"That's not Jeremiah."

Constance's words were emphatic but not loud. She and Michael were in the kitchen of her house. Both were on their feet and neither was happy. It was the morning after the ritual in the cemetery. The sun was bright, too cheerful for the dark conversation taking place.

"Yes, it is," Michael insisted. "He's just getting over being dead for three days."

"I found him in the garden this morning, eating some animal he killed with his bare hands," the blonde woman flared intensely. "It still had the fur on it!" She viciously lit a cigarette and slammed the lighter down on the counter. Then she leveled a cold look at her grandson. "Bein' dead isn't something a person can just 'get over'. He's not a Goddamned fish. And whatever he is? He isn't Jeremiah."

Michael's lower lip tensed in an unhappy little frown that he tried to restrain. A whirlwind of thoughts and feelings boiled inside him. "I'll show you," he said. His tone was half posture, half threat. "I'll show you, Mother Constance!'

His anger reached critical mass and he lashed out, punching a chair as he stormed out of the room. The yellow padded seat hit the floor hard. He kept going, right out of the house. He needed to talk to Aunt Fiona.

—

Despite the temper tantrum, Constance wasn't concerned with Michael's ire. The situation with Jeremiah was too distracting. She had noticed differences immediately, on the way home, but she had attributed them to shock. But finding him in the garden eating the neighborhood strays was beyond what shock did to a person.

There were other things, too, though not as extreme. Little tell-tale signs that she couldn't overlook. His presence put her on edge. Whatever Michael had summoned up that was riding around in Jeremiah's body, she was sure it wasn't the priest. She didn't want to think about what had become of the man's soul, or where it might be. That thought was too dwarfing.

She was at a loss as to what to do about the situation. Michael refused to acknowledge anything was wrong. It was like he couldn't see the twitchy way Jeremiah moved. He didn't seem to notice that the resurrected man barely spoke to anyone about anything. The teen seemed to genuinely believe Jeremiah just needed some rest, to recover from being crucified and brought back to life.

Constance decided to go next door and see if Travis was free. She badly needed a distraction. She stepped out onto the porch and paused to light a cigarette.

"Where are you going?"

Jeremiah's quiet voice came from behind her, so close and unexpected, it made her jump. Her cigarette lighter fell to the wooden deck of the porch with a clatter and her hand flew to her chest where her fingers curled on the collar of her flowing blue kaftan.

"Jeremiah, you shouldn't go sneakin' up on people," she chided, trying to sound genial despite being rattled. "You startled me."

He looked at her for a moment then bent to pick up the lighter she dropped. He held it out to her. She hesitated before taking it.

"Where are you going?" he repeated.

"Next door," she responded. She lit her cigarette and stuffed the lighter into the pack. "I want to see my boys and I have some business with one of the other ghosts over there."

"I'll go with you."

She exhaled a large cloud of smoke then made a dismissing wave at him. "No. You stay here. Michael ran off in another of his fits. Someone should be here when he comes back."

"Where did he go?"

Constance wrapped an arm around her middle, only glancing at Jeremiah before looking to the Montgomery mansion again. She didn't like making eye contact with him. His unblinking stare unnerved her even more than the blunt, plodding questions.

"I really don't know," she said wearily. "Probably to my sister's place. He's practically moved in with her."

"I can find him."

She sucked on her cigarette hard, making the ember long and bright angry red. "Fine. You'll have to walk, though. He took the car."

The ex-priest stood there for an awkward moment then headed down the steps and off toward the street. She watched him go and hugged herself a little tighter.

—

The car Michael had driven to the hotel was parked haphazardly in front of the hotel, half on the sidewalk. Several crows had settled on it and they cawed noisily at Jeremiah as he passed. One ruffled its feathers. None actually threatened the ex-priest, though. Their aggression was a reaction to fear. They could sense something wasn't right with the man.

Jeremiah knew it, too. After his resurrection, his heart never started beating again. He had taken his pulse and held his breath and exerted himself but nothing he did caused the organ to work faster or at all. The only thing he learned from the experiments was that he didn't need to breathe, either, unless he wanted to speak.

The man knew if his heart wasn't beating, his blood was not circulating. If his lungs weren't working and no blood pumping oxygen to his brain, he should not be moving. Yet he was. He didn't need to eat or drink normal food, either, but he still did those things because he didn't want to give Constance another reason to look at him the way she had been so often since his return. The incident with the stray dog-thing was as irreversible as it was inexplicable. The creature had wandered into the front yard with an injury to its left flank. The sight of the glistening red meat had set off an impulse to devour that he had no time to fight. He was on the mongrel before he even knew what he was doing.

And Constance had seen.

Her reaction to him hurt but he understood her revulsion. He couldn't explain himself. He was no danger to her but that hardly mattered. He knew Michael's attempt to bring him back to life was only a partial success. Looking in the mirror, Jeremiah looked no different on the outside but in life, he never would have done what he did that morning.

She had refused to share her bed with him ever since he came back. She insisted that he return to spending his nights in the guest bedroom, though he hadn't slept in there in years. She wasn't coy about it either. She told him he "reeked of the grave". He had, of course, showered after returning but that didn't change her stance.

He let himself inside the old hotel and looked around the lobby.

"Speak of the devil," Fiona purred from where she was tucked into her favorite wingback, near the fire pit.

She was flanked by Michael, who rose from his chair when he saw Jeremiah. Cordelia was to her other side and Misty Day took up a whole couch with her various wrappings and a heap of what appeared to be dirty laundry beside her.

"Father Jeremiah," greeted Michael. "You have excellent timing. Fiona was just explaining how you could help us."

The dark-haired man crossed the room to join the small circle. His black shirt and pants fit right in with the coven's color scheme. "I'm not a priest anymore."

Michael looked at him in puzzlement. "So?"

Jeremiah wondered if he was being strange again. Too often, people looked at him like Michael was doing. He thought carefully before he spoke next, just to be sure. "You don't have to call me 'Father Jeremiah' anymore."

The younger man's confusion eased and he laughed, but it lacked humor. "I suppose you're right. It's not like you're my father."

"You brought him back from the dead," Fiona pointed out. "Call him whatever you want to."

Michael was tired of the subject, so he ignored her. "Jeremiah, I need you to fetch Mother Constance's body from where ever that little shit Tate's hidden it. Bring her body back here. He's not going to just let you have her, so be ready for a fight. Do you think you can handle him on your own?"

"I'll go with him," Misty volunteered. "I'm goin' that way anyways. Gotta see about puttin' together Buck's funeral. Collectin' two bodies is as good as one."

Jeremiah was fairly certain he wouldn't need the help but he saw no point in being rude to the swamp witch. It wouldn't hurt to have her along.

"Good," Michael agreed when no one objected. "Bring both of the bodies back here. We'll do a resurrection at a funeral."

xxx

Author's Note:

End episode 3. Cue music, roll credits, etc.

This chapter brought to you by Pet Semetary and the number 666.

Next time: Seven! The number seven is coming heavily into play. Seven ancient relics. Seven deadly sins. Seven holy paths to hell...Sorry. Broke off into Iron Maiden there. Though I guess it's not entirely inappropriate.

Anyway. We'll see some old, familiar faces soon, too—more than one! So tune in next time when American Horror Story: Armageddon continues with: "Seven".