The Gathering Dark Read Online Free PDF Page A

many others to be dealt with . . . and most of those, unsettlingly enough, were a hell of a lot bigger than the hideous, contorted, glaring thing in the jar.
    Currently the priest was bent over a sheaf of loose, yellowed pages that had come from a thirteenth-century French manuscript that some fool had tried to burn once upon a time. The other volumes used in his research had been set aside, and though the computer screen threw its dim glow upon the desk, it also sat dormant and ignored. The scorched lower corners of the pages had left certain phrases forever obliterated, and some only partially blackened and obscured. But without those words . . .
    “Shit!” Father Jack snapped.
    He sighed and sat back in his chair with a heartfelt sigh sliding down so as to almost disappear beneath his desk. His eyes itched and he reached up to remove his wire-rimmed glasses, rubbed at the corners of his eyes, and massaged the bridge of his nose. There was a two-day growth of reddish-gold stubble on his chin that matched the color of his hair. He needed a shower, and a shave, and some rest. But first he needed to solve the problem that was before him.
    So much for intuition. Had he actually thought he was going to be able to figure out what those missing phrases would have been just by context? Arrogant jackass , he thought miserably.
    Father Jack slid his glasses back on, and when he glanced up, he was eye to eye with the little Cythraul. Its hideous, desiccated face was pressed up against the glass of the jar, three-fingered hands planted on either side of it, grinning at him, relishing his frustration. He had never seen it so active, so aware.
    An involuntary shudder went through him, and Father Jack cursed inwardly that he had allowed the thing to get to him. Abruptly he stood, the legs of his chair squeaking on the wood floor, and he snatched the jar from the shelf and slapped his palm over the top, covering the air holes.
    “Don’t mess with me today,” Father Jack muttered.
    The Cythraul snarled, thin lips peeling impossibly far back to reveal tiny little needle teeth that filled its mouth. Its orange eyes went wide and it hurled itself upward at the lid of the jar, gnashing its fangs at the metal, hoping to get just a taste of his flesh. It would slow in a moment and then fall into a kind of coma. But it would not suffocate; it would not die.
    As the little demon began to falter, all the anger went out of the priest and he shook his head and put the jar back on the shelf, sighing once more, knowing it was overly dramatic but not caring. A little drama always made him feel better.
    When he looked up, Bishop Gagnon was standing in the open doorway of the office with his arms crossed, face as pale as always, one pure white eyebrow raised in inquiry.
    “Roommate problems?” the aged Bishop asked.
    Father Jack chuckled and it occurred to him that there was an edge of madness to it. He looked up sharply, wanting to make sure the Bishop did not think so as well. He was far from insane, though a little more of this might well turn him into a lunatic eventually.
    “I couldn’t kill him if I wanted to,” Father Jack said. He leaned against his desk and slid his hands into the pockets of his black pants. Black everything, after all. It was the uniform. “And I want to. That’s the thing, Michel. I want to.”
    “As well you should,” the old man said, his words still accented with his native French. “But that is the difficulty of the job we have set out for us, Jack. With all of the shadows loosed upon the world, all the darkness returning, we must attempt to recreate the knowledge that once kept them under our control.”
    “Not our control. Theirs. Careful the way you phrase things, Michel.”
    “Of course,” said the Bishop, one hand fluttering upward in dismissal. “Of course.”
    It was a constant struggle between them. Fully a decade had passed since the Roman Catholic Church had splintered and collapsed. Revelations