Unholy Shepherd by Robert Christian (classic literature list .txt) 📗

These lip service believers will go to confession, and I will tell them that they are absolved, but I know the truth. This is the only way to build the Lord’s army for the coming war with darkness. The signs are clear; the enemy will be here soon. We must all be pure in the eyes of God in order to swell his ranks! Now do you start to understand?”

“I understand that people like you are why I tend to avoid church,” Maureen hissed through clenched teeth. She had managed to pull herself up to one knee but still kept one hand on the ground for support. “I don’t see any reason your God would want you to do something like this.”

“Then you are blind! Priests are specifically selected to carry out these duties!” Father Preston tightened his grip on Manny’s gun and continued to wave it about as he spoke. “Was it not the job of the Kohanim in ancient Israel to carry out these sacrifices? A sacrifice of atonement is not valid unless it is done by a priest! The priests of the Tribe of Levi were not only the most holy of men, they were warriors. Was it not they alone who could carry the Ark into battle and drive back the hosts rallied against the Army of God? All of this has been forgotten by the modern day clergy. They preach tolerance of those who set themselves against the teachings of the scriptures. Your own dear Father Patrick would take sinners like Tom Lowes and Tasha Naismith to his side and coddle them and console them if they came asking to be forgiven.

“And then there’s you!” He leveled the pistol at her. “Poor little Maureen Allen. You think that the men of God who tried to drive that evil out of you mistreated you. So you live on the road, living as other people, surviving through thievery, medicating yourself with ill-gotten drugs, and drowning yourself in alcohol. He wants so badly to save you, you know. He wants to bring you back to God because he believes your visions are divinely sent!” Father Preston let out a single, scornful laugh. “He can’t see you for what you really are: a despicable whore whose abilities come from the Devil himself. Your mother was right about you!”

Maureen felt her face twist in anger at the mention of her mother. She pushed herself to her feet and stood rigid, fists clenched. She had no plan for getting past the gun, but she almost didn’t care. Almost. That minute amount of fear and uncertainty kept her feet rooted to the floor in front of the priest.

“Did I hit a soft spot?” he said with mock sympathy. “Well, your reaction just proves that you know what I say is true. You are a child of evil and beyond redemption. Fortunately,” he grinned as he spoke, “I can put you out of your misery.”

Maureen eyed the gun pointed at her chest. “Go ahead,” she replied coldly, trying her best to remain defiant to the end.

“I shall, but first, I think I’d prefer you on your knees before me.”

No chance in hell, Maureen thought. She didn’t move a muscle.

“Do it, or I’ll shoot the cop first and make you watch!” he shouted as he swung the pistol to the side and pointed it at Manny. He was still lying face down on the floor, breathing, but nothing else.

At least he’s not going to have to watch me die. Defeated, Maureen bowed her head, gritted her teeth, took a step forward, and knelt in front of Father Preston.

The priest re-aimed the gun at her head and began to chant the prayer that she had felt come from her own throat in her dreams:

Abwûn

d’bwaschmâja

Nethkâdasch schmach

Têtê malkuthach.

Nehwê tzevjânach aikâna d’bwaschmâja af b’arha.

Hawvlân lachma d’sûnkanân jaomâna.

Waschboklân chaubên wachtahên aikâna daf chnân schwoken l’chaijabên.

Wela tachlân l’nesjuna

ela patzân min bischa.

Metol dilachie malkutha wahaila wateschbuchta l’ahlâm almîn.

Amên.

Maureen closed her eyes. The gunshot shattered the air.

FORTY

The silence of the church swallowed up the echo of the muzzle blast. She couldn’t count the seconds that she knelt there in the darkness behind her closed eyes, waiting for the pain of hot, burning lead to engulf her body. The sensation never came. Her chest continued to inflate and deflate, and the sound of her own breath returned to her ears.

I’m alive, she told herself.

Maureen opened her eyes and was met with the sight of Father Preston’s body sprawled out at the base of the altar. His eyes were open, unblinking. A stream of blood was oozing from a gaping wound in his chest and collecting in a dark pool on the floor. Maureen slowly got to her feet and tiptoed to the body. Her eyes immediately found Manny’s pistol lying some five feet from the priest’s outstretched hand. She picked it up as quickly as she could and pointed it down at Father Preston, waiting for a twitch, a muscle spasm—any sign of life. When none came, she nervously kicked one of his feet. Nothing. Father Preston was dead.

Maureen let out a sigh, but her relief quickly turned to confusion as she turned around to see Manny only now beginning to pull himself off the floor and into a seated position, rubbing the back of his head and jaw with both hands. He didn’t have another backup firearm, as far as she could see anyway, so it couldn’t have been him that fired the shot. But then who did?

As she scanned around the shadows of the church, her eyes fell upon a dark mass in the back corner. As she looked on, it began to move toward the candlelight, its footsteps clattering on the stone floor. Maureen raised Manny’s gun.

“That’s the second time tonight you’ve pointed a gun at me, Maureen,” an all-too-familiar voice rang out in the darkness.

Father Patrick stepped into the light. His eyes were somber as he slowly made his way over to her. His