Page 35 of Heart, Haunt, Havoc
Colin winced, wrinkling his nose. “Ouch, Bishop. Good heavens.Easy.”
“Hopefully butterfly stitches will hold,” they said. They made the shape of Colin’s exclaim but didn’t repeat it.Good heavens. “What’re we doing with him?” they asked. They tipped their head toward the ugly corpse in the uglier recliner.
“We’ll put him in the wall,” Colin said, entirely serious.
Bishop nodded and stood, offering their hand. “Yeah, okay,” they said, as if he’d butchered the punchline on a poorly told joke. “C’mon, bandages and stuff are upstairs.”
They didn’t let go of his hand. He allowed them to tug him to his feet and guide him out of the basement. In the kitchen, they pushed on his shoulders, silently commanding him to sit on the table. He winced when they flipped the switch on the wall, illuminating the room, and tried to blink away the fog still spinning behind his eyes.
Colin Hart had been in many situations with many different people, but he’d never channeled other beings before. Never opened himself to be used, to be commanded. His bones were still reacquainting themselves with his body, blood still finding the right speed in his veins, ears still adjusting to the emptiness. He swallowed to wet his throat and studied Bishop’s expression as they stepped between his knees and pressed a warm, damp cloth to his cheek.
His mouth tightened to suppress a flinch. “Are you all right?”
Bishop cupped his jaw with their free hand, angling him where they wanted. They didn’t speak for a long time, just dabbed at the blood caked on his face, wrung the towel into a bowl, peered at his wound. After they’d brought the towel to his cheek three times and the water in the bowl swirled pink, they exhaled through their nose.
“You spoke a different language—one I’ve never heard before,” they said, following the claw-mark from the corner of Colin’s eye to the underside of his jaw. “You… You became something else. I don’t know how to explain it, I don’t know if Icouldexplain it—”
“I was able to channel the High Court. The voices you heard weren’t mine, the things you saw weren’t me. They were angels and saints, I believe. I’m not exactly sure if I could explain it either, but that’s the best I can give you.”
“I didn’t know angels possessed people.”
“They do. Much like their siblings, angels aren’t very fond of us. They tolerate us, I think. Keep the balance, because otherwise this plane—this place—would empower their opposition.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Not until it was over,” Colin said. That might’ve been the first time he’d endured something without succumbing to the pain, to the terror of it. Except for Bishop, who he’d chewed over in his mind again and again, who he had no reason to continue orbiting, who would soon become another successful cleaning, another online review—3.5 Stars: a little odd for an exorcist, tidy but irritating, engages in inappropriate and lewd activity when given the slightest opportunity, boring—and might forget about him after he left. Because leaving was the next natural step. A handshake, athank you for your business, a blank Christmas card signed with Colin’s name and a tin of fudge popped in the mail on December twentieth with the rest of his well-wishes to past clients. Extra fudge for Bishop, obviously. Maybe a phone call, too. A text at least.I still think of you.
Bishop nodded. They touched their thumb to the sore skin beside the claw-mark and tsk’d. It was the first time he’d heard them click their tongue like that, like a parent, like a worn-out lover.
“You should shower before I butterfly this,” they said.
“Yeah, okay.”
They took his hand again. On the stairs, their palms were clasped; down the hall, their palms were clasped; in Bishop’s bedroom, their palms were clasped. They only let him go to twist the handle on their refurbished shower, freshly tiled in midnight black and fixed with silver accents. The claw-foot tub, surrounded by plants and candles, was adjacent to the toilet, facing a sleek vanity stocked with oils, perfumes, lotions, and a statue of the Virgin Mary.
Colin’s mind still moved slowly. When Bishop tugged at the bottom of his sweater, he shrugged the garment off, and when they toed out of their socks and unzipped their pants, Colin thoughtoh.
The water ran hot. Scalded his shoulders and stung his cheek. He tipped his face into the spray and closed his eyes, leaning into Bishop’s hand skating his vertebrae. He’d wanted this—exactly this—since he’d arrived at the house on Staghorn Way, but he was exhausted. Bone tired. Completely, utterly useless when it came to using his body for anything substantial. Bishop touched him carefully, though. Stepped under the water with him and let the blood crusted around their nostrils wash away. Sighed and gazed at Colin, eyelashes wet, skin flushed.
They soaped him; he soaped them. Lips grazed shoulders and collarbones, but that was all. Easy touches. Colin hadn’t realized he would’ve begged for intimacy until right then. Would’ve crawled across hot coals, would’ve swallowed false sainthood, would’ve battled another Marquis of Hell, just for a chance atthis. As the water lost its warmth, Colin mustered enough bravery to bump his nose against Bishop’s temple and kiss the side of their head.
“I keep waiting to wake up,” Bishop said.
Colin turned off the shower and handed them a towel off the rack. “Tomorrow might be jarring.”
“What?”
“All this,” he said, circling his hand in the air. “The quiet, the absence. Sometimes it’s hard to get used to.”
Bishop tended to his face. Criss-crossed clear tape over the gash on his cheek and pulled until the wound inched closed. He studied his reflection in the steamy mirror. A red line traveled from the corner of his eye to his jawline. Curved like a moon. The first scar he’d ever carried back from an exorcism. Bishop stood beside him, holding their towel at their navel. They looked incredibly soft—nipples smooth and ruddy, mouth set loosely, skin clean of any remaining blood.
“Stay here tonight,” they said.
Colin had a hard time looking away from them. He nodded, though, and followed them into their bedroom.
Bishop closed the blinds and shook lavender oil into a diffuser on the nightstand. It spewed floral-scented vapor, curling like weak smoke toward the vaulted ceiling. The white sheets were chilly on Colin’s bare skin, the comforter heavy over his chest. Headlights from a lone car snuck through the window and mottled the wall, and Colin fought to stay awake while Bishop climbed in beside him.
“Is it over?” They asked, so quietly Colin almost startled.
