Judas threw his head back with a sharp guffaw that drew nearby eyes to shower them in chastising glowers. “I’m a pure, celibate angel, I’ll have you know.”
“You’re literally none of those things.” Foster rolled his eyes, pulling the hardbound book from the plastic holder attached to the back of the pew in front of them. “Do you know what tonight’s lecture is about?”
“Sacrifice,” Judas informed him drily. “Maybe I should lead tonight?”
“The Arcanum would choke on his own shock if you tried.”
The other man laughed again, albeit more quietly. “Can’t go around killing the elderly I suppose.”
“You shouldn’t really be killing anyone, to be fair.”
“Well, we both know that it’s not always up to us.” There was a taut undertone to his words, and Foster knew better than to press on that bruise. Hell, it was a fact he was coming to terms with firsthand.
“Sometimes we need to define our own path.” Foster sighed, unconsciously sliding his hand back into his pocket. Judas followed the movement, dark eyes narrowing as he frowned.
“Fos, come on, you aren’t still thinking about?—”
“No,” Foster lied, returning to paging through the hymnal. “Just disappointed.”
Judas examined his expression, which Foster kept carefully neutral as he pretended to be invested in ‘Lucifer, Our Broken Sword’. The other man made a sound of derision but pulled out his own book of songs.
“If you say so.” He thumbed through the thin pages carefully. “I think we’re actually starting with ‘Blessed are the Knowing’, by the way.”
Foster groaned. “Ugh, again?”
“I know.”
The service had been long, as usual, but time seemed to crawl even more slowly with the package resting like a heavy weight against his hip. When the final notes of ‘Make Us Like Him’ faded away and the congregation began to shuffle slowly to their feet, Foster strained to keep himself from bolting out of the pew.
Old men collected their coats as their wives collected gossip, chattering about lunch plans in the aisle. Foster slipped from his pew and managed not to trip over the small children chasing each other around and under the steadily emptying benches.
“You hungry?” Judas bumped his shoulder lightly as they headed towards the foyer. “There’s a new halal place that’s supposed to be awesome, just a few blocks towards the college.”
“Actually, I’m supposed to see Praeceptor Sceros.” Foster frowned. “Rain check though; I’ve been craving a good gyro.”
“Alright, your loss.” Judas grinned. “The waitresses are all gorgeous, so it’s probably better I don’t have your stupidly pretty face to compete with.”
Foster laughed. “Shut up, I’m rugged—you're the pretty boy.”
“I am.” Judas fluttered his thick lashes dramatically, and they both laughed. “Alright, catch you later, Fos.”
They clasped hands briefly, fingers locking tightly around each other's forearms before they parted. Judas sauntered out the front doors with one hand in his pocket and the other raised in mock salute.
Foster breathed a sigh of relief when Judas vanished down the steps—he hated lying to his best friend more than anyone else, but it was unavoidable this time. Judas had made itveryclear that he thought this plan was both reckless and wrong. But Foster couldn’t let it go.
“Young Foster,” a low, rasping baritone came at his shoulder, and he turned to face the praeceptor. He was still in his ceremonial robes—long layers of charcoal and crimson, threaded with gold embroidery—but he had already draped his stole and belt over his arm. “I believe we have a meeting tonight?”
“Yes, Praeceptor.” Foster inclined his head respectfully, and the older man waved him off.
“So formal,” he said, smiling. “Come, my boy.”
He led the way around the edge of the sanctum, with Foster following dutifully, gripping the bundle of cloth in his pocket like a lifeline. When they stopped before a simple wooden door that flanked the dais, the holy man pulled a key from his robes to open it, then led the way into his office.
Foster closed the door behind them and sank into a wingback chair. The praeceptor carefully folded his stole, placing it neatly into a carved ebony box and laying his rolled belt on top. He slipped off his rings, ruby stones winking in the low light, and setthem inside before closing the lid gently. He hummed to himself as he worked, setting the box onto a low shelf and turning to his mirror to begin wiping the black inked sigils from his forearms.
Foster felt like he might combust if he had to wait any longer. Just when the tension in his gut was coiling to snap, the praeceptor smiled benevolently at him and took a seat of his own behind the desk.
“So, tell me, my boy,” he said, a bright gleam lit his eyes and brought a touch of youthful excitement to the weathered old face. “How might I serve the Prince of Darkness?”
