
For a brief instant he considered lying. Then, an instant later, his face flushed hot with shame. A year ago he would never have considered lying to the Patriarch, not for any reason. That he had done so now, for no better cause than to evade just punishment, was a jarring reminder of how much the last year had changed him. He had been ready to cast aside his vows of obedience for no more than a moment’s comfort; how much else might he be willing to sacrifice, if the moment’s temptation were right? For the first time he saw himself through the Patriarch’s eyes, and realized just how far he had fallen. He couldn’t meet his gaze, but looked away. “It’s true,” he whispered. “All true.”
For a moment the Patriarch just stared at him; Damien could feel the scrutiny as if it were a physical assault. “Such an incredible dream,” he mused aloud. “I didn’t want to believe it. I told myself, this time the demon has gone too far. This is beyond the scope of Vryce’s transgressions.” A pause. “I prayed, Reverend Vryce. I asked to be shown that the vision was a lie. For your sake.”
Shamed, he lowered his head.
“But it isn’t.” His long fingers steepled on the desk before him; Damien focused on his heavy ring as a way of avoiding his eyes. “What I should do now is ask you to tell me what kind of judgment is suitable for such a crime. What should be done to a priest whose every action defies the vows he made to God? But we both know where that kind of question leads, don’t we? We both know what the end result would be. And the fact is . . .” Was that a tremor in his voice? “The fact is, these dreams were given to me for a reason. It was Calesta’s intention that I should react in anger and cast you out from the Church, thus breaking your spirit and rendering you vulnerable to his assaults. And for that reason-that reason alone-I won’t do it.”
Damien looked up at last, and met the Holy Father’s gaze. There was pain in the man’s eyes, and a moral exhaustion so immense that it seemed impossible any human soul could contain it. How long had he tormented himself over this decision? How many hours had he gone sleepless, while Calesta tried to push him to the breaking point? “I won’t give him that victory, Vryce. I won’t serve a demon’s will in any way. Even when he’s right.”