Page 5 of The Hitman's Omega Priest
Kensley had entered the Ordained Order of Omegas for his own safety. He had pledged himself to the god he worshipped, and no one could touch him. Especially not someone as unclean and sin-addled as Bishop. But Bishop could protect him, and it was his mission now to do so, or to die trying.
Kensley introduced the longer sermon, split in half by the Father and Mother, and Bishop tuned them out, his attention on the way Kensley sat stiffly in his chair. Kensley was not comfortable in front of this large audience, and unless Bishop’s instincts were off, Kensley didn’t completely buy the religious lines he was attempting to sell. Bishop didn’t blame him. It had to be difficult to accept the tenets of a faith you were forced to join.
Forced not only for his rare presentation as an omega male at puberty, but also by his older brother to keep him (theoretically) safe from his enemies.
Kensley had been safe for the last fourteen years, but now their intel said King’s enemies knew who Elder Thorne was and, despite the church grounds being off-limits by mutual understanding between the four ruling northeastern families, King wasn’t risking it.
The longer Bishop stared at Kensley, the more he saw the eleven-year-old boy he’d first met, so full of grief over the death of his mother. King and Kensley shared a father, a man far more ruthless than Bishop had ever known, which was why King had inherited such a large, solidly protected territory. And King had spent every waking moment of the last seventeen years maintaining his rank among the other three rival families.
They’d both done their best to protect Kensley from the violence of their world, but one close call had been enough forKing. Kensley hadn’t even been aware of it. But as soon as Kensley was designated as omega at age fourteen, King had seen the perfect excuse to send him away. Bishop was pretty sure Kensley had never forgiven either of them. Bishop had never forgiven himself for making such a fiery teenager think he wasn’t loved or wanted.
Kensley’s head turned once, and Bishop blinked hard, positive the object of his attention was staring right at him. But that wasn’t possible, not from so great a distance, with Bishop’s face one of several hundred in the congregation. A face no one recognized anymore as belonging to Bishop Anders.
Kensley seemed to watch him for several long, intense minutes while the sermon droned on. Bishop blocked out the words meant to condition and feed the beliefs of those already converted, not convince anyone new of their possible salvation. The church had enough of the state under their control that they didn’t need to spend energy on conversion, only on reinforcement of the status quo.
The Holy Father called for all to kneel for the final prayer, breaking the maybe-gaze-lock between Bishop and Kensley. Bishop slid to his knees on the small slab of wood attached to the pew in front of him, then lowered his head enough to seem respectful without losing his view of the room. The prayer ended. Everyone sat for one more choir performance, and then Kensley returned to the pulpit.
“Go forth in your connection with Heavenly Father, and may the Lord bless you with peace, love and prosperity, for through Him all things are possible. Amen.”
The downside of choosing an aisle seat was that Bishop couldn’t linger without irritating people trying to leave, so he stood, moved to the far wall, and pretended to be searching for something in his coat pockets. Slowly, deliberately, watching from the corner of his eye as Kensley and the two junior priestsbegan interacting with the crowd. Bishop was ninety-nine-percent sure that no one would orchestrate an assassination in the church, but he wanted more time to study Kensley.
Study him in order to protect him, of course. No other reason.
As the sanctuary emptied, hanging around became too conspicuous, so Bishop moved toward the vestibule. He popped into the bathroom to relieve himself and, on the way back, observed more of the cathedral’s interior. Blueprints could tell him a lot but not everything. It also allowed him to take in more details of the nearly empty corridor and vestibule. He paused next to a large bulletin board full of local happenings and put on his still-soggy coat.
“Good evening, brother,” Kensley said, his familiar-yet-deeper voice rolling over Bishop’s skin like a warm hug.
Bishop turned, his heart pounding, alarmed at having been sneaked up on, and also overjoyed by being directly addressed. Kensley stood less than three feet away, hands folded together in front of his billowy robe, expression open and curious. Up close, he was even more handsome than Bishop had originally observed, and he shoved that reaction as far back as he could. Kensley was a job, not wank material.
“Hello, Elder,” Bishop replied. “I apologize for lingering. I imagine you want to lock the front doors.”
Kensley smiled in a way that made Bishop feel less like an anonymous parishioner and more like a singular person. “Our front doors are never locked, brother. We offer sanctuary to all, at any time of day or night. The Lord’s house does not close.”
“That doesn’t sound safe.”
“There is no safer place than within these four walls. Not only for our physical bodies, but also for our souls. And forgive me for overstepping, but you seem troubled. You have not attended service in a long time?”
Bishop stared, surprised at having been read so easily. But he might as well lean into the truth and continue the conversation. “It has been a while since I’ve attended services, Elder. Life has been complicated.”
“It can be very complicated, but the good news is how simple the love of our Lord is. I’m pleased you chose to join us tonight.”
“Same.” It took all his self-control not to look at Kensley’s lips. “Tonight has been very helpful.”
Kensley nodded, his smile never dropping but something in his eyes changed. They seemed to focus on Bishop in an intent way that nearly made Bishop squirm. Nearly. “Have we met before, brother?” Kensley asked. “You seem familiar.”
Yes, we’ve met, we were briefly family, but there’s a good reason you don’t recognize my face or have any reason to think I’m alive.
“Not in this lifetime,” Bishop replied. “Maybe I have one of those faces. I know I’d remember having met you.”
Kensley’s cheeks darkened. “Perhaps I’m mistaken. I’m Elder Thorne, and if you are ever in need of counsel, I can be found here most days.”
“I appreciate that, Elder. I am at a crossroads in my life. Previous decisions have led to poor results. It’s good to know there’s somewhere I can go that won’t charge me two-hundred-an-hour to listen to me ramble about my feelings.”
Kensley grinned, and in that simple quirk of lips, Bishop saw the young man he’d missed. “That is one of the many bonuses of seeking spiritual guidance over that of a paid psychiatrist. If you like, we can speak in one of the private meeting rooms.”
“Right now?”
“Of course. Unless you have to be somewhere else.”
