Page 24 of The Dead Saint

“Come,” the vampire said, gesturing to a small platform in the center of the room. “Let us begin.”

* * *

Sorcha stood in the middle of the cold room, crimson dress clasped to her chest, skin prickling under the Mapmaker’s gaze. But he didn’t look at her with desire, simply the flat calm of someone paying meticulous attention to the task before them. He hadn’t even touched her. She had the distinct impression that she was merely an object to be studied for a brief time before being cast aside.

She glanced at Adrian. He stood with his back to her, moving slowly along the line of shelves, pulling down books at random and flipping through the pages. She found herself wondering what his gaze would hold if he turned it on her now. What would it tell her?

When the Mapmaker had instructed her to undress, Sorcha had refused. To her surprise, the Wolf—Adrian—had insisted her wishes be honored as much as they could be. Prince Eine wanted her to be treated with dignity. The Mapmaker had agreed to let her keep the dress partially on, revealing sections of her body—and the map—a little at a time.

“Turn.”

The Mapmaker gestured with his brush, indicating the direction he wanted her to move. She turned, exposing more of her shoulder and part of her back. The tattoo told the story of her youth and adulthood, the Saint’s story interconnected with her own, the Saint and Sorcha in one being. The Mapmaker’s brush created a perfect copy on the paper, connecting the lines on her skin in smooth, patient strokes. He took his time as Sorcha watched, memorized by his progress.

She had never seen the tattoos as a whole. This would be the first time, in this place. She shivered, pressing the dress tight to her body, wishing she could be done. Ignoring the men, she looked round the room, taking it all in.

Overhead, a skylight exposed a perfect square of the wintry world. It was a lightwell, the low stool she stood on directly in the center. Around her, the room was deep, the sunlight penetrating only so far, leaving the walls and the men in shadow. The shelves contained leather-bound books and scrolls, jars of inks, parchment, and loose pages. A workbench was in the far corner, covered with the detritus of bookbinding.

The Mapmaker sat in the only chair, knees hidden by a lap desk, a pot of black ink strapped to his right hand, a brush in his left. His glasses hid his eyes as he sat perfectly motionless, never looking down as his brush moved across the paper.

What would happen if she stepped down and walked past him, went through the door, found a way out of the city, and then across the plain? How far would she get? The smooth sound of the brush on paper filled the room as her life was translated onto paper, her past and future, all of it written down and decided. According to the map, she wouldn’t walk out of this room. Her destiny lay in another direction.

“Do you have tattoos anywhere else?” the Mapmaker asked.

Sorcha twitched the dress to reveal part of her left hip and thigh, a swirl of clawed hands and femur bone, bare trees, and decorative scrollwork. He copied it in a few swift brushstrokes, accomplishing what had taken the temple artist careful weeks with ink and needle, hours on the table with the book of Saint open beside her, each line careful and methodical. Rohan had made sure each line was as it should be.

But she’d never seen them all together, on one piece of paper or even one book. She hadn’t seen how they connected, what tied them together, because the map wasn’t done. That would have come later. There were still more tattoos to get. There would have been a ceremony. Privately, the head priestess would have held up a mirror and explained each one, how they all connected. But that wouldn’t happen now. That part of her life was over.

Now her skin was mapped for someone else’s eyes.

“Anywhere else?” the Mapmaker asked.

Would it be worth keeping one small piece to herself? Would hiding it be worth it? Even knowing the map wasn’t complete, that there would be no other way for the prince to discover the other pieces, would it be worth risking?

The prince knew how many locations there were. Adrian had told her a priest in the temple near the Summer Palace—the prince’s mother’s private city—had given him that much information. She didn’t blame him. She would have done the same. No one could be expected to withstand torture. And she hoped that once the priest had told the prince everything, his death had been swift.

She would keep one piece hidden. A small piece.

“Anywhere else?” the Mapmaker asked again.

Sorcha shook her head, meeting the Mapmaker’s flat gaze. They stared at each other, the rustle of pages in the corner of the room pausing, and Adrian turned for the first time since entering the room. Her gaze flicked to him, and her breath caught as their eyes met. Heat and fear clashed, stomach dropping as she made her choice.

“No,” she said, her voice firm in the quiet of the room.

As soon as the map was complete, the Mapmaker lost interest in Sorcha, reflective eyes fixed on the parchment before him. The landscape was incomplete. But the promise that certain relics could be found in those locations had been taught to her as the needles had penetrated her skin over and over. She’d read sacred texts. The Red Priestess had tested her again and again, prodding for the weak spots in Sorcha’s understanding.

Sorcha’s knowledge, though incomplete, was solid. But would these pieces, barely more than a handful, be enough to resurrect the Saint and give the prince what he wanted? She had never come across any passages that laid out how complete the skeleton needed to be. But she hadn’t finished her training. Her knowledge only extended to those on her body.

Adrian moved to look over the Mapmaker’s shoulder.

“Here is the closest relic,” the Mapmaker said, pointing to a spot on the parchment. They’d both forgotten the half-naked woman standing in the center of the room. “There is a temple. Or was. It might be ruins now.”

“How far is it?” Adrian asked.

“Distance means nothing on this map,” the vampire responded, tone flat and without inflection. “It is incomplete, but I’ve done what I can, knowing the landscape as it is. There is no way to know if the tattoos and locations have been updated to these modern times. These locations could be two hundred years old by now.”

Adrian’s eyes flicked up, his gaze lingering on her face despite her still clutching the dress to her chest, the rest of her still exposed. “Do you know?” he asked.

Shaking her head, she stepped down from the platform and moved to a darker corner away from the two men. Adrian’s eyes were on her, burning a hole into her back as she fumbled with the dress, adjusting the sleeves and then the neckline.

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