The consensus inside solidified Suzanne as the best choice to steer the body for now. Not the lustful, chaotic Annie, or the Rock & Roll, head-banging Spike. Just Suzanne, capable and steady. She took a breath—sharp, controlled—and slipped into the driver’s seat.

“Suzi, are you okay?” Nick’s voice broke through the haze. He was panting like Jo had dragged him halfway through the building. Maybe she had.

“Hello, Nicolas,” Suzanne said, forcing calm into her voice. Too much calm. The words felt stiff, like pulling on a jacket two sizes too small. “Yes. I am fine.”

Jo’s wide-eyed worry bored into her. She wasn’t buying it.

“Gracie Jo,” Suzanne said, shifting her attention to her coworker. “I apologize if I frightened you. I received startling news and struggled to process it, but I assure you, I’m fine now.”

“Is it Aiden?” Nick blurted, his face crumpling as if bracing for the worst.

The name slapped Suzanne in the face. She barely caught her breath before her chest tightened. Tears spilled, unbidden and hot. “No,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight. “Aiden is okay. He should be in a new room by now. He is improving.”

Nick’s shoulders loosened, but his eyes narrowed. “This isn’t about earlier, is it? About… you know.” His hand gestured vaguely, like the words themselves were too heavy to say again.

Jo answered before Suzanne could speak. “Oh, everyone knows, Nick. You practically yelled it—‘I’m dying! You can’t help me!’ We heard through the office door.”

Nick froze, a deer caught in the headlights. His eyes darted from Jo to Suzanne and back, but Suzanne cut in.

“This is about Mr. McGillicuddy’s estate,” she said, her voice clipped, steering them away from that conversation.

“His kids suing you?” Nick asked, concern deepening the lines on his face.

Suzanne shook her head. “Not yet. But no, that’s not it either. I’ll explain soon, Nicolas. I just need time.”

Nick didn’t push. Instead, he sighed, tired and resigned. “Fine. You two head home. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

Suzanne nodded, but Jo lingered, her hand resting lightly on Suzanne’s arm.

“You sure you’re okay?” Jo asked, her voice soft. “You don’t seem yourself right now.”

The genuine worry in Jo’s eyes made Suzanne falter. “I’ll be fine. Thank you. I appreciate your concern.”

“’I appreciate your concern?’ Suzi wouldn’t say that. You’re blowing it,” Judith heckled from Guillermo's stadium seating.

Jo studied her for a beat longer before leaning in for a hug. Suzanne returned it, squeezing tighter than necessary, like holding on to Rio. Jo didn’t seem to mind.

She changed her clothes into the jeans and the inappropriate-for-work-at-a-funeral-home ‘Shaun of the Dead’ t-shirt covered by the equally inappropriate, yet more disturbing, ‘Walking Dead’ hoodie Suzi wore this morning and drove to the local cellular store.

Later, after surviving an hour of small talk and sales pitches at the cellular store, Suzanne held the new phone—a ridiculous thing with pink daisies splashed across the back. It felt absurdly juvenile in her hands, but Suzi had picked it, not her. She scrolled through the restored contacts—Aiden, Maeve, Reed, Rio—and let out a sigh of relief. Everything important was intact.

With the phone tucked into her bag, Suzanne drove to downtown Chicago, following the directions on the postcard. The Holy Name Cathedral. The name alone carried weight, something heavy and ancient.

The cathedral loomed as she arrived, its spires stretching toward the cold December sky. Stars blinked faintly above, distant and indifferent. Suzanne climbed the steps, each one echoing beneath her boots, and pushed open one of the massive bronze doors with almost no effort and no ominous creak.

Inside, the narthex opened like a painting come to life. Arched ceilings soared above, adorned with intricate carvings and frescoes. Warm light spilled from sconces, casting flickering shadows over the cathedral's magnificence and beauty.

A priest approached, his steps deliberate, his face worn but kind. “Good evening, my child,” he greeted, hands folded neatly. “Evening mass doesn’t begin for another two hours.”

Suzanne pressed her palms together, fingertips against fingertips, and bowed low at the waist in front of the priest. Her heart thumped with a curious mix of reverence and self-consciousness—she could almost hear Judy’s inevitably snarky remark coming before it happened.

“Greetings, venerable cleric,” she said, forcing a polite smile.

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Judy hissed from somewhere near Guillermo. “Boooo!”

Blood surged into Suzanne’s cheeks. Any semblance of composure threatened to crack as Annie chimed in.

“No, I don’t think Jesus was a priest. He was a Jew,” Annie said, eyes wide, like she was munching popcorn at a horror flick rather than standing in the middle of a cathedral.

The priest let his hands drop. Clearly unsure if Suzanne was serious or mocking him, he hesitated. “How may I help you?” His head tilted in faint curiosity.

Suzanne re-centered herself—focus, focus—and cleared her throat. “I’m looking for a friend of mine—Dr. Everett?”

“I do not know of him. I’m sorry.”

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Her mind scrambled. “What about Darcy—” She faltered, realizing she couldn’t remember which fake name Darcy had given this time. Nerves buzzed in her stomach. “Uh, about yay tall,” she held her palm at roughly five-and-a-half feet, “short strawberry blond hair, probably wearing a dingy hoodie, maybe nineteen, chip on her shoulder.”

“Oh. Her.” The priest’s voice took on an air of recognition. “She’s in with the Joan of Arc exhibit, usually arguing with Bishop Freely. This way, please.”

He guided Suzanne through the cathedral’s nave. Her breath caught in her throat. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead with a majesty that made her neck strain, the bronze sculptures and frescoes shimmering in candlelight. The Tree of Life and the crucifixion of Christ adorned the walls, the images so vibrant she half-expected them to move. She kept pace behind the priest until they reached a wide side chamber. Voices—soft, tense—carried on the echoing hush of the ancient stone.

Darcy’s voice, no doubt. And a bishop, she presumed, wearing sumptuous robes that marked his station. They stood in front of a tall glass case: chains, a skull, a lock of dark red hair, and a sword with its scabbard—all ancient as they proclaimed.

“—regardless, Rome assures us these are authentic,” came the bishop’s resonant voice.

“I’m telling you, they are not. There were—” Darcy began.

The bishop cut her off. “How would you know?” His dramatic flourish—head back, arms out—smacked of theatrical frustration.

The priest accompanying Suzanne cleared his throat, a sharp “Ah-hem,” and introduced her to the bishop before stepping away. Darcy immediately latched onto Suzanne’s presence as if she were salvation itself.

“YES! Suzi!” Darcy practically shouted. “Please tell this man this could not be Joan of Arc’s skull.” Darcy spun to the bishop and added, “Suzi is a mortician. She can tell you this is not Jehanne Tarc’s skull.”

Suzanne felt heat building behind her cheeks, uncertain how to navigate the tension. She tried the same bow with the bishop, but the corner of her eye caught Darcy glaring at her as if silently screaming, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

She straightened, forcing herself to sound calm. “Well…it is a woman’s skull.” Great. State the obvious. “It does look about the right age, and it’s definitely damaged by fire, but without carbon dating and further examination, I can’t say for certain.”

Darcy scoffed as if Suzanne had just betrayed her. “It’s not her! The chains are wrong. And that is NOT the Sword of St. Catherin.”

“She’s right,” came Judas’s voice from the collective. “That’s just a common sword.”

Suzanne felt the presence of the other personalities swirl in disapproval—like a silent, judgmental audience inside her own head.

“So, the hair is all the investigators of the Church of Rome got correct, then?” the bishop sneered, dismissing Darcy’s complaint with a bored wave of his hand.

Darcy’s cheeks flared with anger. “I don’t care about the hair!”

“Young lady,” the bishop rumbled, “you have argued with me every day since this exhibit arrived. I’ll admit I’m impressed by your research—most your age prefer to whittle away time on ‘googly tweets.’ But I must trust the renowned scientists and archaeologists employed by the Holy Catholic Church of Rome. This exhibit has been displayed in cathedrals around the world—”

“I know. None of them listened to me either,” Darcy snapped.

The bishop waved her off again and raised his voice, letting it boom off the arches. “—since before you were even born!”

Suzanne saw Darcy’s fists coil, lips pressed tight. Alarm skittered through Suzanne’s nerves—she had no illusions about Darcy’s capacity for violence. She jumped in, voice soft but urgent. “Your Highness, if I might borrow your verbal sparring partner for a moment?”

“Absolutely. Please take her far, far away.” The bishop spun and stalked off.

Suzanne faced Darcy, grabbed her arm, and whispered, “What are you doing? Are you trying to get us kicked out of here?”

Darcy yanked her arm free. “You’re not my mother. And this is a church—they can’t just kick us out.” Her voice bristled with indignation. “I hate that the Pope or whoever is in charge back in Rome sends this merde around the world, acting like they knew me when it’s all fake.” She glared. “And to make it worse, you won’t back me up.”

Suzanne took a quick breath. “What are you going to do, Darcy—tell them you are Joan of Arc? They’d likely burn you at the stake again.”

The words tumbled from her tongue before she had the chance to soften them. Darcy’s glare deepened, then she turned away. “You have no idea what it’s like,” she said, voice clipped and pained. The hood of her sweatshirt came up. She spun and strode off toward the cathedral’s nave.

A lead weight settled in Suzanne’s gut. She hustled after Darcy, catching her at the entrance. “Hey,” Suzanne said, gentle. “We’re on the same side, remember? I need you and Dr. Everett to teach me. But sometimes…you’ve got to let things go.”

Darcy pivoted, pulling the hood back to reveal tear-streaked cheeks. The sudden show of raw vulnerability punched Suzanne in the chest. “When you get burned at the stake for dressing like a man, you can tell me what I need to let go of.” Darcy’s voice cracked under anger and sorrow. “When you’ve lived six hundred years feeling more like a man than a woman, you can tell me what to let go of. When you live long enough to finally see a society that could accept you as transgender, but you can’t HAVE THE FUCKING SURGERY because your body heals itself back into a woman within a day, then you can tell me what to let go of.”

Suzanne’s mind reeled. She couldn’t even find the breath to speak. She just stood there, heart churning with empathy—and a cold sting of fear for Darcy’s long, lonely struggle.

After a tense moment, Darcy pulled her hood back up and mumbled, “Come on. Everett wants to see you.”

“Darcy—” Suzanne started softly.

“Don’t worry about it.” Darcy flicked her hand, not even looking back. Suzanne set her jaw and followed, quickly matching Darcy’s pace until they reached the church’s atrium.

“Hey, can’t you just—” Suzanne twirled her fingers in the air, unsure how to phrase it, “—limbo-zip us to wherever?”

Darcy halted, giving her a deadpan look. “Yes, but one, the ‘office’ is literally across the street,” she said, pointing beyond the church doors, “and two, we don’t use our powers on holy ground.”

Suzanne blinked. “Wait—what? Why not?”

Darcy sighed like she was repeating something obvious. “Did your angel guide tell you nothing? Just like it causes demons great pain to be on consecrated ground, it also drains celestials. It takes twice as much will and energy, and it can have an even worse cost. It’s supposed to deter us from fighting in places of worship.”

“That…sort of makes sense, I guess,” Suzanne murmured, though it still rang odd in her head. “But not really.”

Darcy shrugged. “I don’t make the rules.”

A new question burned at the back of Suzanne’s mind. “Can I ask you something else?”

Darcy rolled her eyes upward, exhaling. “What is it?”

“If you’re unhappy,” Suzanne began, “why don’t you retire?”

Darcy’s gaze cut sharp. “Retire from being a celestial?”

Suzanne plowed forward, nerves coiled. “Yes. I was told you ca—”

“You were told wrong,” Darcy interrupted, voice flat. “Retiring isn’t an option. Allons-y. Let’s go.”

Darcy hopped down the stone steps two at a time, crossing the busy street without slowing. Horns blared as cars screeched to a stop, but she never looked back. Panic jolted Suzanne’s heart. She dashed after Darcy, sidestepping angry drivers and murmuring apologies.

On the other side, Darcy waited with an impatient curve to her lips. “Why are you acting so motherly?” she asked. “I heard you were some badass putain who fought off a whole gaggle of demons by yourself. You don’t seem like that type.”

Suzanne huffed, feeling equal parts cornered and embarrassed. “I’m…having an off day.”

Darcy smirked. “You better get on your A-game if you’re going to play at our level, salope.”

Suzanne stiffened. “‘Bitch?’ You don’t know me well enough to call me that.”

But Darcy only laughed under her breath. She pulled open the door of a decrepit office building and held it for Suzanne. “Come on,” she said, voice dripping with challenge, “let’s see what you’re really made of, shall we?”