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“I’ll duel you for it.”
The Viking’s eyes widen with delight. “Can we?”
The priest waves his hand at a small door in the back of the room. “Go down into the woods where no one can see you. And you will only fight until first blood. Cake is not a ‘to-the-death’ battle.”
“That’s only if it was for the last Lindt ball.” Björn nods vigorously as he pushes the door open, revealing an overgrown path down through the cemetery toward a small copse of trees. Calling it a wood is rather generous.
“Correct. Lindt balls are better than sex.” The priest sighs. “And I should know.”
I watch in a kind of stupor as Pax trots off across the churchyard after his new friend, both of them swinging their swords and talking about how they’re going to best each other.
My life is surreal.
The priest shuts the door behind him and hands me and Ambrose each a plate with our own slice of chocolate log. I notice the way he helps Ambrose curl his fingers around the edge and locate the fork. The kettle boils and he pours us each a cup of tea.
He’s young, maybe early thirties, with sandy blonde hair and kind eyes. But I’ve been fooled by kind eyes and a priest collar before.
Now that his guests are served, the priest sinks into his own chair and cuts off a piece of cake. He brings it to his lips and sighs happily.
“I suppose,” he says as he cuts off another large piece, dwindling Pax or Björn’s slice down to less than half, “that you came here to see me. Which ghost put you up to it?”
“Detective Abberline.”
“Ah, yes. Sometimes, to catch a scoundrel like the Ripper, you need to employ an equal or greater scoundrel. Abberline wasn’t scoundrel enough, although heaven knows he tried.” The priest finishes chewing and rounds on me with those haunted blue eyes. “Now, shall we get down to business?”
The cake turns to dust in my mouth. It hits me that this is the first time I’ve ever been in the room with someone like me before. Well, I met Vera in her shop, but I didn’t know that she was like me at the time. “I don’t really know where to begin.”
“Your name would be a good start.”
“Oh, yes. I’m Bree. Bree Mortimer.”
“Ambrose Hulme, at your service.” Ambrose bows his head. “And the fellow with the sword is Pax Drusus Maximus.”
“Well, Bree Mortimer and Ambrose Hulme, welcome to All Souls Church. You can see that I run a very different kind of congregation around here. I’m Father Maxwell. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
“If it’s a pleasure, why did your Viking almost kill us back there?”
“You have to forgive Björn. He’s very protective.” Father Maxwell steeples his fingers. “I’ve had a lot of trouble over the years. Now, Bree, I gather that you are a Lazarus.”
I start at the term. It’s only the second time someone has called me that, and the first one tried to kill me. He wasalsoa priest.
“I suppose I am.” I huff out a breath. Ambrose reaches over and brushes his fingers over my arm, steadying me.
“Admitting it is the first step.” Father Maxwell says with a kind smile.
I grip my teacup in my hand and take a sip. The tea is a little calming. “The last priest who I spoke to raised Jack the Ripper from his grave to come after me.”
“Ah, so I see the Order of the Noble Death has found you.”
“You know about them? How come they haven’t come for you?”
In response, the priest pulls open a tiny drawer in his desk and removes an object. A wooden box. He opens it and holds it up so I can see the contents.
It’s a collection of spiky metal crosses – identical to the one I pulled from Father Bryne’s chest.
“What is it?” Ambrose asks excitedly. “Gold? Candy? Some sort of treasure map?”
“It’s a box filled with crosses like the one Father Bryne wore,” I say, fishing my own out of my pocket and pressing it into his fingers. “But there must be at least twenty in there.”
