The Priest Volume 1

By Kirsten Langston

Michael was born a fighter and became a priest, but in his heart, he was still a part of Devil’s Crew. He joined the Crew early and quickly rose up within the ranks to become their leader. The Crew demanded allegiance, loyalty and a strong left hook. When an escalating war with Nick Knight’s crew, The Beasts, takes everything, Michael runs and doesn’t look back. He seeks atonement in the bosom of the Catholic Church.
Now, years later, Michael returns home. His brother is running Devil’s Crew, his best friend married the only woman Michael ever loved, and Nick Knight is running the city, gunning for them all. Michael feels drawn toward his old life of violence but he cannot deny the oath he took when he became a priest. Torn between revenge and religion, Michael finds himself at a crossroads.
Michael discovers he is capable of much more than he ever dreamed. The stakes are higher than anyone can fathom. Boldly accepting his destiny, Michael steps up to finish what was started so long ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kirsten Langston
• Release date: Dec 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988538016

Kirsten Langston

Kirsten Langston is a lifelong resident of the San Francisco Bay Area. She is the author of The Mad Season Series and The Priest Series.

Book preview

The Priest

Volume 1

A Novel

By

Kirsten Langston

Smashwords Edition

The Priest Volume 1

First Edition Copyright (c) 2013

Kirsten Langston All rights reserved.

The Priest is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Names, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-9885380-1-6

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

The Priest is inspired by and dedicated

to the outcasted, the lonely, the strange, and

the forgotten. I have seen you; I have noticed

you, and to me, you are dazzling.

Chapter 1

The priest walked swiftly; death was coming. He could feel the hot breath of hope swirling around the cold stone of the cottage, but he knew there was no hope. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have called for him. He heard their last confessions and whispered sins that, in the end, amounted to nothing; he gave them blessings that were supposed to send them easily into the arms of death. It did not look easy when they went, eyes rolling up into their heads, faces creased in the grimace of a last, labored breath.

He knelt beside the bed; the old woman turned her head, her sparse white hair matted to the pillow, her red-rimmed, blue eyes watered.

Michael, she whispered.

The priest gripped the hand that groped for him.

Mom, he said hoarsely.

You’ve come at last, she said in her lilting accent. Tommy told me you might not come, she said in a quavering voice, but I knew you would be here.

I’m here, Mom.

Michael gripped her hand so tightly, he knew he must be hurting her, but she smiled. So you’ve come and now I can die.

From the dark corner, a body started. Tommy was almost hidden by the long shadows that streaked across the spartan room.

I didn’t see you there, Michael said to him.

Where else would I be?

From the bed the old woman smiled, her eyes looking vaguely into the future and finding just what she expected.

Don’t give your brother trouble, she wheezed.

I won’t, Mom, Tommy promised from the darkness.

Michael motioned for his younger brother to join him at the bedside, but Tommy shook his black head.

Michael, she said. You must take care of Thomas when I am dead. He’s too much, she stopped to take another ragged breath, too much like your father.

A look of distaste flashed across Michael’s face, something he tried to conceal quickly. Tommy saw it and laughed harshly.

Come by the bed, Michael told his brother. She can’t see you.

Again, Tommy shook his head and again the old woman smiled. I don’t need to see him.

Tommy’s black hair was thick and straight and hung in his face. His blue eyes snapped, even in the darkness. Michael didn’t need to see him to know his lithe body was covered in tattoos.

On the bed, his mother drew in another hard breath.

Would you like me to administer the last rites? Michael asked her gently.

Tommy snorted in derision. Michael looked at him sharply. His mother, missing nothing, tugged on his hand and subtly shook her head.

Don’t start with him, she whispered.

Michael removed the oils from his black bag.

Take my confession, Michael, his mother said between her labored breathing. Michael jerked his head to Tommy, who left the room swiftly.

Michael leaned over the bed and heard his mother’s whispered confession. He muttered prayers he barely registered. He anointed her forehead with the oil and then knelt beside her bed and wept.

The door to the dark room opened, the light cutting harshly into his grief.

I’ll not go quietly, she warned after her confession. I’ll put up a fight.

The sound of her breathing filled the room, the scratchy, demonic noise a precursor to eternal sleep. Michael knew that inside her, her organs were shutting down one by one. When Tommy phoned, he said she hadn’t eaten in days. She hadn’t left the bed in weeks. If you’re going to come, he said. You’d better come now.

Michael hadn’t been home since he left to join the Church. It was the same. The tiny cottage on the outside of the city sat squat and firm beside the dirty river. It looked like something you would find in Ireland, his mother said. It was always damp and cold and smelled faintly of mildew.

Michael heard low voices as Tommy shut the door behind him.

Who’s here? Michael asked.

Some of the boys, Tommy said nonchalantly.

Michael knew what that meant: men, their bodies covered in mosaics of meaning, their eyes hard, their weapons ready. His old crew.

Michael knew them well; he’d been one of them once. He, too, had a map of his early life on his own body, every space taken up with names, people, places, ideals, demons and angels.

What are they doing here? Michael asked.

Tommy didn’t answer.

You’re not leaving? Michael asked.

No, Tommy shook his head. He peered down at his mother, who was tossing her head and gasping for each breath. I told them no. A few are staying behind, you know, Tommy gestured to the thin body covered by the white sheet, for when she goes.

Michael didn’t want them there. They shouldn’t be here. This is for family.

They are family.

Not mine, Michael said, his gray eyes flashing in the darkness.

Tommy and Michael eyed each other in the gloom. Michael knew Tommy was thinking about hitting him. Michael felt his muscles tense in response; beneath his black tattoo, his heart beat rapidly.

You want to take a shot at me? he asked Tommy. You want to brawl at her deathbed? he asked contemptuously.

Tommy clenched his fists and glanced at their mother.

They used to be your family, Tommy reminded him. Any one of them would take a bullet for you now.

Michael shrugged. His cassock flared around his ankles. His black shoes shone in the dark.

I’m not like that anymore, Michael said, examining his knuckles.

NEVER DIE. Across the knuckles of his fingers. NEVER DIE. Because the Crew would never die. As long as the Crew was there, no one would ever die, not even the dead.

You just traded one religion for another, Mike, Tommy said.

There was a last loud gurgle of breath and then she was gone. The two brothers stood in silence and stared down at their dead mother. Tommy whirled with sudden violence and whipped a small wooden footstool against the wall where it broke into pieces. Michael jerked as though the stool had hit him. Tommy opened the door and strode out. Michael was jealous Tommy had someone to grieve with. Michael had no one, nothing but his precious Church. He left the room reluctantly. The mantle clock struck four. It would be light soon.

Around the small kitchen table, three men sat, their eyes narrowed. They rose as Tommy appeared. Michael recognized two but did not know the third.

Mike, Solo reached out his hand. Sorry about your Mom.

Michael nodded.

Mike. Kennedy enveloped him in a hug. Kennedy had been his best friend since he had been fourteen years old. He had not seen Kennedy Clover since he left home.

Kennedy, Michael said. His throat was raw. Michael held onto Kennedy a beat longer and pulled back.

Hey, man, if there’s anything I can do, said the third man as he stood. He was huge, at least six-foot-five, three hundred and fifty pounds. He looked distinctively Irish, with wild red hair and green eyes that twinkled with mischief.

This is Mark MacPhee’s little brother, Kennedy said, seeing the look on Michael’s face. You remember Mark? He passed the same day as- Kennedy paused.

Michael stared at him, willing him to say it.

You know, the day of that big fight, Kennedy finished.

Michael made no comment but shook the man’s hand.

Last time you saw Dimes, he was a lot smaller, Kennedy said.

Growth spurt, said Dimes, rubbing his considerable stomach.

Dimes and Solo showed Michael a natural deference; he had forgotten how it was with the Crew.

How is your mother? Michael asked.

She passed, Dimes said after a long pause. Last year.

Michael nodded again. This was also part of the Crew. Death always. NEVER DIE. Never die, but they did. They did in droves.

Tommy pulled a cigarette from the pack on the table and wandered to the back door at the small kitchen. Michael did the same.

Who’s in charge now? he asked. Solo?

No, Tommy took a deep drag. I am.

Michael clenched his fists. "I never wanted this