Page 20 of The Dead Saint

“Adrian, thank you for bringing me the woman.”

Adrian. Sorcha wondered how such a monster could have a name at all.

“Your wish is my command, Prince.” The Wolf kept his eyes on the floor.

Silence followed his words—expectant and heavy.

Sorcha gritted her teeth against the impending questions, jaw clenching against the answers she might have to give. The rustling, whispering, and quiet seething of the room faded.

When the prince spoke again, there was no mistaking that he was speaking to her.“Tell me about the Saint.”

Sorcha closed her eyes and swallowed. She didn’t respond and wasn’t sure how to. She wanted to deny him a response but was afraid. The court whispered, voices low and distant. She opened her eyes slowly, keeping her gaze on the floor, biting the inside of her cheek.

“Your Highness,” the steward began.

The prince made a gesture, and the steward took several steps back. The door opened slowly, and his footsteps disappeared from the room.

She could feel the heat of the prince’s gaze burning though her clothes and into her skin.

Her mind raced. What could she tell him? What did he already know?

From behind her came a low groan, the sound of something heavy being dragged. Then two guards deposited a priest in front of her. The man sagged without their support, on his knees and leaning forward. She studied his face, what wasn’t bruised and bloody. He was familiar but still a stranger. His clothes however, were unmistakable.

A priest of the Saint.

He wasn’t from her temple; she’d known each person by name. He must be from another city, some other temple, another stronghold like her own. Half his face was horribly swollen, and a bandage covered one eye, blood seeping beneath it and crusting around his nose and ears. Dried blood coated his hair and clothes, cuts visible on his neck and what she could see of his skin beneath the ripped robes. She was afraid to look any closer. His one good eye was closed, and he was humming softly to himself, not even a song, just a gentle self-soothing hum.

“This priest has been helpful.”

The prince’s voice came from a distance, the man groaning with his words.

“He has given me information I sought.” There was a pause. “But I require more from you.”

The priest’s one good eyelid began to flutter.

“I will make sure your life is unchanged. You will be able to worship and live as you always have. And when the time comes, I will ensure the temple you preside over is as beautiful and grand as any that can be built across the continent.”

The priest opened his eye, the pupil constricted, rolling as he eased into consciousness.

“But if you don’t help me,” the prince continued, “your fate will be his. I have no time or mercy for those who don’t serve me.”

Sorcha watched the priest, heart pounding, as the man finally focused and saw her. A horrible hope filled his face, recognition dawning, and he began to babble excitedly. His words ran together as he reached for her with one broken hand.

“You’ll do it. You’ll bring him back. It doesn’t matter. You’ll save us all. Bring back the Saint, and you will change everything. This body doesn’t matter. This broken flesh is dying. But he will resurrect us all.”

She leaned away from his grasping fingers, tears rolling down her cheeks as he continued, voice rising and filling the silent court, shrill and bouncing off the walls. He was louder than her heartbeat, louder than her thoughts, louder than anything she’d ever thought to hear or hear again.

“You will save us all. You will bring him back. We will live again.”

Horror filled her, devastation and sorrow, fear snarling behind it all, driving it all. She couldn’t look away as the prince walked up behind the man and, without a word, slipped a dagger between his ribs. She met the prince’s gaze, unable to stop herself, swallowed by horrible consuming darkness.

The priest continued to ramble, voice softening and trailing off as blood soaked his robe, face going pale. He slumped to the side, single eye wide and fixed, lying on the floor before her until his voice finally stopped and silence rushed in to fill the void.

The prince reached for her. She flinched away but was unable to escape his grasp. Hard fingers dug into her upper arm as he pulled her to her feet, turning her away from the cooling body on the floor to face what had been brought in while the priest died.

Two pieces of the Saint lay on a burgundy velvet blanket.

The last time she’d seen the gold and jewel-encrusted hand had been the day of the fires, when the gates had finally opened beneath the onslaught of the prince’s army, the day her family died.

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