Page 17 of Exorcise Me
I read the note three times, emotions warring in my chest. Relief that he hadn’t simply abandoned me. Frustration that he’d left just when I needed to talk to him most. And beneath it all, a profound ache that I wasn’t ready to name.
I held the honey jar up, turning it in my hands. It would be so easy to call him back right now. To see his face, hear his voice, feel his arms around me.
But he was right. I had choices to make—about my faith, my calling, my future. Choices that needed to be made clearly, not clouded by the intoxicating presence of a demon who made me question everything I thought I knew.
With a heavy sigh, I set the jar down and moved to the couch—Lucien’s makeshift bed for the past week. It still smelled faintly of him, that unique blend of cinnamon and smoke and something otherworldly.
I lay down, pulling the throw blanket over me. My apartment felt emptier than it ever had before, as if Lucien had taken some vital energy with him when he left.
What am I going to do?I wondered, staring at the ceiling.
No answer came. Not from above, not from within.
For the first time in my life, I would have to find my own path, without the guidance of mentors or the certainty of doctrine.
The thought was terrifying.
It was also strangely liberating.
Chapter 10
Three days without Lucien felt like an eternity. I moved through my apartment like a ghost, hyper-aware of his absence in spaces he’d so thoroughly occupied. The kitchen seemed too quiet without his humming. The couch too empty without his languid sprawl. The shower… well, the shower held memories I couldn’t think about without blushing.
I’d spent these days in a strange limbo. Father Finnegan had left several messages, his tone growing increasingly concerned, then stern. I hadn’t returned them. Instead, I’d buried myself in research, pulling out old seminary textbooks, cross-referencing them with historical accounts and, daringly, non-church-approved texts on demonology.
The picture that emerged was fascinating and disturbing. So much of what I’d been taught was simplified, even sanitized. The rigid categorization of demons as purely evil beings bent on corruption seemed at odds with older accounts that presented a more complex picture—demons as tricksters, teachers, even occasional allies to humans they favored.
My phone rang again, Father Finnegan’s name flashing on the screen. For the fourth time that day, I let it go to voicemail. I couldn’t talk to him yet, not until I had sorted through my own thoughts.
My gaze drifted to the honey jar sitting on my coffee table, where I’d moved it for easy access—or perhaps as a form oftemptation, a constant reminder of my power to call Lucien back. I hadn’t used it yet, though I’d come close several times, especially late at night when doubts crept in and loneliness pressed heavily on my chest.
What if he doesn’t come back?whispered an insidious voice in my mind.What if you call and he doesn’t answer?
I pushed the thought away. If there was one thing I’d learned about Lucien in our short time together, it was that he kept his promises.
A knock at my door startled me from my musings. For a wild moment, I thought it might be Lucien, ignoring his own dramatic instructions in favor of simply knocking like a normal person. But the knock came again, firmer this time, with a rhythm I recognized all too well.
Father Finnegan.
I considered not answering, but that would only delay the inevitable. With a deep breath, I moved to the door and opened it.
Father Finnegan stood in the hallway, his weathered face drawn with concern and something harder—disappointment, perhaps, or suspicion. He wore his clerical collar, a silent reminder of his authority and my place in the hierarchy of the church.
“Noah,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “May I come in?”
I hesitated only briefly before stepping aside. “Of course.”
He entered, his keen eyes scanning my apartment with the practiced scrutiny of a man accustomed to looking for signs of spiritual disturbance. Did he expect to find pentagrams drawn on my floor? Black candles? A demon lounging on my couch?
“You haven’t been answering my calls,” he said, turning to face me as I closed the door.
“I needed time to think,” I replied, moving past him to clear the books and notes from my coffee table. I subtly moved the honey jar to a shelf, out of his direct line of sight.
“Three days is a long time for thinking.” He sat in the armchair, leaving the couch for me. “Especially when you’ve missed assignments and appointments.”
I hadn’t realized how many obligations I’d neglected in my self-imposed isolation. Guilt prickled at me, but I pushed it aside.
“I’m sorry for not calling,” I said, sitting on the couch—Lucien’s couch, my mind unhelpfully supplied. “Things have been… complicated.”
