Family Part One

I'm currently writing a book. One that'll hopefully not fall apart, this go. I'm currently posting a backlog of content that I have built up. I'll probably eat through it eventually with updates becoming sporadic at best.

Until then, enjoy what I've got. This is part one of a short story I wrote.



Rafael Ignacio prayed. It wasn’t an unusual action for the exorcist. Christ was omnipotent, omniscient, and best of all, omnipresent. Wherever Ignacio was, he could call on the Son for His incomparable strength. It was a great comfort for a simple man.

 Not that Rafael did not have strength of his own. It was power that had been conditioned from childhood. His muscles had been forged to physical perfection. His rough hands could incapacitate, wound, or even kill. Pain no longer troubled him, and even hunger was the merest of inconveniences. Rafael was a force to be reckoned with, an instrument of God Almighty.

 But even he was still human. Rafael squeezed his prayer medallion as he opened his eyes. It was etched with the image of Drogo del Sebourg shepherding his flock. He was a righteous saint, and had served Rafael as a faithful intercessory all these years. Rafael’s thumb smoothed over the worn image before the exorcist stood. Perhaps it was because the deformed had to stick together.

Hopefully Saint Drogo would serve once more. Rafael stepped into the night air. It had to be below freezing, but Rafael only felt the first few pinpricks of the Italian winter before warmth enveloped his body. Some called it the Flame of God, others the Love of Christ, but it was nothing nearly so impressive. It was a simple trick taught to all I Penitenti del Sebourg, hard earned but oft-used. Rafael shoved tattooed hands into his coat pockets, pushing against the north wind.

 The hilly countryside twinkled with occasional light. A farm here, a home there, each resident setting down for their evening meal. A good end to a long day. The only sign that there was something more sinister in the countryside was the full moon. It grimaced down at the world, as if cringing at what it saw. Rafael couldn’t blame it.

 La fame morti were on the move. The hungry dead. Three men had disappeared in as many days. When they were found, the farmers didn’t even resemble men. They were stripped head to toe of muscle and flesh, only the barest remnants clinging to the bone. Some cried “wolves,” others murmured a mad man. Rafael was one of the few who knew the truth.

It was best that it stayed that way. These simple people knew only of tilling fields and raising children. They could understand wolves or violent men, but the dead were outside of their scope. They were afraid now, but the truth would only bring panic. It was best to let them contend against the enemies they understood. Rafael would take care of the things that went bump in the night.

 As Rafael came to the top of a hill, something stirred in the fields to his left. A lone figure stood, silhouetted by the cloudless moon. His head was slumped and his arms hung limp, as if the life had gone out of him. Rafael tensed and his heart quickened, but the only figure only stirred with the wind. A minute passed, then two, and only then did the exorcist dare approach the creature.

 Each step was a little piece of eternity. Usually the dead groaned and howled, hands stretched to rend anything showing a shred of life. The silence was worse. It contained uncertainty for an already terrible foe. Still, Rafael approached. It wasn’t bravery that guided his feet but training, years of experience ingrained into his very being. The exorcist was afraid, but he was unable to heed fear anymore. Rafael took another step and saw the monster’s face.

 Its skin was a light brown, worn by the weather, while its eyes were beady and black. The mouth was a slit, torn and terrible, always parted in a scream. As far as scarecrows went, it was quite fearsome. Rafael slumped forward, hands on his knees, before finally taking a breath. A soft laugh followed, powered by relief as much as the absurdity of it all. Rafael raised a hand, slapping the shoulder of his adversary.

 “I believe you won this one, amico,” said the exorcist. Rafael gave the sentinel’s shoulder one last pat before he turned to go. A footstep came from behind, a boot crunching against the hard enough. It was enough to freeze Rafael in place. The dead exhibited a low cunning, to be sure, but never anything quite like moving silently across frozen earth. Of course, it could just be a frightened farmer, eager to end a madman who had plagued his community. Rafael tested his luck.

 “How can I help you, senore?” asked the exorcist.

“Grhhhnnn,” hissed the damned.

 Rafael’s luck was holding. As la fame morte charged at his back, the exorcist snatched at the knife at his side. His fingers dug into the exposed blade, sending blood rolling down his palm and dripping to the earth. It was his salvation. The tattoos that ran up his hands and across his face rippled and glowed in the moonlight.

 One second he was standing on the ground. The next he was sailing through the sky, over the monster’s head and then to the earth below. The dead swung its head around, blue lips curled in rage. The ghoul spun and charged the exorcist with hungry abandon.

Rafael met the dead man with a swing of his fist. The blow was a blur of motion, faster than man’s mere limits. Some would call it a magic, men of faith might suggest a miracle. It was far too commonplace to be either. I Penitenti del Sebourg had many skills, and this was just another. The dead man’s fingers brushed at Rafael’s shirt -- that was as far as they got. The crunch of bone filled the air just as the deadman’s skull caved underneath the exorcist’s knuckles.