❝ Lord God, they weren’t lying about the scent of death on you. ❞
The backhanded observation is dealt before the other priest has a chance to utter a word. From his place in the pews, Father McGuire grimaces, sitting with one leg crossed over the other and glaring at Monsignor Pruitt. His fingers uneasily tap on the pages of The Spiritual Exercises in his lap. Candle and moonlight are the only things illuminating Parrocchia Santuario at this time of night, but the dimness has never hindered Dominick. Were there any doubts in his mind over who his wolf eyes gazed upon, the scent the other carried with him eliminated them completely.
That scent being here in this holy place is a concept still incomprehensible to him, as is the concept of a hunter like Nico being so utterly stupid as to allow a vampire in their ranks. Even with furious whispers among the other lycan clergy that they could always catch a whiff of him in the Vatican halls, the image of Pruitt out and about doing his little tasks in penance escaped him.
It was because of this lack of imagination that Dominick had found himself waiting, waiting to see it for himself. Repulsion floods the werewolf’s body as his fears are confirmed. Here, in the aisle of his church, stands the trinity of betrayals by his friend, the Church, and God. Dominick shuts his book with an audible thud and rises out of his seat. He’s quick to enter the cathedral’s aisle himself, maneuvering to stand between Pruitt and the altar.
❝ So you’re the one who decided to take a wee bite out of Father Santos’ throat, are you? That wasn’t very nice. ❞
He can feel the other’s searing gaze steady on his back, disgust hot as the sun and threatening to bore a hole clean through his clerical clothes, his flesh. A gaze that could belong only to the one whose irish drawl ricochets off the Parrocchia’s holy golden walls. Words meant to sink as deep and sharp as bullets, no doubt, but they fall flat and tired. Blanks. As if John Pruitt, now cursed with his own heightened olfactory senses, could so easily forget the stench of death that stains both his body and his soul pitch black. A grim reminder that his youthful facade and so-called second chance are merely thin veneers to cover a walking, talking, rotting body.
The younger priest’s remarks are not met with insult nor injury, not outright --- Only the silent lift of Pruitt’s chin. The flicker of nocturnal eyes looking him once over. Twice even, for good measure.
“ You must be Father McGuire. ” Nico took care to warn him that the lycan clergymen were not especially thrilled over the Tribunal’s decision to spare him --- Dominick least of all. Thus, the animosity that the werewolf offers hardly takes the elder by surprise. The term ‘ natural enemies ’ felt like such a dramatic description at first, but Pruitt can see now that it is precisely what the other considers him. God above, this assignment might just be the most demanding yet ( as far as his patience is concerned ).
Mentions of the incident in the basilica, of his last decent meal, are answered with the clench of his jaw. Back molars idly chew on the soft inner meat of his own cheek, until the familiar copper tang of blood teases his tongue. It’s his only means of staving off the temptation to lunge forward, and instead sink his teeth straight into his company’s thundering carotid.
“ Yes, well, I’m not here to repeat that, if that was your concern. ” Though the tight coil of hunger in his gut certainly might beg to differ. “ I’ve been appointed to the additional parish priest opening here at Parrocchia Santuario until--- ” Until the day comes that the Tribunal no longer agrees with Nico’s perspective on his potential. Until his borrowed time runs out, and he must conjure up a Plan B, else he’ll be surely sentenced to death by incineration. “ Well uh, I’ll be here to assist for the foreseeable future, it seems. ”
