Inferno by Cara Bristol
Prologue
Uncle Mike poked his head into Geneva’s closet-sized office. “I’m leaving for the hospital. Do you need anything before I go?”
Geneva peered at him over the ancient desktop computer. “No, I’ve got everything under control. I’m wrapping up the bulletin. It will be ready for you to review when you get back. Also, I ordered new hymnals to replace the ones that are falling apart.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re a blessing,” he said.
“It works both ways.” She smiled at him fondly. Her father’s older brother, Uncle Mike had been like a second dad to her. As a kid, she’d spent many summers in Argent with him and Aunt Harriet.
Her aunt had passed away five years ago. A few years later, just as Geneva had been going through a nasty divorce with Trenton, Uncle Mike’s secretary had retired. He’d called and begged her to fill in at the church where he’d been pastor for thirty years. He could have hired a secretary anywhere—he’d offered her a job to give her time and space to recoup and recover. She’d intended to stay only until the divorce got settled, but a few months had melted into two years, and here she was. She related to the slow pace of small-town life, the friendliness of the people. So what if some of them believed they’d seen aliens?
“Say hi to Mrs. Peterson,” she said. “Tell her I wish her a speedy recovery and hope she’s up and around real soon.” Whenever an Argent resident, parishioner or not, landed in the hospital, Uncle Mike always paid him or her a visit.
“Oh, I’m sure she’s up and around already. They insist you walk right away after hip replacement surgery.”
“True.”
“I’ll be gone at least a couple of hours. I have my phone.” He patted his upper jacket pocket then the lower one. Bushy gray brows wrinkled. “I thought I did.”
“Is it in your pants pocket?”
He patted his backside and pulled out his phone. He grinned sheepishly. “Good guess.”
It wasn’t much of a guess. It was where his phone always went when he lost it. She hid a grin. He was a bit absentminded, but she sure loved that man. He was such a sweetie.
Uncle Mike left, and Geneva returned to the monthly bulletin. Besides her uncle’s inspirational column, it included news about parishioners—births, anniversaries, vacations, hospitalizations (Mrs. Peterson was in this issue)—recipes, family-friendly jokes, and local non-church events. The popular bulletin had more email subscribers than the church had members, which caused her uncle to rejoice because he figured God used the bulletin to shepherd home his lost lambs.
Geneva opined people subscribed for the local news and the calendar of events, since Argent lacked a proper newspaper.
The real piece of news, a secret never shared with her pastor uncle, was that she was a nonbeliever.
When she’d first started working at the church, she’d suffered pangs of conscience, questioning if assisting with the promulgation of religious faith equated to hypocrisy. But after witnessing the good her uncle Mike performed in the community, she concluded church practices of charity, kindness, and fellowship did align with her values. Whenever anyone, church member or not, needed assistance, Uncle Mike and his parishioners were right there offering a helping hand. When Delia Mason’s daughter Izzy had been kidnapped, the entire congregation had turned out to search for her.
Besides, life often wasn’t fair, and people suffered all kinds of tragedies through no fault of their own. If they found comfort in faith, she wouldn’t take that away from them.
But not a day passed that she didn’t appreciate the irony of an atheist working for a church.
Geneva read through the bulletin one last time then shot a copy to her uncle. Next, she printed out a welcome letter to the new resident in town, inviting her to visit the Church of Argent.
Mandy Ellison lived above the Inner Journey, the store she owned. It didn’t open until Monday, but Geneva had peeked in the big picture window the other day. It looked like one of those New Age woo-woo kind of shops. She didn’t believe in ESP or psychics, either.
She’d give the woman time to settle in, and then she’d contact her about doing an interview for the Angels Sing Herald bulletin. Everyone would be curious to hear about her. Argent got a lot of skiers and tourists passing through but few new residents—unless you counted the aliens.
Geneva snorted and shook her head. The rumor around town was that extraterrestrials lived on the outskirts of Argent. Even the parishioners got into it, some claiming to have seen a blue man with a tail at Millie’s Diner, while others reported having sighted an angel alien flying down Main Street. Thus far, nobody had reported having been beamed aboard a flying saucer and experimented on, but she figured that was coming.
She would have to see an extraterrestrial with her own eyes before she’d believe it, and, in two years of living in Argent, nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Either she’d never been in the right place at the right time and missed seeing them, or they didn’t exist. Her money was on the latter.
She addressed an envelope to Mandy Ellison and stuffed the welcome letter inside.
That done, she called up the program for the Sunday service and sent it to the printer. Other than the quiet hum of the machine and the occasional creak of old timber, the building was silent, and, as she worked alone in the church, she became acutely aware of her singleness, of being in limbo, for lack of a better term. Argent was a family town, with nearly everyone coupled up. It was a wonderful place to call home, terrible for meeting men.
She had Uncle Mike, but by thirty-eight, she’d expected to be happily married to her soul mate. The irony did not escape her—she was a skeptic who had believed in fated love. The facts had proven how ridiculous that notion was.
Once upon a time, she’d believed her feckless ex was her fated mate. She’d been deliriously happy in the marriage—until Trenton informed her he wanted out. How could his professed adoration have withered to apathy? How could her love for him have turned to loathing in the blink of an eye? How could she ever trust that feelings were true?
She thought it was Ernest Hemingway who’d said, “People fall in love, but they have to climb out.” With her uncle’s support, and the balm of small-town life, she had climbed out.
So now that she was out, what should she do? Where should she go? She loved Argent, but life was passing her by, one day at a time, each indistinguishable from the next.
If her foolish heart wouldn’t let go of the notion Mr. Right would find her wherever she lived, her head insisted she face facts—if she stayed in Argent, she had a better chance of meeting an alien than her dream man.
The printer belched out the last program, and she shuffled the papers into a neat stack to fold after she grabbed some lunch from Millie’s Diner.
“Hello? Anybody here?” a man’s voice called. Smooth and oddly accented, it caressed her in places that hadn’t been touched in a long time. “Hello?”
Another hot zing shot to her nether region.
She didn’t recognize the voice—she’d remember an accent like that. “Coming!” she yelled. Almost literally. That voice! “Be right there!”
Geneva entered the sanctuary near the altar. A tall man in black stood in the side aisle, his back to her. Her stomach fluttered with sexual awareness—and she hadn’t seen his face yet!
Light filtering through stained glass of the serpent tempting Eve lit a halo around his head. Many people missed the big sign out front or ignored it, but he’d removed his ball cap and clutched it at his side. He had jet-black hair. A red tail of something poked out from under his shirt. A length of rope? A braid of leather?
Hurrying around the pews, she curved her lips into a welcoming smile. “I’m Geneva. Can I help you?”
He spun around, and skepticism collided with biblical horror stories. Devilish horns curved out of his head. Black-black brows arched fiendishly over piercing coal eyes set deep in a demonically red face. “I’m Inferno. My genmate, I’ve come for you.” He reached out.
She screamed and threw up her hands to form a cross. “Back! Get back, Satan! Oh God! Our Father who art in heaven…” A prayer tripped off her lips as she scuttled away, almost tripping over her own feet. How had a demon spawn managed to enter a church, a hallowed building?
As she retreated, he stalked her, his unholy gaze tracking her.
“Get away from me!” She grabbed a distressed hymnal from a pew and threw it at him. It broke apart, and pages went flying. She lobbed another book, not realizing it was a Bible until it hit him square in the chest and tumbled to the floor.
He bent and picked it up. What was wrong with her that she noticed he had beautiful hands, long fingers like a pianist? What was wrong with him that he didn’t sizzle as he held the Good Book but stared at her with a hurt, puppy-dog expression? “I don’t understand. You’re supposed to be my genmate.”
“Leave. You have no place here.” At the altar, she grabbed a heavy brass candelabra and brandished it. “Don’t make me use this!”
His broad shoulders hunched, and the inner corners of his dark eyes pulled together. He set the Bible on a pew, turned, and walked slowly down the aisle. And that braided rope sticking out from under his shirt? It was a freaking tail.
The vestibule lit up as he pushed through the double wooden doors and exited the church. Horns. Red skin. Tail. Her breath came in gasps, and she sucked in air, now questioning what she’d seen, doubting her own sanity. She could not have encountered a demon. Could not. It was impossible!
Legs trembling, she hurried up the aisle and locked the doors. Returning to the nave, she collapsed into a pew.