Page 65 of Helsing: Demon Slayer
They were nearly in Fushë-Arrëz. Whatever had happened between him and Dianne on the road from Split, it was time to return to his duty.
Elias dismounted, his movements deliberate, his gaze sweeping across the battlefield’s remnants. Relief swelled among the group, their laughter and easy breaths replacing the tension of the fight. Victory. A hard-won triumph. But Elias did not celebrate.
His attention flickered toward András and Beta, meeting their unreadable stares. No words were exchanged, only the quiet understanding of warriors who had seen too many battles end like this, with enemies retreating but never truly defeated.
Then his gaze drifted beyond them, past the scorched ground and broken stone, to the distant mountains. Cool, shifting tones of deep blue and indigo, fading into pale silver at the edges, signaled dawn’s approach but not full arrival.
In Elias’s eyes, it might as well have been the gathering of storm clouds on the horizon.
Ryan watched him, watched the stillness in Elias’s stance and the weight in his expression. The others rejoiced, oblivious to what lurked in those fleeting glances between the veterans. But Ryan saw it—felt it creeping into his bones.
This wasn’t over.
Eighteen
Beforevisitinghispatronin the ICU for the Angelus prayer, Father Bekim stopped in the large conference room at the unfinished clinic that Mihàil had designated as a temporary chapel until a larger, freestanding one could be built next door. It was a plain space, yet warm and welcoming. Mihàil hadn’t wanted Father Bekim or any of his parishioners to wait on the separate building that Willem DeVries, theElioudarchitect who’d joined their community last year, even now designed. In addition to a small altar, crucifix, and tabernacle for the Blessed Sacrament, the room had a holy-water font, a credence table with sacred vessels, and a sanctuary lamp. Around the room were small ceramic plaques depicting the Stations of the Cross crafted by local artisans using traditional techniques passed down through generations.
He was here, kneeling before the Eucharist in adoration and prayer, when thezonjëentered. Father Bekim felt her settle on her knees at his side, and then she slowly lowered herself to a prone position. Although he couldn’t make out the words she murmured, their low hum moved across his skin, warm as the whisper of the Holy Spirit.
They were there, together, quiet and breathing in the Sacred Presence, when a soft tap at the conference-room door warned them that someone entered.
Father Bekim looked up to see the American Miles Baxter step into the room, his gaze going around the space before settling on Olivia Kastrioti. Fatigue etched the man’s face in hollow lines, but the priest saw a look of concern, love, and respect flit across his features before he schooled them into his usual opacity. The man was a cipher, but Father Bekim understood instantly that he cared for his superior.
That was a very good thing. Thezonjëwould need all of the love, support, and faithfulness her community could give her in the days ahead.
Baxter waited behind the short row of chairs arranged in front of the marble altar, his hooded gaze revealing nothing as he studied the ostensorium displayed there. It was a modern piece designed by Olivia with Father Bekim’s help, crafted from sleek polished platinum statue of an angel holding the luna and inlaid with mother-of-pearl and iridescent blue lapis. A subtle harmonic glow embraced the luna and its holy contents. Even without an expression on his handsome face, the American conveyed a feeling of deep unease and discomfort.
Interesting. Even with the supernatural evidence of theElioud, theirdaemonicfoes, and the specialized harmonic technology that had begun to transform their lives here in Fushë-Arrëz and beyond, the man still held himself apart. Father Bekim made a note to dedicate prayer for Baxter’s full change of heart.
At last, Olivia stood, rolling up to her feet gracefully even though she appeared as worn as Father Bekim, who’d seen more than five decades as Mihàil’s family priest. She held out her hand and helped him to his feet before turning back to Baxter.
“Have you gotten word from András or Ryan?”
He nodded. Olivia stilled, and Father Bekim heard her soft intake of breath before Baxter spoke.
“Better. Elias and Michael came across them on the road.” He paused and looked swiftly at Father Bekim before returning his gaze to Olivia and continuing. “Abaddon and his Locusts ambushed them, my lady. Elias and hisdonatsrepelled them, but they had to abandon the Defender and bring Ryan and Dianne and the others on horseback. András just sent word via personal drone that they’ll be in Fushë-Arrëz anytime.”
Father Bekim chose to speak now before Olivia could say anything. “My lady, it is almost time for the Angelus. With your permission, I will bring the lectionary. God willing, we can all pray in thanksgiving for their safe return.”
Olivia blinked, looking almost overwhelmed for a moment with unshed tears misting her gaze. She nodded and cleared her throat. “Let it be done. And, please, Father Bekim, ring the bells to gather everyone from town. I’ll need to address them about what we’re facing.”
Father Bekim nodded. In all things, gratitude to God. It was his calling to lead that public expression for thezotiandzonjëand their people.
Twenty minutes later Father Bekim stood outside the clinic on the site of the future chapel while the invisible harmonic bells rang for five kilometers around them, calling the faithful and the not-so-faithful alike to witness the arrival of the triumphant knights and their wards. As he looked down the slope toward the highway that bisected his little village, Father Bekim’s throat thickened, and his heart was full. Thezotiand his lady envisioned so much for this little hamlet that the elderly Albanian priest prayed he lived to see even half of it accomplished. The clinic and chapel, when finished, would comprise conjoined healing centers, the spiritual and physical blended in harmonic restoration.
This dawn, there was only the flat space that he stood on with a roughly graded terrace to the clinic on a nearby plateau. Below him was a beaten path to the valley and the highway through Fushë-Arrëz. Across from them and on the other side of the highway stood the Kastriotis’ new home, a relatively modest limestone construction that served as the centerpiece of a small compound of buildings, including guesthouses for family and friends. And beyond that, Mihàil’s modern security center, the Aerie, and associated training and living quarters for his warriors,Elioudand human alike. Next to it, along the base of the sheltering mountain, stood the unfinished research and development center where theElioudfound incredible and myriad ways to turn their angelic gifts into real-world technology to benefit humanity, especially in its longstanding war against the Dark forces of the Fallen Watcher Angels, who sought power over Creation.
Beneath him villagers from Fushë-Arrëz clustered on the raw earthen terraces that would form a natural amphitheater for outdoor Mass and other events. Across the highway, security personnel and staff for the command center stood in tense expectation outside the entrance to the Kastrioti estate. They would be able to hear him given the enhanced acoustics of the external harmonic audio mesh system, whose nodes covered most of the landscape for a radius of ten kilometers. Olivia and the otherElioudstood a short distance away between him and the clinic, their expressions inscrutable in the early morning light. Just behind theElioud, thezonjë’s parents stood, Olivia’s mother holding baby Luljeta, next to a young nanny.
Father Bekim raised his leatherbound lectionary and began to read the first antiphon of the Angelus prayer. Next to him, the candle that he’d lit and set on a small table wavered in the slight breeze, its flickering flame a symbol of divine protection. The sound of his voice echoed against the mountain ridges—a profound invocation that stretched beyond mere words.
And then, hoofbeats. Elias and thedonatscrested the ridge above the road, Ryan and Dianne in their midst, weary but whole. András, Beta, and Edvard brought up the rear.
The golden light of dawn caught the knights’ harmonic sigils, sending flashes of brilliance across their battle-worn tactical gear as their breath and that of their horses misted the cold morning air.
The harmonic audio system amplified the collective gasp of all those gathered, their relief, awe, and unspoken reverence filling the stillness as Father Bekim continued to pray.
With more effort than he liked or would admit, Ryan pulled his jacket over his shoulders, still adjusting to the lingering ache in his side, not quite healed, but functional enough. The moment he stepped outside the clinic after a week lying weak and helpless in a hospital bed, the mountain air hit him, crisp and thin—a reminder that time hadn’t slowed to keep pace with his plodding recovery.
