Free Fearless Magic by Rachel Higginson Page A

this is it?” I hesitated moving forward. When Silas said Gabriel was a priest, I assumed he meant to a real congregation, not the caretaker of an empty building threatening to send the entire street of people to meet Jesus literally at any moment, and not just emotionally.
    “I followed the directions from the guy at the motel. This is where he sent us,” he said defensively, with the smallest hint of skepticism.
    “Ok, then....” I walked bravely forward, forgetting the rational fears tugging at my subconscious. I couldn’t be afraid anymore; life had dealt me different cards. I must walk into the church unflinchingly, and out of it in the same way.
    “After you,” Jericho joked casually, while pulling on the iron door handle, tugging at it roughly and then stepping out of the way so that I could walk into the cold sanctuary first.
    The house of worship was dark and cold, the only source of lighting came from two stained-glass windows high above the front door and the hundreds of glassed red candles that lay as an alter of prayers at the front of the church.
    I walked courageously forward, down the center aisle, past backless hardly stable benches sitting low to the floor and filling the empty places between the holy water near the door and the life sized statue of Jesus, reaching out his scarred hands to the invisible congregation.
    I cleared my throat loudly, hoping to alert Gabriel, or a nun, or anybody, that the small sanctuary had visitors. A bird moved in the high rafters of the ceiling, flapping its wings violently as if angry we had disrupted its worship.
    I turned back to Jericho. He stood in the door frame, head bowed in silent prayer. His act of reverence moved me. With head still bent, he dipped one hand into the holy water's stone basin and crossed himself in the sign of the cross, the Catholic Church’s act of obedience to God. When his eyes finally met mine, he cocked his head and shrugged his shoulder in an attempt to downplay his veneration, but a new seed of respect and awe began to grow roots at the base of my heart.
    “So it is true, you have come to ask for my allegiance as well?” A thick Latino accent called to us from a doorway beyond the statue of Jesus.
    I turned on my heel, not sure what to expect or how even to respond to the question. My eyes met a man that appeared to be in his late thirties, although the prickling in my blood, alerting me of his Immortal origins, reminded me that his appearance meant nothing when it came to his actual age and my human-upbringing perspective.
    Gabriel had deeply tanned, brown skin, and black, glossy hair shaved close to his scalp that shined even in the dim lighting. He wore the traditional garb of the priesthood, the white square against his neck standing out starkly in the delicate candlelight. Around his neck he wore a burgundy rosary with large, worn beads, that he fingered absentmindedly.
    He could easily have passed for any of the myriad of Peruvian Catholic priests, if it weren't for his eyes. Eyes that glowed orange against the poor lighting, eyes that at first I thought merely reflected the candlelight, but I soon realized that they glowed brightly as if on fire. Eyes that flamed orange as if they themselves were the setting sun, orange as if they were the spark of light in the oppressive darkness that were the only things strong enough to burn the entire world to the ground.
    Turning uncomfortable under my scrutinizing stare, Gabriel clenched his jaw. I took a step forward, a step towards him and his lips pressed disapprovingly together. He was afraid of me, afraid of what I was capable of.
    But, he had no reason to be. In his stance of firm determination, I saw what I needed; I saw what I wanted. He had the look of a man hungry for a fight, desperate for blood. His priest costume was only that, only a distraction from the eyes that burned brightest when challenged, that glowed when blood was demanded and sacrifice expected.
    “I'm Eden,”