“You just killed my best friend! Again,” I thundered, stalking toward the church with pistol drawn.

“If you’re friends with a foul, unclean spirit,” came the priest’s retort, “then I think you have bigger problems, including me!”

He raised his staff once more and brought it crashing down, unleashing a fresh wave of yellow light. The blast of power ruffled my hair and sent a shiver racing down my spine. The priest’s jaw dropped in shock, and he glanced at the staff as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Clearly whatever spell he’d just cast didn’t have the stopping power he’d been expecting.

“Looks like you brought a pillow to a gunfight, padre,” I said leveling my weapon. “Now put the stick down before I show you what a Colt 1911 can do at close range.”

His eyes widened as I stepped forward and the watery firelight from the chapel spilled across me, fully illuminating me for the first time.

“Oh no, what have I done?” he groaned, letting the staff clatter to the ground. “I’ve raised a hand against one of the Holy Ones.” A look of pure horror flashed across his face. “You’re a… a…”

“A Vigil,” I finished for him. “Or a Vigil Bound. Or whatever it’s called. At least, that’s what everyone keeps telling me, except I have no clue what that means.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know what it means? It means you’re a Vigil! That’s what it means. The Ordo of the Vigilant.” He ran a shaky hand through his dark hair. “You’re the sword of justice. The bane of the unrighteous and hunter of the unholy. You’re one of the chosen weapons of Raguel. How can you not know?”

“Hey, dicknoodle,” I growled, “I’m the guy with the magical handgun, so I’m the one asking the questions—not you. Now shut your pie hole and tell me what you just did to my friend.”

“Do you want me to shut my mouth or tell you what I did to your friend?” he asked. “Because I can’t do both, and I wouldn’t want any misunderstandings.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass. You know what I meant. Tell me what you did to my friend.”

“Was he your spirit guide?” the priest asked with a wince.

I nodded.

“I swear I didn’t mean to harm him,” the gruff priest replied. “I just assumed it was some restless soul not properly interred. I never would’ve cast such a spell against one of the righteous few had I know. Your companion will recover, I swear it on my honor as a knight and priest. It was a lesser banishment ritual, nothing like what you are capable of. It temporarily disperses the Etheric energies that spirits use to maintain a semi-corporeal form. Not a pleasant experience, but not deadly either. He’ll reform in the Etheric Realm in a few hours with the worst hangover of his life but recover he shall.”

“Then what was all that ‘find your eternal rest in the void beyond’ crap you were spewing?”

“Dramatics,” the priest said matter-of-factly. “The people of Ironmoor need to believe in the power of the Church—such a display can help bolster even those weak in faith. It is my solemn duty to help guide those entrusted into my flock.”

I stared at him for a beat. This guy wasn’t trying to be a dick, and clearly he hadn’t meant to hurt Cal—he was just doing his job. I could respect that.

“You remind me of Chaplain Lenard,” I said. “I always liked Chaps. Raging buzzkill, but he had a good heart.” I lowered my gun and shoved it back into my belt. “Now are we going to stand here all night twiddling our thumbs or are you going to invite me in?”

“Right, of course. Where are my manners. Please, esteemed Vigil. Enter and be welcome.” He stood and quickly stepped aside. “Do you mind if I ask how many of your exalted brothers or sisters I should be expecting? Wondering whether to put on the kettle or not,” he said by way of explanation.

I looked at him curiously. “Sorry, padre, all you got is me and my spirit friend, who you just sent packing. And I’ve always been more of a coffee man. That or bourbon.”

I shouldered my way past him and into the church’s interior, although maybe church was the wrong word. I’d grown up Southern Baptist and had spent every Sunday in the Grace Covenant down on Old Todds Road whether I wanted to or not. This didn’t look like any church I’d ever seen. There were pillars, reaching up into the ceiling, robed figures carved in stone, and an altar under the massive circular window. I spotted several shrines, but no pews. This wasn’t a place people came to worship, not unless it was standing room only.

The padre hustled in behind me, took one last furtive look into the night, then pulled the doors shut and barred them with a heavy wooden beam engraved with glimmering blue runes. The priest moved the thing around like it was a pool noodle, which was an impressive feat considering the thing had to weigh a hundred pounds.

Beam in place, he turned toward me and bobbed his head while he nervously dry washed his hands. Before he’d been backlit by the light from the chapel, so I hadn’t been able to make out his features. This was my first solid look at the guy.

When I thought priest or pastor, I envisioned someone thin and wispy, built for giving sermons, not for preaching the gospel of bareknuckle boxing. This guy was a beast. He was easily a foot taller than me, and half again as wide. Looked like he should’ve been a professional NFL linebacker. That or a barroom bouncer, based off the litany of scars covering his knuckles and face. His eyes were wild and glassy, his black hair was tousled from sleep, and his priestly cassock was rumpled and disheveled. He had a thick beard, peppered with gray, that trailed down to his chest.

He also reeked of alcohol.

Maggie had been right. Padre was a drunk and I was guessing he’d spent the night swimming at the bottom of a bottle. None of that mattered to me, so long as he had the answers I was looking for. Some of the best Marines I’d ever served with were compulsive drunks—and not the funny kind of drunks. The sad-clown kind of drunks. The funny drunks tended to be the fresh-faced kids just out of boot camp, while the sad drunks tended to be the older, career Marines who’d seen some shit.

As I eyed those scars and his enormous frame, I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of horrors the priest had witnessed in his years.

“Why were you expecting more people?” I asked without preamble.

“Because Vigils always travel in fives,” he said, as though stating an obvious fact like the sky was blue or water was wet. “The Fist of Justice. It is academy protocol, unless things have changed. One Vigil for each of the Five Faces of Raguel. Each of the members specializes in one of the Five Wards. That way they are capable of taking down any threat, regardless of the circumstances. I have heard of the Custodians’ dispatching a single Vigil under extraordinary circumstances, but it is the exception not the rule—and the Custodians aren’t known for bending the rules.”

I listened to the explanation like a preschooler trying to understand advanced physics. His words were complete gibberish.

“Alright. You’re gonna need to slow way down and start from the beginning, because only about fifty percent of those words made any sense to me. Let me just clear the air so you and I are on the same page. My name is Boyd Knight, I don’t know where I am, I don’t know how I got here, and it’s distinctly possible that I’m in a hospital somewhere and you’re a figment of my imagination.”

A look of puzzlement stretched across the priest’s face as I spoke.

“Is it possible…” He ran a hand through the tangle of his beard. “Let me ask you, Boyd Knight, do you know what language we are speaking right now?”

“Not a clue,” I replied with a shrug, “but it sure ain’t Kentucky English, which is my native tongue. It’s a helluva head-scratcher because I can understand every single word you’re saying, which is funny since I flunked Spanish twice, and only ever learned how to swear in Arabic. Point is, language has never been my strong suit.”

“Right. Of course. That must be your Language of the Heavens boon,” he muttered to himself. “If I may, what is the last thing you remember? Before you wound up here, I mean?”

“I remember yesterday,” I said. “I was with my squad in Fallujah, kicking doors and popping mujahideen dickheads with the rest of the boys from 3/1. Then a grenade turned my insides into my outsides. Next thing I know, I’m in a cave with a bunch of red-skinned freaks, which I guess are called Crave Ghouls. Oh yeah, and I was bare-assed except for these.” I pulled the K-Bar and the 1911 and slammed them down on the nearby altar.

The priest reached out a trembling hand, his fingers reverentially brushing along the K-Bar’s grip. “Soul Bound Weapons,” he said with awe. “Gods above, I can hardly believe it. You’re not just a Vigil, you’re an Inkarnate.”

I ground my teeth in frustration.

“Look, Father—”

“Please call me Arturo. I don’t normally approve of such informality, but given the circumstances I believe it’s warranted.”

“Fine. Arturo,” I said, trying to keep my voice level, “I get that this is a big moment for you and that you’re having some sort of spiritual revelation, but I’m going to need you to bring it down about ten notches and start spelling some things out for me. You keep saying stuff that means absolutely nothing to me. Fist of Justice. Language of the Heavens. Inkarnate. Hell, Padre, I’m more confused now than when I first showed up. I need you to stop talking in cursive and break it down shotgun style for me. Let’s start with some of the basics, like where am I, what am I, and how I got here.”

He licked his lips and shifted nervously on his enormous feet. “I fear I am not the one who should be telling you this, honored sir. It seems like something that ought to come from the Exarchs at the Citadel of Custodians, but since you’re here, in my parish, I’ll do my best to explain what I can.” He paused, hands shaking a little. “But I’m going to need a stiff drink first, and I suspect you might as well. Please, please follow me to the rectory.”

***

We sat in Arturo’s private quarters, a tiny fire dancing in a stone hearth, banishing some of the cold of the night. I sniffed and glanced around the room, trying to glean what I could about the priest from his stuff. I’d spent enough time cleaning and inspecting rooms in the Corps to know that you could tell a lot about a man by what he surrounded himself with. The actual furniture was modest—a narrow bed, a worn nightstand, a small table for taking meals with a single chair, which I was currently occupying.

This was a guy who was used to being alone.

But there were a couple of oddities that stood out in sharp contrast to the simple furnishings. There was a heavy bookcase, each shelf loaded down with books and tomes and scrolls. More manuscripts littered the bed and teetered on the nightstand in haphazard stacks. A simple shelf under the window held a small army of half-drunk bottles, partially concealed by a heavy curtain. A few more bottles, all empty, were piled in the corners. Between the books and the bottles, I wasn’t sure which the padre loved more: getting lost in a good book or getting shitfaced with a good bottle of hooch.

Most interesting of all, however, were the swords, pikes, daggers, and staves hanging on the far wall. I was half tempted to inspect them with my Item ability. They didn’t look like display weapons. They had the marks of use and were all meticulously well-maintained—not a pitted blade or spot of rust in sight. What in the world was an alcoholic, book-reading priest doing with weapons like those? Maybe he was former military? His size, demeanor, and bearing all hinted at someone who’d served in the armed forces, and hadn’t he mentioned something about knighthood?

I had a tin mug filled with something that could’ve passed for bourbon if you weren’t Kentucky born and raised. Strong enough to peel paint, sure, but still better than the sour beer over at Maggie’s place. After everything I’d gone through, I deserved a drink and was willing to lower my standards to 180-proof throat stripper. Seriously, McCallan’s Cask Strength was smooth compared to this stuff.

“There’s no easy way to say what I need to say,” Arturo said, “and tact has never been my strong suit, so allow me break the bad news to you. You’re dead.” There was no smile on his face or joke in his words. “Or at least you died,” he amended.

“Dead?” I asked, the word like sandpaper in my throat.

“Dead. Deceased, expired, slain, perished, killed. Pick whichever term you’d like and apply it to yourself. I don’t know where you hail from, but you died, and now find yourself in the Kingdom of Kelkadia, in the Oakenward Province. City of Ironmoor to be exact.” He adjusted the sleeves of his cassock and gazed longing at the liquor shelf. “The fact that you’re here and not singing battle hymns in the Halls of Highfell also tells me you died doing something heroic enough to attract the eye of Raguel. You have my condolences and also my deepest respect, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir,” I said absently, parroting the line I’d heard a thousand times from a thousand NCOs. “I work for a living.”

“No disrespect meant,” he said, dipping his head in apology. “Just the opposite. You aren’t accustomed to our ways, but here in Kelkadia the Vigilant are regarded even above lords and ladies of the land. Below monarchs, but only by this much.” He spread his fingers an inch apart. “And between you and me, the Vigils are venerated far more than the Crown. I’ve never seen a prince of the land swoop in and slay a Mortka or save a farmer and his crop from a famine imp.”

“You make it sound like Vigils are some sort of monster hunters,” I said, trying to wrap my mind around it all.

“At times,” Arturo replied, “but they’re also more than that. They are instruments of divine justice. Mortka, warlocks, sorcerers, politicians, solicitors, lords, even the Steelborn—all are subjected to the judgment of the Vigilant. Your kind are bounty hunters, bound through sacred vows to a higher order and tasked with hunting evil in whatever form it takes. Vigils hold no allegiance to any kingdom and call no country their home. Not even the Church has power over them—at most we offer aid, guidance, and support.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. The idea of a small, elite group of powerful warriors that was answerable to literally no one didn’t sit well with me. Chain of command existed for a reason, and so did accountability. There was a reason why America had a constitution and not a king—because divine right to rule was a bunch of bullshit and was fertile ground for rampant abuse.

This isn’t my world, I reminded myself. This isn’t my culture.

Begrudgingly, I held my tongue.

“I will admit,” Arturo continued, “that the most common task for Vigils is to root out the vicious beasts that haunt the land, mostly because they are the only ones with the power to do so. Understand, the Mortka that burble up from the dark cracks of reality are incredibly powerful and many have a myriad of dark magics at their disposal. They are walking nightmares, all too eager to strip the flesh from your bones and use your meat to fill their stomachs.”

My mind jumped to the Crave Ghouls and their sanctuary of human bones. How many men, women, and children had those things murdered before I showed up? A few dozen? A hundred? More? At the same time, those things weren’t so tough that a well-armed patrol of soldiers couldn’t take them out with a little gumption and elbow grease. I’d done it single-handedly, with no preparation, and with my beans and frank flapping in the wind.

“Naw,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not buying that. I had a run-in with a trio of Crave Ghouls up in the hills, they were scary but not invincible.” I nodded toward the weapons decorating the wall. “Looks like you have quite a collection, and if those scars are any judge, you seem like you can use them. Not to mention the little banishment ritual you slammed into my buddy out front.”

“Ah, that was nothing,” he said, waving away my remarks. “I’ve picked up a few odd cantrips studying with the Magi, but it isn’t anything like what the Vigil Bound can do. Magic flows through your blood the same way alcohol flows through mine,” he said with a self-deprecating grin. “Every city has a temple dedicated to Raguel just like this one, and when some minor nuisance like a pack of Crave Ghouls comes along, we Arbitrators do what we are able. But we are ill-equipped to handle the truly horrific nightmares that dwell in the fringes. With such beasts, all we can do is pray to Raguel to send us a Vigil worthy to the task.

“For what it’s worth, I have been praying for a Vigil, Boyd Knight. Something terrible has been hunting our streets for the past four months. Something that’s already claimed seven lives. I spend a fair bit of time at the local taverns, but not only to fill my cup.” He tapped at his ear. “To listen to the rumors that swirl, and the rumors have been swirling. The people talk in whispers of an Elder Changeling. A type of humanoid, shapeshifting Fae that often imitates its victims—all the better to hide amongst their prey.”

I blew out my cheeks then drained the last of the knockoff paint thinner in my cup.

This was a lot to take in, but at least I could finally start to process things.

I’d been a warrior by trade. Sought it out, trained, done my duty, and paid the ultimate price as a result. I hadn’t become a Marine by accident. And I hadn’t jumped on that grenade by accident either. The second I’d smothered that frag grenade, I knew how things would shake out—that my life was over. But here I was. Alive. And as weird as this all was, it felt like I was being given a second chance. Yeah, there was no TV or video games, but the food was decent, the women were friendly, and the liquor was strong. Couldn’t hope for much more than that in life.

Besides, I’d be lying through my teeth if I said the idea of being a superpowered monster hunter didn’t sound like a good time. It was possible that dying might just have been the best thing that had ever happened to me.

“Let’s say for a moment that I believe you.” I set my cup down on the table. “Where would we even start? I’m a glorified trigger puller, not a private investigator. I also don’t know anything about monsters, other than the human variety.”

“We start with training,” the burly priest replied. “Surviving a pack of low-leveled Crave Ghouls is one thing—an Elder Changeling is something else entirely. You are already starting off at a severe disadvantage. A crippling disadvantage, even.”

That was a little harsh.

“Whoa, padre,” I said, “pump the breaks. Just because I don’t know anything about monsters doesn’t mean I’m some newb, fresh out of basic training. I started out as an 0311, Marine Corps Rifleman, and made it through Recon School. I’ve also got two tours of combat under my belt. Believe me when I say I know my fair share about ass kicking and taking names.”

“It wasn’t meant as offense, Boyd Knight. I have no doubt you are a great warrior and a brave one. If that weren’t the case, you never would’ve been chosen and ordained by Raguel as an Inkarnate. But you know nothing of our world or our magic, nor do you have a team of experienced Vigils to back you up. Consider, most of the Vigils are born here. They train in the Akademy of the Vigilant, where they learn their calling from the moment they can stand. They slave away from childhood, steeped in the way of their strange arts, perfecting their craft. They train until they Soul Bind with a weapon and receive the Mark of the Bound.”

I absently reached up and ran my fingers over the symbol I knew marred my forehead. The Mark of the Bound.

“As an Inkarnate,” he continued, “you know less of their ways than I do, and as a result, you will be terribly weak by comparison. The fact that you were able to escape a pack of Crave Ghouls is an impressive feat, considering the circumstances, but there is so much more you are capable of. You may not know it yet, but you have been blessed with extraordinary gifts that will grow greater and greater with each kill, every bounty collected, and every contract completed. Unlocking those skills will require vigorous training, and you will need to be far more powerful if you hope to square off against an Elder Changeling and survive the encounter.”

“And you’re going to train me?” I asked, trying to keep my skepticism from leaking into my voice as I eyed the mountain of empty liquor bottles.

“I admit I am not the best man for the job,” he said. “The Akademy exists for this very purpose. But you are not a whelp, you are an Inkarnate, and you are an Inkarnate that ended up on my stoop, so I can only take that to mean Raguel has entrusted your martial education into my care. I may not be what I once was”—he patted the substantial beer gut pressing out against his priestly robes—“but I know a thing or two about violence. I wasn’t always a priest.”

He strutted over to the wall of weapons and pulled free a stave with a skull-sized club on the end. With effortlessly set it twirling and dancing in wide arcs.

“I have a trick or two up my sleeve yet, but even more important I know about the Vigil Bound and you don’t. Come, your first lesson begins tonight.”