Consecrated With Blood

By Marianne Lowe

‘ “If I were still a cop, nobody would have called it brave,” Will replied. “Then I would’ve just been doing my job.”
“But you’re no longer an officer of the law,” Dr. Faust said, though the words didn’t have the force of a rebuttal. “I’m curious; what brought you from law enforcement to ministry?” '

***

William Connor is priest struggling to escape from his past as an effective and intuitive detective but the shadows from his past chase him into the arms of the mysterious and intoxicating Dr. Faust.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marianne Lowe
• Release date: Nov 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005271619

Book preview

Marianne Lowe

Consecrated With Blood

A M/M Romantic Thriller

Copyright © 2020 by Marianne Lowe

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

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Contents

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5

6. Chapter 6

7. Chapter 7

8. Chapter 8

9. Chapter 9

10. Chapter 10

Also by Marianne Lowe

1

Chapter 1

Will noticed all newcomers, as a matter of course; St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church was a fairly small parish of a hundred and sixty members, eighty of which showed up to any given service, and on the Sunday after Thanksgiving the crowd was even smaller. New faces stuck out, and this one stuck out more than most. He was short and stocky and older, with a wispy corona of graying hair around the crown of his head and a pronounced hunch to his shoulders.

There were still ten minutes until service; people tended to show up at the last minute, or ten minutes after service began, and so there were only a handful of the most devoted few seated in the pews or mingling on the doorstep. Will had observed the man ignore the greeter and brush aside the usher. Now he stood in the narthex, fingers twitching, swaying slightly from side to side as he peered around with narrowed eyes and forward thrust chin. Even Ginger Papania, one of the braver and more garrulous parishioners, seemed doubtful about approaching him.

Mentally ill, probably, but he did not appear to be homeless; his shoes were well-polished, and if Will was not mistaken, the shirt was Armani, and so was his blazer. Will detached himself from a corner of the narthex and approached the man.

May I help you? he began. The man swayed toward him, opened his mouth, and thrust his hand inside his jacket. That was when Will saw the gun.

Time slowed down.

Gun! Will heard himself yell, as if from far away; stupid, stupid, his parishioners weren’t trained, they wouldn’t know how to react. They’d start yelling and running around. But Will couldn’t worry about that for the moment; he saw the man’s arm come up, saw the menacing black body of the weapon. Fortunately, the man was nervous, and clumsy, and untrained. Will slid to the side, grabbed the gun by the slide, and struck the man’s wrist with the heel of his hand. The gun came out of the stranger’s grasp easily, and just like that all of the fight went out of him. He slumped to his knees, his head hanging, while Will held the gun well away from his body.

Sound came rushing back. Will’s ears were ringing, and he realized the gun must have fired. His parishioners were, in fact, yelling and running around. Will was panting.

Did anyone call the police? he called.

* * *

Fighting Priest Defends Baltimore Church From Gunman, ran the Associated Press.

Baltimore’s Fighting Priest Has a Law Enforcement Background, crowed The Baltimore Sun.

Will did not see himself on the evening news—he didn’t even own a television—but he was assured by many emails and phone calls from his parishioners that he’d looked very dashing. He assumed that WJZ also gave him the title The Fighting Priest.

Everyone gets their fifteen minutes of fame. It would blow over before Christmas.

* * *

Twenty people came to Tuesday evening Bible study, which was about ten more than the church library was really designed to hold. Most of them were people Will didn’t even recognize, whose Bibles remained shut in their laps as they made doe eyes at him. One young man kept staring at Will’s collar and licking his lips. Will ignored them as best as he could and focused on Romans 15:4-13, but that offered refuge only until Bible study ended, at which point he gave equal weight to the possibility of fleeing to his office and hiding there, or simply heading straight for his car.

Father Connor, said one young woman with dark hair and blue eyes, who was really very pretty and seemed quite sweet, but whom Will had no interest in whatsoever, especially since she seemed young enough to be his daughter, so, I grew up Catholic, but I left when I was a teenager because I disagreed with its teachings about, like, women and stuff, but the Episcopalian church ordains women right? I read about it on Wikipedia, and it seems like they’re a lot more progressive about that kind of stuff.

I read that Episcopalian priests, like, don’t have to be celibate and stuff, said another young woman, with a blonde pixie-cut and a tattoo of a star on her hand. Is that true?

Um, Will began, while in his head a high, screaming voice babbled Dear God please get me away from these people.

Father Connor.

That voice, deep and masculine not at all demanding, came from behind Will. He turned, and there in the doorway was the psychiatrist who’d years ago—before Will had come to this parish— purchased the church’s old community space for use as his office. Will passed him on the street sometimes, or smiled at him in the parking lot, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever exchanged more than two words altogether with the man.

Hello, said the psychiatrist. He had his dark green peacoat buttoned up to his throat and a fine leather briefcase in his hand. I was hoping to catch you before you left. I wanted to know your opinion about the community patrols that they’re hoping to start on Brush St., to reduce the amount of car thefts and vandalism that occur there.

Yes! I would love to talk to you about that! Will exclaimed, even though he hadn’t the least idea what the man was talking about, and to his knowledge there wasn’t much in the way of theft and vandalism on that street. We were just finishing up here, he glanced around; his actual parishioners in attendance had finished stacking the chairs, while the Fighting Priest fans hovered between bored and petulant, so, er, I’m sorry, but if any of you would like to speak to me further, please call during regular business and ask Ursula to make an appointment with me. Thank you for coming, and may God be with you!

He fled, with his neighbor, toward the parking lot.

Now what’s this about community policing? Will asked.

Oh, that was nothing, the psychiatrist said, lips twitching. I made that up to get you out of there. You looked like a rabbit caught in a trap, surrounded by foxes.

Will gave a bark of laughter. That was how I felt. Well, I owe you one, Dr.—?

Dr. Faust. As a matter of fact, I have been meaning to speak to you, but your church administrator informed me that yesterday was your day off. Did you know the gunman was one of my patients?

Will started. No, I didn’t.

I had just referred him, as a matter of fact. That gun may have been meant for me that day, and why he chose to take it to your church is a mystery to me. I’m grateful that you were able to put a stop to it without bloodshed, and I am in deep admiration of your bravery.

It wasn’t bravery, Will said, as he had said dozens of times since Sunday, it was—

Instinct, I know. Dr. Faust smiled. A product of your years on the police force. But I remain grateful, and I would like to express that gratitude by asking you to dinner at my home.

They came to their cars, parked side by side in the tiny lot behind the church. Will blinked. I—

Please, said Dr. Faust. I insist. Tomorrow night?

Will swallowed. He had some vague idea that dinner at Dr. Faust’s house was a big deal. He wasn’t one for the papers, but some of his parishioners were very into the society pages, and Dr.

Faust’s name was not an infrequent one. He had glimpsed a grainy color photograph once of Dr.

Faust in a tuxedo, champagne flute in hand, standing next to a Senator or someone else of import.

Sure, he said.

* * *

Will’s discomfort mounted as his Volvo crawled past increasingly fine, large houses in well-to-do suburban neighborhoods and entered a truly upscale neighborhood, where the homes were set back quite a ways from the street, behind wrought-iron gates and circular driveways. Some of them already had their Christmas lights up: not the cheerful, overwrought, multicolored spectacles of YouTube, but tasteful white lights in straight lines on the eaves and around the windows, elegant illuminated cones meant to represent Christmas trees on their manicured lawns, the occasional spangle of a star in a window.

He had never been welcome in neighborhoods like these as a youth, with his patched clothes and his hands reeking of fish guts and motor oil. The very presence of his Volvo might be bringing down property values.

Dr. Faust’s house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, and Will had to sit in the car for a moment and just gape. It looked like a museum, with columns reminiscent of a Greek temple. He didn’t have his lights up yet. Did the man live here all by himself?

Maybe he could talk Dr. Faust into donating to the church.

Uncertain of where to park—he saw no sign of Dr. Faust’s Bentley—he left his car just to one side of the front door and made his way up the steps, where he couldn’t decide whether or not to use the heavy bronze door knocker or the doorbell. He was spared by Dr. Faust opening the door. Ah, Father Connor. Come in.

You can call me Will, he said. He was in jeans and boots and a plaid button-down, his normal attire when he wasn’t in vestments. There was no welcome mat, and he hoped he wasn’t tracking anything unspeakable onto the polished floors. Dr. Faust was wearing a three-piece suit. Sorry, was there a dress code? I think I’m underdressed.

Nothing of the sort; you are welcome just as you are. Dr. Faust led the way through a gold-and-cream foyer with an eye-straining pattern on the marble floor and down a deep indigo hallway. Will caught a glimpse of a taxidermied antelope head above the fireplace in his living room; peacock feathers in a vase in the corner; a Degas reproduction on the wall, or was that the real thing? Vaulted ceilings gave the home a cathedral effect. Will could see why Dr. Faust had wanted the old church community hall for his office, though it and his home must cost a fortune to heat in the winter.

The dining room was deep blue, with a pair of French doors that looked out onto a garden, where Will could see a tiny bridge arched over a koi pond. A wall of herbs—parsley, rosemary, oregano, basil, and more that Will could not make out—lent the room a faint earthy fragrance. Dr. Faust seated Will across the table and held up a bottle of wine. Will nodded, throat tight, and watched as Dr. Faust filled his glass halfway with a jewel-dark liquid. He picked it up and took a large gulp without really thinking about it, and was startled by the complexity of flavor that bloomed across his tongue. Suddenly he understood what all those wine reviews meant when they talked about velvety texture and bold, fruity finish. He looked up to see Dr. Faust smiling at him with genuine pleasure.

It’s good, said Will, though it must have been apparent from his expression.

I’m glad to hear it, said Dr. Faust. He placed the bottle back on the table and adjusted his cuffs. He paused. Do you have any dietary restrictions?

Will shook his head.

Excellent.

Dr. Faust brought out two plates, each one arranged so artfully that Will felt like he was at a restaurant he’d never be able to afford under ordinary circumstances. Four delicate slices of pork tenderloin fanned out across one side of the plate, while on the other was a small, almond-shaped mound of something fluffy and orange. It looked like sorbet but couldn’t be sorbet.

Pork tenderloin, with apple butter and pureed sweet potato mash, said Dr. Faust as he took his own seat.

Thank you. Will picked up his silverware and belatedly remembered to put his napkin in his lap. This looks amazing.

You’re welcome. It’s the least I can do for a local hero. Dr. Faust smiled as he cut into his tenderloin and ran it through the drizzle of apple butter. Will followed his example. "Will you tell me how it happened? I’ve read the newspaper articles, but they contain very little of your point of