He had been insulted, assaulted, yelled at, ignored, threatened and then unceremoniously dumped.  Those indignities were merely the latest.  The offenses against his dignity had begun with a kidnapping no one would acknowledge and a transfer to this out of the way place where he was prevented from pursuing the objectives that had been entrusted to him by God.

He heard what he heard, felt what he felt and knew what he knew.  Put a demon or his spore any where in his vicinity and he was on it like a blue tick blood hound after a raccoon under a full moon.  The trouble was nobody ever wanted to believe him.  He knew, and had always known, that people thought he was crazy, a fanatic, irrational and living in a medieval fantasy land where the underside of every rock was occupied by demons, devils and other assorted forms of Halloween life.  He had never cared.  He didn't care now.  Listening to Clem, though, as he made it plain he was not at all pleased it did, however, occur to him to wonder if, in his zeal to fulfill God's will, perhaps he just might be going about things the wrong way.  So, letting Clem's words wash over him, the Reverend applied his powerful intellect to his first ever attempt to see himself as the world saw him.

Clem's outer office was empty and the door into his office was open.  He could see the Reverend standing at the window looking out.  Clem he couldn't see at all.  But he could hear him.  He grinned and walked in with Marc still him.  Finding out what he made of the Reverend was a conversation he was looking forward to.  Motioning Marc to silence, still grinning he walked into the office.  By the time Clem saw him, though, his face was back to expressionless.

"Stephen." Clem's voice lacked its usual warmth, while for once the Reverend said nothing.

"Clem.  I don't believe you've met Marc Rogatien.  Marc this is the Archbishop Ignatius Peter Cardinal Clement, OSB; known to his friends as Clem." He quirked an eyebrow at Clem but said nothing else as he set a bottle of scotch on the desk.  Johnnie Walker Honour, the rarest of the Johnnie Walker blends.  Stephen was pleased to see he had the Reverend's attention as well as Marc's and Clem's.  Next to the bottle he set four glasses.  He cracked the seal and poured.  Then he waited.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Clem.  Do call me Marc.  No special titles apply.  Well, one, but it is in the far distant past and best left to the darkness," Marc added, rolling an eye toward the Reverend.

Clem nodded, allowing the pleasure was mutual while eyeing the bottle and then the glasses while the seconds passed.  Finally he condescended to take a sip and rolled the taste on his tongue, considered and then rolled another.  As he finished his third taste, Stephen held a glass out toward the Reverend, one eyebrow quirked.  The Reverend knocked the shot back and held his glass out.  Stephen, somewhat stunned, poured him another and passed a glass to Marc.  This time the Reverend sipped; then they all sipped together in reverent silence.  It was time for some serious male bonding.

"I am given to understand that you have had something of a problem with Father Daniel." Clem made it an observation.

"Actually," Stephen's tone was judicial as he held his glass up to the light admiring the golden amber color, "I was given to understand I am something of a problem for him." He finished with his eyes on the Reverend.

Marc stood leaning against a convenient wall, apparently trying to blend in with it.  The look on his face was of amused interest.

"Well sir, there is that about you that gives me cause for serious concern, now exacerbated by today's discoveries." The Reverend paused in his rolling periods and took a sip of his scotch.  "However," he observed thoughtfully, clearly a man delivering a reasoned opinion, "It is unlikely that true evil would willingly share such ambrosia with another.  That takes a man with an uncommon degree of charity."

Marc had apparently sipped a bit too much whiskey and he began to cough.

"Oh, I don't know.  Possibly I am merely trying to lull you into a false opinion." Stephen grinned, released the Reverend's gaze and glanced at Clem.  "What do you think?"

Clem sipped placidly.  "I think," he offered finally, "that it is time we had another drink."

Stephen glanced around, "Marc, have you an opinion?"

"I think," Marc said, savoring another taste of the scotch, having recovered from his coughing fit, and ignoring the Reverend's frowning at him, "that the Abbot is onto something.  What we need is another drink."

Stephen nodded and held his glass up to be filled.  After they had sipped a while longer he said, "Tell me, Father, what will it take to convince you that I am not a long time friend of Beelzebub bent on a reenactment of the fall of humanity?"

"What will it take to convince you that I'm not a delusional fanatic?" The Reverend's voice matched Stephen's reflective tone of genial pensiveness.

Silence reigned while they all sipped and considered the problem.  Finally, Clem broke the silence.  "Gentlemen, if I might proffer a suggestion?" Three nods gave him time to sip.  "If Stephen were to undertake one or more forms of the traditional tests and, er, pass them would that satisfy you, at least as a start?" He motioned to the Reverend for a refill as he spoke.

The Reverend made the rounds with the bottle and nodded.  "Of course.  Excellent idea." He offered a mock toast of admiration.

After that silence reigned as they determined that the scotch was even better having had the opportunity to breathe.  Then Clem said, "And if he passes the tests would you allow him to test you?"

"Test me.  .  How?" Stephen answered for Clem, not in words, but with the same probe he'd tried twice before.  "Ah, yes, I see." The Reverend reached for the bottle and poured another round.  "Well," he sipped thoughtfully, "If you will give me your word of honor to confine your investigation to the matter at hand that would be acceptable."

Stephen nodded.  "Certainly." He lifted his glass to him.  The Reverend, as if on cue, started topping off the glasses.  "I am gratified, Father, that you would accept my word."

Marc, his glass outstretched asked, "As a matter of curiosity, might I ask what tests you have in mind?"

The Reverend, pouring, said, "There are several traditional ones such as the inability to tolerate holy water, or an aversion to sacred objects such as a blessed crucifix or holy relics.  I think in this case I would prefer, if Father Abbot agrees, to use both the holy water, and blessed salt and oils."

Marc was intrigued.  "I think I understand the holy water, but the others, I am not familiar with."

Clem, reaching for his phone to summon Brother Gerald, paused long enough to explain.  "A circle is placed on the floor around the suspected demoniac of oil and salt, while the ...testee, shall I say...is sprinkled with holy water.  Everything is then blessed according to the rite which includes a minor exorcism.  The test is whether you are able stand the exorcism and holy water on your skin, and then to exit the circle."

"You don't object, Father Abbot, if we perform the tests here?" While he waited for Clem to finish on the phone so he could answer, the Reverend finished his drink and poured another.  The other three held out their glasses as well.  Clearly the bonding was going well.

"I've no objection.  We just need to get the carpet out of the way." The floor of Clem's office was covered with a hand knotted Persian carpet of luminous color and venerable age.  To move it they had to move all the furniture.  The effort to accomplish this left them thirsty.  Dealing with that caused a delay that lasted until help arrived.

Brother Gerald knocked and entered.  He batted not an eyelash at the vision that met his eyes.  Clem's office looked like he was moving out, the four occupants, hot, sweaty and disheveled perched on various pieces of furniture.  All four greeted him with their glasses as he entered.

"Ah, Brother, just the man I need." Clem waved him over with his glass and draped his arm over his shoulders.  "Brother I need you to bring me the blessed salt and oil along with the old Roman Ritual from the sacristy.  And a bottle of holy water." He eyed Stephen, a speculative gleam in his eye and added, "A large bottle I think and probably a towel." He paused to consider the scotch bottle, now nearly empty.  "I suspect we're going to require your assistance so bring yourself a glass and grab the bottle from the filing cabinet."

It took Brother Gerald a while but, finally, they were ready.  Clem decided, however, that first Brother Gerald needed a drink, so he poured another round.  Brother Gerald was happy to prove he was as capable of male bonding as the others.

The Reverend positioned Stephen in the center of the cleared space and then, bent nearly double, began to trace a circle around him with the salt.  At first he seemed to wobble a little as might be expected from a man in such an unnatural position.  Then the wobble became a two step and the two step a stumble.  As the circle began to resemble a more complex shape the Reverend succumbed to gravity and landed, or so it seemed to Marc from his vantage point, on his nose before rolling into a sort of frustrated somersault that ended any resemblance the circle had to a circle.  Marc, Stephen and Clem found it hilarious, Brother Gerald, giggling, decided he needed another drink.

The Reverend struggled to his feet, refreshed himself and his dignity with a sip, and began again with no better success.  Stephen, ever the gentleman, reached down to help him up this time and overbalanced, toppling over the Reverend and showing clearly he had no reason to fear blessed salt, since he was now kneeling in the pile of it previously spilled from the container dangling in the Reverend's hand.

Marc, with the benefit of the wall he was still leaning against, delicately moved his foot out of range of the salt.

At this point Brother Gerald could stand it no longer.  "Father Abbot," he inquired, "Might I ask what Father Daniel is doing?"

Clem replied with all the graciousness of which he was capable.  "A minner essism, er minor essor...I mean..." He glared at his glass, gathered himself together and tried again.  "A minor exorcism," he finally said, pronouncing each syllable with great care, "of Stephen." He considered the matter seriously for a moment and then said, with equal care, "Perhaps you could take over the pa'pasions..er…preparations." He decided to stop while he was ahead.

Brother Gerald, nothing loath, took charge.  He got the Reverend out of the way and positioned a chair for Stephen, correctly deducing that he was less of a hindrance seated than he was standing at this point.  He also made sure everyone's glass was full.  Then he traced out the two circles, first salt and then oil, around the chair and sprinkled Stephen with the holy water.  When he'd finished he reached for the book of ritual and flipped for the correct section, took a swig from his glass to lubricate his throat and waited for permission to proceed.

At Clem's nod he began by tracing the sign of the cross on himself and then in the air, and while liberally sprinkling water on the salt and oil and on Stephen, he prayed, "We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers and influences in the Name…" Ten minutes later, Stephen, who had been ad libbing a counter point, had water dripping from his chin while Clem had been adding his own blessings using his glass to trace the cross in the air.

The last amen faded, and the Reverend, who had been humming along in time to Stephen surged to his feet and poured forth, in a stunning bass voice, the Hallelujah Chorus to a gospel rhythm while motioning for Stephen to step towards him into freedom.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! For the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth.  Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

Stephen tossed down the rest of his scotch and rose from his chair, adding his unexpectedly clear and powerful tenor to the chorus while dancing forward in a syncopated movement towards the Reverend and, incidentally, out of the circle, taking his place next to him, his arm around his waist and using his glass as a mic.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

Clem added his voice, Marc started humming a back up improv and a chord was born for the chorus.  Brother Gerald took the opportunity to refill his glass and then theirs.  On the breath break they all tossed the shot down and Brother Gerald made the rounds again.

The kingdom of this world Is become the kingdom of our Lord, And of His Christ, and of His Christ; And He shall reign for ever and ever, For ever and ever, forever and ever,

Marc then joined the line beside Clem, and for the next chorus they were all swaying in time to the music.  Brother Gerald joined in with an innovative counter point and poured again moving down the line with a gliding, sliding step.  On the down beat they all tossed it back.

King of kings, and Lord of lords, King of kings, and Lord of lords, And Lord of lords, And He shall reign, And He shall reign forever and ever, King of kings, forever and ever, And Lord of lords, Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

They were a-singing and a-swaying all in a line now, holding out their glasses in perfect time for another drink.  They tossed it down and went into a turn with a lot of hip action worthy of the Chippendales.  Brother Gerald met them on their return and filled them up again.

And He shall reign forever and ever, King of kings! and Lord of lords! And He shall reign forever and ever, King of kings! and Lord of lords! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

They drank and Brother Gerald filled them up again, tossed the empty bottle in the corner and joined the line.  They linked arms and with a deep waisted bow, went down low and then brought it back up, tossing it down on the upswing and belted it out again.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

They had bonded.

Summer mornings such as this one in the Blue Ridge are a miraculous thing, when the sky is blue, the air cool and the dew fresh on the ground.  The birds were singing to the sunshine and the chickens the monks kept for eggs and pullets were cackling.  The air smelled of fresh cut grass and the honeysuckle that ran riot all over the property.  In the distance the bells of the church began the deep toned call to Lauds, Morning Prayer, an offering to God of pure praise at the beginning of the day.

Stephen, feeling actively hostile to the miracle of the glorious morning, wanting only to curse God and die, rolled over groaning and buried his head under the pillow, wondering why the pounding in his head seemed to be keeping time with the bells.  Then he wondered why it was pounding so hard, like woodpeckers had taken residence between his temples.  At the thought memory returned.  The scotch, the ritual, the singing…oh god! The singing.  They hadn't stopped at the Hallelujah Chorus, he recalled.  Brother Gerald had produced samples send over by the nuns of this year's pear and peach brandies at Clem's request, and thus fortified they had worked their way through the Reverend's impressive catalogue of spirituals and southern gospel songs, line singing until just after Compline when the Prior, Father Douglas, had appeared, concerned about Clem's absence from Night Prayer and the noise coming from his office.

He'd opened the door to Clem's outer office as they were singing one of Brother Gerald's favorites, The Battle Hymn of the Republic, with some new verses allegedly popular around Union campfires or so Brother Gerald's assured them.  Over the course of the last couple of hours they'd worked out some unique improvisational skills that they were using on Brother Gerald's verses and so did not hear his approach.  The Reverend, never a favorite of Father Douglas, noticed him first and allowed the deep bass portion of the harmony to slide to a halt.  His absence brought indignant protests that also slid to a halt as they noticed the Prior, looking like a stern and deeply disappointed father, standing in the doorway. 

At that point Clem proved yet again his ability to think on his feet and remain calm in a crisis.  He had promptly passed out.  It had gone down hill from there.  Stephen, deciding that discretion, in this case, really was the better part of valor, had grabbed Marc and winked them both out of there out as soon as the prior's back was turned.  Marc had made his way carefully to his rooms while he, he recalled, had fortunately retained sufficient presence of mind to leave Tommy a note with some instructions for Charlie and himself.

Stephen reached that point in his memories and tried to sit up.  It was a huge mistake.  He gave his head a minute to stop swimming and tried it again, slower.  That worked well enough to get him into the shower, where he stood under the water, as hot as he could stand it, for as long as it lasted.  Then he dressed and went looking for Tommy.  He needed coffee and there was no way he was facing Tabitha in this condition.

Two hours later, restored to some semblance of humanity by the miracle effects of copious amounts of hot water, ibuprofen and caffeine he headed back over to Clem's office.  He assumed it was late enough in the day that the three there had also recovered enough to function and that Father Douglas had been placated.  He had seen no sign of Marc at the House.

Brother Gerald was at his post, but moving remarkably slowly this morning.  He started to nod at Stephen and stopped suddenly, as if it had been a bad idea.  Instead he waved him into Clem's office with a grimace and raspy-voiced promise of coffee.  Stephen, recalling the verses he'd taught them, decided there were depths to Gerald worth cultivating. 

He rapped softly on Clem's door and went in without waiting for an answer.  Clem was sitting at his desk, his face on the blotter and an ice bag on his head.  Stephen chose not to laugh.  He took a seat and waited.  Eventually Brother Gerald returned with coffee and Clem returned to the living.  He glared at his friend across the desk while accepting a cup from his hand.  Gerald gently laid a bottle of aspirin on the desk in front of him and turned to go.

Stephen halted him.  "Gerald, how are you this morning?"

Gerald grimaced and rolled his eyes.  "About like he looks," he said, jerking his thumb towards Clem.  "But I'll do.  You don't often get an evening like that in religious life and I rather think it was worth it.  How are you doing?"

"Better than I did earlier.  You guys have got to do something about those bells in the morning."

At that Gerald managed a smile.  "I quite agree.  Is there anything else you need this morning.  .  I'll be bringing Father Abbot some toast in a bit, to buck him up before he sees the Prior.  Would you like some as well?"

"No thank you.  I don't think…" He left the rest unsaid.  "But I would like to speak with Father Daniel if he's available?"

Brother Gerald nodded slightly, still careful of his head.  "Oh he's available.  Father Prior had him out of bed with the rest of us this morning and no excuses.  After chapel he sent him to the kitchen to help with fixing breakfast; a bit of the sadist in Father Prior I sometimes think.  Last I saw him, he was looking a lot less green than he had been but still not quite himself.  I'll send him along with the abbot's toast.  He'll be glad of a break." Gerald closed the door carefully on his way out.

Clem, having swallowed aspirin and a cup of coffee was pouring another.  He glared across the desk at his friend, partner in enterprise and cohort in crime.  "Stephen, I will never forgive you for this!"

"Forgive me?" Stephen was indignant, but in a low voice in deference to Clem's headache and the remnants of his own.  "Was I the one who suggested moving on to the pear and peach brandy the nuns had sent you from this year's batch.  .  Did I force you to drink it.  .  Did I pour it down your throat.  .  No.  You, as I recall, showed no signs of reluctance and even wanted to broach the new elderberry wine."

Clem sighed.  He was still a bit pale but starting to perk up.  "I still have to face the prior.  I have no idea what I am going to say.  Do you know he got all three of us to bed and then came back and restored the carpet and furniture before he went to bed, and he took the morning offices and mass so I could sleep.  I tell you, the man is a saint.  He will never let me live this down."

"Probably not, but it was worth it, wasn't it?"

Clem grinned and agreed.  "I haven't been that drunk in I don't know how long, decades certainly, centuries probably." He drank some of his coffee and then resumed.  "So, am I right that you're here for your half of the deal?"

"Yes, but before that I need to talk you without the Reverend." Stephen's voice was all business now.

"Why.  .  What's going on."

"I don't know.  He told you about the bones they found at the ruins?" Clem nodded.  "Well, he thinks that he found evidence of demonic activity there, as I guess he also told you."

"Yeah, he, you might say, mentioned it." Clem's tone was dry.

"Well he also said that he'd found the same evidence at the cemetery."

Clem assumed a fully upright position at that news.  "Did he indeed."

"So, I need to know.  How possible is it that the Reverend, regardless of his fruitiness, might have sensed something or picked up something not noticeable to the rest of us.  I mean could he really be sensing demons?"

Clem became thoughtful.  "The history of the Church is filled with accounts of the saints and their battles with the devil.  The stories of the Desert Fathers recount numerous physical battles with demons.  Saint Anthony the Great is reported to have been shown by God the reality of the warfare on the spiritual plane between the good angels and the bad angels.  After, it is said, he begged God to never show it to him again, it frightened him so much.  And St.  Anthony was a man who'd waged war with the demonic for decades in his hermitage.  People would visit him and hear from outside the cave the sounds of the battle and entering would see upon his person bruising and injuries.  Others, such Padre Pio, in the last century, also report encounters with angels and demons.  And some have said they can sense them.  The Church, as you know, never, ever, pronounces on these things one way or another.  But she teaches, as she has always taught, that they, demons, the demonic, are real, though spiritual beings." He paused to sip his coffee.

"If you are asking me whether I think it is possible to have the ability to sense or perceive these things, I'd say yes.  If you're asking whether I think Father Daniel does, I'd have to say that until this moment I'd never considered it seriously."

Stephen agreed, "Nor I, but now I think it deserves a little investigation, don't you."

"Yes, I do."

"The other thing, though, is I am going to excavate the ruins, a plan that I sure does not surprise you.  But I don't want Father Daniel under foot so I'd like to take him off your hands for a while and send him to Dinah's.  Will he go if you tell him to?"

"Certainly.  But are you sure that's wise?"

"Well I won't be sending him alone.  Fawn, you remember her, will go with him to baby sit and in a couple of days I send someone else to help her out.  First though, I going to perform my little test and see what I find." He was silent then while he poured himself a fresh cup and Clem rang for more.

"Stephen, tell me something.."

"Sure.  What?"

"Last night.  .  That was a set up wasn't it, with the Reverend."

Stephen grinned.  "No actually it wasn't.  It was a peace offering for you.  Tommy said you were a bit put out with me.  And, I figured, it couldn't hurt with the Reverend as well, but it was a peace offering for you.  It has actually worked out much better than I hoped assuming the Reverend doesn't blame me for his hangover or claim he's had a blackout and forgotten our deal.  That was an inspired suggestion, by the way.  Thank you."

"My pleasure." Clem responded, smiling slightly.  "I must admit being able to tell Father Douglas that the Reverend is leaving us, even if only temporarily, will go a long way towards placating him.  You plan to send him today?"

"Before lunch if possible.  Ah, and here he comes now." Stephen turned in his chair as a soft tap came on door followed by the Reverend, tray in hand complete with Clem's toast, a fresh pot of coffee and a third cup. 

"Good morning Father Abbot.  I trust you're well this morning." He set the tray down and spied the aspirin.  "May I," he asked, reaching for it. 

Clem nodded and waved him to a chair.  As he poured a cup for the man he saw what Brother Gerald had meant about the Reverend still being slightly green.  Passing the cup he said, "As well as can be expected, thank you.  I see you are a bit under the weather, too.  You have my sympathy, for what it's worth.  Now, Stephen has come to see you.  After you've had a bit of time to let the aspirin work he'd like to perform his test, as agreed.  And then, you will need to pack.  Stephen has asked me to allow you to spend a few days in Virginia Beach.  A friend of his has a hotel and would like you to resolve some lingering questions regarding rumors of a presence.  It is proving bad for business I'm told.  Would you mind going?"

As the Reverend nodded his delight at helping out his friends, Stephen almost choked on his coffee.  Clem met his glare blandly, conveying the clear message that pay back was a bitch.  Obviously he still blamed him for the brandy or maybe it was foisting the Reverend on him in the first place.  It was probably justice, he thought, or at least penance for past sins.  Dinah would also, when she heard, make him pay for this slur on her hotel.  She had a knack of being creative in matters of that sort, as he knew to his cost.  What Mabel would do, on the other hand...he refused to speculate.

Turning to the Reverend he bowed to the inevitable.  "It's a hotel owned by my friend Dinah McNeill.  Some of her guests are complaining about odd happenings, and keep saying they have this feeling of someone behind them, but when they look there's no one there.  They also are saying that there are sudden spots of icy cold and other things like that.  I would truly be grateful for the favor.  The hotel is very important to her and it would put her mind at ease, you see."

"I would be pleased to help her in any way I can.  It is what God has called me to, to fight the Enemy where he may be found, to take the battle to him and vanquish him.  I'm leaving today?"

"Yes Father, but I am sending someone with you to help out as it were.  Now, if you don't mind?" Stephen let it trail off and sent, instead, a very polite probe into the Reverend's mind.  "I will keep to my promise Father, on that you may depend."

The Reverend nodded and the barrier was suddenly gone as if it had never been there in the first place.  The first thing Stephen noticed was the orderly, disciplined nature of the consciousness he was experiencing.  The Reverend controlled his thoughts, not the other way around.  Aloud he said, "Do whatever it is you do when you're looking for demons."

Instantly the Reverend's mind came alive with what seemed like a glow of power.  Stephen followed it back to its origin and began to examine it with his own gift for manipulating and managing energy.  What he found was like nothing he'd experienced in the mind of an Awakened or in the mind of a non-Awakened like Clem who was gifted with some of the –pathic gifts.  That was there, but it was different and it was joined to this other thing that resolved itself into what seemed like an interior eye.  Deciding he'd seen enough for now he disengaged gently.

"Father Daniel," he said "Thank you for trusting me enough to allow that.  I appreciate it.  And I apologize to you.  I don't know what this talent of yours is, what it does or how it works, but there is something there."

"And I apologize to you, sir.  You are clearly not a minion of the Evil One, nor unknowingly under his sway."

"When thank God for that," Clem said tartly.  "Now if that's over, why don't you go pack.  Stephen will send Fawn over to meet you in about an hour or so I would imagine."

The Reverend looked flabbergasted.  "Fawn?" he asked, a note of disbelief in his voice.  "A female.  .  I never work with females.  It is not possible.  Females are not suitable for this sort of work.  No, absolutely not.  You'll have to pick someone else.  I couldn't possibly work with a woman.  I couldn't possibly!"

"We aren't sending her along to help you perform exorcisms, Father.  I am also reasonably sure your virtue is safe from any attacks upon it she may feel called to make." Clem said the last with unhidden sarcasm.  "In any event you are under obedience and will go, you will treat her with respect and consideration and you will forget this crap about women." He'd gone from sarcasm to open, cold displeasure.

Stephen reflected there was something to be said for the power of abbots and the requirements of obedience.  When the door had closed and they were alone again he said, "Nice way to stop dissent.  Too bad I can't get my guys to take a vow of obedience."

Clem laughed.  "Probably not.  The downside is I can't fire him."

Stephen, instead of joining him had suddenly gone to the door.  The Reverend was still there, saying good-bye to Brother Gerald.  "Before you go Father, you mentioned the cemetery yesterday, that you'd found… er….activity there too."

The Reverend came back into the office.  "Yes."

"Where exactly.  .  Or was it everywhere?"

"In the east corner, under the old oak.  Says Donalore on the headstone.  That's the only place, but it was real strong there, almost a stench.  I must say it's about time you took all this seriously.  Heaven only knows what those bones are or that grave.  Certainly I shall return as soon as I can to assist you.  I am sure you will require my aid.  But is there anything else I can tell you?"

Stephen who had gotten very still, seemed not to have heard him at all so Clem shook his head no, indicating with a jerk of his head he should leave.  The Reverend bowed and withdrew without another word. 

After the door had closed Clem, his eyes filled with compassion, said, "It doesn't have to mean anything, Stephen, you know that."

Stephen shook his head.  "It's a little coincidental don't you think.  .   Skeletal remains at the house, found by demon sign and the same sign at Doni's grave, who so far as I know was the last person to see any of that household alive."

"But that still doesn't mean anything.  The fact that he has some sort of talent isn't the same as having a talent for finding demons.  He could be sensing anything at all, we just don't know."

Stephen let it go and considered the Reverend himself for a moment.  "I have no idea what you have there, but his mind is unique in my experience.  I don't know what he's sensing, it may be as simple as some residue of the power used to destroy that house.  But I don't think I'm going to ignore it.  Is it possible for you learn anything else about him or past, episodes, shall we say?"

"I can try, certainly.  I'll let you know if anything turns up."

Stephen nodded.  "If you need help let me know.  Oh, by the way, speaking of help, I need Liam back, I've already sent for him.  Garrison'll take his place."

"Sure, that's fine.  Keep me posted on what you find.  When you're ready we'll handle interring the bones for you." His eyes echoed his concern as he contemplated his companion.

"Thank you." Stephen said, still making no move to leave.  They sat in silence for a while, each imagining what they both suspected they would find.  Finally, as the bell for lunch rang, Stephen rose, took leave of his friend and left.