Jim Butcher - Side Jobs

“Okay,” I said. “Where?”

“St. Mary’s,” Michael said, his tone positively grim. “I’m going to talk to Forthill.”

FORTHILL HAD JUST finished saying evening Mass when we showed up. Father Paulo greeted Michael like a long-lost son, and how was he doing, and of course we could wait for Forthill in his chambers. I suspected Paulo held deep reservations in regard to me. But that was okay. I wasn’t feeling particularly trusting toward him, either.

We’d been waiting in Forthill’s quarters for maybe five minutes when the old priest came in. He took one look at Michael and got pale.

“Talk to me about the order,” Michael said quietly.

“My son,” Forthill said. He shook his head. “You know that I—”

“He’s taken Alicia, Tony.”

Forthill’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

“He’s taken my daughter,” Michael roared, his voice shaking the walls. “I don’t care what oaths you’ve sworn. I don’t care what the Church thinks needs to be kept secret. We have to find this man and find him now.”

I blinked at Michael and found myself leaning a little away from him. The heat of his anger was palpable, a living thing that brought its own presence, its own gravity, into the room.

Forthill faced that anger like an old rock thrusting up stubbornly through a turbulent sea—worn and unmoving. “I will not break my oaths, Michael. Not even for you.”

“I’m not asking you to do it for me,” Michael said. “I’m asking you to do it for Alicia.”

Forthill flinched. “Michael,” he said quietly. “The order maintains security for a reason. Its enemies have sought to destroy it for two thousand years, and in that time the order has helped hundreds of thousands, even millions. You know that. A breach could put the entire order at risk—and that means more than my life, or yours.”

“Or an innocent child’s, apparently,” I said. “I guess you’re going to take that ‘Suffer the little children to come unto Me’ thing kind of literally, eh, Padre?”

Forthill looked from Michael to me, and then to the floor. He took a slow breath, and then smoothed his hands over his vestments. “It never gets any easier, does it? Trying to work out the right thing to do.” He answered his own question. “No. I suppose it’s often simpler to determine the proper path than it is to actually walk it.”

Forthill rose and walked over to a section of the wood-paneled wall. He put his hands at the top-right and lower-left sections of the panel and, with a grunt, pushed it in. It slid aside, revealing a space the size of a closet, filled with file cabinets and a small bookshelf.

I traded a glance with Michael, who raised his eyebrows in surprise. He hadn’t known about the hidey-hole.

Forthill opened a drawer and started thumbing through files. “The Ordo Malleus has existed, in one form or another, since the founding of the Church. Originally, we were tasked with the casting out of demons from the possessed, but as the Church grew, it became clear that we needed to be able to counter the threats from other enemies as well.”

“Other enemies?” I asked.

“Various beings who were masquerading as gods,” Forthill said. “Vampires and other supernatural predators. Wicked faeries who resented the Church’s influence.” He glanced at me. “Practitioners of witchcraft who turned their hand against the followers of Christ.”

“Hell’s bells,” I muttered. “The Inquisition.”

Forthill grimaced. “The Inquisition has become the primary reason Malleus maintains itself in secrecy—and why we very seldom engage in direct action ourselves. It’s all too easy to let power go to your head when you’re certain God is on your side. The Inquisition, in many ways, attempted to bring our struggle into the light—and because of the situation it helped create, more innocent men and women died than throughout centuries of the most savage, supernatural depredation.

“We support the Knights of the Cross and do whatever we can to counsel and protect God’s children against supernatural threats—the way we protected the girl you brought to me the year Michael’s youngest was born. Now the order recruits people singly, after years of personal observation, and maintains the highest levels of personal, ethical integrity humanly possible.” He turned to us, with a file folder in his hands. “But as you pointed out earlier, Harry, we’re only human.”

I took the folder from him, opened it, and found Buzz’s picture. I recognized the short haircut, and the severe lines of his chin and jaw. His eyes were new to me, though. They were as grey as stone, but less warm and fuzzy.

“‘Father Roarke Douglas,’” I read. “‘Age forty-three. Five eleven, one hundred eighty-five. Sniper for the Rangers, trained in demolitions, U.S. Army chaplain, parish priest in Guatemala, Indonesia, and Rwanda.’”

“Good Lord preserve us,” Michael said.

“Yeah. A real holy warrior,” I said. I eyed Forthill. “And this guy was brought in?”

“I’ve met Roarke on several occasions,” Forthill said. “I was always impressed with his reserve and calm in the face of crisis. He repeatedly distinguished himself by acts of courage in protecting his parishioners in some of the most dangerous locations in the world.” He shook his head. “But he . . . changed, in the last few years.”

“Changed,” Michael said. “How?”

“He became a strong advocate for . . . preemptive intervention.”

“He wanted to hit back first, eh?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen what life can be like in some of the places Father Douglas has lived,” Forthill said. “It’s not so simple.”

“It never is,” I said.

“He was, in particular, an admirer of Shiro’s,” Forthill continued. “When Shiro died, he was devastated. They had worked together several times.”

“The way you worked with Michael,” I said.

Forthill nodded. “Roarke was . . . not satisfied with the disposition of Fidelacchius . He made it known to the rest of Malleus, too. As time went by, he became increasingly frustrated that the sword was not being put to use.”

I could see where this one was going. “And then I got hold of Amoracchius , too.”

Forthill nodded. “He spent the last year trying to convince the senior members of Malleus that we had been deceived. That you were, in fact, an agent of an enemy power, who had taken the swords so they could not be used.”

“And no one thought to mention the way those archangels gave orders that I was supposed to hold them?”

“They never appear to more than one or two people at a time—and you are a wizard, Harry,” Forthill said. “Father Douglas hypothesized that you had created an illusion to serve your purpose, or else had tampered directly with our minds.”

“And now he’s on a crusade,” I muttered.

Forthill nodded. “So it would seem.”

I kept on reading the file. “He’s versed in magic—well enough, at least, to be smart about how he deals with me. Contacts in various supernatural communities, like the Venatori Umbrorum, which probably explains that protective amulet.” I shook my head. “And he thinks he’s saving the world. The guy’s a certifiable nightmare.”

“Where is he?” Michael asked quietly.

“He could be anywhere,” Forthill replied. “Malleus sets up caches of equipment, money, and so forth. He could have tapped into any one of them. I tried his cell phone. He’s not returning my calls.”

“He thinks you’ve been mind-scrambled by the enemy,” I muttered. “What did you expect to accomplish?”

“I had hoped,” Forthill said gently, “that I might ask him to be patient and have faith.”