Chapter Text
For the life of the flesh is in the blood, and I have given it to you on the altar to make atonement for your souls; for it is the blood by reason of the life that makes atonement.
-
A single bead of sweat.
A stray thread.
A firm swallow.
All things that made a clerical collar into a dog’s. And like a dog, Kipper weaved amongst her sheep while they filed past, an entire flock of churchgoers out to pasture. Most would return on Sunday- it was a Tuesday during Ordinary Time, after all, and only the most dedicated of the congregation showed during the week. Another swallow, and Kipper became anxious to lose her forest green vestments; the swathes of fabric wholly consumed her slight 5’5 frame. She untied and retied her hair, pin straight hickory locks brushing her shoulders for just a moment before their freedom was rescinded. Back to the low bun, messy, like her bangs. She surveyed her herd with cool carob eyes and a typically furrowed brow. Some came to bleat at her, but not many, and she barked back. One such, young Judith Beale.
“Reverend Hunt,” the woman greeted, a former classmate of Kipper’s. Her coffee ground curls, loose down her back, nearly hid the Merlot port wine stain that marred her left eye. Had she not had the birthmark, her presence would be almost entirely unremarkable. “Your homily was beautiful.”
This conversation did not feel more important than stripping her robes. “Please, Judith, don’t call me that.”
Judith shifted uncomfortably, rustling the hem of her slate gray turtleneck and calf-length skirt of black crushed velvet. “But it’s your title,” she said, vocal fry splicing the thread of her words. “You earned it- and at only 23.”
Kipper shrugged. She pursued the cloth after hearing the voice of God’s messenger, Gabriel, instructing her to do so- the clergymen that ushered her through seminary seemed especially keen on her experience, for reasons Kipper never understood. Didn’t every priest hear Gabriel? And didn’t he always have a Bronx accent? “It wasn’t very hard.”
Kipper’s fellow brunette didn’t have an immediate response. Instead, she looked miffed. The collar grew tighter. “Judith, I’m not sure if you have anything important to say but I…” The priest trailed off. A telltale ginger ponytail, spouting curls from the back of a navy trucker hat, bobbed its way through the crowd and towards the pair. “I have to go.”
Judith frowned. Berry brown lipstick flaked off where she had clearly chewed. “I actually-”
“Kip,” came the call, but it was not her master’s, and so Kipper did not turn her head.
“Judith,” Kipper said again, more insistent. “Unless you want to chat with Zoë, you should go.”
Judith’s gaze flickered from Kipper to the pale, freckled, lit cigarette of a woman that sidled up next to them without introduction. She was tall, several inches taller than both Kipper and Judith. She wore a denim jacket and fingerless gloves, but however warm they were, it couldn’t possibly have been enough to ward off the February freeze. Judith noted the familial resemblance between the priest and the stray, less in any explicit phenotype and more in the under eye bruises, the permanent scowl, the way both women stood with the tension of coiled springs.
“Kip,” Zoë repeated, all mid and no bass. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“I heard you,” Kipper said tiredly. There was only one, annual, reason why Zoë would come round Saint Monica’s Catholic Church, and it wasn’t to praise the Lord.
Judith cleared her throat. “I’ll excuse myself. Zoë, nice to see you. Reverend, I’ll see you on Sunday.”
“Reverend,” Zoë Gallagher snorted. “Do they really call you that?”
Kipper watched Judith snake through the crowd, another lamb setting off. “Why ask?” She bit. “You don’t care.”
Zoë raised a finger. “Hey! I care! I just think it’s stupid.”
Kipper laughed brusquely. “I know you do. Thanks for visiting.” She turned, desperate to be free of the increasing weight of her robes and the physical reminder of what she had been ignoring all day.
“Wait,” Zoë caught her arm. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I just… I came because it’s today.” She paused, Kipper still facing away. “You do know what today is, right?”
“Of course I know what today is,” Kipper hissed. She looked over her shoulder, making reluctant eye contact with her older cousin. How easily brown eyes could become storm clouds. How easily green ones could become frost.
Zoë dropped her bicep. “Well. Do you want to come with me?”
Kipper grit her teeth together. “Yes. Let me change.”
All things considered, Pinegrove Cemetery was a perfectly respectable place to bury her sister. It lay just outside Culgate city limits, nestled between Hood River and the national forest. Tall evergreen trees surrounded the land, capturing the dead in a pocket, an impenetrable bubble of fog and silence. Zoë and Kipper paced outside the gates, unwilling to pierce the sanctum.
“It’s getting dark,” Zoë finally broached, cigarette clenched between her teeth. Newport.
Kipper brought her own to her lips. American Spirit, light blue. “It’s been dark.”
Zoë chewed. “It’s getting late, then.”
“Fine,” Kipper stamped her cigarette against the stone pillar of the entrance gate. “Then let’s leave.”
“Without seeing Winnie?” Zoë’s voice pitched, nearly frantic.
“I guess!” Kipper threw her hands in the air, the bulky sleeves of her leather jacket slouching to her forearms. A patch from her old hockey team, the Culgate Coyotes, still decorated the front pocket. Under her jacket, a sensible green sweater and dark jeans. Her loafers were getting muddy. “We’ve been standing here for 45 minutes! We clearly aren’t going in.”
“Speak for yourself,” Zoë huffed. She dropped the butt of her cigarette, scuffed it out, and marched through the cemetery gates. Kipper rolled her eyes but trailed behind.
The hillside was dotted with rows and rows of headstones, the sort of graveyard one might need a map for- but Kipper was 14 when it happened, standing in snow melt while her mother wept and her father grieved, and so she knew the exact pine her 10 year old sister was buried under, and lead herself and her cousin to the plot with a memory like a scent trail. The font on the headstone was wrong, she always thought, a serif that was nothing like the Winifred Anne Hunt it was meant to immortalize. But there it was, and the dates: June 4th 1983 - February 18th 1994.
“Almost 10 years,” Zoë breathed. “I can’t believe it.”
Neither could Kipper. There was a fresh bouquet in the vase- Francine and Mike Hunt had been by earlier that day, then. The flower petals wilted already. The brunette shoved her hands deep into her pockets and rocked back on her heels, turning her head to the sky. It was cloudy, but the barely waning moon cast silvery light wherever it could peek through. How comforting it would have been, to count the stars in that moment. To see the ‘Big Kipper’, as her father would say, and the ‘Little Winnie’. She looked back to the grave- it was hard to be certain whether they were standing respectfully before the plot or directly on top of it due to the overgrowth. Kipper took one step back for Winnie, and then another for herself. It suddenly felt as if she never took her clerical collar off. Her heart skipped into a sprint. She began to salivate. “I think I’m done.”
Zoë snapped her head over. “What, seriously?”
Kipper nodded fervently. “Yeah. I have to go.” Bile curled at the base of her esophagus. Her palms sweat despite the bitter cold. Guilt plagued her conscience.
“Okay, well- Kip? Kip!”
Zoë’s voice faded behind her. Kipper breezed through the cemetery, not bothering to pluck around the graves and instead choosing the most direct line back to her station wagon. So much for respecting the dead. She made it, barely, before placing a hand against the passenger window and retching. Nothing came up but the body and blood of Christ. She pushed away from the car shakily, not noticing the ring of frost that surrounded her handprint.
Zoë had her motorcycle, Zoë could get home fine. Kipper peeled off the side of the road and back onto the state highway, heading to the modified clergy house that just she occupied- the other priests, Fathers Gregory and Oscar, lived in a separate rectory due to gender differences. It was not Kipper’s election.
Somehow, though she had every intention of going home, Kipper found herself not on Laurel Drive but on Park Street, and not in her driveway but in a parking lot, and not in her bed but seated at the bar of Daytona’s Dive. The dive bar itself was relatively safe from churchgoers; while there wasn’t anything explicitly against a social drink in her creed, it was better to not run into the congregation while shotgunning a PBR. Kipper waited for Jackie Daytona to turn his attentions to her, fiddling with the wet napkin that pasted itself to the wooden bar top. The previous patron must have had a draft beer.
“What can I do for you, Father?” Jackie appeared, in a vest and button down, as he always dressed. It was strangely formal for the quality of the bar, which was widely regarded to be a shithole. His brunette locks curled flirtatiously at the ends, and his scruffy moustache and beard could not hide his wide smile. “It sure is strange to call a young woman Father!”
“Then don’t call me Father, Jackie,” Kipper said lowly, staring intently at the napkin. She rolled the remains in between her fingers. “Can I do my usual?”
“Of course!” Jackie slapped a towel over his shoulder. “And for your friend?”
Kipper lifted her head in confusion. “My who?”
Her peripheral vision failed her, as she didn’t notice anyone sitting to the left or right. She had to fully turn on her axis to see that, indeed, a man towered behind her. His hair was dark and clean cut, just a few strands falling loose onto his forehead. His eyes were masked with sunglasses, even indoors, even at night, but his smile was political and his teeth, straight. He wore a long black coat, so long it grazed his ankles, and gestured to the empty seat next to her with a leather gloved hand. His voice was smooth like a wine with few tannins, or a snake that had just shed, when he asked- “Is this seat taken?”
Kipper was reluctant for company. She fully intended on drinking two miserable beers, ruminating about her sister’s death, and then questionably driving home. There was no room in that for a handsome man in sunglasses. “Yes.”
The man sat anyway. “Then I apologize to whomever was sitting here.” He shed his outerwear as he spoke, stuffing his gloves into his pocket and hanging the coat over the back of the barstool. He wore dark pants and a knit aubergine sweater that clung tightly to his biceps; Kipper lifted her brows and darted her gaze back to his face respectfully. He was in profile now, and she noticed that his eyes were so steely they seemed purple. He cracked another smile, and she caught his unusually sharp canines glinting in the light. In this proximity, he smelled complex and herbal- rosemary, lavender, cardamom, cedar… and something saccharine, like overripe plums.
“Do you like wine?” He implored.
She blinked a few times. “Uh, it’s fine. I usually just have it at work.”
“Ah, a sommelier?” The gentleman cocked his head, eyes dripping over her body.
She squirmed under his microscope and adjusted the neckline of her sweater, her invisible clerical collar. There was no reason for anybody to be gauging her like this, especially not a stranger. She was boyish in a way that men didn’t like to ogle. “No.”
“Hm,” he hummed. “Are you going to make me guess, then?”
“You could just stop asking,” Kipper said flatly.
Jackie, still present, drummed his fingers on the countertop. “Damian, what’ll it be?”
Damian. Kipper frowned. Why did that name sound so familiar? She had never seen the man before.
“A bottle of your finest red, Jackie,” Damian ordered with a wink.
“Bottle? That’s-”
“Coming right up!” Jackie chirped and disappeared.
Damian swiveled his chair to face Kipper entirely, resting one elbow on the bar and letting the other hand fall to his lap. He looked at her with intentions she hadn’t experienced since she graduated seminary school. To her dismay, her heart fluttered. “So,” he continued. “Not a sommelier.”
“No,” Kipper kept her chair forward, but dropped her chin into her hand and gazed at him from under her side swept bangs. “So your finest wine is going to be lost on me.”
Damian chuckled. “I always order off the top shelf, Kipper.”
The priest knit her brow together. “You know my name?” Was this an infrequent church visitor?
He laughed again, a chesty bark. “Apologies, I overheard your conversation with Jackie.”
As if summoned, the bartender reappeared with two empty glasses and a bottle of 1991 cabernet sauvignon. He deftly uncorked the bottle with a pop loud enough to turn heads, then poured a double serving into both glasses. Well, why waste good wine. Kipper lifted the glass to her lips, allowing the mahogany liquid to run cool over her tongue. It was full-bodied and deliciously oaky, unlike the thin communion wine she drank daily. She realized her faux pas when she set her glass down and Damian was still swirling his, sniffing to inspect the quality. He eventually took a slight sip.
“To your standards, Mr. Blackwood?” Jackie stood a little straighter.
Blackwood. Kipper blanched. Damian Blackwood, of the manor, of the mining, of the money. She had never seen him in the flesh- he rarely left the estate outside of town, more of a myth than a man.
Damian smacked his lips a few times, nodding slowly. “Yes, this will serve perfectly well. Thank you, Jackie.”
Jackie nodded and turned on his heel, and as he did, Kipper grabbed Damian’s shoulder and turned him towards her. He had a chill, even through his sweater. “Blackwood? You’re Damian Blackwood?” Damian looked down at her hand in surprise, and she quickly released him. “Sorry, I’m just. Why are you, of all people, talking to me?” She paused. “And how did you actually know my name?”
Damian looked at her for a moment. He took a thoughtful sip, then slid his sunglasses off of his nose. Their eyes met, and again, she couldn’t quite place the color. He maintained eye contact while he said, “stop asking questions.”
Kipper shivered. She had more thoughts, but they suddenly didn’t seem pertinent. Why not just enjoy the affections of a wealthy man while she could? Live in the daydream before she returned to the rectory. She took another sip of wine, a longer one, and it warmed her stomach. “You never guessed what I do for a living.”
Damian’s lip curled. He hooked his sunglasses on the collar of his sweater. “Can we make it a game?”
Kipper pressed her tongue against her cheek. She felt a little giddy. “Sure.”
He grinned at her while his hand disappeared behind the chair and into his coat, from which he produced a shining silver flask. He brought it around and set it lightly on the bar between them. “How about, for every wrong guess, I take a shot. But then, when I get it, you have to take three.”
Kipper laughed and shook her head. “You’re going to be very drunk, Damian Blackwood.”
His smile only grew. “We’ll see about that.” He uncapped the flask in preparation, allowing a precursory sniff of the liquid. “Mm. I hope cognac is fine.”
Shots of cognac did not sound fine, it sounded crazy. “If it’s what you want.”
He shrugged. “It’s what I have.” Nevermind that they were sitting at a bar. “Alright. Are you… an event planner? And you have to taste the wines?”
Kipper shook her head. “That’s one.”
“Damn,” Damian swore. “I thought that was a good one.”
“Drink up,” She ordered, and he did- she took a sip of her own wine while he slugged, confident that no cognac would be in her future.
Damian came back from the drink with a shiver, but continued. “Are you… a waiter?”
“Event planner was closer,” Kipper said. “But both still ice-cold.”
Damian, dutifully, took another swig of cognac. No way his tolerance was high enough to counter her career.
“I’ve got another,” He announced. “And it’s creative.”
“Oh,” Kipper tilted her head, sizing him up again. His words danced around her, so overly familiar that she began to feel as if they’d known each other for years, not minutes. “Don’t tell me he’s an innovator!”
Damian nudged her playfully with his foot. “You’d do well not to underestimate me, Kipper. I can be… Promethean.”
Kipper didn’t give a fuck about Prometheus. She did give a fuck about the way Damian’s eyes darkened as he spoke to her. Her skin prickled with goosebumps. “Tell me your guess, Damian.”
He smirked as if he knew how her heart rate had quickened. He leaned forward, closing the distance between their bodies, and Kipper stiffened- but just as their noses were about to touch, his path diverted. He leaned to the side, brushing his cheek against hers and his lips against her ear. “I think,” he whispered. “That you’re a priest.”
Kipper blinked, dumbfounded. She looked down at herself as he sat back- no rosary, no collar, no vestments. How could he have possibly guessed? “Oh my God.”
His smirk turned into a shit-eating grin. “Did I get it?”
She folded her arms indignantly; Kipper was a sore winner and a sorer loser. “You cheated.”
Damian tapped his chin. “No, I think there’s just something… enticingly sacrosanct about you.”
“Well,” Kipper huffed, following his finger. His lips seemed soft. “You’re doing a lot of flirting with the inviolable, then.”
“Is it working?” He asked. Before she could answer, he passed the flask to her. The lid was still uncapped, and a spicy whiff burned her nostrils. “Three shots.”
Fine. Kipper narrowed her eyes at him, but knocked back three respectable swigs. She had never had a brandy before, and realized immediately upon tasting that cognac was far too expensive of a spirit for her to understand. There were complex notes of maybe vanilla, probably fruit, kind of nut… she set the flask down with a thud, warm from head to toe. “Woah.” Suddenly, she was buzzing.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” Damian sighed. He took the flask, grazing her fingertips as he did.
“You’re anemic,” Kipper stated tipsily. “Your fingers are cold.”
Damian took great delight in her statement. “You’re right, and I need someone to warm me up.”
“I could get your blood pumping.”
Damian grinned. “Now who’s flirting?” One of his hands gripped her thigh tightly, the other squeezed the flask. His sleeves, rolled up to the elbow, revealed muscular forearms. His veins were bright blue beneath the skin, but she chose to instead notice his own wash of goosebumps.
“Me.” Kipper took a brave sip of wine, which did not play well with the cognac on her tongue. “And I think it’s working.”
He marveled at her. “Wow. So, do we need to finish the bottle, or…”
“Ah,” Kipper leaned in, trailing a finger across Damian’s chest. It was defined, even under a sweater, and it pained her to say, “I have this… well, it comes with the priesthood. A vow of celibacy.”
“Uh huh,” Damian watched her nail on his pectoral. “And how serious is this vow?”
Kipper flattened her palm against him and widened her eyes. “Very serious, Damian.”
“I see,” he hummed. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to push you to break a vow.”
“Thank you.”
“But,” he wrapped frigid fingers around her wrist and gradually brought her hand to his face. “Would a kiss break your promise?” He traced his lips against her knuckles.
Kipper’s heart pounded against her ribcage. Her stomach knotted. “I don’t think so.”
“Just one kiss,” Damian murmured, and pressed his lips to her skin. His gaze flickered to meet hers, eyes decidedly purple now. She shivered.
“Damian,” Kipper began.
“Maybe one more,” He said with a throaty gravel that wasn’t there before. Its presence was equally threatening and exciting, adding a blade’s edge to the waltz of his words. Again, he kissed her knuckles, not nearly as chaste as the first time.
“Damian,” Kipper repeated, skin tingling beneath his touch. They should go outside. “We should go outs-”
In one smooth motion, Damian managed to gather his belongings, leave cash and tip, and sweep Kipper out the door. He led her around the corner of the building, to the side of the lot with fewer cars and less light. Immediately, she was against the brick, a giant hand on either side of her face. Damian hung his head down to her, his shoulder blades arcing out of his back like a cat’s. His eyes glinted in the moonlight, as did his teeth.
“You’re so tall,” Kipper looped her arms around his neck.
Damian ignored her. He ducked his face against her throat and inhaled deeply. “You smell delicious,” he growled.
Kipper gasped, running her fingers through his brunette locks. She felt suddenly like prey beneath him. “Damian-”
“I always knew the slayer would.”
A sunburst of blinding light. Kipper turned her head and squeezed her eyes shut, while Damian howled and staggered away from her.
“Be not afraid!” Twanged a creature she couldn’t see.
“W-what?” Kipper stammered, blinking away spots. She could vaguely make out a figure before her. Suddenly, she started to ache- her wrists, ankles, scalp, even her eyes. “Ow- What-”
“Fuck,” Damian hissed. “I wasn’t going to kill her!”
Kipper felt warm and wet where she should’ve been cool and dry. She brought her fists to her eyes and rubbed. “Damian, what’s happening-”
“Damian, what’s happening!” The third person cried. “No, ask me what’s happening!”
“Kipper, just come with me-” Damian cooed, reaching for her waist.
“Don’t you dare touch her!” they threatened. “Get out of here, bastard!”
He listened. Kipper pulled her hands away from her eyes to watch him go, but before her, fluttering just off the ground…
“An angel,” Kipper breathed. Was she drunk? No, this was real. Her vow. “Oh. Oh, no. This is my punishment. Oh my God- fuck, sorry- sorry-”
The priest fell to her knees, giant, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. Was this her Gabriel, God’s messenger, finally manifesting before her? Now, right as she was going to desecrate her clerical celibacy?
“It was a test,” she wept. “I failed. I’m so sorry, Gabriel.”
“Gabriel?” The angel questioned. Their wings, nearly 10 feet in span and downy white, beat rhythmically. Their hair, jet black, fell to their shoulder in a loose braid. A yellow bandana hung around their neck, a crucifix barely visible beneath. Strangely, they wore a denim button down tucked into denim jeans tucked into cowboy boots. Inky eyes dotted along their visible forearms. Their actual eyes, as bright and blue as the morning sky, looked at her curiously. They laughed, and it twinkled like bells. “I’m not Gabriel! My name is Uriel- uh,” The angel hesitated. “Has this happened before?”
Kipper sniffled. “Has what happened before.”
“Your… you know…” Uriel folded their arms and pointed meekly at Kipper. “Your face.”
She furrowed her brow, which made her forehead ache. “Tears? Crying? No offense, but am I your first human?”
“No, no, no,” The angel waved their hand. “Well, yes, but the… blood?”
Kipper frowned. She cupped her cheeks in her hands, and when she pulled them away, streaks of red lined her palm. More than that, she noticed the gaping, circular wounds in her wrists. “N-no,” Kipper stammered, jumping to her feet. She rolled up her pant leg to find matching wounds. One on each ankle. She dropped the hem of her jeans and gingerly touched her forehead, where blood beaded across.
“No,” She repeated. “It can’t be.” Stigmata. Was she a saint? She didn’t feel very saintly. But here before her, an angel.
“You really are the chosen one!” Uriel awed. “I’m sorry it took me so long to find you, slayer. I don’t know how I would’ve forgiven myself had that vampire gotten you.”
Kipper tore her eyes away from the damning, holy blood on her fingertips. “What do you mean ‘vampire’.”
Uriel laughed uncomfortably. “Oh, boy. I’ve got a lot to tell you!”
Kipper swallowed thickly. “Then you better get started.”