Page 48 of Awakened Ash and Alchemy

She crossed her arms. “I’m weird.”

“Gifted,” he corrected.

She rolled her eyes. “Aunt Claudine says that too.”

“I know. We’ve both been there in the past.”

Like now, how they sat in silence, side by side like always. Back when he’d become her responsible adult after Aunt Claudine had been banned from entering the school grounds. It was enough for the guilt to scratch at her for not attempting to visit Father Michael more often. But then he had this incredible knack of showing up when she needed him, too.

And she was here because he might have the answers she needed. “Father… do you believe in magic?”

“There are many kinds,” he said carefully. “Too many for one afternoon’s conversation.”

“But you do speak of evil.”

He nodded once.

“I’ve met that evil,” she whispered. “I saw it. Smelled it. Touched it. And,” she paused, licking her lips, then forced the words out through a strained throat, “last night… I killed it.”

He turned fully, facing her. “Tell me, little one. You know it won’t go anywhere.”

And so she spilled all in a free-falling confession. Except she wasn’t asking to be forgiven; she was asking to be believed. She talked about the Black Cloaks. The alley. Their smell. What salt did. The blades. And Zarek—not the part where he was a friend or a stranger either, but the fire and the ash. Including how her body had moved on its own accord without listening to her mind. By the time Angela had finished, she was gripping the edge of the pew like it might run away from all she’d said.

“What have I become?” she asked quietly.

Father Michael was silent for a long moment. Then, he calmly asked, “What happened to this man?”

“He vanished.” She huffed, sitting back crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “After I’d spent hours helping him, he ghosts me, just like that.”

“Do you care for him?”

She swallowed. “More than I should. And I’m crazy for doing so.”

Father Michael gave a quick grin. “You’re not crazy, Angela.”

“Are you sure?” She was pretty freaked out over this entire situation, even considering setting up a special shelf at the bookstore just to sell salt.

“Yes, evil exists,” he said softly. “So does good. They don’t always announce themselves in polite forms.”

“And me?”

“You are exactly who you’ve always been.” He reached into his pocket and held out a small medallion. “Wear this.”

She noticed the figure etched in silver. “Is that the Archangel Michael?”

“You remembered.”

“He was always my favorite.”

His smile deepened a fraction, to even warm his eyes.

“Keep it close,” he said. “Not because it will protect you, but because it will remind you of who you are. If you feel yourself slipping into—”

“One of my panic attacks?”

He smiled gently while unfolding her fingers, letting the medallion and chain fill her palm, then folded her fingers over it, where he held it with both hands. “All you do is hold it and breathe as a way to center yourself. Can you do that for me?”

“Meditate,” she muttered. “Right. Okay.” At this point, she’d try anything. She slipped the slender chain over her head, where the cool metal settled against her chest.