While York was assigning his attribute points, the twenty-kilometer drive from his house—never far to begin with—took about half an hour.
As usual, with sensible Ed and Drew around, York had nothing to do beyond hoisting the backpack full of holy C4; he simply watched the two men ferry everything to his doorstep.
"Father, it's all here."
Ed exhaled, clapping his hands clean.
"Mm." York smiled. "Ed, thank you for the help."
"No need, Father Yorkes." Ed shook his head.
"Truth is, you've done far more for us."
With that, Ed glanced back at the eight-seater SUV waiting for him and, though he'd asked once already, couldn't help repeating the question.
"Father Yorkes, the trouble with Lorraine—it's settled, yes?"
"Of course." Facing The Warrens—reliable font of attribute points—York remained patient.
"The taint clinging to Lorraine has thinned; as long as she keeps my Cross, it'll vanish in a few days."
From what he now knew, York believed the taint on both Janet and Lorraine was a beacon planted by the demon masquerading as a nun.
Those words lifted a huge weight from Ed's heart. "Thank you, Father Yorkes. Without you, we'd have had no idea what to do before things turned worse."
"We're friends, Ed; no need for thanks." York gave a calm smile.
"As long as you keep this childlike heart that stands against the supernatural, the Lord will guard you—and I'll stand with you as well."
"I will, Father Yorkes. I will." Ed nodded, utterly earnest.
To York, Ed's face shone with the same devotion he'd seen on veteran believers; if Heaven existed, this fellow surely had a ticket inside, he mused.
"Then we'll be off, Father Yorkes."
Ed continued.
"Goodbye, Ed." York replied evenly.
"Goodbye, Father Yorkes."
---
Watching the SUV depart, York hoisted his backpack and headed inside; at last he had a moment to make a call.
After stowing the Holy Hand Grenades, holy enchanted ammo, SHAK-12 and the rest—leaving the holy-C4 backpack at his feet—he sprawled on the sofa, found Old Mike's number and dialled.
Though Lorraine's threat was ended, those forty mission points were still up for grabs, and he had no intention of letting them slip. His arsenal now gave him reach; his stockpiled ordnance wasn't for show.
If every round failed, he still had mana and Spirit; if those ran dry, his raw physique could brawl toe-to-toe.
Worst case, the eternal power of faith would let him fight like the ancient priests—Cross in one hand, Bible in the other, shouting "Lord!" at the demon to see who roared louder.
And if even that failed… he could run. At the thought York chuckled; he really was getting ridiculous.
"York?"
The call connected and Old Mike's voice came through, checking.
York reined in his wandering mind. "Yeah, it's me."
At the same moment, in a room crowded with research gear, Old Mike sat deep inside on a swivel chair, staring at the ceiling.
"Knew you'd ring."
Sprawled likewise on his sofa, York smiled at the ceiling. "Father Mike, you know me—evil crossed my path, I can't walk away."
"Cut the sermons; I know you. You might fool others, not me." Old Mike's weathered face twitched; he cut in before York could retort.
"Fine, fine. Listen up."
He turned to the scattered files on his desk, voice turning grave.
"You've heard about Saint Kata Monastery in Romania?"
York recalled the dossier: unlike urban convents, this one dated from the fifth-to-fifteenth-century Dark Ages, a women-only cloister built deep in the mountains, closed to outsiders.
Hence the French supplier who delivered provisions.
"Mm," York answered.
"Know why that Frenchman came to America?" Old Mike held a file one-handed. "He found a nun who'd hanged herself—and every other sister dead under bizarre circumstances."
"Suicide? All dead?"
York frowned; suicide violated doctrine, damning the soul.
"Suspicious, right?" Old Mike's brows knit as he read. "The Frenchman saw something in that monastery, kept quiet and fled to the States. Whatever it was, he was already compromised."
York stared at the ceiling, murmuring, "It's hunting people with the Spiritual Medium Physique."
"Hmm?" Old Mike hadn't caught the words, but experience told him York had stumbled onto a link.
"What case have you hit now?"
"Nothing," York deflected. "Father Mike, if Falanci Renqi kept silent, how did we learn about the massacre?"
Old Mike obliged the shift. "The local supplier found the Frenchman gone, took the scheduled delivery to Saint Kata himself—and found the place."
He added the crucial detail.
"The local church filed a report; headquarters may dispatch investigators. If you want the case, grab it before they do."
York glanced at his ever-present quest window. "I will, Father Mike."
Recognising the tone, Old Mike spoke just before the line clicked dead.
"York… my Hili is in Romania too."