This Conversation Hurt Like Hell
The priest spoke to me for the first time in a month. I apologized for knocking him unconscious, but he didn't seem to care. In fact, it wasn't like talking to the priest at all.
"Why haven't you seduced any monsters lately?" he asked.
His question threw me, coming as it did from a guy who claims to be celibate and likes to admonish me for my sinning, "demon-whoring" ways.
"I'm just busy working," I said, "keeping your darling cathedral clean."
"You, sir, are a damned fool. How have you been feeling?" This was another question that didn't make any sense to me.
"I really should be getting back to it," I said. "Someone lost their breakfast in one of the confessionals."
The priest stood against me, grabbed me by the balls, squeezed hard as if trying to juice them, and in a low, grumbling voice said, "Seen a doctor lately?"
When I didn't respond, he walked away with a bounce in his step. I writhed in pain on the marble floor.
That was a few days ago. Since then, I've been thinking: Where the hell was my protection? Neither the cardinal's influence nor the blood drifters prevented the priest from hurting me.
The deeper I get into my experiments, the stranger things get.
By the way, another painting was left.
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Follow the external link to see the painting.
YOU ARE READING
Secrets from a Church Basement: The Desperate Diary of Fresco Ayers
ParanormalGod won't save your life. But this book might. So says Fresco Ayers, a scientist struggling to save his daughter while protecting the rest of us from unfathomable perils that he helped introduce.
