Teaser Tuesday ~ a page from Holy Devil

I'm definitely feeling lazy in my second week of vacation. But I did work in two new little flower/display gardens under the Colorado blue spruces yesterday and boy was I sore!

But today I thought I would share with all of you--and especially my Russian readers who are Rasputin fans, a page from my new short story that's out on Amazon (it is world wide,btw). This tidbit is merely a portion of the iceberg. The ending has quite a twist.

He sprinkled holy water over Anna who snarled at him. He made the sign of the cross over her. With that, she reared back and spat at him. Spittle hit him in the face and ran down his lips and beard. He immediately wiped the spittle with a sleeve. She grunted and laughed at him. Then she made noises like a pig. Obviously there was a very determined demon inside of her. His voice rose in one of his more powerful prayers, as it was in Latin. It usually worked, but the prayer may have to be repeated several times. Walking a clock-wise circle around the woman, he intoned his prayer. His voice thundered, determined to bring the devil out of her. His voice could be heard throughout the rest of the house, possibly outside, as well.

In the midst of prayer, he wet a finger in order to turn the page of the Gospel when the sound of voices out in the hall reached him. He had to ignore all while performing this exorcism, so continued to focus on his task.

Suddenly the door burst open and an excited looking older woman with a babushka over her head stood and took in the scene. The odor of dinner and the fresh outdoors were ushered in with her.

“What are you doing!” he protested.

“I have found him, Anna! I have found him! He is coming!” the woman announced in a rich, yet excited voice.

“Who is coming?” he asked the woman. “I demand you leave! Can't you see what is happening here?”

Ignoring him, she said to Anna, “The starets! The miracle-worker! He is here for you, my dear Anna!” She turned to look back down the hall.

Heavy boot heals tapped determinedly toward them.

“Oh, father, thank you! Thank you!” the older woman said to the tall, thin man who entered the room, and then backed out crossing herself.

The tall stranger stepped through the door wearing a kaftan over a mauve silk shirt, plush black trousers, and boots of the softest leather money could buy. Clearly the wandering wise-man—the holy starets—had traded poverty for a much richer life-style. Improvement of his social position while in the royal family's circle had endowed him with not only power but money from bribes to buy such things. He should be wearing a fur coat. The weather outside is bone-chilling. Perhaps the starets wasn't very far away.

“This is an outrage! What do you mean by this?” Father Sergei's eyes flashed when he got over his surprise. The red hair and beard and flushed face gave the impression that he might burst into flames at any moment. But his tirade was cut off by the man's watery blue eyes, fixed upon him in a stare that made Father Sergei's verve retreat. He swallowed whatever words had been inside him. This holy man's peasant features were unordinary—ugly, if truth be told—but his whole expression was concentrated in his blue eyes, which were at once penetrating and caressing. Then they became keen and piercing as if he could see to the very bottom of his soul.

Father Sergei took the starets in more properly. He had never met the man before, but rumors of him, and what he looked like, and what he did—especially what he believed in and preached—had been rampaging the countryside. He belonged to the Khysty sect. The very idea that one gained redemption through sin was the satanic lie itself! Weather-beaten face like that of a farmer in the harsh environments of the Siberian steppes, the wild brown beard, and the long brown, unkempt hair, carelessly parted—yes! This was he, the one they talked about endlessly. The one pampered, admired and worshiped by ladies from all classes of society from the highest ranking to the lowest of the low. The one who they say had experienced the miracle of the mysterious death after living a life of vagabondage for many years. His clothes were expensive because of the popularity and gain in his position in the court of the royals.

“Grigori Rasputin?” he muttered, his lower lip trembling with awe.

“Yes, little father, it is I. And I see you have cornered the market on frightening defenseless women in their bedrooms!” he said in a startling charismatic voice. His glance darted briefly to the Bible in his hand, but returned to pinion the Father's eyes once again. “Away with you and your scriptures! Can you not see real redemption is found by sinning first, and then repent! That is the only way we shall drive the evil from this one. The filth must be expelled, you hear, little father?” his voice thundered.

Rasputin's stare felt probing and disturbing at the same time. The room swam around him. Father Sergei's limbs seemed heavy as lead, even his eyelids became overwhelmed by sleep. He tried in vain to utter a sound or move, but could not. Before him he saw Rasputin's eyes. They shone with a phosphorescent glow; they seemed to become a fiery ring. His own eyes became heavier; his body leaned, almost falling over before he summoned the last remaining energy to resist. Father Sergei blinked. It was as though the power which held him so, had vanished.

©2012 Lorelei Bell