Dark Priest: Nightstalker: Chapter Two

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Disclaimer: I do not own Ryo Ashihara.

Now, I look at the first chapter and I hit myself in the face.

Edward: You fool! You revealed too much at once. The first chapter is supposed to be a light introduction and you bogged it down.

FM: But…I am a fool; I'm Foolish Mortal for gadsake.

Edward: (gestures violently with cross) No excuses!

FM: (nervously soothing) Okay…calm down. Just put the cross away, Ed. We can be friends, right? Er…look! It's a distraction!

Edward: Not falling for that.

FM: Er…look, it's a hot nun!

Edward: (turns around) What?

FM: (scampering off) Run AWAY!

Note: Those of you who are reviewers for The Angel…that's marshmallow fluff. Dark Priest and C.F are…not marshmallow fluff. They are, well, dark and more graphic than The Angel, as you have seen in the first chapter of D.P. Just letting you know so it doesn't come as a big shocker.

Also, I wrote this while I was at nerd camp so if the style is disjointed and weird, I blame it on the five to six hours of sleep we got every day…in the summer! I mean, I get just about that much sleep during the school year but this was so much more intense than school.

Yeah, enough complaining, that camp rocked! Okay, storytime:

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Nakaura passed through the little town's marketplace on his way to St. Alnoth Church. The residents were very proud of the industrious hub, as he noticed when his guide could not stop pointing out the various sites and extolling their virtues. Nakaura tried to make some interested noises and hope they got to the church before sundown. He couldn't even remember this town's name; they were all the same to him: Oaktroth, Aterbrook, Greenwrest. He had passed through countless villages like this one. He had forgotten them, the people had seldom forgotten him. A quiet priest, the people whispered. Kept to himself, scrupulously polite. He would leave as he had come; he was like a shadow ghosting away on an eddy of wind like a leaf.

But when he had gone, the villages suddenly noticed a decrease in missing loved ones, empty unearthed graves, and dark tales of monsters prowling the streets at night.

He's god-touched, they said about the anonymous priest. He's blessed us.

Then the elders would touch their fingers to their brows and then to their hearts, murmuring, magnus deus a caelo.

In the villagers' memories, dark eyes faded like ink across old parchment, black hair shifted and changed, and facial features rearranged themselves. Nevertheless, the people still preserved the idea of Nakaura, no matter how radically the picture of him on their eyelids changed.

-

St. Alnoth was a shabby affair. Though Albright had taken meticulous care to polish the candlesticks, clean the windows, and air out the rugs, it was only a small town's church, after all. It was still only a small cramped space with dusty cracked wood panelling and broken windows.

Still, Nakaura thought, the sunlight from the single weather-worn stained glass window lit up the dust motes in the air like jewels. The untrained enthusiastic choir sounded more beautiful than the highest choir of heaven.

His guide touched the edge of his hat. "Good luck to you, Father; there are many of us uneasy about an unconfined murderer who would kill a priest. I hope Father Albright will be avenged, poor man.

Nakaura nodded. "God will serve His justice."

He thanked his guide, gave him a coin, which the man refused and a parting nod, which he gladly returned.

The sound of Nakaura's black boots were strange and oddly loud in the small church. He quietly walked down the aisle and received murmured greetings and small grateful glances but he was alone in the pew he settled in. Looking around, he saw families and friends sitting elbow to elbow and their lips moving silently in prayer. An elderly couple sat in front of him and beyond them, a younger man and his three children, whom their patient mother kept scolding kindly for their rowdiness and jostling.

Suddenly, the wooden bench under Nakaura felt was cold and unforgiving. He could feel the vacuum of the empty spaces on either side of him; they roared in his ears, crushed in to smother him.

I could never have a friend, he thought fiercely. I could never think to take someone with me; how could I ask a person to go through the atrocities I have in my work? How could I bear to put someone else in constant danger?

But though this sounded noble and selfless, he knew he did not want to feel obligated to protect his companion. It would be a nuisance. A hindrance. A vulnerability. It was best not to attach oneself to anything.

Shrugging it off, Nakaura bent his head down to pray for a small time.

An explosion detonated behind his eyeballs. Clawing diseased blackened hands dug into his mind and eyes. Gangrene blighted fingers tightened around his throat and pointed dirty nails infected the wounds they inflicted.

I know you, Heir of Cain.

Blood was running into his eyes. Something had shattered his skull and was pulling out the bone fragments slowly, painfully.

You cannot kill me. I will pluck out your eyes, Blindchild.

His brain was swollen and engorged with blood; the rotting lobes were purple and black.

Help me, the priest whispered. A prayer?

Help me, Nakaura thought again, desperately. Then, before he blacked out, Tracer…

"Father, are you ill?"

He felt the cool wood against his cheek. His head was ringing unpleasantly. "What…"

It was the old woman in the pew in front of him. Her old dark eyes took in his pale face and dazed eyes. "Must be the heat. We have a fountain in the middle of the square; a cool drink will do you much good."

The priest thanked her and walked out in great strides that would not reveal the stagger to his step. Rushing to the side of the church near the conservatory, he found a drain gutter and dry-retched into it, his body trembling.

St. Alnoth had been tainted, utterly horrifyingly dirtied. He thought of the townspeople inside. Their prayers were no longer going towards God, for the church had ceased to be a holy place; it was barring the songs and prayers, draining them into nothingness. The demon from yesterday had lied to him after all; Diavolo had not killed Edward Albright directly. Instead, he had committed foedus against him. Nakaura had seen it before in other homicides involving Darklore and people of the church.

Foedus. The victim was tortured and raped; then, the murderer would slit the victim's throat and spill the blood over the alter, crucifix, and four corners of the church. Afterward, the body was hacked apart and buried in an unmarked place, without ceremony.

This had been Edward Albright's own church and he had carried WIZ-dom power in his blood so the effect of the foedus on the building was strong and tenacious.

You made him suffer, the priest thought, gritting his teeth. You kept him alive to the very end, you bastard.

Nakaura retched again, wiping his forehead with a pale clammy hand. Birds twittered through leafy boughs that chattered restlessly in the breeze. Nakaura felt hollow. This town doesn't seem so peaceful, anymore. He shook his head. Goldshield, you didn't deserve this. The Order. I have to alert the Order and have them send in reinforcements to cleanse the church- this is beyond me.

As he looked back towards St. Alnoth, the wind began to bluster through the open windows and in its echo Nakaura thought he heard the sound of Edward Albright's screams.

-

"Blindchild, we'll take charge of purifying the grounds." The administrator raised his straight eyebrows; his grey eyes were bitter and grim. You find Goldshield's killer, understand? Those are your orders from the Sagitariī council- your top priority is finding this vampire Diavolo and saving his soul from damnation."

"Saving his soul!" Nakaura burst out and some of the black-robed WIZ-dom priests turned from their inspection of St. Alnoth to look at him curiously. He dropped his voice. "Administrator, with all respect rendered, Diavolo committed an act that is beyond pardon! Look at what he did to Goldshield-"

"-It is not your place to judge the souls you liberate! You will carry out your orders." The administrator scowled at him darkly. "I've let you off from reproach countless times, despite your eccentric methods and liaisons with the vampyre Tracer, but don't think I'll stay my hand if you mutiny."

Liaisons? Nakaura thought in outraged astonishment. "And you've never forgotten to remind me of it," he answered back. "We took a dislike to each other ever since we were both novices, Ashihara, but don't bring it into this investigation. You do your job and I'll do mine."

"Easily done," Administrator Ryo Ashihara spat out and abandoned Nakaura to his own devices.

The priest returned to his room in the tavern and began to inspect his weapons. The days he had been waiting for the Sagitariī priests to arrive had been spent collecting information about Diavolo, his whereabouts, and power base. The vampire had a fair amount of lower Darklore minions but they could be dispatched easily. What Nakaura really wanted to know were Diavolo's habits and personality, though the brutal handling of Edward Albright had seemed to shape the vampire's character simply enough. Nakaura had discovered that the more he knew about his quarry's mind and its flaws, the easier it was to carry out his hunts. He needed to know more about Diavolo.

He thought again about the horrific foedus the agents of the Order were battling down at St. Alnoth's. He shuddered.

Five years ago, he had Tracer had faced down in an old abandoned church near a deserted section of the city. For a time, it seemed as if they were both matched up well, exchanging blow for blow. Then suddenly, in a frightening burst of his true power, the vampire had thrown his opponent across the room and into a row of pews. As the priest had felt the pain scream through his nerves, he knew some bones had been broken.

I lost again, he thought with rage.

Tracer was smirking down at him. "The time and location are almost too convenient," the vampire remarked. "It seems Fortune his tipped her hand in my direction."

What is he talking about? Nakaura had thought hazily but abruptly his blood ran cold. We're in a place of God and I'm in no condition to fight back. He had the numb realisation that he was about to die horribly.

Thankfully, Tracer decided to renege on his threat and left him lying there against the pews.

Nakaura was weak from pain and relief and he staggered haphazardly after his enemy. "Would you?" he demanded as Tracer neared the door. "Would you commit foedus against me?" I'd kill myself before he had the chance.

Tracer stopped in midstride. The church seemed strangely silent and all Nakaura could hear was his own laboured breathing.

Tracer finally spoke. "You have a broken arm, multiple broken fingers, a mild concussion, and various wounds and bruises. Go home, priest." He left without another word.

Home, Nakaura thought bitterly. After the business with Diavolo, I'll be gone. It's because of you, Tracer, I can never have a proper place to stay. A permanent place. My home is the wanderer's road.

Then why do you hunt me? Tracer's voice whispered. The ghost of the vampire's voice was always standing ready to torture him.

What else am I to do? You are a vampire and I am a vampire-hunter whose brethren you've slain. Why do I hunt you? It is my calling.

That's not it, Tracer chided.

Nakaura thought. I…I only feel that I must, that it is a duty I was made to fulfill. I feel drawn to it, cannot fight it. I must hunt you. I would go mad if I didn't.

Then why do you rail at me when you yourself are to blame for your dilemma?

Because…because you are the reason for it.

Then Tracer chuckled in the way that had always set Nakaura's teeth on edge. If you could only listen to yourself.

What? Nakaura snapped.

You don't know your own mind.

What do you mean?

Tracer laughed again. Stop delaying and kill Diavolo; I'm going on ahead. You are falling behind, Tomonori. His tone was disapproving.

Nakaura's reverie came apart like a delicately unstable glass sphere shattering. Tracer?

No answer.

Suddenly, he felt a calm hopeless lethargy come over him. He flopped down on one side of the bed, among his daggers and guns. His mind tugged at him reflexively to check the room's wards before he let unconsciousness claim him.

-

"Do you know why you are here, Tomonori Nakaura?"

"No, sir."

"It is to purify you, save you."

The young boy did not understand this. "Where are Mother and Father?" he asked instead.

"They shall not be returning."

"Where are they, sir?" Nakaura asked in distress.

The priest crouched down on his haunches to meet the boy's dark-eyed gaze honestly. "Do you know what hell is, Tomonori?"

"No, sir."

"It is the place people go when they've done evil things. It's a horrible realm where they suffer for all eternity. Do you want to go to hell, Tomonori?"

"Of course not, sir!" Nakaura was terrified of the picture the priest had painted.

"Good, good." The man nodded to another clergyman who had just entered. "I think you'll do well here. From now on, you shall call me Father Stephano."

The second priest held the door open and gestured to Nakaura.

"Sir, what am-"

"-This is your home now. Welcome to WIZ-dom. God bless."

Nakaura followed the other priest out and then down the hallway. The doors shut behind him.

-

Something was pressing into his stomach. Consciousness came to him by degrees and dull aches bloomed on his chest, legs, and arms. One of his arms was flung out to the empty space beside him. As he shifted, he could feel metal clinking beneath him every time the mattress bounced. He looked sleepily to the window and the receding rays of sunset slanting through the panes made him shoot up. The day was fleeing to the horizon and darkness would soon give chase. He used the cover of darkness to hunt down the lower Darklore and extract information. And yet …'Stop delaying and kill Diavolo.'

'You are falling behind, Tomonori.'

Perhaps it's time to pick up the pace, Nakaura thought grimly.

-

St. Alnoth

Feastday: November 25

700

Herder and hermit, mentioned in the life of St. Werburga. Alnoth tended cows on the lands of St. Werburga's monastery at Weedon, in Northhampton, England. He was badly used by a local official, earning a reputation for holiness and patience. Alnoth retired from active life and became a hermit. Two robbers accosted him in his hermitage, slaying him. He is honoured locally as a martyr, and his tomb at Stowe, near Bubrook in Northhampton, became a popular shrine for pilgrims.