Page 100 of The Dead Saint

“He’s waiting for you, Sorcha,” Kira called. “Prepare to meet your god.”

* * *

Sorcha pushed through the glistening curtain of spider webs, tiny droplets of moisture trembling as she broke through to the inner tower. It rose high above her, the interior hollow with an oversized staircase climbing the outside, circling all the way up to a floor at the top. A ribbon of light slid through an opening above, flowing down the walls, catching in the spiderwebs and illuminating threads of gold in the black and red stone. At some point, the tower had crumbled, cracking apart, and a huge hand had repaired it with gold. Beneath her feet, the tile was dirty, but she could make out the mosaic story embedded there. Another legend of the Saint, another piece of his history. A piece of her history.

Movement to her left, beneath the stairs, caught her attention. A large black spider with red markings skittered across the floor, heading for the opposite wall and moving up it quickly. Sorcha gasped, taking a step back.

“What is it?” Prince Eine called.

“Spiders,” Sorcha replied, raising her voice to be heard.

There were more of them than she’d realized, crawling over the walls, camouflaged against the black and red stone. Some were tiny, and others were as large as cats. Bodies glossy and spindly, skittering with an inhuman and predatory grace.

Sorcha studied the stairs, hoping they would hold her weight on the way up, counting the landings silently. It would be a long climb.

Straightening her shoulders, she headed for the base of the stairs. The tower trembled, the floor vibrating with movement as something deep within the earth shifted and rolled. Sorcha extended a hand to steady herself on the wall and yelped, jerking back quickly. The stone was hot to the touch, her palm stinging with the contact.

The stairs were wide enough that she could avoid touching the wall again, but there was no railing or lip to catch her if she fell. Working to keep her mind calm and shutting down any stray what-if or but, she climbed. Even the memories. Even the feel of Adrian. Even the sensation of his mouth pressed to hers and the curling delight that had filled her body like light.

Sorcha worked to keep it all away. Forget the past. Do not acknowledge the future. Concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Breathe and climb, climb and breathe, until she reached the top. Everything would be considered then. But it was hard to keep her mind still, so she began counting golden seams in the stone, following the spiral up. Reaching the top step, she paused and glanced down, regretting it immediately. The height from this perspective was dizzying—leaving her gasping.

“Are you here?” Sorcha asked, turning to the room at the top. She felt silly the moment the words left her mouth. The Saint was below her still, waiting to be brought up, but she’d expected to feel him in this place the way she had in the valley.

This place was empty but expectant. The wall’s open arches overlooked the boiling red plains with a peaked roof overhead. Here, each golden crack in the stone flowed together, meeting at a center point. They formed a perfect circle, slightly dished, from which each golden thread radiated outward—weaving through the tower like roots, like veins in a blackened heart.

Mosaics covered the ceiling. Everywhere she’d gone, carefully laid out stories waited to be rediscovered—the sea cave, the remains of the ruined temple in the Silvas, the dead city. A legend of the Saint everywhere, little collections, fragments of his story, and as she’d put it all together, horror had built, quiet, insistent, knowing dread of how it all would end.

He was a loving, generous Saint. That was what she’d been taught. A creature who protected and championed his followers. But the stories she’d seen were the opposite. Again and again, she’d seen destruction and death, dismemberment and torture, and here, a golden skeleton sat on a dark throne, watching this forsaken room and waiting.

The hollow eye sockets seemed to follow her as she moved, circling the room. She treasured each final second of solitude. The prince would be getting impatient. He would want to know what was taking so long. He would want to know if she’d uncovered any traps or hidden dangers as she’d moved up the tower step by slow step.

Kira had insisted that Sorcha enter alone. Now Sorcha wondered if it was because the woman had wanted to gift her a few peaceful moments before the end, here in this empty shell waiting for the Saint.

A voice called up from the foot of the tower, but she couldn’t make out the words. The stone muffled them, and the wind pushing through the arches stole them away. She went back to the opening and stepped back inside to peer down the hollow interior. Small figures were grouped at the bottom, Prince Eine and his men. Adrian.

“Is it safe?” Revenant called up.

Sorcha almost said no. But it wouldn’t keep them away. Revenant would simply find out for himself. It was nothing more than a delaying tactic that would gain her nothing.

“Yes,” she called down.

The word echoed in the space, growing quieter, the mournful sound twisting in her stomach.

Yes, it is safe. Yes, this is the end.

She turned away and wrapped her arms around herself, gaze drifting back to the steaming plains.

There were no barriers to keep her from walking off the edge of the tower. She would simply plummet to the earth. Prince Eine would never get what he wanted then. But her own curiosity would never be satisfied either. There would be no way to know if everything she’d been taught was true. Her whole purpose in life had been—was—the Saint. How could she turn her back on the only thing she’d been raised to do?

Fear coursed through her, a river, an ocean with rising tides.Sorcha had to know. Morbid curiosity filled her. And if there was a chance, however small, that Ines might live—that Rohan and the others would return—she had to take it. Promises had been made. She couldn’t bear the idea of turning her back on them now after coming so far.

Closing her eyes, she listened to the thunder rumbling and leaned into the warm wind. It pushed at her skirts, pulling at her hair. It brought the scent of the hot and pungent springs. Pulling in a deep breath, she held out her arms, and for a moment, she was on the edge of a cliff, water beating at the rock, a cave full of living skeletons waiting for her. The memory of that place echoed through her, and with it, the remembered warmth of Adrian’s embrace.

“Will you jump?”

Adrian stepped onto the platform, rising out of the stairwell like a demon summoned by memory and desire. His dark eyes were unreadable, features set in a flat expression.

She wanted to run to him, to throw her arms around him and lean in, knowing he would hold her up and keep her safe. His touch would tell her the things he could not say.

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