Michael refuses. Silas laughs. “You already served one master who sent boys to die,” he says. “At least I’m honest about the cost.”
Fifty-three people. Including Mrs. Czernin, who brought me homemade pierogies every Thursday and never once asked why I smelled like whiskey at 10 a.m. Including Deacon Roy, who had Parkinson’s and still managed to ring the bell with his forehead when his hands failed. Including Maria. Catastrophic Priest Novel
One cold November night, during a sparsely attended vigil, the church explodes. Not from a gas leak or arson—but from a pillar of silent, white fire that falls from the ceiling like a guillotine. Michael is thrown through the sacristy door. He survives. His fifty-three parishioners do not. Michael refuses
Michael laughs until he weeps. He doesn’t know if Silas survived, if the girl is a hallucination, or if Heaven and Hell are just two sides of the same catastrophic coin. He picks up his rusted dog tags, touches the crude cross he carved from a burnt pew, and whispers the first prayer he’s meant in years: “At least I’m honest about the cost
Especially Maria.
I said: “No, honey. God is forever.”