The scowl on Linda Murray’s face told Kathlan that he had in fact forgot to tell her he had survived the Barghest hunt out in Germany.

“Four months!!” she screamed in her nasally Irish accent. “Four bloody months I worried and wondered if the great Kathlan had finally proven he was a KNOB!” She continued, the rolling pin in her thick arm swinging dangerously close to his face. “Does the daft man even bother to send a Raven,” she swung the pin back to her workstation with a tilt of her head. “Or a bloody text message?” she asked pointedly before eying him over her pastry dough.

Kathlan opened his mouth to speak.

“NO! He bloody doesn’t!” throwing the kitchen tool at his face. It narrowly missed but Kathlan prepared himself, as the butcher’s knife was just in her arm’s length. “You drive me mad, Kath. See if I ever help you again.” She huffed before crossing her arms, the knife still threateningly close.

“Miss Murray,” he began.

“Don’t you dare Miss Murray me Kath! That won’t unspoil my milk.” She said her hands slammed down onto the counter next to the well-crafted Damascus knife. Her eyes and posture softened. “I was scared Kathlan. Scared you had finally met the Dullahan. It’s ridiculous, but I was.” Miss Murray had tears swelling in her eyes. He understood and should have from the start.

Kathlan had met Miss Murray in New York when she first arrived as a girl. He had saved her father from a bad Fay deal and in return he offered his families services. Melinda reminded him a lot of her mother Shauna; their broad shoulders and kind hearts demonstrated the true love of a mother only the Irish countryside could raise. Linda, as she preferred to be called, was a second-generation librarian of occult and magical studies in the lower Brooklyn area. Over the last eighty-five years, Kathlan had trusted the research of all three of the Murrays in the various cases he had found himself working on. Linda’s latest help was in hunting a pack of Barghest, demonic wolf like beasts, that had invaded a small village in Germany. The well studied woman was quick to point out that the Barghest, while normally solitary figures, seemed to be acting in accordance with a pack leader.

When Kathlan had opened up the alpha, he indeed found an arcane device that was controlling, or at least incentivizing, the creatures to attack. He found no trace of a enchanter’s signature and so decided to take it into the Divine Sanctums Research and Development department. This drop off ended with him being kidnapped and taken to Indonesia for a month to help return a class three manifestation back to its seal. Kathlan felt terrible that the woman had worried for him, but couldn’t help feeling a bit, insulted?

“I am fine. You were right as always, but I didn’t get anything useful from the device. Unfortunately, I have a bad habit of keeping the Sanctum off my ass by giving them pretty things to look at from time to time.” He began to explain, trying to break the concern in her honey brown eyes. He started to make another excuse but simply sighed. “I’m sorry for not letting you know. I should have thought better of our friendship. Can you forgive me Miss Melinda Bridget Murray?” he asked, rather sincerely. He felt it was the least he could do. Not many cared for him as Geneva and Miss Murray did.

She glared Kathlan down hard, before relaxing her shoulders and letting out a deep sigh.

“You’re lucky I know when you’re speaking plain.” She stated dryly. “Apology accepted; you know I can’t resist my name said like that.” She said with a blush and a grin. “Reminds me of San Angelo.”

“We were both drunk.” He replied quietly.

“When were we not?” Miss Murray laughed. “But that was when I was much younger.” She stared happily into the air, a wide grin on her face.

“You don’t look a day over a hundred and eighty.”

“You take that back!! I practiced really hard to keep myself no younger than eighty five.” She yelled, this time picking up the knife and pointing it at him. “I’ve told you, don’t miss-age a witch. It’s not good for your health lad.” she said, ending with a twinkle in her voice, which was far more menacing than the knife. “But enough of that,” she slammed the knife into a wooden block. “You need answers, I like asking questions. Step into the back love.”

She untied her apron as Kathlan walked around the large, windowed counter of her bakery. Kathlan always wondered why witches choose careers in baking but refrained from asking any outright. He supposed it would be better for his health that way. He turned the corner past the fresh loafs of sourdough and rye, all hand turned by the great Irish woman herself every morning. The end of the hall was adorned with a painting of a great roman imperial library painted in oil on sheep skin.

“Ashleigh!” he heard the woman call from behind him, “I’m going to the back! I’ve got two mince on the counter and five veggie in the oven!”

“two mince, five veg.” came the well trained and polite call of the ginger headed girl. “Is Mr. Rostien’s prescription ready for pick up?” she asked, her voice echoing from down the hall.

“Aye, lass. Tell him if these don’t last till march, I’m not filling them again.” She said, with a scowl in her voice. “I don’t care that ticks can’t tell him apart from the dog. He can take the cleansing spell or be the mutt he is.”

“You…don’t want me to say ALL that do you?” the girl asked nervously, peaking her head around the hallway corner.

Miss Murray thought for a moment, then slowly lifted a finger in the air and pointed at the girl. “No.” she said cautiously, as if she were unsure of the correct answer. “Best not.”

“Shall we?” Kathlan asked, directing the off-guard woman back to her senses.

“Oh, yes. Just tell Mr. Rostien that I know it itches, but no more than twice a day.” She said with professionalism, regaining her usual demeanor. She passed Kathlan down the hallway and pushed her hand into the oil painting producing a single book from the warbling image. She quickly thumbed through the book, traced an insignia on a page before a similar sigil appeared on the painting. Kathlan watched in amusement as the portrait almost melted down the side of the wall into the length of a standing mirror, the library scene now replaced with a single wooden door.

This type of display is what Kathlan loved most about the magical and occult worlds. The phrase “there’s more than one way to skin a cat’ was very applicable to most forms of magic. This transportation spell, while easy enough to be done with a simple magic circuit and a clear mental image, could take many more fascinating shapes. L’art du reve respiratoire, or Songotoire as its more commonly referred to, was the art of creating a living world through passion, magic, and imagination designed in France after the revolution. This acted much like the warlock society’s pocket reality, except this had the luxury of changing directly to the owner’s whim instead of relying on the rituals to remodel the appearances. Though the painting couldn’t hold half what the association warehouses did.

The woman opened the door and stepped into her private study. The walls were lined with all manner of shelves that would be filled with the books and information she needed as the need for them arose. She went to the bookcases directly behind the small oak desk in the middle of the room. Kathlan walked through the doorway after her, this time feeling no void space as he crossed the threshold. The interior was surprisingly well lit considering the darker tone the oils gave the painting. The painted aspect faded as his eyes adjusted to the light, seeming no more different than the bakery they had just left.

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Linda took an armful of books off the shelf and carefully placed them on the desk. Kathlan approached her as the books began to sort themselves into stacks with a single large tome lying in the center of the desk. The tome was an ashen brown with a heavy bronze lock attached to a latch on the side. She nodded at the books, no doubt satisfied by her preparations and stared expectantly at Kathlan.

“As always, our conversations are closed door only.” She said with a wink, sensing Kathan’s hesitation and caution.

“Have you heard anything, game changing, yet?” he asked, dancing around the sensitive and dangerous topic.

She tilted her head sideways at him.

“Like what? Like Mr. Hanfew is cheating on poor Miss. Delila,” she said with a disapproving yet threatening tone, “Or like a Greater Demon suddenly disappeared without a trace.”

She smiled sincerely at him. He recognized this is what he liked about her family; the sarcastic and intimidating way they spoke, hidden underneath a veil of innocence and politeness that even he couldn’t see through. He felt lucky that he had made a great first impression on the clumsy gentleman.

“I see that word travels fast, even when the sanctum tries its best.”

“In their defense, it’s not easy to talk your way out of something like that. Since all they do is yap, they have nothing to fall back on.” She sat inspecting her nails, “Pity.” She looked up and smiled. “But in all fairness, I forgot my keys in the painting again and the report happened to be the only thing on my desk this morning. If you would have asked any other day, you’d have probably gotten me off guard.’

“Pity.” He replied playfully.

This brought a wide and delighted smile to her face. He had done many things for her when she smiled like that, but he stuffed the pleasant memories down. If word kept spreading this quickly around town, the situation could turn ugly quick. She must have guessed what was on his mind as she crossed the room and pulled an old leather tome from a waist high shelf.

“There aren’t many things in this world that could mask that level of energy being transferred at once. The soul is too massive, and the stronger the spiritual energy of the individual soul in question, the more difficult it is to even harness. With that being said, there are barriers and sealing rituals from various indigenous civilizations that could work. The only issue is that it would require a massive show of flashy worship to be performed before it was sealed.” She explained while thumbing through the large book. “There are a few artifacts that could hold such a powerful soul, but all of the documented ones are accounted for and occupied.”

She found the page she had been looking for and placed it on her desk, before moving to a ladder and climbing up to reach a soft blue pelt journal. “Which means we are probably looking for something that can manipulate souls as a biological function.” She walked back to the desk and pointed the page out to Kathlan to read.

Kathlan looked at the highly decorated and slightly browning pages of the book that she had handed him. The image that took up most of the left-hand page was that of a symbol of a scythe and a hooded man upon a horse. The text was written in old Gaelic, and in this version called the creature ‘Dullahan’. Kathlan knew that most of these creatures would later be called Reapers, as a collective. Spirits, angels, and demons of many varieties whose sole job it was to ensure that souls entered the afterlife.

He looked back at Linda with a confused look, “You think a Reaper did this? I could understand if it was somebody like the Lieutenant who the Reaper was after, but I doubt a greater demon would be under the jurisdiction of such a creature.” Kathlan handed her the book. If it was a Reaper that did this, he believed that it would cause many sleepless nights for the researchers at the sanctum.

“I don't necessarily think that a Reaper would be capable of such a thing. However, it would lead to only one other conclusion. There is only one creature that any of us know of that's powerful enough to steal the soul of such a powerful being.” She looked hesitantly at him with a very intense stare. It made Kathlan feel a little uncomfortable as he sat trying to figure out what she could be referring to. After a few moments passed she sighed and sat at the desk. “It's only a legend, at least to those who aren't in the know, but such a creature does exist. Though it doesn't fall under any authority that anyone can tell of. It is said to be immortal, no matter how many times you kill it, it'll just keep coming back. It's always lurking, hunting for something as if searching the entire world for an elusive item that its lost. Like a dragon looking for its lost hoard. Some say that it's the beast that the Bible speaks about, but they all attest to its insatiable hunger.” She looked at Kathlan again with a deep stare. “It's called the Devourer; you're the only one who is capable of doing such a thing.” She pushed the journal towards the edge of the desk.

He stepped over and picked up the bound pages. He recognized it immediately.

I took the soul of Enki so that he would not upset the balance. I have driven the winged beasts to the sky once more. I have grown tired of this life. Tired of the deeds I’ve done against this world. I wish to bring this vile nature to its end. I shall not rest until I have the soul of Barbatos in my grasp. I shall rend him from the great tapestry, only the mother weaver must remain.

“I was a different being back then. I hadn’t seen how the plan unfolded.”

“You said the plan wasn’t actually a plan.” she remarked.

“There is no plan, that’s the plan. Even if I hadn’t succeeded, it would have turned out this way.” He closed the journal and ran his hand against the soft dyed sheep skin journal. “Was it Vivian who correctly entrusted this journal to you?” He asked, thinking of the Holy Sister.

“No, Father O’Reilly brought it to me after finding a letter addressed to him.”

“So, Vivian is gone but that bastard Sullivan is still alive.” He said with a grit in his throat. “Some world.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and pulled one out. He lit it with a wave of his finger, vibrating the tobacco atoms until ignition, before putting the pack in his pocket. Linda coughed sharply from the desk eyeing Kathlan. He sighed, handing her the cigarette. She smiled and put it to her lips with a deep inhale. Kathlan dug another cigarette out of the pack and lit it.

“For what it’s worth; he’s not enough of a bastard to refuse her last wishes.” she said after another drag, tapping the desk. The spot she tapped shifted and molded itself upwards into a shallow plate. She tapped the cigarette on the ashtray as she continued. “But I need to hear you say it.” She eyed him seriously, her cigarette glowing red as she inhaled, waiting.

“I didn’t kill Mephistopheles.” He told her sincerely.

“Oh heavens no.” she exclaimed with a puff of smoke. “I had no doubts that this wasn’t you.” She said with a laugh before leaning forward. “No, I need you to say, ‘I won’t kill Father Sullivan O’Reilly now that Sister Vivian isn’t here to save him.’” She said, doing an imitation of his gruff voice.

Kathlan glared at her, “Is that really necessary?”

“Actually, it is. I promised Father O’Reilly that I’d take Sister Vivian’s place in protecting him from you. I know you would have done so already had the sister not intervened. So yes. Now out with it.” She barked.

Kathlan recalled the various times he indeed would have killed Sullivan. The man was a Father; less by title and more by role. He was promiscuous and, on many occasions, would harass the young women around the local bars. He also had a habit of ratting out Kathlan anytime he could. Due to him being the head of Vivian’s parish, he was notified anytime Kathlan would ask for her assistance and wisdom. What made the man worth killing was his continued misuse of the holy laws to get Vivian to talk.

“It is a sin to lie my dear, trust that if this sinner does indeed work in the Lord’s will, then nothing you spoke of should be wrong.” A duplicitous wretch to his very core. Kathlan couldn’t truly agree to such a thing.

He looked up into Linda Murray’s eyes, a mix of disappointment and sympathetic understanding. “Kath.” She called lightly to him.

“I swear on Vivian’s desire and my respect for you that I shall not injure, kill, or threaten to maim Sullivan O’Reilly.”

“Father Sullivan O’reilly.” She corrected with a hint of irritation. Again, hidden just slightly below her politeness.

“And respect the role of FATHER Sullivan O’Reilly.” He repeated in a calm and polite tone.

“Excellent, hear that, Father. You’re safe now.” She called out behind Kathlan.

The well-built and clean-shaven man stepped out from around another bookcase. “I did hear him say it, though it doesn’t bring me much comfort if I’m being honest.” He spoke in a clear rich voice, one blessed for speaking the word of the Lord. “I do appreciate the gesture though.”

“My report.” She addressed, pointing at the man. “Tell him what you told me.”

The Father looked down at Kathlan, something he knew wasn’t easy, and spoke in a practiced and surprisingly nervous manner. “Before her passing, Vivian received a vision that she was instructed to keep to herself. The Angel Uriel told her to send for aide as a great sin had been committed.” He pulled a folded letter from his jacket and read out loud, “The unholy have trampled upon the sacred paths, now a sheep must be offered. Seek the black sun’s inquisitor, ask if he has heard the howl of the void. The lord has asked for his council.” He performed Signum Crucis and folded the letter before returning it to his pocket. “I was instructed to come here on this day. Vivian has asked you to answer the summons of the Angel Uriel. I am to bring you to the temple at once.” He said, with a nervous twinge in his voice.