Flameborn. Corinna Rogers
Father Aaron snaps, “and occasionally, some of our flock choose to generously contribute in a monetary sense to the care and upkeep of the Champion’s generous—“
“So we’re not getting paid.”
“You aren’t getting anything,” Father Aaron says firmly. “You are not affiliated with us, and we do not beg for you. Our Champion, however—“
“What’s his is mine, and what’s mine is his.” Shane starts to step forward, challenging with every flash of his eyes and every movement of his shoulders, and Drake flings out a hand to push him back. He falls back easily, which almost makes Drake angrier. Shane knows this is wrong, and he still does it, still pushes those buttons, as if he has no other choice.
“I will make you wait outside again,” he warns, and Shane settles slightly. He isn’t exactly mollified, but Drake is willing to settle for a lack of current intent to harm. “Father, I do hate to ask, but it’s been a rough month for me, financially.”
Father Aaron’s face softens. “Of course, Champion. I’ll pass the basket for you at tomorrow’s service. Stick around after we’re finished.”
Drake isn’t especially fond of Father Aaron’s sermons, but the idea of being able to pay rent on time is an attractive one. “I’ll be grateful, Father. Uh, any idea if there’s anything the Church can do about the thing eating me whole? Besides talk about how my boyfriend should be able to fix me?” Against his better judgment, he does sort of enjoy the way Father Aaron flinches whenever he says “boyfriend.”
The priest’s lips thin. “It’s stopped by the sword, which is good. Will you allow me to pray over you?”
Drake hesitates, then nods. “I hope this is one of those prayers with extra juice.”
“Nothing less for our Champion.”
Drake settles down onto his knees, and Shane abruptly turns and walks away, pacing against one wall in obviously uncomfortable strides. Drake takes a deep breath, finding that peace he usually only sees when he’s practicing martial arts, and closes his eyes.
Father Aaron’s hand on his head isn’t exactly a surprise, but the feeling it brings is. Instead of gentle pressure, there’s a soft crackling of power, tamed lightning in every tiny brush of his fingers against Drake’s hair. “All-Seeing God,” the priest says, bowing his head, “bless your Champion, defender of the flock, he who believes not and fights still. The warrior of your peace has cast his cloak over your undeserving servants. Remove his obstacles, heal his wounds, staunch the flow of his life’s blood. Make him whole and well again that he may sacrifice himself in your name, for your pitiful devoted.”
Drake winces at the language, but keeps his head bowed. The hand on his head trembles, and white-hot power spills into him, purifying and scouring him from the top down. His stomach turns, and even with the sword in his hand, he can feel the frantic thrashing of the little Inferna creature, thudding against his intestines as the holy fire makes its way down. For a second, he thinks he’s imagining the dying screech, but a sharp intake of breath from Father Aaron tells him that it isn’t in his head. Drake keeps his eyes squeezed shut, and after a moment, the power scorches through his legs and feet, leaving him shaken, empty, and alive. “Did it work?”
Father Aaron sighs, and withdraws his hand, leaving a tingling, cooling patch on Drake’s head. “You truly are still a nonbeliever, aren’t you?”
“I’d let you know if that changed.” It’s not so hard to flash a bit of magic and call a man a god. Drake has seen Shane do more miracles than he’s seen from the being behind the Church.
“Have I ever let you down before?”
Drake looks up, meeting his eyes, and says levelly, “Yes.”
That at least causes something of a twinge. “Test it yourself. Let go the sword.”
I hate faith magic, Drake thinks vehemently. Any time the choice is to trust and possibly die or to stay safe and distrustful, he rarely finds himself on the side of the faithful. He lays the sword on the ground, then carefully, slowly removes his hand.
Nothing sears or flops. His stomach doesn’t twist. The usual surge of fatigue hits him, reminding him that his body has human limits even if he can ignore them while he’s holding the sword, and old aches so familiar that he rarely feels them make themselves known. Drake exhales deeply, and nods his head. “Thank you, Father.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank God.”
Drake gives a pro forma nod to the ceiling. He’s never yet been struck down for not believing, despite being a theoretically important Church person. “Anyway, I’ll be back for service tomorrow,” he says, rising to his feet with a grimace as he sheathes the sword on his back.
“Before you go…” Father Aaron reaches out a hand, gently grasping Drake’s sleeve. “Could we speak in private for a moment?”
“No.” Drake raises an eyebrow, and Shane strides over, less repelled by the obvious faith magic. “We’re going.”
Father Aaron lets out a breath that’s closer to a huff, and gives him a truly annoyed glare, which Drake returns placidly. It’s a lot easier for the Church to find new priests than new Champions, and unfortunately for Father Aaron, Drake knows it. “You cannot let these fires continue. More and more of us are dying every day.”
“If you know where to start looking for her, I’m more than willing to listen.” He doesn’t have to say who he’s talking about. With the Ice King gone from the city, the fires have been closer and closer together, Inferna multiplying, and it’s all Drake and Shane can do to keep up.
“I hear the Fire Queen is difficult to find.”
“We could have told you that. In fact, we did.”
“But she is drawn to those…” Brown eyes flick over to Shane, who takes a half-step back. “Those of her kind.”
“Why is it literally always my fault?” Shane doesn’t sound terribly perturbed. If anything, his voice is amused. “I’m pretty sure she’s not a Mage. Last time I checked I didn’t have anywhere near close to the kind of juice she likes throwing around, and I’m the most powerful Mage we’ve ever met.”
“Humility is a virtue—“
“Not one I’m entirely fond of,” Shane admits cheerfully. “Not when it’s false modesty. I’m the most powerful Mage you’ll ever meet, that’s for sure.”
Father Aaron’s jaw clenches, and he draws himself up to his full height, which is still a few inches shy of even Shane’s. “You have no concept of what I’ve seen or who I’ve met. A child like you could never comprehend—“
“I’m older than I look, promise. And better than you seem to think.”
“Unless you can tell us where she’s hiding,” Drake interrupts, stepping none-too-subtly between the two men, “We’re going to go find her ourselves. We’ll make one of the Inferna talk before dying, eventually.”
Father Aaron looks between the two of them, then finally nods, face drawn and less than pleased. “If you ever need to find her, open him up. See what’s inside.”
Shane grabs the priest by a handful of black fabric, hauling him nearly off the ground. “You little piece of shit, I’m trying to be civil,” he snarls. “What if I open you up and she shows, huh?”
Father Aaron just blinks at him, unmoved by the words or the display of violence. “Then you’d know that you and I are one and the same. Is that a risk you want to take, Shane Connell?”
“I hate the way you say my name, you goddamned—“
“And we’re going.” Drake’s hand isn’t gentle on Shane’s shoulder, but it is effective, hauling both of them out of the Church as fast as long legs can carry him, Shane