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A blog for poetry, prose, and pop culture.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Flash Fiction: The Darkest Dawn

Chapter 2

Father Quinton drove me back to the church, St. Augustine's. It wasn't much of a church, a small brick building with a cross at the peak of the bell tower, but it was old. In my line of work, old always beats grandiose. The power behind place magic, especially place magic of a holy locale, always grows over time. As long as the building stays in use, the power will grow. Hell some places retain power long after their time simply based on the residue.

St. Augustine was one of the first churches built in Santa Diego, and was rebuilt from the stone and stucco of it's earlier brethren buildings into the brick and mortar church here today. As we pulled closer, I had to shut off my second vision, the glowing energy surrounding the place was to much to handle. A mix of orange and blue, spells of defense and protection, both ethereal and holy magic blending in a spiral so bright it was blinding.

Quint parked the car and I got out slowly. He led me in through the back way like he always did, and sat me down at the table inside a small kitchenette. Quint lived on the second floor and usually cooked his meals up their, instead of the one down here that was for the Sunday Schoolers. He still hadn't taken me upstairs yet, hell he probably didn't trust me yet. But that was okay, I knew what I was, and more importantly, I knew what my job was.

Quint cleaned my wounds, which were already healing quite nicely, and fixed me a small meal. We didn't say much to each other, me replaying the fight with the Were in my head, Quint probably offering prayers to his God. After he was done and I finished the meal, he asked me to lower my head. He repeated as string of prayers I had heard countless times before, asking the Lord God to forgive the sins I had committed, and to bless me as his agent against the night. I knew that it was bullshit though. I didn't matter how many monsters I killed, how much work I did in God's name, the Damned don't get repentance in the end.

When he was done he gave me a clean shirt form the cache I left here, and went to throw my old in the trash. Before he could toss the coat in, I grabbed his wrist.

"Not the coat Padre."

He breathed a small sigh and handed it over. I shrugged the coat on, the long tears in the back flapping as I headed for the door. The torn coat was a helluva lot less conspicuous than the two guns on my hip, and I wasn't really looking for any more trouble tonight than I already had. Thumbing a smoke from the crumpled pack, I flicked my dented Zippo out.

"See ya tonight Quint."

He traced the cross over his chest as I shut the door and I could have sworn he shuddered. Rookies. I looked up to the moon, and I could tell I still had a few hours before true dawn. I figured I had enough time to hit Vickers before it was time head home. Pulling a long drag of my smoke, I walked down the block. Fuck it was hard to hail a cab at this hour.

End of Line.

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