“Have you called?”
I didn’t look up from my writing. “You know I haven’t.”
In the bed farthest from the desk, Marty stretched, grunted, and flopped back into his pile of pillows, a tumble of muddy-brown hair falling across his eyes. “Never thought I’d be able to sleep in a haunted hotel.”
“Your snoring scared everything away.” Except my nightmares.
“You’re still here.”
“Uh huh.” I drew a line through my last sentence and sat back in the creaky chair. No matter what I wrote, Sister Betty would still give me shit. Sleep shortened by a kaleidoscope of nightmares made it harder to strategize around her inevitable resistance. “I don’t count. I’m a glutton for punishment.”
“It’s a good thing I love you.” The old bed creaked as Marty climbed out and stretched, his inky silhouette arching with feline drama in front of the sunlit window. He crossed the room, adjusted his pajamas, and looped his arms around my shoulders. He rested his chin on my head with a yawn. “Writing yourself a script?”
His chin slid against the top of my head as I nodded. Though I’d been at it for over an hour, I had nothing to show but a page of crossed-out half sentences, two crumpled sheets of paper in the trash, and stone-cold coffee.
“Think it will work?”
“Doubt it.” I sipped the bitter brew. “I’m just trying to limit how much crap I’ll have to take.”
“I think she gets off torturing you.” He shuffled to the coffee maker and inspected the foil-topped white plastic pods.
I scowled. “Don’t talk like that. She’s a nun.”
“Yeah, well, she wasn’t always a nun.” He popped a plastic container into the coffee maker.
He was right, of course. Sister Bridgit MacKenna, known in our little circle as Sister Betty, had once been like me. The Catholic Church bankrolled hundreds of operatives around the world to hunt and kill monsters, and though some names inspired awe, few were as notorious as Sister Betty. She was the one they called in for hush-hush jobs, especially when the monsters were big, bad, and out of control.
She’d grown up somewhere in Massachusetts or Maine or something, but monsters orphaned her sometime in her early teens. To hear her tell it, she’d lived like an ascetic, her vengeful life nearly ending in a feverish faint on the steps of Saint Patrick’s in New York City. After a few drinks, she’d regale anyone who’d listen with impressions of the rattled Cardinal of the New York Diocese and the stormy night the old man interviewed her at her hospital bedside, his blessed flask in hand. That he didn’t throw the feral woman-cub into Bellevue after tales of monsters she’d slain since her parents’ death suggested he wasn’t quite as shaken as she claimed. Whatever won him over, when Betty healed, the Catholic church whisked her off to Ireland, inducted her into the Holy Order of the Sisters of Mercy of Saint Brendan, and trained her in stealth and the art of monster hunting on behalf of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
Retired from active duty, she took vows to train the next generation of monster hunter, with special attention to her previous expertise. How Father Callahan convinced her that I would be a good candidate still baffled me. Yet, she’d agreed to work with the thick, angry, scared pre-teenager he brought to her. Week after week, we worked together with varying degrees of success. Her patience fluctuated, but not her commitment. Even now, I still had more to learn, but everything I knew about monsters and fighting came from her. No one I’d met matched her ferocity or skill.
And she was the sexiest woman I’d ever seen in a habit.
“You’re having sex thoughts about Sister Betty again, aren’t you?”
“Huh?” Heat climbed my neck. “What are you talking about?”
“Please,” he sneered, stirring his coffee. “You’ve had a thing for the hottie in the habit since forever.” He took a sip, and I forced myself not to look away. Little bastard loved staring me down. “You get all quiet when you think about her, and it’s the same dreamy, far-off look as when you’re ‘shipping Black Widow and the Scarlet Witch.”
“You’re insane.” I returned my attention to the paper in front of me. “I don’t ‘ship Scarlet Witch.” With anyone but me.
“Right. Okay. Whatever you say.” He laughed and headed to the bathroom. “I may not the one who needs to be hosed down, but I’m getting in the shower anyway. Good luck.”
When the door closed, I sighed and leaned back in the chair. How the hell did he know? It’s not like we talked about anything like that. When it came to “yucky love stuff,” most of what I tried to explain didn’t make sense to him. He understood affection and love, of course, but sex, or even the desire for it, confounded him. It didn’t matter. I assured him he was better off without it. He agreed. “Besides, you sex up the world enough for both of us anyway.”
Scribbles and crossed-out text taunted me from my abandoned script attempt. No matter what, she was Sister Betty, and preparation didn’t change that.
On the other side of the thin wall, the shower hissed and metal shower rings scraped against the rod. I should take advantage of the privacy he offered. And the sooner I finished the work stuff, the sooner I could pull out my book, grab a drink, and crash at the pool.
After one last deep breath, I dialed my phone.
“Thank you for calling the Holy Order of the Sister—”
“Hi, Sister Betty.”
“Hmm. Time off hasn’t improved your manners, I see.” The reproach stung despite her teasing lilt. Though I recognized her teasing, years of taking critical feedback during survival training didn’t break easily. “And, m’dear, aren’t you supposed to be taking time to—how did you put it? Recharge and restore?”
“Can I say I missed your unflinching kindness?”
“Not if you want me to believe you.”
Despite myself, I laughed and slid farther into the chair, trying to relax and sound casual. “Then I’ll save my flattery for someone who’ll fall for it.”
“Wise. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of delectable delta tarts more than willing to take the tumble.” I imagined her curled up on the couch in post-workout sweats cradling a bowl of cereal, the phone pressed between her shoulder and ear, her rust-colored hair bound up in a messy bun. “Now tell me why you’re up so early. And why you’re working.”
“I wanted to talk to Father C.”
“He’s not here,” she said, her words colored with the hint of battling intercontinental accents. “The Archdiocese of Santa Fe called him in. Something about a kerfuffle in Albuquerque between the local hunter and law enforcement.”
“Damn.” I leaned on the desk, grinding the heel of my free hand against my eye.
She laughed. “I’d scold you for language if I thought you’d stop.”
“Or if it bothered you.”
“I have taken vows, dear.” Vows or not, Sister Betty’s faith wasn’t rigid and humorless, though I never doubted her piety after seeing her with a rosary in hand. At her most stern, her affection shone through. With a soft cough, she changed the subject. “Why do you need Father’s help, Caitlin?”
My bones quivered. She only used my name to get my attention in training, and even so far away, it compelled an automatic response. And an answer. “We had an encounter at the New Orleans airport.”
Rustling on the line and I imagined her sitting up, serious and attentive. “In such a public place? What happened?”
I told her about the child in the baggage claim and the shifty frat boy-man. “Are there any humanoid monsters that cause incapacitation by touch?”
“What do you mean?”
I gave her as much detail as I could remember.
“Hmm.” More rustling. Maybe crossing the room to the library. “It doesn’t sound familiar. You’re sure it was humanoid?”
“He looked like he stepped out of the casual wear section of Rye & Ballast. Only his behavior stood out.”
On the other side of the wall, the water stopped. The clatter of metal rings on the shower rod jangled over Marty’s voice as he sang. Badly.
“I’ll have to do some research and call you back.”
The weight of work resettled on my shoulders. So much for a break. “I’m not packed to fight. All I’ve got’s a few amulets and a knife from my checked luggage.”
“I don’t expect you to fight. You’ll have to debrief to the regional hunter, of course, but at most, you’ll support if things go bad. You’re on vacation, after all.”
“Have I told you I love you lately?”
“Not since the last time I saved your life.”
I winced, remembering that incident in Philly. One of my first assignments. She’d warned me about the monster and needing back up, but I’d ignored her advice. Thankfully, she’d ignored my insistence on going alone and bailed me out. Lesson learned. “Well, I do.”
“Great. I’ll do some research, chat with the locals, and let you know the plan.”
“Awesome, thank you.” We said goodbye and ended the call as Marty emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel.
“You don’t look like she gave you too much trouble.” He walked back to his bed by the window.
“For a change, she didn’t.” I told him about the call.
“Get changed and let’s go. We’ll get beignets and this frozen Irish coffee I heard about.”
I stood and stretched. “Sounds divine. I’ll get in the shower and—” My phone buzzed, an image of the Scarlet Witch illuminating the screen. Sister Betty. “That was fast,” I said as I answered.
“We’ve got a problem. The local monster hunter’s dead.”