A/N: Alright, reviewers! You got me. I'll try to continue. Keep the feedback coming!

I love Catholic churches. Don't get me wrong, I'm not anywhere near being Catholic: I've never owned a rosary and the closest I get to saying a "Hail Mary" is singing Ave Maria occasionally at Christmas. I wouldn't even say I'm religious; just spiritual. Very spiritual. Yeah… And this whole, Catholic vs. Protestant vs. Evangelical vs. whatever else the heck you wanna call it is a load of crock to me.

After all, we're all one body in Christ, right? Heh, right.

The truth is that I'd hang out at other churches too but Catholic churches seem to be the only ones that consistently stay open. One location, all the time, open longer hours. They're reliable like that. A safe house.

They're not 'hallowed sacred ground' or anything like that... okay, wait, I guess they are but, I mean, they aren't in the way that TV shows like "Highlander" pretend they are. They aren't places where nothing evil can ever set foot because, believe me, there have been many churches that proved to be the site of a great many evil deeds. It goes back to that whole 'churches are about the people, not the building' thing. But there is something about a church that inspires respect in most beings and it is that respect that makes them purer than, say, the city Metro.

Which is why I found myself in the cool, friendly silence of this sanctuary on a beautiful sunny afternoon hiding out from the creepy guy who had been following me for the last several blocks, ever since I left the supermarket. Some of the summer sunlight filtered in through window glass to fall over a carved image of the Christ that hung at the front of the sanctuary and gazed down at me in pity as though to say, "You think you're miserable? Try being nailed up here."

"Hmm, yes. Excellent point, you morbid piece of artwork, you," I muttered companionably into the empty church. I rolled up the legs of my capris another few inches in an effort to cool down. I was still breathless from my desperate escape from Mr. Icky Stalker-type and ever thankful that the doors had been unlocked and that perverts don't usually like to follow girls into places like this. Unless, of course, they already work here, but that's a totally different matter.

I was just contemplating taking advantage of the moment of privacy to fold up the bottom half of my shirt and speed along my cooling down process when the sound of one of the sanctuary side doors creaking open made me think better of it. I slouched further down on my bench hoping that whoever it was wouldn't see me. Catholic churches, I like. Catholic priests are another thing. Them I'm not so keen on. Okay, actually, I'm just not keen on people in general. People are… baggage, for lack of a better word. Emotional baggage. It hangs off them like so many giant weird growths. I'm not a big fan.

Unfortunately, I am still a bit of a nosy eavesdropper though and whoever had just entered appeared to be in deep discussion. Plus it wasn't like I was ready to risk the creepy pervert still being outside if I left so soon after my narrow escape. There was a good chance he was still hanging around. Oh yeah. I can justify just about anything when I want to.

I strained to hear the new arrivals as they talked quietly in low, intimate voices that made my illicit listening all the more difficult. One of them chuckled then sighed, a soft and gentle sound full of paper fragile old age. And yet still strong. I waited to hear the other's response but there was nothing except the sound of a wayward pigeon fluttering his wings in satisfaction over having snuck his way into the building. The old man who had laughed picked up the murmured conversation again and shuffled across the front of the sanctuary, puttering about and moving things around. Maybe he was cleaning or something; I couldn't see so I couldn't be for sure.

But it didn't really matter. Not really when every time the old man paused in his talk, allowing his quiet companion to speak, his only answer was the flutter of pigeon wings.

Okay, so that made me a little more curious than usual. I hazarded a peek over the back of the pew in front of me. There was only one of them. Or, only one man. It was a priest as I'd expected, methodically making his way along the pews tidying up the song books and welcome cards. His short hair was white but his back straight and strong, supporting a potbelly that pushed against the confines of his shirt. He seemed peaceful, and like that peace might be contagious.

And a step or two behind him, the other one trailed. I couldn't see it really. Not the way that I could see the priest. It occupied space, it existed, moving along behind him invisibly. Like a thing of water or glass, so pristine that you could miss it completely. Its presence as unseen as the faint trail of feeling tracked by the tips of its wings along the floor.

And until I was looking at it, seeing what it was, I didn't realize that I hadn't been hearing it either. Not with my ears. Not with any physical sense that I could name. But with something more, yes. Something that I've always felt and kept to myself.

It is not, in my opinion, what some would call a sixth sense. It is our first sense, the first of many that we experience in our souls. The first to make our skin prickle with something as mine was doing now. Which is when the priest saw me, transfixed as I was, staring at his companion.

"Oh, hello," he greeted me, the sound—physical sound—making me jump a little, "I didn't disturb you did I?" The being with him turned to me, its full attention a force that slammed my heart against my ribcage in panic.

"I—" I forced through my lips, trying to shake my head, trying to move my limbs. But I was interrupted by the front door of the sanctuary banging open. Priest, being, and I all faced the intruder, my head whipping around with such momentum that strands of light brown ponytail stuck themselves to the sweat on my neck.

The new arrival squealed. Wait, no. That wasn't right. He was caught off guard by the priest, that was clear, and his eyes were still adjusting to the dimmer light of the sanctuary. My stalker-pervert from the supermarket rubbed one skinny hand over his eyes then stood in the open vestibule awkwardly, not sure what to do now that he'd come inside and had our full gazes upon him. He fumbled a step backwards while the screeching continued. But the "sound" wasn't coming from him exactly. His baggage was screaming—the thing that clung to him like a growth and whispered in his ear to follow the girl from the grocery store—was shrieking for its life. It had squatted on his back before like a toad, invisible sludgy front legs draped over his shoulders and chest, its feet sinking delicately into his breast where suction tipped toes hid tiny leech mouths. Where before in the market it had croaked lustfully in the man's ear, now the toad thing was throwing back its head and screaming, tugging backward in the direction of the door, back the way its host had come in.

I didn't dare look behind me when it happened but I felt it and I saw it in the toad's reaction: the priest's companion unfurled its wings in an impressive, frightening mass of suddenly threatening movement. The toad thrashed wildly, ready to abandon its prey in order to flee. It tore one leg free of the man's chest, ripping toe-sized portions of soul away with it. My would-be stalker grimaced, the only sign that he was even partially aware of the thing that he carried on his back. With an embarrassed nod of apology, he turned around and slipped back out the door he had come in, taking his toad parasite with him.

Anti-climactic maybe, but I watched the door for a while just to be sure. I felt more shaken than I entirely wanted to be. With a soft rustle, the priest's companion folded its wings and recaptured my attention. I turned my head back to face them.

He had seen it. The priest, I mean. I felt certain he had seen it by the resigned expression with which he regarded the closed sanctuary door. And he knew that the man carrying the toad on his back had seen nothing at all, felt only his urge to enter the church and leave just as quickly.

After a long moment, the priest's pale blue gaze moved from the door to my face, the thoughtful wrinkles around his eyes pleading with me: please tell me you saw it too. But I couldn't. People think you're crazy when you tell them you see things they can't. That you see spirits, demons, angels. That you watched them kill your father. That sometimes when you close your eyes and open yourself you can see them so vividly that they can touch you; and you can hit back. People think you're crazy if you say something like that.

I couldn't say it, no matter how true it was. So instead I said, "Thanks," and gathered up my grocery bags and walked out the front door as fast as I could.

Father O'Bannon watched the young woman scurry out the church, wrapped in his concern. She had seen the brief skirmish between his escort and the man just as he had—more clearly even—he was sure of it. He said as much to his unseen companion. A warm rush of peace and confirmation enveloped him in response. Father O'Bannon smiled at that.

"Yes, you're right," he mused aloud, "It's in the Lord's hands. But she will come back, won't she? "

But there was no answer for the angel was already gone, taken flight on its silent wings to leave him to his faith.