It was one of those days where even the asphalt looked pretty, bits of sand and glass glittering in the sun. I stepped into College Cathedral in Galway and looked up. I immediately got vertigo. The vaulted, ribbed ceiling was probably the first I'd seen that truly accomplished its stated purpose of drawing my eyes up to Heaven. It seemed the walls ran up and curved in forever, even though I could clearly see where they came together and stopped.

The church was incredible. It was cruciformed, like St. Brigid's Cathedral. I always liked cruciformed cathedrals better than their smaller, straight shaped counterparts. The cross shape always seemed to make cathedrals feel more expansive. The shape also provided more walls for my favorite feature of cathedrals: stained glass.

Stained glass hadn't impressed me much before I came to Ireland. All I'd seen up to that point was the more contemporary work that got displayed in the community churches up near Portland. To a piece, none of those had used the lead rich paint that had apparently been popular hundreds of years ago. Lead made all the difference. As the sun washed through the panes of painted glass in Galway's College Cathedral, I felt like I was seeing colors that didn't even exist.

The stained glass wasn't why I'd come though. Faintly, beneath the smell of prayer candles and wet stone, lurked the scent of undead flesh.

"Father Martin, where are you?" I sang as I drew my sawed off shotgun from its holster.