Chapter 92: Danica
Night had fallen. Inside Father Anchi's private quarters, a lone candle flickered, casting long, dancing shadows against the stone walls.
Anchi paced the room irritably, the floorboards groaning and creaking under his weight like a chorus of dying frogs. Danica, the young succubus, sat on the edge of his bed, her eyes following the priest's frantic back-and-forth movement.
Anchi skidded to a halt, his gaze locked onto the small, elegant, curved horns protruding from her head.
This was a problem. A massive, world-ending problem.
Hiding a living succubus inside a cathedral of the Holy Empire was the kind of heresy that didn't just get you defrocked—it got your head separated from your shoulders for public display.
"This won't work. We have to hide the horns," Anchi muttered, his resolve hardening.
He began rummaging through his wardrobe with a manic energy. First, he unearthed an old winter cap—a grey, knitted thing topped with a fluffy pom-pom. He marched over to Danica and jammed it onto her head.
Too big.
The hat slid down instantly, swallowing her entire face. Worse, the tiny horns poked against the fabric, creating two bizarre, triangular bulges. She looked less like a human and more like a suspicious breed of horned owl.
He tossed the hat aside and produced a heavy travel cloak with a deep cowl. He made her pull it on. Danica obeyed silently, pulling the hood forward until her face was lost in shadow.
"Wearing a hood indoors is basically screaming 'I'm a fugitive,'" Anchi grumbled, yanking the cloak off her.
Finally, his eyes landed on a piece of white linen sitting on his nightstand. It was a clean headscarf intended for polishing the altar icons, still unused. Anchi grabbed the cloth and stood before her.
"Hold still."
Anchi began clumsily wrapping the linen around her head. He tried to mimic the way the farmwives in town tied their scarves, hoping to create a profile that perfectly masked the horns.
He was terrible at it. Either he was accidentally yanking on Danica's hair or pulling the fabric so tight she began to turn blue. Danica's eyes welled with tears of pain, but she didn't dare let out a sound.
"There! Done!"
Anchi stepped back, scrutinizing his handiwork. The wrap was lopsided and amateurish, but the horns were gone. Now, Danica looked like a somewhat rustic, plain country girl.
Anchi let out a breath he'd been holding since the afternoon. Step one: complete.
Just then—
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
A violent pounding shook the door, rattling the frame so hard dust drifted from the ceiling. Anchi froze. Danica scrambled into a ball in the corner, trembling.
"Anchi! Open this door! I know you're in there, you lazy drunk!"
It was Sister Cecilia.
Anchi felt his heart give a frantic stutter. What the hell is that woman doing here now? He cleared his throat, forcing his voice into a mask of calm, priestly authority.
"It is quite late, Sister Cecilia. Proper decorum suggests—"
As he spoke, he gestured wildly at Danica to stay silent. The pounding stopped for a few seconds. Then, Cecilia's voice returned, laced with a sharp, suspicious sneer.
"Save the 'decorum' for the Bishop, Anchi. I want to know about that slave trader from this afternoon. I know he hasn't left town yet, and there's no way a man like that stays in Orlando without your 'blessing'."
Anchi's mind overclocked. He couldn't admit it. He would never admit it.
"Sister Cecilia, I suggest you mind your tongue," Anchi barked, pulling his rank. "You are slandering the integrity of a Father. If you have no further business, please return to your prayers."
Cecilia let out a cold, sharp laugh. "Is there a bag of 'donated' gold in that room, Anchi? Don't bother answering. I'll find out for myself."
BANG!
The door shuddered as Cecilia threw her shoulder against it. Anchi rushed to the door, bracing his back against the timber as he yelled:
"Cecilia! Are you insane?! This is church property!"
CRACK!
She hit it again. The woman was clearly possessed by a singular, violent purpose. "Open up, Anchi! If you don't open this door right now, I'm taking it off the hinges! I'm going to see exactly what kind of 'guidance' you're providing in there!"
Anchi felt his strength failing. How is she this strong?! Is she eating raw iron for breakfast? His eyes darted around the room. Finally, he realized he couldn't hide her forever. Better to be "honest" on his own terms.
He reached for the bolt. "Fine! You want in? Then—GAH!"
He yanked the door open.
SPLAT.
A sharp, satisfying sound of a face making intimate contact with the floorboards. Cecilia, having been leaning her full weight into her next ram, face-planted spectacularly into the center of the room.
Cecilia wobbled to her feet, rubbing her nose and growling. She looked up, her gaze bypassing Anchi and locking onto Danica by the bed. Specifically, she locked onto the lopsided, poorly wrapped headscarf.
The room fell into a heavy silence. Cecilia raised a trembling finger toward Danica.
"You... you... you..."
Anchi cut her off, his voice booming with a sudden, radiant holiness. "Precisely! As you can see! Behold, a wayward lamb! A devoted believer who has seen the light and sought to flee the darkness! I was merely in the middle of... guiding her toward the Spirit's embrace!"
Cecilia stared. "Guiding?" Her voice was flat and nasal from her fall. "You need a locked door and a suspicious head-wrap to provide guidance?"
Anchi kept a straight face, spewing total nonsense. "It is a specialized ritual to help her focus on the inner light of the Holy Spirit!"
Cecilia wasn't an idiot. She marched over to Danica, reached out, and ripped the headscarf away in one motion.
The black, curved horns were exposed to the candlelight.
Cecilia's eyes went wide. Anchi's heart hit the floor.
It's over.
"Anchi..." Cecilia turned her head, her words dropping like heavy stones. "You had better give me an explanation that makes sense. A very good one."
She emphasized the word "very" with a look that promised a slow death. Anchi's brain burned through his final reserves of creativity. An explanation? He had nothing. Which meant there was only one path left: bribery.
"She can work," Anchi blurted out.
Cecilia paused. "What?"
"I said: she can work," Anchi repeated, seeing a glimmer of hope. He began to pile on the stakes. "The confession booth? She sits in it from now on. You know how you're always complaining about your back hurting after three hours of listening to sins? Give the job to her."
A faint light flickered in Cecilia's eyes.
"And," Anchi continued, pressing the advantage, "scrubbing the floors, washing the holy vestments, polishing the candelabras... every single tedious, soul-sucking chore you hate? It's all hers."
Cecilia's breathing became slightly elevated. "Including... listening to the Mayor's wife complain about her cat's weight every morning?"
"Everything!" Anchi declared with the finality of a decree. "You can have a perfect, uninterrupted afternoon tea every single day. No one will ever bother you again!"
Cecilia wavered. She was very, very tempted.
Just then, Danica, who had been silent throughout the ordeal, added in a small, hopeful voice: "Um... I... I can also cook."
Anchi and Cecilia's heads snapped toward her simultaneously, moving like synchronized clockwork.
Cecilia reached out—not to seize Danica, but to grip Anchi's hand in a fierce, comrades-in-arms squeeze.
"Father Anchi," she said, her voice dripping with sudden, profound sincerity. "I believe it is our solemn duty as clergy to provide this lost soul with a path to redemption. It is a responsibility we simply cannot ignore."
Anchi looked at her and squeezed back with equal fervor. "Spoken like a true saint, Sister Cecilia."
"For the faith," Anchi said.
"And for the nap time," Cecilia added in her heart.
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