When Ira opened his eyes that final morning, there at first was no indication that this day would be the last of its kind. For one more hour, it all seemed on schedule. Sunlight stained by city lamps flowed in through his wide bay windows, flushing the small room with weak golden speckles across the hardwood floors.

Still tussled from his tossing and turning, his flaxen hair stuck up in an array of tangles. He blinked wearily over deep purple circles. He shifted his aching muscles from beneath his comforter. Not even the heat of the summer nights outside could remove Ira from his heavy blankets. They served as anchors, tying him into his soft downy mattress. He would have liked to stay in bed for an hour more to compensate for his nightmare, but Peter had slept as peacefully as always and had woken up hungry and on time.

Ira regretfully slipped from his bed, stretching once more to work out the knots he'd formed in his tensed and strained sleeping self, to no avail. Peter hopped off the bed, yawning widely and arching her spine in mirrored image of her boy. He couldn't deny that he wished he could contort out all his stiff muscles as well as she could.

Ira rolled his weary blue eyes and scoffed, "show off."

With the old tabby plodding along as a little shadow on his heels, Ira made his way to the kitchen of his and Father Pine's small New York apartment. He didn't mind that he could cross the entire property in three well timed leaps. To him, and to Peter and Father Pine, this place was home.

Books were towered up on each and every surface. Some had begun to lean, tilting dangerously towards disaster. Emptied coffee cups littered the few other available spaces. Ira winced. They were all his--he'd clean them up after breakfast, he thought. Yet, he said that every morning and somehow his hoard only seemed to grow.

Across from the kitchen was the living room. Well, no. Not across, that would be too generous. The small rooms seemed to bleed together. So crowded, Ira could laze across the couch while cooking eggs on the stove. But, anyway, that kitchen-living-room-hybrid was home to a single yellow sofa and an old boxy TV. It mutilated all its pictures into blue-gray fuzz, but Ira only ever used it to stay awake at night watching old nature documentaries on loop, so he hardly minded.

The square kitchen had space just enough for a two-seater table squeezed in between their appliances. One of the seats, right with his back to the front door, was occupied. As it always was. And as he always was, he ignored his plate of steaming scrambled eggs to devour his mug of jet-black coffee, a serious scowl across his unserious face. He had his phone locked in his hand, because not even Father Pine was old enough for newspaper. But Ira was. Father Pine had collected the morning paper, leaving it neatly folded on the center of their cramped table for him.

Peter mewed loudly, rubbing her cheek against Ira's shin in gentle declaration. He opened the cupboard and retrieved a bowl of bland brown kibble for her. Ira knelt down, placing the bowl on the floor while scratching at her ears with his free hand.

Cat satisfied, he made his way to the stove, turning his attention to the frying pan full of his breakfast where Father Pine had left it for him. He scooped the remaining half of scrambled eggs onto his plate and poured himself a cup of black coffee. He hated it, the smell, the tastes, the way it made his heart race and palms sweat--but he would gladly go to anything that could keep his sleep from finding him for just a while longer.

And because nothing about that day was at all strange, he traced his steps to the left seat of their small table. If he squinted, he could see his footprints worn down into the cheap linoleum tile. Without a single word of greeting, Ira folded up into his seat.

He knew better than to interrupt Father Pine's morning reading of the news, so he turned himself into quiet contemplation and an average breakfast. It aided his thoughts to listen to Peter's happy purs between mouthfuls of chunked kibble.

For the next twenty minutes, they'd sit in compatible silence. Reading their own versions of the morning paper and listening to the morning rush of car horns fill the street below. It had been that way for years. Since Ira had learned to appreciate journalism with a side of coffee.

So, that was the first to go. The first domino to fall. Tilting, colliding, and spiraling.

Father Pine set down his phone and sighed. "It's always the same. Why do I read it every day?"

For a moment, Ira was too stunned to speak. He glanced at the clock and then back at Father Pine. It hadn't been twenty minutes. It hadn't even been five. He hadn't even begun to chew on his eggs.

"There's. . .comfort in routine." Ira said, for Father Pine's reading and for his comfortably quiet mornings.

Father Pine laughed, setting his mug on the table beside his discarded smartphone. "I'd ask you to switch chairs with me, but you might faint. You should be quicker on your feet, kid. Big changes are coming." He was keeping his voice too light, too sarcastic, and Ira noticed it as soon as the first words left his mouth.

"If you weren't such a creature of habit, it'd be harder to tell when something was wrong." Ira said. He had noted it without thinking but when Father Pine froze, he wondered if he'd made a mistake. Father Pine exhaled through his nose and shook his head.

"My kid's too smart." Father Pine chuckled.

My kid--sometimes Ira wondered if he meant it the way Ira meant it when he called him Father. If it mattered at all, to anyone. If maybe it was one of those clues in the morning crossword, signifying a secret code that only they could decipher. Before he could reach a conclusion, Father Pine struck with hot-iron.

"Ira, have you dreamed anything significant yet?"

He flinched. His fork, hovering over his plate, tilted. Fluffy yellow eggs tumbled through the air in a mundane display. Maybe if he'd dropped his coffee mug, shattering it across the weathered kitchen tile--sprays of hot black liquid echoing up into the air--it might have been a better portrait of how he felt.

"No." Ira said, placing his metal fork back on the table before he could impale it into his placemat. "If I had, I would have told you."

Ira was, to everyone in the Progeny, washed up. But he preferred it that way. His memories could never be what they wanted it to be--he couldn't recall his first life, the one they all wanted so badly. So, he'd been tossed aside. Left to play pretend in a small apartment, reading the laity newspaper each day.

"From the time of the Demon-Born wars, I mean." Father Pine asked.

Ira tried to swallow down the iron-hot spike he felt in his ribs. "No." He grit out. "Still no."

How many years had they been asking him? How many more times would he have to say it? He didn't know. He didn't remember the beginning--over, and over, and over. Like bees impaling into his hide, or drills burrowing into his bones to lap up his marrow. They'd bleed him dry, and never find what they wanted.

Father Pine frowned, "Really? But that's how we found you, Ira. When you were a child you told the Cardinal-"

"-yes, when I was about three and still living at the orphanage--well, I don't recall that either!" Ira snapped, curling his fingers into fists over the breakfast table.

Father Pine frowned down at his coffee and sighed in defeat, as if he'd predicted this outcome. Well, he likely had. Despite what Ira did or did not remember as a toddler, those memories were far removed. "Alright."

Ira sighed, too. Like a bull blowing out cartoonish pillars of gray steam from its nostrils. He ran his fingers through his hair to diffuse the sudden and irrational swell of emotion charging just beyond the barrier of his skin. Dampening the amp before it could overheat and explode. "Why?"

Father Pine paused, his fingers hovering over the handle of his coffee mug. "I was. . . I was just curious how all those ancient Beasts looked, you know? The texts are not always clear. Now, they just exist in movies, as polished as statues."

Ira leaned back in his chair, letting his shoulders slump beneath the soft white cotton of his sleep shirt. "What's the point? Those things don't exist anymore. Not since the Trammel."

Father Pine shrugged. "I may also be trying to change the subject, and this is an interesting one. I find it rather hopeless sometimes. Before us, a mere army of laity knights eliminated all the Beasts in the world."

"Not laity, Father." Ira corrected. "They were no longer just laity by the end of the war. They became us. Or, no, we come from them. The Progeny."

Father Pine, who had begun his life as a laity Priest before joining the Progeny, nodded in agreement. "We have a way of bleeding into one another, don't we? Regardless, they were ill prepared. They had no idea the terror Beasts could unleash--but we do. We've held the knowledge for centuries and have failed to expand upon it in any meaningful capacity."

"We have not failed. We have yet to succeed. It's different." Ira shrugged.

"Even divided into Sects, formed into complete devotion to one target each, we have made no progress on banishing the Third Prince." He scowled.

"What's come over you?" Ira asked, leaning forward on the heels of his palms. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Father. No other Sect has dealt with what we have."

He tried to say it without the bitterness he harbored against the other seven Sects. No other Sect had ever actually seen their charged Prince risen, whereas the Sect of Saint Francis had never seen theirs in hell. The Third Prince had been on Earth since the war of the Demon-Born. It was a cloud that hung over all of the Progeny, and yet Ira was content to lay in the eye of the storm.

"It's strange, isn't it? The Third Prince walks among us--and we sit each morning to read the news." He shook his head. "Wildfires, hurricanes, sickness. His mere existence is rotting us."

"What would you have us do, Father?" Ira asked.

It truly was odd how everyone--well, not everyone. The laity population remained unaware, simple-minded and content--had just adjusted to his constant looming force, but there really was nothing to be done about it. There was no weapon on earth strong enough to defeat a Greater Demon.

They needed a Vestige to kill a Prince of Hell--and they were sorely lacking.

"I would rather have you do nothing." Father Pine scoffed. He exhaled sharply and hung his head. Father Pine pinched the bridge of his nose and said nothing. Peter finished her bowl and began to lick her paws with happy chirps.

"What's brought all this on? I thought we'd reached an agreement." Ira said hesitantly.

"Kid, you've been summoned." He whispered. His words crossed into the air on a trail of frost, churning the atmosphere inside their small kitchen into wintery slush.

"Oh," Ira breathed. Peter stretched and lashed her tail against the air.

"I know that I. . ." Father Pine swallowed and continued, "angels, I feel like a farmer sending his prized pig to slaughter. I know I'm being unreasonable, just allow me one more selfish morning to try and then I will see you go with a smile."

Ira thought that comment was better left alone and just nodded.

"I'll change the topic again." Father Pine mumbled.

"I think that's for the best." Ira agreed.

Father Pine ran his finger along the edge of his phone before perking up excitedly. "There was a notice this morning, possible possession. I thought we could. . ." He said it all like a child might pester his friend to sneak into a movie with him.

"Father, my summons." Ira pushed.

"My kid is too smart." Father Pine frowned. "Then hurry up and eat, you have an hour."

"An hour for what?"

"To prepare to meet the Cardinal."

"Angels." Ira swore under his breath.

His breakfast settled as stern as cement in his gut.

Ira wished he had a cassock, and that was certainly not a wish he'd ever made before. He felt entirely too exposed in his slacks and simple black button-up. Father Pine had even declined to give him a tie.

"Trust me, save the fancy robes for the ill-believers of the new ways." Father Pine scoffed. "You only need black."

Ira creased up his eyebrows. "The Cardinal wears a robe--is he a New Progeny spouter then?"

"Of course not!" Father Pine denied. "New Progeny cryers are practically laity. They've forgotten that demons used to be real. They'd rather pray to false idols than erase He-Goats. No, the Cardinal just thinks red is his color."

Ira suspected that Father Pine was in some part joking about the Cardinal, but they did have a personal history that Ira didn't fully know the extent of.

"We're soldiers under the only true power--angels, kid. A dalmatic isn't going to sell your case. This is practically a casual affair." Father Pine assured while adjusting the collar of his traditional robe.

"Hypocrisy is the bane of the honorable." Ira muttered.

"Nonsense, kid!" Father Pine puffed. "This is just my uniform. No different from a nurse wearing scrubs."

"Nurses don't usually slaughter demons on the job." Ira huffed.

"That's what you think." Father Pine teased, winking from behind his heavy glasses.

"Usually." Ira agreed, laughing alongside him.

Ira, dressed head to toe in black, was modeled in similar fashion to Father Pine. Except his black button-up had been lined with thin scarlet red fabric, caressing and following the trim of the suit. It was a symbol of his strength within the Sect of Saint Francis, and his standing. Although the words sounded silly, he was a holy knight, after all. A Bishop, to be exact.

Ira had yet to earn his red. He was still only a Deacon--but hopefully, not for much longer. If it all went well before the Cardinal, then he'd begin the journey to ascending the simple black clothes of a Deacon. Ira bent to tie his polished oxfords, while low to the ground he paused to scratch Peter's chin, keeping a great amount of focus on distancing her furry body safely away from his neat black slacks.

"I feel you may be trying to sabotage me." Ira grumbled, but he trusted Father Pine. He'd trusted him with his life, and it had got him this far.

• • •

The Progeny had served humanity for so long that they'd begun to shape the world around them. Of course, lots had been lost in translation, but the bones beneath the colorful flesh were as strong as iron and held many men in a vow of devotion to a cause given by angels themselves. Ira wished purpose was the only thing angels had given him. His feet functioned more as anchors than appendages. Ira found it difficult to traverse the busy New York City streets. He hadn't been able to fall back asleep after his dream. It hung over his head as dark as a rain cloud.

It didn't seem that Father Pine had a similar issue. He seemed suddenly chipper. It was alarming.

"Nervous, kid?" Father Pine asked. He was fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. Sweat beaded beneath the edges of his salt and pepper hair. He'd worn his glasses, and hideous, thick rims distorted his sky blue eyes.

"Not at all, Father." Ira laughed.

He watched him, fearlessly traversing the concrete jungle. And he admired him. Afterall, once upon a time he'd given up everything he'd known, too. He'd left laity priesthood to become a Bishop of the Progeny. Trading in his comfortable lifestyle for the unknown. Just as Ira was about to do.

"Are you nervous?"

Father Pine laughed, tilting his head in contemplation. "I thought I was playing it cool. Yes, I am," he admitted, "so much is going to change. You won't be my responsibility anymore, but I'll still worry if you've eaten dinner, if you've picked up your notorious dirty mugs, or if you're even safe at all."

Ira frowned. There had been a part of pilgrimage he'd been denying, but it was growing increasingly harder to do so. "I. . . I can't come for dinner? Just sometimes?"

"Oh, kid." Father Pine breathed. "This isn't forever. It's just until you complete your trial. Then you can come for as many dinners as you like. You could even move back home if the taste of your new bachelor living didn't excite you. You know, most kids your age do something like this."

Father Pine had kept his promise. After their morning had faded, he'd plunged into a tentative calm. Despite prolonging this moment for all of Ira's life. A resolution had settled over the horizon. It was now a matter out of his hands, one that he couldn't waste the energy fighting anymore.

"They submit a request to go on a grand spiritual journey to the leader of their demon-slaying organization?" Ira balked sarcastically. "Paid education really is getting out of hand."

Father Pine leveled Ira with a scolding stare and ruffled his sandy hair into a mess on top of his head. Ira turned pink, trying quickly to flatten it back down into the style he'd groomed for coming face-to-face with the Cardinal. Ira hadn't seen the Cardinal since he stopped testifying. His dreams weren't helping them come any closer to putting the Third Prince back in Hell, so they'd become irrelevant.

Ira had fallen into cold storage, a pricey pair of shoes collecting dust in the closet. And he was grateful for it. The last few years had not been quiet, Ira still hunted He-Goats and performed exorcisms with his father most evenings, but the days had become something almost akin to peaceful, without men rooting around in Ira's head for dirt on the Greater Demon he hated most.

"You seem so lost in thought today, kid. You're really okay, right? I'm the one who's supposed to be putting on a brave face." Father Pine said. He pulled Ira closer to him as they moved along the early morning crowds.

"Promise." Ira laughed. "I feel almost. . . excited?" He rolled his tongue over the word. It popped like bubbles between his teeth, releasing electricity down his throat to tangle up his insides. He knew he shouldn't seem happy to leave, but he couldn't deny the anticipation gathering behind his ribs. "Can you tell me about your pilgrimage, Father Pine?"

Father Pine considered the request with a soft hum. "I guess." He gave in.

There were certain things that were not supposed to be spoken in the Progeny. Things that had to be discovered by the self, but each pilgrimage was different and therefore could to an extent be reminisced about. "Well you know that I was given housing away from my mentor. I survived on ramen a lot those days. Hmm, oh! The cockroaches!"

"The cockroaches?" Ira gasped. "I thought they were supposed to be locusts?"

"No, kid!" Father Pine laughed. "My apartment, ugh it was crawling in the damn things. Now if there had been locusts, we really would be in a heap of trouble. Nothing that big should even be able to get through the Trammel."

The Trammel was a word the Progeny had made up to explain why the living stayed on earth, while demons and angels walked freely between. It was a road to some, and a wall to others. Really, it was more of an idea. The Trammel was to Ira what dark matter was to a physicist. He understood it best this way: it was magic. A magical garden wall that took magic to break through.

"Locusts are larger than He-Goats?" Ira puzzled lamely. He knew these things. It hadn't been missed in his training, but he admired the way Father Pine spoke when he began to teach. As if he had Ira sat at a campfire and it was up to him to illustrate the story.

"Not physically, I suppose. What are you kids saying now. . . the energy?" Father Pine furrowed his black caterpillar eyebrows together.

Ira shrugged, he had spoken more words than anyone could care to ever recount and he found it a waste of time to keep himself up to date on the latest week-long trends.

"Locusts have more magic. It'd take a larger tear to allow them to pass. That's why Greater Demons nowadays have to stay in Hell and send thoughts to do their dirty work." Father Pine did not mention the one demon not in Hell, and Ira couldn't help but feel somehow responsible. Slaying that particular creature would solve all of Ira's problems, and he'd never been so close.

"Possession." Ira surmised.

Father Pine nodded in acknowledgement. He smiled kindly at a laity woman eyeing them as they passed with their slightly alarming commentary. "Kids and their video games." He shrugged before looking at Ira with a smirk. Ira simply entertained him with a roll of his sky blue eyes.

Father Pine then pointed at the drab stairs leading into the subway and cut across the crowds to beat the morning rush. Ira wracked his brain for more to say, he'd let Father Pine recount the whole Demon-Born war to him if it kept his attention.

Since they'd left their small apartment, Ira had been pestering Father Pine with these questions which he already knew the answers to. He was simply scared to reach the end. "Hey, you never told me about your pilgrimage!"

"Nothing much to it, really." Father Pine sighed. "I was sent to take out a pack of Ze'ev. It took me a week to cleanse them, and another week to harvest them. Then I was a Bishop. I hardly deserved my promotion--but I hope you are assigned a similar task." He lamented. "With the Trammel, there has not been much for the Progeny to do but endlessly train, take down a few goats--a few dogs. We nearly know peace, Ira. Things could be much worse."

"Or they could get worse." Ira uttered. He turned his iris-blue eyes to the dark tunnel beyond the platform. He could hear the train coming, and it came to him as an executioner. Ira braced himself against the screech of wheels on rail.

"W-wait," Ira pleaded. "What if I'm not ready?"

Father Pine smiled softly. He placed a warm hand on Ira's shoulder and pulled him close. "It's okay to be scared. I know you won't feel me there, but I will always protect you. You're my Deacon, Ira. I've been responsible for you, for longer than you've known. I've come to accept you as more than just a child of the Sect of Saint Francis. So, as my Deacon and as my progeny, be brave."

Ira released a breath of stale metro air. He bowed his head so Father Pine couldn't see his fear written in his eyes. "I promise."

Ira had been making many vows, and he was uncertain of his ability to keep any of them true. He expected what the Cardinal would ask of him, it had loomed over his head all his many lives. There was not time to ponder the past. The train doors slid open.

• • •

There was not much about the Progeny picking the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine that made sense. It was crawling with laity. No, something worse than laity--tourist. Tourist laity, with their cameras and over indulgent vacationing attitudes.

Nor did it belong to the patron saint of the Sect that nested there. Ira's diocese had been taken under the patron Saint Francis, who once stood against the Third Prince. This cathedral had been made in the name of Saint John, who was not a symbol of opposition against any Princes. All the Progeny seemed to be interested in about the building, was what laid beneath it.

Still, Ira had to acknowledge what an impressive sight it made. Tanned limestone bricks cast in gothic towels pierced the heavens, climbing so far up Ira had to tilt his head and squint. It was as if the church came from above, merely visiting the crowded New York landscape.

It held fast between the shimmering skyscrapers of Manhattan. The sanctuary stuck out as a relic of the past, similar to much of the glamor surrounding the Progeny. And old it was. The grand cathedral was almost comparable to a third of Ira's lifespan, and like him it was still changing and growing. An obscenely orange construction crew mulled around the great building, as persistent as fleas on a dog. Ira had always secretly suspected them of being in charge of keeping the laity away, as they seemed to not do anything else. They'd been poking around the place since Ira could only crawl, always citing new projects and new towers. The cathedral was growing like a living Beast, consuming Morningside Heights.

To be so near the cathedral close made Ira's skin itch. He had done much growing-up since, but sometimes he recalled what it was to be a child abandoned at the nearby Leake and Watts Orphan Asylum. He moved closer to Father Pine's side and joined him in greeting the construction workers in passing. Father Pine guided Ira up the marvelous stairs and through one of eight massive doors stamped in giant arches along the western front of the church. Ira paused in admiration to crane his neck back, looking at the famous rose window hanging above the set of main doors. It had been the beauty before the beast for most of Ira's life, and he wondered now what laid beyond the glass.

He passed harmlessly and insignificantly into the spiraling insides. Dropping into a world of hushed silence and awe. Ira made himself dizzy staring at the ceiling. He couldn't help it--it was further away than the Heavens themselves. The nave was over a hundred feet tall, lined with pillars as tall as mountains, billowing up into a massive dome filled with red brick.

The inside of the cathedral was cold, washed in pale white stone. The floor glittered in color from the stained windows lining the highest parts of the wall. The sight never grew less impressive. Only more terrifying. Ira rested a hand over his stomach to control the butterflies he had suddenly obtained there.

"Hurry," Father Pine whispered, because even this magnificent place had turned victim to the crushing silence befalling all places of thought.

A stiff atmosphere had bloomed, choking the nave. Or maybe just choking Ira. Father Pine kept his distance from wandering laity, guiding Ira as quietly as--well, as a church mouse. It had become a place of much grandeur, but the cathedral was still an active place of worship and still required a vestry. Father Pine took him to it, ignoring the curiosity their invasion invited.

Ira eyed a security guard as he turned his back on them. The sacristy was a much smaller room, full of closets of cassocks. Ira wanted to pause for a moment to slip one on, but Father Pine did not stop moving. He pulled aside the dresser full of religious garment, revealing an iron door carved into the stone wall. Father Pine produced a key from around his neck and slipped it into the rusted lock. For a moment it seemed that the door would not open, until Ira noticed the tense set of Father Pine's shoulders.

"Father?" Ira whispered. "Do you need help?"

The man sighed, his back slumping into something almost relaxed. He shook his head but did not speak. He twisted the skeleton key, and the door came open with a screech of hinges and outpouring of dust.

Ira coughed, waving his hand in front of his face. "Is there really someone down there?"

This door, it seemed, had not been used in quite some time.

"There's quite a few entrances." Father Pine explained, something Ira knew already. It was not his first trip to see the Cardinal. Ira peaked over Father Pine's shoulder and tensed. There was nothing ahead but thick inky darkness. "And now you know why this entrance is not preferred."

"Is there. . . a light switch?"

Father Pine laughed, glancing over to give Ira a bemused smile. "Not too late to turn around, kid."

"Proceed." Ira said, swallowing hard to dislodge distaste and dust from the back of his throat.

Father Pine reached out into the void with a hand. He grabbed something that Ira could not see and shook it. The sound of metal grinding echoed down the pitch, and back at Ira's ears.

"The stairs seem attached. That's a good start." If that horrible screeching had come from the scaffolding, it did not seem like good news to Ira.

He again had the nagging sense that Father Pine was setting him up. Before he could raise such concerns, Father Pine stepped out into the nothing.

"Okay. . . there are at least a few steps here. C'mon, kid. Just stay behind me. You'll hear me Wild-y Coyote-ing all the way down if it's broken."

"Do you really think his name is Wild-y?" Ira mumbled.

"What?" Father Pine called, "I can't hear you over the sound of me risking my life for you."

"We could have just taken a different entrance." Ira held his breath as he stepped into the threshold.

His heart skipped a beat as his foot found the first step. His polished oxfords clanged against the grate, sending an echo further down than what Ira felt comfortable with.

"I wanted you to feel some regret about leaving me." Father Pine teased.

His voice was becoming harder to hear. Ira squeezed the cold railing beneath his palm and took quick careful steps to find him again.

"Angels!" Ira cursed as his nose slammed into something freezing, rough, and solid. He smoothed his palms against the surface, grappling with it until he was comfortable enough to declare it a wall.

"It's a spiral, kid."

"I knew that!" Ira snapped. He paused and bit his lip. "Okay, well, I know it now--don't I?"

Father Pine laughed and Ira chased the sound of him. They descended in near silence, broken only by the heavy patter of footfall and panting breaths. The air had been getting hotter for some time now, and sweat collected along Ira's pale skin. They'd been going down for so long, Ira was beginning to weigh the possibility of decompression sickness. Just when he was about to declare them lost, Father Pine made a small gasp of surprise.

"Oh, it's a dead end." He laughed.

"A-are you joking?" Ira sputtered.

"I might be. Try to find a door--if you find one--then I was just kidding."

"Father Pine!"

"It's an old tunnel, maybe they had it shut."

Ira sat on the step behind him and put his head in his hands. "Angels." He sighed.

He could hear Father Pine climbing the stairs to reach him. The scent of his oud soap came over him as Father Pine squeezed into the space next to him.

"It's fine, kid. We'll just go back up and take another entrance." Father Pine consoled.

"You did this on purpose."

"I did not." Father Pine laughed. "Let's just catch our breath before we go back up."

Ira agreed with a nod of his head that Father Pine couldn't see in the lightless stairwell. They sat in quiet recovery for a moment before Father Pine began to speak.

"Your mother didn't leave you with the church."

"W-what?" Ira stammered.

It was a greater confession than the ancient walls of this dusty tomb could hold, and he wanted Father Pine to both stop, and continue.

"Not technically," Father Pine amended. "She left you at the orphanage. It was the best she could do for you. She wanted you to be raised by people who would love you until you could find a family. She wanted you to have an ordinary life."

"The church owns the orphanage." Ira pointed unhelpfully, because he knew what Father Pine was trying to say.

"When you were very young, you'd tell the nuns things you couldn't have known. They thought you were possessed--all this talk of Beasts and devils coming from such a sweet little boy." He exhaled from his nose in a humorless puff. "They pleaded with the Cardinal to speak with you. Your first confession. You told him something, Ira. Do you remember?"

"No." Ira admitted, but he knew. He'd heard this story more times than he'd dreamed of all his other lives--but he couldn't help but to watch helplessly as the final string was pulled. The thread that made it all come crashing down.

"You told him that you held a flaming sword, and that you'd cut open the chest of the devil himself."

Ira furrowed his brows in concentration. Finally, he shook his head. "Maybe it was just the wild imagination of a lonely child, trying to find attention. That can't be possible. Only a Vestige could-"

"That's right." Father Pine said. "You had a Vestige, Ira."

"I think I would recall if I managed to be the first to kill a Prince of Hell." Ira muttered, but he knew that he hadn't. He knew they all still existed. All his life he'd been told stories about the seven princes. Six in Hell, and one in their world.

"You didn't kill him, Ira." Father Pine said sadly. "This story, it's your original sin."

Ira sighed, a deep rasping gasp that filled the dark stairwell. "I know. You've only told me a thousand times, Father. I wasted the blessing, I didn't kill the Prince. I was a traitor."

He choked on those words. They seemed bigger than him. They'd been hammered into him all his life, so he'd never forget. So he'd finally break free of his past mistakes.

So he'd never choose the Prince again.

The staircase was getting tighter. He had a terrible nagging sense in his gut. Like being on vacation and realizing he'd left the gas stove on.

Ira knew what he would say next. He had seen it in a hundred dreams. He knew the heat of his lips and the silk of his soft skin. How often had he woken up, still aching in wanting.

"You let the devil lead you from the mission." They were kinder words than Ira had heard before. "Ira, can I trust you?"

"Father, of course you can trust me!" Ira hated how much it sounded like a plea.

"Can you trust yourself?" Father Pine asked. "Do you know that you'll fix your mistakes?"

Ira thought of all the lives he'd lived before. In each one, the devil had found him. And every single time, Ira had let him have his way. What would be so different now? The Progeny? Yes, it had to be. Ira had never been raised aware of his past before. He'd lived in ignorance, time and time again. He couldn't let this chance escape him. It could be the only one.

"I swear."

"Then make me another promise."

"Anything."

"Ira, no matter what anyone tells you--always trust what's inside your heart."

Ira furrowed his brows, his heart had always led him astray. It had gotten him tangled up in all this mess to begin with.

"I don't understand."

Father Pine sighed, patting Ira on the knee before standing. "You will. When it matters the most, you'll understand. Now, let's go. The Cardinal is waiting."

Ira clambered to his feet. "Lead the way up."

Father Pine laughed. "I was just going to use the door down here."

"What? You-!"

"Yeah," Father Pine admitted, "I was just kidding."

3 | Ira Is Buried Alive

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