The phone rings and rings. Finally, Cross gets to voicemail. No identification given, but he knows this is the right number.

“Paul. It’s me. I made it OK. Saw her. We’re working things out. Getting my feet on the ground. Listen, I’m sorry I left like I did. I had to. Wanted you to know, nothing’s changed. I’m still all in. Planning to get to work here as soon as possible. Spread the news, you know? OK. Call me back.”

He hangs up, throwing the burner phone into the passenger seat of his Town Car, not sure what to think of his message. Not sure if he’ll receive a reply.

***

Paul. Priest Paul or Paul the Priest.

Never Father Paul.

And why not? Cause I’m nobody’s daddy. That’s why. Cross can almost hear the raspy voice of the Mekhet who’d guided him into the waiting arms of the Lancea Sanctum. Even though Paul is back in LA and Cross has returned to Sacramento. Against the Priest’s wishes.

Paul: plain spoken, even crass, though always devout. Always looking to impart a lesson about their shared damnation. Always ready with the branding iron as well.

You’re not ready, Cross. You need time. Time to grow in the Faith. That disappointed look on the old man’s face. Paul had been embraced sometime in his sixties. Or at least he looked it, given the toll a lifetime of smoking had taken on him—gaunt, wrinkled, grey hair running to yellow, same color as his fingertips. Of course, he’d kicked the habit years ago, when he’d died. But the signs were all there.

His voice also that of a lifelong smoker, with its scratchy, threadbare timber. The tone of that voice, during their last conversation, had been both imperious and pleading. I know you got business, kid. But you’re part of our congregation now. And there’s business here too.

Of course, Cross hadn’t listened. Couldn’t, really. He’d presented his arguments for coming back and they’d all made a certain amount of sense. The faith is, after all, poorly represented in Sacramento, having just lost its only adherent in Bishop Gilroy. The Kindred of the city badly require spiritual guidance. And then there’s the Brood presence, a matter no member of the Lancea Sanctum can ignore.

But Paul had known the real reason. How could he not? The Priest had taken Cross’s confession on many, many occasions. Almost every night during his time back in LA. And every night, one name came up: Alice.

You’re gonna jeopardize everything you’ve done to Get Right? For her? Man, what if she doesn’t want you around? She’d be right not to. And then what? What if she says fuck off? Do you leave the Church entirely?

Cross had walked out after that. Unable to answer his questions. Unwilling, nonetheless, to stay. Told the old Priest he’d be in touch. And that was it.

So there. He’s been in touch. Now to see if Paul ever calls him back. He turns the key in the ignition and the engine turns over in response. Alice would be waiting for him, underground. Past time to get back.