Page 35 of The Dead Saint

A stone rolled beneath her foot, and she fell, landing heavily on her hands and knees, crying out as she caught herself. Sharp pain shot through her wrists. The howling stopped, and she gasped in the sudden quiet. Every hair on her body stood on end as she eased back onto her heels and wiped her dirty hands on her skirt. She stood slowly, looking around, wondering how close the wolves were now.

The space around her was open, not the narrow way of the passage, but an area where several halls met and divided. Dark openings waited, five paths to choose from, and she wondered which way she should go. Where would she be safe? Would she be able to find a place to hide that the prince’s men wouldn’t be able to find?

Maybe.

It was a chance she was willing to take.

Sorcha took a tentative step forward, choosing a path at random and continuing her run into the night.

* * *

Sorcha was being followed. Something had been behind her since she’d left the last of the ruined temple behind. She was out in the wildness of the Silvas now, the howling fading behind her.

It was working. The Wolf, if he’d noticed her absence, was back there. She would lose herself in the woods and move south. Away from the winter blowing down from the north—a winter that would soon be here. It would be hard to navigate on her own, but she could make it.

The temples would be dangerous. The prince would be collecting their relics, searching for her. But the priests and priestesses would hide her, provide sanctuary. They would want her to be safe.

Another voice, this one cynical and bleak, whispered of other outcomes.

She would be discovered in an inner sanctum surrounded by the dead. Just as it had been before. From there, she would be forced to carry on this journey, marching ever onward to resurrect the Saint. And it might not even be the prince. At this point, with so many believers gone, other believers would want her to continue as well.

Only the Saint could bring them back now. And only Sorcha could bring back the Saint. There was no hiding who she was, what her life was meant for. Nowhere was safe, but there was no going back. No matter how far she ran, no matter where she hid, it would be impossible to outrun the voices filling her head, the feel of Ines dying in her hands.

The prince would put someone else in charge of her. She thought she’d wanted that, wanted it so badly she’d fled the temple as soon as the Wolf’s back was turned. But if she stopped now, he would find her and she’d continue forward with a different kind of protection—from the worst and by the worst—by a monster.

Her fate was the same. It didn’t matter which direction she ran. It didn’t matter if she ran now or even if she made it out of the woods on her own. Her fate was tied to the Saint. He was at the end of all roads for her.

They were connected by unbreakable chains.

She would always find the relics. She would always resurrect the Saint.

There was no reality where it could ever be any different.

But she didn’t stop, she didn’t turn back. Sorcha crashed through a bush, branches catching at her hair and skirts, scraping her legs and arms as she fell heavily. She groaned, swearing as she stood, continuing forward even as she fought to keep her balance.

She was tired of falling. Tired of scraping her hands. Tired of landing on her knees. They were already bruised, her palms scratched. The skin burned and stung, threatening infection, and her head ached with the urge to cry.

Slow anger simmered in her gut, frustration and exhaustion vying for space. She would use it to propel herself forward. She would keep the anger close and use it to stay alive, whether she made it out of the Silvas on her own or not. She wouldn’t give up trying. Maybe it was better to steer her own fate, to leave the monster behind.

But even as she ran, she shivered. He would never let her go. He was relentless.

A creature crashed through the trees beside her. An overwhelming animal stink filled the air—blood and fur, hot breath and musk. A large paw tipped with claws swiped at her, catching her dress,and she toppled to the ground. It rushed forward, pinning her in place.

A growl filled her ears as she lay panting in the leaves. The scents of damp earth and moss vied with the animal smell—wild and melding together to be one thing instead of many. A scratch burned on her face, and something sharp was digging into her shoulders.

A werewolf crouched over her, radiating heat, lips pulled back from sharp teeth.

She waited for the snap of iron jaws tearing into tender flesh, for razor claws to sink into her. It panted, its orange eyes intent as it stared down at her.

Nothing happened.

She scrabbled in the dirt, hair catching on twigs and leaves as she moved to sit up. Her heart pounded and bile rose in the back of her throat as seconds raced by and death failed to arrive.

In the moonlight, the creature was huge—a hulking beast with a pointed muzzle and eyes lit with an eerie orange glow. The gaze was intelligent, cautious and curious and angry all at once.

It snarled and she froze.

Soon, so soon, she would feel hot blood soaking into her clothes. Her own blood. There would be terrible pain as it tore out her throat, ravaged her face. But it didn’t come.

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