I have lived across much of this continent it feels like by now, but I spent my earliest days in my parent's homeland of Owerri, Nigeria. Northern Nigeria is mostly Muslim, southern Nigeria is mostly Christian, my mother and father were Anglicans. My parents saw three daughters reach adulthood and a son in his teenage years before me, I was still young when I heard the first whispers from my sisters I was, "unplanned" at best or a, "mistake," at worst. Mother and Father still treated me well enough, and assured me often I was their precious daughter. With no other point of reference, that title made sense enough to me in those days.
You two may have found elements of Owerri dated, but I still think you'd recognize it as a modern city well enough. Cars filled the streets, the nightlife was active, we all always had enough to eat and drink. But my parents were traditionalists in that modern setting. They raised and helped to marry off three daughters, and had so many children in the first place to ensure a son would carry the family line, and later because they didn't believe in married couples using contraceptives. Even now, I don't think these were bad things they were thinking, just that they were, perhaps, constrained by a limited worldview.
Much sillier was their constant disdain of the mythical. Fortune telling is still active in much of Nigeria, as I am sure it is even in your country as well. Some who operate are opportunists, some think it is all in good fun, but my mother and father always insisted it was the devil's work. And they especially impressed on us to despise the image they and others venerated so much: that of a deep, dark-skinned woman up to her stomach in water, snakes wrapped around her arms and belly. She is called Mami Wata, and she is icon and saint and folk hero all wrapped in one. People invoked her name for good fortune and good health, it was said veneration to her could heal sickness or injury. And yet we were always to reject her. It sounded so ridiculous even when I was young, like I was told to reject a cartoon character, but those were my parent's mandates. I'm sorry for the aside, I promise it will matter later.
I was probably just becoming a teenager when the first visions started coming to me. They are clearest when I'm looking into glass or pools of water. That's a stereotype of growing children, isn't it, that they waste time looking in the mirror too much? Whether it was mystical or mundane, everything I saw reflected hinted at the future, and I didn't want anything to do with it. Not with the changes that crept over my body, and not with the thought my parents would push me to marry and become a mother young like they had my sisters. I played my part as aunty to my nieces and nephews, I assure you we all loved it… but I didn't want that life for myself. And as I searched, I felt I could find only one way out.
Their same religious convictions saved me from the fate that was so dreaded. It's funny, you know, I took little more interest in going to church as most any other child at a young age. But I did learn from some of my Catholic friends that priests were not allowed to marry. I announced young I wished to be a priest when I grew up. My parents laughed and laughed when I told them, and explained that little girls could not be priests, at most they could grow up to be nuns. The title made little difference to me. Religion on its own was only a basic interest, but I learned well enough how to memorize and quote scripture when need be. When I announced I'd become a nun then, they hesitated at the prospect at first, they weren't even Catholic, remember. I prepared myself for a fight as I grew older and continued to press the matter, but it never came. Maybe they just figured they had enough good Anglicans already and the bloodline was secure, maybe they thought a nun in the family would be fun. When I left to join the sisterhood, I was not sent with a blessing, but an accepted shrug and an, "All right, enjoy yourself then."
My conversion was a speedy process, the diocese was always happy to have another convert, even one who sometimes only paid lip service to their ideals. There were lessons with mentors, and later a vocation director. And, though it seemed strange at the time, they took a history of baptisms and family ancestry. When all was finished, I wore habits for the first time. The outfit didn't exactly feel right, but again, it felt better than being married off. Not three years into my new vocation, my local priest said he'd received an offer straight from the bishop of Owerri: how would I, by then amiably known as, "Sister Naba" like to work elsewhere?
Well, I'd had never travelled more than fifty miles beyond the home I'd grown up in. Interactions with my nieces and nephews were almost always positive, and being helpful for others was fulfilling. A few years working in an orphanage in Ethiopia might just do me some good. Why that particular orphanage and why me, I would not know until years later.
The child who would be the impetus for the later changes in my life was already there when I arrived. He stood unusually tall for a boy who hadn't hit adolescence, and he had a foul, irreverent mouth on him. According to the orphanage's Mother Superior, Sister Hirut, he sometimes disappeared in the middle of the night. When he returned from these vanishings, sometimes he bore wounds or what looked to be scars, though it seemed they couldn't be, given the way they vanished within hours. His name was Gedeyon, he'd been there after his mother died of a hemorrhage as she gave birth, the other sisters gave him his name and his baptism. I always tried my best to show him kindness, and as stubborn, stoic, and sometimes blasphemous as he could be, I felt as if he wanted to show that kindness back.
Two years passed. Life wasn't always easy, the orphanage didn't always have the money to feed all the hungry mouths we cared for, and sometimes gang fighting wandered from their standard territory too close for comfort. But there were also days where bellies were full and the little ones sang happy songs. When children would slip and fall or fight with each other, they often bit back their cries until they could find me. Sister Naba took the best care of them when they hurt.
Eventually, the easiest days came to an end when a strange man arrived. I'm not sure how to describe him, he stood short and looked young in the face, but there was an exhaustion to him. He said his name was Kedar, and he wanted to see the boy, Gedeyon. Allegedly, he was sent by the Vatican in search of boys to recruit to the priesthood. Gedeyon felt like altogether the wrong choice for such a task, but after just a short meeting behind closed doors, he told me he was taking the boy to see if he was proper priestly material.
I never saw Gedeyon again, and as the weeks past that seemed to be a settled matter. But then the truck arrived. Maybe I'd heard something about an uprising in one of the gold mines a few weeks before, but that seemed so far away, I thought nothing of it. A new stranger, this one bearing the scars of old sunburns and calloused hands, told me he'd been paid a handsome sum to deliver me a portion of the gold from his old mine. I was dumbstruck, I don't think I'd ever seen real gold before in my life, what was someone doing just handing it over to my orphanage? The courier wouldn't give me any details, he just said it was sent with love and I should use it well. None of it felt real as I accepted his offerings, and soon I slipped into daydreams of all we could do with the money on hand. It took a few days to find a shop willing to buy a little bit of it, but when it did the other nuns and I splurged on new clothes and tools for repairs around the building. We bought fresh vegetables and roasted fresh meat and all had a celebratory feast that night. The little boys and girls stared with wonder at all the food we piled atop the injera, and it seemed for once their thanks to God and to us were something more than a repeated formality.
What came next wasn't Gedeyon's fault, I firmly believe that. He was just a child, how could he have anticipated what could follow? But that man who took him—the fool, the idiot. What was he thinking just sending us hunks of gold like that? He should have known something would happen. Maybe he just wasn't thinking, maybe for all his bluster about creating a better world, he just didn't care.
Not a week after that money started coming in to us, a trio of invaders broke into the orphanage in the middle of the night. With all that gold we could have obtained a decent security system, or at least some sturdier locks, but we weren't thinking about that at the time. I've always been a light sleeper, and I'm used to the cries or wanderings of the little ones, so I was the one who went to go investigate. My body froze up when I saw them all dressed in black, guns strapped to their sides. I opened my mouth to scream when one of them, their leader, raised his weapon to my head and hissed that I keep quiet. He closed the distance, switched to a knife when he came close enough, and told me to give him his money. All of them wore black masks over most of their faces, but up close I could see marks and the milky coloring that suggested he was blind in one eye. When I just stood there, trembling, he told me he'd worked a decade as a mercenary, and all he wanted was the last of what his employer owed him that was stolen away. When he threatened me again, I found my voice long enough to say I'd cooperate, just please, leave us all be.
Before I could lead them away, something bigger than any of us tore through the darkness and slammed one of them against the wall. The quiet hallway suddenly fell into the chaos of as something—it looked gray, scaley, and monstrous in the muzzle flashes— rushed and attacked the invaders. I only remember little bits in those few seconds, because somewhere in the midst of it, my head exploded with pain. Maybe one of them shot me, maybe the bullet bounced off of the beast's hide, I do not know. All I know is I lost my footing, the front of my head felt as if something had been hammered through it, and I began to blink in an out of consciousness. The intruders and the monster continued to battle in the last moments I laid there cognizant. In terror and desperation, I tried to pray even as if felt like the words bled out of my forehead. I acknowledged I'd sometimes been a fair-weather believer, even as a nun, and pled I would be ready and open for God's will if I could just survive. Maybe those lamentations came out of me as gibberish, I can only hope I was still understood by my maker.
The next thing I can remember are little spurts where I laid broken and bandaged in a hospital bed. When I felt aware enough to catch others in the room, I tried to ask where I was, or what happened, or who was paying for me to stay there, but nothing came out of my mouth intelligible enough to form a question worth answering. When the doctors finally thought I was stable enough to be spoken to, they told me I'd suffered a traumatic brain injury and, for some reason, I was found with my head in a sink, water slowly trickling over me. By all accounts, the bullet should have killed me, yet I slowly regained function.
At one point, Sister Hirut came to visit me. I had strength and mind enough to ask what became of the children, all of them were safe save for one little girl. Her name was Liya, and maybe in hindsight, I thought she might have had a passing resemblance to Gedeyon. From what I learned later, it's not unreasonable to think that monstrous father of his may have had more children than just him. Regardless, no one had seen Liya since the break in. Even now, I do not know what ever became of her. If she was the beast I saw and she had the same powers as her brother, she was almost certainly trying to protect me. I am doubtful the chance will ever come, but I wish I could thank her for that.
One day, as my recovery neared its completion, the strange man who came for Gedeyon came to visit me. I didn't have any way to directly connect him to what happened to me, but I couldn't shake the thought he was where our troubles began. I screamed at him to get out, he remained defensive, but he edged toward the door like I told him to do. He said he was sorry for what happened, that he was glad my state was improving. And he left a little card for contacting him on my bedside table, because just like with Gedeyon, he thought he could find some new, greater purpose for me.
It took months for my brain to piece itself back together. At first I struggled to rise, then I struggled to walk. Some days I could barely remember anything, some days I couldn't feel anything at all. If I could be free of that haze, I might have noticed that I was always at my best when the doctors and aides came in to bathe me. In water there was always brief clarity, but they didn't keep me in long, and once I was dry everything would fade once more. It was in those waters I was purified. In some sense, maybe I was being baptized again.
The doctors who theorized I should have been dead witnessed as I recovered my strength. The journey proved grueling, but when it was finished, I felt whole again. But as the rest of my memories and functions returned, so too did the bargain I'd made for my health. I'd promised God that if I was saved, I would renew my commitment to my faith. And as much as it pained me to accept it, I had to consider if the strange man I'd first encountered looking for Gedeyon was part of that plan. Sister Hirut did not expect me to come right back to the orphanage, so as I completed my recovery I was left with much time to consider the contact information I'd been provided. The prospect ate away at me until I broke and hoped the information was outdated. Kedar responded almost immediately and said he would come for me.
Just days later he picked me up in a weathered old jeep and drove us toward the desert. All through the ride I asked him questions, most all of them he answered. Who was he? The leader of an ancient Catholic order called The Order of Nephilim. What was that supposed to be? Named for the descendants of Seth and Cain, they were fallen angels who mated with humanity. The mission of the order was to find those with similar backgrounds and enlist them into holy service. To whom much is given, much is expected, as Christ taught. I asked what this had to do with me. He obfuscated that matter, said he would explain it later. Had Gedeyon joined his order then? Yes, he had, and it was the boy's idea to send the gold back to the only home he'd ever known. What was the order's endgame? He paused and got a distant look in his eyes. Then he said no different from any other order or creed: to free this world of sin.
After miles of flat desert, Kedar drove the jeep down into a valley, at the center sat an ancient, man-made cistern half full of dirty, stagnant water. A second jeep sat beside the pool, and as Kedar led me to the water, two forms came into focus. One was an old man in black priest vestments, sweaty but seemingly heedless of the sun that beat down on us. Beside him down on his knees with his hands bound behind his back, sat a blond-haired man, his head downturned, his eyes looking out in a thousand-mile stare. Or one of them, at least, because as I closed in I saw the scar and discoloration in the other one.
My whole body froze up as I recognized him. Kedar told me his history, I don't remember much of any of it, not his name, not his other transgressions, just that he was the one who threatened my children and I. Then Kedar told me something that did stick with me: that, with the help of others, he'd read up on my family history. He had reason to believe my father was a descendant of the great Mami Wata herself, and that her powers had manifested within me. I remained too stunned to respond, so he pressed on. Mami Wata's power was almost certainly the reason I was still alive, as all water could grant me rejuvenation. And that, if I so pleased, I could probably command water itself. That made me eligible to be a member of his order, and he was in need of a healer, if he could recruit one. Kedar said he'd never encountered someone like us that hadn't suffered grievous, undue harm, and before anyone joined he gave them an opportunity to repay the wrong we'd suffered. He'd gone to all the trouble of hunting down the mercenary who'd raised a gun to my head, I could do to him as I pleased.
As Kedar proposed, I tried to raise my hand and command the water in the pool. And the way the water rose to meet me like a living creature terrified me so deeply I lose control and it splashed back down into the cistern. As it did, whatever haze held the mercenary suddenly lost its power. He shook his head, probably in struggle to figure out where he was and why. I don't know if he recognized me or the other two, but when he saw us he started to writhe and shriek. In him I sensed horror, and, I am ashamed to say, a thrill ran through me. With my hand raised again, I brought the water under my command and thrust it forward. His screams faded as I pushed water into his face and down his throat. I cannot say exactly what went through my mind, whether I wanted to bring him to the brink of death like he had me, or I was ready to drown him where he knelt. My heart raced in excitement and anticipation, and everything felt right.
Until the water started to whisper to me. No, not whisper, but reveal, yes, that's probably better. In the same water I forced onto my would-be killer, I saw, or maybe just felt, premonitions. In the years since, my sense of water reveals has grown sharper, but then I just picked up on feeling. A feeling that if I killed that man, I would never forgive myself. And that if I followed the path this stranger put me on, he would bend me to truly vile purposes. I felt I owed him my life, that meant he believed he could make me do anything. And he believed he would usher in God's kingdom on earth. For such a truly worthy end, he would sacrifice anyone and anything.
I collapsed; my torrent of water fell away. With my whole body quivering, I told him no more. Kedar looked down at me, confused, and tried to force an answer from me, what did I mean? I told him I didn't want to be a killer, and I didn't want to serve in his order. Frustration and soon anger slipped into him as he praised my nobility, but then demanded to know what I intended to do if I wouldn't put it to a greater purpose. With hands over my ears and eyes shut tight, I just shook my head and refused to engage. For all the amiability Kedar showed me before, he was a man used to getting his way. On the ground I held and sobbed to myself, at some point, Kedar and the mercenary departed, to where I do not know. When I found the strength to rise, the priest was all of our little company that remained. He offered to take me back into town, or to anywhere else I would care to go. Eventually, I rose and followed him. I just asked him to take me somewhere new, I didn't believe I had the strength to face my convent again. Eventually we came to a new village, for reasons I will come to later I cannot say where, but it was there I sought to leave my old life behind.
If I still believed in God, was it God that led me into the hands of that furious zealot? Did the world make more sense if God did exist, and suffering was just humanity's own? These questions threatened to crush me as I turned to alcohol to drown them out. Serving as a nun so long, no one ever taught me how dangerous it was for someone like me to take up those pursuits at night. I taught myself quickly how to start cutting my hair and binding my breasts. Those were the first days I started using the name Zein, back then just a protective measure.
Just as when I was recovering from the gunshot, I wandered in and out of consciousness for months on end. Numbness and pain jousted in a battle for my soul, I don't even know where the drinking money came from in those days or where I most often laid my head down for the night. All was wrong, and I couldn't even imagine what could ever be right again.
One morning, sick with dehydration and with an ache pounding in my head, I awoke in the town's tiny Catholic church. I searched about in confusion for an explanation, and a bishop of middle age emerged out from a side chamber, water and coffee and bread in his hands. He told me he'd found me nearby, barely able to walk, and suggested I recover in his church. With my head in my hand I told him a reluctant thank you, but that I would not be staying there. He pressed me, and when he mentioned the dryness in my throat, I accepted the water from him. When he mentioned my exhaustion, the feeling came upon me and I also accepted the coffee. And, at that point, I accepted the bread, because he was right, I was hungry. I'd been around my share of clergymen by then, and the strangest part was how he didn't speak to me of anything but care and recovery of my body. When I swiftly excused myself, all he said was, "Go with God." And I departed. His identity, too, I must keep to myself, I will come to that soon.
In the weeks that followed I continued to slip into that ugly gluttony. And more than once thereafter, I found myself at the church again, every other time of my own accord. The doors were always unlocked, there were no real valuables inside, sometimes I encountered other indigents like myself. Every morning the bishop returned to those of us who'd slipped into his care and gave us what aid we would allow. That was always the strangest part to me—what aid we allowed.
One morning I overheard him speaking the traditional words to the others in the church: "Body of Christ. Body of Christ. Body of Christ." He broke off bits of bread and fed it to those who accepted the offer.
When the others departed and just the two of us remained in the church, I told him I used to be a nun, I understood the rules of the mass. Was he permitted to just distribute the Eucharist like that? He shrugged and told me he wasn't giving away an award, he was feeding the hungry. That Christ himself did not demand anything of his disciples when he shared his last supper with them, and that he did not even question Judas's presence. I just stared at him, dumbstruck for a while after that before I excused myself.
I could go on with this matter. Many more nights passed in drunken haze, even when I promised myself I would improve. But what matters most is my new ally remained forever stalwart. In the early times I still felt too guilty to accept the Eucharist from him, he still gave me a blessing if I would accept it, I usually would. Eventually, maybe just because I was especially hungry at just the right time, I accepted his offer and ate the body once again. Was it only bread? Perhaps, but as any of this faith is meant to aspire to, I did all in my power to believe otherwise.
Some days, as if I couldn't believe his convictions, I tried to challenge him. I'd tell him how much and how long I'd been drinking, he told me not all progress was linear. Again, I reminded him I was a deserter nun, he told me he suspected I had a good reason for that, and welcomed me to talk about it if I ever wished. I told him I'd been living in sin by disguising myself as a man, and he quoted scripture where it is said in the eyes of God there is no male or female, so no, I was not living in sin, whatever I chose to call or however I chose to present myself. Even now homosexuality is a punishable offense in my two homes of Nigeria and Ethiopia, and though I am not a homosexual it would be simple enough to lump me in with them under those cruel, hurtful laws. My friend insisted he was more concerned with God's law and, as he reiterated, there were no male or female spirits. Whether I realized it or not, we were performing a crude form of confession, and some days he accepted my sins, others he assured me, "Go in peace, these acts were not sins." Yet again, and for the truest time in all my life, I committed myself to my faith.
Shortly after I reached my second year of sobriety, Qurac was struck by a nuclear blast. In the midst of living my better life, I saw a chance to repay the world for the kindness my bishop friend showed me. Once again I felt my hands could heal, and nowhere on earth, it seemed, would my power be better appreciated. And if the air and land itself were toxic with radiation, at least my powers gave me a fighting chance to be there and do good. When I told the bishop of my intentions, he gave his blessing. But he also asked who I intended to travel to Qurac as. Would I maintain the Zein disguise?
I told him what I'd already realized. Even after I'd stopped drinking, I still maintained the Zein persona. Not because I wanted to be a man, but because being a woman didn't feel like it fit me either. I wanted to be Zein, just Zein. And, as if he already knew or heard all that before, he just nodded along. Then he offered me a parting gift. Together, we took a long drive to the north until we reached the Red Sea. There, he rented a boat and drove the both of us into the water. Ambiguous diocesan territory, you must understand.
There we prayed together and, eventually, he placed his hands on me and I received his blessing. Though the Catholic church still forbids those such as I to serve in the priesthood, he'd completed the ritual anyway. A nun could do good in Qurac, no doubt. But a priest could anoint the sick, bless bread to become communion, hear confessions, and complete baptismal rites. There would be some who still would not accept my blessings, we knew that, but others would. Some might even come to me out from the fringes precisely because I was clearly unlike any they'd experienced before. If any found out he'd done this, he could be stripped of his title, that is why I have kept his name to myself. But when the ceremony was over, by the law of apolistic lineage, I became a priest.
I have served the scattered people of Qurac ever since, determined to do what good and heal what wounds I can. There is still occasional animosity between the Christians and Muslims even in this village, life is still difficult, and some would still oppose my title. But I strive either way to do what I can, and most of the time, I find much I can offer.
This may well have been the rest of my life, uninterrupted, until I encountered one of only a handful of outsiders we've ever seen a few months ago. He was a fair-haired, fair skinned man, and for just a moment, he sent a spike of fear through me, he'd reminded me of that mercenary I'd confronted. When he called me by the name I don't use anymore, I tried my best to shake off my disorientation and remain civil. He introduced himself as Abraham Arlington, and wanted just a little of my time.
We sat across from one another in a building much like this. He told me he'd needed to follow quite a trail to track me down, and when he saw the fear cross my face, he assured me he hadn't come looking for me. He was given an assignment from his superior, a priest by the name of Father Day, to find a man named Kedar. Even all those years later, the name chilled me. Abraham pressed on: he was looking for the relic of a saint, and Kedar was, to the Vatican's knowledge, the last person to have it. I asked him how long ago that had been, he didn't answer. He just wanted to find Kedar, and if I could offer anything to aid in his navigation efforts, it would be appreciated.
I excused myself, made up a bowl of water, and consulted it. Even all those years later, I could sense Kedar and what felt like dark designs. But I could also sense Abraham's statements and hopes. Perhaps he and his teacher would prove a necessary counter balance. Or perhaps I just feared he would reveal my priesthood to someone who would give me trouble. The future remained uncertain, but it was engulfed in neither all-consuming darkness or blinding light. I had no way of knowing if it would work, but I gave Abraham the number Kedar gave me. He thanked me, gave a last look at my little sanctuary, offered it his compliments, and departed. I believe I mentioned cellphone connections do not work out here, but once a week I drive within striking distance of a cell tower. I told Abraham if he needed anything else, he should leave a message.
I heard from him one last time a few short weeks ago. It was a brief, frantic message, and I had the distinct impression he divulged things his master would have forbidden. Abraham said he'd met with Kedar. While in his presence, one of Kedar's servants forced him into a deep sleep while another plundered his dreams for information. His own order was charged with tracking a power that Kedar sought, and with the information stolen from the dream, Kedar might finally be able to claim it. He did not know what would become of the world if he failed, or what I might be able to do, but he trusted me enough to tell me the truth. I have told you all of my life and my history in hopes you can understand my extrapolations and trust in what I will reveal next.
There were interruptions and clarifications all throughout the tale, of course, but Sadie and Cassandra sat in quiet rapture as the priest wrapped up.
"And so at last we come to that," Father Zein motioned toward Sadie's stigmata hand. "And all that Arlington revealed to me. In its original shape, that icon was a black diamond."
When the priest paused, Sadie said, "Okay? Is that just what it sounds like, or—"
"No. It is an easy name to assign, but we do not know their origins," the priest said. "It is accepted they are not of this world."
Sadie flinched and Cassandra squeezed her tighter. "What? What, like, it came from Krypton or something?"
"Possibly." Zein showed none of their previous humor, an assurance their words were genuine. "Maybe extraterrestrial, maybe supernatural. Some have theorized they formed on the earth at the sight Satan fell after he was cast out of heaven."
Cassandra's body went rigid, Sadie's mouth went slack before she sputtered out, "You're— you're telling me all that is real too? The devil actually getting kicked out of Heaven? That Hell is a real place, and it's actually beneath the dirt—"
Father Zein shook their head. "I'm sorry. Those details are not important, I should not have brought them up."
It took Sadie a few seconds to recover her senses. Eventually she asked, "Okay, so... rock. Maybe from space, maybe fell from Heaven. Is that the whole story?"
"The whole story could go back as far as the Ten Plagues of Egypt, maybe even the flood that drowned all but Noah and his flock," Father Zein said.
"And all that really happened too?"
"Whether they really happened is secondary to what they hint at." Father Zein turned a critical eye toward Sadie's hand again. "An angel called Aztariel, the spirit of God's wrath."
Sadie hesitated before she asked, "And is that just a metaphor too?"
"Maybe, but I don't think so," they said. "According to legend, Aztariel always seeks a mortal to bond its soul to, so that it may allow for human perspective in its dealing of punishment. And, on the night everything for you descended into madness, that mortal spirit was most firmly tied to Gotham."
As the priest explained, Cassandra's eyes widened as, at last, a few pieces she didn't realize she already had clicked into place. In the years since her original religious odyssey began, Cassandra searched through her father's computer database for any information that would affirm or refute her faith. Proof of the Christian faith was far more difficult to find than, say, the Greek gods Wonder Woman regularly interacted with, but there were a few appearances. The S in SHAZAM stood for wisdom of Solomon, and even if Batman wasn't totally convinced, someone named Zauriel claimed to be an earthbound angel and worked alongside the Justice League.
And in the midst of that research were several references to something else. An alabaster phantom dressed in a green cloak and hood. Bruce's notes always read clinical and collected, but with descriptors like, "Insatiable thirst for retribution," and, "Very presence can bend and warp reality," it was impossible not to read some twinge of fear. This was a creature of incredible, possibly world-shattering power, and a madman was determined to claim its power for his own.
Father Zein's words were lost to her. All she could think of was a name, or maybe a title. Too quiet for the others to hear, barely aware she said it aloud, Cassandra reached her conclusion.
"Spectre."
Author's note: Much appreciation must be paid to the book Womanpriest: Tradition and Transgression in the Contemporary Catholic Church for this chapter, which I read in anticipation of this turn of the plot and is just an excellent book in navigating some elements of modern Catholic life in general. An additional shout out to Kori Pacyniak, the first (openly) nonbinary, transgender priest, both ordained and immediately excommunicated for their faith in 2020. I'm just a writer tapping away at a computer screen trying to make engaging characters that feel real, while a whole strata of other Catholics are doing the hard work I can hardly imagine.