Page 30 of The Dead Saint

She heard shuffling behind her, as if several of the men were leaving the room or possibly they were stepping forward. She ignored the distraction and focused on the imposing carving of the wolf. It was as tall as her torso, finely carved though not detailed—it was the impression and idea of a wolf, without each hair defined.

Blood continued to well from the clenched golden teeth, as if the jaws held back a flood, and the ruby eyes threw back the light of the torches behind Sorcha. Or did they hold their own glow?

Tentatively, she touched the snout, shocked at the warmth of it. Her brows drew together as she smoothed her palm over the jaw, avoiding the dripping blood.

Behind her, the men whispered, but she ignored them, keeping her gaze on the ruby eyes. A part of her believed—understanding in her bones—that it was alive.

“Witch.”

The wolf jaws snapped open, lips pulled back in a snarl, the sound of stone grating on stone filling the chamber. Blood flowed out of its gaping maw, no longer a trickle, but now a steady stream splashing into the pool, mixing with the water, swirling and clouding it until the bones at the bottom were hidden. Someone swore, and there was more scuffling.

A heavy hand dropped on her shoulder, turning her away from the carving. The Wolf stood over her, studying her.

“What did you do?” he asked, voice soft—no accusation, only curiosity.

“Nothing.” Sorcha shook her head. “I only touched it.”

The scent of blood, flowing so freely from the creature’s mouth, was overpowering. Impossible to ignore, impossible to escape. Stepping back hurriedly, she retreated to the safety of the torchlight. The ominous feeling of being watched heated her skin, leaving her mouth sour with the sensation. But nothing else changed. The wolf jaws remained open, the blood flowing freely now, steadily.

* * *

The relic they were searching for was gone.

The room obviously had held it at some point—the ornate alcove in the far wall with an altar would have been the perfect location. Ancient gilding still clung to delicately carved stone, along with painted flowers, vines, and skulls. The gold was flaking now but still caught and reflected the light of the torches. The ground around the alter glimmered here and there with pieces that had fallen away.

Sorcha held the torch up to the walls, fascinated by the remains of the murals. The walls carried a painted history, glimmering stones inset here and there—fiery rubies and clear deep green emeralds. A beautiful decay, untouched by thieves or passersby. The only thing that had touched this temple was time.

The Saint walked through the stories on the stone. The Saint as the past had known him. The Saint that had been hinted at in her teachings—conqueror and death dealer—but she’d never read or heard the full story. Kahina Kira had said there would be hard things ahead—hard truths. But the Saint had always been fair with his punishments. Only the unbelievers and unfaithful had ever paid a price.

What price?

Death.

It was here on these walls, as illustrated on stone as the ink on her skin. A golden skeleton, striding through a landscape, holding a body, blood running down the open chasm of his mouth. People were prostrated before him, people dead behind him. But never one of the red-robed figures, they came behind in single file, hoods pulled up to conceal faces, anonymous believers doing nothing to stop the destruction that preceded them.

Sorcha had only seen one book with illustrations like these. Kira had been angry with her for taking it from the area reserved for the most senior priests and priestesses. It had been so heavy, weighted with history—the story of blood and rubies. She’d been caught before she’d been able to finish it, only a few pages in, stomach tightening with a terrible sense of foreboding.

Was this what she believed? Was this what she was a part of?

Don’t think about it!

Don’t question. Don’t think. Accept the role and embrace the ordered life.

It was the only thing she’d ever known.

But the walls in this ancient temple told another story—a darker Saint stalked these walls. This was the Saint the world had known, one of blood, death, and destruction. Was this the future the empire was racing them toward?

A different mural caught her attention, this one not as well preserved on the opposite side of the room. Sorcha crossed to it, tracing the deep gouges in the stone that looked like claw marks. A temple surrounded by woods, high above the treetops, painted gold with inlaid tiles. It was beautiful, and even now, Sorcha recognized the shape. This temple. These woods.

Red-robed priests writhed on the ground all around it. So there had been members of the Aureum Sanctus who had paid a terrible price. She traced the outline of one figure, a man in the midst of becoming a wolf. A shifter. Farther down the wall, there were more shifters, all kneeling before the Saint with their hands raised, exaggerated tears falling from their eyes.

“They were cursed,” Domenico said. “See here? A punishment.”

Sorcha jumped, surprised she hadn’t heard him approach. But he wasn’t speaking to her. His attention was on the wall, and he raised his lantern, following the story. Who had added the murals if the priests had been cursed? Why had the Saint cursed them? And how? She had no one to ask. Only Kahina Kira would have known.

She wouldn’t have told you though.

“Why?” Thompson asked, coming to stand beside him.

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