Sting Of Faith
Minutes bled slow and thick in the Carey house bathroom, the clawfoot tub a still, oily shrine under the single bare bulb’s jaundice glow. Vera Kingsley knelt beside it, her knees aching on the cracked tile, her bandaged hand hovering inches over Kivior Thames’ submerged shoulder—his skin mottled purple and black, welts weeping yellow pus that clouded the holy water. They seemed like a defeated squad of valiant soldiers, who had just gone through a terrible battle that they unfortunately lost. Down and in the dumps.
The olive oil slick shimmered unbroken on the surface, a golden funeral veil over the preacher’s bloated, unrecognizable form. Kane Baker paced the narrow space, his boots scuffing dust, the stings on his arms throbbing like hot coals buried under skin, each pulse a reminder of the swarm’s fury; the price they paid for ignoring the warning of the demoness.
How had bees—thousands, a living nightmare—nested in a locked library locker, sealed for who-knows-how-long? What venom turned a man of faith into that—a swollen, alien lump, face melted into horror? Kane’s mind raced: Moriah’s trick, Elena’s axe, the jingling—all connected. Vera’s eyes stayed fixed on Kivior, watching for a twitch, a bubble, anything. “Come on, preacher,” she whispered, voice raw. “Fight.”
The police radio clipped to Vera’s belt crackled to life—sharp, urgent, slicing the silence like a knife. “Greenly Bay Sheriff, this is County Dispatch—neighboring jurisdiction. Missing child report. Tommy Hargrove, age seven, freckled, pajamas. Last seen near town park. Parents frantic—calling all units.”
Vera’s blood ran cold, her hand freezing mid-air. Kane froze mid-pace—Hargrove. He knew the family; Tommy’s dad, Bill, fished the river with him summers, taught the boy to cast a line. Little Tommy—seven, same bells that haunted Kane’s dreams.
“I’m the only cop in town till Saturday,” Vera muttered, standing fast, her thigh wound screaming as she grabbed her sheriff’s hat from the sink. New deputies—state reinforcements—days away, weekend at earliest. “I’ll take it. Park’s not far.”
“Are you sure you should go alone? The last time a kid went missing like this…” Kane caught his words, not willing to remind anyone of the terrible ordeal.
“I don’t have a choice, Kane. If I don’t go, who will? And we can’t let another kid end up dead so soon after the last one. It could unravel everything,”
Kane nodded, his voice low, steady despite the dread. “I want to come with you, but what about him?”
They looked at the preacher. Vera knew they couldn’t leave him and so did Kane, “Go. I’ll watch Kivior. If he wakes…”
Vera met his eyes—grief, determination—and was gone, door slamming behind her, truck engine roaring to life outside, tires spitting gravel into the night.
Kane was alone with the corpse-that-wasn’t-quite. He checked the preacher again—no breath misting the oil, no twitch in the swollen fingers, the water pink and still. He sank to the cold floor, back against the tub, exhaustion crashing over him like a wave. The stings burned hotter now, venom itching under skin. As if that wasn’t enough, the sound of her nail-biting voice suddenly pierced through his ears, startling him a little bit.
“Foolish Baker. Till this day, wisdom still remains a spirit that humanity can’t seem to have a good relationship with. You’re all so weak and insignificant, and yet you think you know it all. It’s very ridiculous.”
The voice—wet, layered, ancient—slithered from the mirror. Moriah materialized in the glass—seven feet tall, midnight skin gleaming, crimson eyes glowing like forge coals, horns curling like living smoke. Her smile was a razor, cutting through the steam. Kane jolted upright, heart hammering, axe-less, hands empty.
“You ignored my warning,” she purred, voice rippling the oily water without touch, mocking, scolding. “The Library is a door—closed for a reason. The preacher was going to choose to enter it whether I warned him or not, and even if you and the sheriff hadn’t showed up, he would have still been swarmed. Faith stings sweetest.”
Kane’s throat tightened, rage and fear churning. Her words made her seem like she was miles ahead of them; an unbeatable enemy.
“What did you do to him?” he growled, glancing at Kivior’s floating horror.
Moriah’s laugh bubbled like drowning.
“Worry less about him, Baker. I have a feeling he may just pull through. I’d worry more about yourselves.” Her eyes flared, pinning him. “You. The sheriff. Stung. I’m an agent of variety, Kane. I deal in the covenants of blood, and with blood, every sin can be covered – every curse can be cast and every will can be broken.”
Kane’s hand flew instinctively to the back of his neck—the welt there, swollen, burning hotter now, venom spreading like ice under skin. He had been stung—slapped the bee dead in the chaos, forgotten in the fight. Vera too—her arms, her cheek. Realization dawned, cold and sharp.
“What did you do to us?” he demanded, voice cracking, standing, the bathroom suddenly smaller, Moriah’s reflection growing. Kane’s fingers dug into the welt, venom pulsing.
“Oh, Kane. If you knew how deep this goes, it would probably drive you to insanity. Let’s hope you don’t get to uncover much…”
Moriah’s eyes glowing in the mirror—Kivior’s corpse floating behind him, the oil veil rippling with her laughter, the sting’s secret already burrowing deep. Whatever she had done, the effects may yet prove to great to bear.