Who Let the Dogma Out (The Elven Prophecy Book 1) Read online

  Who Let the Dogma Out

  The Elven Prophecy™ Book One

  Theophilus Monroe

  Michael Anderle

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  Copyright © 2021 LMBPN Publishing

  Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing

  A Michael Anderle Production

  LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  LMBPN Publishing

  PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy

  Las Vegas, NV 89109

  First Edition, April 2021

  ebook ISBN: 978-1-64971-701-6

  Print ISBN: 978-1-64971-702-3

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Author Notes - Theophilus Monroe

  Author Notes - Michael Anderle

  Books by Theophilus Monroe

  Books By Michael Anderle

  Connect with The Authors

  The Who Let the Dogma Out Team

  Thanks to our Beta Team

  Larry Omans, John Ashmore, Rachel Beckford, Kelly O’Donnell, Mary Morris

  Thanks to our JIT Readers

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  Dorothy Lloyd

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  Diane L. Smith

  Misty Roa

  Jeff Goode

  Angel LaVey

  If We’ve missed anyone, please let us know!

  Editor

  The Skyhunter Editing Team

  Chapter One

  "Care to share your thoughts, Reverend Cruciger?"

  I sat there doodling in my notebook. For the better part of an hour, the council had been debating the supposed issues involved in supporting the local Methodist soup kitchen.

  "No thoughts," I said. I lied. I had a lot of thoughts, but I knew they wouldn't want to hear what I had to say. I'd learned a while back that arguing with the council rarely ended well.

  With all the strange things that had been going on lately, with all the doom-and-gloom prophets declaring it the end of the age, with the strange disappearances and the sightings… At a time when people had more questions than ever before, when they needed a reason to hope, all the bishop was concerned about was protecting our little bubble of so-called doctrinal purity.

  "Surely you have something to contribute," Bishop Flacius retorted, furrowing his brow. Matthias Flacius was two and a half decades my senior, having just celebrated his sixtieth birthday. His hair was gray and thin enough that his poor attempt at a comb-over didn’t do much to hide his baldness. At about six feet tall, he had two or three inches on me—perfect for him since he had a habit of looking down on me. Bishop Flacius had what I’d normally call a resting jerk face as if he had once taken a bite out of a lemon, and the expression that followed had stuck.

  I took a deep breath. He’d asked for it, so here went nothing.

  "People need to eat."

  "Of course they do," the bishop replied. "Caring for the poor is not in question. The issue is whether by participating with the Methodists, we might give the impression that we agree with their false doctrines."

  I shrugged. "Hungry people aren't generally concerned with doctrine."

  "You would satisfy their hunger at risk of damning their souls? In times such as these, when so much is at stake, we must guard our truths with fervor! With these truths, we stand our only chance of being saved from hell."

  I rolled my eyes as I continued doodling in the margins of my notebook. "The Methodists aren't going to hell, Bishop."

  "A little leaven spreads through the whole batch of dough! A little false teaching risks hellfire!"

  "Yes," I retorted, glancing up at him. "And Jesus told that to the Pharisees, who thought they could exclude others who didn't agree with their narrow points of view."

  He eyed me. "You dare compare the council to the Pharisees?"

  "If the shoe fits," I snapped. I couldn’t help myself even while my inner voice was yelling, Mayday, Mayday! I continued. "I'm simply suggesting that you're taking Jesus out of context. When he had a few loaves and fishes, he was moved by compassion. He helped. He fed the hungry."

  Based on the shade of red that had flushed over Flacius' brow, I was sure I'd said too much. "Look, it makes no sense to establish a soup kitchen when the Methodists already have the infrastructure in place and they are asking us to participate. I don't know about you gentlemen, but I didn't go to the seminary so I could have endless debates about theological purity. I became a minister because I wanted to help people."

  "How much help will it be if—"

  "Yes," I said, interrupting the bishop. "If we thereby send them to hell by somehow giving the impression we agree on minor points of doctrine."

  "We are to love every word that our Lord commanded, Reverend!"

  "Blessed are the poor," I mumbled.

  "Excuse me?"

  I put down my pen and leaned forward. "Tell me, Bishop. You believe in the Holy Spirit, correct?"

  "Of course I do!"

  "And you also believe that it is the Holy Spirit who sustains our faith, do you not?"

  "Certainly.” His face was well-flushed by now. “But my faith is not in question!"

  "With all due respect, Bishop, it is. Does your fear that a bowl of soup can damn someone to hell outweigh the trust that the Spirit will work in people's lives despite our imperfect theologies?"

  Bishop Flacius muttered something under his breath. He was peeved.

  I just wanted to go home.

  These meetings were a waste of time. It's hard to speak to people who are as dense as bricks. You'd probably have better luck convincing a brick of something than convincing the bishop that he might be wrong. For him, to be wrong was to risk eternal perdition.

  "Well, gentlemen. It's been a pleasure." I stood, stra
ightened my tie, and retrieved my jacket from the back of the chair.

  "Caspar Cruciger!" the bishop shouted. "Where do you think you're going?"

  He'd left off the title of reverend when he addressed me and used my first name. It was just a matter of time before they’d try to blackball me as a heretic. I slid an arm into my coat. "I'm going home. I've said what I have to say, and as usual, I'll be the lone dissenting vote."

  Hushed whispers spread through the room. There were only twelve of us, but as far as they were concerned, I was the one who'd dipped his bread into the savior's chalice and betrayed him for thirty pieces of silver.

  They could replace me for all I cared. I'd had it up to my neck with church politics.

  I mean, how far had we wandered from our purpose if we neglected to care for the poor because we didn't agree with Methodists over trivial matters? Time and time again, I'd experienced their callousness.

  Where were these people when my wife left? They were busy ignoring me. Making sure I hadn't committed some kind of mortal sin.

  Where were they when I'd asked for help? The only consolation I’d found came in a bottle.

  Twelve very long steps later, I'd put that behind me. But they'd probably damn me because Alcoholics Anonymous allows people to conceive of whatever higher power they like.

  By the time I'd reached the door, another member of the clergy had already called for a vote. I didn't need to wonder what the outcome might be. This wasn't my first rodeo. Much like a rodeo, there was more than enough bull to go around and more than a few clowns.

  The air outside had dropped at least ten degrees during the hour or so I'd been in my meeting, and the sun was going down. The weather in St. Louis was like that: unpredictable, warm and pleasant one minute, deathly cold the next. All I had was my blazer. If I'd bothered to check the forecast, I would have brought a heavier coat.

  I'd parked a few blocks away. The fastest way was through an alley. Generally speaking, passing through alleys isn't recommended in St. Louis, but this was the Central West End. Not the safest part of town but certainly not the most dangerous. And I didn't have much fear.

  Not anymore.

  When you've lost almost everything you ever cared about and even the one thing you had left, your career, had turned into something almost intolerable, there isn't a lot left that’s worth having anxiety over.

  Ob la di. Ob la da. Life goes on.

  Or it doesn't. Whatever.

  I heard a scream. My head jerked around to the right. It was coming from down the alley.

  I ran toward the sound, slipping on a couple of rocks before righting myself and continuing. I might not place a lot of value on my own life, but I certainly didn't want to see someone else get hurt.

  "Hey!" I shouted as I spotted two struggling figures, their bodies silhouetted by the poor lighting in the alley.

  One was larger than the other. Likely a man. The other, by the sound of the scream, was a female. She was the one I needed to help.

  I damn near pulled a muscle as I threw my body into the frame of the man who was attempting to assault the young lady.

  The man, if you could call him that, threw me against the brick wall of one of the buildings with an otherworldly force. I wasn't in the best shape, but somehow, probably on account of my adrenaline, I managed to spring back to my feet.

  "Young lady," I shouted. "Run, go find someplace safe!"

  Instead, she stood there, widening her stance. Was she going to fight this person? I barely caught a reflection from her eyes. She was a pretty girl, probably in her late twenties. She had a hood covering her head. Her hands were wrapped as if she'd been prepared for a fight.

  "Wait, who's attacking who here?" I wondered out loud.

  I shouldn't have second-guessed myself. A half-second later, a large boot struck my face, sending me to the ground again.

  "Leave us, human!" the girl shouted. "This isn't your battle."

  "’Human?’" I asked as I struggled to my feet a second time. I was half-surprised that the kick hadn't knocked me out.

  Then the light caught something else, something in the hand of the man who'd kicked me. It was a blade.

  Shit! I thought. Yes, I am a minister who curses from time to time. Damn me for it if you must. The council probably has already.

  It was one thing to get involved in a fight, to try to save a damsel in distress. It was another thing if weapons were involved. But as I said, I wasn't afraid to die.

  Again I charged the man, doing my best impression of an NFL linebacker, impacting his body with my shoulder.

  The man went flying to the ground, and I landed on top of him. There was a sharp pain in my abdomen. The blade!

  I'd been stabbed. Everything went black.

  Chapter Two

  Something cool pressed against my brow. Maybe I’d died, and the angels were re-baptizing me in the waters of heaven. Or I’d survived.

  “You’re the girl from the alley.”

  She was even more beautiful in full light. I chuckled to myself at the thought. I mean, what would I be saying if she was more beautiful in the dark, shrouded by a hood? That wouldn’t be much of a compliment.

  As my eyes gained focus, I spotted the faux elf ears, her long straight blonde hair tucked behind them. She was part of that cult that had risen to declare the end was nigh. Not that it was particularly innovative; every cult ever has believed, in some sense, that the apocalypse was upon us. But this one was different. They believed they were harbingers of the new order, an order of elves.

  Yes, I know, I’m something of a Tolkien nerd myself. But my belief in elves had gone out the window the day my parents confessed to me that they were Santa Claus.

  Of course, this girl wasn’t claiming to be that kind of elf. Probably not the Keebler kind, either. Though she was quite delicious in appearance, almost shockingly beautiful. I’d consider flirting with her if it wasn’t a lost cause. I didn’t think the church or the council would be pleased if I dated a cultist. These cultists believed a new species had come from another realm, a magical realm, and they had come to overtake our civilization with a new magical order. To demonstrate their loyalty to the new order, they wore fake elf ears.

  Weird, right? Cultists get more creative with every generation.

  I was reasonably certain there was a much more rational explanation for the strange things that had been happening than some kind of elvish Earth invasion from a parallel dimension.

  I’ve always been a firm believer in Occam’s razor. The simplest explanation is usually the right one.

  “So, you’re one of them? The Cult of the Elven Gate?” I asked as the woman dabbed my brow again.

  She smiled slyly. “What would make you think such a thing?”

  I shrugged. “The ears are a dead giveaway.”

  She laughed. “Speaking of dead, it’s a miracle you aren’t.”

  “Dead?” I smiled. “I suppose the good Lord still has plans for me.”

  “The lord?” the woman asked. “Who is this lord?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Good one. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate what you’ve done for me. But shouldn’t you call an ambulance? Take me to a hospital or something? Where are we, anyway?”

  “Human medicine would be powerless to heal you.”

  “Human medicine?” I raised a single eyebrow. I mean, I knew the Cult of the Elven Gate was strange, but to refer to humans as if they were something other was a bit odd.

  “I cannot believe that a human is the one,” the would-be elf girl muttered under her breath.

  I tried to sit up, but the pain in my gut was still too much to bear. The woman pressed her hand gently to my shoulder, guiding me back onto the table where she’d laid me. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I do appreciate what you’ve done.”

  “Layla,” the woman said.

  “Lay down? I guess I don’t have a choice.”

  “No, Layla. It’s my name. And technically, it’s ‘Your Highness.’ I am
not a ‘ma’am.’”

  I bit my lip. I wasn’t aware that the cult had royalty now. “Look, Your Highness, I need the help of a physician.” Again, I struggled to move off the table.

  She pushed me down again, more forcefully this time. I took a deep breath. I mean, here I was, possibly about to bleed out or at least at risk of a serious infection, and she was busy playing Renaissance Faire games with me.

  I tried to sit up again.

  She grabbed me by the shoulders.

  I grabbed her wrists.

  “Lay back down!”

  “Let me go!” I insisted, reaching for one of her fake ears, hoping that by removing one of them, she might give up her charade.

  She winced as I pulled.

  “It’s real?” I asked.

  “As I said, lay down. I’m not done examining your wound.”

  “What was it?” I asked. “Plastic surgery?”

  “Why would someone do surgery on plastic? Seems like a waste of time.”

  “No, wait, you don’t know what plastic surgery is? You don’t pay attention to anything Hollywood, I guess.”

  “Like I said, human. I am not from here. My kingdom is not of this world.”