Page 22 of Exorcise Me
“Such as?” I asked, already breathless with renewed desire.
His smile was wicked. “Our legendary stamina, for one.”
As it turned out, that particular theological assumption was entirely accurate.
Chapter 12
“You’re pacing,” Lucien observed from his position on my couch, where he was stretched out like a contented cat. “It’s very distracting when I’m trying to read about…” he glanced at the book in his hands, “…the cultural implications of reality television.”
I paused mid-step, running a hand through my already disheveled hair. “Sorry. I’m just… nervous.”
It had been two weeks since Lucien’s return—two weeks of domestic bliss punctuated by increasingly urgent messages from Father Finnegan, which I’d continued to ignore. But today, that strategy had run its course. A certified letter had arrived that morning: an official summons to appear before the Seminary Council to “address concerns regarding your conduct and commitment to your calling.”
“They can’t actually force you to go,” Lucien pointed out, setting his book aside. “It’s not as if the church has legal authority over you.”
“It’s not about legal authority,” I said, resuming my pacing. “It’s about… belonging. Purpose.” I stopped, looking at him with a helplessness I couldn’t hide. “My entire life has been built around this calling.”
Lucien’s expression softened. He patted the couch beside him, and I sat, immediately leaning into the comfort of his solid presence.
“I know,” he said quietly, his arm wrapping around my shoulders. “And I would never ask you to give that up. But perhaps there’s a middle path—a way to honor your spiritual calling without being bound by dogma that doesn’t serve truth.”
I rested my head on his shoulder, considering his words. Over the past weeks, I’d continued my research into demonology, discovering texts and accounts that painted a far more nuanced picture than my seminary training had provided. Lucien had been an invaluable resource, correcting misunderstandings, filling in historical gaps, and occasionally rolling his eyes at particularly egregious human misconceptions about his kind.
“What would that even look like?” I wondered aloud. “I can’t exactly show up at exorcisms with a demon boyfriend in tow.”
Lucien’s fingers, which had been idly playing with my hair, stilled. “Boyfriend?” he repeated, an odd note in his voice.
I tensed, suddenly uncertain. “Is that… not the right term? I mean, I know it’s probably inadequate for whatever this is, but—”
“Noah,” he interrupted, turning to face me fully, his eyes bright with something I couldn’t quite identify. “You’ve never called me that before.”
I blinked, thinking back over our weeks together. He was right—we’d fallen into this relationship so naturally that we’d never actually labeled it.
“Is it okay?” I asked, feeling oddly vulnerable. “If it’s too human or too mundane—”
He silenced me with a kiss, brief but fervent. “It’s perfect,” he said against my lips. “I’ve been called many things over the centuries, but ‘boyfriend’ is a first. I find I quite like it.”
Relief and affection washed through me. “Good,” I said, stealing another kiss. “Because you’re stuck with it now.”
His smile was radiant. “Gladly.” Then his expression sobered slightly. “But back to your dilemma. You need to decide what this calling truly means to you, separate from the institution that’s defined it until now.”
I sighed, leaning back against the couch. “I still believe in helping people. In facing darkness—real darkness, not just the church’s simplistic definition of it. But I can’t go back to seeing the world in black and white, not after…” I gestured between us.
“Not after fraternizing with the enemy?” Lucien suggested, a hint of his usual wry humor returning.
“Not after falling in love with someone I was taught to fear,” I corrected, the words coming easily now, though they still filled me with a sense of wonder.
Lucien’s expression softened again, that look of amazement he still got whenever I expressed my feelings for him. It was endearing—this ancient, powerful being so genuinely touched by human affection.
“So go to the meeting,” he said, surprising me. “Hear what they have to say. Then decide your path forward based on your conscience, not their expectations.”
I stared at him. “You want me to go?”
“I want you to be at peace with your choices,” he clarified. “And I don’t think you can do that while avoiding confrontation with your past.”
He had a point. The anxiety of waiting, of avoiding, had been weighing on me heavily.
“What if they ask about you?” I worried. “Father Finnegan already suspects something.”
