Heretics book 3 - The Apocryphile Press

318 :: JOHN R. MABRY
Kat frowned. “That seems weird.”
“Ain’t much about Hinduism that isn’t fucking gloriously
weird, in my opinion,” Dylan affirmed.
“Here, here,” Terry, said, raising a hand in the air. He
turned the last page, scanned the final paragraph and
slammed the book shut.
He looked up. “Are the demons gone, yet?”
“Mah guess is that they’re still having appetizers,” Dylan
answered.
Just then, his cell phone blared out the staccato horn part
from “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out.” “Fr. Dylan, here,” he
answered it, all business.
“Dylan?” the voice was tinny and slightly garbled.
“Tom, dude, is that you?”
“It is. Listen, Dylan, I take it Richard is not there? He’s not
answering his phone.”
“Dude, Richard is feeding demons his own blood at the
moment,” he said, as if it were an everyday event. “But can
I help you?”
“Egad,” Tom said. “Well, at least I tried for the proper
chain of command. Dylan, I have bad news.”
“This would be that famous third tragedy we’ve all been
waiting for, Ah’m guessin’.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, but yes, it’s bad.”
“Waal, Ah’m sittin’ down, so do yer worst.”
“The Synod just voted. Dylan, the Order of St. Raphael
has been...excommunicated.”
“Aw, shit. Are you shittin’ me? That means we don’t have
a bishop. And that means we have no power over the forces
of darkness.” He sighed. “An’ just when we have a house full
o’ demons, too. Couldn’t be better fuckin’ timing.”
He looked up and saw the wide eyes of everyone in the
room, breathlessly hanging on his every word.