F ESTIVALÉ, VERMONT, LOOKS DIFFERENT IN THE dead of night.
It’s a dirty town.
Filthy. Teeming with darkness.
My superior sent me to revive the historic area. To bring it back to the path of righteousness where it’s been missing for far too long.
When I first arrived earlier today, it sent a shot of nostalgia through me. I sat in the passenger seat of the SUV as it rolled slowly down the roads, the French Colonial architecture reminding me of my childhood—of growing up in the back alleys of Paris, begging for scraps and stealing just to keep myself alive and fed.
This town, much like Paris, drips of sin, although it lacks the finesse.
Instead of holding on to what should be a rich history, preserved from when Vermont was part of New France in the 1700s, Festivalé seems like a caricature. A farcical ode to somewhere it doesn’t belong. The name of the town itself isn’t even real French.
Still, if I were a man of hope, I’d look through the dusty windows and see potential. But there’s evil polluting the air, making it thick and muggy, a dark cloud that blankets the valley and creates disease in everything it touches. I can smell it with every inhale. Taste it with every breath. A part of me worries it will infect me too, but I cast the thought aside quickly, feeling my defenses fortify until they’re as strong as steel.
I’m not sure what time it is now, just that it’s hours after my arrival, and when I left my new home, it was nearing midnight. I hadn’t meant to venture outside so soon after arriving, but there was a need surging inside me, a familiar one that I try to ignore.
And I’m only human.
When my own sickness comes to fruition, I’m helpless against its pull.
Il est miséricordieux.
He is merciful.
Tonight, the air is cold, and I rush down the cracked sidewalks and back alleys, a hint of frost nipping at my nose and the tips of my ears until a stinging numbness skates across my skin. I dip my head, the collar of my black peacoat chafing against the sides of my neck as I make my way through what I’m guessing is the roughest part of the city.
The full moon casts an eerie glow on the quiet streets, my footsteps echoing through the otherwise still air.
Suddenly, a door to my left opens, yellow light bleeding from the entrance, highlighting the silhouette of a woman. Her voice bounces off the crumbling brick buildings that have rotting boards and broken glass for windows.
I hesitate, frowning from beneath the wide brim of my hat as she saunters off her stoop and moves toward me. I scan the area. There’s nobody outside except for us.
She stops directly in front of me, her hazy gaze peering up into mine, pupils dilated, making her eyes as black as coal.
My stomach drops.
Une démone.
A demon.
“You’re new,” she croons. Her voice is raspy in a practiced sort of way that I’m sure has been honed to make a man’s cock twitch and his baser instincts surge forward. But I haven’t had a single sexual urge toward a woman in years.
Disgust burns the back of my throat, and a voice whispers in my mind, but I try to ignore the wicked thoughts. I didn’t come outside to act on my impulses, only to clear them from my psyche.
I stare down my nose at her, towering over her wiry frame, though she isn’t short by any means. A burst of icy wind whips across my face, my teeth clamping to keep from chattering.
Goose bumps sprout along the woman’s creamy exposed chest, and she shifts, leaves crunching beneath her feet.
Her palm reaches out and ghosts down the lapel of my black coat, and it spurs me into movement, snapping out my gloved hands to grab her fingers tightly. A surprised gasp leaves her sloppy red lips.
“What’s your name, démone?” I rasp.
The shock melts from her features, a gleam of curiosity taking its place.
“That’s quite the accent.” She steps in close. “You can call me whatever you want as long as you can pay, baby. Cash or…or smack if you’ve got it.”
My sickness sings.
And before I can shove it back down, my monster—that sickness— explodes, sinking into my bones until they ache.
I drop my hold from the woman’s wrist and give her a curt nod.
Her grin stretches until it reaches the corners of her sunken face. “Follow me.”
She spins and walks back to her open door, and I scan the area one last time, ensuring no one is around to see.
Still alone.
Her place is small and filthy. Just a single room with a dirty mattress on the floor and a lamp with no shade flickering in the corner. The bed itself is riddled with stains, and I can smell the unholy matings permeating the air, so thick it makes me feel like I can’t breathe.
Years ago, I would have been envious of this space. I would have longed for a mattress beneath me at night and a roof over my head.
But that was before.
The woman turns to face me, and I notice the pock marks scattered along her gaunt face, a feral desperation swimming in the depths of her features, reaching out to capture my energy with its shadowy black claws.
The man in me wants to step away, but the monster calls her closer.
Her bony hips sway as she saunters over, and something sour teases the edges of my mouth as I watch her malnourished body attempt seduction. Her hands slip up the front of my peacoat, undoing the buttons slowly. I let her, and when the material gapes open, her eyes lock on the distinct collar around my neck, widening as her head snaps up to meet my gaze.
She jerks, but I grab her hard enough to bruise, dragging her flush against me.
“Le diable est à l’intérieur de toi,” I hiss.
She shakes her head. “I don’t…I don’t know what that means.”
I lean down until my words whisper against her coarse, tangled hair. “It means the devil is within you.”
My hands skim up her arms until I’m wrapping my palms around her fragile throat, the thrum of her heartbeat so loud I can feel it through the leather of my gloves. Excitement bursts like a piñata in the base of my stomach, and now my cock does twitch.
I don’t care that she’s clearly a sex worker. It isn’t what she does that calls to my monster, it’s what’s inside her. I only wish to free her of her demons.
“Don’t worry, my child,” I continue. “I’ve come to help.”
And then I press down, applying pressure to her delicate windpipe. The sleeves of my coat rise with the movement, and her fingernails dig into my exposed wrists, gouging the skin, making my muscles tighten.
I enjoy the way she fights. Releasing her right before she loses consciousness, I undo the scarf from my neck and wrap it around her throat, crossing the ends and pulling.
Slowly, her body slackens, and it’s only when I see the life leave her doped- up eyes that the violent need within me fizzles out until it’s nothing but burnt ash, my sickness dissipating like it was never there at all.
I lay her corpse on the ground, breathing deep as I take back my scarf, rebutton my coat, and crouch over her body. My fingertips touch her forehead, then her lower chest, before creeping across each shoulder in the sign of the cross.
“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good,” I murmur.
Already the tendrils of guilt are weaving through my middle, coiling until my breaths become choppy and my vision starts to shake.
But I can’t control it.
I’ve had this thing within me since I was born, damned from my very first breath. It’s only in servitude that I can attempt to cleanse my soul.
“There’s a monster in you, child. And God wants me to beat it out.”
I shake off the voice from my past and stand up quickly to make my way outside, ensuring the coast is clear before I head back to the center of town.
To my new home.
It will be a long night. I won’t be able to rest until I atone, both for the sinful act of taking the life and for my lack of remorse after doing it.
Guilt squeezes my middle for not feeling anything at all.
I’ll welcome the pain.
He is merciful.
I grit my teeth against the harsh air while I walk, trying to remember where I packed my discipline: the whip I keep for times like this.
It takes me twenty minutes to get back, the Notre-Dame Cathedral gleaming in the full moon, its two intricately designed bell towers looming over the main square like a promise. The outside architecture is very Gothic and a nearly exact replica of the cathedral with the same name in Paris, although on a much smaller scale.
This entire town is like a time capsule, history that doesn’t truly belong to these people or this country suffocating the air with its ill- placed potency. It draws tourism and money though, and if the United States excels in anything, it’s greed.
I quicken my steps and am just about to head beyond the doors and around to the back courtyard where the rectory is when movement at the base of the cathedral steps catches my eye.
There’s a man leaned against the stone, his eyes closed and his hair tangled as he tries to keep warm beneath a holey blanket and fingerless gloves.
My throat tightens. I know how unforgiving the cold nights can be when you’re sleeping on concrete streets.
I stride over and rest my hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently when he jerks awake. My eyes flicker over where we touch, a few deep scratches marring my pale wrist, and a vivid memory of my fingers wrapping around that woman’s throat just a few moments earlier makes my blood heat and a burst of adrenaline rush through me.
“Come inside before you freeze.” I nod to the cathedral doors.
The man’s gaze widens, and he hesitates for only a moment before mumbling out a thanks and following me up the stairs. We head past the stone gargoyles that line the front and into the warmth of the narthex, which is the lobby just beyond the vaulted entrance.
“You can sleep here or in the nave if you wish.” I jerk my chin toward the pews of the sanctuary before spinning to move down the hall that will take me to the back exit, to the small cottage at the rear of the church property that I now call home.
“Who are you?” the man asks, his voice echoing off the high ceilings and stained glass. “I’ve never seen you before.” I pause but don’t turn to face him.
“I am Monsieur Frédéric. But you may call me Father Cade.”
