Page 4 of Virgil's Demons

I remained there, trembling in the corner, staring at the lifeless body on the bed, knowing the demon was right. I allowed those doubts to fill my head.

I was too weak.

How could I possibly think I was a soldier of God?

I would never be able to beat it because I wasn't worthy.

VIRGIL

1993 Savannah, GA

One Year Ago…

After the incident,I left Italy and returned to the States. I wallowed in self-pity and then self-destruction assuming alcohol would help me get my ass down to the hell where I belonged. When I attempted suicide for the third time, and failed at that as well, I figured living was my purgatory. Praying for redemption was useless, asking God for anything was useless. He'd left me a long time ago, as most soldiers were left behind to handle shit on their own.

I sought refuge in a rectory, hidden away in a hole where no one could ever see me. Where I could be forgotten. It wasn't until a mother was brought in, six months pregnant and suffering from hallucinations, that I was finally called back to my duties. It turned out, the same motherfucker who had killed Lucia had finally found me, drawing me out with an unborn baby.

Needless to say, neither the mother nor the baby survived. And I wish I could say I could have saved them, but the demon didn't give me a chance.

Instead, as soon as it saw me it had only one word for me.

"Gotcha!"

And with a snap of her neck, she had fallen to her demise.

I grew angry. Angry with God, with the Devil, and with myself for allowing this demon to haunt me. Taking the few items I had to my name, I began to move from town to town. I tracked whatever darkness lingered in the shadows, leaving it to the Vatican to deal with, but never staying long enough to finish the job. I didn't want to lose more lives, so I left it for someone else to deal with. I didn't belong anywhere, and the idea of finding some kind of home—or worse, some kind of purpose—was honestly laughable.

Living just became a blur, that is until Bulldog Jameson showed up.

There had been word roaming around of the Royal Bastards MC, their reputation hard to ignore in certain dark circles. They weren't saints by any stretch, but they weren't your run-of-the-mill outlaws either. They operated in the grey veil, riding the fine line between freedom and chaos. When I saw Bulldog's hulking figure step into the run-down church where I'd been hiding out, I knew my days of working alone in the shadows were pretty much done.

In my drunken stupor, I lifted the half-empty bottle of whiskey and pointed at him from my perch on the cold, dirt-ridden floor. "If you come seeking penance, I'm not a fucking priest," I slurred at the menacing shadow that approached me.

"Virgil, right?" His voice was rough as if he'd been chewing on gravel for years, and his eyes were sharp, calculating as they sized me up in an instant.

I didn't say anything at first. Just nodded. I'd learned not to speak unless I had to. Words had power, but silence held its own kind of weight. It forced people to say what they needed without wasting time.

Bulldog leaned against the back pew, crossing his arms. He wasn't here to confess. Not to me, at least. "I haven't been inside one of these in a long time. Hell, it would take forever to forgive all my shit."

"If you didn't come to confess or pray, what are you doing here?"

"I got word of a strange priest roaming my neck of the woods. One that roamed the line between good and evil."

"Mostly evil," I snarled.

"Well then, believe it or not, we speak the same language."

"And what the fuck makes you think I want to speak to you?"

"Because I know you ain't got nowhere to go and nothing to do. I also heard you're just the man I need for this specific job."

"If it involves blessings and guardian angels, you've got the wrong man…I'm no fucking priest."

He nodded in understanding. "Somethin''s been stirring in my club. And after talking to Spectre, I'm convinced it's not somethin' we can handle on our own."

Spectre's name got my attention. The man was practically a legend among those who dealt with the supernatural—cursed, haunted, but never broken. We'd crossed paths a few times, didn't really trust one another, but the respect was there. So if Spectre had seen something out of the ordinary, then there was no denying it.

"He said you would be able to help track it. But I gotta say you're not an easy fucker to find."

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