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Authors: Edward Lee
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her face in darkness.
"I don't believe in the Devil, Mr. Westmore. But my husband did."
Chapter Three
I
Nyvysk had no sensitivities, and he was grateful for that.
He'd seen enough to believe it all, though. How could he
not? In Nineveh he'd been sent to the site of the Library of
Ashurbanipal-in the '80s before the Iraq wars-and had
failed in exorcizing some thing out of a local woman who
was speaking what sounded like Zraetic, the first protodi-
alect of the Tabernacle of God. It was supposedly the language that was spoken before Adam and Eve. Nyvysk had
stood there in his Catholic raiments, The Rites of Exordsm
limp in his hand, and then watched a young Kurd in his
twenties channel out a noxious endoplasm from the
woman's eyes after which she vomited up a pile of live
frogs. Nyvysk remembered the young man's name-
Saeed.Nnd remembered the effect of his ministration. The local woman had been cured on the spot, leaving Nyvysk to
stand there, a fascinated failure.
He'd seen all that, and a lot more.
He pulled the van into a Citgo station once he'd gotten
off of 275. I don't know where I'm going, he realized with a
chuckle. He wouldn't have even taken this job; he liked to
think of himself as a part-time retiree. And he didn't really
need the money-he made plenty of that with his books,
even after the fifty-percent he gave to the Church. But
there'd been something about the woman's invitation ...
And Nyvysk, in all truth, was bored.
He drove a long Ford step van, white, innocuous. He'd
taken the wrong turn-off and wound up in this frowzy
beach town. Several construction workers were filling up
their trucks, one nodded to him as though they were comrades of the same trade. Of course, right now, with the
banged-up van and scruffy beard, Nyvysk could pass for a
blue-collar redneck himself. The thought amused him: Your
truck's full of tools. Care to guess what my truck's full oft
His first name was Alexander. He was six-foot-five and
sixty years old. So much field work for the Diocese had left
him rugged, tough. Not your typical priest. IJ they could see
me now, he thought, catching his reflection in the gasstation's plate glass. I look like somebody in ZZTopµ Gray hair
down to the bottom of his ribs, and a grayer beard to his
sternum. Workboots, faded jeans, baggy t-shirt. He tended
to dress like this most of the time; a counselor at the mental
health rectory in Richmond had told him that it was proof
of his repentance, a concerted effort on his part to appear
unattractive "to other-er ... to those who might be attracted to you in a prurient sense," a sideswipe reference to
his weakness. The beard and the long hair, too. For decades he'd had a buzz-cut and been clean shaven save for a moustache.
I guess I'm a pretty content mess, he thought.
The only thing that didn't look the part was the large
black cross around his neck.
A middle-aged couple crossing the lot on foot were arguing, a blonde wearing an amethyst necklace and a goateed
guy in a t-shirt that read JOY DIVISION. They held hands
but looked like they couldn't stand each other. I better not
ask them, Nyvysk thought. Inside when he paid for his gas,
an old man at the counter, wearing a cross, gave him the eye
when he asked, "Could you tell me how to find Prospect
Hill? I'm looking for a place called the Hildreth Mansion."
"I've no idea. Next in line!"
Ah, yes, Nyvysk thought, and reflected the first Book of
Peter. "Honor all men. Love the brotherhood." God be with you
anyway. Back outside, the couple stood by the pumps, embracing, kissing fervently. "I fucking adore you," the goateed guy whispered to the woman.
That was quick. Love is everywhere. Nyvysk asked, "Pardon
me but have you heard of Prospect Hill? I'm trying to find
the-"
"Hildreth House?" the woman asked, green eyes shining
like emeralds.
"Yes," Nyvysk said. "Good guess:'
The goateed guy pushed wire-rim glasses up his nose.
"It's a pretty
"I don't believe in the Devil, Mr. Westmore. But my husband did."
Chapter Three
I
Nyvysk had no sensitivities, and he was grateful for that.
He'd seen enough to believe it all, though. How could he
not? In Nineveh he'd been sent to the site of the Library of
Ashurbanipal-in the '80s before the Iraq wars-and had
failed in exorcizing some thing out of a local woman who
was speaking what sounded like Zraetic, the first protodi-
alect of the Tabernacle of God. It was supposedly the language that was spoken before Adam and Eve. Nyvysk had
stood there in his Catholic raiments, The Rites of Exordsm
limp in his hand, and then watched a young Kurd in his
twenties channel out a noxious endoplasm from the
woman's eyes after which she vomited up a pile of live
frogs. Nyvysk remembered the young man's name-
Saeed.Nnd remembered the effect of his ministration. The local woman had been cured on the spot, leaving Nyvysk to
stand there, a fascinated failure.
He'd seen all that, and a lot more.
He pulled the van into a Citgo station once he'd gotten
off of 275. I don't know where I'm going, he realized with a
chuckle. He wouldn't have even taken this job; he liked to
think of himself as a part-time retiree. And he didn't really
need the money-he made plenty of that with his books,
even after the fifty-percent he gave to the Church. But
there'd been something about the woman's invitation ...
And Nyvysk, in all truth, was bored.
He drove a long Ford step van, white, innocuous. He'd
taken the wrong turn-off and wound up in this frowzy
beach town. Several construction workers were filling up
their trucks, one nodded to him as though they were comrades of the same trade. Of course, right now, with the
banged-up van and scruffy beard, Nyvysk could pass for a
blue-collar redneck himself. The thought amused him: Your
truck's full of tools. Care to guess what my truck's full oft
His first name was Alexander. He was six-foot-five and
sixty years old. So much field work for the Diocese had left
him rugged, tough. Not your typical priest. IJ they could see
me now, he thought, catching his reflection in the gasstation's plate glass. I look like somebody in ZZTopµ Gray hair
down to the bottom of his ribs, and a grayer beard to his
sternum. Workboots, faded jeans, baggy t-shirt. He tended
to dress like this most of the time; a counselor at the mental
health rectory in Richmond had told him that it was proof
of his repentance, a concerted effort on his part to appear
unattractive "to other-er ... to those who might be attracted to you in a prurient sense," a sideswipe reference to
his weakness. The beard and the long hair, too. For decades he'd had a buzz-cut and been clean shaven save for a moustache.
I guess I'm a pretty content mess, he thought.
The only thing that didn't look the part was the large
black cross around his neck.
A middle-aged couple crossing the lot on foot were arguing, a blonde wearing an amethyst necklace and a goateed
guy in a t-shirt that read JOY DIVISION. They held hands
but looked like they couldn't stand each other. I better not
ask them, Nyvysk thought. Inside when he paid for his gas,
an old man at the counter, wearing a cross, gave him the eye
when he asked, "Could you tell me how to find Prospect
Hill? I'm looking for a place called the Hildreth Mansion."
"I've no idea. Next in line!"
Ah, yes, Nyvysk thought, and reflected the first Book of
Peter. "Honor all men. Love the brotherhood." God be with you
anyway. Back outside, the couple stood by the pumps, embracing, kissing fervently. "I fucking adore you," the goateed guy whispered to the woman.
That was quick. Love is everywhere. Nyvysk asked, "Pardon
me but have you heard of Prospect Hill? I'm trying to find
the-"
"Hildreth House?" the woman asked, green eyes shining
like emeralds.
"Yes," Nyvysk said. "Good guess:'
The goateed guy pushed wire-rim glasses up his nose.
"It's a pretty
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