I stretched my legs in the parking lot of my apartment. I had woken earlier than I thought I would, and wanted to burn off some steam. I did a few jumping jacks to warm up, and then checked my phone. I had a missed call from an unknown number, but shrugged it off. Telemarketers had gotten my number a few weeks back, and it was almost a daily occurrence now. I slipped the phone into my armband, and began to jog. The church was only about fifteen minutes away by a light jog, and then I could say good morning to Father David, letting him know I was heading downstairs to train, and give him an update on Roland.

I worked out religiously, using it as a form of meditation, and after the past two nights, I needed some fucking tranquility, dammit.

I didn’t sprint or try to set any records, I just moved, stretching out my strides in a steady pace, appreciating the burn, and knowing that someday soon, working out would become a requirement to maintain my body. Not yet, but I didn’t want to be caught by surprise.

I decided I would take an hour to see my dad today. It had been a week, and he always seemed to make me feel better. Grounding my anxiety.

I let my mind wander, breathing deeply. My nightmare. I had beaten it, kind of. It had still almost gotten me killed, but seeing Claire’s resolve, and then her in very real danger had silenced it. For the most part. Which was a huge accomplishment.

But thinking of my dad and the nightmare together brought back memories. He and my mom were — indirectly, of course — the reason I had the nightmares. Which made them sound like bad people, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Terry and Sarah Penrose were some of the kindest people I had ever met.

Remembering how focusing on my nightmare seemed to have helped me gain some self-control, I decided to try the same here, going back to the source of the nightmare itself. A jog would be the perfect time to do so, as I would be completely uninterrupted for the next fifteen minutes or so.

I grew up much as any middle-class American girl. Small neighborhood. Outskirts of the big city. Parents who worked hard but didn’t make a ton. And kids behind every door on my street.

That’s how I first met Claire.

She had been a neighbor and we had fast become friends at a very young age, getting into all sorts of trouble together over the following years. But when I was ten-years-old, my life had taken a turn… I remembered it now in full detail.

Claire and I were playing on the swings in her back yard. Her mom came out with a small tray of sandwiches and a smile — only to tease Claire with a small piece of paper in her other hand. A baby picture.

She had been pudgy, rosy cheeked, and looked like a little old man. I thought to myself — as they laughed back and forth — that I had never seen a picture like that before. Of me, as a baby.

I asked my parents about it that evening. They turned to each other, smiles still plastered on their faces, but their eyes didn’t smile. I began to wonder if I had done something wrong with my chores. But that wasn’t the case. They wrapped me up in blankets, hugs, kisses, and carried me into the living room.

After two cups of hot chocolate brimming with marshmallows, they finally stopped stalling, and told me a story. They had adopted me.

For years and years, they had tried to have a baby, but had been unsuccessful. They then tried adoption agency after adoption agency, even hitting up churches in their area, to see if anyone knew an affordable way for them to adopt.

But none of the answers helped them.

It was too expensive. My parents needed to take all three siblings or none — when they barely had enough money for one baby. Teenaged foster children that had gone through very challenging struggles, and needed one of my parents to stay home to watch over and supervise. But my parents couldn’t afford that reduction in income.

And they wanted a baby.

After years of trying, they gave up.

More than a year went by, when one day, a man from one of the churches they had approached called to ask if they were still interested or if they had found another solution. My parents hadn’t held out much hope, but agreed to at least go to the church.

Abundant Angel Catholic Church.

That was when they met Father David — the same man that now worked with Roland. But Roland wasn’t in the picture yet. That would come years later…

Father David told them a story, about finding me on the steps of their church in a rainstorm a few weeks prior. He had opened the door, found me there, and immediately took me in, making sure I was healthy while he worked out the legalities of what he needed to do.

The Vatican helped him take guardianship of me while he searched out potential parents.

And purely by happenstance, my parents had been near the top of the list, and the people ahead of them had already found other solutions. If they said no, he had arrangements to send me to an orphanage in Utah, of all places. So, Terry and Sarah Penrose became parents to a very young, white-haired toddler. And they had never looked back. Because there was nothing to look back on. No one had ever found an explanation for my appearance, but it was assumed that I was the progeny of a prostitute, or a druggie, or any number of sad stories.

But I was healthy with a bubbling temperament, and that’s all the Penrose’s cared about.

That night was the first time I had my nightmare, reimagining the things I had been told, but in a much darker light. Usually with shadows slipping through the darkness, or laughter behind me, or a sense of my biological mother being relieved as soon as she sat me down on the steps and banged on the door to the church.

Typical childhood fancy. Make something worse than what it was, when in fact, I had absolutely nothing to complain about. Terry and Sarah Penrose had been the best of parents. Not rich in coin, but what they lacked in deposit accounts at a bank, they made up for with their savings accounts.

Because for years and years, they had been investing a little bit of love into an imaginary savings account in their hearts, waiting for the day that they could give that savings account to their baby, even though they had long ago given up hope.

To be honest, I now considered myself to be the luckiest girl in the world. And to hell with my shitty past. Never had parents loved a child more than they loved me, and if they hadn’t told me, I never would have known. I wouldn’t have believed it if anyone else had told me.

That’s how much love they had in their savings accounts.

But… the fear still gripped me. Why had my biological mother given me up? Had I not been pretty enough? Had I behaved like a nightmare? Had she simply not cared for me? Had my father made her give me up? The possibilities were endless, but my fears stemmed from one facet of all of them.

Someone hadn’t loved me enough to take care of me, and that had to mean that for some reason I wasn’t good enough.

I had received help, seen psychologists, and as the years went by, studied my own self-help books in order to squash this feeling. Rationally, I knew it didn’t matter. But it never hit me at moments of rational thought. Only when I wasn’t looking. When surprised, afraid, overwhelmed, stressed, or caught off guard. That’s when it sucker-punched me.

Like my very own monster under my bed… in the dark bedroom of my mind.

I felt a small tear on my cheek and wiped it away. Not a tear of sadness, but… one of joy, remembering how much they had loved me, all the things we had done, trips we had taken. Biological or not, they were my true parents. My mother had died of cancer in my late teens, but if there was a Heaven, I knew she was smiling down on me now. I wanted to make her proud.

And with a slight stumble, I realized that I felt relieved. Focusing on their love had helped me. The nightmare still lurked, but it was almost as if remembering their love had locked the door on it. I could still hear it, scrabbling against the door, but it couldn’t reach me as easily.

I smiled.

And heard a crash from the alley behind me. I whirled instinctively, hand rushing to my chest. The church loomed up behind me, fifty yards away.

But that fifty yards may as well have been a mile as the monster smiled at me. A Demon.

She was cloaked in yellowish fog, and tucked against the wall as if wanting to stay hidden from prying eyes if possible. I slowly began to back up, thinking furiously. She smiled, or seemed to smile, the smoke shifting and eddying around her as she glided closer, matching me.

“Stand still or I will kill you here, in sight of your church,” she hissed in a low tone.

I stopped, hoping and fearing that someone from the church or the adjacent buildings would see the monster. The scent of rotten eggs slowly drifted my way, a gentle breeze having prevented me from sensing it before she startled me. “What do you want?” I managed.

She studied me, form rippling. Her breasts were much more prominent now, and her hips were visible, wide child bearing hips. “Cease your meddling, child. Or you shall meet your Maker.”

I ignored the sudden wave of goose-flesh over my arms, and took a cautious step back. “I am not meddling. You have your piece of the spear. I have none,” I said, continuing to walk backwards. She was growing angry, her fingers slowly extending in white-hot claws

But I stayed to the center of the alley leading up to the back of the church. She would have to step out into the open, and I was ready to scream for all I was worth, or cast a big boom of magic that would draw people running from blocks away if I had to.

“Stay still, child. You’re in over your head. I have no quarrel with you, yet. But that can always change. Stop moving!”

I didn’t.

Instead, I turned and ran as fast as I could. She let out a roar behind me, and I darted to the right as a lance of flame flew past me, crashing into an invisible wall in midair, splashing over an unseen shield of some sort. I didn’t have time to question that as I pumped my legs faster, racing past the space where the fire had hit. I crossed the property line, darting back and forth, staring at the door to the church. Surely, a Demon couldn’t—

The sounds behind me had stopped, and the stench was gone. I risked a glance over my shoulder to see I was all alone. My eyes darted back and forth as I backed away, eager to get inside. Then it hit me. I had crossed the property line of the church. That’s where the fire had hit. The air directly above the property line of the church, almost as if an invisible dome rose up from that blessed line on the ground. I had thought the church itself would be safe, but hadn’t considered the property around the church. But it made sense. It had acted as a wall against her, even though I wasn’t religious. It had still protected me. I felt my ass bump into a wall and almost jumped out of my skin before realizing it was the door to the church. With one last look, I slipped inside, panting as I sank to the floor.

I definitely needed help. And I needed to warn Father David about this.