Chapter 10: The Sermon of Ashes
The rectory smelled of iodine, old wood, and fear. Riley had nailed a board over the broken pane in the front door, a temporary fix that made the whole place feel like a shoddy cage. Daylight bled around its edges, stripes of gold on the floorboards that seemed too bright, too exposing.
In the back bedroom, Paul lay impossibly still. The bruising had ripened into a horrific tapestry of violets and yellows across his cheekbones, but the dislocated jaw was set, the broken fingers splinted. The spine fracture was the real problem. He could move his toes, a fraction, but trying to sit up brought white-hot agony that stole his breath for a full minute. So he stayed on his back, his unnervingly young face looking up at the water-stained ceiling, eyes tracking nothing.
Riley wiped a cool cloth over Paul’s forehead. His own hands hadn’t stopped trembling since he’d heard the distant roar from the church.
“Sarah called again,” Riley said, his voice gravel. “The ‘indefinite medical leave’ story is toast. Bev saw to that.”
Paul’s eyes shifted to him. A question.
“Yeah. She told them everything. Pruitt. The blood. Me.” Riley’s jaw worked. “Painted you as a predatory fag vampire trying to recruit for your demonic boy-choir. Classic Bev.”
A sound escaped Paul’s throat, a wet, broken thing that wasn’t quite a word. Humiliation. Terror.
“Don’t,” Riley said, too harshly. He softened his tone. “Don’t. It doesn’t matter.”
It matters, Paul’s eyes screamed. It’s all that matters. My sin, my truth, all laid bare for them to spit on.
The phone in Riley’s pocket buzzed. Erin. He put it on speaker, set it on the bed between them.
“They’re dividing,” Erin’s voice came, strained but clear. “It’s not half-and-half, Riley. It’s maybe seventy-thirty. Seventy want him staked out for the tide or burned out of the rectory. The thirty… it’s us. The ones who remember he gave them back their dying kids, their parents. Sarah’s a rock. But it’s getting ugly. Joe Collie’s talking about forming a ‘neighborhood watch’ for the rectory. That’s a mob with a polite name.”
“How long?” Riley asked.
“Bev’s smart. She won’t lead it. She’ll let someone else’s anger boil over. Tonight? Tomorrow? You can’t stay there.”
Paul’s good hand fluttered, tapping the phone. Riley understood.
“Sarah there?”
A rustle, then Sarah’s voice, choked with tears she was clearly fighting. “He’s my father. And they were calling him a pedophile. I threw a hymnal at Aloysius Miller’s head.”
A faint, pained spark in Paul’s eyes. Pride.
“Listen to me,” Sarah said, the nurse-voice cutting through the grief. “This isn’t a spiritual crisis, it’s a medical one. He has a spinal injury. He needs imaging, a real neurologist, proper stabilization. You’re an ex-con with first-aid training, Riley. I love you for it, but it’s not enough. And it’s not safe. The next time they come, it won’t be with shouts. It’ll be with gasoline and a match.”
“He can’t travel,” Riley said flatly, looking at Paul’s immobile form. “A boat ride would break him in half.”
“Then we get a helicopter! I’ll call in every favor. We get him to the mainland, to a secure hospital. Bev’s poison doesn’t reach there.”
“And what happens when they run tests?” Riley’s voice dropped, low and urgent. “When they see his blood isn’t right, when they notice he doesn’t have a fucking heartbeat, Sarah? They won’t treat him. They’ll dissect him.”
Silence on the line, filled with the terrible truth. Paul was a medical and theological impossibility. There was no place for him.
“So we just wait for the mob?” Erin said quietly.
“No,” Riley said. “We plan.”
He ended the call. The room was silent except for Paul’s shallow, pained breathing. Riley sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He didn’t touch Paul, not yet. The space between them was electric with everything unsaid.
“They think I’m your victim,” Riley finally said. “That’s the funniest fucking part.”
Paul’s eyes begged him not to do this.
“You didn’t lay a hand on me I didn’t want you to. You know that? Even when you were trying to save my soul, you asked. You always asked.” He let out a shaky breath. “Now I’m asking you. What do you want? You want to fight? We barricade this place, we fight. You want to run? I’ll carry you to the skiff myself, and we take our chances with the sea. You want to turn yourself over? I won’t let you, but you can want it.”
Tears welled in Paul’s brown eyes, spilling over and cutting paths through the blood and grime still on his temples. His lips, swollen and cut, moved silently.
Riley leaned close, his own breath catching. “What?”
Paul summoned every ounce of strength. A whisper, raw and shattered. “S–scared.”
That single word undid Riley completely. He saw the centuries of certainty, the faith that moved mountains and raised the dead, now reduced to this: a broken thing in a bed, terrified of the dark and the torchlight both. He saw the young priest who had lost his way, the old man trapped in a beautiful cage, the monster who wept.
“I know,” Riley murmured. He finally took Paul’s unbroken hand, lacing their fingers together. He brought it to his lips, not a kiss, just a press of warmth against cold skin. “Me too. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He began the careful, silent work of cleaning Paul again. He peeled back the blanket, the sheet. He cleaned the long, awful scrape along Paul’s hip with gentle dabs. His touch was clinical, but his eyes took in the truth of Paul’s body, not as a revelation, but as a fact. The softness of his belly, the gentle curve of his breasts with their long, dark nipples, the thatch of hair between his legs that hid the vulnerability there. It was just Paul. Beautiful, broken, and his.
Paul watched him, the shame slowly fading from his eyes, replaced by a weary, stunned acceptance. Riley’s touch held no horror, no disgust, only a focus so intense it felt like a sacrament.
A heavy fist suddenly pounded on the front door, making them both jump. The board rattled.
“Flynn! You in there?” It was Joe Collie’s voice, slurred with early courage. “We need to talk about the situation!”
Riley’s body went still, his prison instincts clicking into place. He met Paul’s wide, panicked eyes. He leaned down, his lips brushing Paul’s ear.
“Not a sound,” he breathed.
He stood, his movements suddenly quiet and efficient. He pulled the blanket up to Paul’s chin, a pointless gesture of protection. From the side table drawer, he took the heavy, old pipe wrench he’d placed there hours before. Its weight was comforting, sickeningly so.
He walked out of the bedroom, pulling the door nearly shut behind him. He stood in the dim hallway, the wrench hanging at his side, and watched the front door.
The pounding came again. “We know he’s in there! Bev told us everything! Send the monster out, Flynn! Before we have to come in and get him!”
Riley didn’t answer. He just waited, his breath slowing, his world narrowing to the door, the weapon, and the fragile heartbeat of the man in the room behind him. The fight had reached the rectory. And he was ready to become a monster they would understand.