Phoenix
When I walked into the church to say goodbye to my father, it took all of my strength to not collapse.
On the one hand, the funeral home had embalmed him beautifully. He no longer looked like the man who had died from a gunshot wound to the forehead. I owed so much to whoever had cleaned him up because, aside from a small ring on his forehead that was seemingly impossible to remove, he just looked like an older man who had perished from a heart attack or some form of cancer.
But on the other hand...
This was the final time I’d get to see him with my own eyes. In about an hour, give or take a few minutes, his body would be lowered into the ground, never to be seen again. He would become one with the Earth, and that would be it.
There would be no chances for surprise revivals, even if I knew that was hoping for something beyond a miracle, beyond the physically possible. There would be no more respects, no more times for grieving over his actual body, no more gatherings to remember him. It would, simply put, be the end.
Cole put his hand on my shoulder as we moved to the front. I ignored it, even though the gesture was much appreciated. We took our seats.
And then I saw a member of the Black Reapers approaching me.
But it was not an enemy or someone I hated—it was Father Marcellus.
“My son,” he said.
I embraced him as soon as he came into reach. There was no bad blood between us; I was not sure anyone, outside of the Fallen Saints, had any bad blood with the chaplain of the Black Reapers. Father Marcellus was just one of those people that managed to transcend petty drama and nonsense. He had my respect and he had my appreciation.
So much so that this hug was not about a reunion of two Reapers, or a chance for one of us to recruit the other. It was just about one man providing support for the other.
“I am sorry for your loss,” he said, and I knew that he was sincere. “I know that what you are going through is unfathomable.”
“It’s OK. I appreciate it, Marc,” I said, patting his arm. “I will get through this.”
He nodded at me and took a step back.
“If you don’t want me to be here for any reason—”
“No, please, stay,” I said. “You are the bridge that...”
Keeps hope alive? For what?
There’s no hope left. No chance of a reunion. Not as long as Cole and Lane act like they do to each other.
Not as long as Butch lives.
“You are a good man. You should stay. I know you were close to my father.”
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll stay in the back, then.”
I nodded, hugged him one more time, and took my seat again. If the rest of the club just operated like Father Marcellus—respectful of everyone, pressuring no one, and judgmental of nothing—then maybe we wouldn’t have gotten to this fucking spot. Maybe the club wouldn’t have killed my father.
Or maybe, maybe, your father wouldn’t have betrayed—
I shook my head.
“You OK?” Cole said.
“Fine.”
I didn’t turn to face Cole. I was a little afraid of what would happen if I did.
The church started to fill with more and more Gray Reapers, distant relatives, and friends of the family. By the time the service actually began, there were maybe fifty people in the crowd—not a huge amount, but certainly not a funeral for someone that had acted like Judas.
Admittedly, we didn’t have a ton of distant relatives—I had two aunts, and neither of them approved of the MC lifestyle. But in any case, their presence and the presence of their kids didn’t matter at all. The club was my family.
