The Last Days of Magic by Mark Tompkins

More likely it would be another campaign against the Nephilim, all of whom Albornoz despised—Jordan had heard rumors that Goblins were causing trouble in the Alps. He would just have to suppress his distaste for killing them.
    Unless the Vatican had learned about his experimenting with enchantments. If that was the case, he was going to need Ty’s help to leave this building alive.
    . . . . .
    Cosimo de’ Migliorati had been happy as archbishop of Ravenna, a city northeast of Rome, where the pastries were as sweet and hard to resist as the women who brought them. But his happiness was shattered when Pope Boniface IX made him legate, head of a bureau in Venice he had never heard of. It turned out to be an austere department devoid of the niceties of his former life. In his new position, he was in constant fear for the well-being of his immortal soul and nightly prayed that he would live long enough to balance the scales in St. Peter’s eyes.
    Today the legate was concerned about meeting Commander Jordan and had slipped off to his dressing room for a few moments of quiet contemplation. Gathering his robes up about his waist, he sat over the hole in the board, which in turn covered a larger hole in the stone windowsill. The normally foul odor emerging from this opening was made even worse by his new contribution to the basin built within the stone wall a short distance below. Here human waste collected, any surplus overflowing out a small opening into the canal, its natural decay producing ammonia vapors that rose up to help rid the clothing hanging around Legate de’ Migliorati of lice.
    The legate wondered, as he often did when the warm fumes enveloped him, if he would not prefer the lice over the stench, which clung to his robes for hours after he left the dressing room each morning. His thoughts returned to Jordan, whom he had not met. The reports painted Jordan as a cunning, volatile, and dangerous man who had most likely betrayed and killed the leader of his previous mission. Just the kind of man whom the legate required. However, the legate worried that when Jordan received his new orders, he might also be the kind of man who would become angry enough to kill him on the spot.
    The legate stood, straightened his robes, opened the door to his adjoining office, and strode in. Waiting for him were his personal secretary, Jordan, and the largest man the legate had ever seen, if indeed he was a man, which the legate realized he was not. He wondered how the massive creature had managed to get through the small door to his office.
    “Commander, you have done well,” said the legate, walking to his desk. “By all accounts the undertaking in Norway was a success, despite the fact that the first commander was . . . well, ‘killed’ would be a polite word for it, and you were forced to take over.”
    “Thank you, Your Grace.” Jordan gave a slight bow.
    “Though you were instructed to seek out and destroy ungodly creatures, not bring one back as a pet. As our Lord drove the followersof Lucifer out of heaven, he has charged his True Church with driving their Nephilim offspring from the earthly abodes they have crept into. What is it anyway?”
    “You’d be well served to call him Ty, not ‘it,’ Your Grace. Ty is bound to serve me. I rescued him from a witch of the High Coven.” Jordan delivered his prepared lie.
    “A companion, how nice for you. Now, please ask . . . Ty . . . to wait outside so we can proceed with our business.”
    “You’ll have to ask him yourself, Your Grace.”
    The legate looked into Ty’s solid black, barren eyes and decided it was best to ignore the thing.
    “As I said, you did well, showing exceptional leadership during great adversity. This office has need of a marshal of your skills and promotes you to the position. Let us hope you fare better than your namesake.”
    Jordan showed no surprise at the offer. “What office is this, and under whose authority shall I act?