Peter looked up as the bell rang, announcing a new visitor to the little coffee shop halfway between the 101st precinct and Chinatown. The man who entered nodded at Peter and ordered a drink before putting his trenchcoat down on the seat across from him. "Hey, Kermit."

"You know, it's weird that you call me Kermit and I call you Caine."

"You could call me Peter," he shrugged.

"Or you could call me Griffin."

"I thought—" Peter looked away in disappointment. "Well, if that's what you want, Detective Griffin."

Kermit shook his head. "I'm messing with you. Peter." The waitress brought his coffee over, placing it in front of him as Peter looked back up. Kermit thanked her and took a sip, the steam fogging the front of his glasses. "Ah, espresso: blessed caffeine delivery system of the gods."

Peter shrugged. "I prefer tea."

"No accounting for taste," said Kermit. "You said you needed to talk to me?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah. The Triad is back in the city. Smuggling shark fins and who knows what else. They've contacted me, and they want me working for them."

"And you told them no." Peter shifted uncomfortably, and Kermit shook his head in disappointment. "Ah, Peter. What do you think Blaisdell's going to think about that?"

"I know, but... it's for the community." Peter shook his head. "I do this, they don't collect on all the people who were indebted to Tan. I can't just ignore that. Besides..." He looked into his coffee, shaking it a little. "He'd have killed me if I hadn't said yes. And... and he said he could protect me from the Chiru. He knew the name of the assassins that killed my housemates."

"He gave you names?"

Peter shook his head. "No, but you don't just name drop the Shadow Assassins."

"I suppose not." Kermit nodded slowly. "You mentioned smuggling, I'll let the Captain know. What about the murders? Do you think the Triad could be involved in those?"

"I don't know. I don't think so... He wouldn't have kept it secret. He'd have told me." Kermit took a sip of his coffee and tapped his fingers on the green plastic table. "So what should I do, Kermit? Go back, tell them I'm not going to work for them? You know they're not going to take that answer."

"They wouldn't." The other man shook his head and sighed. "You're making work for me, but I'll figure out how to clear it with Blaisdell. If you're an informant in the organization again— you are willing to tell us what they're doing?" Peter nodded. "All right. And do they know we're meeting?"

"Yeah," Peter said with a scowl. "He talked to me about police corruption in Hong Kong."

"You can corrupt anyone," said Kermit with a sardonic smile. "But that's not my jurisdiction. They giving you a loyalty test?"

Peter shruged uncomfortably and tapped a finger on the table between them as he nodded. "They smuggled some artifacts from China into the city, and the guy hasn't paid. They want the artifacts back. I'm supposed to break in and grab them. No violence, just finding some little statues and bringing them back to Li Sung."

A thoughtful look came over Kermit's face for a moment before he nodded with a quirk of his mouth. "How about you bring those statues to me and the Captain first. I'll introduce you to our electronics guy in the station, Blake. He just might be able to make a bug they won't find."

"They'd better not find anything. That could get me killed."

"If he can't do it, he'll tell us... Working for the Triad and for the police... it's a fine line. You'll have to keep your wits about you, but I think you can do that. You're smart and resourceful and you've got an awful lot of friends. Hell, you've even survived attempts on your life by the Triad before, and somehow ended up in a position where they don't want to see you dead." Kermit leaned back in his chair and pulled his glasses down a little so that Peter could see them. "All that said... if don't think you can handle it, kid, we could arrest you for something and send you into witness protection."

"What, and leave the city after my father finally came back? No." Peter shook his head. He'd been put in this position for a reason, that's what Lo Si would say. Maybe this was the way for him to repair the past damage he'd done, find forgiveness from the people he'd killed. "I'll give you a call when I'm ready."

It was surprisingly easy to break into a Church. Perhaps this should not have surprised Peter as much as it did; he had walked into a Buddhist Temple and received advice without even knocking on the door. Why should a Christian Church be any different?

Of course, Peter had memories of these places that were a bit more... malevolent than the Buddhist Temples. Buddist Temples were like the places he'd grown up: places of peace, where family lived... where you mourned. Churches, on the other hand, were places that orphaned children were dumped without warning; places where they were told to behave or else, told that their own faith was incorrect and cultish. A priest had once told him, almost gently, that his father had gone to hell, to burn forever because he didn't believe in God. No reincarnation, no soup of forgetfulness, just death and an eternity in flames. As a child, it had terrified him, made him question everything: why did everyone lie to him? As an adult, it held so much less power over him that he could almost laugh at the child's fear-fuelled rage.

The few locks that he had found so far were easily picked. A simple bump had gotten him through the door of the rectory.

He had tried several of the rooms in the upper areas first. It was unfortunate that there was no map to tell him which priest had which room, but he had timed his incursion to coincide with one of their ceremonies, so he had at least an hour before he had to worry about running into anyone. He walked through each of their rooms, a methodical eye looking for the places that someone might hide antiques.

One room was... decidedly odder than the others. There was a suitcase— Peter rifled through it to see if the objects he'd been told to retrieve were there, but what he found instead were a number of books in what he thought was probably Latin. Some clothing— stoles of red and purple, candles, bells, crosses... He filed it away as odd, and looked into the empty closet and the desk drawers that contained nothing more interesting than a well-worn copy of a Bible.

Despite the strangeness, he didn't see anything that appeared useful, so he headed downstairs.

The basement was... cold. That was the overwhelming feeling; like stepping out of a warm summer's day— or the closest one could get when it was actually a crisp, late fall evening— into a bleak, winter night.

There was murmuring at the end of the hallway, and Peter cautioned himself. He'd need to stay away from that sound. He hoped the other rooms down here had what he wanted. He opened the doors one by one and searched.

One room held exercise equipment, most of it dusty with disuse. Clearly, Catholic priests were a lot less concerned about their fitness than Shaolin priests. He grinned at the thought of a multifaith conference of priests, all trying to lift weights in the basement while discussing the relative merits of their various gods, then closed the door quietly.

The second room he searched, on the other side of the hallway, was filled with books. A small library— Peter entered, fingers running over the spines of books on the dead sea scrolls, on Catholic liturgy in multiple languages, and even a few other faiths. Astronomy, fiction, history... none of it was relevant.

The third room— bingo. A few traditional Chinese outfits were in a corner, clearly something bought by a tourist. Pictures of the Great Wall, a man in priestly garments standing in front of it like one of the missionaries they'd expelled a hundred years ago; a book about the Terracotta Army with sticky notes inside of it. And there, almost casually tossed in a corner, a few small statues.

Peter scowled. Smuggling them out of China, stiffing the Triad, and the man didn't even have the respect to put them in a place of honor.

Carved in coral and jade, one even made of brass, the largest was no more than two hand-widths. A figure of a warrior that drew inspiration from Gwan Yu with an inscription that Peter could not read, a small black dragon that almost seemed to leap at him, and a small laughing Buddha. Underneath it all, tossed in the pile like it was trash, a handpainted scroll and a variety of worn, yellowed talismans.

Stolen. These items had been stolen from China's rich cultural heritage, smuggled in by a man who was supposed to be holy. He deserved to have these things taken from him, surely even his Shaolin father would agree. Maybe these antiquities weren't meant for the Triad, but at least Li Sung had some cultural connection to them.

Peter stuffed the items into his bag and slung it over his shoulder, ready to make a quick exit— and that was when the screaming began. His head snapped up and he was heading towards the closed door before he had consciously made the decision. Two men: one was tied to the bed, laughing like a madman.

The other wore the vestments of a priest, draped in purple. He was the one doing the screaming, pinned against the wall like a butterfly by... by nothing. Peter didn't understand the situation, but the man in the bed yelled something at them, something that sounded vaguely like Chinese, and the priest's cries were suddenly silenced, strangled by the rosary around his neck.

Peter reached out, grabbed the religious symbol and yanked, breaking it into pieces. As the beads fell onto the ground, he felt a burning sensation in his hand through the gloves, and the priest screamed once more. The room fell silent.

Peter's breath was loud in his ears, and seemed to be escaping him with puffs of vapor, as though he truly was outside in the cold. He put his hand up, looking at the burns, and the man in the bed rattled his bindings. "Help me," he wheezed.

Peter stared. Something primal inside of him was telling him he needed to leave, to run away as fast as he could, but... He knelt down beside the priest, checking for a pulse. Still alive... he hadn't been too late for that. "Help me," demanded the man in the bed.

Peter stood, took a step towards the bed— and recoiled. That primal feeling welled up again, screaming danger! at him, like a child putting their hand on a hot stove.

"Ah, such potential," came the voice, a horrible rasping sound, like bugs crawling on blocks of ice— a moment of double vision, and it was Tan in the bed, tied to the posts. "Free me, my son! I will show you how to use that power within you!"

Eyes wide, Peter took a step backwards, then another, then pushed past the priests who had come to investigate the screams. It wasn't until he'd made it back to his room in the boarding house that he realized he'd left the old statues in the rectory basement.

Rituals.

To men who practiced the ancient arts of waidan and neidan, there were some rituals that were important parts of creating a space where one was protected from all that was outside. In the same way that he might have cleansed a Temple, Kwai Chang Caine was taking his time to cleanse the apartment in which he would live of the scattered and distracting energies that were outside of his doors.

In physical cleaning, a broom and dustpan would be the best way to remove the dirt. This he had already done. In the spiritual realm, there were many ways of clearing the old energy out. Kwai Chang had learned a number of these methods, but the Ancient had instructed him to practice this one today.

Precisely why the old man wanted him to gather the energy and transform it with fire was unknown, but he would do as the Master said.

Gather the disparate spiritual energies, breathe them in, raise the fire, blow the energies into the fire, and unify them, transform them so that they became harmonious. Repeat until the energies were tamed. It was both as simple and as laborious as reducing a bonfire to charcoal.

"Pop? Are you here?" He allowed himself a brief moment's pleasure— his son had finally found him! Then returned to his practice. This needed to be done. "Ha! I knew I'd found you— what are you doing?"

"An act of purification. The city is full of random energy. It must be dispelled."

Peter sat down across from him, curious eyes on the firepot. "You're going to purify the whole city?"

Kwai Chang suppressed his laugh. How like a child was his son! "You have gone from believing I have no ability," he said, "to the belief that I have powers beyond any man." Peter shrugged, a sort of sullenness in his expression evident before he looked over to the small alter Kwai Chang had created. The priest's spirits sank. Perhaps his son was more like the teenager Kwai Chang Caine had never had the opportunity to know. "This building will be... something like a Temple... for those who practice Shaolin."

It would not be a Temple as he had once led; he could not step back into that same stream. But, his father's heart hoped, perhaps his son would follow him across the river one day? He shook the thoughts away: putting such expectations on Peter would not be healthy. His son's life would unfold as it would. "I will make it a place of peace where one might meditate, or worship, or train. For now, I will purify only this room."

"How does it work?"

He beckoned his son to sit down across from him. "Visualize the energy that you can feel. Some of it will be dark, and some of it will be light; some chaotic, and some peaceful." He drew in a breath, and gathered up another armful of the wild energy, but brushed against something... unpleasant. Something in this room— something his son had brought with him. "Something... has happened?"

His son was quiet, and the priest turned to watch him contemplating at the altar. Kwai Chang wondered if his son was praying; perhaps it would be best to give him some space, or continue the purification ritual. He pulled the energies towards him again, casting them into the fire and watching them rise as smoke into the heavens.

Peter stood up and touched the Buddha, his head tilting as he thought.

Inhale, exhale, transform the energy...

Peter sat back down across from Kwai Chang, watching for a while. Was he gathering courage to speak, or simply gathering his thoughts? Or was he waiting for his father to finish his ritual? Trying to see what Kwai Chang Caine saw? "I would be pleased if you would share your thoughts with me," offered the priest.

Peter shrugged, his eyes moving away from the fire. "When Tan was upset," started Peter, his brow furrowing, "he'd talk about the supernatural. He'd yell about the Dao... Scream about psychic forces barring his way... Argue about ghosts and demons and... but that stuff's not real. Right, Pop?"

"Do not call me Pop," he said mildly. "You do not believe in the wisdom of the Dao?"

Peter tapped a finger on the floor in irritation. "I mean the ghosts and the demons."

"Ah. When you were young, you believed in such things."

"Sure, when I was a kid. But you grow up, and you don't see any. So it's just something old people say to scare kids, right?" The priest could see the tension that his son was holding like some sort of shield against the world.

The completion of the purification ritual could wait.

He moved to his son's side and gently massaged the younger man's shoulder, gratified as his son started to relax a bit. "If there were ghosts," continued Peter, after a moment, "Tan wouldn't be one of them."

Caine's fingers stopped. That was far too specific for his comfort when combined with the unsettled and unpleasant energy that surrounded his son. "You met a ghost... of that man... in a... dream?"

"Not exactly." Peter looked at him guiltily for a moment, then shook his head and offered a bandage-wrapped hand to his father. "Please don't ask..."

Kwai Chang frowned at Peter and removed the gauze to see a set of burns, as if his son had clutched a set of burning prayer beads. "What...?" His son winced from physical pain as he touched the burned skin, but Peter certainly did not feel the spiritual damage, the malice that emanated from the wound, or he would surely be worried. "How did this happen?"

"I just said not to ask—"

"Peter!"

The young man pulled his hand away, taking hold of the mala beads near the altar. "A priest got his rosary in a weird position, and it was strangling him. I pulled it off, and the damned thing burned me!" Peter looked at the burn and let his father take his hand again.

"That makes no sense," muttered Kwai Chang.

"I know that," Peter said, irritation coloring his voice. "There was another priest there, lying in a bed. He was tied up, he-he told me to free him..." He shook his head again. "I... I don't know how to describe it, p— dad. When I approached him, it was like... like freezer burn. And for a minute, he looked like my... like Master Dao. I know it's impossible, but..."

Kwai Chang's lips pursed. The man had called himself a ghost; was it now truth?

"I put some burn cream on it last night. It still itches a bit, but I think it's fine."

He looked at his son with exasperation. "It is not fine." An ointment might help the physical damage, but Peter's burn would scar and damage the underlying tissues unless the spiritual damage was repaired. Kwai Chang did not have what was needed to treat this burn, but he knew who would. "We will see the Ancient, and then I will deal with this ghost."

"How did this happen?" asked the Ancient, examining the wound with caution. Wounds such as these could sometimes cause damage to the ones attempting to heal them, particularly if they were approached without understanding the origin.

"Does it really matter?" Peter asked with an uncomfortable twist of his body. "I have to say it again?" Kwai Chang Caine put a hand on his son's shoulder, and the young man sighed in resignation.

The Ancient looked at him with concern as he recanted his tale. Peter glossed over any number of questions— why had he been in the priests' quarters foremost in the old man's mind— but what had happened in that basement, the priest and the rosary...

"This was St Joseph's?"

"How did you know?"

"It is enough that I do." Peter began asking questions that the old man had no intention of answering. The Ancient shook his head and simply ignored him as he walked over to his cabinets, pulling several small bottles out. A few extracts he had prepared through the years, but also one of the bandages that he had been working on for half a day, infused with his own chi. Peter did not recognize the significance of his treatment, but it was clear enough that Kwai Chang Caine did by the way his eyebrows seemed determined to learn the secrets of flight. "I did not expect you to be involved in this, Peter." Why had Peter placed himself in this position? Or was it destiny that had done so? "Watch, Kwai Chang Caine, and I will show you the way of this. Draw forth the spiritual energy, clease it with the light of a candle, and return it, tamed..."

He explained the healing of such spiritual wounds. The way they disrupted proper flow of the chi, not entirely unlike a poisoning... The way how, if untreated, these wounds could cause ripples in the energy of the injured that would overflow onto all that they touched. How important it was to cleanse the wound before it could begin to impact the healer.

He explained even while he tried to make sense of this turn of events. He had expected to be the one injured in the attack; perhaps he might even have enlisted Kwai Chang Caine's help in defeating whatever evil had encamped in the other religion's holy grounds, but Peter? The son was not ready to participate in this sort of war.

The old man did not wish to risk Peter in this fight.

Regardless, the battle between light and dark had begun, and Peter was already in the middle of it. The Ancient had spent enough time with the young man to know he would refuse to leave things be. He looked at the elder Caine seriously. "We must go to the Church."

"We must return this ghost to its cycle of rebirth." Kwai Chang Caine nodded. "Peter, you will return home and rest."

"What? No." Caine looked at his son sternly, but as expected, it only made Peter insist more stubbornly. The tiger did not descend from a dog, and commands would mean nothing to it. "If you think I'm going to let the two of you walk into danger without me, you've got another thing coming."

"Peter, you are not trained for this. And besides..." he shrugged. "You do not believe in ghosts."

"So what if I don't believe in ghosts? Something hurt me. And, besides, Pop: was I trained to fight Shadow Assassins?" Caine frowned at his son's argument. "If I hadn't been there, that Chiru might have killed Lo Si!"

"You were a prisoner," said the Ancient, a gentle reminder, but Peter shook his head with frustration. He stood and began pacing the room, the tiger once again looking for an outlet.

Caine looked at his son. "Peter—"

"You think I'm a liability," accused the young man, spinning around to look at them.

The Ancient and Caine shared a glance. "My son, you are not a priest." Peter shook his head and started pacing again. "Why is it so important that you come with us?"

"I want to know what happened. I— Look, I just don't want you in danger without me there, Pop." Peter set his shoulders and looked at them both. The first answer was certainly the most important. The tiger's curiosity was boundless. How to keep it from killing him...? "Think of me as backup." Caine shook his head dismissively. "Then think of it as training." He turned to look at Lo Si. "I'm your student, Lo Si. Think of this as a practical exam."

The Ancient sighed, wishing he could stay out of it, but the young man was right: he was Peter's teacher. One of them, at least. "The youth are ever stubborn," he said, then looked at Caine. "He does not believe in ghosts, so he must see the truth for himself, do you not agree?"

Caine frowned, clearly disappointed that his son's words had reached the Ancient, but he nodded despite it. "As you say, Master." He looked at his child with frustrated eyes. "Do not expect to witness a battle, lest you bring it to us."

"Don't worry, Pop. I'm not looking for a fight." Peter said with a nod, the spark of success in his eyes. "Just an explanation."

Peter looked behind them, shaking his head in irritation as the three walked towards St Joseph's church. Kwai Chang wondered if the reason his son had insisted on joining the two priests had something to do with the way he was looking uneasily behind them.

"There is a man following us."

Peter looked behind them again. "Yeah. You remember Jack Wong?"

"A member of Tan's inner circle," said Lo Si with a calm sense of distaste. "Triad."

"He was my friend, not Tan's. And I thought everyone had to choose their own path," said Peter, his tone biting, then shook his head and sighed. "I'm supposed to get something for him."

Kwai Chang sighed. "You will always be free to follow your own path, my son, but the path of the criminal does not seem rewarding."

Peter shook his head as they turned a corner, passing a convenience store. "I'm not— Look, he's just an old friend. He's probably following me to make sure nothing happens to me." The pair looked at him skeptically. "Like a bodyguard. Tan used to have people do that sometimes." He let out a breath as his father made a little noise of dissatisfaction. Peter was obviously not as good a liar as he needed to be. "Never mind. We're here." He lowered his voice as the three reached the edge of St Joseph's property. "So how are we supposed to do this? Just... walk up to one of the priests, ask them if they're having a ghost problem? Or... I could probably sneak the two of you downstairs, but it would be better to wait until they've got a mass..."

"There is no reason to... sneak." Kwai Chang shook his head. "We will find the priest that you saved. Master?"

The Ancient nodded. "The man who was dealing with this ghost," he said to Peter, "must also have been injured when you broke his rosary. There is a connection between you and this priest. You will see it if you look, as you did in the caves with the Chiru. Concentrate, Peter."

The priest waited patiently, feeling the extraordinary control of the Master. He did not have the skill to quietly prod another's soul, nor the ability to loan some of his skills to another temporarily, but he could watch as Lo Si did it with Peter as easily as another man might pick a flower, or sit in the grass. The young man's eyes were focused on his hand, but Kwai Chang could almost see the opening of Peter's third eye. To manipulate chi so easily, the old Master must have incredible power and skill...

"I see it. It's like a thread," Peter said with quiet awe. "This way," he said, and Kwai Chang and the Ancient followed as Peter walked around the main building of the church, past a high steeple and a residence, and stopped as they reached a garden.

"That's him," said his son, grinning from ear to ear at his feat. Kwai Chang smiled back at him, and the Ancient patted his hand as they walked towards the priest who sat on a bench, reading his holy words beside the roses.

"Father," said Kwai Chang, with a bow.

The priest looked up. He was an older man, perhaps in his late fifties, with a head of silver and black hair. Kwai Chang quickly noted the evidence of violence on him: clear bruises were beginning to form, and the several bead-like burns around his neck looked quite painful. "Can I help you?"

"I am Kwai Chang Caine, a Shaolin priest. This man is known as the Ancient."

"A Shaolin priest...? I'm not familiar with that tradition. Is it Buddhist?"

"Something like that." Kwai Chang bowed slightly. "This is my son, Peter." He paused for a moment. "I am aware that my son... interrupted your ritual, earlier."

"That was you?" The Catholic priest's eyebrows raised, and he stood, slowly. "I am Father Terrence Roble. If you are the one who interrupted," he said, eyes on Peter, "then I am in your debt. I was..." He frowned. "The man you saw was in the midst of an attack of epilepsy. Had you not intervened, I am certain I would have been badly hurt."

"Epilepsy, my foot. There was some sort of hallucinatory drug in that room. That's why I saw..." Peter stopped and shook his head, looking confused and angry. "Whatever it was I saw."

"An experimental treatment," agreed Father Roble amiably. "What exactly did you see, young man?"

Kwai Chang put a hand on his son's shoulder and looked at the other man seriously. "I believe that what my son saw was an... exorcism?" he said quietly.

Father Roble stared at his Shaolin counterpart for a moment. "You are a priest, and not some... reporter?" Kwai Chang pulled his sleeves up to show his brands. The Catholic probably wouldn't understand them, but it would be an obvious symbol of dedication. "And them?"

"The Ancient is also a priest." The old man bowed, and gave a smile to Father Roble. "My son is neither a priest nor a reporter, though he has occasionally... made the news?" He smiled fondly at his son, who ducked his head slightly. "He does not believe in ghosts or demons or exorcisms. But I do."

"Ghosts and demons..." The Catholic priest gave a small smile. "We tend to call the ones that can take a man's body demons in the Catholic faith. But I admit, I was unable to cast this one out. I could not find his name. Perhaps a different approach..."

Kwai Chang bowed his head. "All rituals have their place," he said. "May I meet this man?"

"His name is Tanner Williams. A Brother in the Jesuit order." Father Roble looked at him for a moment more, assessing his counterpart, then nodded. "Follow me," he said, then led the three into the small house at the back of the Church property, down into the basement and through a corridor.

The Shaolin priest felt the spirit's energy long before they reached the doorway. There was a nearly literal wall of cold air, and he held up a hand. "I must ask for all of you... to remain here."

The Ancient bowed, and Father Roble looked at Kwai Chang with some discomfort, but it was Peter that argued. "What? That guy, he almost— that is..." The halting manner of his son's speech made clear that he was uncomfortable with the situation, but the look in his son's eyes was what convinced Caine that Peter was, in fact, afraid.

"Many people," said Father Roble, "in our modern world have difficulty believing in supernatural occurrences, even ones they saw with their own eyes. In Catholicism, it is why those of us who practice arts such as exorcism must always keep our work as confidential as possible. Still... Whatever is possessing Brother Williams almost killed me— Master Caine?"

He bowed to acknowledge the concern, then looked to his son. "You are afraid for me to be alone with him because of what you saw, but this is something I must face by myself."

"I'm not afraid, just... concerned. Pop, whatever burned us could do the same to you. Or worse. I'm sure Father Roble's not some amature, right, Father?"

The priest nodded. The Ancient shook his head. "Peter, we are not calling Father Roble's rituals into question. There is danger, but in our faith... to look into the darkness in a man's soul requires... solitude."

"It cannot be shared," agreed Kwai Chang. "Please, all of you. Remain here."

The Ancient put a hand on Peter's arm, and his son nodded reluctantly, while the Shaolin priest turned and walked down the long corridor to the wooden door, each step colder than the last. Touching the brass doorknob sent shocks of ice through his hand and into his heart, but he grasped it regardless, turning it and walking into the room.

It was disheveled— he could see the damage. The beads of rosary that Peter had ripped from Father Roble's neck were scattered on the ground. What had likely been consecrated and blessed water had fallen into the bedsheets, drying in uneven patches; their holy symbol lay far from the bed, a dent in the wall marking where it had hit. Pictures hung unevenly in cracked frames.

In the bed lay Brother Williams, tied hand and foot, bedsheets rumpled around him.

"Help me, Caine— help me." They were the first words that Caine heard from the man, and, as he screamed, the Shaolin priest wondered if they would be the last. Angry red rimmed eyes looked at him as the scream subsided, and a ghastly smile appeared.

"Fight! You must fight!" Kwai Chang approached Brother Williams, trying to use his spiritual power as the Ancient was able to use his. He raised his arms, silently calling on the power of the immortals, those who had walked the paths before any of them, to help him to face this threat.

He put his energy before him, fashioning his chi into a spiritual shield.

The demeanor darkened further, as the demon, ghost— teminology mattered little— as it realized that Kwai Chang Caine would not be easy prey. "What is it you seek, Shaolin?" Even the voice was different now; if he were not a Shaolin priest, he thought he would likely be filled with dread.

"I seek... Tan."

"I know no such name."

"Then, instead, I seek the one who has possessed Brother Williams."

"To what end?"

"I will make that known when he reveals himself." With a deliberate and controlled movement, keeping the shield of his chi between himself and the one that had stolen Brother Williams' form, he reached forward.

The spirit responded by breaking his bonds, reaching through Kwai Chang's shield of chi, and tossing him against the door. There were no further words exchanged as the evil entity within the man began to throw things at him: cabinets, holy items, even the bedclothes were somehow twining around his body to pull him down to the ground.

It was interrupted by his son's powerful kick through the door. Peter grabbed him and dragged his father out. The door slammed shut behind them, and the pair panted outside the room as the distorted sound of Brother Williams' voice cackled behind them, each for different reasons.

Father Roble reached them first, pulling Kwai Chang to his feet. "I take it you were as unsuccessful as I," he said. At the Shaolin priest's unhappy nod, the Father sighed. "It was worth a try. Were you able to get a name?"

"I was not," he said quietly, then looked at his son. "He is not Tan."

A tension drained out of his son's shoulders and back, even as the younger man looked up at the door with confusion. "Well, that's good. But... Why is his name important, Pop?"

Lo Si checked the priest for damage, but he glanced at Peter regardless. "One cannot command the attention of a being on another plane of existence without the name of the being. A name can also tell you... how to fight it."

"It seems our traditions are similar in that," said Father Roble. "In Catholic exorcisms, we call upon our Lord and Savior to help deny the demon, but without the name, it is much harder to cast the demon out."

The Shaolin priest closed his eyes. "We must protect the people in the church," he said.

"You must first accept treatment," replied the Ancient. "Peter, help me bring your father home."

"But, Master—"

"I will protect the people here, Master Caine. I'll accept your help, if you've more to give, but this is my Holy ground." There was steel in the man's voice, and with good reason. This was a Catholic place, even if the threat was Chinese.

Kwai Chang bowed his head. He spoke only the truth, and no matter that the Shaolin priest worried for the Catholic one, he had the right of it. "I will return."