Heretics book 3 - The Apocryphile Press

THE KINGDOM :: 21
said, drooling on the table. “Our sex lives are tame by comparison
to most of the people in here.”
Mr. Kim looked around, and Richard followed his gaze as
well as he could without actually moving his head. There
were exactly three other patrons in the joint, all of them elderly.
“Uh-huh, whatever you say, Father,” Mr. Kim said. “And
stop spit. It disgusting.”
Just then Richard’s cell phone rang, a cheesy Casio version
of the triumphant “Rise Up O Men of God,” which Richard
had picked for the double-entendre. Richard raised his head
from the table, trailing a string of drool, and flipped open the
phone.
Fr. Terry Milne’s reedy voice cut in and out, but it was still
comprehensible. “Dicky, drop whatever you’re doing.”
“God hates me,” Richard told him.
“What? You’re breaking up. Listen, get your ass in gear
and meet us over in the City. Pacific Heights, corner of Baker
and Clay. We’ve got a gig.”
“God hates me,” Richard repeated.
“Dicky, I can’t....I’m sure it’s lovely, whatever you just
said. I’ve left messages for Dylan and Mikael as well—we’ve
got demon ass to kick and we’re going to need backup. Ciao
for now, sweetie.”
:: 3 ::
Lantern in hand, Alan Dane descended the steps of the catacombs
beneath his family home. Unforgiving rock, dank
and dark, loomed above his head, and he breathed in the
familiar cold and musty air. Reaching the bottom, he held his
lantern up and surveyed the tomb in which a hundred years