Page 5 of Virgil's Demons

"Who said I wanted to be found? I'd say you got lucky. I'll be gone by dawn."

"I guess Spectre was wrong about you," he was about to leave when the curiosity got the best of me.

"What did Spectre tell you?" I grunted as I stumbled to my feet, the old church's stained glass windows blurred as I attempted to regain the little bit of sobriety I had left.

Bulldog continued, "We've had...incidents, if you want to call them that. Heavy footsteps late into the night, brothers acting like they're losing their minds, seeing shit that isn't there. I can't shake the feeling that whatever demons we had on our back before...they may have left a mark. And now karma's coming back for us."

I could tell by the way he spoke that Bulldog wasn't a man who believed in this sort of thing easily. The world of demons and exorcisms wasn't on his radar until now. Something had spooked him enough to seek out help, and not just any help.

"I asked around about you. An old priest over at St. Teresa gave me your whereabouts," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Said you weren't just any exorcist. Said you were a hunter. Someone who can take care of what's left behind."

I exhaled slowly, the weight of his words settling in. "So you're not looking for an exorcist, you need a hunter?"

Bulldog smirked. "That's what I said. And from what I've heard, you're the best at it."

I glanced around the dimly lit church, the crucifixes and candles offering no real comfort. It had been years since anyone called me the best at anything. Mostly, I was just a man running from his own hell. But if Bulldog was right, and there was something bigger happening with his club, it might require more than just prayers.

"Why me?" I finally asked.

He straightened up, moving closer. "I don't believe in ghosts, Virgil. But when Lucifer pays one a visit, you realize quick that this is bigger than just a haunt. I need someone who knows how to deal with the supernatural. I also need someone to keep my brothers in line, someone who can look after 'em... spiritually."

I raised an eyebrow. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Within a motorcycle club their are ranks..."

"I'm well aware," I nodded.

"One of those ranks is spiritual."

" A Chaplain. You want me to be your Chaplain?"

Bulldog's grin was more of a grimace as he shrugged. "Maybe. You've got anywhere else to be?" He asked, his eyes glancing about the old abandoned church, its walls crumbling. "You might not look like a holy man, but neither do I. What I need is someone who can hunt the things that go bump in the nightandmake sure my brothers don't lose their souls in the process."

I didn't laugh. I knew exactly what he meant. In a place like the Royal Bastards MC, faith wasn't just about God. It was about survival.

"I'm not on call. I go where God needs me to go. And your little club isn't fit for the likes of heaven."

"You're right. We don't belong there. We belong in the pits of hell with the rest of those demons you're chasing. But I've got hellhounds on our trail, brothers leaving their souls behind and becoming Reapers, and I've got Lucifer on both mine and Spectre's back, so I need to keep my brothers safe. Unfortunately, you're my last hope."

I nodded slowly, realizing what was being asked of me. I wasn't just being hired to exorcize a demon or hunt down a threat. I was being brought in to protect these men from the darkness within them and outside of their control.

I suddenly had a gut feeling God had something to do with this job. As if it was the right move, a door opening. Or maybe it was just my drunken head that was a mess, but I agreed to it.

"When do I start?" I asked.

Bulldog's eyes darkened, his tone grim. "Tonight."

BARYTHAYA

The hum of the tattoo gun usually helped calm the anxiety that always threatened to overwhelm me. The vibrations were steady, predictable, unlike the life I had to claw my way out of. A childhood that was too ugly to look at for too long, one that left scars deeper than ink could hide. But the ink helped. It was my therapy. Every piece of skin I worked on, every design etched into someone else's flesh, was like taking back a little bit of control. That's why I createdSanctuary Tattoo. It wasn't just a tattoo parlor, it was a place to forget, to heal. Even the café in the back served as a kind of refuge for the broken souls who drifted through my doors.

I was one of those broken souls. I guess that's why I was the way I was. My experiences as a child only heightened my emotions. I felt things. I always had, ever since I could remember. The trauma I'd been through had cracked me open in a way that left me raw, exposed to emotions, to energy. That's what they called it now—an empath. But for me, it was like standing in the middle of a hurricane with no shelter. People's feelings would slam into me like waves—joy, pain, lust, anger—it didn't matter. I felt it all. And sometimes, it nearly drowned me.Which is why the hum of the tattoo gun brought a sense of peace with it. A sense of numbness and accomplishment.

I had worked hard to build what I had. After running away from home at sixteen I started to work. Finished high school and assisting a tattoo artist, I paid my way through school. I learned everything I needed as a business major and saving what I could, I moved to Washington, found myself a business partner, and opened up my shop.

Port Townsend was a small town, and the freaks, like us, weren't very much welcome. The last few months had been difficult, and I feared I either had to move or close. But I had my locals and word had slowly started to spread. Not as much as we would have liked, but enough to keep us open.

Tonight was a quiet night, as most Tuesday nights were, which was probably why I was so startled when the door chimed andtheywalked in. I knew who they were as soon as I saw them, and my instincts went on full alert. But the energy that came from them was opposite to the rumors I'd heard about the bikers. Anyone you spoke to told us to stay away from this bunch. The rumors were not all good, although I had to admit, every once in a while I'd speak to Quiver or Sol up at the Inn and they always told me how nice the men were. How handsome. I laughed it off but I always wondered how long it would take for them to come into my place. All were welcome there, so why not them?

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