The Witch and The Priest

Chapter 17

I woke consumed with shame that sat in my chest like a physical weight, pressing against my lungs until breathing felt like labor.

The memory of the previous night's transgression burned behind my eyes—my weakness, my complete failure of discipline, the way I'd whispered her name in the darkness like a prayer to false gods.

During breakfast, I couldn't meet Wren's eyes. Every time she spoke, every casual gesture, reminded me of how thoroughly I'd betrayed my vows while she slept innocently in the next room.

"You seem distracted this morning," she observed, her voice carrying that warm concern that made my guilt twist deeper. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Fine," I managed, focusing intently on my coffee. "Just tired. I was up late working on translations for Father Atticus."

The lie came easily, but it tasted like ash in my mouth.

"You work too hard," she said softly. "You should take better care of yourself."

The genuine care in her tone made my self-loathing surge with fresh intensity. Here she was, showing me kindness I didn't deserve, while I'd spent the night reducing her to an object of base desire.

My shame was interrupted by sounds from the courtyard—children's laughter mixed with women's voices in the kind of easy conversation that spoke of community and belonging. Through the window, I could see several of the shelter residents enjoying the mild morning sunshine while their children played.

"I should check if Sister Agnes needs help with anything," Wren said, rising from the table with fluid grace. "The new mothers seemed overwhelmed yesterday."

I nodded absently, still avoiding her gaze, but something made me follow her outside a few minutes later.

What I saw there stopped me in my tracks.

Wren was sitting on the stone steps, carefully braiding a little girl's dark hair while listening intently to Sarah's nervous chatter about her job interview that afternoon.

"The braid doesn't have to be perfect," Wren was saying, her fingers working through the child's tangles with infinite patience. "Sometimes the most beautiful things are a little messy, don't you think, Emma?"

The little girl giggled, leaning back against Wren's knees with complete trust. "Mama says my hair is like a bird's nest in the morning."

"Well, birds make very cozy nests," Wren replied with genuine warmth. "That just means your hair knows how to make itself comfortable."

Sarah, meanwhile, was wringing her hands as she paced nearby. "I don't know if I'm qualified for this position. What if they ask about the gap in my employment? What if they can tell I'm nervous?"

"Sarah," Wren said gently, not pausing in her careful braiding, "you managed a household budget, coordinated schedules for four children, and kept everyone fed and clothed for twelve years. That takes organizational skills most executives would envy."

"I never thought of it that way," Sarah admitted, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

"Trust yourself," Wren continued, securing Emma's braid with a ribbon. "You're stronger and more capable than you realize. The right employer will see that."

A toddler chose that moment to toddle over and tug insistently at Wren's skirt, babbling something urgent in the half-language of very small children. Instead of being annoyed by the interruption, Wren laughed—a sound so genuine and joyful it made something in my chest loosen unexpectedly.

"Oh, is that so, Michael?" she asked the toddler with perfect seriousness. "Tell me more about this very important matter."

The sight softened something fundamental in my chest.

This unguarded version of her—maternal, warm, naturally nurturing—was nothing like the calculated seductress who'd been systematically destroying my self-control. This felt real in a way that made me wonder if our forced marriage could somehow grow into something genuine.

Maybe the desire I was fighting wasn't just base lust.

Maybe what I was feeling was the beginning of something deeper, something that could transform our arrangement into an actual partnership.

The thought was both terrifying and oddly hopeful.

My contemplation was interrupted by the sharp sound of the cathedral's bell tower—three urgent peals that meant I was needed immediately.

"Father Mikael," Brother Thomas appeared in the courtyard, slightly out of breath. "Father Atticus requires your immediate presence. There's been a... situation."

I found Father Atticus in his study, his expression grave as he gestured to a letter spread across his desk.

"We have a suspected demonic possession," he said without preamble. "Remote farmhouse about two hours' ride from here. The local priest is young, inexperienced in these matters. I need you to handle this personally."

"Of course, Father. I can leave within the hour."

"Take Sister Wren with you," he added, surprising me. "She's been asking about pastoral duties, expressing interest in helping with challenging cases. This will be educational for her, and the family specifically requested female presence to help comfort the afflicted woman."

The thought of exposing Wren to the violent, otherworldly reality of demonic possession made my protective instincts flare. Made me want to refuse outright, to keep her far away from anything that could hurt her.

But arguing with Father Atticus would only raise questions I couldn't answer.

"I understand," I said. "We'll depart immediately."

During the ride to the farmhouse, I found myself explaining exorcism procedures with clinical precision, trying to prepare Wren for what she was about to witness.

"The entity will try to manipulate us," I explained, checking the silver implements in my case. "It will lie, threaten, attempt to use our emotions against us. You must ignore everything it says and focus only on supporting the victim."

"How do you know it's actually demonic possession and not mental illness?" she asked, her interest seeming more intense than simple curiosity warranted.

"Experience. Training. The signs are distinctive once you know what to look for," I replied. "Supernatural strength, knowledge the victim couldn't possibly possess, physical manifestations that defy natural law."

And if a witch put the demon there in the first place, which happens more often than people realize.

Because that was the thing people didn't understand about demonic possession. It didn't just happen. Demons didn't randomly pick victims for fun. They had to be invited, summoned, or in the worst cases—deliberately placed by someone with power and malicious intent.

She nodded thoughtfully, but I caught something in her expression—a flicker of what looked almost like recognition.

By the time we reached the farmhouse, it was already raining, making visibility drop to almost nothing. The kind of rain that felt like an omen.

The main house door opened before we could knock, revealing a haggard man in his forties who looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Father Mikael? Thank God. Thank God you're here."

He practically pulled us inside when the screaming started before we reached the bedroom.

Not human screaming. The kind of sound that came from something wearing a human throat like an ill-fitting coat. High-pitched and wrong, scraping against my ears in a way that made my teeth ache.

Wren flinched beside me, her face going white.

"You can wait outside," I offered quietly, even though Father Atticus had sent her for a reason. "No shame in it. This isn't—"

"I'm staying," she said, but her voice shook

The possessed woman was restrained to her bed, her body contorting in ways that defied human anatomy as something else spoke through her throat.

I set down my bag with deliberate calm, beginning to lay out my implements with practiced precision.

This is what you're good at. This is what you were trained for. Everything else—the feelings, the desire, the guilt—that's all noise. This is clarity.

"Reveal yourself," I commanded, my voice carrying absolute authority as I raised the silver crucifix. "Show us your true name and nature."

The entity shrieked in response, the sound making the windows rattle in their frames. I began the binding incantations, manipulating sacred objects with practiced efficiency, showing no mercy to the supernatural presence that had violated this innocent woman.

Throughout the intense session, I noticed Wren growing increasingly uncomfortable.

She stood pressed against the far wall, her face pale and eyes wide with what looked like more than simple fear of witnessing an exorcism. Her breathing became shallow, labored, and once I caught her hand pressed against her chest as if her heart was racing.

When the entity shrieked and writhed against my binding spells, Wren actually flinched backward, nearly stumbling in her haste to put distance between herself and the supernatural display.

I assumed she was simply overwhelmed by the violence and otherworldly nature of the confrontation—most civilians reacted badly to their first exposure to the supernatural.

But her reaction seemed more personal than mere shock. As if she recognized something in the proceedings that terrified her on a deeper level than normal human revulsion.

By the time I'd successfully expelled the demon and the woman lay peacefully in natural sleep, outside, as if in response to the demon's departure, the storm reached a crescendo.

Lightning cracked across the sky in jagged branches, rain hammering against the windows with enough force that I worried they might break.

"You must stay the night," the husband insisted when I mentioned departing. "These roads become death traps in weather like this, and it's already dark. I have a guest room prepared for you and your wife. Please, it's the least I can do."

One guest room. One bed.

Perfectly normal accommodations for a married couple, but devastating for two people trying to maintain careful boundaries while attraction burned between us like an unbanked fire.

As I carried our travel bag upstairs, I realized this night was going to test every remnant of self-control I had left.