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of it.
    Father Patrick always dressed casually for a priest, in black slacks and a black shirt with the priest collar, and simple crucifix hanging from his neck.
    The Bishop who descended on us didn’t know the meaning of understated. He wore a black wool cassock trimmed in black silk, a purple silk sash with fringes, an elaborate gold cross studded in jewels, a purple silk skullcap with crimson lining and gold ring with a blood-red ruby the size of a small egg on his finger.
    Looking past the pompous clothing, the man underneath wasn’t particularly remarkable. Medium build, dark hair, brown eyes, mid-50s but fit—a very average-looking man.
    His assistant was dressed like Father Patrick minus the priest’s collar, but stood tense, as if ready to respond to a threat at any moment. After years of super strength and too many fights to count, I could spot that energy in others even without my new empathic abilities. He was younger, closer to my age or maybe a few years older, somewhere in his mid-20s, with a face hardened by life.
    Looking at him took me back to my days on the street, hustling for a drug that would return my powers to me while Sam dealt with her pregnancy alone. I wasn’t that man anymore. I’d changed and she’d forgiven me, but I’d never forget what I’d done.
    My instincts hummed with warning as I took in our visitors, but the emotions emanating from them both were calm enough. They were curious and tired from their journey. I caught Sam’s eye as the strangers were greeted by Father Patrick. Could she read their minds? See their intentions?
    She frowned and her voice filled my mind. They’re not thinking anything specific. Mostly images of their drive. They’re tired from their trip.
    Sam had always been able to read minds, and she learned how to speak mind to mind with people when she and I first met telepathically while she was a student at Rent-A-Kid. Can you dig deeper? Find out their intentions? I asked.
    Her face went blank as she focused inward. After a few moments she sighed internally. They're wondering if they'll get any food.
    That's it?
    Sorry. They're just very present-minded people. I've met a few before.
    Father Patrick greeted the Bishop with a handshake. “Your Excellency, welcome to our humble school.” He turned to introduce everyone. “This is Bishop Alaric Sarlo, and his associate…” He paused, waiting for the Bishop to supply a name.
    “Ryder Conway,” the Bishop said curtly. His face was stuck in a perpetual frown, as if life were a constant disappointment. Waves of judgment rolled off of him as he examined each of us. When he came to me, his eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed before moving on to pass judgment on Sam and a group of kids who’d just gotten out of their physical education class.
    Father Patrick ushered Bishop Sarlo and Ryder into the large study and offered them seats. Sam and I sat on a loveseat while they sat on the couch.
    Father Patrick served everyone tea, then settled into his leather chair, ready to get down to business. “Why did they send you here, Bishop Alaric?”
    The Bishop looked at Sam and me, clearly waiting for us to leave or vanish. When we didn’t, he looked back at Father Patrick. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
    Father Patrick sipped his tea and smiled, looking to everyone else like a man calm and in charge, but I could feel his frayed nerves. “You can speak freely in front of them. They help run this school.”
    Ryder sat forward on the couch, ignoring his tea and food, his jaw set in a hard line and shoulders tense. The Bishop placed a hand on his arm and Ryder sat back, feigning a more relaxed pose. “This property belongs to the Church,” Bishop Sarlo said.
    No. Father Patrick had warned me of this. But how could they own the mansion?
    “This is my property, not the Church’s,” Father Patrick replied.
    Setting his tea down, the Bishop leaned forward. “You received this property from Father