“You’re worthless.” Bobby’s father swayed on his feet beside the table. His mother huddled against the wall beside the rickety yellow table. She hugged her knees to her chest, black skirt pulled up over her knees. The trailer’s flimsy kitchen walls were stained brown. Decades of cigarette stench hung in the air. His dad loomed over her, white-knuckled fists still clenched. The cheerful yellow top of the table contrasted with his murderous stare. He glanced at his uneaten plate before looking sideways at Bobby, who was sitting across from him. Bobby knew better than to move or speak.

“She ain’t good for nothing, none of them are boy.”

Bobby lowered his gaze to the table.

“Look up, God-damn-it!”

Bobby looked up.

“Look at her boy, look,” his dad said, waiving an oil-stained hand in her direction. Bobby glanced at her swollen eye and dark matted hair before looking back down at the table. “They ain’t good for nothing,” he slurred this time, the after-work alcohol finally saturating his bloodstream. He and his mother were always in danger if the at-work alcohol ran out before the after-work shored up his mood.

He stared at Bobby and squinted, taking a step back before straitening to catch himself. When no reply came from the boy, he shuffled to the small refrigerator and pulled out another beer. He came home from the salvage yard looking for a fight. The vodka ran out early today. Or the vodka wasn’t agreeing with him, which happened sometimes. He was a beer drinker by nature, but the stench of hops on his breath had gotten him fired from more than one job. Mixing vodka into his thermos was the only way to keep his “head right,” as he called it, at work.

It was always worse when he had a job. But when he was unemployed, Bobby and his mother were almost happy. As long as there was beer in the fridge and cable television was working, they were free to do as they pleased. Bobby inched out of his chair, taking a step toward his mother. Since the after-work alcohol was kicking in, maybe the hitting was done. Her eye would swell more, but maybe it wouldn’t be as bad this time.

“Don’t you do it, boy, she don’t deserve it, she can clean her damn self up after she gets this garbage off the table.”

He picked up a chicken strip and threw it at her face. It smacked against her cheek with a thump, crumbs falling onto her white blouse as it bounced to the floor.

“This ain’t food,” he said.

She tried not to flinch and squeezed her eyes shut, drawing in a shaky breath. She couldn’t cry. Sobs were like fuel that triggered a frenzy of blows. She held her face steady and let out her breath as quietly as she could. Bobby slid back into his chair.

“But daddy, I asked for chicken,” Bobby mumbled, not daring to look up from his half-eaten plate. He was excited after school when his father wasn’t home yet. His mother promised to read him “Llama Llama” when she got home, before leaving for her second shift. He struggled to read at school but watching his mother form the words at home helped. She sounded the words out for him, never losing her patience or teasing him like the children in class, or throwing the book at him like his father. As the afternoon wore on, he thought for sure his dad must have passed out somewhere in his car again.

“Shut your mouth,” his father said as he turned a chair out from the table. The old chair groaned as he lowered himself into it. He propped the beer can on his knee, with legs spread wide. “Get your ass up.”

His mother shuddered and opened her eyes, staring at the scarred linoleum floor. She put her hand on the wall to steady herself. Her eye was an angry yellow bulge.

“Get up!”

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

“You don’t fucking talk back,” he swore through clenched teeth as he thrust his booted foot out. The thick sole of the work boot slammed into her forehead, snapping her skull back into the wall with the sharp crack of splintering wood. She cried out and Bobby jumped to his feet.

“Get up,” his father shouted again, standing. This time, the steel toe of his other boot thudded into her stomach.

“Get up!”

The kicks came faster now, crashing into her arms, legs, and head. She lifted her hands to protect her face, but it was no use. Bobby came around the table, but it only took one close-fisted blow to send him sliding across the kitchen floor. He tried to rise, but his ribs screamed in protest and he felt moisture on his lips. He lay on the floor, sobbing quietly as he watched his mother spasm with every kick, her small body slamming into the wall over and over. He stared into her pleading blue eyes before squeezing his own shut. He willed it to be a dream but knew it wasn’t. He wished it was like any other night when his mother would go back to work, and the screaming and hitting would stop. He would disappear into his tiny bedroom, leaving his father in front of the television.

But tonight was different. They would be going to the hospital again. He imagined his mother’s pain. Imagined her worrying about him, she always worried about him, even when the bruises covered her body and swelled her eyes shut. Her regret and sorrow pounded into his mind like a sudden flash of light, growing stronger with each of his father’s kicks. It wasn’t his emotion, he knew, it was hers. Her gentle spirit flooded him even as her husband’s steel toe boots brutalized her body.

She was thinking about story time with him before leaving for the night shift, helping with his words. On his first day of kindergarten, how she had hugged him so tight outside the classroom, making him squirm with embarrassment. Soft lips on his forehead every night before leaving for another shift. Bobby willed the memories to stop, squeezing his eyes shut until his father’s curses finally died away. Maybe they would go to the hospital next. His father would give the doctor an excuse about a fall or an accident, and his mother would nod solemnly in agreement.

After an eternity of blackness, he opened his eyes, resting his cheek against the cool linoleum floor. Shadows crept across the kitchen. He must have fallen asleep or passed out. The house was still and silent except for the beat of his heart and a slight wheeze in his breath. Sharp needles bore into his chest with every inhale. The room smelled like old ketchup and beer. Without lifting his head, he found the sightless blue eyes of his mother. Her body lay sprawled on the other side of the room, belly to the floor, hands folded beneath her as if clutching her heart.

Blood dripped from her nose, mixing with saliva, before pooling beneath her face. He imagined her gaze fixed on him as his father’s kicks pounded the last breath from her body. Her last memory was of him cowering on the kitchen floor. A spasm jolted his body. He knew she had clutched her heart because it was breaking. She didn’t want to die. She wanted to hold him one more time. To tell him everything would be fine. Bobby closed his eyes once more, letting the cool comfort of the linoleum carry him back into unconsciousness.

“Bobby,” Jack said, his voice faint, his hand falling away, breaking contact with the boy. The memory receded with the loss of contact, but he could still smell blood, cigarette smoke, ketchup, and beer. Bobby stared at him with wide eyes.

“It’s okay, you’re here now, not there.”

Recognition slowly crept into Bobby's eyes. “I'm always there, Jack." He took a steadying breath. “The state took me,” he said, twisting his mouth down as if the words tasted foul.

“You were in intensive care for weeks,” Jack said, catching the last glimpse of Bobby’s recollection.

“I was too old to find a family after that. Families want babies. So, I was in a lot of foster homes,” he said.

“Until one of the foster families belonged to the Order,” Jack said.

Bobby nodded. “The Order searches the foster network for those with the aptitude to serve. They gave me a home.”

“They search for kids with Nost abilities,” Jack said. Bobby stared at him with a storm of doubt and confusion raging across his face. “It’s not the home you thought it was.”

“But it is something,” Bobby said.

Jack walked to the door and looked out into the hallway, first left, then right. “That serene feeling you feel here, that’s Nost crafting Bobby. Your mom, she loved you, I felt it. That wasn’t your imagination, you felt her emotions that night.” Jack said.

Bobby shook his head violently and took a step back.

“No,” he said.

“Down deep, you know I’m right. You’re Shen or something like it, and there are others here, in the Order. Somebody is crafting that serenity. You may not be eternal like the Shu or strong like me or Ann, but somehow, you’re Nost. I know it, I felt it. I felt you travel into your mom’s emotions when she was,” Jack took a breath, “at the end. You can’t deny it.”

Bobby shook his head again with less conviction.

“You’re wrong,” Bobby said. “It can’t be. Why would we fight to keep the world safe from them?”

“I don’t know, maybe the other members of the Order don’t know, or maybe it’s a fight fire with fire type of thing. And you’re not protecting the world from them, it’s you, we are the same. And we need to get out of here and I have to save Ann.” Jack said.

“But I can’t-”

“You can. You know I’m not evil or possessed,” Jack said. “I hid nothing from you when we touched. I masked nothing. With your ability, surely you got a glimpse of who I am. I’ve done terrible things, but I’m not a monster,” Jack said. Not anymore, he thought. Bobby looked at the door over Jack’s shoulder.

“Just take me to high brother Norm and we’ll talk, that’s all,” Jack said.

“Father Norman—”

“Whatever,” Jack said.

Bobby finally nodded. The kid was brainwashed and deserved better. He deserved to know the truth behind the Order, and Jack was suddenly determined to discover it for himself. Was he surrounded by Shen or were these followers of Darean? Maybe the Order had a Shu overlord with minions running the operation. They made their way down a twisting hallway until finally stopping in front of a thick antique wooden door with brass handles. He stepped around Bobby and pressed his ear to the wood. Jack heard muffled voices inside.

“We can’t possibly perform the ritual now! Not with another spawn just arrived,” Father Norman was saying.

“We don’t know if the new one is spawn or not,” a deep baritone voice said.

“Of course he is, I was close to him. That fool boy brought him into my library,” Bobby tensed beside him, “I could feel his foul ability creeping through my flesh, probing for weakness,” Father Norman said.

That couldn’t be true, Jack thought, I only sensed him for a moment beneath the serenity.

“Well, it’s nasty business lately and the young boy is the worst of them all. The poor child didn’t ask for the infestation, but he must harbor strong sin to be filled with so much corruption. He must be cleansed now,” a new voice said. “He is too foul to bring into the Order.” The voice was high-pitched and Jack didn’t need to read his emotions to understand that this man was full of fear.

“There are strange movements from Darean’s horde. Other congregations across the country are reporting new activity from the hordes they watch as well. Perhaps the end is near,” the baritone said.

“Not if we act quickly,” the third voice said with an even higher pitch to it.

“It is agreed then. Bobby has the new arrival locked in his room and the young boy will be cleansed tonight,” Norman said.

“Are you sure Bobby was the right choice? He’s young, and not very intelligent,” the deep baritone voice said.

“Bobby is fine, and our only initiate at the moment. We need him to join us. He is ready to see the truth through a cleansing,” Father Norman said.

“Our numbers are falling,” the high-pitched voice said, “we need everyone we can get. The Shu are hunting us.”

“Don’t spread rumors,” Father Norman said, “we don’t know that for sure.”

“The Shu hordes are swelling,” the baritone said.

“Something is coming,” the high-pitched voice said.

“But we’ll burn Darean’s horde in its lair. Two days, gentlemen, have patience,” Father Norman said.

Jack tilted his head to Bobby and whispered, “What’s a horde?”

“Hordes are groups kept by the Shu to create followers.”

Jack nodded, “They are Nostshi and Nostmara?” he asked.

“No, human. The Shu lure the homeless and kidnap the unwanted. The so-called worthy in the horde are made into Shi and Mara, the others stay in the horde or are killed.”

“Evolved to serve,” Jack whispered.

“Where did you hear that? That’s what they call it when they turn a human into a Shi or Mara. But some die.”

“How does it work?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know. They do something to the person’s brain. And inject them with something.”

Jack pushed his fear down. He could see that Bobby was not trying to hide anything from him. “What boy are your priests planning to murder?” Jack whispered.

“Cleanse. I don’t know,” Bobby said.

“Murder,” Jack said.

“I’ve never seen a cleansing.” Bobby looked down at his feet. “All I know is it frees the soul from the infestation.”

“Who is it?” Jack asked.

“There is a child here,” Bobby said, without raising his eyes.

“Show me.”

Bobby nodded, and they stepped away from the door. It was clear that he could not reason with Father Norman. Bobby led him through twisting stone hallways until they came to a room identical to the one he had woken up in. Jack peered through the window and saw a child sitting on the bed, backed into the corner with his legs pressed up to his chest. The boy’s wide eyes peeked over his knees, staring at a man. The man was sitting on a plain wooden stool in the opposite corner of the room. His pale-skinned head was shaved, and he wore the same brown robes as Bobby. He was calmly speaking to the child, but Jack couldn’t hear him through the thick glass. A large black book was open on his lap. Jack could only imagine the nonsense coming out of the missionary’s mouth. The boy was clearly scared, but when he opened his senses to the emotions beyond the door, he was met with the same serenity as everywhere else. Jack scowled through the door’s window and grabbed the handle. It was locked.

“Where is the key?”

He glared at Bobby.

“Father Duncan keeps the rooms,” Bobby said.

“Take me to him,” Jack said.

“He’s always in prayer.” Bobby strode down the corridor with Jack a few steps behind. The hallway ended in a stone wall, but Bobby turned to his left, to face two massive oak doors. He stretched tentative fingers out and brushed them against the wood. They were at least twelve feet high, curved at the top, with large metal hoops for handles.

“I’ve never been in there, I’m not allowed yet,” Bobby said. He almost whispered it, and Jack couldn’t tell if he was scared of betraying the Order or if he was frightened of what was behind the doors.

“You’re allowed now,” Jack said, taking a step forward and planting a palm on each door. With a grunt, he pushed as hard as he could. The massive doors glided open with a low rumble. He stood on the threshold of a large cathedral with long pews leading up to a raised stone altar. Behind the altar hung a ten-foot crucified Jesus.

He imagined victims in white robes like himself, pleading for mercy. Arms and legs pinned down by the strong hands of pious followers. Throats slit as worshipers looked on from the pews, hands clasped, praying to God as the victim’s life gushed out of their veins. Below the heady incense, he almost smelled blood in the air. A figure in brown robes kneeled in the second-row pew with his head bowed. In a white-knuckled grip, he clasped a rosary in front of him.

“Looking for forgiveness father?” Jack asked. The priest turned to look at Jack, his hands still clasped around the rosary. His dark, close-cropped hair matched his unblinking eyes. “I can’t let you murder the boy,” he said, stopping in front of him. Father Duncan slowly rose without breaking eye contact. Jack tried to reach into the man, to find his emotions, but he couldn’t push past the serenity. It seemed stronger in here. Maybe the caster of the emotional blanket was close.

“It is not a Nost who casts the emotions my son,” Father Duncan said as if reading his mind. There was sorrow in his tone.

“I hear your sadness, priest,” Jack said, glaring at him.

“It is the chapel. It’s in the stone and the wood and the will of this place. A fusion of emotion over the centuries,” Father Duncan said.

“It’s in the stone?” Jack asked, breaking eye contact to look at the alter. The priest could be lying, but he doubted it. The idea seemed familiar. He searched his memories for the concept and the right word. It wasn’t fusion, it was, “Transference,” Jack said. He recognized the technique like he had recognized bridging. It wasn’t an explicit memory that came to mind, more of an implicit impression, or muscle memory ingrained in his awareness. He shifted his gaze to the surrounding walls. “It’s a transference. I bet you have chants of serenity for everybody who prays here. It’s a way to block out your murders. The emotion and thought transfers into the matter around you so a sense of wellness rebounds back onto anyone in this place.”

“The stronger the Nost, the stronger the effect,” the priest said. “We have a vast library of books recovered from Shen safe houses over the years. Transference can be used as a type of haunting as well. The Shu and their Shi followers are fond of this technique. It gives them great pleasure to watch humans suddenly filled with murderous rage for no reason.” He spoke like a parent explaining simple math to a child.

He wanted to ask about the books but instead, he said, “Like the hotel in The Shining.”

Father Duncan tilted his head and studied him, but said nothing.

“Are you Shu, like Darean? Is that why you’re killing Shen?” Jack asked.

“We rescue those Shen we can and cleanse others for the greater good. We are the wall protecting the world from this war.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

Father Duncan stared at him, unflinching.

“Sometimes, when a person experiences trauma, like Bobby here, it awakens something inside of them. We—”

“You take advantage of them while you can,” Jack said. “And the ones you can’t, you kill.” Jack glanced up at the alter. “I bet you pray a lot, now give me the keys to the cells.”

“I cannot.”

“I won’t let you murder a child.”

“It is our duty to protect. I can feel the evil lurking within you, the countless lives built up, ready to burst forth and wreak havoc on the world as you fight the Shu. Your war will not end until we end it. God has tasked us with this.”

“But you’re Nost, how can you do that?”

“We are more than Nost, my child, we are the Order. We are the ones caught in between. We strive, in the name of God, the true creator, to break the cycle of war and rebirth.” Father Duncan clasped his hands together inside the sleeves of his robe.

“So you kill us?” Jack asked.

“We seek out and cleanse those who are a threat to humanity. We use your blood for God, to keep our flock alive and the world safe. You kill indiscriminately to suit your gain and manipulate the world around you. We serve the true God while you serve yourselves.”

Jack seized Father Duncan’s wrist, twisted it, and brought the man to his knees.

“The keys,” Jack said.

Father Duncan’s calm face twisted into a snarl as he looked up at Jack. A tide of hate and fear flowed through him. He twisted until the man’s wrist made a cracking sound. Father Duncan’s snarl evolved into a grimace and he reached inside his robes, pulling out a large silver keyring with at least a dozen keys dangling from it. Jack held him there a moment longer and said, “This is no house of worship, you feed on Nost blood. I can see it in your memories,” Jack twisted even harder, and the color drained from Father Duncan’s face. “You induct the lower power Shen, those who haven’t bonded and aren’t strong enough to fall victim to the Shen madness. You murder powerful Shen when you can catch them, and you have Shi feeding on the blood from your sacrifices.” He wrenched the priest’s wrist until he heard a snap, “It keeps them alive and working for you. I see it all.”

Jack finally let go and the priest crumbled, sobbing on the cold stone floor. They fed their followers Shen blood, and most of them didn’t even know they were Nost themselves. The blood was passed off as Christ’s, keeping them strong, while they were demon hunters protecting the world. The high priests knew, though. Jack jogged down the aisle to Bobby, who was waiting at the end of the pews. His eyes were wide and his hands were shaking.

“We have to get out of this chapel, Bobby.”

Bobby stared at him without recognition. Maybe the chapel was more than the boy could handle.

“Bobby!”

Jack grabbed his shoulders and shook him a few times.

“What are you going to do?” Bobby whispered.

“First, we’re going to rescue the boy, then you’re going to lead us out of here, and then I’m going to find Ann.” Jack led Bobby back into the hallway, pushing the double doors shut behind him. His senses calmed and the easy serenity settled back around him. “Then, I’m going to come back and shut the Order down, Bobby. Or at least try. We have to find out who is running the operation.”

Bobby looked at him in surprise. “Norman is the head of the Order,” he said.

“I mean above Norman. Are there other sects of the Order?”

Bobby nodded and said, “Congregations around the world, but I don’t know about anything above a congregation.”

“This is too big and well organized to be a small-time operation, there has to be central control.”

“The Order is ancient,” Bobby said.

“Exactly.”

They walked down the corridor and stopped in front of the boy’s door. Jack slid the first key into the slot. It clicked as he turned it. He looked over at Bobby.

“First try,” Bobby said.

“Maybe it’s God’s will,” Jack said. He threw open the door and strolled into the small, padded room.