I wanted to do something a little different today. I am uploading this newsletter to everyone, as a sneak peak into what I send out weekly to my free tier! The free tier also has access to the discord Book club, and the October book will be "No Bones About It" by Cassandra Elizabeth. It is about a woman who gets f*cked by her 12ft yard skeleton! Consensually of course. It's a super fun, smutty good time, perfect for the Halloween season!

The $5 tier gives you access to a video book club call each month and a few more perks. Including just feeling good about being cool and supporting me :)

Chapter 14

Icarus tried to inhale, but his head was full of bees. His body wouldn’t respond to him, the limp and disobedient thing. He stared at the demon leering at him with such hate it sent heat along the current of air passing between them.

“I don’t understand,” he heard himself whisper. “What did Daedalus do? Who did he deceive?”

Mariusz snarled again and strained against his bonds in a surge of violence, “Does your Church tell you nothing? Do they not explain to you how they send their priests one after the other into Tir Na Nog? Their effort to rip and tear and force your Pale God into the guts of every creature that walks this world and the next?!”

Icarus didn’t know what to say. He didn’t understand, none of it made any sense, the Church preached the gospel of the Pale God in an effort to spread His word and turn people away from the costly fae netherism that was rotting their souls. What care should a demon have for the business of fae?

That wasn’t exactly true, though, was it. Icarus had a long history with the Church, their way of leveraging Doctrine when it suited and ignoring it when it did not. His entire relationship with Maren existed because of the hypocrisy of that same Church. If he really forced himself to consider it, when had they ever stopped anyone from pursuing a path that would lead them to self-annihilation?

A boom from behind the door broke Icarus out of his stupor, “Shit.”

“Best hurry,” Mariusz taunted. “They will tear your little lock apart.”

His mind raced and he tried to sort out all of his questions, “Daedalus is alive. Somewhere. The Church has been sending, what, evangelists into the Veil? Why?”

“Evangelists once, yes. Now, something else. Doorstops in the efforts made to heal the tears they leave in the Veil. Propping it open so things can… slip through,” it swirled a malformed hand in a gesture and he felt his heart constrict. 

Doorstops. Leaving the Veil open to allow things through. Icarus was going to be sick. The Veil was a thin space, the barrier erected after the Great Fracture to keep the realms of man and fae and demon apart from one another—forged from the sacrifice of the Pale Son when He was at the zenith of His holy magic. Now the Church was allowing creatures through in hopes of grounding them in the bodies of men. Why? 

He tried to pick up the pieces of his scattered brain and put them back together, but he kept dropping them over new and more complicated details. Maren filled in the space his mind left blank, “They’re allowing possessions to happen on purpose.”

Mariusz hummed an affirmation and grinned, “You believe the Pale God of All does not know the faeries? Is God so weak in your eyes that He cannot see what magic He wove into His own world? What began as an effort to save has become… lucrative in encouraging faith.”

“They let people become vessels for demons and fae to increase… Mass attendance?” Icarus heard his voice rise in anger and indignation despite his numbness.

Mariusz bobbed his head in that noncommittal way Icarus was beginning to find loathsome, “Among other reasons. It is costly business, your Church, is it not? What better way to sell it than to let someone see what awaits?”

Icarus tried to exchange a look with Maren, but she was fixed on the Inquisitor in front of them and wouldn’t meet his eyes. He saw it in the tick of her jaw, the tension in her fingers—the incandescent rage bubbling under her skin. 

“What other reasons?” He prompted instead. 

Mariusz sucked black flecks of decay from his gums, “Your Church is more divided than you know. Some wish to see the End of Days, some wish to embrace the secular, some wish to entreat with fae and demon and put an end to these divided existences. The Veil remains ajar for many reasons put forth by many men.”

Another boom followed by the wail of straining wood. Icarus winced. 

“Continue, little priest, or you will lose your chance,” Mariusz drawled, almost bored.

“What does my father have to do with all of this?” He spoke faster. He needed to focus, ask for answers he came to get from this thing. The Church’s business could remain the Church’s business, he needed to know more about Daedalus and what his role was in all of this. 

Mariusz jerked his head as if trying to dislodge something. He barked a half-cry and the muscles in his neck bulged, head tossed back in a seizure constricted by his bonds. Icarus took another step towards him, then retracted—a trick, surely. 

Its head hung and it made a plaintive noise. Its voice changed—whimpering, lost, afraid. The singular tone of a man in pain, “Please… please free me from this… I didn’t know it would be… I didn’t know this is what it would be… please… if you have any soul left, please kill-”

It seized again and a roar ripped through its chest—teeth snapping, chains rattling, white spittle gathering at the corners of its mouth. It growled, low and irritated at something that had nothing to do with the renegades standing before it, “He is lost. Pay him no mind. This is what he has asked for and thusly received, he does not deserve your mercy.”

Icarus tasted bile in his throat, his skin burned, his hand flexed and he raised it as if he would grab the pommel of his sword. Athelde—or a part of him anyway—still lingered in the vessel Mariusz occupied begging to die. This business sickened him, the whole existence of this chamber deep below the Church nothing more than an abscess leeching into the stone and infecting the lifeblood of this place. Maren let out a rattling breath and kept her hand in her salt pouch to stop herself from doing whatever it was her disdain told her to do. 

“Daedalus is a captive, of sorts,” it continued, distracting them both. “Held in the twisting gaol that sits at the crossroads of fae, demon, and mortal. There is strength in threes, Father.”

“Why?” Icarus whispered, “What is he doing? Why is he doing any of this? Why is he there?”

It smirked and opened its mouth to reply. An explosion of wood and metal cut it off, the sound slammed into Icarus and sent him stumbling forward. Maren whirled on the tide of priests pouring into the broken doorway and threw a handful of salt in their direction. It exploded and sparked, sending a wall of ivory light up with it. They let out a collective shout and the closest of them leapt backwards, out of range. Icarus straightened and roared in frustration.

Mariusz’s shoulders shook with graveled laughter, “Your time is up, Father Ulrich.”

“Tell me why!” He whirled and shouted over the din. A spear of gold light pierced Maren’s wall like a thunderclap. Iron halberds stripped and stabbed and parted, forcing the barrier apart. 

She scattered a second handful and tore a page of her Doctrine, sending it along the floor with it. At a whisper and a sign of her hand, the wall bowed outward and burst into a hail of light. One priest shoved his hand into the molten wax of a thick pillar candle atop a brazier by the doorway and threw a handful of the rapidly solidifying liquid in her direction. It spattered along the stones then seethed and twisted into a scythe that cut towards the fresh barrier she wove together.

Icarus looked from Mariusz to Maren to the company of priests and cursed. He had nothing to offer unless he paid the blood price and drew his sword, he had to let Maren take this on. There was no other choice. He turned back to the fray and forced himself to tune out the sounds of holy battle raging around him. 

“What greater role is there for a priest to play than soldier, martyr, saint?” Marius spasmed, face falling, that human voice again coming anguished and hollow, “Please, I am begging you don’t leave me like this, don’t let them-”

Another shake of its antlered head, another snapping snarl of crumbling teeth, and the man who was Athelde was gone again. Maren’s hands wove and worked as she painted her sigil and cast it outward, snaring the guard who had forced his way through. There was nothing more he could gain from this creature now. Icarus wanted to draw his sword and part heads from bodies. 

She barked over her shoulder, “We have to go! There’s no more time!”

One of the priests gathered ivory light in his palm. He wrapped it around his knuckles and struck, punching down into the stone like a hammer. Ground splintered and burst towards Maren. The force sent her sprawling, she yelled in outrage and hit the floor. Her shotgun skittered just out of reach, her salt spilling in a heap beside her. 

Icarus slashed his forearm with his small knife and unsheathed his sword, blue sigilwork flaring blue-hot to mirror his anger. He roared, torn in three between Maren, the priests, Mariusz. He stared at the Inquisitor for a moment longer, questions half answered. It would have to be enough. He couldn’t wait. Another thunderclap and the rock split apart so close to him Icarus tumbled forward into the salt, sending his sword clattering. His foot slippe and his toe struck the line. 

The circle broke. Mariusz lunged. 

A calloused, clammy hand wrapped around his wrist—jaws parted, teeth billowing with the sickly sweet stench of death, dripping which what he prayed was saliva. Cold surged through his skin and shot to his elbow, Icarus cried out in alarm. His vision broke into spots. He yanked himself back, wresting and prying himself from its grip. Had the human body been better maintained, he would never have broken free. He stumbled backwards and fell, landing hard. Chains sang along the stone and ended in a clang, stretched to their limit, squealing against the burst of inhuman strength in the demon’s pull. 

“Icarus!” Maren shouted. 

He turned. She rolled onto her stomach and closed a hand on her shotgun. She shoved hard, sending it across the uneven floor in his direction. He rolled to his feet, wedged his toe under the stock, and kicked, launching it into the air. He caught it, cocked it, aimed, and pulled in less than a breath. 

The explosion was deafening. It sent him right back onto his ass, head cracking off a pillar and making his vision swim. He had the distant feeling of blood tricking down the back of his neck. Mariusz—or what had been Mariusz—had been thrown backwards by the blast, arms and legs twisted like the dessicated husk of a long-dead spider. Someone shouted behind him. Maren yelled incoherently.

Icarus tried to turn, but everything went black. 

**

Pain. That was the first thing Icarus felt. The throbbing agony of his head, the pins and needles feeling in his arm, and a bone deep desire to tumble right back into the abyss of unconsciousness. A kick to his ribs startled him into the world of the living with a yelp. 

“Wake up!” A familiar voice hissed. “You calamitous son of a bitch, wake the fuck up!”

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before willing them to open. He’d been dragged from the chamber, apparently, which explained the soreness in his shoulders. It took a moment for everything to come into focus. They’d been hauled into the main lower room beneath the Church, full of splitting hallways venturing to Pale God knew where. 

Maren was crumpled in a heap against one of the pillars—breathing, thank God. She lifted her head and revealed the generous black eye she’d taken, it did nothing to dampen her obvious relief. He gave her a crooked, pained smile and looked up to see who his attacker was. 

Red cassock belted in black silk, everything trimmed and stitched in elaborate gold patterns that probably meant something to someone somewhere in the Church. His bald head crowned in a red biretta, severe hawkish face glaring down a beaky nose at the heaped priest on the floor. 

Icarus’s smile widened, “Cardinal O’Donnell. Lovely to see you again. Looking as mummified as ever.”

“Shut up, Icarus,” O’Donnell sneered. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The position you’ve put me in?”

Icarus sat up slowly and wiped a hand across his mouth, smearing it with blood. He shook his head and ignored the echo of his own pulse in his temples, “What I’ve done? What about what you’ve done? Keeping a demon on purpose? Do you have any idea how insane-”

“I said shut up!” The kick came from one of the guarding warrior priests and knocked the wind straight out of him. He clutched his ribs and doubled over with a coughing wheeze, “Athelde chose that. He was groomed and trained and offered himself over. We needed the Inquisitor, you miserable idiot. Do you think there’s another way to know what the agents of the Stygian Lord are up to? Do you think there’s some secret method by which we know the Shadow’s plans? How the fuck do you think we keep them at bay?!”

A trickle of relief caught him by surprise, the angry confirmation his shot had done its job. Icarus couldn’t have stopped the laugh if he wanted. It started small, then built until it crescendoed into madness. Each heaving cackle renewed the stabbing sensation in his lungs, but he didn’t care, “Where’s my father, Don?”

The Cardinal’s face twisted in rage, “Dead. Stop chasing this, Ulrich. You will not enjoy it when it’s unraveled. Let Daedalus stay dead and go back to your work.”

The derision made Icarus laugh even harder, he couldn’t reply for a few gasping breaths and had no idea if it was the cracked rib or the outrage. He blotted at tears that formed in his eyes, stomach aching, every inch of him pulsating in response, “Dead. Right. You’ve got no idea where he is, do you?”

There was a long, agonizing silence as a shadow passed over O’Donnell’s face. His expression was a serpent’s venom when he looked at Maren, outright disgust when he turned back to Icarus. He plucked at nothing as if tidying his ornate, elaborate sleeves before he gestured to the warrior priests flanking Icarus. 

“You are hereby excommunicated from this Church. I will send word to the Pope and notices to all Church outfits across Europe,” his deep brown eyes were ablaze. “You are stripped of your access and will no longer be permitted to partake in any exorcisms without the Church’s sanction. From this day forward, you are no longer a priest recognized by the Church. Any calderism you perform will be considered illegal magicks punishable by prison or death. At the discretion, of course, of the Cardinal.”

Icarus stared in naked hatred up at this man who had continued to refuse him an audience, refuse him answers for years, and was now stripping him of the last meagre slip of connection he had to his own past. He expected to care more, to be angrier about it, but the only anger he had was for how full of utter bullshit O’Donnell was. 

“Up,” the guard jammed the butt of his halberd into Icarus’s aching ribs and he hissed at the wave of fire that came with it. 

Maren eased to her feet and swayed, catching herself before she could fall. The Cardinal whirled in a flurry of red silk, not keen to let her think he had forgotten her. The vitriol he had for Icarus cooled, calcifying into pity, “And you, Father Fowler. You, I understand less than him. You have such promise, such talent. You were a gifted Sister and you are a powerful exorcist, you’re smart and competent, but here you are running around with a vagrant who has no respect for our faith.”

She stayed blank and offered him nothing in return. When it was clear she had no intention of responding, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“I will offer this once to you, Maren, and once only,” he took a deep breath. “Renounce this reckless heretic, come back to us and all will be forgiven. Let us wash your slate clean and start over again, put you back in the good grace of the Pale Father.”

She stared at him for a moment longer before tilting her head and letting all of it show. Her disdain, her anger, her resentment—all of it flooded her usually passive face and broke apart the energy of the room like a battering ram. 

When she spoke, there was no ounce of regret, “Who are you to serve as a mouthpiece of the Pale God when you kept a man chained and shackled and destroyed by the very creatures you claim to be at war with?” He opened his mouth to speak, but her sharpness cut him off, “Do you even know why I left in the first place? Why I followed Icarus out of those doors?”

O’Donnell frowned and tucked his hands into his sleeves, “I am aware, Maren, of what happened. And I-”

“If you offer me platitudes, I will cut them from your throat,” she issued the threat with such alarming flatness even the guards shifted uneasily. “There’s no need to excommunicate me, Cardinal. I renounce my faith in the Church freely. The Pale God knows what you do and now, so do I.”

She limped her way towards Icarus and thrust out her hand. He stared up at her, questioning, but was met with only her steel resolve. He let her haul him to his feet as best either of them could in their sorry state. Before she could release him, Icarus pulled her into a fierce hug that she hardly fought. They moved to leave the chamber and exit the Church for the last time.

“Maren,” Cardinal O’Donnell said. They paused and turned to look back. He sighed and raised his face to her, the amber light making him look so much more tired and worn than he had been a moment ago, “You will not like what you find. Your path is not so separate from his, you know.”

She shrugged her indifference, “My path has been tangled in his since the moment he believed me when none of you would.”

They began the arduous ascent, Icarus mumbling about how much easier it had been to get in than go out. They passed the storage room, guards at their back, and he jerked his thumb towards it. 

“Exit’s there, boys. Unless we’re being given the luxury of exiting through the front?” He smirked and a guard prodded him onward without so much as a laugh, which Icarus found rather rude, “Ah. Old fashioned walk of shame it is, then.”

They were paraded through the narthex and past the bustle of priests and nuns filing in for the daytime vigils and services, all eager and ready to tend to their sickly flock not knowing it was their own hands dripping the poison. Icarus soured, a bitter taste on his tongue. He met every shocked and fearful gaze that settled on them, wondering every time which of them knew what monstrous things were happening right under their feet. He expected to see Father Reed, but was unsurprised when he did not.

Daylight had broken through the clouds and speared Icarus in the head the moment he stepped outside into the bitter winter morning. Doors shut behind them, but the guards lingered in case either of them were inclined to rush back in and beg for forgiveness. He sighed and rubbed his eyes until the sun was swallowed up again by the ever-present gray clouds threatening them with inclement weather. 

“I don’t know about you,” Maren said, it came out dry and cracked, “but I could use a God damned drink.”

He fired her a wolfish grin, “That, my beloved Maren, is the most wonderful thing you’ve said in ages. I know a place.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he started the descent towards the street carrying himself with a new sense of lightness. “My office.”

She huffed a sound that a lesser man would have mistaken for a laugh, but Icarus knew better than to think that—out loud, anyway. He flexed his hand and rubbed idly at his wrist, the ghost of an icy grip still lingering in his skin. He shook it out and shoved his hands in his pockets, ignoring the chill that tingled to his elbow.