Chapter Twelve

Isidora lay on the floor, feeling all the agony fade away into a sense of euphoric relief. She opened her eyes, sat up, looked at her arms and observed her perfect skin. She touched her soft face and ran her hands through her silky blonde hair. She turned to Quentin, who still sat in the corner with his eyes shut.

“How do I look?” she asked. She wondered if her appearance was as pure as how her soul felt.

Quentin kept muttering limericks to himself. “There once was a bloody ol’ man, who latched onto me neck with his hand… That’s not a proper rhyme, is it?”

Isidora got up and walked over to Dalton, Stanley, and Father Peter.

“I saved your soul!” said Father Peter, observing her radiance.

Isidora disregarded the priest’s remark and beamed at her nephew. Stanley ran into Isidora’s arms and burst into tears. Her ethereal beauty filled the room as she hugged him back.

“I’m sorry for the things I said during that last dinner at my place,” she told him. “And I’m sorry I didn’t go after you when you ran away.”

“Is the old man gone?” asked Stanley.

“He’s gone.”

Dalton cleared his throat. “Stanley, I suppose I owe you an apology too. You know, for letting the old man into my head and almost killing you.”

Stanley ran over to Dalton and kicked him in the shin. Dalton grabbed his leg and complained that it would likely leave a bruise.

“Sorry, I was just checkin’ to see if it hurt, to make sure it was really you,” said Stanley.

Dalton looked over. Darcy stood over Karl, who was desperately trying to crawl away from her.

“Karl, what’s going on?” asked Dalton. “What happened to your leg?”

“Stop her, please!” Karl wheezed.

Darcy stomped on Karl’s head, killing him. Dalton ran over and stared at Karl’s crushed skull. His face still wore an expression of terror. Dalton’s eyes filled with tears, and all the rage he’d internalized for years surfaced at once. He grabbed Darcy and pinned her against the wall.

“What is the matter with you?” he yelled frantically, and slammed her against the wall once more, her concussed head hitting the wall behind her. Losing consciousness, her dead weight dragged Dalton to the ground, as he attempted to catch her.

“Dalton, stop!” yelled Isidora. “She’s possessed!”

Sitting on the floor, Dalton cradled his sister in his arms. Her closed lids suddenly flew wide open, revealing her yellow irises. They faded back to their usual grey, though they were oddly pale; lifeless. Dalton placed two fingers on her neck but couldn’t find her pulse. His hands trembled and weakened, causing him to drop her head. He felt an urge to get away from her as though it would distance himself from what he’d done.

* * *

The Pope arrived at the University of Liverpool’s campus in a cab emblazoned with an image of the Beatles with their mop tops. The Bishop of Rome looked up at the red moon and smiled, knowing it symbolized the dawn of the apocalypse. Looking ahead toward the university, he could sense enough paranormal activity to find his way to the laboratory. The Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church had brought with him a large, golden staff with a crucifix on top. Stephen, who had been studying late, stopped in his tracks as the Vicar of Christ swung the glass door open.

“Hey, you’re one of my followers,” Stephen told the Successor of the Prince of the Apostles by way of introduction.

The Pope gave Stephen a wink. “Do you know where I can find the crazy guy? The mad scientist?”

Stephen’s eyes lit up. “Dr. McGovern! He’s not mad, he’s brilliant! Follow me.”

Following Stephen, the Pope strode down the hallway toward the lab. He sensed a repelling, haunted aura emanating from the east wing of the building. Stephen’s breathing grew increasingly rapid and audible.

As they approached the laboratory door, the Pope stepped ahead of Stephen and placed his staff in front of the student, stopping him from opening the door. The Pope turned to Stephen and smiled.

“You smell that?” asked the Pope.

Stephen took a step away from the door of the laboratory. “It’s like rotten eggs. Or sulphur. With another awful smell. It reminds me of when my sister burned her hair with her curling iron. And… something metallic. And sweet. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s awful.”

The Pope laughed. “That’s the smell of Hell! Tell me, what do you hear?”

Stephen took another step back, closed his eyes and concentrated. He grimaced. “There’s something awful. A screeching sound. Or a hissing. I can’t quite make it out, but it almost sounds like some ancient language. I’m not a student of the humanities, I’m not very familiar with such tongues.”

“Old Aramaic! The demons of Hell still use it. Listen closely; what else do you hear?”

With his eyes still closed, Stephen’s face softened. “It’s beautiful, and glorious. Like a folkloric Celtic ballad, with anthemic triumph.”

The Pope nodded. “Excellent. The angels are preparing for war. Now tell me, what do you see?”

Stephen opened his eyes. His face dropped, and he fell to the ground, cowering. Around him was a green fog emanating from under the closed laboratory door. He looked more closely. Dozens of pairs of eyes watched him. Whimpering, he crawled away from the door back down the hallway and struggled to get up. Finally getting back on his feet, Stephen darted away. The Pope laughed.

He turned back toward the door and pushed on it, but it was sealed shut. Stupid demon tricks. He brought his fingers to his forehead, his heart, and to each shoulder, forming the sign of the cross, as though entering a church. Once the war is over, everything will be a church, he thought.

His Holiness bent his head and prayed. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” He lifted his head and pried the door open with his staff.

When the Pope entered the laboratory, he looked around and grinned. At the far end of the laboratory, Dalton knelt by Darcy’s dead body, next to Karl’s and Edward’s crushed heads. Over in the far-right corner lay Dr. Whalen’s corpse and severed brain. In the far-left corner, half-demonic Quentin muttered to himself. To the right of the laboratory’s centre lay Chief Constable Evelyn Glasgow’s body. The Pope nodded in approval, assessing that she would make a good warrior. Immediately to his right, Father Peter, Isidora and Stanley stood along the wall. Immediately to his left was a great big void of eternal non-existence.

The Pope laughed. “I see we are having lots of fun!”

“Your Holiness!” said Father Peter, who rushed over and kissed his ring. “What a blessing it is to find you here. I could hug you.”

The Pope waved him away in mild disgust and walked over to the Chief Constable’s corpse.

“Where are my soldiers?” he asked and raised his hands heavenward. From their lifeless bodies, Darcy, Dr. Whalen and Chief Constable Glasgow’s glowing souls stood up, awaiting command. Father Peter and Isidora stepped forward. The Pope nodded approvingly.

“Lots of beautiful women! Father Peter, this is the dream!” said the Pope. “Now, demons, I can feel your presence. Don’t be little bitches, show yourselves.”

The Pope raised his hands up once more. The entity which had possessed Dr. Whalen, Chief Constable Glasgow and Darcy appeared, her yellow eyes shining in the dark laboratory and her long, matted grey hair blending with the stone-like appearance of her skin. From the shadows, multiple red, black, yellow and white eyes peeked about, refusing to show themselves fully. Karl and Edward emerged from their corpses, their skin red and freshly burned. Karl’s eyes were crimson, and Edward’s white. The Pope laughed.

“Vous êtes donc ben laittes esti,” said the Pope. “Ugly demons all going to disappear in the void!”

The Pope ran his staff through the yellow-eyed entity. She screeched and fell to the floor. The other demons in the laboratory hissed. The Pope turned the staff downward and stabbed the yellow-eyed entity in the head with its crucifix-shaped tip. Her blood visibly boiled beneath her skin and the popping bubbles sounded like popcorn in the microwave. Her body burst, vanishing into a pile of ash that smelled of sulphur. The Pope looked around expectantly, but the demons did nothing. He shrugged and walked over to Stanley and Dalton.

“And you two? Which side you choose?” It was unclear whether the Pope asked a question or gave an order.

“We’re… alive,” explained Dalton. “We like it that way.”

The Pope grunted and went over to look at Quentin. His scaly appearance wasn’t quite that of a demon, but was nonetheless ghastly.

“Quessé ça, criss! What the hell is the weird guy?” asked the Pope. Quentin opened his eyes, which lit up upon seeing the Pope.

“You’re the Pope who, many years ago, tried to get elected to the Canadian Parliament,” Quentin said. “I looked up the results when I heard about it. You were the Bloc Québécois candidate in the riding of Saint-Maurice. You lost by a bloody lot to the Liberal incumbent.”

The Pope frowned. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You are like these mentally fucked people who remember weird shit for nothing?”

“It’s a fun fact. It keeps me mind off this whole demon-transition thing,” said Quentin.

“Fun facts are for faggots,” said the Pope.

“That’s homophobic,” Karl’s flaming soul hissed.

“But seriously. What the fuck is wrong with you? What is wrong with that face?” the Pope asked Quentin. A few more flakes fell from Quentin’s forehead and sizzled on the floor.

“If you don’t mind, I’m trying to concentrate on not becoming a bloody demon,” said Quentin. “I will stay exactly who I want to be. A computer program who can do whatever the bloody hell he likes.”

“Tabarnak!” said the Pope, slamming his staff against the floor. “You cannot do this shit. You have to move on to your afterlife state or we cannot start the war!”

“I don’t give a bloody fuck about your war.” Quentin shut his eyes. He felt that acknowledging his demonic state made the process accelerate.

“What if I do some Pope shit to make you one of my soldiers instead?” The Pope offered. He could do no such thing but wanted Quentin to give up on remaining a virtual being.

“Not interested.”

The Pope stabbed in frustration at a few demons in the shadows, who vanished into ash.

Though he was now a demon, Karl hadn’t lost his French. “Pardonnez-moi, mais vous venez de commettre de nombreux crimes de guerre. You can’t just go around killing us for nothing,” he said to the Pope. “Satan has informed us that the war has not started yet and that regardless, you, the Pope, do not have the authority to start the war. And you should know, we greatly outnumber you. Keep acting this way and we will legitimately be allowed to act in self-defence. Destroying souls is only legal during a divine war under the terms of article 23.6 of the Heavenly Realms Treaty of 1624.”

Out of thin air, Karl pulled out an aged parchment scroll which appeared to be the original copy of the Treaty, and pointed to the article in question, showing it around the room. The scroll vanished, and a thick, brown, dusty book appeared in his hands, with The Criminal Code of the Heavens written in blood red. He flipped it open and pointed to page 1136.

“Destroying souls is an indictable offence punishable by up to three millennia in the pits of Hell. Right here, article 634.12 of The Criminal Code of the Heavens, everyone.” Karl showed the page to the room. The book vanished once he felt he had sufficiently made his point to most of the souls present.

“Hang on. If the Pope doesn’t have the authority to declare a war, then who does?” asked Isidora.

“Article 1364 of The Civil Code of the Heavens clearly states that only God’s Paladin has the authority to declare a divine war,” said Karl, now holding a thick, red book in his hands with golden letters.

“And who is God’s Paladin?” asked Dalton.

“No one important,” said the Pope. “Some ancient mythical bullshit.”

“Article 7 of the Interpretations Act of the Heavens states that God’s Paladin is the rightful successor of Saint Peter,” said Karl, holding a dark blue book titled Statutes of the Heavens, written in silver.

“Saint Peter was the first Pope,” said Darcy. “Therefore, the Pope is God’s Paladin and he does have the authority to declare war. Go on, Your Holiness. Do it! We want a war!” She raised her fist in the air. Cheers followed.

“Wrong. Article 7.1 of the Interpretations Act of the Heavens defines the rightful successor of Saint Peter as his hereditary heir,” said Karl.

“This is bullshit,” said the Pope. “I’ve heard enough. I declare war!”

“That statement is invalid,” said Karl.

“Saint Peter…” muttered Isidora. She turned to Father Peter. “What if you’re God’s Paladin? I mean, your name is Peter.”

“Shut up!” said the Pope.

“Absolutely not,” said Karl. “It would be a huge abuse of power on God’s part for the Paladin, capable of declaring war among the Heavens, to be an exorcist, or should I say, a serial demon killer.”

Father Peter smiled. He liked the idea of being a serial demon killer.

“Article 7.1.1 says God’s Paladin is the only soul capable of being both a demon and a soldier of God.”

“Wait, what the fuck, that’s not right,” said the Pope. “The annoying blonde is right. Father Peter is God’s Paladin. The Church has been following the lineage of Saint Peter for centuries. He is the descendent of Saint Peter. That’s why we sent him away to become an exorcist, like every other one of God’s Paladins before him. To protect the democracy of the Vatican! We can’t have hereditary heirs. It would compromise the legitimacy of the institution.”

“Am I really that threatening to you?” said Father Peter with a grin.

“God’s Paladin is Isidora,” said Karl. “She’s the only one who can choose to be either a demon or a soldier of God. Her will is our command.”

Quentin laughed. “That sounds like Izzy. A real Goddess.”

Isidora winked at him.

All eyes were on Isidora. The demons and the soldiers of God began to chant, We want a war! We want a war! Father Peter took Isidora’s hand and shook his head.

“Don’t do this, Isidora. You’re not ready. You’re still vulnerable.”

Isidora pulled her hand away. “Stop trying to put me down just because you can sense that I am greater than you.”

She stepped into the middle of the room, surrounded by chanting demons and angels. The Pope gave her a nod. She smiled and shrugged.

“Fine, I declare war.”

The demons and soldiers cheered. The Pope knocked over countless demons with his staff and Darcy, wielding the chair she’d crushed Edward’s head with, took on five demons at a time on her own. Karl stood up on a chair.

“Everyone, please settle down. This is all still very much illegal.”

No one listened to Karl. Father Peter and Edward boxed, and Stanley watched, cheering and heckling. Isidora did her best to watch all of the combatants, assuming she had some kind of role arbitrating the war.

“Please, stop this at once!” Karl insisted. “According to article 1368 of The Civil Code of the Heavens, the apocalypse can only come into effect when the unnatural, the natural and the supernatural become one. Only then can God’s Paladin make a declaration of war. Since Quentin is still part virtual, the unnatural world remains somewhat intact. Why do you think the Rapture hasn’t occurred yet? Where is Jesus’ epic return to Earth? Why would the entire apocalyptic battle be limited to this laboratory? This is not the apocalypse—this is a rumble!”

“Reason is pointless,” said Dalton, who stood back, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. “If they want to fight, let them fight. The whole thing is a bloody disaster.”

Karl jumped down from the chair and flew over to Dalton.

“I’d kill you, but I can’t tell if you’re good or bad, and I don’t want to accidentally give the other team another player,” Karl said, joining Dalton against the wall.

“I just can’t believe any of it,” said Dalton. “It’s bloody ridiculous.”

“What can’t you believe?” asked Karl. He reached for Dalton’s hand and inadvertently burned him.

“That right there. It’s ridiculous,” said Dalton, showing Karl the burn mark on his hand. “It’s ridiculous that you’re a demon.”

“I agree,” said Karl. “I’m a kind person. I mean, I’ve committed some crimes, I may have enabled street gangs and terrorist organizations in carrying out attacks across Europe, but generally, I am nice. I always hold the door open for people and say please and thank you.”

“You’re not that kind,” said Dalton. “You abandoned me when I was at my worst. I needed you to help me feel something again.”

Karl shook his head. “You can’t just go along expecting everyone else to solve your problems. We all have—or had—lives of own. Problems of our own. You need to take some responsibility and actively work toward helping yourself.”

Dalton looked into Karl’s evil eyes. “Just admit it. You’re selfish. That’s why you’re a demon now.”

“I’m selfish? I’m selfish? You’re the one who thinks he’s so much better than all of us peasants. You think the world revolves around you, and we do everything we can to satisfy you, but it’s never enough. You expect everyone to be at your service. I moved to Liverpool for you! Fucking Liverpool! And you still don’t see how much we all sacrifice for you. The minute anyone criticizes you, you play the misunderstood genius card. You can’t stand being questioned. You push everyone away and then you wonder why you’re alone. You want to know why you’re alone? Because you’re unpleasant. Maybe I should kill you. You would probably be the worst demon of all. You would be an uber-demon who would kill everyone, and again, you would find yourself alone. And you would still manage to feel sorry for yourself and blame everyone else for your misery.”

“It’s ridiculous. I don’t believe any of it. This isn’t happening.”

“Sure, deny everything. That will get you far.”

“I’m serious, Karl. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s absurd. My mind is playing tricks on me. My perspective of things cannot possibly be accurate. No proper scientist would accept that what they see is what they get. There has to be some sort of explanation for all this madness. It is intellectually lazy to simply accept what appears to be the obvious truth.”

“You have to accept that reality is much bigger than what you thought it to be.”

Dalton smiled. “That’s it! I must have missed something. I didn’t fully consider the implications of my afterlife malfunctioning and what the consequences could be.”

“Exactly. These are the consequences.”

“These are how the consequences appear to us. But surely there is a scientific explanation behind the nature of these consequences.” Dalton adjusted his shirt collar. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a problem to solve.”

* * *

Father Peter felt Edward had an unfair advantage in their boxing match. Every time he hit Edward, it burned him. He did his best, but by the end of the last round, he had a feeling he’d lost. Stanley walked up in between them and took their wrists.

“Ouch!” Stanley said, pulling his hand away from Edward’s scorching skin. He frowned and raised Father Peter’s arm in the air. “Winner!” he declared.

“Rubbish,” said Edward. “You only gave Father Peter the win because it hurt to touch me.”

Stanley and Edward argued over the outcome of the match and Father Peter ambled over to Isidora, who was explaining to a handful of demons why Darcy and the Chief Constable were not unfair advantages for God’s side due to their military and police backgrounds, respectively.

“There are way more of you than there are of God’s soldiers. I think Darcy and the Chief Constable are great equalizers in that respect.”

The demons grunted and went back to fighting Darcy and Chief Constable Glasgow. The demons clawed and bit at them. They, in turn, hit the demons with chairs, laptops, binders, notebooks, and anything they could find in the laboratory. Behind them, Dr. Whalen—who had strapped a demon to a table and sawed open its brain—was now testing where the demon was most vulnerable by poking its brain arbitrarily. Gnashing its razor-sharp teeth, the demon howled and swore, kicked and struggled against her. A few demons shot blazing balls of fire to get to Dr. Whalen, but the Pope bludgeoned them with his staff.

“Isidora,” said Father Peter, approaching her. “I’m sorry if I offended you somehow.”

Isidora crossed her arms and turned away from him. “That’s the worst apology,” she said. “I’m not offended. You were patronizing, and I didn’t like it. When we were inside Dalton’s mind, you made me feel like I needed you, like I depended on you. In reality, I was the one who was able to understand Dalton’s mind, I was the one who successfully tracked down the old man, and I had a special ability to switch from demon to soldier of God all along. I thought I needed you to save me. I saved myself, and you tried to take credit for it.”

Father Peter reached toward her, gently took her shoulders and turned her around to face him. “I was just trying to help… you seemed to be struggling with the whole demon thing.” He brought his hands down and reached for her hand, but she took a step back and crossed her arms once more.

“You’re an exorcist, and you’re good at killing demons, I’ll give you that. But don’t pretend you know me, like you have me all figured out. You’ve acted that way since the day we met and it’s infuriating. You have no idea what you’re talking about. And you had the nerve to tell me how to improve myself, when all along, I was exactly who I should be. God’s Paladin.”

“I know my arrogance sometimes gets the best of me. I’m sorry. I would love to get to know you better.” He stepped forward, held her hands and smiled. “You’re the smartest woman I’ve ever met, and I’m so happy to have you in my life. I spend the greatest time with you.”

Isidora pulled her hands away. “I don’t exist for your entertainment. Now run along,” she said with a dismissive wave. “There are plenty of demons to deal with.”

Isidora decided to take a break from arbitrating the battle and sat down next to Quentin. He was still leaning with his back against the wall. His arms were wrapped around his bent knees.

“Are you aware you are single-handedly preventing the apocalypse from occurring with your stubbornness?” asked Isidora with a half-smile.

“I don’t give a fuck about any of that. I’m not turnin’ into a bloody demon.”

Edward sped past the two of them, fleeing from Darcy. She seemed to have figured out how to generate a divine electrical current from her hands and could now shock demons at will. She shot two blue bolts at Edward. He fell to the floor and moaned. From across the room, Dr. Whalen suggested that Darcy should aim for the neocortex next time for better results.

Isidora smiled at Quentin. “I think not turning into a demon is a wise choice. Darcy appears to have developed quite the demon-slaying abilities.”

Stanley limped over and sat on the other side of Quentin.

“Eddie’s a sore loser. He can’t stand that Father Peter is harder than him,” Stanley griped.

Isidora and Stanley each reached for one of Quentin’s hands. They were hot, as though he had a bad fever. He let go of his knees and stretched out his legs, letting his arms fall on either side of him, holding Stanley and Isidora’s hands back, which he found oddly small.

“Tell me more about how Eddie can’t fight,” Quentin said.

* * *

Father Peter wasn’t awfully familiar with anger. He was generally content. He rarely failed to get what he wanted; life always seemed to treat him well. He assumed it was God’s reward for his stalwart faith. He always believed there was something special about himself. He’d occasionally overhear whispers among Church officials when he passed by them in the halls of the Vatican. There seemed to be a sort of great secret around him, but without trying to understand it, he assumed it was simply that he was wonderful and that the others recognized his specialness. Someone had to be God’s favourite. He was proud it was him.

Upon learning they had all mistaken him for God’s Paladin, a world Father Peter never fully understood came crashing down. The subtle, pervasive admiration he received was all based on a false assumption. Sure, he was an excellent exorcist. Now it struck him that he probably had been heaped with excessive praise for his accomplishments, with the church’s elite presuming he was the divine heir of a lineage destined to rule the church and ultimately start the apocalypse. Was he even as competent as he thought he was? Were his powers special in any way, or did his resolute faith allow him to be nothing more than another channel for God’s glory?

Seeing Darcy blasting demons into oblivion with electric bolts shooting from her palms, he understood that not only was he not the greatest exorcist in the world, he might not even be the greatest exorcist in the room. It was dispiriting to discover that he could spend his whole life training to be an exorcist and that Darcy—a newbie at demon skirmishing—had such miraculous abilities. Her commitment to the church throughout her life extended little beyond wearing a necklace with a little golden cross, eating chocolate for Easter and getting drunk on Christmas.

Father Peter didn’t even feel like trying to serve God anymore and almost wished to give up and let the nasty little demons do their worst. At least he wouldn’t have to think about how God’s actual Paladin had no interest in sleeping with him. Father Peter’s hands clenched into fists of rage seeing Isidora sitting with Quentin and Stanley like they were one big family.

He strode over to the Pope and attempted to yank the staff out of his hands.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Décaliss,” said the Pope. He pushed Father Peter away.

“I want to kill some demons. Give me the staff,” he said, and grabbed it by the middle. The stronger of the two, the Pope wrenched it back to himself again.

“This is my staff. After all those years of training, when finally you are in a real battle, the only thing you can think to do is steal an old man’s staff? That’s it, after all the money the church has invested in you?” said the Pope.

“You’re a fraud, a politician, and you don’t deserve the staff any more than me.” Father Peter tugged at the staff but the Pope had a firm grip.

“I was legitimately elected Pope. Fuck monarchies. Fuck the Queen of England and fuck God’s Paladin. I’m the Leader of the Church. I get the staff.”

“You’re such a hypocrite. Vatican City is an absolute elective monarchy.”

“Not under my watch. Now release my staff, you useless son of a bitch.”

“No. I want it. Because you wrongly believed that I was God’s Paladin, I didn’t get to live my own life, and was sent away to be an exorcist. You took enough from me. You could at least give me the staff.”

The Pope burst into laughter. “I was just thinking of this. I was wondering how the hell we fucked up figuring out who is God’s Paladin. Then I thought about it and saw where we got confused. We were pretty close. Your father was just like you: a travelling exorcist and a smug, horny bastard. At some point he got some woman he met once in a UK pub pregnant. We didn’t think the bastard child could be the heir of Saint Peter, so we ignored this little girl and focused on you because anyways, special abilities were developing in you already. I mean, I call you a bastard, because you’re un criss de cave, but she is actual bastard. You understand what I am saying? Isidora is your half-sister. You want to fuck your sister!”

“You sick, lying old pontiff.”

The Pope laughed so hard he could hardly breathe. “I’m sorry, but it is so obvious. You look so much the same! Why do you think you are so drawn to her? Because you are in love with yourself.”

“Give me the staff.”

“Over my dead body.”

“If you insist.” Father Peter sucker-punched him and plucked the staff from the Holy Father’s unconscious hands.

Father Peter began chasing after demons, plunging the staff into their brains, each one he destroyed reduced to a puff of acidic demon dust. He was so overcome by maniacal fury he entered an almost dream-like state, in which he was completely unaware of his actions. The demons started to gang up on him, corralling him from three sides and forcing him ever nearer to the eternal void in the laboratory. The closer he got to the void, the more ash hung in the air from combusted demons, blurring his surroundings. He gasped for breath and struggled to keep his stinging eyes open. He felt something acidic, razor-sharp and wet sink into his neck and realized a demon’s jaw was locked onto him from behind. It sank its teeth further and gnawed at his spine. He tried to push it off, but a burning in his chest, his face, and his stomach paralyzed him in agony. He screamed as his skin began to fry. His hands weakened, and something jerked the staff away from him as he became overwhelmed by a burning sensation covering his entire body. Still in a haze, an oppressive force surrounded him, restrained him, and was killing him. Demons piled up on him, and he could no longer see anything but sharp, jagged nails, evil, empty eyes and rotten mouths and teeth. But the sound of demonic shrieks of terror pierced his ears and snapped him back to reality. He felt a great weight lift off of him as the demons on top of him turned into ash.

The golden staff illuminated the room around him. Father Peter watched as Pope Clement XV wielded it, killing the dozens of demons who had ganged up on him. They burst into piles of ash as the Pope jumped around whacking them, looking more like a ninja than an old man. He twirled his staff, teasing the demons before swatting them into the void like pesky flies. After the demons were gone, the Pope looked at Father Peter and laughed.

“Voyons donc, Father Peter. Storming a bunch of demons, your strength fuelled by the Seven Deadly Sins. What did you expect would happen?” The Pope was visibly tired, leaning against his staff to catch his breath. Still, he laughed.

“I’m sorry I hit you.” Father Peter wiped some of the ash off himself but couldn’t get up from the ground due to the agonizing burns across his body.

“Don’t worry. You hit like a little girl.” The staff wobbled and the Pope nearly lost his balance. He laughed it off.

“Thank you for saving me.” Father Peter’s voice was hoarse and faint.

The Pope looked the priest up and down and he shook his head.

“You look like shit. Go make yourself useful while you still can.”

Father Peter tried to pick himself up off the floor, but the pain was too great. He was beginning to see nothing but the void.

“Peter Nightingale, you must get up.” Hearing his full name pronounced aloud was oddly grounding for Father Peter.

“I can’t. What’s the point, anyway? My existence is pointless.”

“Don’t be a smug bastard. You don’t know why God put you here. Tell me, Peter. What are you?”

Father Peter paused. “An exorcist.”

“And what does an exorcist do?”

Father Peter propped himself up on his elbows and leaned back on his forearms. He looked the Pope in the eye. “He kills demons.”

“Then you know what to do.”

A shadowy figure rose up from the ashes behind the Pope. It was Edward. Before Father Peter could say anything to alert the Pope, Edward grabbed the Pope from behind and clawed at his neck and face, poisoning his bloodstream with acidic green venom. The Pope backed up, winked at Father Peter, and threw himself into the void, dragging along Edward, destroying them both. He left behind nothing but his staff. Father Peter reached for it and raised himself to his feet.

Transcending the burning pain of his body, the heartbreak from Isidora’s rejection, the grief of losing the Pope, Father Peter focused on one thing only: he was an exorcist, a soldier of God, and he would kill demons. With the power of his mighty faith, he plunged the staff into countless demons, and nothing could get in his away, except his soul, which, with each stroke of the staff, was slipping away into the void.