that they could use to refill it with chicken blood, or whatever blood they'd been using.
“Still searching for the fakery?” Shotzen mused. “It's there. You just aren't looking close enough.”
“I've been looking for it for over thirty years,” Thrist replied.
Shotzen sighed. “Michael, you've said it yourself. Adonai works in subtle ways. You’ve spoken to me about your acne and your facial tic, and how they went away during your early years as a priest. That's how ha-shem works. He isn't a show off like this.”
Shortly after he’d proven the painting a fake, Thrist’s childhood afflictions had gone away. But whether that had been a sign from God or simply a physical manifestation of his own growing self-confidence, Thrist had never decided.
“Rabbi, what other explanation is there? We've been discussing this since your arrival more than twenty years ago. We've done the research. We've posed the theories. Fallen angel, genetic experiment, biological weapon, man in a rubber suit—neither of us can find any evidence of fraud.”
“So just because we can't see it, it isn't there? During your tour as Vatican Examiner, did you ever authenticate a miracle?”
Thrist frowned. “No.”
It had been a wonderful time for Thrist, serving the Lord with a renewed vigor. His Eminence the Cardinal removed him from the Chicago parish and Thrist traveled throughout the Americas, investigating miraculous phenomena. Sometimes the occurrence was amusing, such as the case in Texas where Christ's face had appeared simultaneously on several dozen cow patties—they turned out to be hoof marks. Sometimes it was appalling, such as the baby who was supposedly exhibiting signs of the stigmata, when actually it was his disturbed mother inflicting the wounds with a razor blade.
But for all his travels, he never authenticated a miracle.
“Look at the mounting evidence,” Thrist insisted. “Bub has mentioned both heaven and Jesus Christ. He can resurrect sheep. He speaks in ancient tongues...”
“What language is he speaking now?”
“I'm not sure. Sounds like Egyptian.”
“I tell you, the beast is a liar. He can speak all languages, I'm convinced. Watch this.”
Shotzen marched over the Plexiglas and gave it a tap, drawing Bub's attention.
“Anachnu holchim leshamen otcha ve'lehchol otcha,” he said to Bub.
Bub cocked his head to the side, doing a damn good imitation of confusion.
“What did he say?” Sun asked.
“He told Bub we're going to fatten him up and eat him,” Andy turned to Shotzen. “Isn't the food here good enough for you, Rabbi?”
“Fah!” Shotzen said, pointing at the demon. “You understand me. I know you do. Admit it!”
Bub looked hard at Shotzen, and the holy man took a step back, dropping his arm.
“He understands me.” Shotzen whispered. “Every word.”
“Perhaps Yiddish?” Thrist offered a tight smile. Mirth was an emotion he rarely showed, but the whole idea of a demon speaking Hebrew amused him. Everyone knew demons spoke Latin.
Epiphany.
“Latin,” Thrist said aloud.
He rushed the glass, pressing his palms against it.
“Potesne dicere Latinam?” he asked Bub.
Can you speak Latin?
The demon turned his attention to the priest. “Ita, Latinam dico.”
Yes, I speak Latin.
“Ubi Latinam didicisti?” Thrist asked.
Where did you learn Latin?
“Me abimperatore in loco appellato Roma ea docta est.”
It was taught to me by an emperor in a place called Rome.
“Quis rex erat? Quando regnabat?”
Who was this king? When did he rule?
“Aliquem hac aetate eum noscere dubito. Misere cecidit. Membra senatus sui eum insidiis interfecerunt.”
I doubt anyone remembers him in this era. He died poorly. Members of his senate assassinated him.
“Caesar!” Thrist cried, his voice cracking in an octave that was normally too high for him. “Julius Caesar!”
“Illud erat nomen,” Bub said. His voice was oddly sensual, almost a verbal caress. “Quis nunc
“Still searching for the fakery?” Shotzen mused. “It's there. You just aren't looking close enough.”
“I've been looking for it for over thirty years,” Thrist replied.
Shotzen sighed. “Michael, you've said it yourself. Adonai works in subtle ways. You’ve spoken to me about your acne and your facial tic, and how they went away during your early years as a priest. That's how ha-shem works. He isn't a show off like this.”
Shortly after he’d proven the painting a fake, Thrist’s childhood afflictions had gone away. But whether that had been a sign from God or simply a physical manifestation of his own growing self-confidence, Thrist had never decided.
“Rabbi, what other explanation is there? We've been discussing this since your arrival more than twenty years ago. We've done the research. We've posed the theories. Fallen angel, genetic experiment, biological weapon, man in a rubber suit—neither of us can find any evidence of fraud.”
“So just because we can't see it, it isn't there? During your tour as Vatican Examiner, did you ever authenticate a miracle?”
Thrist frowned. “No.”
It had been a wonderful time for Thrist, serving the Lord with a renewed vigor. His Eminence the Cardinal removed him from the Chicago parish and Thrist traveled throughout the Americas, investigating miraculous phenomena. Sometimes the occurrence was amusing, such as the case in Texas where Christ's face had appeared simultaneously on several dozen cow patties—they turned out to be hoof marks. Sometimes it was appalling, such as the baby who was supposedly exhibiting signs of the stigmata, when actually it was his disturbed mother inflicting the wounds with a razor blade.
But for all his travels, he never authenticated a miracle.
“Look at the mounting evidence,” Thrist insisted. “Bub has mentioned both heaven and Jesus Christ. He can resurrect sheep. He speaks in ancient tongues...”
“What language is he speaking now?”
“I'm not sure. Sounds like Egyptian.”
“I tell you, the beast is a liar. He can speak all languages, I'm convinced. Watch this.”
Shotzen marched over the Plexiglas and gave it a tap, drawing Bub's attention.
“Anachnu holchim leshamen otcha ve'lehchol otcha,” he said to Bub.
Bub cocked his head to the side, doing a damn good imitation of confusion.
“What did he say?” Sun asked.
“He told Bub we're going to fatten him up and eat him,” Andy turned to Shotzen. “Isn't the food here good enough for you, Rabbi?”
“Fah!” Shotzen said, pointing at the demon. “You understand me. I know you do. Admit it!”
Bub looked hard at Shotzen, and the holy man took a step back, dropping his arm.
“He understands me.” Shotzen whispered. “Every word.”
“Perhaps Yiddish?” Thrist offered a tight smile. Mirth was an emotion he rarely showed, but the whole idea of a demon speaking Hebrew amused him. Everyone knew demons spoke Latin.
Epiphany.
“Latin,” Thrist said aloud.
He rushed the glass, pressing his palms against it.
“Potesne dicere Latinam?” he asked Bub.
Can you speak Latin?
The demon turned his attention to the priest. “Ita, Latinam dico.”
Yes, I speak Latin.
“Ubi Latinam didicisti?” Thrist asked.
Where did you learn Latin?
“Me abimperatore in loco appellato Roma ea docta est.”
It was taught to me by an emperor in a place called Rome.
“Quis rex erat? Quando regnabat?”
Who was this king? When did he rule?
“Aliquem hac aetate eum noscere dubito. Misere cecidit. Membra senatus sui eum insidiis interfecerunt.”
I doubt anyone remembers him in this era. He died poorly. Members of his senate assassinated him.
“Caesar!” Thrist cried, his voice cracking in an octave that was normally too high for him. “Julius Caesar!”
“Illud erat nomen,” Bub said. His voice was oddly sensual, almost a verbal caress. “Quis nunc