Author's Note: Hello, all! Welcome to part twenty-two of "Cross". Before we begin, I would like to thank all my dedicated readers and reviewers, Lystan, FireChildSlytherin5, saichick and Mss Heart of Swords01. Also, I would like to thank all the readers who have added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. I am truly grateful for your continued support and encouragement. I do hope you enjoy this installment.

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Priest.

Part XXII Calvary

Priestess huddled against the wall of the tunnel, her cheek pressed against the cool, slick metal siding. Her heartbeat had slowed into a sluggish rhythm and her breathing was pitifully shallow. Shock had rendered her paralyzed. Her legs were numb. Her arms had lost their strength and they lay useless now, draped across her lap. She did not tremble, she did not weep, her distress only manifesting itself as a hollow, dull ache that made her feel inhuman. For one moment, for one brief, careless interlude, she thought she would like to be weak. It would be a welcome reprieve. It would give her sterile life the flavor of humanity, now, when her world seemed so enclosed.

There was something to be said for corruptibility and Priestess wondered how different her existence might be without virtue. She would have abandoned the Church, perhaps, like Marcus had. She would have lost her way and been glad for her freedom. She would have taken her lust (and she could acknowledge to herself that it was lust) and offered it to Priest like the red-haired Priestess had once dared to. And she could lull her conscience into silence, now. She could stay tucked away in the shadowed tunnel while Priest met his reckoning below.

Selfishness was a wicked temptation and it seduced Priestess, who was still lost to the depths of her doubt. She thought she deserved the gift of her individual frailty, which she had been denied since childhood. She thought deserved to help herself and no one else.

And Priest, it was possible that he deserved nothing when she had already given him everything.

Priestess raised her head, her eyes diluted with pain and she saw him stride into the room with his hands clenched and his shoulders held a bit too stiffly. She saw the old veteran who couldn't be bothered to show fear, even though a small, sick part of her hoped that he was frightened.

It was what Priest deserved, wasn't it? To be fearful. To live with his sin, which had tainted not only his soul, but the souls of others. It was personal Hell. It was what Priestess wanted him to have…or did she?

Priestess sat still in her sanctuary. She didn't think she could decide. Not yet. Not yet, anyway.

Inching up to the vent, she came close enough to let the tip of her nose brush the iron grate. Marcus was standing directly below her, his arms swinging easily by his sides, an arrogant, animalistic tilt to his head. He looked happy and his contentment was obnoxious to Priestess, who was beginning to learn to hate him. The cross on his forehead seemed like a defilement and she wanted to peel it from his flesh. Was there no one worthy enough to bear it? Had there ever been?

She chewed on her chapped lip, longing for water. Her thirst fed her delirious anger, which was reaching new heights as she hid herself in the dark. Priest was in the room now and he stopped on the other side of the table, daring to rest his knuckles on the edge. His posture, she thought, was straining to be casual, struggling to uphold that natural authority she had always found in him.

But deception had given him the face of a hypocrite and Priestess could not look at him without thinking of her.

Her forehead touched the grate in front of her. Rage. Did her rage mean that she was weak? Did that make her any more human? Priestess couldn't decided. Later, maybe. Later.

Marcus chuckled as he beheld Priest, his laugh not entirely brash, but just refined enough to assume superiority. "The Prodigal Son," he said without a trace of a sneer in his voice. "Have you changed your mind so soon?"

Priest did not hesitate. Did not blink or flinch. "Where is she?" he demanded.

Priestess couldn't help it. Her heart throbbed and she was swept away from her misplaced malice Was he possibly talking about her?

"To continue our conversation from last time," Marcus replied. He ran the heel of his palm over his hair, pulling the skin around his tattoo. It was an obscene gesture.

"Her motorcycle," Priest grunted, keeping his hands on the table. "In the dust, outside. I followed the tracks here."

"Who's motorcycle?" Marcus was toying with him, enjoying the game. He flashed Priest a smile, all white teeth and proudly bared his fangs.

Priest's lip curled and a for a fleeting instant, Priestess thought that he was brave. The quiet ache in her heart renewed itself, reminding her of all the things she thought she could forget about there in the dark. Her love. Her hope. The lingering promise of something she thought might exist, something that had briefly come to life when they had kissed. Was it possible, still? Priestess asked herself. Was it possible that he might care….

…for her.

Priest was standing there, the knight facing the dragon. He had come for her, as he had come for Lucy…as he would have come for Shannon. Priestess leaned forward. She dared to lace her fingers over the iron slats of the grate. The sudden rush of blood through her veins was intoxicating, heady and intemperate like a fevered hallucination. She nearly lost herself to the wildness of it all. Was he her only weakness? Was it Priest?

She steadied herself. She remembered her vows, even though they were old, stale echoes in her mind. Obedience, poverty, chastity. Obedience, poverty, chastity. Obedience, poverty…what if I could be with him?

Priest shifted, moving his thick-soled boots. The frayed edges of his coat fluttered and for the first time, he seemed to hesitate. "Where is Rowan?" he asked and that was all.

It had been a while, Priestess realized, since he had said her name. She removed her hand from the grate, the blood from her broken nail trailing down her wrist in a sticky stream. It was these common blessings, these small, everyday miracles that somehow managed to renew her faith.

Marcus, on the other hand, only looked amused. His depravity itself was a living thing, a stench that clogged the air of the room, gave it the odor of a graveyard. He was a leech, bloated by his own pride. He was the pure embodiment of hubris. And Priest was his opposite. Humbled. Restrained. Penitent.

From afar, Priestess studied her friend's expression. He bore the look of the supplicant without appearing pathetic and he had clearly not come to beg. But Marcus, for all his cunning, did not seem to understand his adversary's intent.

A moment of silence stretched between them. Marcus leaned forward on the table, mimicking Priest's stance, his hips tilted to the side. The folds of his leather coat fell back and revealed his dirty, singed trousers. There was a reddish handprint on his knee, the bloody shadow of five fingers spread wide.

"I'm surprised you came looking for her," he said, each word measured, his barbs honed and precise. "I've always thought you were very selfish."

Priest sniffed. A muscle under one of his eyes jumped and Priestess thought she saw one of his hands twitch. His dagger was still strapped to his hip, but she knew he wouldn't be quick enough. Marcus had already proved himself to be faster, stronger, fatal…

Oh God, why had Priest even bothered to come after her?

Instinct answered. Love, it told her. Isn't it even a possibility?

No, no. She would decide later.

"Maybe," Priest conceded gruffly. Priestess knew he was trying to talk his enemy in circles, win this meaningless war of words. "Maybe I am selfish."

"Oh, you are." Marcus's eyebrows moved up his forehead. "Tell me, did you come because you need Rowan, because you can't start your war without her help? Or did you come for another reason, because you might want her? Which is more appropriate, Priest? Consider this, which hurts your frail little conscience less?"

"Neither."

"And how quickly you've ruined our rapport," Marcus replied, playing the part of the scholar while he left Priest in the dust of private despair. "We were doing well, for a while. The correct answer, in case you were wondering, is both. Your conscience is still weak, which surprises me. I thought you were immune to all those vulnerable pangs of virtue…especially after Rebecca."

Priestess saw Priest react to the name, but she was confused. Rebecca? She didn't think she knew a Rebecca and Priest had certainly never mentioned her, unless…

Priestess closed her eyes for an instant, remembering her old mentor's face, the scarred nose, the thin, arched eyebrows, her hair pulled back strictly from her forehead, the color not classically red, maybe auburn. Rebecca. Had her name been Rebecca?

For some reason, she had trouble giving a name, a true name, to that hateful woman. Calling her Priestess was easier. Impersonal. Formal. A designation provided distance, allowed her to separate herself from the person that existed behind the title. To think of the red-haired Priestess as Rebecca, who had been named by a mother and father, who probably had something left of her family in the world, who could even have a child, made her uncomfortable.

I can't call her Rebecca, Priestess told herself. She knew she was in danger of creating a real person out of the name, a human being like herself who had the potential to love and to be hurt.

Priestess opened her eyes. She gazed through the narrow slats of the vent and found Priest's face. Had that name been his undoing as well? Had it shattered his resistance and reduced him to sin?

Without thinking, she stuck her bleeding finger into her mouth, trying to suck away the pain. There was a chance, she realized, that she could hear the truth from Priest's own lips. She could watch as he unwound the careful bindings around his soul and showed her exactly what lay within, the ugly things, the dark, wretched little vices. It was not something she ever thought she would want to see and yet, there seemed to be a perverse sort of beauty to it, a longing that might be fulfilled.

Priestess felt her teeth start to close over her finger and she winced. There was so much pain in this moment and it wasn't even hers, but his. Her rage slipped, faded. She began to pity Priest.

But Marcus remained unforgiving. He straightened, his shoulders broad, his stance exuding a sense of wicked power that made Priestess's stomach squirm. "You still won't hold yourself accountable?" he asked Priest. There was a note of incredulity in his tone, although he did not truly seem the least bit shocked. "Your conscience is so sensitive and yet, you refuse to admit what you have done. That is arrogance, Priest. Sheer and utter arrogance. Here, listen, I will give you a chance to redeem yourself. Tell me, did you come here today to rescue Rowan, or are you still suffering through you penance?"

"My penance?" Priest lifted his hands off the table. A sheen of sweat made his brow slick and a vein throbbed in his temple.

"Denial sickens me," Marcus spat, showing a hint of righteous disdain. "I have never denied what I am and my soul is purer for it. More worthy than yours, Priest."

"Fiend!" Priest snarled.

Marcus ignored him. "I know why you are here," he said. "You think if you can save Rowan, you might be able to save Rebecca. And you only want to save Rebecca to lessen the burden of guilt you carry around. But it would be so much easier, Priest, if you would admit the truth, if you would finally understand that it was you who killed her."

Priestess felt her breath freeze in her throat, her lungs constricting, pushing against her ribcage. A dangerous flush started at the base of her neck and then crept up her face. Her cheeks burned, the heat consuming, rising, blazing with such a vengeance until she was reminded of Hell. She had once wished that Priestess-Rebecca-would burn in Hell. She had hoped that the woman would twist and shriek and writhe in flames that were everlasting. She had wanted her torment to be complete and eternal. She had wanted her to suffer.

Tears dropped from her eyes, soothing the heat on her flesh, baptizing her anew. Priestess wept. She wept because she had come to hate herself in that moment.

And Priest, he seemed to hate himself too. He gave in. He took a step back from the table. He retreated away from Marcus and lost the very last of his esteem.

Priestess knew that she was looking at a broken man and as much as she wanted to take his hurt away, she recognized the merit in his struggle. They needed this, perhaps. A small taste of their own fragile humanity.

But Priest only stared at Marcus. He met his gaze, held it, stood firm in his grief and regret. The room was still around him, the old valves and water pumps wearing cobwebs. The light from the lantern on the table burned low. Shadows rose.

Priest nodded, dropping his chin ever so slightly, a small defeat. "Yes," he told Marcus. "I killed her."

Priestess's head hit the grate, her strength spent. She heard Marcus laughing, that dreadful ha ha which bubbled in the back of his throat. There was triumph in his voice, an almost boyish happiness that made him seem vicious and vile. Priestess wondered why Priest had let him win. Was the truth that powerful? Did it shine through all concepts of good and evil? Was it the only constant in life?

Priestess shook her head against the bars. She would decide later. Later, maybe…or never.

"Very good," Marcus crowed. He was clearly revitalized by his minor victory. An ugly flush colored his face, taking away his vampiric paleness until he almost looked human again. "You have made your confession. You have acknowledged your guilt. But you must already know, Priest, that there is no penance for sin. That's a lie. You can shut yourself up in their little confessionals and you can say all their prayers, but your soul is damned. Rebecca took it with her when you killed her and she'll keep it. She won't ever give it back. And you thought you could save yourself by coming after Rowan. You thought you could-"

"You're wrong," Priest said and he spoke with such vehemence that Priestess's heart jumped into her mouth, remaining there for a beat or two.

Marcus appeared disappointed. He adjusted the sleeves of his coat, pulled the cuffs down over his wrists. "And here I thought your eyes were finally opened," he drawled. "Self-reflection is miserable, isn't it? You don't like what you see. You can't believe how ugly you really are."

"You are very mercenary, Marcus," Priest said in an easy voice. One of his shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. "I can recognize the predator in you now. But like all animals, you've become single-minded. Stupid. You chase after your quarry, you're relentless, but you do not see what lies just beyond your vision. If you cannot see it, it must not be there, yes? Your stubbornness is fatal. You think I am selfish only because you are. Otherwise, you would have realized already that I did not come here to relieve my guilt…to unburden my unworthy soul, as you seem to imply. This has nothing to do with Rebecca-"

"Your delusions are pathetic," Marcus raved.

"This isn't about what I did to her-"

"You're lying to yourself!"

"This is about Rowan," Priest said. He paused, then added, "I love her."

Her world stopped. Priestess tried to steady herself. She groped wildly for reality, felt it slipping through her fingers, falling away from her in the maddening whirlwind that dragged her far from the familiar into a place that was foreign. Priestess almost wanted to hide from herself, from the truth, which was indeed constant, which certainly surpassed all jaded notions of good and evil and struck right at the heart. She drew back into the tight corner of the tunnel and hugged her knees close to her body. She suffered through each unrepentant emotion, through fear and guilt and shame and even joy. She did not know what to make of herself or of him, Priest, who had somehow worked a miracle.

He had done this thing, wrought this wonder. He had unknowingly reached for her in the dark and freed her faith from ruin. He had given her the one thing she had wanted, the only thing she had ever truly prayed for. And how did she feel now that her life was fulfilled? Was it the dream she expected? Or had all those who had come before, Shannon, Rebecca, had they forever changed Priest in a way that still kept him distant from her?

Priestess pressed her fingers to her lips to keep from crying out. She didn't know. She didn't know. Oh God, how could she know?

"Later," she whispered to herself, unable to stop the sudden surge of pure happiness from conquering her. "I'll have to decide later."

But then Marcus started laughing again, his voice surprisingly shrill, the hiss of a treacherous serpent. He was amused and he mocked Priest openly, taunted the humble man before him who had sacrificed so much only to gain so little.

Priest remained steadfast. His eyes narrowed and he let his hand move an inch closer to his belt where his dagger glinted in the quiet light of the lantern. His shadow was thrown into sharp relief against the wall behind him. Marcus noticed the movement.

"Are you going to kill me before I tell you where she is?" he asked.

Priest thought about it for a second. His hand stilled. "I don't believe you ever would," he grated.

"I have nothing to lose," Marcus replied. "Especially if she's dead."

And Priestess saw it. She saw the end looming before her, the final, fatal struggle. Priest moved quickly. His hand went to his knife and he pulled the blade from its sheath.

Marcus looked at the weapon, snarled. His arm lashed out and in one sweeping motion, he knocked the table against the wall. The lantern shattered. Burning oil spread in a small pool of flames across the floor. And nothing stood between them, nothing at all. Priest was already raising his knife, eager to deal the first blow.

Priestess blinked. She imagined what his blood would look like spilled next to the oil. Marcus was quicker. He was stronger. He was fatal…

"No!" she screamed, thrusting herself forward through the vent, the grate clanging shut behind her.

Priest turned and saw her. His arm dropped slightly, the tip of his knife pointed down. Marcus took a half-step back…and slammed right into her. Without thinking, Priestess snaked her wiry arms around his neck and pulled, feeling his airway constrict beneath her hold. He was taller than her and as he bent forward, trying to push her from his back, her feet came off the ground. Her chin smacked into the back of his head and she caught the smell of him, that odor of rotten meat and rank flesh that she associated with vampires.

Green eyes, Priestess thought, remembering when Marcus had been the scared young boy who had sat with her on the benches outside the arena and squeezed her hand. In that blurred instant, she pitied him, missed him for what he had been and what he would never be again. But Priestess had been trained to be merciless. She tightened her grip, twisting his head as fiercely as she could. Any second now she would hear the snap, would feel the neck bone snap. Any second now he would fall dead at her feet and she would have to think of him only as that little boy, not the monster he had become.

But then Marcus caught her with his elbow, right in the chest. Priestess felt all the air escape her in a powerful whoosh and she was certain that one or two or her ribs might've been cracked. Pain radiated out through her chest and her eyes watered and suddenly, she was on her back, thrown to the ground with a single thrust that sent her sprawling. Her head slammed hard against the wooden floorboards. She tried to get her feet underneath her, felt the creeping coldness of Marcus's shadow slide over her prone form…death

From out of the corner of her eye she saw Priest's knife, the point of it seeking Marcus's jugular. The vampire whirled around. He caught Priest under the arm and flipped him back. There was a tangle of limbs, arms flailing inelegantly. Priest's legs stretched out in front of him as he hit the far wall. He was unconscious, his head sagging against his chest. A muted moan escaped through his parted lips.

Priestess braced her arms under her torso and tried to pick herself up. Marcus was hovering over her, the flickering light of the dying fire showing yellow against his fangs. She knew what was coming, she knew, oh God…

The noise. It wasn't exactly in the distance, but close enough to reverberate in her aching chest. It rose as a hum and then a roar, a whole chorus of engines. There were at least a dozen motorcycles, Priestess guessed, riding hard.

Marcus's attention lapsed. He looked over his shoulder, slack-jawed and pathetic.

But Priestess could only smile, her faith restored. "The cavalry's here," she told him.

Author's Note: Ah, Priestess finally heard what she needed to hear…although it kind of came at a bad time, hehe.

Thanks for reading! If you happen to have some free time, please leave me a quick review. Feedback always makes me insanely happy. The next chapter should be posted in roughly ten days. Until then, take care and be well!