"Talk to me motherfucker or are you just a coward who won't show his face."
Virgil had a tendency to lure demons out by instigating them. I had to admit it was dangerous, but for the most part, it worked. What better way to get a demon to call out its name than to taunt it back and call it a coward. I had to admit; his way of teaching was reckless and frightened the fuck out of me. But if it weren’t for his drastic measures, I wouldn’t have realized that I didn’t need to be a priest to fight evil.
I struggled to keep Mr. Robinson pinned down as his body convulsed again. The sound that came from his mouth wasn't human. It was a guttural growl, low and wet, like something scraping from the pit of his stomach.
I watched as Virgil took the rosary from his pocket, wrapping it around his fist as he pressed the crucifix against Mr. Robinson’s chest, right over his heart. "By the power of Christ, I command you, demon, to leave this man and return to the shithole you crawled out of."
"That's not what the book says," I grunted, still struggling to hold the man down.
Virgil shrugged. "Sometimes you have to improvise. Trust me, they get the message."
I’d never seen a man’s head snap back faster, his neck bending at an unnatural angle. His voice, deep and distorted, gurgled out, "You think your pitiful tricks scare me, priest?"
Virgil grinned, seeming to love this part. "You're out of luck, fucker. Cause I'm no priest and no, my pitiful tricks are just that, tricks. But I'm pretty sure this will hurt."
He drove the crucifix harder into the older man’s chest and recited the rite. The demon inside Mr. Robinson roared, thrashing with all its might. His veins bulged, turning black beneath his skin, and his body jerked against my weight.
"Hold him, dammit!" Virgil shouted at me as my grip slipped.
"I'm trying, Father!" I growled, fighting to maintain control.
"I told you not to fucking call me that!" He shouted, pressing down on the crucifix.
The demon's voice slithered out again, mocking, "You're too late. He belongs to me now. They'll all belong to me when I'm done with you."
I watched Virgil lean closer. No fear in his eyes. “Not today, he doesn't."
With one final, guttural shout, he finished the exorcism. A scream tore from Mr. Robinson's throat, so loud and raw that it made me stumble back. The demon's presence was ripped from his body in a sudden burst of energy, a black cloud dissipated into nothingness.
Mr. Robinson fell limp, his breathing shallow but steady. The room, once cold and oppressive, returned to its normal state. I looked up at Virgil in shock.
"Christ, Father... You always have to pick a fight, don't you?"
I wiped the sweat from my brow. "Old habits die hard. And you keep calling me Father, and you're next, kid."
Let’s just say I respected Virgil Desdemone a lot more after those weeks that followed. He left shortly after his visit to New Orleans, asking if I came across a new evil to reach out to him before I did something stupid. I would normally listen to logic, but I couldn’t in this case. Not when the premonitions began. That’s when I found out there was a back door to Hell. One where I was able to visit without Lucifer knowing about my escapades.
A few weeks later I’d hunted Virgil down, knocked on his door, and never left his side. I’ve let a demon possess me, nearly tearing my mind apart. I realized I could talk to shadows. They would whisper demons’ names in my ear and helped me survive a lot more shitshows than any human could handle. And I found out that priesthood wasn’t my calling, fighting shit faced demons was.
So, I stayed on, because anything was better than returning to that monastery and a life I didn’t want to live. Soon after, we moved back from Port Townsend and called Louisiana our new home. I’d somehow followed Virgil into the fold of the Royal Bastards MC. Without knowing it, he had given me somewhere I could belong. Bulldog, the MC’s President at the time, had welcomed me with open arms. He was rough and direct buttaught me what loyalty and brotherhood meant. I learned to fight, really fight, from Saddle and Hart. Saddle taught me how to handle myself, showed me that scars didn’t make you weak; they gave you power. I kept the scars on my back hidden around the club for a long time, but they never made me ashamed. Instead, I let them remind me why I was here.
There were two things Virgil and the club life made me realize. First, that I was no priest. I would never make my mother happy and if I didn’t realize that on my own, I was going to shit on my own life. And second, was that I was a Bastard through and through. And Bastards looked demons in the eye and made sure they stayed in the deepest depths of hell.
HELLSING
Islid my jeans up, buckled my belt, and pulled an old black t-shirt over my head, letting the faded fabric settle over my shoulders. My leather cut came next, then the heavy weight of the long, black overcoat that once belonged to Virgil. The thick leather and club patch had come to feel more like armor these last few years. Becoming a Bastard, that was my true salvation. Virgil had never forced me to talk about my childhood; he just let me figure things out on my own. I appreciated respect in that sense, especially since he had no other choice than to take me in. I’d stayed to myself, always out of his way, learning quietly about club life. I’d left my mother and my youth and abuse behind me. Instead, the club became my purpose, a family I didn’t think I could have. But I was always on Virgil’s radar, I sensed the warmth he tried so hard not to show. His hardness was just another mask, one that I saw through a little too easily.
I rolled my shoulders, working out the old ache that had made itself a permanent part of me. I felt the taut scars flex and I flinched, trying to work the pain out before heading out to the clubhouse for Church. I lived in an old piece of property that Virgil had left in my name the day he decided to head out.It was as decrepit as the old son of a bitch’s soul. With a little TLC it became what it was now, a small blue house tucked into the French Quarter, standing just a few steps shy of St. Louis Cemetery. Most people thought living that close to the dead was unsettling, but I found peace in it. The dead don’t ask for anything. They don’t lie. They don’t betray. They just lie in a deep, peaceful slumber. A reminder of where we’re all headed sooner or later.
It took me a couple years before I made the house truly mine. Signed the deed, gutted the place, tore out the rot, and rebuilt it one nail at a time until it felt more like home. Two bedrooms, a kitchen that always smelled like old wood and burnt coffee, and walls that still held whispers of Virgil’s past. It wasn’t a big property, but it was solid, and for me, that was enough.
The clubhouse was about an hour out into the Bayou, buried along Highway Fifty-Seven. No one would ever be able to stumble upon it, even by accident. The path that led to the property was nothing more than a slit in the trees, half-swallowed by the swamp, hidden under the heavy arms of weeping willows that bent low and swayed heavily against the wind.
As I rolled deeper, the fog thickened, curling around the headlights, wrapping itself around me like the Bayou itself was testing whether or not I belonged. That’s when the old lookout tower came into view, its shadow rising above the trees and looming over the road that led in.
At the gate, one of the prospects stepped out of the dark. His cut hung loose on his shoulders, his hand resting on the chain. He didn’t say a word. Just gave me a sharp nod before dragging it open and letting me through. Out here, the Bayou devoured anything it didn’t claim. But for me? The path split wide open. Because I wore the patch, and the patch meant I was home.
The clubhouse was an old church house that had been run down and in need of some serious restorations when we first arrived. A fixer upper as they say. Bulldog had done what he could to it, but in the last few years, it had been Jameson, his son, who had renovated it. He added extensions, balconies, more bedrooms, a covered garage, and he made sure he kept that lookout tower intact. He’d even torn down the old shed beyond the clubhouse, where he’d kept Sadie all those years ago. In its place he constructed his own little house to keep Sadie and his new baby boy away from the hustle of club life. I guess some sense of normalcy is always good for the soul, although I did hear he kept that damn cage back there. I guess everyone has their kinks.
