Page 8 of My Saintly Demon

My stomach growls in the tiny closet, bringing me back to the present. I don’t know if there’s a huge time warp coming to earth or what, but it feels like I haven’t eaten in a week. Food first and I’ll consider what this dream might mean once my stomach is full. Hangry demons are not pleasant.

It’s rare I’m drawn into someone’s fantasy, but the few times I have been, it’s with mixed results. Again, I fail at the whole demon thing. I’m likely the only demon ever that has graciously talked someone out of sex and snuggled with them instead. Sometimes a hug is better, you know?

Although if this dude is as hot in person as he was in the dream, I might just take what he offers. And if he’s the priest too, well, that’s a hot fantasy for anyone, I think.

Hey, this is a good start to being bad, right? Taking advantage of a man of the cloth?

Gotta be.

My stomach growls again, and I unfold from the chair. Nudging open the little closet door, I listen for any noise of people and I straighten to my full height as I step out. My back cracks as I stretch myself out and I’m grateful I don’t have to do that for a full week. It would wreck my back sleeping on that god awful chair for that long.

It’s easy to find my way to the kitchen. My nose smells everything and I know the fridge has platters of cold cuts and all kinds of amazing, delicious things. Even in my world, we know food made by church ladies is possibly the best thing ever. My mouth waters just thinking about what kind of sandwich I can make and how many varieties of desserts I might find.

On my way to the kitchen, I poke my head into a few of the odd rooms and laugh at the children’s area with its wildly inaccurate photos of my dad and his brothers. No wonder my dad hates churches so much. They can’t even take the time to research and do a proper photo of Satan for pete’s sake. His horns are way too small in this one. He’d be pissed with that painting and probably rip it right off the wall. We’re very sensitive about our horn size.

Once I find the kitchen, I indeed discover all the cold cuts I thought I sniffed out and, with a happy hum, I lay all the goodies across the counter. This is going to be good. Oh! They have those tiny little pickles that are delish. I love those!

Swinging my hips to the tune in my head, I decide what to eat first. Since I’m an adult and can do what I want, I pop a few of those yummy dessert squares in my mouth. The lemon curd is so perfectly tart I’d like to think magic was involved.

After removing all the trays and searching around for the condiments, I do a little dance around the kitchen. Never underestimate the quality of church-made food. Maybe it’s because it’s made with love or maybe it’s because it comes from some grandma’s kitchen, but whatever makes it taste so good deserves a celebratory dance.

But before I make a sandwich, I need to find the restroom.

Even Demons have to take regular pee breaks.

CHAPTERFIVE

CHARLES

Just in case someone happens into the church, even though there’s no mass or confessional scheduled, I put the damn collar and black shirt on before I hit the basement kitchen.

Some old habits die hard. It’s not like the collar makes me a different person. It’s just one more of those public image things the church loves. Heaven forbid Father Charles be seen in church looking like common folk.

Such a bunch of bullshit.

Before I head to the basement kitchen, I drag out the empty boxes I’d gathered last week to pack. Just like everything else, I had to keep that hidden, too. Nobody wanted questions about how come I was stockpiling boxes. Nobody wanted to tip off the parishioners I’d already given my last mass. I was to vanish without explanation, since that made it easier. Not for me, of course. But it sure did for everyone else.

I’m not exactly sure how I’m supposed to just vanish, but that’s what I’ve been told to do. Since I’m hanging by a thread right now, I’ll choose to follow along. Doesn’t mean I’ll not try to make it difficult for Matthew, though, if I can.

I was tempted to rub another one out this morning before getting to the packing I had to do. The image of the man from my dream last night just wasn’t fading away. But of course, Matthew had to show up here and kill my erection with his holier than thou attitude that was quite repulsive. He’s nothing but a hollow man with no care for the wellbeing of others. His complete lack of compassion for what happens to me took me by surprise and I almost wish I’d never met him.

How do I already despise the one I loved so fiercely? It’s funny how sometimes we don’t allow ourselves to see truths when they are plain as day. Love does that I’ve learned.

The door to the basement thunks closed behind me as I step out of the rectory and my bare feet slap on the tiled stairs. I chuckle to myself when I realize I took the time to wear my collar but not shoes. Leftovers from the funeral reception are calling my name and I’m taking advantage of the cooking skills of the ladies’ auxiliary while I still can. The only thing better than church-lady-made food is a good joint and a better orgasm. I’ll settle for one out of three for now. The other two I’ll do my best to get to later.

When I enter the kitchen, its usual tidiness is nowhere to be seen. An odd combination of foods litter the counter. Platters of cookies, lunch meats and a mayonnaise bottle are spread out, like someone’s midnight snack interrupted.

I don’t have the patience to deal with this. I just wanted a small snack and maybe some of those Nanaimo bars I’d make a deal with the devil for. Placing the foil covers back over the food, muttering at the carelessness, I wonder how long it’s been left out for and if the food’s even still good to eat. Nothing will ruin my mood faster than being denied a sandwich on those homemade buns Mrs. Walker bakes.

The sound of a toilet flushing silences my inner musings and I’m frozen in place. Someone’s still here. Footsteps travel across the empty gathering space, measured, purposeful and unhurried. I wait with hands on hips, annoyance ramping up, to see which of my parishioners, soon to beformerparishioners that is, has been so rude to stay behind and eat food without asking.

The steps pause before entering the kitchen. A loud belch breaks the silence, and a man enters the doorway. Not just any man. A handsome man, with barely there scruff on his face and a perfectly tailored suit. A familiar man I saw last night when I dared to think I wasn’t alone with my cock in my hand. My hand flutters to my collar with a gasp, and I make the sign of the cross. Another old habit I’ll need to get rid of.

“Hey there, Father, sorry about the mess. I was going to clean up eventually.” He moves towards the food as I back pedal, slamming my back into the oversized fridge.

“You’re real,” I whisper, mouth agape as I watch this apparition, the very one I imagined with his dick up my ass mere hours ago. And he’s standing in front of me, popping coconut balls into his mouth like it’s just another Saturday night at the movies.

He snorts. A thin puff of smoke rises from somewhere on his body. “Of course I’m real. Why wouldn’t I be real? You believe in some guy in the sky who can cure the sick—who never makes public appearances, I might add—but you don’t believe in me?” He raises a pointed eyebrow in my direction before choosing a rice crispy square and leaning against the counter.

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