"You kept the Devil's Son under our protection? Without Sanction? Without report?"
And Father Nicholas just stood there, silent and eyes determined and sharp, "I would do it again."
—
—
He stepped on the gas, 'Rest Stop Inn' came in view just as he drifted into a sharp bend. An L-shaped motel sitting by the highway, with old fading doors that called travelers to come take a rest.
He pulled into the lot, gravel crunching beneath his wheels. He quickly headed for the reception room.
The bell above the reception door jingled as his huge figure loomed by the door frame casting a shadow in the night. Behind the counter sat a tired-eyed woman. She dropped her newspaper just below her face to see who walked in.
Her eyes widened. Surprised by the brooding figure. Not who she expected to see in the middle of nowhere. Nothing like the usual tired truckers that come to pass the night.
She quickly folded her papers. Then placed a mug of coffee on the newspaper. The coffee spilled. She lifted her eyes, her shaky hands fumbled nervously wiping off the spill.
"Forgive my clumsy hands, Father," she said, forcing a smile.
Swiftly, he approached the desk, not bothering with pleasantries. Quickly grabbed her by the hands. The smell of coffee and old books made his nose twitch. His eyes scanned the office, still gripping her.
"Room 314," he said, voice low and urgent, almost strained.
"Al—Alright," she shuddered, eyes darting from his eyes to the grip on her hands. The grip had been instinct and it seemed too tight. Gently he released his grip. The woman looked up slowly and her smile was polite and forced. But her eyes held fear and curiosity, maybe.
"Key's ready, Father." She slid the brass key on the counter, and he took it without hesitation. No 'thank-you,' no explanation, just a curt nod before turning on his heel and walking back into the night. She lingered for a second.
'This priest again at the motel, asking for same room, always after dark and alone. Last time he dashed out breathless, now he gripped my hand?' The question hovered in her mind, but she didn't chase them. She just shrugged it off. Some answers, she figured, aren't worth the asking.
He retrieved a nondescript brown briefcase from the trunk of his car at the lot. Unassuming, yes, but the weight of its content gave it gravity.
The "Rest Stop Inn" looked like it hadn't been updated since the '80s. No one will expect much from a place like this, especially not from the room at the end of the motel.
But not Him, the priest. He didn't hesitate.
At the farthest edge of the building, he stopped at Room 314. He didn't like coming back here. It always meant one thing... unavoidable danger, a deadly emergency. To him life wasn't life without it.
The door creaked open and revealed something else entirely. Inside the room looked untouched by time. A fireplace crackled by the corner casting a soft golden light across the space. It was as if Room 314 didn't belong to the motel at all. The contrast between the exterior and the interior was jarring. It was a spacious room dressed in elegance and warmth. But the kind of warmth that felt... controlled.
He turned, gaze fixed in the night. It felt as though something was there. That eerie feeling of something or someone watching and waiting... to strike, maybe? As he was about to step inside, cold breeze whooshed brushing his neck. He sighed gently, shook his head, then stepped inside.
He flipped the switch on. Immediately, silence pressed in around him. Only the sound of crackling fire could be heard. He hastily set the briefcase on the table exposing the content of the bag on the table.
Inside, a chalk and salt set in worn cloth, and a silver chalice, with bundles of incense. A vial of black oil, curved ritual knife, and a grimoire bound in old leather. Mortar and pestle and several short bark-stripped sticks bundles in twine, and just beside them was a cauldron.
The air began to shift as he lit the incense. Smoke curled up in the room slowly, with spirals grazing the ceiling like smoke from funeral pyre.
He took off his clerical collar. Unbuttoned his black shirt revealing a sliver of his tattoo-inked skin etched with sacred glyphs and unknown symbols. He rolled his sleeves up to his elbow like routine. A supposed Man of God with tattoos on his chest and arms?
He quickly shoved the bed aside with a low grunt. Tugged the rug with a whoosh, revealing a clear space in the center of the room.
Then he knelt.
Chalk in hands, and began to draw.
A circle, perfect and wide. Runes at its edges like teeth, intersecting at ten cardinal points. At the center, he etched symbols and sigils older than any language could interpret. It pulsed with unseen weight.
He selected sticks. They looked mundane, just dry branches, but as he broke them into tiny bits, a strange bitter aroma filled the air. His sensitivity to smell felt like a curse now. He broke them into the mortar and crushed them. Then poured them into the cauldron, adding three drops of the black oil, it let out a soft hiss. A frown creased his face from the smell of the mixture. Then dipped his fingers into the warm mixture, tracing lines upon the drawn sigils and symbols on the floor. First around the sigil, then outwards like a vein.
This was no simple invocation. This was a door. And this priest was about to open it.
She had been watching from the shadows, this priest, and when the energy grew stronger, she gently phased into room.
He lit the candles, each one around the ten cardinal points. He opened the grimoire to a page etched in ancient language with fading handwriting. He read for a moment, mouthing the words as if they might bite back.
His preparation was done and it sent a shiver down Aria's spine.
Even in her invisible state she could smell it. The strong scent of bitterwood and oil thick with intention. It whispered of a ritual unfolding, a ritual that is supposed to be beyond reach, forbidden and forgotten. Something that doesn't belong to the mortal realm and she felt it in her bones.
As a wanderer attuned to the unseen arts, Aria was no stranger to omens and malevolent disturbances. She didn't need to guess, she knew what was happening.
Aria's heart pounded. She had slipped in through the veil of reality, phased in from the shadows with the grace of a ghost. She pressed against the edge of reality, watching with eyes burning with both dread and curiosity.
On the floor, the ritual symbol blazed. The infernal symbol, ancient sigils and runes danced, casting hellfire shadow that flickered and slashed like demons trying to claw free.
Her eyes stung from the bitter smoke from the circle. But she didn't blink, she couldn't afford to.
Her mind spun with questions and thoughts.
She felt it, the night was brittle tonight. The veil was thinning, lines were bleeding and it was due to the summoning by this priest.
In front of the circle was the priest. He stood with his arms raised. His movement was sharp and controlled. He was drawing forces from sources no man dared touch. And the flames obeyed him.
He wasn't new to this. He clearly knew what he was doing. He knew what he was summoning. A demon.
Then the flames extinguished with a loud whoosh. The air rustled the man's hair. He staggered back for a bit. Face still emotionless and determined.
Then there was silence and darkness. The lights all went off. The fireplace had struggled to hold its fire. The room inhaled. Like something stepped through and the darkness thickened.
Aria's breath caught immediately. She knew this energy. She knew this presence. She staggered behind with every step back feeling heavier than the other. Her mind screamed to leave there. Her heart was pounding hard inside her chest like it was going to explode. She fought to hold her invisibility cast on.
It emerged from the Circle like nightmare made flesh, towering and scaled. Its hide gleamed under the flickering firelight. Twin horns curled like wicked blades from its skull and its eyes... a deep pit, black as a void and yet burning with hell's malice.
It snarled, revealing rows of saw-like teeth. Its clawed limb twitched with blood lust. The room shook under its weight.
A demon.
And it was about to strike, immediately the priest raised his hands. His voice dropped, but somehow it was louder and it grew with authority.
"Zorvath," he said. "By the blood that bridges realms, by the oath that is sealed in flame and ash, and by the rite of the Ordo Lux Veritalis Infernalis...
I name thee,
I bind thee,
I call thee to kneel."
He quickly drew a dagger through his palm. He squeezed without wincing. The blood from his hand trickled down to the sigils of the circle. It sizzled and smoked.
Zorvath fell back and roared in rage and pain. Invisible chains slithered up from the circle and coiled around his limb bringing his ginormous body to his knees and around his throat. The impact shook the room!
It thrashed to the floor, letting out guttural curses. But the priest didn't seem to budge. He just stepped forward.
"By my name, Nicholas Valerian, and by the covenant of the Verax. I root you to this realm. You're mine to command. Mine to contain. Until your purpose is completed or your form returns to ashes."