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about it and yet he couldn’t be certain he was completely safe. He’d definitely have to keep an ear to the ground for Cole Szerszen’s rumblings. The big guy could have any number of surprises planned for Paul’s “psychic acumen,” many of which could end in death and dismemberment, maybe not in that order. But, he thought with some emerging happiness, he was going to be a bishop in the Church of Midnight. That was something else.
    If only his mother could see him now.
    Raymond, pale and past enjoying himself, crouched against the elevator cage. He smacked his lips and grimaced at the flavor of his words. “You’re smiling, Paul.”
    “Guess it’s being in the chapel. I’ve never been.”
    Darkness roared outside the cage, an endless brown scream.
    “Might move Val out here,” said Raymond. “New life. New change.”
    “Val your wife?”
    Raymond nodded. “Money though. Money, money, fuckin’ money.”
    The elevator stopped and the swiftness and displacement of motion made Paul’s stomach twist. Raymond, on the other hand, merely puked on his shoe. The air filled with a strange scent, like tuna in apple cider vinegar. “Kipper snaps,” Ray mumbled in disgust.
    Paul yanked the elevator strap quick and opened the freight doors, then took big steps outside. The lower level had to be the most impressive so far. The passing hallways were carved through the rock and worked as smooth as Mother Nature might have intended through slower methodology. A black and orange checkerboard carpet planed over the floor. On the rock walls hung oil paintings featuring Archbishops from Stonehenge to present. An unsaid desire rang in the painted eyes, accentuated above fans of warm orange recess lighting.
    Ray struggled from the elevator, kicking vomit off his loafer. Over the last two years Paul witnessed the poor fool sinking deeper into the bottle, ever since a Federal Express truck took a blind turn too fast and hit his kid. Not that Raymond wasn’t a drunk before, but losing his son dried up all the excuses for cutting back. It was a pitiful story, but Paul didn’t feel too sorry for people like Ray. Bottom line, as far as Paul Quintana was concerned: thirteen years ago the guy should have pulled out of his wife and saved himself all the heartache.
    “One moment,” Ray burped.
    “I got antacids.” Paul smacked his breast pocket. “Oh, I loaned them to Justin this morning. Son of a bitch didn’t give them back.” He was going to laugh but let it go. Being a Bishop would require more reserve; he had to start practicing.
    “No more Wild Turn-Keys. For me. I hate those birds. In a bottle.” A ragged chuckle exploded from Ray’s lips and then he went silent. His body straightened, electrified with the need to be more sober, and he padded to the end of the hall. Ray plunked his knuckles against the shiny black surface of a door there. They waited. He plunked again, slightly louder.
    Footfalls echoed unnaturally. Ray adjusted his oversized suit coat and tie. He didn’t look shitfaced anymore. Actually, he looked how Paul supposed he himself did: afraid on a level that had snapped him back to infancy. Paul already felt cold when the air conditioning cycled on overhead.
    The deadbolts turned. The door opened, a block of obsidian slipping into a ravenous nothing. Two green eyes stared back, pupils dilated. There was no light beyond the eyes; emptiness soaked around the face. The voice sounded harsh, diminished chords in a mal-tuned pipe organ. “None other, save Bishop Margrave and Szerszen , may tread in the residence without written consent.”
    Ray attempted words. “ Bizup Mar-gave killed in the morning...”
    Paul moved to hush him but Ray waved a cautionary finger back and forth, indicating control. Unconvinced, Paul spoke up, “I’m seeking audience with the Archbishop. Bishop Margrave passed away this morning. I was with him when he took his own life. Brother Traven here is my escort to the Archbishop’s