#heads up there's religiony stuff in here fyi

[soyforramen]

Faith

Another update to the urban-fantasy AU I will eventually finish:

-

“Running away again, Jonsey?”

Penny’s voice echoed in the alley around him, her voice surrounding him, trapping him. Jughead gritted his teeth and ran for the street. His side throbbed and screamed with every step, but Betty’s grimoire had held up beautifully. At least until his leather jacket had finally given up under the heat of demon fire and grafted onto his skin.

Sanctuary was close by, so long as the Father was in. Glancing up and down the sidewalk, Jughead realized he was the only one out on the streets this late. That meant that there was no one he’d have to try and save from Penny’s wrath, but it also meant she had nothing to distract her from her pursuit.

Hearing Penny’s footsteps, he stumbled into the street and scrambled towards the sacred steps.

His shoulder screamed when he raised his arm to lift the clunky, rusted gargoyle door knocker. It slammed into the wood, creating a hollow, ominous sound. Panting, Jughead glanced behind him only to have Penny’s smirking face burned into his retinas. Another fire bomb flew his way, and he jumped back onto the thick cement railing. A shock of hellfire lit up his neck and Jughead realized his hat had caught on fire. He threw it towards her and turned back towards the door, only to find it standing strong without a single scorch on it.

“Aw, you think Father is going to save you Jonesy? Just like he saved dear old daddy? Are you gonna scream? Beg for mercy, just like F.P. did back in the old country?” Penny taunted.

The chains around her hips clanked softly in the night air as she sauntered towards him. At least one of them was enjoying this, though Jughead would rather see their roles reversed. Just as she reached the curb, the door behind him creaked open and he lunged inside.

“Forsythe? What on earth brings you –“

A burst of hellfire threw Jughead the rest of the way through the door. He landed hard on the old, polished marble and skidded across the floor only to slam into a pew. Every inch of his body was heavy; it was impossible to raise his head. Jughead blinked, but all he could see was the spark of flame coming at him, the afterburn of Penny’s latest attack.

“You have no power here, demon,” Father Mason said, his voicing booming in the high cupola above them.

Penny growled something low and unintelligible. Father Mason responded in kind. A bright, chiming song cut through their noise and it took Jughead almost two passes to answer his phone.

“Where are you? I lost Penny,” Betty’s ragged, gasping breath came from the speaker.

Jughead let out a long breath, thankful that she’d managed to get free. “8th and Elm. St. Hermione’s.”

“You’re in a church?”

It was quiet a moment. Another blast of fire managed to make it over the threshold and wound it’s way directly at him. Jughead dropped the phone and rolled away from it, letting the rest of his jacket take the direct hit.

The door slammed shut, and the air calmed.

“Jug.”

Cool hands cradled him, lifting him into a sitting position. Jughead blinked back the nausea, and Moose’s face swam into view. Wisps of grey threaded through his hair, and there were a few more lines around his eyes, but this was the same, kind face that had proselytized to his small village when Jughead was just a boy. Jughead reached up a hand, only to gasp and shudder at the pain.

“Are you hurt?” Moose asked, his voice brooking no lie.

“No more than the last time you saw me.”

Moose frowned, and a wave of shame hit Jughead.

“Sorry, I know it’s been a few …”

Days? Months? Years? Centuries?

Somewhere in the back of the apse a door slammed shut. Jughead started, adrenaline coursing through his body, but Moose gently guided him back to the floor.

“That demon will never cross my threshold,” Moose promised.

“Juggie?”

Moose stood, his center of gravity low and his hands clenched in fists, ready for a fight. He’d always been ready to protect, and die for, a member of his flock, no matter how lost they may be.

Jughead tugged on Moose’s frock and managed to croak out, “A friend.”

He turned to see Betty rushing around the alter, her blonde hair outshining the painted angels above her. Jughead refused to note the comparison as another wave of pain hit. Ignoring the priest, Betty rushed towards Jughead and pulled him into her arms.

“Are you okay?” Betty asked as her hands hovered above his shoulders, assessing the damage that had been done.

“Never better.”

Her hands landed on his side and he yelped. Blackness swam across his vision and he felt Betty grasp him even tighter, cursing under her breath.

“He needs blood,” she muttered.

She unbuttoned her cuff to roll up her sleeve, but Moose stopped her.

“I’ll be right back.”

Jughead turned his neck, squinting to watch Moose walk towards a cabinet behind the alter. They’d done this many times before, though often it was more an act of contrition than one of necessity. In truth, Jughead had little interest in faith or religion. He’d gone to church not out of a sense of duty, but because of the stories that Father Mason wove, day after day, about men claiming to be sent from God. And as he grew, he and the Father had formed a strange sort of friendship between a devout holy man and a scoffing, peasant teenager.

Even when Jughead’s life had been taken by a woman who smelled of lavender and leather, her touch tender against his throat and his soul, it was Father Mason who brought him sanctuary. Touched by an unholy fever and an unnatural hunger, it was Father Mason who knew the rites to perform.

Now, knowing what was to come, Jughead’s teeth ached and his mouth filled with saliva. The pain shifted from his shoulder to his stomach as it clenched in anticipation. Watching Father Mason pour the sacramental wine, Jughead could smell it’s acrid stench, the rotting grapes taking on a light, delicious temptation.

As he neared, Betty curled Jughead closer to her.

“Are you trying to kill him?”

Father Mason held up a hand and prayed. The low mumble of Latin lulled Jughead into an almost catatonic state, an addict waiting for his next shot of morphine.

“It’s fine, Betts, we’ve done this before,” Jughead said. His eyes locked on the chalice where the wine was slowly thickening.

When Father Mason was done, he held the chalice up to Jughead’s lips. It was pure ambrosia – the sweet, tangy flavor had increased in the now consecrated blood – and the tang of it sent ecstasy running through every inch of Jughead’s body.

“For this is my blood of the covenant,” Betty murmured. She shook her head in wonder. “That’s impossible.”

Moose smiled sadly and sat back on his heels. “Everything is impossible for those who doubt.”

She frowned. “No, there’s no way you could do that without …”

Another blast hit the door, and though it held, the chandeliers swayed above.

“You’re a witch,” Betty concluded. “You have to be.”

Father Mason jerked back, staring at her. His lips were set in a thin frown and his grip on the chalice had tightened.

“I’m no such thing.”

“You have to be, otherwise –“

Jughead wrapped a hand around Betty’s arm and shook his head.

“Faith alone,” Father Mason said firmly, “is what gives me power.”

He set the chalice on a nearby pew and stood, an imposing figure even in the black cassock. From this angle, Jughead realized for the first time he’d known Moose for almost three centuries. It was a strange thing that he’d never realized this before. Father Mason should have been dead, or at the very least a very old man, but Moose didn’t look a day over forty-five. Forty, in the right light.

“But –“

Jughead sat up slowly and shook his head. “Let it go. Please.”

Betty chewed her lip and they watched as Moose walked towards the door. Without effort, he opened the massive door - carved figures from biblical times, sinners and saints alike, lit up with fading hell fire.

“Father,” Penny spat out.

“You have no reason to be here. Leave,” Father Mason ordered.

She laughed, the sound distorted and warped within the church. “I have every reason to be here. Jones is in there, and I’m not. You know the rules.”

Father Mason shook his head and stepped out of the church. “This is a place of sanctuary, or have you forgotten the ancient rules?”

“Have you? I’m surprised you haven’t burned to ashes in there. Heretic.”

Carefully, Betty pulled Jughead to his feet. He leaned against the pews for a minute, too in awe of the changing lights around him to move. The consecration always hit him differently, the faith put into the wine stronger and stronger each time. Now, though, it appeared that Betty’s doubt had only increased the potency of Moose’s faith.

“My sins have been forgiven,” Moose’s voice bellowed, “as will yours. Repent and you too shall be brought back into the fold.”

Demonic cackling had Betty and Jughead clinging to each other.

“Forgiven? Us? Is that the lie they told you? We don’t get forgiven, Marmaduke. We’ve fallen, remember? We’re the rejects, the ones cast out by God and his holy entourage.”

The air in the church dropped a few degrees and the light dimmed. Jughead tugged Betty away from the door, and together they drew closer to the altar. Even from this distance they could see the sag in his shoulders, hear the desperation in his voice. Jughead felt a sting of sympathy run through him; he knew, painfully, what it was like to loose something that so defined one’s personality. It wasn’t a pain he would wish on anyone.

Without an ounce of fear, Father Mason opened the heavy doors and stepped out. Their carvings - images and figures from the Bible, depicting saints and sinners alike – glowed amber from the hellfire barrage they’d undergone. To Jughead’s eyes, they danced and shimmied, mocking the demon who dared attack them.

“Shouldn’t we –“ Betty leaned towards the doors, watching the priest take each step deliberately.

Jughead clamped down on her arm and pulled her closer to him. He knew, without a doubt, that she would run to Moose’s aid if given the chance. “This has always been his fight,” he told her softly. “I’ve only been a way to get to him.”

His words, an attempt to quell her fears, only seemed to wind her up like a toy, ready to leap forward at the first hint of trouble.

“Besides,” he added, “his name’s Moose. I think he’ll be fine.”

Another flare of heat rushed through the church and they drew back further from the door.

A howl of rage and pain mingled with Latin chants, the sound even more chilling that the last. There was a clacking noise, and Jughead glanced down to find Betty running through a string of charms, her lips chanting their own sort of prayers of protection.

In less than a second, the world went silent. The air was suffocating in its stillness, and the temperature suddenly dropped ten degrees. Jughead waited, his eyes never leaving the door; while his faith in Father Mason was absolute, even he had to admit there were enough things on heaven and earth, live or not, who could destroy even him.

One minute passed, then two. Betty jumped up and dashed towards the door quicker than Jughead could stop her. He followed cautiously, still waiting for another flash of hellfire to come his way. But when he reached the stone steps all he found was a calm, exhausted Father Mason and Betty, hovering over him, trying to find some way to help him.

“She’s gone,” Father Mason said from his seat. He wheezed out a cough, and Jughead noted a grey streak running from his temples that hadn’t been there before. “For now at least.”

He waived Betty away, thanking her for thinking of him, and nodded to Jughead.

“I wondered when I might see you next,” he said to Jughead, offering a hand. Jughead took it, and Father Mason clasped it in both hands. “But maybe next time call first.”

Father Mason dropped Jughead’s hands and reached for the railing. He leaned on it heavily, groaning as he took each step. They watched warily, both aware of the tremendous toll the fight had taken on him. Betty kept opening and closing her mouth, full of a million unanswered questions, but to Jughead’s relief she didn’t ask a single one.

It wasn’t until the old wooden doors were shut that she turned to Jughead. He held up a hand.

“It’s a long story,” he offered. Betty pursed her lips at his answer and he continued quickly. “Let’s go get someplace safe, and I’ll fill you in.”

“Fine.” Her voice was petulant and not for the first time Jughead wondered whether it hurt her to keep so many questions inside. “But you’re going to have to start with how on earth you didn’t catch on fire.”

He raised an eyebrow and matched her stride as they walked down the road. “Pretty sure –“

“I mean in the church,” she said, cutting him off with a roll of the eyes. “And how you were able to drink consecrated wine? Last I checked, vampires tended to avoid that sort of thing. And what in Gaia’s name was that thing with the Latin? No one’s ever heard of –“

Jughead let Betty’s stopped up curiosity spill out of her while his mind wandered back to Father Mason, wondering not for the first time what type of creature he really was.