Chapter 26: THE CHURCH VISITS
The Warren house smelled of chicken soup and burning candles.
May had arrived while I wasn't looking—two months of recovery, training, and careful rebuilding of strength I'd nearly lost in that Wilton bedroom. The trees outside were green again. The world had moved on while I healed.
But inside, things were about to change.
Father Gordon arrived without warning on a Tuesday afternoon. Silver-haired, sharp-eyed, wearing a simple black suit that somehow communicated Vatican connections more clearly than any cardinal's robes. He moved like a man who'd seen things—carefully, deliberately, always aware of what might be watching.
Ed met him at the door. I watched from the kitchen, soup bowl in hand, as they shook hands and exchanged the pleasantries of men who respected each other but weren't quite friends.
"Paul Franco," Gordon said when he spotted me. His eyes did a quick assessment—the kind I'd seen experienced investigators do, cataloging details without appearing to stare. "I've heard a great deal about you."
"Good things, I hope."
"Interesting things." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "The Ashford case has attracted attention. A Tier 3 demon, expelled by a relatively young investigator? Rome has taken notice."
My soup suddenly tasted like cardboard.
"I had help," I said. "Ed did the heavy lifting."
"Ed performed the rite. You baited the demon." Gordon accepted a cup of tea from Lorraine, sat in the living room as if he owned it. "The report says you used abilities that weren't previously documented. Telekinesis, specifically."
"It's new. The possession I survived before—"
"Yes, the possession theory." Gordon waved a hand dismissively. "An elegant explanation. Perhaps even true. But Rome prefers verification to speculation."
The room felt smaller suddenly. Lorraine's hand found mine under the table, squeezed once in reassurance.
"Father Gordon," Ed said carefully, "are you suggesting Paul is under investigation?"
"Investigation is too strong a word. Let's say... observation." Gordon sipped his tea, set it down precisely on its saucer. "The Church maintains records of gifted individuals. Psychics, sensitives, those who've been touched by the supernatural and retained abilities. Paul has demonstrated he belongs in those records."
He reached into his jacket and withdrew an envelope, extended it toward me.
"This is an invitation. Observer status with the Vatican's Office of Paranormal Affairs. Access to certain archives that would normally be restricted. And an invitation to a seminar next month—exorcists from around the world, sharing knowledge and concerns."
I took the envelope. It felt heavier than paper should.
"Why me?"
"Because you're effective. Because you're young and growing stronger. Because—" Gordon paused, chose his next words carefully. "Because something is happening, Paul. Something global. And we need every capable soldier we can find."
Ed and Lorraine exchanged glances. I could feel the tension in the room shift, reconfigure itself around this new information.
"What kind of something?" Ed asked.
Gordon set down his teacup with a soft click.
"Demonic manifestations have increased forty percent worldwide since 1965. Possessions. Hauntings. Infestations. The patterns suggest coordination—like an army mobilizing for a campaign." His eyes found mine. "And you, young man, seem to attract their attention with unusual intensity. The Ashford demon was sent specifically to study you. That implies someone—or something—considers you important enough to surveil."
"They will come for you. All of them."
Seraph's final words echoed in my memory.
"I don't know why they're interested in me," I said. True enough. I had theories, but nothing confirmed.
"Neither does Rome. But we'd like to find out." Gordon stood, smoothed his jacket. "Attend the seminar. Meet others who fight this fight. And if anything else... develops... the Church would appreciate being informed."
It wasn't quite a threat. But it wasn't casual either.
He left an hour later, diplomatic farewells and promises to stay in touch. The envelope sat on the kitchen table like a small bomb waiting to detonate.
"Well," Ed said when the car had disappeared down the driveway. "That was interesting."
He disappeared into his study and returned with a bottle of scotch old enough to vote.
"Don't tell Lorraine."
"I'm standing right here, Edward."
"Then pretend you're not." He poured two glasses, handed one to me. "The porch. Now."
We sat in the evening air, watching stars emerge one by one over Connecticut. The scotch burned going down—good burn, the kind that meant quality.
"The Church is watching you now," Ed said after a long silence. "That's good and bad."
"I know."
"Good because they have resources we don't. Archives. Contacts. Historical records going back centuries." He swirled his drink. "Bad because they're political. They have agendas. And if you become inconvenient, they can make your life very difficult."
"What do I do?"
"Stay careful. Use their resources, but don't depend on them. And never—" He turned to face me fully. "Never trust them more than you trust us. Family first. Always."
The word hit harder than the scotch.
Family.
"I will," I said. "I promise."
We drank in silence until the bottle was half empty and the stars covered the sky like scattered diamonds.
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