Chapter 13: The Reckoning
The bishop’s boat was an ugly, gray intrusion on the sparkling water. Paul watched it from the rectory window, a cold stone of dread in his gut. He knew before the gangplank hit the dock. The call had come. A "routine wellness check," spurred by an "anonymous concern" about Father Duplenticy's "unorthodox nature" and its impact on parish stability.
Jud stood beside him, gripping the windowsill until his knuckles were bone. "Paul," he whispered, the word trembling.
"Just be polite. Humble. It will be fine," Paul said, but the lie tasted like ash.
Then the two men came up the path. Bishop Callahan, tall and stern as a cliff face. Bishop Miller, smaller, with eyes that never stopped calculating. Jud made a small, choked sound, like a stepped-on bird. His entire body went rigid.
"Paul," Jud whispered again, urgent, breathless. His hand fisted in Paul’s sleeve. "Hide me. Please. You have to hide me."
"Judah, what is it? What’s wrong?"
"Those men. They…" Jud’s eyes were huge, swimming with a terror Paul had never seen in him, not even in his nightmares. "In the seminary. They were… they bred me. Many times. They called it ‘paring the aberrant branch.’"
The words hung in the air, poison and ice. Paul’s vision tunneled. The soft, joyful man from last night—the one who’d giggled about a velvet cape—was gone, replaced by this shivering ghost.
There was no time. The knock came, crisp and authoritative.
The interviews were to be conducted separately. "Standard procedure," Bishop Miller said with a smile that didn't touch his eyes. "To ensure… candor."
Paul gave Jud one last, desperate look as Bishop Callahan led him away, not toward the office, but to the small, windowless storage room next to the sacristy. Jud looked back, his face a silent scream.
Paul’s own interview was a blur of civil, clipped answers. He sat in the too-warm office, the air thick with the smell of old paper and the bishops’ expensive cologne. He focused on the grain of the deskwood, on keeping his voice neutral and his hands still. He painted Jud as he was to the island: earnest, clumsy, deeply faithful, a hard worker. "A blessing to St. Patrick’s," he said, the words like ground glass in his throat.
Then his vampire hearing, usually a shuttered window he kept firmly locked, splintered open. It was the sound of a door closing. The scrape of a chair. A low, familiar whimper.
"Look at you, Judah. My God. You’ve filled out. The island air must agree with that remarkable body of yours." Bishop Callahan’s voice, a low rumble.
"Please, Your Excellency, I—"
"Remove your cassock."
A strangled silence. Then the soft, shuddering sound of buttons being undone. Paul’s fingers dented the hard wood of the chair. The bishop across from him droned on about parish donation records. Paul nodded, a stiff jerk of his head.
The sounds from the other room were a vile symphony. The rustle of fabric hitting the floor. A soft, wet gasp.
"Even more spectacular than I remembered," Miller’s voice now, slick with hunger. "Those tits. Heavy. Perfect for milking. Get on your knees."
Paul heard the dull thud of knees meeting hardwood. He heard the sound of a zipper. He heard Jud’s breath hitch, then the wet, choking sound of a cock pushing into a pliant mouth. Not forceful, not violent. That was the horror of it. It was practiced, lazy, claiming.
"Such a good, soft mouth. Always knew how to take it. Deep now. All the way. Yes. Just like that."
Paul answered a question about confirmation classes. His voice was a distant, autopilot drone. Inside, a storm of black, static rage was building, a pressure against his ribs and skull. He could smell Jud’s fear-sweat through the wall. He could smell the bishops’ arousal, a pungent, aggressive musk.
The sounds changed. A muffled cry. The rough shuffle of bodies. The creak of the old desk in the storage room being used for weight.
"Turn him over, Michael. I want to see that divine cunt. Look at that. Swollen. Puffy. Was thinking of the old days, weren’t you, you little freak? Your body knows its purpose."
Paul’s interrogator, Bishop Hendricks, frowned. "You seem distracted, Father Hill."
"My apologies," Paul said, his jaw so tight it ached. "A migraine."
From the other room, a low, rhythmic slap began. A grunt of effort. Jud’s crying was soft, hopeless, a continuous stream of shattered breath.
"Tighter than ever. Christ. He’s a natural sleeve. We were fools to let him be sent out here."
"Mmm. Perhaps not. Think of it. A private rectory. For special… visitors. Boating trips. A retreat for those in need of unique… solace."
They were talking over him, through him, as Miller fucked into Jud with a steady, leisurely pace. Paul could hear the slick, filthy sound of each thrust. He could picture it: Jud bent over the desk, his beautiful breasts flattened against the wood, his face wet with tears and spit, taking it. Taking it because his entire life had taught him this was his only value.
"Would you like that, Judah? To be our island whore? A ministry of the flesh. We could build an extension. Soundproof it."
Jud’s response was a guttural sob, cut short as a thrust drove the air from his lungs.
"His womb is so deep. I can feel it. He was made for this."
The fucking continued. Paul heard it all. The casual degradation. The wet slap of skin. The way Miller’s voice grew thicker, more breathless. "God, I’m going to fill you. Going to pump this filthy cunt full. Breed you like we used to. Mark our property again."
Paul’s own interview wrapped up. Hendricks stood, looking vaguely dissatisfied but with no concrete complaints. "He seems a harmless enough creature, if unusual. We’ll confer with Bishop Callahan."
Paul was out of the chair before the man finished speaking. He moved down the hall, his footsteps silent. He stood outside the storage room door. The sounds were climaxing. Miller’s staccato grunts. Callahan’s low encouragement. The final, shuddering cry from Jud, a sound of utter defeat.
Then silence, broken by soft rustling and the bishops’ calm, resumed conversation about logistics, as if they’d just finished a round of golf.
Paul’s hand went to the doorknob. It was locked. He scratched at the wood, once, his nail leaving a pale, deep gouge. He heard the murmur inside stop, then the click of the lock.
The door opened. Bishop Callahan stood there, adjusting his robes, his face a mask of placid authority. Behind him, Jud was on the floor, curled into a ball beside the desk. His cassock was a puddle of black cloth nearby. He was naked, shining with sweat, streaks of milky white leaking from between his thighs and from the corner of his swollen mouth. His eyes were open, fixed on nothing, empty holes in a pale face.
The bishops stepped past Paul without a word, joining Hendricks in the office, the door clicking shut behind them.
Paul fell to his knees. He gathered Jud up, the man’s body limp and shocky cold. He didn’t speak. He carried him through the empty rectory, up the stairs to their bedroom. He wet a cloth in the basin and cleaned him, wiping away the spend and the salt, his own hands trembling violently. He dressed Jud in a soft sleepshirt, the fabric swallowing his shivering frame, and tucked him under the quilt.
Downstairs, the bishops were leaving. Paul heard their voices on the path, cheerful, thanking Bev Keane for her "vigilance."
Through the bedroom window, Paul saw her. She stood on the porch of the rectory, watching the bishops go, her usual smugness gone. Her face was pale, her hands clutched together at her waist. She had heard the sounds too. The old walls carried everything. She had heard the weeping, the violated silence, the casual evil in those calm clerical voices. Her anonymous call had brought the wolf to the door, and she had finally seen its teeth.
She turned and looked up, meeting Paul’s gaze through the glass. In her eyes, he saw the crumbling of her certain world, the dawning, horrifying guilt. He held her look, letting her see the absolute, frozen hate in his own. He didn't blink. He didn't move. He simply let the vast, silent ocean of his contempt wash over her until, with a flinch, she looked away, stumbling back a step.
He turned from the window. Jud lay still, breathing in shallow hitches. Paul stretched out beside him, wrapping his body around Jud’s, holding the broken pieces together, and stared at the wall as the afternoon light faded, planning his next move in the terrible, quiet dark.