and excel in the defunct system of public indoctrination. It wasn’t as though Marc was the valedictorian, or even an honor student. Still, he pulled a good enough GPA to get into UMass.
College came across as an institution purposefully designed to woo a well-intentioned divinity student away from priestly ways. Behind every corner stood any number of temptations: booze, sex, drugs, parties.
The Anime Club.
But if there was one thing Marcello Angeletti was not, it was a quitter. Obstacles only made him more obstinate; he didn’t try to find a way around things, he freaking dropped a nuclear bomb on anything in his path. So, in the time span of one semester, Marc went from happenstance seminary groupie to the reincarnation of Reverend Parris, and the UMass campus was his Salem Village. Picking up a few acolytes of like persuasion, his little campus crew quickly developed a reputation as religious fanatics, and were dubbed “The Zealies.” He took out his fervor — and lack of normal social functions — in study, finishing his BD in three years, instead of four. Shortly before graduation, he and his posse picked up on the rumor of a wiccan group meeting just off campus. The Zealies considered the opportunity to crash it the perfect send off for Marc before he entered the seminary.
The rundown Victorian-manse-turned-tiny-rentals didn’t look from the outside like a coven’s keep. Still, Marc knew that plain looks could conceal evil realities. Just look at his mother, for crying out loud. When he entered the top-floor apartment from the open door, crucifix in hand and damnation on his tongue, the last thing he expected was to have a blast of energy thrown at him. The last thing the witch doing the throwing expected was for Marc suddenly to conjure up his own latent magic abilities and rebound back at her.
In the weeks that followed, ripples of his magical talents manifested further, spreading like a rash over his whole aura and body. At first, he thought himself cursed, but admitted to himself that he rather liked the ability to reheat cold coffee just by staring at it. The Zealies declared him possessed, a theory he couldn’t entirely discredit. Unease and unfounded guilt inspired another round of hyperactive study, letting him take on his work at the seminary in abbreviated time. The attention his herculean efforts garnered fed his ego. When he became a priest at the relatively young age of twenty-four, he hit the ground running in Alabama, trying his best to subdue the side of his nature that told him he could do more, be more, and acquire power.
The church came first. He made his vows, and he was going to stick to them come Hell or — well, Hell. Magic? If one believed that all things came from God, then surely that could be attributed to the divine as well, couldn’t it? And anything given by God couldn’t be bad.
Now, staring down the barrel of thirty, firm in purpose, if not in product, there was a shift again in his world. Marc sucked in the taste of his Marlboro as his thoughts turned to Riona Dade.
God also gave hurricanes, earthquakes, plagues, and humans the ability to create disco. Clearly, the theory that all His gifts were good was one cup size short of a Kardashian.
Riona Dade — she was just too… ungh. Marc had never thought about what his perfect woman would be like; being a man of the cloth didn’t give him much of a reason to speculate. Yet, if he had been pressed to outline such a creature roughly, Riona would fill out that sketch pretty well. She had just the right balance of street smarts, sophistication, and I-don’t-give-a-damn-what-the-hell-you-think for his taste. Not to mention she was freaking hot. As a priest, he knew true beauty lay within, but he was willing to bet becoming intimate with Riona’s inner beauty would be one hell of a joy ride.
Treating her like trash wasn’t exactly copacetic for team spirit, but a Pure Souls office romance could have serious consequences. It had happened before, and the results weren’t pretty. Not to mention that whole cardinal sin thing on his end, which would be expected if he were to lay one of the laymen.
After fishing his keys from his pocket, Marc unlocked the deadbolt to his studio apartment. Priests living solo in such an urban area definitely weren’t the norm, but the rectory wasn’t for him. Communal living was way overrated. Living alone gave