The priest adjusted his thin spectacles, as if shifting his glasses would somehow cause what he saw to make sense. “It's a slab of concrete, Clarion.”

Four years ago a bishop in Germany had called him right when he was preparing to go to bed; father Nigel didn't know a word of German, and the bishop's english was marginal at best. They both had often resorted to using Latin to explain something neither of them could manage in their own language, but eventually they made sense of one another. He had been asked all sorts of questions about strange creatures and if he felt that there might be other beings in the universe and how much he could be trusted to keep a secret. It all didn't seem real until the reason for all the conversation shuffled into his office one cold wintery day, pulled back the hood of her jacket, unwound the scarves, and then looked at him with the deepest green eyes he had ever seen in his life. Ever since then her visits were times of learning for both of them, and rarely were they boring. But he believed Clarion was one of God's children, and she needed him. So he would do all he could to help her find her way.

It was just instances like this where she brought him strange things that he wondered if he should have gone into law like his father wished.

Clarion had the slab wrapped in plastic and cloth, she had peeled away enough for him to look at the package and was now wrapping it back up again. “It's the keystone to an altar. I found it in South America.” She offered him the package. “Feel the weight.”

“I'm going to guess that you didn't rob a church or a mission to bring me a gift.” He took the bundle and hefted it. It was surprisingly light.

Those triangular ears of hers flattened. “It's from the temple of Chimacoatl. He was a tribal leader. He had thirty wives and one son.” She frowned. “It's made of bone.”

The priest adjusted his glasses again. “Clarion, if I want to see artifacts I can always go to a museum.”

She shook her head, swirling that pure white fur in the process. “When his son was born he didn't want any further heirs. He believed that the more sons and daughters he had, the more competition there would be for his empire. So whenever a child was born to one of his wives they killed it, and then used the bones to....” She placed a hand on the mortar block and let the evidence say the rest. “Timothy sent me to get a box of his that was stolen. I found a.... very unpleasant man with it. He also had this.”

Nigel was grateful that Catholics had little stigma on drinking. He was probably going to need half a bottle of wine at least if he had any hope of sleeping tonight. “Shouldn't this be in your employer's hands for safe keeping?”

“Timothy doesn't deal in things like this, it isn't magic. It's just something with such a dark history that someone could use it as a focus or a means of getting the attention of evil things.” She flattened her palms against the bundle. “I thought that since you have a Saint Joseph garden here, you could at least give it a proper burial.”

The priest steepled his fingers as he studied the wrapped bundle. He remembered seminary where he was expected to believe in miracles and demons and was warned he might have to deal with both, but always on a subtle level. Never in a lifetime would he have believed this would be part of his career as a priest. Yet, he took the oaths and vows and even if he didn't feel worthy or strong enough, he had a flock to tend to and a role to play.

“I'll feel better if we bless it first. My secretary brought some marigold flowers that she wanted planted in the garden after the frost killed her zinnias. We'll bury the children in the garden and then plant the flowers above them.” He pushed his hands on the table and slowly rose to stand. “Do you want to help?”

She smiled, and her tail swished behind her in what Nigel had observed as a gesture of relief. “I'd like to see this through to the end.” She gathered up her bundle, hugging it to her chest as she followed the priest into the sanctuary.

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4x6 image in copic marker and gelpen.